Blood on the Strand (34 page)

Chaloner had a sudden, sharp vision of the spy who had been shot because of Dillon’s betrayal. ‘What does he have to do with
it?’

‘I saw him taken off into that wood, and I knew what was going to happen, but I was powerless to do anything about it. The
whole horrible business hit me hard – so hard that I should have resigned, but it was a momentous decision and I kept putting
it off. When it became obvious that the Commonwealth was lost, it was partly fear that prompted me to change sides – which
is not something I am proud to admit.’

‘We were all afraid then,’ said Chaloner quietly.

Scot sighed. ‘Well, I shall be glad to leave spying behind, and I find myself resenting every day I am obliged to don paints
and powder to work for Williamson.’

‘It cannot be for much longer. Have you heard any fresh news about your brother’s release?’

Scot nodded. ‘I have unearthed several documents that prove the Trulocke brothers sold guns to men associated with the Castle
Plot, and Williamson is so pleased that he says Thomas might be free in a matter of days. I have you to thank for that – and
my way of reciprocating is to take you from this life while you are still in one piece.’

‘How would I earn my keep?’

Scot handed him a bundle of scientific sketches. ‘If you can draw some of equal quality, we shall make our fortune in Surinam.
Try copying a few, to catch the feel of them. You are one of the best forgers I know, and the techniques cannot be so different
– an attention to detail, an eye for colour. I have a feeling you will manage very well.’

It was difficult not to become infected by Scot’s enthusiasm, so Chaloner did as he was told, and was astonished when he discovered
how easy it was to reproduce a respectable copy of the diagram, even using a cheap pen and ink that clotted.

‘You
do
have an aptitude for this,’ said Scot with immense satisfaction as he inspected the results. ‘I knew it! You can sell your
viola de gamba, invest in paints and decent brushes, and your name shall stand with mine when we send our work to the Royal
Society.’

Chaloner stared at his viol, feeling some of his good humour evaporate. He seriously doubted that drawing flowers would ever
replace the joy of making music. ‘I am going to see Lisle on Saturday. He has promised to remove the splint and see what damage
Wiseman might have done.’

‘Then let us drink to Lisle’s success,’ said Scot, producing a flask of wine from under his coat. ‘God knows, I would like
to see him score a victory over that treacherous Wiseman – a fellow I would not trust were he the last man on Earth. Why did
you leave Eaffrey’s house so quickly yesterday, by the way? I know it was a grim evening, but it was unlike you to rush off
without thanking your hosts.’

‘There was something I needed to do for the Webb investigation,’ Chaloner replied vaguely.

‘Webb,’ mused Scot. ‘I listened to Silence wax lyrical about her husband last night. Did you know he bought land cheaply in
Ireland after the civil wars – land that had been confiscated from Royalists?’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘When the monarchy was restored, most of those estates were returned to their original owners, and
the people who had bought them were ousted.’

‘Quite. So Webb had a good reason for hoping the Castle Plot would succeed. It would have meant the return of his farms.’

‘So he may have taken part, after all.’ Chaloner frowned.
‘But this makes no sense. Bristol’s letter stated that Webb had
betrayed
the Castle Plot, and Dillon and the others killed him for doing it. Why would Webb betray something that would have seen
his lands given back to him?’

‘Perhaps Webb did nothing of the kind,’ suggested Scot. ‘Are you
sure
Dillon was a rebel? No, you are not. All you know is that he was in Ireland at the salient time, and that he said his name
was O’Brien. Perhaps Webb
did
want the revolt to succeed, and Dillon killed
him
for a traitor. You do not know who Dillon works for, so you cannot know what side he was on in Ireland. Oh, and Eaffrey asked
me to tell you that she saw Dillon go into Clarendon’s house once, at midnight.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘
Clarendon
is the mysterious master who will snatch Dillon from the jaws of death? If so, then Dillon is going to be disappointed: my
Earl is not a dramatic sort of man, and if he wanted Dillon pardoned, he would have done it by now. How long has Eaffrey known
about this?’

‘Ever since a recent drive past Worcester House prompted a half-forgotten memory of a man in an odd hat silhouetted in an
upstairs window. She planned to tell you yesterday, but there was no time.’

‘She found time to tell you, though,’ observed Chaloner.

Scot glanced sharply at him, then smiled. ‘I conclude from that ambiguous remark that you saw us together. You did not slink
off the moment an escape route presented itself, but lingered, waiting for everyone else to leave. I should have known you
were not far away.’

‘Have you been lovers for long?’ It was none of Chaloner’s business, but they were friends, and he was curious by nature and
training.

‘More than a year. We wanted to tell you, but it is difficult to find a quiet moment these days. She is going to have my child.’

‘Behn will be surprised. I imagine he is under the impression that she wants to marry
him
, given the looks of simmering adoration she throws in his direction. Does she intend to have you both, then?’

Scot laughed. ‘Marriage and love are hardly the same thing. Yes, she will marry Behn, but it is not a partnership that will
last. He is already unfaithful, and makes regular visits to Silence Webb, among others. We hope Eaffrey will be a wealthy
woman once she offers to leave him in return for a settlement.’

‘You are encouraging her to marry Behn with the express purpose of acquiring an alimony? That is sordid!’

Scot was unrepentant. ‘The government confiscated my father’s estates after his execution, and I do not want our child to
grow up poor. Do you really disapprove? I thought you disliked slavery – and the victim of our “deception” is one of its greatest
proponents.’

‘Could you not just sabotage his new ship instead?’

‘God, no!’ exclaimed Scot with a shudder. ‘I shall have to travel to Surinam by boat, and I am superstitious about that kind
of thing. However, Behn is a wicked villain behind that courtly veneer—’

‘What courtly veneer?’

Scot was lost in a world of his own. ‘I had a good look around his private office yesterday, when I was waiting for him to
tire of Eaffrey and go to Silence. He has documents written in cipher. Now why would a merchant use cipher?’

‘To protect himself against men like you, presumably. Could you decode them?’

‘I could not – not in the time I had. I tell you, Chaloner, the man is no angel. These messages are probably reports from
criminals, telling him dirty secrets about his rivals. I know for a fact that he consorts with low types, because I have seen
him with them – in particular a thickset fellow with a scarred neck, who always visits after dark. Do you really object to
us defrauding a man like that?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘It is none of my affair.’

Scot regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Do you remember the letter sent anonymously to Bristol – the one that saw me placed in an
awkward position and Dillon convicted of Webb’s murder? Well, it occurs to me that Behn might have sent it.’

‘Why? He has nothing to do with—’

‘He receives
coded
letters,’ snapped Scot. ‘So do not tell me he is innocent in the world of spying. I imagine he would love our intelligence
services to be thrown into disarray, because it would allow him greater freedom to do whatever it is he does.’ He sighed impatiently.
‘You do not believe me.’

‘It is easier to cheat a man you despise than one you like – you are trying to convince
yourself
that he is unsavoury, not me. How can you bear him to touch Eaffrey, if she is your wife in all but name?’

Scot was surprised by the question. ‘My previous wife slept with all manner of men to provide me with the secrets necessary
for my work. If you were married, your woman would do the same.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘She would not.’

‘When you are my age, you may think differently.’

‘The Guinea Company feast,’ said Chaloner suddenly. ‘You left early – or “too early to know what happened” in the discussion
between Temple and Webb, to quote
your own words. You said it was because the lice in Terrell’s wig were bothering you. Was it really to see Eaffrey?’

Scot grinned ruefully. ‘It was a perfect opportunity. Behn is an influential member of the Guinea Company – there is a move
afoot to make him Master – so we knew he would be there all night. I stayed at African House long enough to be noticed, then
spent the rest of the night in Eaffrey’s arms, content in the knowledge that Behn had promised to use the other bedroom when
he finally returned, so as not to wake her. Such occasions are rare, so must be seized with alacrity when they arise.’

‘I imagine his visits to Silence might provide you with a few.’

Scot’s smile widened. ‘But not as many as we would like.’

Friday dawned warm and clear. The sky was veiled with a thin gauze of cloud that soon burned away, and the sun shone on the
chaos of spires and chimneys that was London. Chaloner walked to Ludgate, acutely aware that time was running out for Dillon.
He cut through several alleys, emerging near the scruffy patch of land designated as the graveyard to St Bride’s Church, then
picked his way along a path that ran parallel to the foetid sludge of the Fleet river. Kites and hawks pecked through the
flotsam that had cast up upon its stinking banks, and rats scavenged in the deeper shadows. The stench of urine was powerful
enough to sear the back of Chaloner’s throat, and it made his eyes water.

He crossed the bridge and headed for the prison, noting how it stood in the shadow of mighty St Paul’s – the
racket from the shops and stalls in the cathedral’s churchyard could be heard even above the rumble of iron cartwheels on
the cobbles of Ludgate Hill. He loitered in the porch of little St Martin’s, opposite the gatehouse, until he spotted the
warden who had taken him to see Sarsfeild. He left his hiding place and handed the man a shilling.

‘Sarsfeild,’ mused the warden, pocketing the coin. ‘Due to be executed tomorrow, but he beat us to it. The governor is furious,
because it means we lost two of the three men due to die on Saturday. Sarsfeild was found dead in his cell – hanged with the
laces from his own shirt. He done it himself.’

‘I was under the impression he wanted to live,’ said Chaloner. ‘He hoped someone would save him, because he said he was innocent.’

‘They are all innocent in there,’ said the warden wearily, jerking his thumb towards the prison walls. ‘But perhaps his priest
convinced him that the time for lies was over. Vicars often have that effect on condemned men: they talk about Jesus and wicked
hearts break. I seen it dozens of times.’

‘What vicar?’ asked Chaloner.

‘The Rector of St Dunstan-in-the-West.’ The warden screwed up his face as he fought to remember a name. ‘Willys – George Willys.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Like a priest – shabby black coat, broad-brimmed hat, shoes with holes. He wore a sword, I remember, which is unusual for
a religious cove. It was hid under his cloak but I saw the tip.’

‘Was Sarsfeild alive after this vicar had left?’

‘I expect so, or he would have said something. Priests
do not like it when prisoners die in the middle of evangelical sessions. It makes them feel they have wasted their time,
because dead men cannot ponder redemption and that kind of thing.’

In other words, he did not know, surmised Chaloner. ‘What time did this visit take place?’

The warden scratched his oily pate. ‘Now you are asking. It was after three o’clock, because that was when we finished giving
all the inmates their dinner.’

‘George Willys was dead himself by then. The man you admitted was an impostor.’

‘Well, he
looked
like a vicar,’ said the warden defensively. ‘He had a Bible and everything. I thought it was odd that the Rector of St Dunstan’s
should come, when Sarsfeild hailed from the parish of St Martin-in-the-Fields, but it is not for me to question clerics.’

‘What happened to Sarsfeild’s body?’

‘The barber-surgeons had it. They needed one urgent, and they were lucky we had one going spare. It is not every day we have
suicides.
We
are not Newgate.’

‘Why did they need it urgently?’

‘Apparently, a rich patron paid Mr Johnson a lot of money for a Private Anatomy, but Mr Johnson did not have a corpse, so
he used one that had been set aside for another surgeon called Wiseman. Wiseman was furious, and told Mr Johnson that if he
did not procure a body immediately, he would end up on the cutting table himself. So we let Mr Johnson have Sarsfeild.’

Thoughts teeming, Chaloner was about to visit Newgate, to see whether he could shake any more details from the aggravating
Dillon – there was nothing like looming execution to concentrate the mind – when he met Holles. The colonel was striding purposefully
along
the spacious avenue called Old Bailey, and Chaloner greeted him warily, uncertain of the man and the status of their alliance.

‘May is still telling everyone that
you
started that fight in the Spares Gallery yesterday,’ said Holles without preamble.

‘Do you believe him?’ asked Chaloner.

Holles grimaced. ‘It is getting harder to tell friend from foe these days, and you have never liked May, so it is possible
that you provoked a struggle. And then there was Wiseman –
he
took your side, and
that
is what really turned me against you. You see, not long before your spat with May, Wiseman told me a filthy lie. So, my instinct
was to distrust him a second time, too.’

‘What “filthy lie” did he tell you?’