The colonel escorted Chaloner inside White Hall, then left him to his own devices. The first person Chaloner saw was Eaffrey, who was far too experienced a spy to ignore the elderly stranger, who indicated that he wanted to speak to her. She slipped away from Lady Castlemaine and her simpering entourage, and went to stand near a fountain in the middle of the cobbled Great Court. The fountain had once spouted clean, bubbling water, but it had not worked since the wars, and what filled its marbled troughs was green, sludge-like and malodorous. Eaffrey tossed a pebble at it, and the stone seemed to hesitate on the surface before sinking out of sight.
‘That is an impressive disguise, Tom,’ she muttered, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘You will soon be better than William.’
Chaloner sat on a low wall, and pretended to fiddle with the buckle on his shoe. As he did so, he automatic ally scanned the people who scurried past. ‘That large man with the yellow hair seems to be watching you rather closely. Do you know him?’
‘That is Johan, my Brandenburg merchant,’ said Eaffrey, waving in a way that was distinctly coquettish. The fellow acknowledged with a salute, although he did not return her smile, and Chaloner wondered whether there was something in his disguise that had aroused suspicion. Behn was tall and broad, with a mane of thick blond hair, and his fine clothes indicated he was a man of wealth. ‘Is he not handsome?’
‘He is all right,’ said Chaloner, taking an instant dislike to the bulky Adonis. The physical attraction he had developed for Eaffrey during their passionate interlude in Holland had never completely left him, and he was disgusted when it occurred to him that he might be jealous. Then he recalled what Thurloe had told him – that Behn owned a sugar plantation that used slaves – and felt that alone was reason enough for the man to be the recipient of his antipathy.
She grimaced at his lack of enthusiasm, but did not press the matter. ‘Have you come to gather intelligence at the Court ball? If so, then you have badly miscalculated, because you will not be allowed in looking like that. You are far too shabby for such an august occasion.’
‘I am supposed to be Kristiaan Vanders, here to spy on Bristol.’
‘Vanders died three years ago, of syphilis.’ Chaloner started to laugh – he had not known the cause of the old man’s demise – but Eaffrey did not join in. ‘It is not funny, Tom! You do not need me to tell you that this sort of reckless prank might see you killed. And I doubt you know enough about upholstery to fool all but the totally ignorant.’
‘There is nothing I can do about it – Clarendon issued a direct order.’
She gritted her teeth, furious on his behalf. ‘That arrogant old fool! Do you need help? I can pass you a little gossip I heard today. A politician called Sir Richard Temple – not the brightest star in the sky, but someone who has declared an allegiance to Bristol – is going to give Clarendon a parrot as a peacemaking gesture. Parrots talk, and the hope is that the bird will repeat something incriminating.’
Chaloner laughed again. ‘Truly? Or are you jesting with me?’
‘I am perfectly serious: the feathered spy will be presented this afternoon. I heard Temple telling Johan all about it just a few minutes ago. Did I tell you I intend to marry Johan, by the way?’
Chaloner regarded the burly merchant doubtfully, wondering what it was about Behn that had captured her heart. ‘Are you sure about this, Eaffrey? I heard he owns a plantation that uses slaves.’
‘Yes, but he has promised to do away with it, because he knows how much I disapprove. I would like you two to be friends. Let me introduce you.’
‘Wait, I—’
But it was too late to point out that he would be wise to maintain a low profile until he was sure no one at Court had ever met Vanders, because she was already summoning the fair beau idéal with a crooked finger. ‘Johan, I would like you to meet Mr Vanders, from Holland. He is an upholsterer.’
Chaloner would have had to be blind not to notice the adoring expression on her face when she addressed the merchant, and he supposed she really was in love with the fellow.
‘Kristiaan Vanders?’ asked Behn suspiciously. ‘I thought he was dead.’
‘There was a rumour to that effect,’ replied Eaffrey smoothly. ‘But it was premature, and he recovered from his French pox, as you can see. Some men do, if they are touched by God.’
‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said Behn in German, a language Chaloner understood, but spoke only poorly. He wondered if Behn knew Vanders was fluent, and was testing him. ‘Although I confess I have never been very impressed by your turkeywork sofas – too ornate by half.’
‘Each to his own,’ replied Chaloner in English. ‘We should not use German here, though – people might think we are spies.’ Behn opened his mouth to pursue the matter, so Chaloner changed the subject, saying the first thing that came into his head. ‘Have you ever had syphilis, Mr Behn?’
Eaffrey shot him an irritable look, and he supposed it was not the sort of conversation she had envisioned for his first meeting with the man of her dreams.
‘No,’ said Behn, sufficiently startled by the bald query to abandon his interrogation.
‘Good,’ said Chaloner, before he could resume. ‘It is an extremely uncomfortable condition.’
‘That was rude,’ hissed Eaffrey, when Behn’s attention was caught by a flurry of trumpets that heralded the arrival of the Duke of Buckingham. ‘Johan is important to me – and you should know how I feel, because you have been in love yourself. With Metje,’ she added, lest he needed reminding of the woman he had once intended to marry, but who was now dead.
Chaloner relented, and tried to make himself more amenable when Behn turned to face him again. ‘I hear you own a sugar plantation,’ he said, determined, however, that the conversation would not be in German or about sofas, either. ‘How interesting.’
‘There is money to be had in sugar,’ said Behn. ‘Especially if you use slaves to work your fields.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, taken aback by the blunt admission. Eaffrey seemed to be holding her breath in anticipation of fireworks, but Chaloner could not afford to draw attention to himself with a quarrel. He swallowed his growing dislike for the merchant and smiled in what he hoped was a benign manner.
‘Of course, there are those who disapprove,’ Behn went on, ‘but they usually concede my point when I challenge them to settle the matter with swords. I am no weakling, afraid to shed a bit of blood for what I believe – especially if it is someone else’s.’ He fingered the hilt of his blade meaningfully.
‘Johan is a member of the Guinea Company,’ gabbled Eaffrey, desperately scrabbling about for a non-contentious topic. ‘He expects to be elected Master soon.’
Chaloner sincerely hoped that an august body like the Company of Royal Adventurers Trading to Africa – the Guinea Company, for short – would have more decency than to vote for someone who held such reprehensible convictions. ‘They must think very highly of you,’ was all he said, although Behn seemed to sense his distaste, even so.
‘They do.’ The merchant scowled at Chaloner, who supposed the disdain he felt was being reciprocated in full. ‘However, their feasts can be dangerous. A member called Webb was stabbed on his way home from one just three weeks ago. Have you noticed how many unnatural deaths there are in London, Vanders?’ Behn drew his dagger and inspected it, testing the blade with his thumb.
Chaloner shook his head artlessly, although his thoughts were racing. Eaffrey had mentioned a merchant stabbed after a Guinea Company dinner, although he had not realised then that the victim was Webb – the man Dillon was accused of killing. Scot said he had been there, spying on the man who wanted to marry his sister, and Chaloner was suddenly hopeful that a good and reliable witness might help him unravel what had happened. Meanwhile, Behn was glowering, underlining his threat by wielding his knife in a way that was distinctly provocative.
‘I heard three felons are awaiting execution for that crime,’ said Chalo
ner, patting his arm paternally, just hard enough to make him fumble the blade and drop it. Eaffrey shot him an anguished look, which he felt was unjustified – after all, he was not the one brandishing weapons. ‘So, I doubt there will be any more murders of men walking home from dinner. You need not be frightened.’
Furious, Behn retrieved his dagger. ‘It is not my safety I am concerned about. I am young and fit, and know how to look after myself. It is the elderly who should be worried.’
‘Did you see Webb the night he was killed?’ asked Chaloner, treating the threats with the contempt they deserved by pretending he did not understand them. He glanced at Eaffrey and saw her regarding Behn unhappily. It occurred to him that she was seeing her lover in a new and unattractive light, and sincerely hoped she would think very carefully about a future with him.
‘That is an odd question,’ snapped Behn. ‘It sounds as if you think I might have killed him.’
‘Why would I do that?’ asked Chaloner, who had thought nothing of the kind – although Behn’s overly defensive comment certainly made him consider the possibility. ‘I was just wondering whether he had argued with anyone at this Guinea Company dinner, and the wrong men sit in Newgate Gaol.’
Behn’s eyes flicked towards Eaffrey in a way that made it obvious he was hiding something. ‘I cannot discuss Company business with outsiders,’ he declared. ‘The subject is closed.’
‘You opened it,’ Chaloner pointed out.
‘I think Lady Castlemaine wants us, Johan,’ said Eaffrey, hastily cutting across the indignant response Behn would have made. ‘Look, she is waving.’
‘She obviously means to ask you where she left her clothes,’ said Chaloner. ‘Because she does not appear to be wearing them.’
Behn swivelled around quickly, and his mouth fell open. The lady in question strutted towards the Duke of Buckingham in what appeared to be a shift. The material was outrageously thin, and every detail of her elegant figure could be seen through it. Chaloner glanced around, and saw that at least thirty men were watching her, ranging from the Bishop of London, whose small eyes were transfixed in glittering admiration, to the King, who frowned in a way that suggested he objected to sharing.
‘Gott in Himmel!’ breathed Behn, transfixed. ‘What a magnificent pair of onions!’
‘Speaking of onions, here is Bristol,’ said Eaffrey, placing herself between Behn and the glorious apparition as a black carriage with a scarlet trim rattled into the courtyard. ‘I can smell him from here.’
‘And I can smell Lady Castlemaine’s perfume,’ said Behn, ducking around her to resume his ogling. ‘It makes a man heady with delight.’
Chaloner had wasted enough time on Behn, and was keen to get on with his investigation into the death of Fitz-Simons. ‘Can you introduce me to any surgeons, Eaffrey? I understand the Court has several.’
‘Suffering from a recurrence of your French pox, are you?’ asked Behn with mock sympathy, only turning towards him when Lady Castlemaine had disappeared inside Bristol’s carriage.
‘Stiff knee,’ replied Chaloner, leaning down to rub his left leg. A twinge told him he would have a real one if he was obliged to spend too long hobbling around as the arthritic Dutchman.
‘Sore joints are a symptom of syphilis,’ said Behn in his native tongue. ‘The disease fills the bones with pus, which eventually addles the brain. Perhaps that is why you have forgotten your German.’
‘Or perhaps I just do not choose to speak it with oafs,’ retorted Chaloner, nettled at last. Surely Eaffrey could not expect him to endure insult after insult without making some defence?
‘There is Lord Clarendon,’ said Eaffrey tiredly. ‘You had better go and introduce yourself, Mr Vanders, since you said he is expecting you.’
Chaloner bowed and abandoned the happy couple. He heard Eaffrey asking, in a somewhat strained voice, whether Lady Castlemaine’s onions were really all that special, but did not catch the merchant’s response. He put Eaffrey out of his mind as he made his way to where Clarendon, clad in a glorious coat of deep pink, was talking to a pale, thin fellow with broken blood vessels in his nose and a shabby, dissipated air. The man was Clarendon’s favourite cousin, Sir Alan Brodrick.
Everyone knew Clarendon had great ambitions for Brodrick, but most people also knew the hopes were unlikely to be realised, because of Brodrick himself. He drank too much, attended too many wild soirées and, although he was intelligent enough to hold high office, he was also lazy and careless. The Earl was the only person who thought he owned any virtues, and dismissed the tales of his kinsman’s debauchery as spiteful rumour. Chaloner would have despised Brodrick with the rest, were it not for the fact that the man was an accomplished violist. They had enjoyed several evenings of duets and chamber music together – and Chaloner was willing to forgive a great deal where music was concerned.
‘My Lord Chancellor,’ said Chaloner, effecting the kind of bow favoured by the Dutch. ‘I am—’
‘Assassins!’ screeched the Earl, when he turned to see the squalid fellow bobbing at his side.
Chaloner stood his ground. ‘It is me, sir,’ he whispered, aware that soldiers were responding to the alarm and hurrying towards him, weapons drawn. Behn was among them. ‘Heyden.’
But the Earl was not listening, and flung out a chubby arm to protect himself. Chaloner ducked to avoid being slapped, and was off balance when Behn made a flying tackle that saw them both crash to the ground. In a desperate attempt to preserve his disguise, Chaloner clutched his wig, not wanting his brown hair to spill from underneath it. It meant he landed awkwardly with the full weight of the Brandenburger on top of him, and he felt something twist in his left arm.
‘I have him,’ yelled Behn, gripping Chaloner by the scruff of his neck and hauling him to his feet. Chaloner’s hand was numb and he could not feel whether his dagger had dropped from his sleeve into his palm – although it would have done him scant good if it had, since he could hardly stab Behn in the middle of White Hall. ‘I knew there was something odd about him. Shall I slit his throat?’
‘No!’ cried Brodrick, catching on to the situation far more quickly than his bemused kinsman and stepping forward to prevent Behn from following through with his kind offer. ‘This is Mr Vanders the upholsterer. Unhand him immediately, sir.’
‘Oh,’ said Clarendon sheepishly, finally realising what had happened. ‘That Vanders.’
* * *
‘It was your own fault,’ said the Earl accusingly, as he sat with Chaloner and Holles in his White Hall office. ‘You should have warned me. And the incident has done neither of us any good, because now people think I bully old men – and I can imagine what Bristol will make of that.’
Chaloner drank more of the wine Holles had poured him, and made no reply. He was more angry with himself than with Clarendon, disgusted that he had allowed Behn, of all people, to knock him to the ground. He comforted himself with the knowledge that at least his disguise was still intact. The wig had remained in place, and Behn had not managed to smudge any of his carefully crafted wrinkles.
‘Do not worry,’ said Holles kindly. ‘The surgeon will be here soon, and he will put all to rights.’
Chaloner did not need the services of a medicus, but it was too good an opportunity to miss by saying so. He was not sure which of the bone-setters – Lisle, Wiseman or Johnson – would answer the summons, but he intended to make full use of whoever arrived by asking whether they knew why their colleague Fitz-Simons had been so desperate to speak to Spymaster Williamson. His wrist was sore, but it was nothing that would not be better by morning, and he was actually in more discomfort from jarring his lame leg, although he was not going to admit that particular weakness to anyone in White Hall.
The door opened to admit Brodrick, who had offered to fetch the surgical help. He was alone, and Chaloner assumed he had allowed himself to become side-tracked by the copious bowls of wine that had been placed in every public corridor. These were to ensure the ball got off to a
good start.
‘The rumours have started, cousin,’ said Brodrick to the Earl, trying to keep the amusement from his voice as he leaned against the wall, goblet in one hand and smoking pipe in the other. ‘Everyone is talking about how you felled an insolent Dutchman with a vicious punch to the nose.’
‘I did nothing of the kind!’ cried Clarendon, appalled. ‘I flung out an arm, but no contact was made. It was Behn who bowled Heyden from his feet. Is it Bristol who is telling these lies?’
Brodrick grinned as he sipped his claret. ‘He is certainly making sure they are common knowledge, but the tale actually originated with Surgeon Wiseman. He says he saw it happen.’
‘Then he is mistaken!’ wailed the Earl. ‘I thought Wiseman was on my side. Has he migrated to Bristol’s camp, then?’
‘Absolutely not,’ replied Brodrick. ‘And what he has done is rather clever: he has let it be known that you have teeth, and that you are prepared to use them. He has done you a great favour.’
Holles nodded agreement. ‘It is true, My Lord. Bristol will be obliged to revise his opinion of you now, and that cannot be a bad thing – it is always good to have one’s enemies off balance. He will think twice about insulting you again, lest you wallop him, too.’
Brodrick laughed. It was the kind of scenario that suited his sense of the ridiculous. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I am off to spin a few tales of my own. I shall say the Dutch upholsterer lies at death’s door, and that those who meddle with the Lord Chancellor do so at their peril.’
‘Yes!’ said Holles, eyes gleaming. ‘And I shall add to the speculation by ordering a coffin.’
‘No!’ shouted the Earl, horrified. ‘I do not want to be considered a ruffian! I shall tell anyone I meet the truth: that the Brandenburg merchant was the one who harmed Heyden … I mean Vanders.’
Brodrick winked conspiratorially at Chaloner, to let him know that he thought this would only add fuel to the fire. It would be seen as a case of ‘he doth protest too much’, and would ‘prove’ Lord Clarendon had indeed indulged in a brief spurt of violence.
Blood On The Strand: Chaloner's Second Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner) Page 9