Blood On The Strand: Chaloner's Second Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner)

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Someone sent Bristol a letter listing nine men who are supposed to have murdered Webb,’ said Chaloner. ‘Have you heard any rumours about who might have penned it – and why to Bristol?’

  ‘Yes, actually,’ said Scot, nodding keenly. ‘Ever since Eaffrey and I tumbled to the fact that the Dillon mentioned by your beggar is none other than the Dillon convicted of murdering the Guinea Company man, we have been asking questions on your behalf, gathering information. The letter that saw Dillon indicted has given rise to all manner of speculation in the city, but although there are rumours galore – including one that says Bristol wrote it himself – no one knows for certain who penned it.’

  ‘Why would Bristol write it himself ?’

  ‘He would not,’ replied Scot, stabbing the dressing as hard as he could in an effort to crack it. ‘It is malicious slander, which originated with Brodrick.’

  ‘And I heard that Adrian May was the author,’ said Eaffrey, ‘because the grammar and spelling were poor, and everyone knows he is an uneducated ignoramus.’

  There was a sudden snapping sound, and Scot hissed in exasperation. ‘I cannot get this damn thing off, and now I have ruined my best dagger. What did Wiseman use to make it? Stone?’

  ‘Let me,’ said Eaffrey, elbowing him out of the way. She inspected the bandage and regarded him in astonishment. ‘All that huffing and puffing, and you have barely made a dent!’

  Scot glared at the broken tip of his knife. ‘It was not for want of trying.’

  Chaloner took the weapon from him, appalled that Wiseman’s splint should be capable of damaging such good-quality steel. ‘I am sorry. Take mine.’

  Scot shook his head. ‘You may need it. I hear Eaffrey’s future husband has taken against you.’

  ‘Johan does not go around attacking people,’ protested Eaffrey, bending over Chaloner’s arm. ‘May might, though, while Bristol would not pass up a chance to remove his rival’s spy, either. You have more enemies in White Hall than William and I put together, Tom, which is impressive – you have not been home a week.’

  Chaloner sighed, thinking he had never been so unpopular in Holland – and that was an enemy state. He thought about Scot’s brother. ‘Have you heard a date for Thomas’s release yet?’

  Scot’s expression was troubled. ‘They keep coming up with legal reasons for the delay, and I do not know enough law to tell whether they are real, or just excuses.’

  Chaloner gave him Leybourn’s address. ‘He sells legal books. Ask him to look it up for you.’

  Eaffrey threw up her hands in disgust. ‘I cannot break this splint, either. Wiseman is famous for his experiments, and I think he might have just performed one on you. I suspect you are stuck with this thing until he agrees to remove it himself – which may cost a lot, given that he claims he is short of money at the moment. How are your current finances?’

  ‘Not good,’ replied Chaloner ruefully. ‘Clarendon keeps forgetting to pay me.’

  ‘We have broken into houses, fortresses, offices and halls, and escaped from all kinds of prisons,’ said Scot, emptying his purse on the table. He did not seem much better off than Chaloner. He shoved the coins towards his friend, but Chaloner pushed them back, not liking to borrow money when he did not know when he would be able to repay it. ‘Yet we are defeated by Wiseman’s glue.’

  ‘There is Johan,’ said Eaffrey, gazing to where Behn was looking around with two cups of wine in his meaty hands. ‘I should go, or he will think I dispensed him on an errand to be rid of him.’

  ‘You did,’ said Chaloner.

  She pouted prettily. ‘Yes, but there is no reason for him to know it.’

  Chaloner followed Scot and Eaffrey out of the Lord Chancellor’s office, but when he reached the garden, he found his way barred by Behn in one direction and May in another. He did not feel inclined to speak to either, so he retraced his steps and returned to the window seat. This time, he made sure he was concealed by the curtains as he stared down into the grounds.

  The casement was still ajar, so he listened to snatches of conversation as people passed below. He saw Brodrick congratulating the musicians, one of which was Greeting, and heard them laughing together. Meanwhile, Temple was also strolling towards the consort, unwittingly following a path that would lead him straight to Brodrick. Chaloner recalled Scot’s tale about how Clarendon’s cousin had hit Temple with a candlestick, and did not imagine they could have much to say to each other – at least, nothing genteel. Sure enough, the toothless Temple baulked when he saw where his amble would take him, and started to change direction. Unfortunately, the lady accompanying him – an older woman, who wore yellow skirts and a fashionable mask that concealed the top half of her face – was determined to speak to the musicians. She resisted his tug on her arm, and then it was too late.

  ‘Good afternoon, Brodrick,’ said Temple stiffly. He raised one hand to his pate and rubbed it, although Chaloner could not be sure whether the gesture was intended to be a deliberate reminder of the incident at the Guinea Company dinner. ‘I trust you are well?’

  Brodrick forced a smile. ‘Yes, thank you. I understand you gave my cousin a parrot. How kind.’

  ‘A green one,’ Temple’s expression darkened. ‘Unfortunately, Lady Castlemaine persuaded him to part with it before it could … ’

  ‘Could give him a fatal ague?’ finished Brodrick sweetly when Temple faltered. ‘The Lady told me some men are susceptible to them. However, I am sure that is not what you intended.’

  ‘No!’ cried Temple, genuinely shocked. ‘I had no idea birds could be dangerous, and I sincerely hope Lord Clarendon does not think I harbour murderous intentions towards him. Nothing was further from my mind.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Brodrick, beginning to move away. ‘Good day to you.’

  But Temple grabbed his arm. ‘Since you are here and we are alone, there is a small matter I would like to discuss. As treasurer of the Guinea Company, it is my duty to collect subscriptions, and yours is outstanding. Perhaps you might … ’

  ‘You mention this at a Court ball?” asked Brodrick in distaste. ‘That is hardly gentlemanly, sir.’

  Temple flushed. ‘You are a difficult man to track down at other times, and I cannot waste hours of my valuable time hunting you out. Will you oblige me with thirty pounds now?’

  Brodrick bowed curtly. ‘Stay where you are and I shall fetch it. Do not move.’

  He turned and hurried away, and Chaloner was amazed when Temple did as he was told. Personally, he would no more have expected Brodrick to return loaded with money than see the sun turn blue and drop from the sky. The politician and his lady had been loitering just long enough to know they had been tricked when they were joined by Bristol, who was clad in clothes so outdated that he looked like an actor from a theatre. They exchanged meaningless pleasantries, and a waft of onions drifted upwards. Chaloner wondered what the man did to make them hang so powerfully around him.

  Eventually, Chaloner tired of watching courtiers – a complex social dance in which he understood too few of the steps – and decided to fetch his viol in readiness for Brodrick’s consort. He was about to leave, when the door opened and the Earl bustled in. He was flustered and unhappy, and waved Chaloner back down when he started to stand.

  ‘Do not disturb yourself, Heyden. Wiseman has been telling everyone how you narrowly escaped death at my hands. I hope you do not die – Thurloe will never forgive me.’

  Chaloner made room for him on the seat. ‘Wiseman is a loyal friend, sir. He thinks he is helping you fight Bristol with these tales.’

  ‘Well, I wish he would not. I do not want a reputation for being a bully-boy. I—’

  The Earl broke off when the door opened a second time. Outraged that someone should dare enter without his permission, he was about to surge to his feet and say so, when Chaloner silenced him with a warning hand on his shoulder. The Lord Chancellor’s room was about to be burgled, and the spy was keen to know by whom.
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  As the uninvited guests set about closing the door and discussing who should do what, Chaloner drew the curtain in a way that concealed the window seat completely. When he was sure the Earl was not going to give them away with an indignant challenge, he moved until he could see what was happening through a moth-hole in the material.

  Two men had invaded Clarendon’s domain. The first was tall, with an unfashionably bushy beard and a puce coat that was stretched unattractively tight across his ample paunch. The second was an angular courtier, who wore tight yellow breeches and matching hose, which made his long, thin legs look like those of a heron. While the bearded man stood at the door and kept watch, Yellow Legs rifled through the desk. The Earl was outraged by the presumption, and started to stand again. Chaloner stopped him.

  ‘We need to see what they are doing.’

  ‘We can see what they are doing,’ hissed the Earl, his voice loud enough to make Chaloner glance through the moth-hole in alarm. Fortunately, it coincided with the start of some music in the garden below, and the burglars did not hear. ‘That fellow is George Willys, one of Bristol’s creatures, and he has his filthy hands in my private correspondence.’

  Chaloner was grateful the chamber piece wafting through the window was being played with such gusto. ‘We should see what they want specifically.’

  ‘But Willys will mean me harm – he is Bristol’s man to the core. That bearded fellow is Surgeon Johnson, who also supports Bristol. He—’

  Chaloner stopped him. The burglars were talking, and he wanted to hear what they said.

  ‘Hurry up,’ snapped Johnson. ‘We do not have all day. I am not sure Bristol was right when he said Clarendon had gone home early – he may come back to do some work.’

  ‘He will be exhausted after trouncing that Dutchman,’ said Willys. ‘However, I am afraid there is nothing in his desk, except papers referring to affairs of state.’

  ‘Those are no good,’ said Johnson impatiently. ‘Bristol wants us to find something that shows he embezzles public money. We need bills or letters from shady merchants – Matthew Webb, for example. He is the greatest villain in London, and no upright man should ever have dealings with him.’

  ‘Webb is dead,’ said Willys.

  A crafty expression crossed Johnson’s face. ‘Then he is not in a position to say what letters he received, is he? We shall send him something from Clarendon. That should satisfy Bristol.’

  ‘Actually, it will not,’ came another voice. Chaloner experienced a sickening lurch of shock when he recognised Scot, still dressed as his Irish scholar.

  It was Johnson who recovered his wits first. ‘What do you mean?’ he demanded. ‘Of course Bristol will be happy with evidence that implicates his rival in something sordid.’

  ‘I am sure that is true,’ said Scot. ‘However, he will not be pleased when the “evidence” is exposed as a forgery, and he is blamed. Now, I suggest you stop whatever it is you are doing and leave. This kind of behaviour is beneath professional men, and you should be ashamed of yourselves.’

  ‘Who are you to lecture us?’ demanded Johnson. ‘An Irish squire, only interested in flowers!’

  ‘His name is Terrell,’ whispered the Earl to Chaloner. ‘He is only pretending to be a scholar, and is actually one of Williamson’s spies, but I cannot recall his real name. Perhaps I was never told. It was an unfortunate name to choose, though, because there is a dishonest fishmonger called Peter Terrell.’

  ‘Spymaster Williamson sent me here,’ said Scot coldly to the two burglars. ‘He heard men who should know better were in the process of breaking into the office of a government official, and he ordered me to stop them before they did anything rash. If you do not leave immediately, he will have you charged with treason.’

  Johnson did not like the word treason, and neither did Willys. Both were out of the door in a flash. Scot closed the door behind them, and for one awful moment, Chaloner thought he intended to resume the search himself, but he merely closed the drawers Willys had opened, and set all to rights. When he was ready to leave, Chaloner motioned for the Earl to stay where he was and emerged from behind the curtain. Scot jumped in alarm, then grinned his relief.

  ‘You startled me! Did you leave this office open deliberately, to entice that pair to break the law? You certainly succeeded in springing your trap – they were in like moths at a flame.’

  ‘They came of their own volition.’

  ‘Then why are you still here? Are you hoping to prevent Eaffrey from seeing Behn? I would not meddle, if I were you. You will not succeed in parting them, and she will resent the interference.’

  ‘Why did you let Willys and Johnson go? You caught them red-handed.’

  Scot nodded. ‘Thanks to Wiseman – he told the Spymaster what was afoot. Apparently, he overheard them planning the escapade in a public room, which goes to underline how incompetent they are. However, there is no point in prosecuting them – they will deny all, and Williamson thinks Bristol might use the incident to make similar accusations against Clarendon.’

  ‘They would not be true.’

  ‘I know, but dirt will stick, as it always does. Williamson says it will be better for Clarendon if this distasteful farce is quietly forgotten, and he is almost certainly right.’

  ‘What would you have done if they had found something? They were considering fabricating documents, as you must have heard.’

  Scot nodded. ‘Then I would have marched them to Williamson and let him deal with the mess. God help us, Chaloner! All I want is for my brother to be released so I can take the next ship to Surinam. I am weary of petty politics and incompetents like Johnson and Willys.’

  As soon as Scot left, the Earl emerged from behind the curtain. He was deeply unsettled by what he had witnessed, but relieved to know that Williamson and his spies were capable of being objective. He told Brodrick, who had come looking for him, to summon a locksmith first thing in the morning, and wanted a guard posted at his door day and night.

  Brodrick had a viol. ‘Greeting’s,’ he explained, when he saw Chaloner looking at it. ‘Play me a scale.’

  Chaloner took the instrument, running appreciative fingers over the silken wood. He grasped the bow but found, to his horror, that the splint limited the movement of his left hand, and he could not produce the right notes, no matter how hard he tried.

  ‘Wiseman said you would be unable to perform,’ said Brodrick, regarding him unhappily. ‘Greeting will be pleased, although I shall be sorry to lose you.’

  ‘This thing will be off within the hour,’ Chaloner said hastily. ‘My landlord will have some tool that will work. He has implements for everything.’

  ‘Wiseman claims amateur removal is impossible,’ said Brodrick. ‘It needs some special chemical to dissolve it, apparently, and he says he will not apply it for at least a month – for your own good. I am sorry, Heyden but I need everyone at his best tonight, because the Queen will be listening.’

  ‘Greeting will be difficult to dislodge once he has a foot in the door, cousin,’ said the Earl reproachfully. ‘Heyden will lose his place permanently if he does not play tonight.’

  Brodrick shrugged. ‘It cannot be helped. Locke gave the bass viol some important solo work, and Greeting is the only available musician capable of mastering it at short notice. Like most courtiers, I am short of funds, and commissions to play in the houses of wealthy courtiers are fast becoming imperative. I cannot afford to be kind to Heyden, not when the Queen might recommend me to her entourage.’

  Disgusted and dismayed, Chaloner watched him stride away. He was suddenly sick of White Hall, and longed for the peace of his own chambers. Unwilling for ‘Vanders’ to be the centre of any more attention, he washed the paint and false beard from his face, and borrowed a cap and coat from Holles. He plodded along a series of little-used corridors, then cut across the expanse of cobbles known as the Great Court. Like the Privy Garden, it was full of revellers, but there were also servants going about their busi
ness, so no one looked twice at him as he walked away from the celebrations. Except one person.

  ‘Thomas Chaloner,’ said a masked woman in yellow, speaking in a voice that was far too loud. It was the lady who had been with Temple. Chaloner regarded her in alarm, not liking his real name bawled in such a place. ‘What are the palace guards thinking, to let you in here?’

  ‘Alice Scot,’ said Chaloner, when she removed her mask. It had only been five years since they had last met, but time had not been kind to her. Bitter lines encircled her mouth and eyes, and even a liberal slathering of beauty pastes could not conceal the discontent that was etched into her small, pinched features. She did not return his tentative smile of greeting, and he supposed he was still not forgiven for exposing her first husband as a man with dubious morals. ‘I did not know you were in London.’

  ‘I am here because my brother is in the Tower, being drained of secrets regarding the Castle Plot. I intend to rescue him and take him home to Buckinghamshire, where he will be safe.’

  ‘Rescue him how?’ asked Chaloner uneasily, hoping she was not planning to embark on some wild scheme that would see her entire family in trouble.

  ‘By offering a large sum of money to anyone who will set him free. I am rich, and can afford it – I just need to find out who to bribe. William thinks he can do it by pestering people, but money speaks louder than words, so we shall see who is right. Was it you who suggested Thomas should hand himself over in exchange for a pardon? If so, it was bad advice.’

  He was tempted to tell her the truth – that it had been Scot’s idea – but friendship stilled his tongue. ‘He surrendered willingly when he learned it would save him from hanging. Besides, he knew by then that the rebellion was a foolish venture to have supported, and he was eager to make amends.’