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

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘If Scot is that particular Terrell – there is a fishmonger of the same name, do not forget.’ Chaloner saw Leybourn look doubtful. ‘Scot is a good man, Will. He has saved me from trouble more times than I can remember, and there are few men I trust more. I can quite honestly say that I would not be alive today if it were not for him.’

  Leybourn rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘I was not suggesting there is anything untoward about Scot. However, he is a spy, and so are the others Fitz-Simons mentioned – Dillon and May. It seems unlikely that Fitz-Simons would cite two spies and a fishmonger. But regardless, the whole case is becoming ever more curious. Dillon is probably right when he said whoever wrote Bristol that letter may just have listed men who had crossed him in some way.’

  Chaloner watched the chaos surrounding an overturned fruit barrow near an ornately turreted Tudor mansion called Bedford House. Apples bounced everywhere, and were eagerly pounced on by children, beggars, horses and even a pig, despite the fact that they were wizened and soft from having been stored too long. The barrow-boy screeched his dismay and wielded a stick, but he might have well as railed against the tide, because his entire stock had been spirited away in a matter of moments.

  ‘I thought from the start that it was odd nine men should be needed to kill one,’ said Chaloner. ‘And if they were named from malice, then it means Dillon is wrongly convicted. I hope he is right to put his trust in his patron, though, given what has happened to Fanning.’

  ‘Will you visit Sarsfeild in Ludgate? He might tell you this great man’s name.’

  Chaloner was not enthused by the prospect. ‘I hate prisons. Will you go instead? The guards move about between gaols and I am afraid my escape from Newgate attracted too much attention.’

  ‘I would rather not,’ said Leybourn. ‘I dislike the smell. Do you think Sarsfeild asked to be transferred when he heard Fanning was murdered?’

  ‘He was transferred because the prison authorities want to make sure he does not die before his execution,’ said Chaloner, surprised by the refusal. He had never asked Leybourn for a favour before, and wondered whether their friendship was as solid as he thought. ‘Dillon is in decent lodgings, but Fanning was not, and probably neither was Sarsfeild. The public dislike being cheated of their due, and the governor needs the last two alive.’

  ‘Sometimes I am ashamed to be a Londoner,’ said Leybourn. He stopped just past the New Exchange, poking the ground with his foot. ‘Webb died here. His body was found by tradesmen the following day – honest ones, or his corpse would have been stripped.’

  Chaloner looked around him. The New Exchange – no longer so new, given that it was more than fifty years old – boasted a splendid stone façade in the style of a Gothic cathedral, and inside were two tiers of galleries containing exclusive little shops and stalls. Goods of all descriptions could be bought, although only by the very rich, and it was the place to be seen by gentlemen and ladies of fashion. A short distance to the west was Clarendon’s city residence, Worcester House. Tucked between it and the New Exchange was a smaller building.

  ‘This is Webb’s home?’ asked Chaloner, peering through the iron gates. The grounds contained far too many pieces of sculpture for the available space; they rubbed shoulders with fountains and gazebos, as if their owner could not decide what he wanted, so had purchased everything available.

  Leybourn nodded. ‘Tasteful, is it not?’

  Webb Hall had once boasted perfect classical proportions and some of the best Tuscan cornices on The Strand. Unfortunately, someone with more money than taste had lavished entirely the wrong kind of attention on the building, changing its windows, adding chimneys that spoiled its symmetry, and refacing it with cheap bricks. The door had been enlarged and a garish porch tacked on to the outside, complete with window hangings of scarlet lace.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Chaloner, regarding it askance.

  ‘Oh, dear, indeed,’ agreed Leybourn, walking up the path and knocking at the door. ‘Now this looks like a brothel. I am surprised Temperance is not losing customers to it.’

  ‘Perhaps she is,’ said Chaloner, glimpsing a furtive movement at the side of the house. It was a man, hurrying to be away from them. ‘Is that Johan Behn?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Leybourn. ‘Or he would not be climbing over the wall like a felon.’

  The door was opened by a servant who wore a livery of green and orange stripes. He conducted them along a hallway that glittered with gold leaf and opened the door to a drawing room that faced the river. A massive Turkish carpet covered the floor, anchored down by four Grecian urns. Dark Dutch landscapes shared the walls with the paler hues of the Venetian schools, and small tables had been placed in inconvenient places to display unique works of art. Through the window, Chaloner saw a bulky figure with fair hair aiming for the private jetty that would allow him to take a boat.

  ‘There is a word for this,’ whispered Leybourn in Chaloner’s ear, too overwhelmed by the interior décor to consider looking outside.

  ‘Vulgar?’

  ‘No,’ murmured Leybourn. ‘That is the word for her.’

  A large lady reclined on an exquisite French-made couch, eating sugared almonds. She wore a loose black gown, to indicate she was in mourning, and her hair was in elegant disarray. She also sported at least a dozen ‘face patches’, which Chaloner found disconcerting, because it reminded him of a case of ‘black pox’ he had once seen in the Dutch Antilles. He stepped forward to bow, noting that Leybourn remained by the door, as if anticipating that a quick escape might be required.

  ‘Forgive the intrusion, ma’am. My name is Thomas Heyden. The Lord Chancellor asked me to convey his personal condolences for your loss.’

  Silence’s small eyes gleamed with pleasure. ‘That is nice – he lives next door, you know.’

  She adjusted her ample bosom, winked at Chaloner and patted the seat beside her, wanting him to sit closer than was seemly. He pretended not to notice and took a chair in the window.

  Silence sighed irritably. ‘Do not perch where I cannot see you. I insist you come over here – but bring me a glass of wine before you come. No, not half a measure – fill it, man! You youngsters do not know the meaning of a “glass” of wine. Do you like my necklace? It is made of real emeralds.’

  ‘It is very pretty,’ said Chaloner, inspecting it politely. When he tried to move away, she grabbed his wrist and hauled him down next to her. From across the room, he heard Leybourn snigger.

  ‘Good, now we can talk properly,’ she said, resting her hand on his knee. He started to stand, but she gripped his coat in a way that would have made escape undignified. ‘You look familiar. Are you kin to that rascal Thomas Chaloner, the regicide? My Matthew used to clean his ditches in the old days, and he was always very generous with the ale afterwards.’

  ‘Your husband cleared ditches?’ asked Chaloner, deftly avoiding the question. ‘I thought he was a merchant.’

  ‘He found a purse of gold in one sewer, and wise investments set him on the road to wealth. Eventually, he was able to buy a ship, and his fortunes blossomed ever after. Poor Matthew. I am devastated by his death. What is Lord Clarendon going to do about it?’

  ‘The culprits have already been apprehended,’ said Leybourn. ‘And three men sentenced to hang.’

  ‘Three out of the nine who were named,’ she said with a pout. ‘Four were pardoned and two disappeared, never to be seen again. I believe they did kill Matthew – he was a strong man, and it would have taken nine felons to subdue him – but I also believe they did it on the orders of someone else. And that same someone then stepped forward and got six of them off.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Chaloner.

  She sniffed and ate an almond. ‘Many men were jealous of my husband. Take Sir Richard Temple, for example. He pretended to be our friend, but he bitterly resented Matthew stealing his customers. Perhaps Matthew did poach them, but competition is the nature of mercantile business, is it not?’

  Chaloner
was thoughtful. Temple had been on Dillon’s list of suspects, too. Was the toothless politician involved in something untoward? ‘Who else?’

  ‘I do not like to say it, since Lord Clarendon has been kind enough to send me his personal condolences, but his cousin Brodrick took offence at my husband’s dislike of music. Then there is the Earl of Bristol – he owed Matthew money, and no man likes being in debt.’

  ‘How much money?’ asked Leybourn.

  Silence addressed Chaloner. ‘Only common people talk about money. The Bishop of London told me so, when I asked him how much he earns. Suffice to say Bristol owed us a thousand pounds.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about money, though,’ murmured Leybourn. Chaloner fought the urge to laugh.

  ‘But Bristol needed more,’ Silence continued. ‘Matthew promised him – well, promised his broker, since an earl does not ask himself – another three hundred, which would have been paid today. Unfortunately for him, the lawyers have frozen Matthew’s accounts until the will is settled. Still, it will all be mine, so I am not worried.’

  ‘Webb was willing to lend him more?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘Even though Bristol already owed him a small fortune?’

  ‘Bristol’s broker said he was willing to pay a higher rate of interest for a further advance. However, all this was arranged before we were introduced to him at the Guinea Company dinner, and I learned what kind of man he is.’

  ‘Webb did not actually know Bristol?’ asked Leybourn, confused. ‘Yet he lent—’

  ‘All loans are arranged through brokers,’ interrupted Silence, still addressing Chaloner. ‘At least, that is how it works with us sophisticated types. Matthew had never met Bristol, and was looking forward to making his acquaintance at that dinner – he wanted to lend him more money, to secure his long-term friendship. But before they could talk, Bristol made a rude remark about my face patches. I was angry, I can tell you! I was going to tell Matthew to do no more business with him, but Matthew was brutally slain before I could speak to him about it.’

  ‘Are Temple, Brodrick and Bristol your only suspects?’ asked Chaloner encouragingly.

  ‘No. There is also Surgeon Wiseman. He took against Matthew for supporting the use of slaves in the production of sugar. He could have plunged a rapier into Matthew’s breast. He is a medical man, after all, and would know where to strike – and he does own a sword.’

  ‘Every gentleman owns a sword,’ said Chaloner.

  Silence ran her fingers down his scabbard. ‘I know gentlemen do. Do you know how to use it?’

  ‘It is for display,’ said Chaloner, not wanting her to demand a demonstration. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Matthew took a dislike to poor Johan Behn, although Johan would never hurt anyone, so he will not be guilty. Then there is that sluttish Lady Castlemaine, who objected to Matthew calling her a whore – despite the fact that she is one. And he quarrelled with others, too, because he spoke the truth. I cannot name them all, because there are so many.’

  ‘Will you tell us what happened the night your husband died? I understand you went home early.’

  ‘I was tired of drunken men pawing me with their hot hands.’ Chaloner heard Leybourn snort his disbelief. ‘So I summoned the carriage, and Matthew said he would follow later. We have our own transport, you see, like all people of worth. The driver saw me inside the door, and he said he would go back for Matthew at midnight, when the dinner was due to finish.’

  ‘The following day, when you realised Matthew was dead, did you ask the driver whether he had done as he had promised?’

  ‘No. It was obvious he had not, or Matthew would not have been walking. I sent him a note – I wrote it myself – and put it on the table in his quarters to tell him he was dismissed. I have not seen him since, and good riddance. His laziness gave wicked men an opportunity to kill my Matthew.’

  ‘When was the funeral?’

  ‘Last Thursday. I do not approve of delays where corpses are concerned – not after smelling Henry Lawes – but three weeks was the quickest we could manage. I wanted it done properly, you see, with invitations issued to all the right people – people of quality.’

  ‘Did they come?’ asked Leybourn, a little maliciously.

  She glared at him. ‘Most had prior engagements – I obviously chose a bad day. Matthew is in St Paul’s Cathedral now, with all those saints and bishops. We bought space in the vault when we first got rich, although we did not expect him to be in it quite so soon.’

  They talked a while longer, but it was clear she knew nothing of relevance. She was bitter enough to make Chaloner wonder whether she had written the message to Bristol containing the nine names, but then he realised her list would have been a good deal longer. He left when her hand began to move up his thigh and Leybourn’s amusement became more difficult to control. Before they escaped from the house, he asked a servant where the driver had lived, and was directed to a room above the stable in the yard.

  ‘You heard what Silence said.’ Leybourn was puzzled by the diversion. ‘He will be long gone – frightened someone will accuse him of deliberately neglecting to fetch Webb so others could kill him.’

  Chaloner opened the door and saw Silence’s note, unopened on the table. The room reeked, badly enough to make Leybourn back out with his hand over his mouth. There was a cupboard in the thickness of one wall, used for storage. Chaloner broke the lock, stepping back quickly when something large and heavy toppled towards him.

  ‘Stabbed,’ he said, kneeling to inspect the corpse. It still wore its orange and green uniform. ‘He has probably been dead since Webb’s murder. Someone wanted Webb to walk home alone, which means his death was no casual robbery, but a planned assassination.’

  ‘Does this mean Dillon is exonerated?’

  ‘It does not exonerate anyone – including Silence herself.’

  ‘She would not kill Webb. He was her husband.’

  ‘And now she is a very wealthy widow.’

  Although Chaloner disliked the notion of asking Scot whether it was his name on the list sent to Bristol – however he phrased the question, it would sound like an accusation, and he did not have so many friends that he could afford to lose them over misunderstandings – he knew he had no choice. He walked to the Chequer, a large coaching inn at Charing Cross, where Scot always stayed when he was in London. But Scot’s room was empty, and the landlord said he had not seen him since noon. Because it might be hours before Scot returned, and he was loath to waste time waiting, Chaloner went to White Hall, to update the Earl on his progress.

  The clouds had thinned since the morning’s drizzle, and a glimmering of sunshine raised London’s spirits. Traders yelled brazen lies about their wares, masons sang as they repaired a building that had collapsed during recent heavy rains, horses whinnied, wheels rattled, and everywhere was clamour. A blacksmith was making horseshoes, a knife-sharpener keened blades against his whet-stone, children yelped and screeched over a hoop, and street preachers were out in full force, warning against the dangers of sin. Two men ran an illicit cock-fight in an alley, accompanied by frenzied cheers, barking dogs and the angry screeches of the birds.

  As usual, White Hall thronged with clerks, servants, soldiers and courtiers. In addition, labourers had been drafted in to clean the gardens, which were still a mess of litter, trampled flowers and discarded food after the ball two nights before. Further confusion came from the fact that Lady Castlemaine was moving from the west side of the Privy Garden to more sumptuous accommodation on the east, which put her considerably closer to the King. Her possessions – along with innumerable items looted from people too frightened to stop her – were being transferred to her new domain, while she stood in the midst of the chaos and snapped impractical orders. She swore viciously at one servant for putting a bowl in the wrong place, and kicked another for dropping a box of wigs.

  ‘She is not very patient,’ Chaloner remarked to Holles, who had come to walk with him.

  ‘Good body,
though,’ remarked the colonel, leering appreciatively as they passed. ‘Did you see her in her shift the other day? What a treat for sore eyes! She is even better than the whores at Hercules’s Pillars Alley – and that is saying something. Do you not agree?’

  ‘Have you heard any rumours about Webb?’ asked Chaloner, changing the subject. Temperance’s girls had made no impression on him one way or the other. He supposed his lack of interest stemmed from the fact that the woman he had hoped would become his wife had died the previous year, and he had not felt much like looking at anyone else since.

  ‘No, but there have been plenty about your fictional upholsterer. The most common is that he lies at death’s door and that it is Lord Clarendon’s fault.’

  Chaloner gazed across the garden as Lady Castlemaine howled abuse at a groom, battering him about the head and shoulders with a fan. The implement was made of thin wood and paper, but she wielded it with sufficient force to draw blood nonetheless. ‘Is her beauty really enough to compel His Majesty to condone that sort of behaviour? It is hardly dignified.’

  Holles laughed, drawing the attention of several retainers. Some wore Buckingham’s livery while Chaloner had seen the others serving Bristol at the ball. ‘She is in a good mood today, because she is getting what she wants – the most desirable lodgings in White Hall.’

  ‘Holles!’ shouted one of Bristol’s men. ‘Who is he, and where are you taking him?’

  Chaloner recognised Willys, the thin, yellow-legged fellow who had searched Clarendon’s office. He also recalled that a ‘Willys’ had been on the letter Bristol had been sent. It was a common name, but he wanted to ask the man about it even so – although preferably not when he was surrounded by armed cronies.

  ‘We are on Lord Clarendon’s business,’ responded Holles tartly. ‘And it is none of yours.’

  ‘You are not allowed to bring just anyone into White Hall,’ said Willys nastily. ‘There are too many villains around these days. You are lucky May was alert over that beggar business, or you would have been blamed for the King’s murder. His Majesty was under your protection and you failed him.’