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

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘The Strand; I have a shop in the New Exchange. I know how this looks – I bought sugar from Webb, and we are almost neighbours – but that is where our association ends. I did not kill him!’

  Chaloner thought about Scot’s theory, reiterated by Thurloe: that a mistake had been made, and that the letter’s author had intended Chaloner’s name to be on the list. And so ‘Garsfield’, who had been active in thwarting the Castle Plot, was overlooked in favour of Sarsfeild the confectioner, because the man was an associate of Webb’s and lived nearby. Could it be true? The man in Ludgate had none of Dillon’s dash and swagger, and certainly was not expecting rescue.

  ‘The King himself has tasted my wares,’ Sarsfeild continued, when Chaloner made no comment. ‘If you tell His Majesty about my predicament, and ask for a royal pardon, I will keep you in sweetmeats for the rest of your life.’

  ‘I do not have that sort of authority, I am afraid. Where were you the night Webb was murdered?’

  Sarsfeild looked relieved. ‘I keep telling people, but no one will listen: I went to see a play called The Humorous Lieutenant, then I went home with an actress called Beck Marshall who lives in Drury Lane. Please go to see her. She will tell you I was with her all night, so cannot have murdered Webb.’

  ‘I will do what I can. Did you hear what happened to Fanning?’

  Sarsfeild gave a bitter smile. ‘Gaol-fever – it was why I was moved. The governor does not want the public to be cheated of their entertainment on Saturday.’

  Chapter 8

  At the western end of the great expanse that was St Paul’s churchyard was a coffee house with a sign above it that identified it as the Turk’s Head. There were several places of refreshment in the city with that name, but the one in St Paul’s was famous because it was used by local booksellers to strike deals with their customers. Besides coffee, the Turk’s Head offered sherbets flavoured with roses or lemons, chocolate – a dark, bitter beverage endured only by truly dedicated followers of fashion – and stationery. For six shillings, a pound of East India ‘berries’ could be purchased, along with free instructions on how to produce the perfect dish of coffee. Thurloe bought some when he learned the East India type was said to be good for ‘griping pains in divers regions’.

  ‘Are you sure you do not want any sugar?’ asked the ex-Spymaster, as they took seats in a room so warm that its patrons’ clothes – wet from the morning’s drizzle – steamed furiously. ‘Coffee does not taste very nice without it. It does not taste very nice with it, either, but at least it is an improvement.’

  ‘Sarsfeild bought sugar from Webb,’ said Chaloner, thinking about what he had learned. ‘And they lived close to each other, although I imagine Sarsfeild’s home is rather less grand than Webb Hall. These two connections may have been enough to see him accused of a crime he did not commit. Alternatively, they may mean he had a motive to stab Webb, since most people seem to have been seized with the desire to stick a rapier in the fellow once they had made his acquaintance.’

  ‘Which do you think is true?’ asked Thurloe, sipping his coffee and wincing at the flavour.

  ‘I have no idea. The disparity between the two convicted men is puzzling. Dillon has everything he wants, and is convinced he will be saved in a dramatic gesture by his patron. Sarsfeild has no money to pay for his keep, and is certain he is going to die.’ Chaloner rubbed his head. He still felt sick, and the unsweetened coffee was not helping. ‘They do not seem like the kind of men to work together.’

  ‘So, you think the letter might have meant to accuse “Garsfield” after all?’

  ‘No – I only used that alias once, and that was in Dublin. Most of the rebels I met are either dead or in prison, and my fellow spies either know me as Heyden or by my real name.’

  ‘Let us review this logically. How many agents were involved in thwarting this rebellion?’

  ‘About two dozen that I know of. Some are still in Ireland, some have been sent to new assignments overseas, and the only ones currently in London are May, Eaffrey and Scot.’

  ‘But these three know you by more familiar names, so would not have used Garsfield anyway. What about Thomas Scot? Was he aware of your real identity?’

  ‘We have known each other since we were children, so yes, he knew.’

  ‘You were part of a covert operation that resulted in his imprisonment, the failure of his revolt, and the death or incarceration of his co-conspirators. Perhaps he wants revenge on you, and used your Garsfield identity to ensure the letter was not traced back to him.’

  ‘But his brother’s alias is in the letter, too,’ argued Chaloner. ‘And Thomas would never hurt his family. They have grown closer since their father’s execution, and he would never put Scot at risk.’

  Thurloe was quiet for a long time, making patterns in the sludge at the bottom of his bowl with a pewter spoon. ‘I think you are right,’ he said eventually. ‘This letter did not refer to you. That leaves two possibilities. First, Sarsfeild’s name was included for spite – perhaps his confectionery made someone’s teeth fall out—’

  ‘Temple!’ exclaimed Chaloner.

  Thurloe inclined his head. ‘And secondly, Sarsfeild is guilty of the murder, but is ready to say or do anything to escape the inevitable.’

  They continued to discuss the letter, but found they could not agree on its meaning. Thurloe thought it proved that Webb had been part of the Castle Plot – had betrayed his co-conspirators and been killed for it – but refused to believe that Dillon had struck the fatal blow. Chaloner was unwilling to dismiss the possibility that linking Webb to the Castle Plot might just be someone’s way of trying to make sure the letter was taken seriously.

  ‘I should do as Sarsfeild suggested,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject when they started to go around in circles. ‘Speak to the actress Beck Marshall of Drury Lane, to see if he has a credible alibi.’

  ‘I could go with you,’ said Thurloe reluctantly, ‘although it is distasteful. I dislike the theatre and all it has come to represent: immorality, hedonism and vice.’

  ‘Prynne would be pleased to hear you say that. It is what he thinks.’

  Thurloe smiled bleakly. ‘Yes, but, unlike him, I do not itch to burn them all to the ground with players and audience still inside.’

  Beck Marshall was in bed when they knocked on the door of the house she shared with her sister. A servant went to rouse her, but it was a long time before she sauntered, semi-naked, into her front parlour. Her face bore the ravages of a wild evening, and her fashionable patches were sadly smudged, giving her a striped appearance. She reeked of wine, and Chaloner wondered whether he had looked as dissipated when he had arrived at Thurloe’s rooms that morning.

  ‘Sarsfeild,’ Beck mused. ‘Yes, I entertained him on the night The Humorous Lieutenant opened, because he brought me a box of sugared almonds. I still have some left. Would you like one?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Thurloe coolly. ‘Did Sarsfeild leave you at all that night, or did he stay with you the whole time?’

  She shot him a leering smile that made him recoil in revulsion. ‘I cannot remember one man from another, to be frank, although you might prove to be the exception. Shall we find out?’

  ‘We shall not, madam,’ said Thurloe icily. ‘Now, please try to remember Sarsfeild, because his life may depend on it.’

  ‘Why is everything so desperately important these days?’ Beck asked in a bored voice. ‘I thought we were done with all that when the King ousted those miserable Puritans. All I want is some fun—’

  ‘Sarsfeild,’ prompted Thurloe curtly. ‘Did he stay all night with you?’

  Beck pouted. ‘He probably did, because he will have wanted his money’s worth for the almonds, but I cannot recall for certain. Do you have any sweetmeats on offer, Mr Heyden? You look like a man who knows how to enjoy himself, even if your prudish friend—’

  ‘No, he does not,’ snapped Thurloe. ‘And you shoul
d wash your face, girl. You look like a tiger.’

  Chaloner was laughing as they took their leave of Beck Marshall. Thurloe’s reaction to her had taken his mind of his roiling stomach, for which he was grateful, because he was beginning to feel better. The ex-Spymaster glared at him.

  ‘You were tempted by her,’ he said accusingly. ‘I could see you were seriously considering providing her with a gift in exchange for an hour of her company.’

  Chaloner regarded him in amusement. ‘I have never paid a prostitute in my life.’

  Thurloe was unimpressed. ‘That is an ambiguous answer, because it suggests you inveigle their services free of charge. But discussing your sinful past will take us nowhere. What did you think of Sarsfeild’s alibi? Can we believe he spent the night with that flighty child or not?’

  ‘Her testimony is inconclusive. Miss Marshall would say anything for the right price, but she honestly does not remember how long Sarsfeild stayed with her. Also, we cannot discount the possibility that she might have passed out from wine at some point, and awoke to find him next to her in the morning. Unfortunately for Sarsfeild, he chose the wrong woman to speak for him.’

  ‘I imagine he will be more careful next time.’

  ‘If there is a next time,’ said Chaloner soberly.

  Thurloe insisted on taking Chaloner to White Hall in his carriage after they had left Drury Lane, even though it was in the opposite direction from Lincoln’s Inn.

  ‘Take my coat again,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Bristol might be there, and although you say he did not see your face, he certainly saw your clothes and that purple is distinctive. I am sure you have a spare cap. You usually do. And wipe that powder from your face. It makes you look like a Court debauchee – although perhaps it is not the chalk that is responsible. Even Brodrick would have been shocked by your rakish appearance this morning.’

  ‘Perhaps, but at least he would not have given me poison to drink,’ retorted Chaloner.

  Thurloe winced. ‘I have said I am sorry – several times. Are you sure you are feeling better? Your temper does not seem to have improved. Perhaps you should go home.’

  ‘I would like to, but you told me to warn Lord Clarendon about Lady Castlemaine and the King’s new rooms, because you fear Brodrick cannot be trusted.’

  ‘Well, that is what he is paying you for,’ remarked Thurloe, a little acidly. ‘Meanwhile, I shall take Bristol’s letter to a handwriting expert I know, and see what he can tell me about it.’

  Chaloner made his way towards White Hall’s main gate, stopping to state his business in the guard room, where he was immediately hauled into a private chamber by Colonel Holles.

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed the soldier, peering into Chaloner’s face. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I drank something that disagreed with me. I am sure I would feel better if I could remove this damned splint, though. You would not believe how much it itches. Wiseman is a quack.’

  Holles kicked his foot and looked oddly furtive. ‘He is not a quack,’ he said in a loud, artificial voice. ‘He is a good, honest fellow. A veritable Hypocrites.’

  Chaloner snorted his disdain. ‘Lisle does not think so. I have tried at least three times to hack this thing off, but it has set like a rock. Wiseman must have used too much glue.’

  ‘The amount of glue I used was precisely what that was needed,’ came Wiseman’s haughty voice from the adjoining chamber, where he had been binding a soldier’s bruised ankle. He looked larger than ever that day, because the room was small and his bulk took up more than his share of it. Holles gave him an embarrassed grin before shooting out on the pretext of interviewing a band of acrobats.

  ‘Then why is it so hard?’ demanded Chaloner, not intimidated by the surgeon’s vast red presence.

  ‘Because I made it hard,’ replied Wiseman. ‘What has Lisle been saying about me?’

  Chaloner was sure Wiseman would not approve of his colleague’s intentions for Saturday, and was not going to risk a confrontation between the two surgeons that would result in neither removing the splint. He procrastinated. ‘He said you have a reputation for innovation.’

  Wiseman knew he was being fobbed off with an answer that meant nothing. He grabbed Chaloner’s hand and his jaw dropped when he inspected his handiwork. ‘God in heaven! What have you been doing? Climbing trees?’

  Chaloner hoped the surgeon would not associate him with the ‘thief ’ who had escaped Chyrurgeons’ Hall by scaling its protective walls. ‘Nothing I would not normally have done,’ he replied coolly.

  ‘Well, what you “normally do” does not seem to suit your humours,’ said Wiseman caustically. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  Chaloner objected to the man’s accusatory tone. ‘Yes – a tonic containing Venice Treacle.’

  Wiseman frowned. ‘Venice Treacle should not have harmed you. However, I know the lingering effects of wine when I see them. My advice to you is to drink plenty of watered ale, to wash them out.’

  ‘I would feel better without this splint. It is hot and it rubs. It is time you removed it, and—’

  Wiseman sighed impatiently. ‘It is not time. Look, I know what I am doing, Heyden, because I am the best surgeon in London. In fact,’ he said as he walked away, ‘I am a genius.’

  Chaloner was tempted to see whether he would feel quite so full of hubris with a splint cracked across his pate. He was not usually given to violent urges, but it had not been a good morning, and although he felt better than when he had been burgling Bristol’s home, the combined effects of too much wine and whatever Thurloe had fed him lingered on. He was stalking across the Pebble Court when someone tried to collide with him. Even preoccupied with the state of his health, his instincts did not let him down. He jigged automatically to one side, and May staggered into thin air.

  ‘Watch where you are going!’ May snarled, trying to regain his balance. His latest hairpiece – a pale-ginger periwig – slipped to one side, then tumbled to the ground, revealing his shiny head.

  ‘I was,’ retorted Chaloner tartly. ‘Fortunately for you.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ demanded May, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Threatening you with what?’ asked Chaloner, all the frustrations of the morning suddenly boiling up in a spurt of hot temper. The dagger dropped from his sleeve into the palm of his hand. ‘Ridicule, for losing the body of the man you shot?’

  May glowered at him. ‘If I find out you were responsible for that, I will kill you.’

  ‘You can try,’ said Chaloner contemptuously. ‘Of course, mislaying corpses is not the only stupid thing you have done recently. The letter you sent Bristol, which might see innocent men hanged, will be investigated and I shall see its culprit brought to justice.’

  May gazed at him, anger forgotten in the face of his astonishment. ‘You think I wrote that? But my alias – Burne – was among the accused. If I had been the author, I would have left it off.’

  ‘You included yourself deliberately, to allay suspicion.’

  May stepped back. ‘You are clearly unwell or you would not be making such wild accusations. I do not fight sick men, and you look terrible.’

  ‘Then talk to me instead.’ As quickly as it had flared, Chaloner’s rage subsided, and he knew he was lucky May had declined to react to his inflammatory remarks. The King had forbidden brawling among courtiers, and while a Groom of the King’s Privy Chamber might escape with a reprimand, matters would be a lot more serious for an ex-Cromwellian spy. He replaced the knife surreptitiously, masking what he was doing by leaning down to retrieve May’s wig. ‘Who sent the note?’

  ‘I have no idea. It saw me accused of murder, too, but I spent no more than an hour in Newgate before my pardon arrived. Williamson does not allow his best men to rot in prisons.’ When May reached out to snatch the hairpiece away from Chaloner, his fingers brushed the splint, and he grabbed it before the spy could stop him. ‘I knew there was something wrong with you. What happe
ned?’

  Chaloner chose not to answer. ‘I do not suppose it was you who was going to rescue Fanning by sending his Newgate guards a barrel of poisoned wine, was it?’ He had no reason for asking, other than that it had been an idiotic notion and May was an idiotic man.

  May’s expression was haughty. ‘Hardly “poisoned” – just treated with a soporific. How do you know? Fanning swore he would tell no one but Dillon – to ask whether he wanted saving, too.’

  ‘And did he?’

  May shook his head as he replaced his wig. ‘He said he preferred to wait for his patron to do it. Still, my efforts were not needed in the end, because Fanning died of gaol-fever before I could act.’

  ‘Why were you willing to help him escape? Was he one of Williamson’s men?’

  May’s expression was disdainful. ‘Your wits are slow today, Heyden. Of course he was not one of Williamson’s men – if he had been, he would have been pardoned with the rest of us. However, he once helped me in an embarrassing matter pertaining to a lady, and I wanted to pay a debt due.’

  Chaloner wondered whether Fanning might still be alive, were it not for May’s ill-conceived and not-very-secret rescue. ‘Apparently, guards have not been fooled by drugged wine for centuries.’

  ‘So they say, but it has never failed me yet, and the best tricks are always the old ones. Remember that, Heyden. It may save your life some day – if you live that long. Incidentally, I heard your earl hid his whore’s petticoats under his pillow the other day, then tried to burn the evidence.’

  Chaloner laughed, genuinely amused. ‘Anyone with even the smallest smattering of intelligence will know that he would never betray his marriage vows. You will have to do better than that, if you want to drag him into the mire with you.’

  May regarded him with dislike. ‘I shall see that as a challenge issued.’

  The Stone Gallery was a long chamber with portraits of venerable old Royalists lining one wall, and windows that flooded them with light on the other. Nobles and government ministers gathered there, and it was said that more state decisions were made in the Stone Gallery than in meetings of the privy council. The Lord Chancellor grabbed Chaloner’s arm and led the way to his offices; the hallway was also a place for eavesdropping and gossip, and not somewhere to receive briefings from spies.