He was bemused when Chaloner told him about Bristol’s plan to see him in trouble with Lady Castlemaine, because Brodrick had already given him the details, and they had discussed the matter at length. Lord Clarendon had then raised the matter with the King, who was highly entertained by the situation, but promised to inform ‘the Lady’ that the idea to move apartments had been his own idea, and nothing to do with his Lord Chancellor. The crisis had already been averted.
The Earl was so absolutely certain of Brodrick’s loyalty that Chaloner wondered whether Thurloe was right to question him, especially when the man in question arrived with yet more information about Bristol’s schemes, and had obviously spent the morning working on his kinsman’s behalf. He had learned that the remnants of the incinerated petticoats had been interpreted as firm evidence that Clarendon kept a mistress, and rumours were already rife as to her identity.
‘But it is all false!’ cried the Earl, appalled. ‘How could Bristol say such things about me? I much prefer the company of dogs to loose women.’
Brodrick struggled not to smirk. ‘You had better not tell him that, cousin, or he will be telling everyone to lock up their spaniels as well as their daughters.’ He cocked his head at a knock on the door. ‘That will be Lisle. I asked him to come and see me about a Private Anatomy, which are all the rage these days. I am tempted to ask my consort to play a little chamber music to accompany the dissection. What do you think, Heyden?’
‘The sound of saws ripping through entrails might drown out the quieter movements,’ said Chaloner, thinking such a perverted notion could only have come from a man with too much time on his hands and too great a devotion to increasingly bizarre forms of recreation. He started to withdraw, intending to go home and drink watered ale, but was stopped by Lisle, who peered at him in concern.
‘You look unwell,’ he said. ‘It must be the toxic compounds percolating through the skin of your arm from Wiseman’s glue.’
‘An excess of wine can make a man feel seedy, too,’ said Brodrick wryly, clearly speaking from experience.
‘Actually, it was poison,’ said Chaloner, declining to admit to drunkenness in front of the Lord Chancellor. ‘It was intended for someone else and I took it by mistake.’
‘Poison?’ echoed Clarendon, horrified. ‘It was not meant for me, was it?’
‘What kind of poison?’ asked Lisle. ‘I hope it was nothing containing Goddard’s Drops. They are the latest tonic of choice among the fashionable, but Wiseman has learned that you only have to double the recommended dose for them to be fatal.’
‘How did he discover that?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
‘He has patients,’ said Lisle darkly. ‘Did this potion taste of silk? Volatile oil of silk is just one of the dangerous ingredients included in Goddard’s Drops. I wish he had made his fortune by marketing a more benign compound, personally.’
‘Bristol is next to that statue of Mars with a bucket of paint,’ said Brodrick, bored with the discussion, so looking out of the window into the garden below. He started to laugh. ‘He is giving him a blond wig like … ah.’ He stopped sniggering and looked uncomfortably at his cousin’s fair curls.
Clarendon shot from the room, Brodrick at his heels, so Chaloner and Lisle left the Lord Chancellor’s offices, and began to walk across the Palace Court towards the gate. It was busy, because the King was showing off one of his new chronometers; Chaloner noticed Surgeon Wiseman among the throng that had gathered to make polite comments about it.
‘You must come to see me on Saturday,’ said Lisle urgently, glancing around to make sure no one else could hear. ‘I could not mention it in front of your earl, because he and Wiseman are friends, and I do not want trouble. In fact, I would appreciate it if you said nothing to anyone about our appointment – keep it between the two of us.’
‘Why?’ asked Chaloner curiously.
‘Because it would be seen as “patient poaching”, which could see me expelled from my Company. However, I dislike seeing people suffer, which is why I work among the poor each Friday. Wiseman has made a terrible mistake with his splint, and I feel duty-bound to rectify it.’
‘Then take it off now,’ said Chaloner. ‘There must be suitable tools somewhere in White Hall.’
Lisle smiled kindly. ‘It is a little more complicated than plying a saw, and I have already told you it needs time to degrade before we can tamper. Do not be too hopeful about the outcome, though – and be warned that you may have to take up something that requires less manual dexterity than the viol. Singing, perhaps. Damn! Wiseman is coming to talk to us, so we shall say no more about our private arrangement. Agreed?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘Ground snails with a minced earthworm is something I always recommend for fevers,’ said Lisle as Wiseman approached, speaking as though they were in the middle of an in-depth conversation. ‘It is quite palatable when sweetened with sugar.’
‘I decline to recommend sugar to my patients,’ said Wiseman immediately, making Chaloner itch to point out that invading other people’s discussions without invitation was unmannerly. ‘It is the commodity that makes slavery a necessity, and slavery is an abomination in the eyes of God.’
‘Webb made his fortune transporting sugar from the slave plantations,’ said Chaloner innocently.
Wiseman’s expression was cold. ‘Exactly. He had his just deserts when he was cut down in the gutters of The Strand like an animal. Crime begets crime, and his was unforgivable.’
‘How long had you known him?’ asked Chaloner guile-lessly.
Wiseman looked mystified. ‘Why?’
‘Because you puzzled a friend of mine. He heard you arguing with Webb in a coffee house around Christmas time, but when you joined his group of learned companions in a tavern last month – a few hours before the Guinea Company dinner – you denied knowing the man.’
Wiseman sighed, aware that Lisle was regarding him with an expression of dismay. ‘All right, I admit I may have been less than honest. But Robert Hooke was among that particular gathering, and he is vehemently opposed to slavery. As I would like to be elected to the Royal Society, and Hooke is its Curator, I decided to disclaim any prior dealing with Webb. Webb damaged me enough with his spiteful allegations, and I did not want him ruining my chances of joining the Royal Society, too.’
‘Did you go to the dinner, Wiseman?’ asked Lisle. ‘I know we were all invited, but I cannot recall who said he was going. No, wait! I saw you dressed in your best scarlet robes before I left Chyrurgeons’ Hall – I offered you a ride in my carriage, if you recall.’
‘And I declined, because I had business at the hospital to attend,’ replied Wiseman smoothly. ‘It transpired to be more complex than I thought, and I was obliged to miss the feast. I believe I told you as much the following day.’
‘So you did,’ said Lisle. ‘Meanwhile, I had no more reached the doors of African House before I was called away to tend the Lord Chancellor’s gout. We were both prevented from enjoying ourselves.’
However, Chaloner knew that at least one surgeon had been present, because an expert had tended Temple’s broken pate. He believed Lisle, because he had told the same story before, but there was something about Wiseman’s reply that set alarm bells ringing. The man had lied about knowing Webb, so what was to say he was telling the truth about missing the Guinea Company dinner? Had he objected so strongly to Webb’s slave investments that he had been driven to dispatch the man? The rapier had entered Webb’s heart, after all, and an anatomist might well strike with such neat precision.
Or had it been Johnson who had physicked Temple? Chaloner might have assumed so, were it not for the incident with the surgeon’s parrot-savaged finger. Johnson had odd ideas about healing, and Chaloner could not shake the conviction that if he had done the honours, then he would have devised a treatment so bizarre that it would have been gossiped about afterwards. Of course, there was always the possibility that he was wrong, and that Johnson h
ad been in an orthodox frame of mind that night.
‘Webb was unpopular with everyone,’ elaborated Lisle hastily, seeming to sense that Wiseman’s answers were leading Chaloner to consider him a suspect for foul play. ‘He accused me of overcharging for a phlebotomy, then he bribed the courts to secure himself a favourable verdict. And he was threatening to sue the Company for postponing the Private Anatomy he had commissioned.’
‘You were at White Hall when Webb was murdered, Master Lisle?’ asked Chaloner, eager to eliminate at least one man from his lengthy list of potential culprits. ‘You came here to tend the Earl?’
Lisle shook his head. ‘I was at Worcester House – his home. I arrived at six o’clock, and remained with him most of the night. He slept eventually, but I did not want to leave until I was sure the attack had passed. Gout is very painful.’
Chaloner nodded, disappointed. If the Earl had been asleep, then it meant he could not vouch for his surgeon, and Worcester House was next door to the place where Webb had been killed. Thus none of Chaloner’s suspects from Chyrurgeons’ Hall could be eliminated. However, some of their names could be underscored. After all, why would anyone lie, unless to mask guilt?
On his way home, Chaloner stopped off at the Golden Lion, and swallowed as much watered ale as he could manage. He was tired after two nights of poor sleep, and when he reached his rooms, he lay on his bed with the intention of dozing for ten minutes before returning to White Hall in a new disguise. He woke only when the bells were chiming six o’clock.
He felt better than he had done in days, and supposed Wiseman had known what he was talking about with regard to the poison. He was just shaving with his sharpest dagger when a messenger arrived with an invitation to dine with Eaffrey and Behn in an hour. It was an odd time to eat – most people did it in the middle of the day – but Eaffrey had never allowed herself to be constrained by convention. He was tempted to decline, because an evening with the belligerent Brandenburger held scant appeal, but he supposed it was Eaffrey’s way of making peace after their quarrel, and he did not want to reject the hand of friendship. He donned his best clothes and set out for Behn’s home.
Leather Lane, part of the rapidly expanding area known as Hatton Garden, lay near the edge of the sprawling metropolis, north of Holborn. It was a pleasantly affluent part of the city, with spacious houses and well-tended gardens, and was named after Hatton House, a rambling Elizabethan ruin that was fighting a losing battle with nettles and ground-alder. The Fleet river lay not far away, but the wind was from the west, so blew away the fumes from the slaughterhouses, tanneries and sundry other reeking industries that plied their trades along its foetid banks.
Chaloner knocked at Behn’s door, and was admitted by a liveried servant. When he was shown into the dining room, the merchant greeted him coolly, suggesting the invitation had not been his idea. Chaloner was bracing himself for a trying evening when a Frenchman wearing an outrageous outfit of orange silk burst in, all fluttering fans and heavily accented English. It took a moment for Chaloner to recognise Scot’s pale eyes under all the make-up, but he was pleased: the gathering would not be tedious at all if Scot was in one of his flamboyant moods.
The table was set for nine people: Eaffrey and Behn sat at either end, and between were their guests. In the seat of honour was Brodrick. Next to him was a pair of giggling adolescent girls. Chaloner had been listening to Scot furtively whispering his latest discovery – that Fanning was suspected of smuggling guns to the Irish rebels – and had missed Eaffrey’s introduction, but it did not matter, since neither child said a word to him all evening, and each time he tried to talk to them, their response was to dissolve into paroxysms of helpless laughter.
‘Is there something wrong with them?’ he asked Scot in an undertone.
‘They were invited so Eaffrey would not be surrounded by too many men. Personally, I think she is being overly prudish. She should dispense with the wool-heads and invite a couple of fellows from the Royal Society instead. They know how to entertain a man after dinner.’
‘Who are the last two guests?’ Just then, the door opened and they were ushered in. ‘Oh, no!’
It was Alice, clinging proprietarily to the arm of Richard Temple. She wore the yellow skirts she had donned for the ball, and he was resplendent in a suit of blue satin, complemented by a highly laced pink shirt. Alice’s expression darkened when she spotted Chaloner.
‘Lord!’ groaned Scot. ‘Eaffrey should have warned me. Now you two will squabble all night, and when I am not trying to keep the peace, I shall be forced to smile and nod at the snake who wants my sister for her money. Eaffrey will be cross if I spoil her party by being rude to the fellow.’
‘I would not have accepted this invitation had I known you were going to be here,’ said Alice, coming to speak to Chaloner when Temple and Brodrick began a barbed conversation in which there was no room for anyone else – the spy and Scot’s prickly sister were not the only ones at the party who disliked each other.
‘Please, Alice,’ said Scot quietly. ‘He is my friend.’
‘William!’ cried Alice in delight when she recognised her brother. She coloured furiously at the careless slip and lowered her voice. ‘Your disguise certainly fooled me! Who are you meant to be?’
‘A Parisian perfume-maker. It is a ruse to insinuate myself into Brodrick’s company – he has the ears of powerful men, and I want to talk to him about Thomas’s release. That is mostly why Eaffrey arranged this little gathering, along with the fact that she wants to give Chaloner another chance to befriend Behn. I suppose Behn must have insisted on asking Temple – to prove he has friends, too.’
‘Richard plans to nominate him as the next Master of the Guinea Company,’ explained Alice. ‘They are becoming firm allies, and will probably discuss business all night. Lord! I hope that does not leave me talking to Chaloner.’
‘Please do not argue this evening,’ begged Scot of them both. ‘I cannot work on Brodrick if he is more interested in listening to you two snipe at each other. And I would be grateful if you did not betray Chaloner, either, Alice. No one here knows his real name, and I want it to stay that way.’
‘Why?’ demanded Alice. ‘Is he ashamed of his Parliamentarian connections, then?’
‘Because he is going to ask Lord Clarendon to help Thomas,’ replied Scot, knowing her weak spot. ‘If you expose him, you deprive our brother of a possible means of escape.’
‘I suppose it is only for a few hours,’ said Alice begrudgingly. ‘And he did tell you about the Trulocke guns.’
Scot nodded. ‘Williamson now knows Thomas is innocent of buying illegal firearms, and if he is convinced, he will persuade others, too. Thomas’s situation is looking decidedly more promising.’
‘What are you three muttering about?’ asked Temple. Eaffrey had provided sweetmeats to hone the appetite before the meal, and they contained nuts, which Temple’s gums could not accommodate. He spat them politely into his handkerchief, then shook the linen out so they pattered to the floor.
‘Mon Dieu!’ exclaimed Scot, fluttering his fan. He flicked Temple’s collar with it. ‘I see you have trouble with the laundry, too. They will wash the red with the white, and we shall all wear pink if they cannot be taught otherwise.’
Temple’s eyes narrowed. ‘It is supposed to be this colour. It is the fashion.’
Scot winked at him. ‘Of course, monsieur. That is what I shall say, too. We shall not allow these laundresses to defeat us, n’est-ce pas? I hear you are kin to Sir John Temple of the privy council. You are honoured to have such a man in your family. I have long admired his horses.’
Temple nodded keenly, insults forgotten. ‘I like horses myself. If you come to Hyde Park tomorrow, I shall introduce you to John, and you shall see the best of his collection.’
‘Good,’ murmured Alice in Scot’s ear. ‘John Temple is a powerful voice on the privy council, and may be able to help secure our brother’s release. I should have thought of it
myself.’
‘Yes, you should,’ Scot muttered back, a little unpleasantly.
Temple was ready to embark on a detailed discussion about horses, but Brodrick had picked up a candelabra, and was casually admiring it. Instinctively, Temple’s hand went to the pate that had been dented when Clarendon’s cousin had last laid hold of such an implement.
‘I understand you were obliged to call on the services of a surgeon at the Guinea Company dinner, Temple,’ said Chaloner, immediately seeing a way to further his investigation.
Brodrick laughed derisively. ‘He remembers nothing about it – although the wine was responsible for that, not the candlestick. A surgeon was summoned, although none of us recall which one.’
Temple glared. ‘And if the fellow was as drunk as you were that night, then I am lucky he did not saw off my head.’
The company was about to sit down to eat when the door opened yet again, and everyone was startled when Silence Webb glided in. She was clad in a black gown to which had been attached a chaos of white ostrich feathers; Chaloner’s immediate thought was that they made her look like an oversized magpie. Her plump fingers were encrusted with rings, and there were so many necklaces under her chins that she glittered as she breathed.
‘Mrs Webb,’ stammered Behn. ‘We were not expecting you.’
‘I heard you were planning a soirée,’ said Silence with a leer. ‘And when you came to console me for the death of my Matthew, you were kind enough to say that I could visit you at any time. I am sure you have room for a little one at your dinner table.’
‘Of course you must join us,’ said Eaffrey graciously, moving forward to take Silence’s arm. It took a lot more than an uninvited guest to disconcert her. ‘Please come and sit down. We shall make space for you between this handsome French perfumer and—’
Blood On The Strand: Chaloner's Second Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner) Page 25