B004BDOJZ4 EBOK

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Yes,’ said Chaloner firmly, taking one look at the music and deciding wild horses would not prevent him from taking part.

  ‘Good. I tried to summon Lisle to tend you – he is the gentlest of the Court surgeons, and to my mind the best – but a carriage has overturned in King Street and he was the only medicus willing to help the victims without waiting to hear whether they have the resources to pay him. So he is unavailable. However, I met your friend Eaffrey, and she is scouring the palace for Wiseman or Johnson.’

  ‘Let us hope it is Wiseman, then,’ said Holles, when Brodrick had gone. ‘I would not let Johnson near my worst enemy. But I did not know you were a friend of the lovely Eaffrey, Heyden.’

  Chaloner glanced sharply at him, and saw from the colonel’s glistening eyes that his interest in brothels probably extended to the ladies at Court, too.

  ‘Eaffrey,’ said the Earl, his voice dripping disapproval. ‘Williamson told me that he sends her to “bestow her charms” on men, which means she offers her body in exchange for their innermost secrets. He says she is very good at it. I hope you do not enjoy that sort of relationship with her, Heyden. I would not like my innermost secrets blurted across a silken pillow.’

  ‘If she “bestowed her charms” on me, I would let her have her wicked way, then fob her off with rot,’ said Holles, saving Chaloner from informing the Earl that he was perfectly capable of enjoying a woman without discussing his work, and it was no one’s business who he slept with anyway. And he was about to tell Holles that Eaffrey was used to men thinking like him, and that the colonel would be putty in her hands regardless, when a servant knocked on the door. He announced that Sir Richard Temple was waiting to present a peace-offering, in the fervent hope that relations between him and the Lord Chancellor might be more friendly in the future.

  ‘You see?’ said Clarendon miserably. ‘Temple is so terrified by my newly violent reputation that he feels obliged to bribe me, to make sure I do not savage him with my fists for siding with Bristol. Hide behind the curtains, if you please, Heyden. I do not want him to see you damaged.’

  ‘He is here to provide you with a parrot, sir,’ said Chaloner, remembering what Eaffrey had told him. ‘It has been trained to repeat conversations, apparently. You should accept it, then teach it some rubbish – to trick him.’

  ‘I most certainly shall not,’ said Clarendon haughtily. ‘I am Lord Chancellor of England, and such deceptions are beneath my dignity. I shall accept his gift graciously, and demonstrate my moral superiority by rising above sly pranks.’

  Chaloner felt like retorting that he would not remain in office long if he refused to meet his enemies on their own ground, but supposed it was the spy in him talking. Perhaps the Earl was right to remain aloof from petty behaviour, and an ethical stance would see him victorious in the end. Obediently, he went to stand behind the heavy drapes in the window.

  Temple was not alone when he sidled into the Lord Chancellor’s domain, and Chaloner saw the Earl’s expression harden when Lady Castlemaine swept in behind him, still wearing her skimpy shift. In deference to the Earl’s sensibilities, however, she had thrown a cloak around her shoulders, although the appreciative Holles was still treated to the sight of a pair of shapely calves emerging from under it. Pointedly, Clarendon kept his own eyes fixed on her companion.

  Temple was not an attractive man. His complexion was swarthy, and he had more warts than Oliver Cromwell. Although not yet thirty, he had no teeth whatsoever, and when he flashed an insincere smile of greeting at the Earl, he revealed a disconcertingly large array of gums. Studying him through a hole in the curtain, Chaloner could see no earthly reason why Alice Scot should have selected him as a potential husband, and thought there was no accounting for taste. In his hand, Temple carried a cage covered with a dark cloth, which he set carefully on the table.

  The Earl sneezed. ‘What can I do for you, Temple?’

  Lady Castlemaine’s catlike eyes narrowed when he declined to acknowledge her presence, and Chaloner thought him unwise to goad such a dangerous enemy for no good reason – even a simple nod would have been enough to satisfy her.

  Carefully, Temple removed the cloth to reveal a bright-green bird. Parrots had been unknown in England a century before, but with more of the Americas being discovered every year, they were becoming an increasingly common sight in the menageries of the wealthy. The parrot eyed Clarendon malevolently and flapped its brilliant wings.

  ‘Roundheads!’ it squawked piercingly. ‘Thousands of ’em.’

  Clarendon regarded it balefully. ‘Is that for me?’

  ‘I thought you might like it,’ said Temple with a smile so obsequious that Chaloner winced. ‘I know my association with Bristol means that we have been at loggerheads of late, but I am weary of strife. I would like to be your friend.’

  Clarendon regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Would you indeed? And what does Bristol have to say about this, pray?’

  ‘Bristol!’ said Temple, feigning disgust. ‘He is a man with no official Court post, whereas you are Lord Chancellor of England. But please do me the honour of accepting this bird as a token of my esteem. I assume you do not have one already?’

  ‘If you do, I am more than happy take this little fellow off your hands,’ crooned Lady Castlemaine, closing the distance between her and the Earl like a hungry panther. She placed a slender hand on his arm, and he recoiled, as though he had been burned. A small, mischievous smile crossed her face as she reached out to straighten his wig.

  ‘Desist, madam!’ Clarendon cried, backing away in alarm; Holles looked on enviously, clearly wishing she would assist him with his hair. The Earl reversed frantically until he reached his desk, and when she followed, he scrabbled about until his groping fingers encountered a quill. He brandished it like a sword, and Chaloner struggled not to laugh aloud.

  ‘Lock the doors,’ announced the bird. ‘And give us a kiss.’

  The Lady giggled, obviously taken with the creature, and Chaloner saw an acquisitive light in her eyes that told him she intended to have it, no matter what she had to do. Temple grimaced at her antics.

  Clarendon sneezed a second time, transparently relieved when she turned her predatory attentions to the bird. ‘It is very kind of you, Temple,’ he said weakly. ‘Green is my favourite colour.’

  ‘I know,’ gushed Temple. ‘It is why I chose it.’

  ‘It is mine, too,’ said Lady Castlemaine, turning abruptly back to the Earl. He cringed when she walked her fingers up his sleeve towards his shoulder, and shot Holles a look that begged for help. But the soldier was gazing on with a silly smile that said there would be no assistance from that quarter.

  ‘You cannot have it, My Lady,’ snapped Temple, becoming angry with her. ‘I told you – it is for Lord Clarendon. And why did you come with me anyway? I thought Bristol asked you to stay with him while I completed my business here.’

  ‘I do what I like,’ she hissed, a little dangerously. She shrugged out of her cloak, letting the garment fall to the floor. Holles made a strangled sound at the back of his throat, and the Earl squeezed his eyes tightly shut. ‘You keep your rooms very well heated, My Lord.’

  ‘Bugger the bishops,’ announced the bird casually, performing some intriguing acrobatics on the branch that served as its perch. ‘And make way for the Catholics.’

  The Earl sneezed a third and a fourth time in quick succession. ‘It has very controversial opinions,’ he said, opening his eyes, but keeping them on Temple.

  ‘I did not teach it that,’ said Temple uneasily. Lady Castlemaine looked smug.

  ‘I heard there is a miasma around foreign birds that can prove dangerous to some men,’ she said, brushing imaginary dust from Clarendon’s collar. ‘They start by sneezing, but finish not being able to breathe. It can be fatal, so I am told.’

  The Earl jerked away from her, and ink shot from his quill in a long, dark arc across the pale satin of her shift. ‘Oh, dear,’ he said hoarsely.

&n
bsp; Lady Castlemaine shrugged, to show she did not care. ‘The King will buy me another. But you are full of surprises today, My Lord. First you punch an elderly Hollander, and now you hurl filth at His Majesty’s favourite companion. Bristol will be intrigued to hear about this particular incident, I am sure. Of course, I shall say nothing, if a parrot comes my way.’

  ‘Take the bird, woman,’ said Clarendon, scrambling away from her. He turned to Temple, who was regarding him in dismay. ‘The gesture of friendship is deeply appreciated, sir. I shall let it be known what you have done, and perhaps it will help to close this rift between our factions.’

  They were obviously dismissed, so Lady Castlemaine grabbed the cage before he could change his mind. Temple trailed after her, his toothless mouth working helplessly as he tried to think of a way to salvage his plan. When the door had closed behind them, Chaloner heard him berating her in a furious whisper. There was a short silence, then a guffaw of genuine mirth when she saw how she had inadvertently foiled his ‘cunning’ attempt to undermine the Earl. The parrot joined in, and their joint cackles echoed away down the corridor.

  Clarendon dabbed at his nose and sniffed. ‘I think she may have been right about that miasma. With any luck, it may adversely affect ladies, too.’

  Time was passing, but there was still no sign of a surgeon. Chaloner glanced out of the window, and saw Eaffrey strolling arm-in-arm with Behn on the opposite side of the courtyard. He supposed she had not considered Brodrick’s request pressing, and was grateful his was not a genuine emergency.

  ‘Did you hear about the murder of a man called Webb?’ he asked emerging from his hiding place and going to join Holles and Clarendon at the table. Both had poured themselves large cups of wine after the encounter with Lady Castlemaine, although for completely different reasons.

  ‘I did,’ said Holles. He went to retrieve her cloak from the floor, and pressed it to his face like a lovesick youth. Almost immediately, he hurled it away from him. ‘Ugh! Onions!’

  ‘What did you hear?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘It is a bad business when a man cannot walk home from his Company dinner without having a rapier plunged into his breast,’ said Holles, sitting down again. ‘Damned shameful.’

  The Earl frowned. ‘Are you talking about Matthew Webb? The Guinea merchant?’

  Holles nodded. ‘He was stabbed three weeks ago. You knew him, of course, My Lord. He owned the house next to yours on The Strand, and he invited you to dinner once. You declined when you learned his wife was going to be there, too.’

  ‘The dreadful Silence,’ mused Clarendon. ‘A more misnamed person does not exist. Have you met her, Heyden? She is a pickle-seller’s daughter, and an exceptionally large lady – fatter than me and taller than you – but insists on wearing dresses suitable only for the very slender. And her voice … ’ He trailed off, waving a plump hand, as words failed him.

  ‘Loud and vulgar,’ elaborated Holles. ‘And she has no sense of occasion. It was her who made that awful faux pas last year at the funeral of Henry Lawes the composer. Everyone talked about it for weeks. Do you remember, Heyden?’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner patiently. ‘I was in Holland last year.’

  ‘So you were,’ said Holles. ‘Well, it was warm for October, and you cannot organise a decent funeral in Westminster Abbey outside a month, so Lawes was … well, suffice to say Silence brayed about the stench all through the service. And then she complained about the choice of anthems.’

  ‘Unfortunately for her, the music had been specially selected by the King himself,’ said Clarendon. ‘And His Majesty was none too pleased to hear from a pickle-seller that his artistic tastes were lacking. Why are you interested in this, Heyden?’

  ‘A man called Dillon has been convicted of Webb’s murder,’ explained Chaloner. ‘And I think Dillon might know the beggar who was shot yesterday.’

  He could have told the Earl then that the ‘vagrant’ was a surgeon called Fitz-Simons, but he wanted more time to explore the connection before sharing his findings with anyone at White Hall – what the Lord Chancellor did not know, he could not inadvertently reveal to the wrong people.

  ‘Dillon will hang next Saturday, I believe,’ said Holles. ‘He and two others were sentenced to death, although there were actually nine names on the anonymous letter of accusation that was sent to Bristol.’

  ‘Bristol!’ spat the Earl, unable to help himself. ‘He probably devised a list of men he does not like and sent it to himself. Why else would he be the recipient of such a missive?’

  ‘It seems to me that the real question is not who received it,’ said Chaloner, ‘but who sent it.’

  ‘No one knows who sent it,’ said Holles. ‘And its authorship was discussed at length at the trial, because Dillon argued – not unreasonably – that he should not be convicted on the word of a man unwilling to reveal himself.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about this,’ said Clarendon. ‘It sounds as though you were there.’

  ‘I was there. A pretty maid-in-waiting wanted to go, and asked me to accompany her, to protect her from rakes and vagabonds. I remember the three guilty men – Dillon, Fanning and Sarsfeild, all from the parish of St Martinin-the-Fields – but I forget the names of the other six. Four of them produced King’s pardons, though, and I heard the order for their release came from a High Authority.’ He pursed his lips.

  ‘Who?’ asked Clarendon curiously. ‘The King?’

  ‘No,’ said Holles, a little impatiently. ‘It is how we soldiers refer to matters of intelligence and state security. I mean Spymaster Williamson, My Lord,’ he added in a low hiss, when the Earl continued to look blank.

  Chaloner groaned. Williamson was unlikely to be pleased with anyone who began poking about in a case in which a politically expedient verdict had been secured. Unfortunately, though, Chaloner had offered to look into the matter for Thurloe, as well as for the Earl, and was committed to obtaining at least some answers. He had no choice but to continue.

  ‘That is a sound I like to hear,’ said a massive, red-robed figure from the door. ‘It means my services are needed. Groans are music to any surgeon’s ears.’

  Chapter 4

  Lord Clarendon and Holles beat a hasty retreat when Surgeon Wiseman began to unpack his jangling bag of implements. The Earl claimed the ball was about to begin, and there were young ladies to whom he had promised dances – although Chaloner suspected they would not be overly disappointed if more sprightly, fun-loving men stepped in to take his place – and the colonel decided he was in need of an escort. Holles’s face turned pale when Wiseman produced a short saw, making Chaloner wonder how he had coped with the gore that was an inevitability in military confrontations.

  Chaloner expected the Earl to berate Wiseman for spreading rumours about his allegedly violent behaviour, but Clarendon merely muttered that he had no intention of prolonging an encounter with the surgeon, lest he be obliged to witness something unpleasant. Master Lisle was gentle and conservative with treatments, he said, but Wiseman had another reputation entirely, and no sane man wanted to watch him with his victims.

  ‘Send me your bill, Wiseman,’ he said as he shot through the door, Holles close on his heels. ‘And make sure you tell a servant to clean up the mess before I come back.’

  Wiseman watched them leave, an amused smile stamped across his florid features. ‘Well, if I am to be paid whatever I decide to charge, then I may as well dispense some expensive therapy. We had better have a glass of claret first, though, to fortify ourselves.’

  Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘I do not think that will be necessary.’ He was about to add that nothing was wrong with him, but then there would be no reason for the man to stay and answer questions.

  Wiseman poured two cups full to the brim, and handed one to his patient. ‘This is my way of demonstrating my perfectly steady hands. See how I do not spill a single drop, even though there is a meniscus over the top? Damn! Do not worry. It will come out if you soa
k it in cold water.’

  The surgeon had flowing locks of a reddish-brown colour, which almost exactly matched his eyes, and there was arrogance in everything about him – from his flamboyant scarlet clothes to the superior gaze he directed around the Earl’s offices. His lips curled in a perpetual sneer of condescension, and he regarded Chaloner as though he considered him some half-wit from Bedlam. The spy decided there was only so far he was willing to go for this particular investigation, and he did not like the way the surgeon was laying out rows of sharp implements.

  ‘There is no need for—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Wiseman irritably. ‘You are suddenly feeling better. All my patients say that when they see me prepare, and it is highly annoying. Your arm is broken and it needs my attention.’

  Chaloner was astounded by the diagnosis. ‘It is not!’

  Wiseman grabbed Chaloner’s wrist in a way that hurt. ‘Do not tell me it cannot be broken because you can still move your fingers: that is a layman’s myth. If I do not apply one of my special splints now, the bone will rot from within, and it would be a pity to see it cut off for want of a little surgery.’

  Chaloner regarded him in disbelief; the man was deranged. ‘You are mistaken. It is only a—’

  ‘Are you qualified to say what will fester?’ demanded Wiseman. ‘No, you are not, so kindly allow me to decide what is best. I am proud of my Court appointment and decline to lose it just because you refuse treatment and die. However, you are lucky, because I recently devised a new dressing for this kind of injury – one that I predict will make me very wealthy. Wiseman’s Splint will do for me what Goddard’s Drops did for Jonathan Goddard. God knows, I could do with the money.’

  Chaloner had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Goddard’s Drops?’