Newgate was a noisy place, too. People shouted and moaned as he passed, women as well as men. They clattered chains against the walls, and there always seemed to be a door slamming. A few prisoners had pewter cups or plates, and they clanged them against the bars of their windows – if they were lucky enough to occupy a chamber with real light. Others were crammed into dismal dungeons, their feet squelching in rotten straw as they paced back and forth.
‘The governor is stopping off at Smithfield Market for a bucket of bull’s blood on his way in,’ said Chaloner’s guide conversationally as they went. ‘His wife makes these puddings, see. I am sure he will not be long, though, and he likes it when friends come to see him.’
‘Oh,’ said Chaloner weakly, feeling his trepidation mount.
The guide escorted him to an ‘interviewing room’ and told him to wait. It was a nasty chamber, with a dirty lamp hanging from the ceiling and no furniture but a table and two chairs. The floor had been swept, but there was an ominous stain on one of the flagstones. Chaloner sat and rested his head in his hands, wondering whether he would be able to learn what he needed from Dillon and escape before the governor exposed him as an impostor.
‘Now there is a pose visitors should be encouraged to avoid,’ came a mocking voice from the doorway. Chaloner leapt to his feet, supposing the governor had arrived sooner than expected. ‘It is bad for the morale of the inmates.’
‘This is Mr Dillon, sir,’ said the guide, bowing as he backed out of the room. Chaloner shuddered when he heard a key turn in the door on the other side.
‘Why the gloom?’ asked Dillon. ‘I am supposed to be the one in despair – you are free.’
Chaloner only hoped he would remain so. Dillon wore a large hat that shielded the upper half of his face, although it was more affectation than disguise. He was extraordinarily well dressed, and was wiping greasy fingers on a clean piece of linen – Chaloner’s arrival had evidently interrupted his morning meal. He looked around the cell in distaste, flicking the chair with his cloth before deigning to lower his elegantly clad rump on to it. Dillon, it seemed, was no ordinary prisoner, but one who was afforded a considerable degree of comfort.
Meanwhile, Chaloner tried to push from his mind the fact that it had been Dillon’s refusal to kill an enemy that had brought about his old colleague Manning’s death, and he half wished Thurloe had not told him. It was difficult to sit in the same room as a man whose actions had resulted in the execution of a friend. Dillon removed his hat, revealing his face for the first time.
‘You!’ Chaloner exclaimed in astonishment.
Dillon raised his eyebrows, and spoke in the same laconic drawl Chaloner remembered from Ireland. ‘I might be forgiven for saying the same. What are you doing here, Garsfield? The guard said you are a friend of the governor, but I doubt you are anything of the kind.’
‘I did not know your name was Dillon,’ said Chaloner. ‘I thought it was O’Brien, and that you were one of the Dublin rebels who escaped when we rounded up the culprits.’
Dillon glanced towards the door and lowered his voice. ‘Not everything is as it seems. People called you Thomas Garsfield in Ireland, but I suspect you are actually Tom Heyden, Thurloe’s man. He said he might send you to see me if he could not come himself. However, from our brief acquaintance in Dublin, I was under the impression that you worked for the Earl of Clarendon.’
‘Not everything is as it seems,’ repeated Chaloner. ‘How do you come to be in this mess?’
‘I am accused of murdering a merchant called Webb, but I assure you I did not. The charge is a ruse, to be rid of me.’
‘Because you were involved in the Castle Plot?’
‘Very possibly, since one of my companions from that particular incident – Richard Fanning – was sentenced with me. I do not know Sarsfeild, though. However, I suppose he might have played a role unknown to me. It was a large revolt, involving hundreds of people, after all.’
‘What about the others? I understand nine of you were accused.’
‘Nine! As if it would take nine men to dispatch one. What nonsense!’
Chaloner struggled not to jump in alarm when there was a sudden thump on the door. The dagger slipped into his hand, and he wondered whether it would be better to fight his way out or bluff when the governor arrived. But it was only the guide sweeping the floor outside.
‘Do you know the others?’ he pressed, keen to ask his questions and leave. ‘Other than Fanning?’
Dillon shot him an unreadable smile. ‘I really cannot recall. Prison has a numbing effect on a man’s mind, and I do not blame Fanning for taking matters into his own hands.’
‘What do you mean?’
Dillon leaned close to Chaloner and lowered his voice again. ‘He will not be in Newgate this time tomorrow, because his friends are going to pull a trick with poisoned wine. He says such a rescue is safer than waiting for our master to help us, although I disagree.’
‘How do you know what Fanning intends?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Are you in adjoining cells?’
‘Lord, no!’ exclaimed Dillon with a fastidious shudder. ‘I am a man of means, and do not fester in the kind of pit Fanning can afford. My guards are kind enough to let us exchange missives – for a price – so I am aware of his plans. I told him he is making a mistake: he should wait for our patron to act.’ He touched his coat absently, and Chaloner saw a bundle of papers in an inner pocket, at least one of them much fingered.
‘Does your master write to you in here?’ he asked, looking at it.
Dillon’s fingers dropped away from the letters, a movement that looked furtive. ‘No. He will not let me down, though, not a man of his eminence. He told me I would come to no harm, and I believe him.’
‘Thurloe says you have an aversion to killing,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject abruptly.
‘I am a Quaker.’ Dillon’s expression was unreadable again. ‘Did you know Manning? Is that why you are hostile now you know my real identity? His death was not my fault, you know; I had already abandoned Thurloe to work for the Royalists when he ordered me to elimin ate that double-agent. But I could hardly kill one of my new colleagues, could I?’
‘You have a curious history,’ said Chaloner, declining to comment. ‘First, you work for Thurloe, then you become a Royalist, and now you travel to Ireland to ferment revolt. I saw you with Thomas Scot before he surrendered himself. You were lucky you were not taken with the men he betrayed.’
‘That was not luck.’ Dillon shot him a nasty grin. ‘You are not the only one capable of infiltrating a hopelessly amateur rebellion by pretending to be part of it.’
Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him. He stood and began to pace, aiming to put himself behind Dillon and grab the papers from his pocket. ‘Who sent you there?’
Dillon looked smug. ‘I am not at liberty to say, although not everyone wanted the revolt to fail, just as not everyone wanted it to succeed. The politics of our time are very complex.’
‘They are when you become involved,’ muttered Chaloner. He saw he would have no straight answers about the Castle Plot, so moved back to the murder of Webb. ‘Two of the eight accused with you were Fanning and Sarsfeild—’
‘Both here, in Newgate,’ interjected Dillon. ‘Meanwhile, four had the King’s pardon and two have dis appeared completely – all of which is very revealing.’
‘Not to me. Perhaps you would care to explain.’
Dillon sighed. ‘The anonymous letter that listed us was a flagrant piece of spite – some cowardly rat attempting to avenge himself on all his enemies in one fell swoop. However, he picked on men who have powerful friends. Four were influential enough to be released the moment their names were known – Willys, Clarke, Fitz-Gerrard and Burne.’
‘Burne?’ echoed Chaloner, startled. He certainly knew that alias.
‘Gregory Burne, more usually known as Adrian May. It is no secret that he is Williamson’s spy and proud of it. A dangerous devil, with all his pr
ide and arrogance. Have you met him?’ Dillon did not wait for an answer. ‘I doubt he had anything to do with Webb’s death, because he is too slow and stupid for stealthy murder. The two who vanished were Fitz-Simons and Terrell. I know you have come across Fitz-Simons, because Thurloe told me.’
Chaloner kept his face impassive, but his stomach churned. It was not the mention of Fitz-Simons that unsettled him, but that of Terrell: his friend William Scot.
There was another thump on the door, and his time Chaloner failed to disguise his agitation. Dillon give his lopsided grin, amused by his visitor’s growing unease. Chaloner struggled to pull himself together, resenting the notion that he was a source of entertainment to the leering man opposite. He rubbed his head as he paced back and forth, trying to make some sense of the gloating revelations.
First, there was Terrell. Had Scot’s name been included in the letter because someone did not like him, as Dillon believed? All spies had enemies – sometimes very dangerous ones – so it was not impossible that Scot had incurred someone’s wrath. And recently, he had been crucial in undermining the Irish rebellion – it might well have succeeded, had Scot not come up with the idea of using his brother to yield vital information. Or was it not Scot’s alias that was included in the letter, but the ‘dishonest fishmonger’ of the same name, whom both Scot himself and Clarendon had mentioned?
Secondly, there was ‘Burne’. May had also been in Ireland, and was the kind of man to accrue enemies – and not only from spying. As Dillon had said, May was dangerous and arrogant, and Chaloner was not the only one who disliked him.
Thirdly, there was Willys. A man called Willys had tried to burgle the Earl’s offices with Johnson. Of course, it was a common name, and Chaloner knew coincidences were not impossible.
And finally, there was Fitz-Simons, who had disguised himself as a vagrant in a desperate attempt to talk to Williamson. Did that mean he was Williamson’s spy, too? His last words had been about three other men accused of killing Webb – Terrell, Burne and Dillon – so he clearly knew something about the case. Chaloner frowned as he considered the shooting. He had assumed May’s shot was fatal, but perhaps he was wrong, and Fitz-Simons was not dead at all – that the ‘death’ had been a ruse to allow him to disappear for ever. It would explain why May had opened fire unnecessarily – he had been following orders to help the man. And the body in St Olave’s charnel house was certainly not the same person Chaloner had seen killed. There had been plenty of blood and a ‘hole’ in Fitz-Simons, but these could be fabricated with paints, and Chaloner had not bothered to feel for a pulse. Furthermore, May had almost immediately covered the ‘beggar’s’ head with a bag, thus preventing anyone from seeing his face.
Dillon was trying, unsuccessfully, to read his thoughts. ‘Fitz-Simons was shot at Westminster last Friday. Thurloe told me you were with him, and that he had asked you to make sure I was safe.’
Chaloner nodded. ‘You and Fitz-Simons were friends. You visited him at Chyrurgeons’ Hall, where you studied plans of Dublin Castle together. And the two of you boarded a ship for Ireland in February.’
Dillon’s smile was condescending. ‘You have been busy! We were not friends, though – we just worked together. Perhaps he killed Webb, and left me to take the blame.’
But Fitz-Simons had not seemed sufficiently competent for murder – and he had obviously felt some affection towards his colleague, even if it was not reciprocated, because he had insisted twice that Dillon should be saved. ‘You say you had nothing to do with Webb’s stabbing?’
‘The murder weapon was found in my house, but it was not mine. I had never seen it before.’
‘Who hates you enough to want you hanged?’
‘Presumably, the man who really did kill Webb.’
Chaloner stifled his impatience. It was difficult enough to be civil to the man who had been responsible for what had happened to Manning, and Dillon’s half-answers were not helping. ‘And who might that be?’
‘I have no idea.’ Dillon leaned back in his chair. ‘I see you are eager to apprehend the villain on my behalf, but you need not trouble yourself. My master will do all that is necessary.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Thurloe?’
Dillon’s expression was disdainful. ‘I have far more influential patrons than a deposed Secretary of State, but please do not press me on this particular question. I shall not reveal his identity, and you will be wasting your time if you ask.’
Chaloner supposed he referred to Williamson, and wondered whether his confidence was justified. Then he thought about Fitz-Simons’s ‘death’, and supposed the same powers might swing into action to secure Dillon’s release. He jumped violently as a door slammed nearby. There were voices in the corridor and he braced himself for the governor. Then they faded away, and all was quiet again. But time was passing, and Chaloner was tiring of Dillon. He made a sudden lunge, and had the papers out of the man’s pocket before Dillon realised what was happening. Dillon was furious, and tried to snatch them back, but Chaloner ducked away from him.
He found himself holding a bundle of notes, all in cipher, which he would be able to decode given time, but that certainly made no sense to him as they were. And there was an older, soiled letter, but Dillon ripped it from his hands before he could open it.
‘How dare you!’
‘You are a fool to keep Fanning’s messages,’ said Chaloner, making a wild guess at what the notes contained. He relinquished them with some disgust when Dillon did not contradict him. ‘That could see his escape plans exposed and his accomplices hanged with him.’
‘That is hardly my problem,’ snarled Dillon. He brandished the missives. ‘When I am out, I shall show these to our master, to prove who trusted him and who did not. I shall be rewarded for my faith, while Fanning can find himself another employer.’
‘Have you told anyone else what Fanning intends to do?’
‘Only you, so we shall know who to blame, if he is caught.’ Dillon was silent for a moment, then spoke in a whisper. ‘I do not care who murdered Webb, but I should like to know who sent Bristol that letter. How are your powers of investigation?’
‘They depend on honest answers. Do you have any suspicions to share?’
‘Not really – and I have thought of little else since I have been in here.’
‘Then perhaps the best way to expose him is by finding out who really did kill Webb. Can you tell me anything about his death?’
‘I am a member of the Guinea Company, although I was not at the feast that fateful night – I was out drinking with a friend. However, I knew Webb, and I can tell you that almost everyone at African House detested the fellow. He regularly argued with Surgeon Wiseman about slavery. He poached Temple’s customers from under his nose. He told Sir Alan Brodrick that his chamber music belonged in a tavern.’
‘Webb was not cultured, then? Brodrick’s playing is always excellent.’
‘Webb was a lout. Meanwhile, Bristol owed him money, and he accused Johan Behn of making a pass at his wife – which you will know is ludicrous, if you have ever met Silence. And surgeons Johnson and Lisle were supposed to perform a Private Anatomy for him, but were unable to comply because the theatre roof was leaking; Webb threatened to sue them for false promises.’
‘He certainly has one now,’ muttered Chaloner, ‘although I doubt it is quite what he had in mind.’
Dillon ignored him. ‘He called Lady Castlemaine a whore to her face. Clarendon despises Webb’s wife for her crass comments at Henry Lawes’s funeral. Even spies found Webb abhorrent, and they tend to be more tolerant than most, because they meet so many low people.’
‘Which spies?’
Dillon was enjoying himself. ‘Let me see. Adrian May quarrelled with him over an unpaid bet. Eaffrey Johnson was pawed by him. John Thurloe took against him for backing the use of slaves. In fact, you will be hard-pressed to find a Londoner with no motive to kill him.’
The list went on, namin
g people Chaloner did not know, and eventually, he stood to leave. He was wasting time on a man he disliked and distrusted. If Dillon believed rescue was going to come from another quarter, then so be it. He only hoped, for Dillon’s sake, that his faith was not misplaced.
‘I am sure we shall come across each other once I am free,’ said Dillon, stretching languorously. ‘Perhaps I shall buy you an ale, and we shall drink to Manning’s memory.’
‘Has the governor arrived yet?’ Chaloner asked, as he and the guide walked along an unlit hall with glistening green walls and a floor that was soft with decomposing straw and maggot-infested sewage.
The guide shook his head and spoke in a whisper. ‘Not yet. For a shilling, I will let you see Fanning, too, but you will have to make it quick. I got other duties today.’
Against his better judgement, which screamed at him to leave Newgate before he was caught, Chaloner handed over the coin and was conducted through a series of vault-like chambers set deep in the bowels of the earth, to emerge in a small, filthy yard. Two women were emptying slops into a drain, although their aim was careless and the ground was splattered with excrement. Another was skinning something that appeared to be a donkey. Flies buzzed, and Chaloner flapped them away from his face as his guide led him down a flight of steps to a cellar that stank so badly it made his eyes water.
‘Fanning,’ said the guide, gesturing to one of several corpses that lay in an untidy line on the sticky floor. ‘He died of gaol-fever last night.’
Chaloner was tempted to ask for his shilling back. Looking at a body was not how he had interpreted the invitation to ‘see’ Fanning, but that would take time, and he had lingered too long already. He stepped forward to inspect Fanning’s face, and recognised it: he had been one of the sullen, slovenly fellows who had accompanied Dillon to meetings and secret assignations in Ireland, and was identifiable not only by his very black hair, but by a purple birth-stain on his left hand.
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