B004BDOJZ4 EBOK

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘What were you going to tell me, exactly?’

  ‘That my alias was on that poisonous document, but that although I knew of Webb, I had never spoken to the man – I was astonished when soldiers came and demanded that I accompany them to Newgate for questioning about his death. Fortunately, I was able to escape, and Eaffrey sent word to Williamson, who made my name “disappear” from the legal proceedings.’

  ‘Not very effectively – a number of people know about you.’

  ‘Yes and no. Williamson fabricated another Peter Terrell, and most people think a dishonest fishmonger is involved in the Webb case, not my Irish scholar. It means I am stuck with this disguise for a while, though, because to vanish now will arouse suspicion.’

  ‘What about the four who were pardoned – Clarke, Fitz-Gerrard, Burne, Willys? Do you know them?’

  ‘Yes – they are all intelligence agents. Clarke and Fitz-Gerrard were not even in England when Webb was murdered, so God alone knows why their names were picked for this wretched list. You know Burne, because that is May’s alias. And Willys is Bristol’s creature.’

  ‘Was Fitz-Simons a spy, too? He and you were the two who “disappeared”.’

  ‘He is what we call an “occasional informer”, which means he is basically Williamson’s eyes and ears at the Company of Barber-Surgeons. He happened to be out when the soldiers called at his house, and he went on the run. I have no idea where he is now.’

  ‘Dead – he is the beggar May killed at Westminster Abbey.’

  Scot stared at him in horror. ‘Are you sure? May had a bag wrapped around the head when I tried to inspect the corpse. Now I see why! That damned lunatic did not want anyone to see he had shot one of his colleagues. Does Williamson know?’

  ‘I have no idea. Did you ever meet Fitz-Simons in Ireland? He was seen boarding a Dublin-bound ship in February, and he had detailed plans of the castle.’

  ‘No, and I would be surprised if Williamson had used him there – he was an informer, not a spy, and he lacked the requisite skills for deep-cover work. However, that said, the Castle Plot was a serious attempt to destabilise the government, so perhaps Williamson did employ every resource at his fingertips to ensure it failed, even men at the very bottom of his command.’

  ‘Do you think Fitz-Simons’s shooting had anything to do with the Castle Plot?’ asked Chaloner, deciding not to mention his suspicions about the surgeon’s ‘demise’ until he was more certain.

  ‘Of course it might, if you say he was in Ireland! Poor Fitz-Simons was sadly inept, so perhaps inexperience led him to reveal himself to the wrong person when he was at his Dublin duties.’

  ‘His name was on Bristol’s list, so someone thought he was worth exposing, incompetent or not.’

  ‘True. However, do not overlook the possibility that one of his colleagues objected to him reporting Company secrets to the government. It might have been a barber-surgeon who added his name to the letter.’

  ‘Which one? Wiseman? Johnson? Master Lisle?’

  ‘I do not trust Wiseman,’ said Scot. ‘It would not surprise me at all to learn he has a murderous streak in him. But to return to the letter, five of the nine named were Williamson’s men, and one was Bristol’s. The selection was odd, though; we six did not work together, and no one should have been able to link us. I can only assume it was an attempt to undermine the entire intelligence network.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because applying for pardons made these men visible. Now it will be difficult for them to become anonymous again, which will reduce their value.’

  ‘What about the remaining three – Dillon, Fanning and Sarsfeild?’

  ‘Williamson says they are nothing to do with him, but there is no way to know for certain. I have certainly never met any of them.’

  ‘You have – Dillon is the man we called O’Brien, from Dublin.’

  Scot gaped at him. ‘Really? Then he is a spy, but I have no idea whose.’

  ‘Someone he trusts – he thinks he will be rescued from the scaffold. It is too late for Fanning, though, because he has been strangled, although the official cause of death is gaol-fever. It happened on the eve of a planned escape, which may or may not be significant. That leaves Sarsfeild.’

  ‘Sarsfeild,’ mused Scot. ‘It is similar to the name you used in Ireland: Garsfield.’

  Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘I am not sufficiently important to be included in any plot, and few people in London know me anyway. Besides, Sarsfeild has been caught and sits in Ludgate.’

  ‘Or perhaps a slip of the pen means that entirely the wrong man is locked in a prison cell. Do not look dismissive, Chaloner – Bristol and his minions will do anything to harm Lord Clarendon, including striking at his people. But why was the letter sent to Bristol, do you think? And why did he pass it to the legal authorities, when his own henchman – Willys – might have been hanged?’

  ‘Perhaps he thought it was a secret test of his integrity, and was too frightened to do anything else. Have you given any more thought to who might have written it?’

  ‘Far too much, and it is beginning to interfere with my other duties – not that my thinking is doing me much good. I am still none the wiser, which bothers me; I dislike not knowing my enemies. Do you have any suspects?’

  ‘Adrian May,’ said Chaloner, voicing something that had been in his mind ever since he had heard the bald spy urging his services on Bristol.

  Scot was thoughtful. ‘Eaffrey would agree with you – she heard a rumour to that effect. However, the man most inconvenienced by the missive was May’s master: Williamson. His best spies have been exposed, including May himself.’

  ‘Cover,’ replied Chaloner immediately. ‘It would have looked suspicious for an agent of May’s prominence to be omitted from the list, and he is not entirely stupid.’

  ‘Perhaps. The master of Dillon, Fanning and Sarsfeild, whoever he is, has been incapacitated by this letter, too. I suppose, we shall know him when he steps forward to rescue them from the gallows.’

  ‘If he bothers. Fanning is already dead, and Dillon may be counting his chickens before they are hatched. I wish you had told me all this sooner.’

  Scot grimaced. ‘So do I – although, in my defence, I have spent hours looking for you over the last three days. If you were not so damned elusive, you would have known everything ages ago.’

  Chaloner sighed and rubbed his head. ‘Even with your information, I still do not understand what is going on – not with Webb, Fitz-Simons, Bristol’s letter or their links to the Castle Plot. I am better at spying on the Dutch than on my fellow countrymen. I understand foreigners better, I think.’

  ‘Then come to Surinam with me, That is overrun with Hollanders, and we can do a lot for England there. I shall leave as soon as my brother is free. Of course, that assumes I can get him released – his interrogators want to know about weapons now, but Thomas has no idea where the rebels got them.’

  Chaloner had his suspicions. ‘Try asking the Trulocke brothers, gunsmiths on St Martin’s Lane.’

  Scot gazed at him, hope burning in his pale eyes. ‘You have good reason to suggest this?’

  ‘Good enough to recommend you investigate them.’

  Scot took his hand, and Chaloner saw a sparkle of tears. ‘This may be enough to see Thomas out.’

  ‘Your sister thinks she is going to take him home to Buckinghamshire when he is released. She will be surprised when she learns you have other plans for him.’

  ‘Not as surprised as when she hears she is coming, too. I cannot leave her here – prey for money-seeking scoundrels like Temple. We shall all go to Surinam, although I shall tell her so only at the very last minute. She might marry Temple in an attempt to stay here with him otherwise.’

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, appalled. ‘Please tell me well in advance when you intend to abduct her, so I can make sure I am as far away as possible. She will be furious.’

  ‘Better furious than married to Tem
ple.’

  Chaloner was unsettled by the knowledge that the likes of Temple were prepared to employ increasingly shabby tactics to harm Lord Clarendon, and supposed he would have to increase his efforts to monitor them. He was not overly concerned for his own safety, because he had been in far more dangerous situations in the past, and did not feel particularly at risk. He also thought Scot was wrong to think his name had been on Bristol’s list, because he was simply not important enough to warrant such attention.

  He spent the rest of the day in White Hall, moving silently among courtiers and servants, asking the occasional question, but mostly just listening. The palace was not known for its discretion, but even so, he was astonished at how readily people yielded their secrets. No one was safe from wagging tongues, and he was startled to learn that even his fictitious Dutch upholsterer – Vanders – was said to be enjoying a rambunctious affair with one of Lady Castlemaine’s maiden aunts.

  Tucked in a corner of the spacious Great Court was an awkwardly shaped chamber with a sagging roof known jokingly as the Spares Gallery. It was chiefly a repository for any paintings the King did not like, and included portraits of a few historical black sheep, as well as artwork by famous artists that was not quite up to par. It had been taken over by high-ranking retainers, who used it as a common room. When Chaloner ran out of people to quiz, he repaired to the Spares Gallery, where there was always ale warming over a fire, and usually bread and cheese set out on a table, too.

  The hall was crowded, which suited him – it was easier to be invisible in a full room than in one that was half empty. He drank a cup of ale, then spotted Willys slouching morosely in a window seat. He went to sit next to the aide, ready to leave if there was any residual antagonism from the altercation with Holles earlier. Willys, however, seemed to have forgotten the incident, and Chaloner’s sympathetic manner soon had him confiding all manner of intimate details about Bristol.

  It did not take long for Chaloner to realise Willys was not very bright. Even the dimmest of retainers knew never to chatter about his master’s sleeping habits, dietary preferences – most of which involved onions – and mistresses. Willys, however, was flattered by the fact that someone was ready to listen to him, and once he started, he was difficult to stop. Chaloner tried several times to steer the discussion around to the fact that the aide’s name was on an incriminating letter, but Willys declined to be diverted. By the end of an hour, Chaloner’s head was spinning, and he knew far more about Bristol’s private life than he ever would about his own earl’s.

  It was not easy to escape from the garrulous aide, and it was dusk by the time Chaloner managed it. Because he felt he had lost his way among the jumble of information he had accumulated, he decided to visit Thurloe – to tell him all he had learned in the hope that the ex-Spymaster might see some order in it. When he arrived at Lincoln’s Inn, Thurloe was pacing in agitation.

  ‘I hoped you would come,’ said the ex-Spymaster without preamble. ‘I went to see Dillon—’

  Chaloner was dismayed. ‘You promised you would not visit Newgate again.’

  Thurloe grimaced. ‘I donned a disguise, Thomas; credit me with some intelligence, please. Dillon’s execution will be on Saturday, but I have exhausted all I can do to help him. You are his only hope now.’

  ‘That is not true. He is in the pay of a more powerful master than you, and expects to be reprieved.’

  Thurloe frowned. ‘I know you do not like him because of what happened to Manning – he said you were hostile when you visited – but I am sure you will not allow your personal feelings to interfere with your sense of justice. He says he did not kill Webb, and I believe he is telling the truth.’

  ‘You are probably right. Of the nine names in Bristol’s letter, five are government intelligencers and one is Bristol’s aide – his spy, in essence. Scot thinks someone cited them as an act of spite – or perhaps revenge – against the secret services. And of the remaining three, Dillon and Fanning are also spies; I saw them in Ireland myself, although I have no idea whose side they were on.’

  ‘It is possible that they were sent by the government, too – unbeknown to the rest of you. However, as I have said, Dillon is Irish, and his family lost lands in the Royalists’ reorganisation, so it is equally possible that he was part of the revolt. I asked him about it, but his answers were slyly vague. The only thing I know for certain is that he thinks his master is more powerful than Williamson. What about the last man – Sarsfeild? Is he in the pay of this mysterious patron?’

  ‘Dillon says not, but who knows? Sarsfeild was transferred to Ludgate after Fanning was murdered, so perhaps his patron arranged for him to be in a safer place until he can arrange a release.’

  ‘You must speak to Dillon again. The governor knows the letter you used last time was a forgery, so you will have to devise another way to gain access. And then you must go to Ludgate and interview Sarsfeild. Perhaps he will be more forthcoming.’

  ‘Why are you so determined to save Dillon? He betrayed you, and Manning paid the price.’ Chaloner thought, but did not say, that Dillon did not want Thurloe’s assistance, and that the ex-Spymaster was wasting his time and energy by attempting to interfere.

  Thurloe sighed. ‘Because injustice troubles me, Thomas. It always has. I know you are busy trying to save Clarendon from Bristol, but I am sure you can spare a few moments to prevent an innocent man from hanging – because that is what will happen on Saturday, no matter what Dillon thinks.’

  ‘I am not sure visiting him is the best way to a solution.’ Chaloner was ready to go to extreme lengths to avoid spending more time inside Newgate. ‘It would be better to find Webb’s real killer.’

  ‘How? Do you have any clues?’

  ‘Some. Silence took the family carriage when she left the Guinea Company dinner, and the coachman was stabbed to prevent him from returning to collect Webb. Webb was forced to walk home from African House, and the killer or killers dispatched him with a single wound to the chest. It was premeditated murder, not a chance killing. The weapon was later placed in Dillon’s room to implicate him.’ Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘Why Dillon? Why not May, Fitz-Simons or one of the others? Is it a blow aimed at Dillon’s patron, to make him reveal himself as a man who hires spies?’

  ‘Or as a man who has dealings with Irish rebels,’ suggested Thurloe.

  ‘It seems to me that the answers to some of these questions lie in Bristol’s letter. If we learn who wrote it, we may better understand what is happening.’

  ‘How do you propose we do that?’

  ‘By looking at the original. We have only been told about these names – we have not seen the document itself. It is possible that it contains more information, or even clues that may identify its sender. Do you know anyone in Bristol’s entourage who may be able to tell you where it is now?’

  Thurloe nodded. ‘And then you can read it in situ. Do not steal it – we do not want anyone to know what we are doing.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘As long as it does not involve climbing any walls.’

  It was too late for visiting prisons that night, although Thurloe immediately set off to question his contacts about the whereabouts of Bristol’s letter. Chaloner was tired after his restlessness the night before, so went home, stopping at a cookshop on the way to purchase a meat pie, wine and boiled fruit. When he arrived, Scot was waiting, hiding in the cupboard outside his door. Chaloner supposed they had been spies for so long that they resorted to cloak-and-dagger tactics even when visiting friends. He mentioned it and Scot laughed, seeing humour in the way they had been conditioned. They shared the food – after Scot had ascertained it was free of peas – then discussed their futures.

  ‘I shall resign from the intelligence services the moment I secure my brother’s release,’ said Scot through a mouthful of pie. ‘And my whole family will be in Surinam four months later.’

  ‘You will be back within a year, complaining that life on the edge of the worl
d is dull.’

  Scot shook his head. ‘I am serious about this. I will give up spying. Encroaching age has taught me that I am not immortal, and there are things I would like to do before I die.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  Scot’s expression was shy, as if he was afraid of being ridiculed. ‘I really do intend to devote my life to botanicals. There are trees and plants in Surinam that have never been seen, let alone described in the scientific literature. I cannot imagine anything more pleasant than a day in the jungle, surrounded by foliage, writing learned dispatches for the Royal Society.’

  Chaloner saw he was sincere. ‘Then I wish you success of it.’

  ‘You feel the same about music,’ persisted Scot, not sure he was truly understood. He tapped Chaloner’s splinted arm. ‘These things heal, you will regain your skill.’

  ‘That is not what Lisle says. I was sure there was nothing wrong with me, but he is beginning to make me wonder whether I was mistaken.’

  ‘Surgeons are irredeemably gloomy. They do it to frighten their patients into paying them more than they should. Your leg healed well enough, did it not? You barely limp these days.’

  ‘I do if I am obliged to run hard. If my arm becomes like my leg, then I will go to Surinam with you, because I will be useless for anything else. Will you have another go at hacking off the splint?’

  Scot did his best, and ruined Chaloner’s favourite dagger and a metal rasp in the process, but it was to no avail. Chaloner was both disgusted and disheartened.

  Scot poured more wine. ‘Are you still a creditable forger?’

  ‘Why?’ Chaloner was beginning to feel drunk, because although there was plenty of wine, there had not been much food once it had been divided in half and his stomach was still empty.

  ‘Because you may be able to translate your talent for reproducing documents to drawing my specimens. Decent scientific illustrators are worth their weight in gold, and if you are any good at it, you will make a fortune. In fact, you might find yourself in demand for many reasons in Surinam – women like a man with artistic talents, too.’