B004BDOJZ4 EBOK

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘This is not general knowledge; Colonel Holles told me. He came to see me this morning, to apologise for manhandling Modesty the other night – although she does not remember what it is he is supposed to have done. While he was here, he asked me to warn you against antagonising May.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Perhaps he likes you, Tom. There are not many left who are faithful to Lord Clarendon, after all. Did May did send that letter?’

  Chaloner nodded. ‘The more I think about it, the more it seems likely. He is jealous of his influence over Williamson, and that missive allowed him to be rid of the main competition. He included his own name, so it would not be conspicuous by its absence.’

  ‘Does that mean he was involved in the killing of Webb, too? He committed the murder himself, and let Dillon, Fanning and Sarsfeild take the blame?’

  Chaloner rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I do not have the faintest idea.’

  Chapter 9

  Chaloner woke early the following day, and sat in his window, making use of the gathering daylight to compose letters to Thurloe, Clarendon and Eaffrey. He used cipher without conscious thought, a different code for each recipient. Thurloe would read his immediately, without resorting to a crib. Clarendon would ask one of his clerks to translate, so Chaloner seldom confided too much in his written messages to his employer. Eaffrey’s was one they had used for years, and could be broken by anyone who knew them. He thanked her for her hospitality and wrote some polite observations about her silver forks, tactfully saying nothing about the company or the level of conversation.

  In the Earl’s note, he announced his intention of resurrecting the Dutch upholsterer, in the hope that ‘Vanders’ might provide new opportunities for spying on Bristol. He would not normally have revealed such plans in advance, but he had learned his lesson about surprising Clarendon with disguises, and did not want a recurrence of what had happened the last time. His message to Thurloe contained the information he had gathered about Webb the previous evening.

  When he had finished, he went to the Golden Lion – a tavern that never closed, so the landlord had no trouble locating a boy to deliver the notes. Then he found a quiet spot near a fire, and ordered ale and bread. He rubbed his eyes as he waited for them to arrive, wondering how long Eaffrey and Scot had been lovers. Did that mean she still intended to wed Behn, and their marriage would be based on deceit? Or had she lied about her love for the merchant? Chaloner could tell from the way she and Scot had fallen into each other’s arms that it was not the first time it had happened. Of course, Behn was enjoying an illicit affair with Silence, and perhaps Eaffrey knew it. Or was Behn’s dalliance just a calculated attempt to get his hands on Webb’s idle ship? If so, then it appeared to have worked.

  All told, Chaloner was happier to think of Eaffrey with Scot than with the Brandenburger. Scot lived a dangerous life, like Chaloner himself, and might not be there to protect her when she needed him, but he was a good man who would not suffocate her in a restrictive marriage. And nor would he oblige her to live on riches earned from sugar and slaves. Chaloner hoped she knew what she was doing, and that Behn would not find out and avenge himself on Scot. Chaloner knew from personal experience that the merchant had a strong arm.

  At six o’clock, he returned to his room and found the clothes he needed to become Vanders again. He was even more meticulous with his disguise than he had been the previous Saturday, knowing people would pay him greater attention if rumours had been spread about his poor health, and he took special care to conceal the splint with his lacy cuffs. The last time he had played Vanders, he had dispensed with his sword in the interests of authenticity, but White Hall no longer felt safe to him, and he had no intention of going without the means to defend himself. It was an hour before he was satisfied with his appearance, during which time he hoped his note to Clarendon would have been delivered, and the Earl would be ready to play his part in the charade.

  He reached White Hall without incident, although he felt eyes on him as he began his hunt for Clarendon. It did not take him long to identify them: it was Bristol’s man, Willys. He had exchanged his yellow stockings for black ones, which hung loose on his long, thin legs and made them look more spindly than ever. Willys watched Chaloner for a moment, then hurried away. The spy eventually located the Earl outside the Stone Gallery, waiting for a carriage to take him to the site of his new Piccadilly mansion. Clarendon narrowed his eyes and regarded ‘Vanders’ intently.

  ‘It is you, Heyden,’ he muttered. ‘You never know when someone might be an assassin these days, and I am ever wary. I had your letter half an hour ago. I am glad you decided to try the upholsterer business again, because now people will see the rumours about me hitting you are unfounded. And the vultures are gathering already, because here is Bristol and his entourage, come to inspect you. Do not forget what you promised to do – infiltrate his household with a view to spying for me.’

  Chaloner did not dignify the reminder with a response. Why else did the Earl imagine he was dressed up in such a ridiculous fashion?

  ‘Vanders?’ asked Bristol. His clothes were rumpled, he stank of old wine, and he looked as though he had yet to retire to bed. ‘I am told you excel at turkeywork sofas, and I am in the market for such an object. Do you have any for sale?’

  ‘I might,’ said Chaloner cagily, hoping he would not want details. He was not entirely sure what ‘turkeywork’ meant, and it would not take many minutes before he was exposed as a fraud.

  ‘I shall leave you to discuss it, then,’ said the Earl, a little too readily. ‘Here is my carriage, come to take me to Piccadilly. Clarendon House will be the talk of all London once it is built, and I have already secured some excellent black marble for its stairs. The King will want to visit me there, away from the shallow vices – and people – of Court.’

  ‘It would not be the black marble intended for the repair of St Paul’s Cathedral, would it?’ pounced Bristol. ‘That is a House of God, and your immortal soul will be stained if you take that for yourself.’

  ‘Papist claptrap,’ muttered Clarendon, waddling away on his short, fat legs.

  The dark expression on Bristol’s face told Chaloner that the Earl had made a serious tactical error by attacking his rival’s religion. Bristol had sacrificed the chance to hold lucrative public office by professing his Catholicism, proving that his beliefs were important to him; mocking them was unwise. Then Lady Castlemaine arrived in a flurry of yapping dogs and jabbering voices. Bristol immediately turned to join her, but he grabbed Willys’s arm and whispered something first. Willys nodded, and approached Chaloner.

  ‘There is a private hall where senior retainers often gather of a morning, Mr Vanders,’ Willys said politely. ‘Will you take a cup of ale there with me?’

  Chaloner accepted the invitation, thinking it might be a good opportunity to quiz him about his name being included in Bristol’s letter. He followed the aide to the Spares Gallery, recalling with wry amusement that it had been Willys who had kept him company the last time he was there.

  Because it was early, the Spares Gallery was relatively empty. Three musicians were restringing a violin at the far end, Wiseman’s massive bulk was crammed into a chair near the fire, and an elderly equerry in a blue coat dozed in the sunshine that flooded through the windows. Wiseman raised a hand in greeting, but was more interested in reading his book than in talking; he did not wait for Willys to wave back before his attention was riveted on the pages again.

  ‘You see that surgeon?’ whispered Willys, as they took seats at a table. ‘He was summoned at two o’clock this morning, because the King complained of a blockage. His Majesty went to bed at four – still constipated – and is unlikely to rise before noon, but Wiseman is obliged to wait until he does, lest another royal summons is issued. It serves him right for taking against Bristol! I caught him searching our carriage last night, although he claims he was only looking for a bat that flew into it. Well, there was a bat, as i
t happened, but I think it just provided him with an excuse to rummage.’

  ‘Rummage for what?’

  ‘Evidence that my master was involved in the Castle Plot, probably. That took place in Ireland, which is full of Catholics. And since Bristol is Catholic, Lord Clarendon might say he instigated it.’

  ‘Did he?’ asked Chaloner.

  Willys regarded him as though he was insane. ‘Of course not! He sent me to Dublin to help thwart it – and I was instrumental in seizing a vital shipment of rebel guns. Just because a man is a papist, does not mean he is desperate to overthrow a monarchy. But let us talk of other business. I have been authorised to make you an offer: My Lord Bristol wants his furniture upholstered, and says he will pay twice what Clarendon has offered you.’

  ‘That is very generous,’ said Chaloner, smothering a smile. Everyone knew Bristol had no money, and could never afford to double an asking price. The spy could only assume the impecunious noble intended to default on payment, just as he probably did with his other creditors.

  ‘Yes, it is. However, there is something he would like you to do in the meantime: while you work in Clarendon’s domain, keep your eyes and ears open, and report any unusual happenings to me.’

  ‘You mean spy?’ asked Chaloner, managing to inject considerable distaste into the word.

  Willys nodded, oblivious to the disapproval. ‘I do it myself, all the time. In fact, I had a look in Clarendon’s rooms on the day of the ball, although I did not find anything useful. Do not worry about being caught, though. If that happens, powerful men will … make arrangements.’

  ‘How can I be sure of that?’

  ‘Because I was in an awkward position myself recently, and I was saved the very same day.’

  ‘Really?’ Chaloner pretended to be impressed. ‘How?’

  Willys leaned closer, and his voice dropped to a confidential whisper. ‘My name was included in a letter that accused me of murder. I was innocent, of course, as were the eight men listed with me, and we have all been pardoned or allowed to disappear. As I said, great men look after their own.’

  ‘I heard about that case, but I was told three of the nine have been sentenced to death.’

  ‘True, but they have not been hanged yet. There is still plenty of time for rescue – although one of them has died of gaol-fever, which is unfortunate for him.’

  ‘I should say! How do you know none of those three are guilty?’

  ‘Because Dillon is a Quaker, and they abhor violence. Besides, I was with him in the Dolphin tavern – the one over by the Tower – the night Webb died. That is a long way from The Strand, where the crime took place. Dillon had been at the Guinea Company dinner with a friend called Fanning, but he escaped early because he said it was dull, and we both got roaring drunk together.’

  ‘Dillon was with you all that night?’ Chaloner recalled Dillon claiming he was drinking with a friend when Webb was killed. However, he also recalled Dillon claiming that he had been nowhere near the Guinea Company dinner, and Willys was now the third person – after Scot and Brodrick – to say that was not the case. Why had Dillon lied about the dinner? Because he did not want anything made of the fact? And why had he not mentioned his ‘alibi’ to the judge who had tried him? Chaloner could only suppose it was because Willys was also on the list of the accused. Or was Willys just trying to protect a comrade by spinning yarns now?

  ‘I passed out at some point,’ Willys admitted sheepishly. ‘Yet I will swear on my mother’s grave that Dillon was in no state to dash across the city, stab a man and be with me when I woke a couple of hours later.’

  ‘What about Fanning? Did he stay at the dinner after Dillon had left?’

  ‘I have no idea. All I can say is that he was not with Dillon and me in the Dolphin. Ah! Here is May, come to find out whether you have agreed to spy on Clarendon for My Lord Bristol.’

  Chaloner stood to leave as May swaggered towards them. His disguise was good, but there was no point in taking risks by conversing with men who knew him well. May was dressed for riding that day, with leather boots, a cloak and spurs. His shaven head was covered by a functional grey wig that fitted him like a cap. A sturdy fighting sword was at his waist, and thrust into his belt was a snaphaunce gun that looked suspiciously similar to the one owned by Fitz-Simons. Chaloner mumbled something about buying curtain hooks from Covent Garden, but May grabbed his arm to stop him from leaving. It was not a hostile gesture, but as soon as May’s fingers closed around the splint, the game was up.

  ‘Heyden!’ he yelled, hauling out his dag. It discharged with an ear-splitting bang, and Chaloner was astonished that he should have missed at such close range. May was furious. He hurled the firearm away and drew his sword. ‘Now I have you!’

  ‘This is Vanders,’ said Willys, looking from one to the other in bewilderment. ‘I have just recruited him to work for Bristol.’

  ‘Fool,’ snarled May, as Chaloner backed away. ‘He is Clarendon’s creature.’

  Chaloner was trapped, and there was nothing he could do or say to extricate himself from his predicament, so he made no effort to try. ‘Put up your sword, May,’ he said quietly. ‘I do not want to fight you – not in White Hall. Brawling is forbidden here, and we will both be arrested.’

  ‘I will not be brawling,’ said May, advancing with his weapon held in a way that showed he meant business. ‘I have just unmasked a traitor. Are you going to defend yourself, or do I just kill you?’

  * * *

  ‘You would stab me here?’ asked Chaloner softly, while Willys gaped, appalled at how he had been duped. ‘In front of witnesses? My Earl will not stand by when his people are killed in cold blood, and Spymaster Williamson will not want a murderer on his staff.’

  May lunged, and the tip of his sword went through Chaloner’s sleeve – and would have pierced his arm had the splint not been there. Reluctantly, the spy drew his own weapon to parry the next blow, but still made no move to attack. The elderly equerry and Wiseman clamoured at them to sheath their blades before the palace guard arrived, and Chaloner saw the musicians had already dashed off to fetch them. He did not feel himself to be in any particular danger, because he had seen May fight in Ireland and knew he was no swordsman. All he needed to do was stay out of blade-range until May either came to his senses or someone disarmed him. However, he revised his strategy smartly when Willys drew a wicked-looking rapier with a furious expression on his face. Two opponents were an entirely different matter.

  ‘May cannot kill you, because you are mine to skewer,’ Willys declared, becoming angrier by the moment as the enormity of what had happened dawned on him. He was not a clever man, but even he could see his ‘recruitment’ had given Clarendon some powerful ammunition against his master.

  Chaloner blocked another blow from May, then struggled to protect himself as Willys advanced with a series of determined swipes. May started to move behind him, dividing his attention, and he saw it would only be a matter of time before one of them scored a lucky hit.

  ‘Stop this at once,’ barked Wiseman, although he was careful to stay well away from the flashing steel. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

  ‘You are behaving like Dutchmen,’ added the equerry in disgust. Recklessly, he tried to lay hold of May’s flailing weapon; Chaloner ran forward to deflect the impatient swipe that would have seen the old man injured. ‘Desist immediately, you silly young goats.’

  ‘Stay away, grandfather,’ warned Willys, lunging while Chaloner was preoccupied with May. Chaloner twisted to avoid the blow and stumbled over a bench. His leg gave a protesting twinge, and he only just managed to jerk away from Willys’s next swipe. ‘Or there will be an accident.’

  ‘There will be no accidents,’ came a voice from the door. It was Holles and the palace guard, all carrying cocked handguns. ‘You know this is illegal. Put up your swords before I shoot you.’

  Seething, May did as he was told, glowering as a soldier hurried forward to snatch the weapo
n from his hand. But Willys was too enraged to see reason, and advanced on Chaloner with murder in his eyes. Chaloner raised his sword to deflect the first blow, then ducked in surprise when a ball smacked into the wall near his head.

  ‘Next time, I will do more than make a hole in the plaster,’ snarled Holles. ‘This is your last chance – both of you.’

  Since he looked as though he meant it, Chaloner let his sword clatter to the floor. Immediately, Willys raced forward. Chaloner leapt away, and felt the man’s blade pass so close to his face that it sliced through the brim of his hat. Willys staggered from the force of his attack, so Chaloner shoved him hard enough to make him stumble to his knees. The weapon flew from his hand, and three soldiers hastened to secure him while he was down. Meanwhile, Holles grabbed Chaloner, searching him for more weapons. The colonel removed the knives from his belt and sleeve, but did not find the one in his boot.

  ‘I shall charge the lot of you with unbecoming conduct,’ he snapped, furious with them. ‘And it will be up to your respective masters how they will deal with you.’

  Willys tried to free himself, but the guards held him too tightly, so he settled for sneering instead. ‘When Bristol hears how you deceived me, he will dispatch you himself, Heyden.’

  ‘It is Heyden,’ said one of the soldiers, hauling off the wig that hid the spy’s brown hair. ‘Look!’

  Holles regarded Chaloner with unfriendly eyes. ‘I did not imagine you were the type to brawl in the King’s palace. I thought you knew how to behave.’

  ‘It was not his fault,’ objected the equerry, while Wiseman nodded earnest agreement. ‘He ordered May and Willys to desist, and drew his weapon only to protect himself.’

  ‘It takes two sides to make a quarrel,’ replied Holles coldly. He turned to his prisoners. ‘You will be taken to the guardhouse, where you will remain until your masters come to claim you. And my dag is reloaded, so do not try my patience by persisting with this spat.’