B004BDOJZ4 EBOK

by Susanna GREGORY

  It was a long way from Chyrurgeons’ Hall to Lincoln’s Inn, and by the time he reached Thurloe’s chambers, having taken a tortuous route to ensure he was not followed, the spy was tired, hot and thirsty. There was no reason to suppose anyone was watching him, but it had been a difficult few days – he had been knocked to the ground, poisoned, attacked with swords, subjected to improper surgical procedures and shot at – and his instincts warned him to take more than his usual care. He tapped softly on Thurloe’s door, which was opened by Leybourn.

  ‘I was expecting Yates,’ said the surveyor, disappointed. ‘We sent for some food. Ah – here he is.’

  The porter staggered along the hallway with a tray that contained an inordinate amount of bread, cheese and cold meat. Leybourn’s eyes gleamed, and Chaloner supposed he was hungry. Yates placed the victuals on the table but, before he left, insisted on sampling everything, to ensure it was poison-free. Thurloe only dismissed him when the surveyor commented unhappily on the rapidly dwindling portions.

  Leybourn closed the door behind the jovial porter and turned to the table, rubbing his hands eagerly. ‘I am ravenous. Do you want anything, Tom?’

  Remembering what had happened the last time he had swallowed something in the ex-Spymaster’s chamber, Chaloner declined. Thurloe claimed he had no appetite either, and for a while, the only sounds in the room were Leybourn’s knife clacking on the pewter plate, and a rhythmic hammering sound from outside. Chaloner looked questioningly at Thurloe.

  ‘The orchard,’ replied Thurloe quietly. ‘The felling began today.’

  ‘Already?’ Chaloner was stunned. ‘I thought you might delay it for a few weeks at least. You are a lawyer, after all, skilled in postponement.’

  ‘I did my best, but Prynne’s is a powerful voice, and he invariably has what he wants. Close the window, Thomas. I cannot bear to listen.’

  Chaloner obliged, then, to take Thurloe’s mind off the destruction, began to tell him all that had happened since their last meeting. The ex-Spymaster was thoughtful.

  ‘Willys’s murder does not sound like a carefully laid plan to me. Someone may just have snatched the opportunity presented by the bucking horse – and the fact that you and he were left unguarded. Of course, we cannot discount the possibility that the killer might have wanted you dead, too.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Leybourn, appalled by the tale. ‘What could anyone gain by dispatching Tom and Willys? They do not work for the same faction. Willys was on the list naming Webb’s murderers and Tom was not. Tom has connections with the Castle Plot and Willys did not—’

  ‘He did,’ interrupted Chaloner. ‘He was used to hinder the delivery of a shipment of arms.’

  Leybourn continued as though he had not spoken. ‘There is no reason for anyone to strike at both. And perhaps there was no intention to have Tom accused of murder – he just happened to be in the cell next door. It was an unfortunate coincidence, which May seized upon with alacrity.’

  ‘May,’ mused Chaloner. ‘Scot told me you and he went to a tavern together recently. Now why would a decent, law-abiding fellow like you deign to associate with someone like that?’

  Leybourn looked pleased with himself. ‘He heard you had training as a law-clerk, and was asking which of the Inns you attended – he is obviously hoping to unearth some youthful scandal to use against you. However, when he declined to tell me why he wanted to know, I suggested he should to talk to Prynne.’

  ‘Prynne will not remember me – or my youthful scandals,’ said Chaloner, surprised. ‘And he is hardly conducive company. If May does go to see him, he will be in for a deeply unpleasant time.’

  Leybourn feigned innocence. ‘Really? What a pity for him.’

  ‘Let us consider this murder rationally,’ said Thurloe, declining to waste time discussing pranks. ‘Who might want Willys dead? It will not be Bristol, because Willys was a devious sort of man and such fellows are useful. It will not be Temple either, because he would not deprive Bristol of an aide. What about someone loyal to Lord Clarendon? He would never order a death himself, but his supporters are more practical about such matters.’

  ‘Brodrick?’ suggested Leybourn. ‘I confess Clarendon’s debauched kinsman mystifies me.’

  ‘And I do not like the way these surgeons appear every time there is some dramatic incident, either,’ said Chaloner. ‘Especially Wiseman.’

  ‘Are you saying that because his splint means you cannot play your viol?’ asked Leybourn.

  ‘No,’ replied Chaloner shortly. ‘I am saying it because he lied about being at the Guinea Company dinner. He swore he did not attend, but Reynell let slip with the truth. Not only that, but Wiseman argued with Webb about slavery on the night of the murder – another detail he neglected to mention.’

  ‘Webb,’ mused Thurloe. ‘You still have not identified his killer, although you have followed the contorted travels of his corpse. And Dillon will be hanged the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Dillon does not think so,’ said Chaloner.

  Thurloe was unhappy. ‘I have rescued men from similar situations in the past, and I can tell you that it is unwise to leave it to the last minute. The nearer one comes to an execution, the more paperwork stands between prisoner and reprieve. His master is making a grave mistake by dawdling.’

  ‘I am under the impression the man does not intend to operate through official channels,’ said Leybourn. ‘Half of London is expecting an audacious rescue just as the noose tightens around Dillon’s neck. There is also a rumour that Webb’s murder and the subsequent conviction of those three men is connected to the Castle Plot. If that is true, then Dillon’s escape may herald the beginning of something dangerous.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘Rebellion,’ elaborated Leybourn darkly. ‘A rerun of the one that failed in Dublin – only this time, there will be no men hired by Williamson to make it flounder. I predict violence when Dillon reaches the scaffold, and I shall close my shop and make sure the windows are barred.’

  ‘But who is this patron with a flair for the dramatic?’ asked Thurloe, becoming frustrated.

  ‘It is someone influential, or Dillon would not be so confident,’ said Leybourn. ‘It cannot be Williamson, because he arranged releases for his people within hours of their arrests. Is it Bristol?’

  ‘Because he is Catholic?’ asked Thurloe. ‘And Catholics feature large in Irish rebellions? If that is what you mean, then I urge you to rethink. Being a papist does not go hand in hand with sedition, although God knows we have given them cause with all this insane Bill of Uniformity.’

  ‘What about Clarendon, then?’ asked Leybourn.

  An image of the portly Lord Chancellor hurtling forward on a prancing horse to snatch Dillon from the scaffold formed in Chaloner’s mind, and he smiled. ‘He is not a man for flamboyant gestures. Besides, he is too preoccupied with Bristol to stage last-ditch reprieves for petty villains.’

  ‘Buckingham?’ suggested Leybourn, running out of ideas. ‘He is a rash, ostentatious fellow. Or perhaps Lady Castlemaine intends to seduce His Majesty into signing a pardon. I have heard she is not choosy about lovers, so maybe Dillon is one of her conquests.’

  ‘We are looking at this the wrong way,’ said Thurloe, pursing his lips at the vulgarity. ‘We cannot identify Dillon’s master unless we know who killed Webb. Webb was murdered for a reason, and we will only unravel this mess when we know what that is. What are your theories, Tom?’

  Chaloner raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Silence has emerged rather nicely from the tragedy, and so has Behn. Wiseman’s practice was destroyed by Webb’s accusations. Lisle fell foul of him, too, and so did Johnson. Meanwhile, Webb insulted Brodrick’s music, Bristol owed him money, and Temple had discovered the hard way that he was unscrupulous in business.’

  ‘Dillon did not quarrel with Webb, though,’ said Thurloe with satisfaction. ‘And neither did the other eight men named on the letter sent to Bristol.’

  ‘A
ctually, Dillon did,’ said Chaloner. ‘He and Fanning were seen arguing with Webb on the night of the murder. As a result, they left the Guinea Company dinner early, and Willys said he and Dillon then got drunk in a tavern together. However, the more I think about Sarsfeild, the more I think he had nothing to do with it. There was something pathetically honest about his alibi.’

  ‘I thought we had agreed that Beck Marshall’s testimony was inconclusive.’

  ‘I have reconsidered. If Sarsfeild did murder Webb, intending to use Beck to prove his innocence, he would have done something to make her remember him – left her a valuable gift, been sick in her bed, refused to pay. Yet he did nothing memorable, which makes me think he had no idea she might later be important. There must be another Sarsfeild, and this is a case of mistaken identity.’

  ‘Then perhaps we should try to save him, as well as Dillon,’ suggested Leybourn.

  ‘It is too late. He was strangled, and his body is being anatomised as we speak.’

  Thurloe closed his eyes, appalled by the mounting carnage. ‘What about Fanning? Was his a case of mistaken identity, too?’

  ‘He was murdered before I could interview him, but he did not share Dillon’s trust of their master – he sent notes in cipher to Dillon, detailing his plans for escape.’

  Thurloe was disheartened. ‘I had hoped Bristol’s letter might yield clues, but it is worthless. I took it to an expert in such matters, but he said the handwriting is too heavily disguised for any conclusions to be drawn. He did say the ink was an unusual blue – possibly foreign – but that was all.’

  ‘You are overlooking the obvious,’ said Leybourn. ‘It means the sender knew how to change his writing – a spy or a devious businessman, perhaps. Maybe Williamson sent it.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ asked Thurloe. ‘It exposed his own people.’

  ‘And he immediately saved them,’ said Leybourn, ‘thus earning their undying gratitude. Men work better for someone they know they can trust. Perhaps it was all a trick, designed to secure greater loyalty. Or perhaps it is not the ones who were pardoned that we should be looking at, but the ones who were convicted. It is possible that Dillon, Sarsfeild and Fanning have outlived their usefulness, and this is a good way of dispatching them without too much trouble.’

  ‘I think May sent it,’ said Chaloner. ‘He is keen to be indispensable to Williamson, but his skills do not match his ambition. He wrote the missive to discredit rivals who are better than him. And he included his own name to allay suspicion, knowing Williamson would arrange a pardon for him – but no doubt hoping he might neglect to do the same for the others.’

  ‘You are allowing personal dislike to blind you,’ said Leybourn. ‘And I am not sure you are right about Sarsfeild, either. If he was just a hapless bystander, then how did he – of all the men who die daily in London’s gaols – end up as a candidate for anatomy?’

  ‘None of this makes sense,’ groaned Chaloner. He wondered when he had last felt so hopelessly confounded. ‘Perhaps I should go to Surinam with Scot – the courts of Holland, Portugal and France did not prepare me for the intrigue and devilry of London. My countrymen have me defeated.’

  ‘Your melancholy is the lingering effects of that poison,’ said Thurloe. ‘These things take their toll on a body. However, I have concocted a tonic that will—’

  ‘I think he should resist swallowing any more rem edies for a while,’ said Leybourn briskly. ‘Have you learned who tried to poison you yet? Was it Prynne?’

  ‘I thought not, but Yates says his rooms contain a large number of flasks full of unidentified substances. I cannot believe he would harm me, but it seems he certainly has the means.’

  When Chaloner returned home that evening, Scot was waiting, sitting on the stairs and reading Musaeum Tradescantianum by the light of a single candle. So absorbed was he that he did not hear Chaloner’s soft-footed approach and leapt violently when the spy spoke to him. It was the kind of mistake that saw men in their profession killed, and Chaloner wondered whether his friend’s sudden desire to reside in Surinam was because he was losing his touch.

  ‘This is the most amazing book ever written,’ Scot declared, running appreciative fingers across its pages. ‘I have just reached the part where the great gardener and traveller John Tradescan lists all the exotics he and his father collected on their travels to Virginia. Have you read that section?’

  Chaloner shook his head. ‘Remiss though it may seem.’

  Scot smiled ruefully. ‘This new science of botanicals is so exciting that it is difficult for me to understand why everyone is not equally smitten. I cannot wait to board a ship for Surinam and dedicate my life to unveiling its arboreal mysteries.’

  Chaloner unlocked the door and lit the lamp in his room. ‘You are serious about this? You really want to devote your life to plants?’

  Scot’s expression was quietly earnest. ‘I have never been more sincere about anything in my life, Chaloner – not anything. The moment my brother is released, I shall take him and Alice – and you, if you will come – to a new life, where we will never again worry about the politics of dangerous men. I am weary of Roundheads and Cavaliers, of bearing the stigma of a regicide father, and of sly assassins in the night. And there was Manning.’

  Chaloner had a sudden, sharp vision of the spy who had been shot because of Dillon’s betrayal. ‘What does he have to do with it?’

  ‘I saw him taken off into that wood, and I knew what was going to happen, but I was powerless to do anything about it. The whole horrible business hit me hard – so hard that I should have resigned, but it was a momentous decision and I kept putting it off. When it became obvious that the Commonwealth was lost, it was partly fear that prompted me to change sides – which is not something I am proud to admit.’

  ‘We were all afraid then,’ said Chaloner quietly.

  Scot sighed. ‘Well, I shall be glad to leave spying behind, and I find myself resenting every day I am obliged to don paints and powder to work for Williamson.’

  ‘It cannot be for much longer. Have you heard any fresh news about your brother’s release?’

  Scot nodded. ‘I have unearthed several documents that prove the Trulocke brothers sold guns to men associated with the Castle Plot, and Williamson is so pleased that he says Thomas might be free in a matter of days. I have you to thank for that – and my way of reciprocating is to take you from this life while you are still in one piece.’

  ‘How would I earn my keep?’

  Scot handed him a bundle of scientific sketches. ‘If you can draw some of equal quality, we shall make our fortune in Surinam. Try copying a few, to catch the feel of them. You are one of the best forgers I know, and the techniques cannot be so different – an attention to detail, an eye for colour. I have a feeling you will manage very well.’

  It was difficult not to become infected by Scot’s enthusiasm, so Chaloner did as he was told, and was astonished when he discovered how easy it was to reproduce a respectable copy of the diagram, even using a cheap pen and ink that clotted.

  ‘You do have an aptitude for this,’ said Scot with immense satisfaction as he inspected the results. ‘I knew it! You can sell your viola de gamba, invest in paints and decent brushes, and your name shall stand with mine when we send our work to the Royal Society.’

  Chaloner stared at his viol, feeling some of his good humour evaporate. He seriously doubted that drawing flowers would ever replace the joy of making music. ‘I am going to see Lisle on Saturday. He has promised to remove the splint and see what damage Wiseman might have done.’

  ‘Then let us drink to Lisle’s success,’ said Scot, producing a flask of wine from under his coat. ‘God knows, I would like to see him score a victory over that treacherous Wiseman – a fellow I would not trust were he the last man on Earth. Why did you leave Eaffrey’s house so quickly yesterday, by the way? I know it was a grim evening, but it was unlike you to rush off without thanking your hosts.’

  �
�There was something I needed to do for the Webb investigation,’ Chaloner replied vaguely.

  ‘Webb,’ mused Scot. ‘I listened to Silence wax lyrical about her husband last night. Did you know he bought land cheaply in Ireland after the civil wars – land that had been confiscated from Royalists?’

  Chaloner stared at him. ‘When the monarchy was restored, most of those estates were returned to their original owners, and the people who had bought them were ousted.’

  ‘Quite. So Webb had a good reason for hoping the Castle Plot would succeed. It would have meant the return of his farms.’

  ‘So he may have taken part, after all.’ Chaloner frowned. ‘But this makes no sense. Bristol’s letter stated that Webb had betrayed the Castle Plot, and Dillon and the others killed him for doing it. Why would Webb betray something that would have seen his lands given back to him?’

  ‘Perhaps Webb did nothing of the kind,’ suggested Scot. ‘Are you sure Dillon was a rebel? No, you are not. All you know is that he was in Ireland at the salient time, and that he said his name was O’Brien. Perhaps Webb did want the revolt to succeed, and Dillon killed him for a traitor. You do not know who Dillon works for, so you cannot know what side he was on in Ireland. Oh, and Eaffrey asked me to tell you that she saw Dillon go into Clarendon’s house once, at midnight.’

  Chaloner was bemused. ‘Clarendon is the mysterious master who will snatch Dillon from the jaws of death? If so, then Dillon is going to be disappointed: my Earl is not a dramatic sort of man, and if he wanted Dillon pardoned, he would have done it by now. How long has Eaffrey known about this?’

  ‘Ever since a recent drive past Worcester House prompted a half-forgotten memory of a man in an odd hat silhouetted in an upstairs window. She planned to tell you yesterday, but there was no time.’

  ‘She found time to tell you, though,’ observed Chaloner.

  Scot glanced sharply at him, then smiled. ‘I conclude from that ambiguous remark that you saw us together. You did not slink off the moment an escape route presented itself, but lingered, waiting for everyone else to leave. I should have known you were not far away.’