B004BDOJZ4 EBOK

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Thank heavens you are here,’ said Lisle, lowering his weapon in apparent relief. ‘We were preparing the subject for this afternoon, when Heyden arrived and began to run amok. You can see Reynell and Johnson covered in blood from his attack. Seize him quickly, while he is down.’

  Chaloner sagged. There was no point in protesting his innocence, or in telling Wiseman what he had learned. It was so outlandish that he would be wasting his breath.

  ‘Actually, I heard enough to know exactly what is going on,’ said Wiseman haughtily. ‘I have suspected for some time that the handsome specimens you use in your Private Anatomies are not from prisons, and I resolved to discover how you came by them. I set a trap, using Heyden as bait.’

  Chaloner scrambled to his feet. ‘What?’

  The surgeon stepped into the vault, and continued to address Lisle. ‘I told the porter to let me know when Heyden arrived to see you. I knew you would be unable to resist him – a man with transient friends and no London family. I applied an especially robust splint, knowing he would be desperate to be rid of it, and you would be equally willing to oblige him.’

  Lisle glared at him. ‘You abused a patient to entrap me?’

  ‘To catch you in the act,’ corrected Wiseman. ‘And I have done it, too.’

  ‘No one will believe you,’ said Lisle, although there was an uneasy expression on his face. ‘Most of our Company find you arrogant, disagreeable and rude, so no one will take your word over mine.’

  Wiseman’s smile was unpleasant. ‘I do not care what my colleagues think, because I have him.’ He gestured over his shoulder, and Chaloner saw Williamson framed in the doorway.

  ‘I heard enough to hang you,’ said the Spymaster coolly. He turned to the soldiers who were ranged behind him. ‘Arrest them all.’

  ‘And if Mr Williamson is not a powerful enough witness, there is always him,’ said Wiseman, pointing to the floor, where Johnson was gasping for breath. Scot’s corpse was on top of him, and Chaloner saw with a start that its hands were fixed firmly around the surgeon’s throat. Scot was alive, and busily throttling the man who had tried to kill him.

  * * *

  ‘You should not have stopped me,’ said Scot resentfully, sitting in Wiseman’s chambers a short while later. He was pale, and there was a sizeable lump where Johnson had struck him, but he was quickly regaining his customary composure. ‘The fate they had in mind for me was horrible, and I do not trust the law-courts to hand down a suitable sentence.’

  Wiseman did not agree. ‘They may not hang at Tyburn, but there are other means of dispensing with people, especially if you are Williamson. You should be aware of this – you work for the man.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ demanded Chaloner, immediately wary. Scot was ruthlessly careful, and did not confide in just anyone. Wiseman would be one of the last people to earn his trust, especially as Scot had said on several occasions that he was wary of the man.

  Wiseman sighed impatiently. ‘Because government intelligencers live dangerously, and I am a surgeon with a Court appointment. Williamson often summons me to help his people, and so does Lord Clarendon. I ask no questions, because it is safer that way, but I know what you two do.’

  Chaloner glanced at Scot. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘He has been the unofficial “surgeon to spies” since the Restoration, and I am surprised you have never had recourse to call on his services.’ Scot turned to the smug medic. ‘What will happen to the Public Anatomy? Will you cancel it now Lisle and Johnson are unavailable?’

  ‘There is no need for that,’ replied Wiseman comfortably. ‘Not when I – the Company’s most accomplished practitioner – am ready to save the day. The demonstration will go ahead as planned.’

  ‘On Willys?’ asked Chaloner in distaste. ‘You intend to use him, even though his corpse was snatched from its grave?’

  Wiseman rubbed his chin ruefully. ‘Lisle was right about one thing. Dillon will bleed if we use him – his lengthy scaffold speeches mean he has not been dead long enough for the bodily fluids to settle. Meanwhile, the other corpses in the basement have been partially dissected already. Willys is our only choice.’

  ‘You cannot use Dillon, anyway,’ Scot pointed out. ‘No one seems to know where he is.’

  ‘Johnson does,’ said Chaloner, ‘but he is refusing to say.’

  Wiseman was unhappy. ‘I hope Williamson finds him soon. It will be bad for the Company if his corpse appears somewhere public. People will think we are careless with them.’

  ‘And that would never do,’ said Chaloner acidly. He was torn between anger at having been used as a tethered goat to entrap Lisle, and relief that Scot had risen from the dead.

  Wiseman grinned. ‘I suppose I owe you an apology, although, as Clarendon’s man, you must be pleased with the outcome – you have successfully eliminated Johnson, one of your master’s nastiest enemies. Perhaps I should have taken you into my confidence, and asked whether you minded lending a hand – literally, in this case – but I thought my plan would work better if you were kept in the dark. Besides, I mentioned several times that Lisle and Johnson had recently become inexplicably wealthy, but you did not take the hint and offer to investigate.’

  ‘I did not know it was a hint,’ objected Chaloner. ‘I thought you were just talking.’

  ‘I never just talk,’ declared Wiseman. ‘Everything I say is worth listening to – and acting upon.’

  ‘Lord Clarendon will be delighted to learn Johnson is so spectacularly disgraced,’ said Scot, when Chaloner snorted his disbelief. ‘Especially if some of the mess can be made to stick to Bristol.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but there was still no need to maim me. I would have helped to expose Johnson and his gruesome dealings, and performing bad surgery was both unnecessary and unethical.’

  Wiseman grimaced at the reprimand. ‘Well, it is done now, and to make amends, I shall remove the splint. You will play your viol this evening as though nothing has happened.’

  ‘Good,’ said Chaloner coldly. ‘Because if I find I cannot, I shall return and brain you with it.’

  ‘Do not be bitter,’ said the surgeon with his irritating unflappability. ‘We have just apprehended three very dangerous criminals and you saved your colleague into the bargain. If you had not arrived when you did, he would be down in the basement now, having his veins waxed.’

  When he went to fetch what he needed for his operation, Chaloner turned to Scot. ‘I thought you said he could not be trusted, but now it transpires that he works for Williamson, too.’

  Scot shrugged. ‘I do not trust anyone at White Hall, no matter what his credentials, and there is something sinister about the man. I was right anyway – normal people do not use patients to trap their errant colleagues, after all.’

  Wiseman returned with a huge pair of shears. ‘Tell us again what happened, Scot,’ he ordered as he sat in front of Chaloner. ‘How did Johnson come to wallop you on the head with his bone chisel?’

  Scot touched the lump and winced. ‘It is very simple. Chaloner told me Lisle was planning to “help” him today, because you had bungled the original treatment. However, I knew you were unlikely to make the kind of mistakes Lisle had accused you of, so I decided to spy on the man and his domain. I was exploring the Anatomical Theatre when Johnson jumped me – to my eternal shame. I was in and out of awareness for hours, and only came to properly when he dragged me to the floor.’

  Chaloner scowled at Wiseman. ‘If you had not encouraged Lisle to want my corpse, I would not have agreed to keep an appointment with him, and Scot would not have come to save me. Your plan put us both in danger.’

  Wiseman waved a hand to show he thought it did not matter, and began to ply his shears. ‘Lisle did something right at least – this splint will be easier to remove now it is cracked. And it saved your arm without a doubt. I would have been amputating by now, had Lisle’s blows done what he intended.’

  Scot watched him. ‘I thought you had invented some m
ysterious compound to dissolve your glue. Why are cutters necessary?’

  ‘I lied,’ said Wiseman. ‘There is no compound on Earth that can dissolve a Wiseman Splint.’

  ‘I do not understand much of this,’ said Chaloner, talking to take his mind off the fact that a man he did not like was labouring over his arm with a very sharp implement. He was sure he could work everything out for himself, but he did not want to sit in silence. ‘Can we go over it again? Webb was stabbed by Dillon and Fanning on the orders of their master. Who is he? Behn?’

  Scot nodded slowly. ‘I certainly think so, but we shall never know for certain, given that both assassins are dead and Behn is unlikely to confess without their testimony. Meanwhile, someone must have witnessed the murder, and wrote to Bristol about it. Fanning and Dillon were guilty, but the other seven names were included for spite.’

  ‘Because someone does not like spies,’ agreed Wiseman, wiping sweat from his forehead. ‘This fellow struck Williamson hard by exposing his people.’

  Scot nodded. ‘And I know you disagree, Chaloner, but I am sure the writer did mean Garsfield, not Sarsfeild. The confectioner was very unlucky.’

  Chaloner was beginning to think it might be true, mostly because his favourite suspect for composing the note was May, and May would never pass up an opportunity to harm him.

  Scot read his mind. ‘May is not sufficiently clever. I think it is Behn again. There is something very odd about that man – just ask Eaffrey. She will not like it, but I do not want them together again. You know what I mean, Chaloner. I would rather be poor than see her in danger.’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Wiseman cheerfully. He was panting heavily. ‘But do not enlighten me – I am almost certainly safer not knowing. Lord! I did a magnificent job with this splint. It is as hard as a rock, and the secret ingredient I added worked better than I could have hoped. I shall be a wealthy man once I perfect it. Everyone with broken limbs will want one.’

  Chaloner flinched when the blades gazed his arm, and hastily resumed his analysis. ‘Behn is dangerous. Eaffrey said he killed some sort of accomplice in his office, and that man is now in the basement with his limbs cut off, ready to be anatomised.’

  Scot’s face was pale. ‘You mean the fellow with the scarred throat? He is dead? Christ!’

  Chaloner turned his thoughts to Webb again. ‘All three men who were convicted of Webb’s murder are now dead – although Fanning did not have gaol-fever and Sarsfeild did not kill himself. Dillon was hanged, though.’

  ‘Was he?’ asked Scot. He touched the back of his head again, and winced. ‘I was not there, if you recall. Did you see the body? Feel for a lifebeat? Put a glass against his lips to test for breath?’

  ‘I did not,’ said Wiseman, exchanging shears for a saw and working furiously. The room began to smell of burning glue, and Chaloner hoped the dressing would not ignite. ‘That was Lisle and Johnson’s responsibility.’

  ‘You let Lisle and Johnson pronounce life extinct?’ echoed Scot incredulously. ‘Then perhaps there is a good reason for Dillon’s disappearance – such as he was cut down before he was dead and is now with his mysterious master. It is probably not the rescue he had in mind, but if it worked … ’

  ‘It is possible, I suppose,’ admitted Wiseman, changing the angle of the saw. ‘But let us return to our summary. Johnson admitted to killing Fanning, but denied touching Sarsfeild. I believe him. Why confess to one murder, but not another? We should have asked whether he dispatched Willys, too.’

  ‘Then who did kill Sarsfeild?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Someone went to his cell disguised as a vicar and murdered him. If it was not Johnson, then who was it? Behn? May?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Wiseman, mopping his brow. His customary composure had begun to slip, and he looked sheepish as he gestured to the splint. ‘I am afraid I was so determined to trap Lisle that I made my glue a touch too hard, and you have compounded the problem by climbing walls, brawling and trying to play the fiddle. It is no way to treat these inventions.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ demanded Chaloner.

  ‘That is stuck. I cannot get it off.’

  ‘It is not stuck,’ said Chaloner quietly. ‘Believe me, you do not want it to be stuck.’

  Wiseman bent to the task again. The soft menace in Chaloner’s words seemed to have had an effect, because he renewed his efforts until he was red-faced and breathless. Then there was a loud crack. While Wiseman gripped the splint with both hands, Chaloner hauled with all his might in the opposite direction, and eventually managed to wriggle, pull and twist himself free. It cost most of the hair on his forearm and the skin on his knuckles, but these were small prices to pay for freedom.

  ‘It is a good thing his bones were not really broken,’ said Scot, as he watched. ‘If they had been, the violent removal of the dressing would have snapped them again.’

  ‘True,’ mused Wiseman unhappily. ‘My splint will hold a damaged limb immobile for as long as it remains in place, the only disadvantage being that it might have to remain in place for life.’

  ‘I think you had better devise another way to make your fortune,’ said Scot, laughing. ‘You are liable to be sued by unhappy patients with this invention.’

  ‘How does it feel, Heyden?’ asked Wiseman, reaching out to examine him.

  Chaloner pulled away. ‘Like it no longer requires a surgeon.’

  Chapter 12

  The advertised Public Anatomy on the body of William Dillon, felon, was well attended, and Chaloner was astonished by how many people the Company of Barber-Surgeons had managed to cram into its theatre. He was even more surprised by how many he recognised, thinking it was not long ago that he did not know a soul in London.

  Temple and Brodrick were among the first to arrive, talking and laughing to each other in a way that made them appear to be good friends. Chaloner was uneasy, wondering why Clarendon’s cousin should so suddenly seek out the company of a man who was so open in his disdain for the Earl – especially as it had only been a month since one had hit the other with a candlestick, and only three days since they had sniped and bickered at Eaffrey’s dinner party. Perhaps Thurloe was right after all, and Brodrick was not the loyal kinsman he claimed to be. Holles was with them, cautious and watchful. He spotted Chaloner and raised an eyebrow, although the spy could not tell whether the ‘greeting’ was friendly or otherwise. Chaloner nodded back, trying to decide why Holles should choose to attend such an exhibition; the colonel had openly admitted to being squeamish.

  Williamson was also there, May at his side. May’s gaze fell on Chaloner, and he muttered something that made the Spymaster laugh. Scot, clothing and manners adjusted to Peter Terrell, flitted here and there, exchanging bows with people he thought might speed his brother’s release. When Eaffrey arrived with Alice and Behn, he went immediately to kiss her hand, and Chaloner saw her mutter a prayer of relief that he was safe. Without thinking, Alice ran to hug her brother, to show Eaffrey was not the only one who had been worried about him. ‘Terrell’ hastened to pass off the gesture as a joke, but Chaloner saw that Temple was suspicious. Realising with horror that she had almost given Scot away, Alice tried to pretend it was a case of mistaken identity. Her garbled ‘explanations’ were making matters worse, so Chaloner went to intervene.

  ‘Did you enjoy yourself this morning?’ he asked, saying the first thing that came into his head. It was meant to be an innocuous enquiry that would divert attention away from Scot, but he had forgotten she had missed the hanging because her clothes were caught in the seat.

  She glared at him. ‘Not as much as I would have done, had the condemned man been you.’

  He winced. ‘You have a savage tongue, Alice.’

  ‘She is a tad sharp,’ agreed Temple. Chaloner grimaced a second time; he had not meant his comment to be overheard. Temple turned to Brodrick, laughing. ‘Did I ever tell you that her brother sent me a letter offering a vast sum of money if I agreed to leave her
? I shall not take him up on his invitation, because it is common knowledge that Alice is the only Scot with any cash, and were I to accept his “generous” settlement, he would almost certainly default on payment.’

  Alice gaped at him, while Terrell was suddenly nowhere to be seen. ‘William was going to pay you to abandon me?’ she demanded, aghast. ‘Why did you not mention this before?’

  Temple shrugged. ‘It gave me cause to laugh for an hour, and then I forgot about it. He is irrelevant, anyway. I like you well enough, and your money will allow me to buy that plantation I want. What more can a man ask? Bristol spoke to the King on my behalf yesterday, and His Majesty said I can have you, should I feel so inclined.’

  Alice’s hearing became highly selective; she smiled broadly. ‘You intend to marry me?’

  Temple shrugged again. ‘Why not? We each have something the other desires – you will acquire a handsome husband with a glittering future in British politics; I will get a woman with plenty of ready cash. Well, what do you think? Shall we do it?’

  ‘Yes!’ she cried, eyes shining. ‘I accept!’

  ‘You old romantic,’ said Brodrick to Temple. ‘There is a silver tongue on you, no doubt about it.’

  Temple inclined his head graciously, then sauntered away with his new friend, leaving his bride-to-be gazing after him in delight.

  ‘I wish you much happiness, Alice,’ said Chaloner, feeling he should say something nice to mark the occasion. He wondered what Scot would say when he learned his sister was lost.

  ‘And I shall have it, too,’ she replied, sounding as though there would be trouble if she did not. ‘What are you doing here? Did you come because you heard us talking about Webb’s dissection at Eaffrey’s party, and you wanted to see one for yourself ?’

  ‘How did the surgeons acquire Webb’s body?’ asked Chaloner, curious to know how such an odd occurrence had been explained to the spectators. ‘It was supposed to have been buried in St Paul’s.’

  Alice watched Temple take his seat. ‘My Richard made a joke to Surgeon Johnson, remarking on the irony of him commissioning a Private Anatomy, when a man who had tried to cheat him was newly dead. He asked whether it was possible to combine the two, and we were both rather startled when Johnson replied – quite seriously – that he would see what he could do.’