‘Then what?’
‘A few days later, he said he had devised a way to acquire Webb’s corpse, but that it would cost extra. He said merchants’ entrails are oilier than those of normal men, so more money is needed to clean up afterwards. I agreed to pay the difference, because Richard was so eager to see inside Webb. You look disapproving. Why? It was all perfectly ethical.’
‘Was it?’
‘Of course. Webb’s body was lent to the surgeons after his funeral, and what is left of him will go back inside his cathedral tomb. That is what Johnson told us. He asked us not to mention it to Silence, though, because she was not invited to the cutting, and he did not want her to take offence. And now you must excuse me, or I will lose my place next to Richard.’
She slipped away, leaving Chaloner full of questions. He was watching Samuel Pepys and a host of navy commissioners ushered into seats of honour, when Wiseman approached and spoke quietly.
‘Do not think too badly of our Company, just because of Lisle and Johnson. It is full of good men. Lisle is vocal about the amount of time he spends with the poor, but many others do an equal or greater amount of charitable work – they just do not brag about it.’
‘We shall probably never know how many people Johnson killed,’ said Chaloner, not of a mind to be forgiving about such heinous activities.
‘No, probably not,’ admitted the surgeon. He sighed. ‘But the audience is growing restless, so I had better begin my demonstration before there is a riot. People are always impatient to see me at work. Are you going to stay? My invitation to you still stands.’
‘I have seen more than enough surgery and anatomy for one day, thank you.’
Wiseman grimaced. ‘I did what I thought was right, Heyden, and I would do the same again. Thanks to me, men can rest easy in their coffins tonight, knowing they will stay there.’
He went to stand next to the dissecting table, to make sure all was in order. Willys had arrived, and lay with a cloth bag tied firmly around his head. The barber-surgeons were taking no chances of it slipping off and revealing his identity. Then the lecture began, and Chaloner became interested, despite himself. After a while, he saw Eaffrey slip away from Behn, and indicate with a discreet flicker of her eyes that she wanted to speak privately. He waited a few minutes, so they would not be seen leaving together, then followed.
Outside, the air was clean and fresh, a pleasant change from the stuffy atmosphere in the Anatomical Theatre, where every man and some women puffed away on pipes, and the odour of overheated bodies, unwashed clothes and the corpse mingled unpleasantly. In the sunshine, Chaloner could smell newly scythed grass and warm earth.
‘Thank you for finding William,’ said Eaffrey, when he joined her in the Great Parlour’s cool, cloister-like undercroft. ‘I knew you would not let me down. I cannot tell you how worried I have been. What happened?’
‘He fell into the hands of men who wanted to make an exhibition of him,’ replied Chaloner vaguely. His sleepless night was taking its toll, and he was too tired to embark on complex explanations. Scot could decide how much he wanted her to know about his escapade himself.
‘Did you find your killer? The man who murdered Webb?’
‘Dillon and Fanning did it, but on someone else’s orders. I am inclined to suspect May, but Scot believes it is Behn.’
Eaffrey swallowed hard, but did not leap to Behn’s defence. ‘Your Irish alias was on Bristol’s letter, Tom,’ she said after a moment, raising her hand when Chaloner tried to speak. ‘I visited Thurloe this morning, and he showed me the original note. He has a special glass that magnifies writing, and I saw quite clearly how the name had been changed from Garsfield to Sarsfeild. You obviously have a friend – someone who knows no powerful patron would step forward and provide you with a King’s pardon or let you “disappear”.’
‘Why would anyone help me? Other than Thurloe?’
‘Perhaps someone owes an obligation to the Chaloner clan. Perhaps you saved a life once, and that person found himself in a position to reciprocate. Perhaps someone did not want Lord Clarendon to lose his best spy. There are all kinds of possibilities.’
Chaloner tried to make sense of it. ‘May wrote the letter, so the name must have been changed after he sent it to Bristol. But I doubt Thurloe was ever in a position to tamper with it – if he had been, he would not have asked me to steal it, because he would already have known what it said. And nor would he have let innocent Sarsfeild be incarcerated in Newgate on my behalf.’
‘Lord Clarendon, then. At a time when half the Court is baying for his blood, trustworthy allies are important. However, your mysterious friend obviously wants to remain anonymous, or he would have made himself known to you, so my advice is to forget about him. You say Dillon and Fanning murdered Webb, and they are dead, so let that mark the end of the matter. We shall see Dillon dissected today, and then the whole affair can be buried with him.’
‘It is Willys being dissected, not Dillon. Did you notice how the cloth is tied around the corpse’s head, instead of being laid across its face? Many influential courtiers are here, and they might make a fuss if they learn Bristol’s aide has been providing their afternoon’s amusement.’
Eaffrey made a moue of distaste.
‘Are you sure it is him?’ ‘As sure as I can be about anything on this case. I have answers to some questions, but not all. Who killed Willys? Who dressed as a vicar and strangled Sarsfeild? Why did May send that letter to Bristol, when the ruse could have misfired and seen him dismissed?’
‘Actually,’ came a voice far too close behind him, ‘you are quite wrong about May.’
Chaloner spun around to see a tall figure wearing a cloak and a hat that shaded his eyes and the top half on his face. The rest was dominated by a sardonic grin.
* * *
There was a sword in Dillon’s hand, and he held it in a way that suggested he was about to use it. Eaffrey gasped in horror, and Chaloner reached for his own weapon. It was not there, and he realised with a shock that he had neglected to retrieve it after Johnson had disarmed him. He backed away, looking for something with which to defend himself, but the undercroft was just an open-sided vault with pillars and a flagstone floor. And because it had been swept for the Public Anatomy, there was not so much as a twig or a pebble that could be lobbed.
‘I saw you hanged!’ breathed Eaffrey, aghast. ‘Are you some fiend, to evade death?’
Dillon ignored her. ‘I have questions, Heyden,’ he whispered. ‘My master wants to know—’
‘That is a dismal attempt at deception,’ said Chaloner contemptuously, stepping behind one of the pillars when he recognised the man’s true identity – Dillon had no reason to harm him, but someone else did. ‘You are too tall to be Dillon, your voice is too deep and the hat is at the wrong angle.’
May ripped the offending item from his bald head. ‘It was worth a try.’
‘What do you want?’ demanded Chaloner, pulling Eaffrey behind him.
‘I want an end to the trouble you have caused me,’ snapped May. ‘I want you dead.’
Chaloner balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, ready to jump one way or the other when May attacked. ‘What trouble? Perhaps we should go to see Williamson and—’
May snorted. ‘I do not think so! You will try to usurp my position – to have yourself hired and me dismissed, because you think you are a better spy than me.’
‘He is a better spy than you,’ said Eaffrey, eyeing May in distaste. ‘But he has no desire to work for Williamson or steal your post as chief toady. Why would he, when he is content with Clarendon?’
May sneered. ‘Every decent spy wants to be in the government’s employ, so why should he be any different? He has done nothing but tell lies about me ever since we returned from Ireland. But I shall have my revenge. First, I shall kill him, and then I shall sit back and watch his reputation destroyed. I have taken the liberty of hiding one or two documents in pertinent places, and when they come
to light, they will ensure his name will always be associated with ignominy.’
‘That is an ungentlemanly thing to do,’ said Eaffrey angrily.
‘Ours is an ungentlemanly profession. And do not think you will avenge his death, madam, because I know about you – your real lover is Scot, and you intend to wed Behn for his money. If you attempt to harm me, I shall tell Behn, and you will be poor for the rest of your life.’
‘You are a pig!’ spat Eaffrey in disgust. Chaloner glanced at her and wondered whether the threat was enough to buy her silence. She did not want her child born into poverty, and Scot would have no money once his sister – and her fortune – married the despicable Temple.
‘What lies have I told about you?’ he asked of May.
‘About that letter to Bristol. I did not write it, and I resent the implication that I would expose the identities of my fellow agents. Your accusations have made my colleagues suspicious and wary of me. No doubt it is all part of your plan to usurp my place in Williamson’s confidence.’
‘It is nothing of the kind,’ said Chaloner impatiently, tensing when May made a practice sweep with his blade, making it whistle through the air. ‘And what do you propose to do here? Kill me with half the Court within shouting distance?’
May smiled grimly. ‘We both know no one will hear anything through those thick walls, not with Wiseman babbling about guts and bladders. You can holler all you like, but I will still skewer you.’
‘Fetch Williamson, Eaffrey,’ ordered Chaloner. He glanced around to see she had gone.
‘She is a practical lady – and an ambitious one,’ said May gloatingly. ‘So do not expect help from that quarter. She will not risk a comfortable future just to save your miserable life.’
Before Chaloner could reply, May advanced with a series of well-executed sweeps. Chaloner ducked one way, then the other around the pillar, and May missed him by no more than the width of a finger.
‘I should have dispatched you in White Hall’, hissed the bald spy. ‘I would have done, had Holles not stopped me. You had better draw, or this will be a very short fight.’
‘I cannot draw,’ said Chaloner, deeply unimpressed by the man’s powers of observation. ‘You can see I have no sword.’
May swished his blade triumphantly. ‘Then you should have come better prepared. Are you going to duck and weave all day, or will you stand and die like a man?’
He darted forward, feinting at the last moment. Chaloner jigged away, but May’s sword caught in the lace on his cuff. He knocked it free, then ran to another, thicker pier, hoping it would afford him greater protection.
‘I waited outside your room last night,’ said May, lunging hard and striking sparks from the pillar when his blade scored down the stone. ‘But you have taken to sleeping elsewhere, and I wasted hours lurking in the darkness.’
‘You ate a pie,’ said Chaloner, remembering how a lack of peas had allowed him to conclude that it had not been Scot or Leybourn. ‘You dropped crumbs all over the stairs. What did you want?’
‘To kill you before you told anyone else about that letter.’
‘Of course. Stealthy murder is no stranger to you, is it? You killed Willys and tried to have me blamed. You pretended to be a priest and strangled Sarsfeild in his cell. And it was you who ordered Fanning and Dillon to murder Webb.’
‘There you go again,’ snapped May, renewing his attack. He was furious, but although his blows were powerful, they were also wild, so Chaloner had no trouble evading them. ‘Making accusations with no proof. I did not kill Webb, Sarsfeild, Willys or anyone else.’
‘Then why did you shoot Fitz-Simons?’ demanded Chaloner. He took a chance on an explanation. ‘Because you wanted to stop him from telling Williamson what he knew – that you wrote the letter.’
‘I did not even kill Fitz-Simons,’ shouted May, exasperated. He grimaced and lowered his voice. ‘I aimed and pulled the trigger, but the gun flashed in the pan. It was another man’s ball that hit him.’
Chaloner did not know whether to believe him, and was puzzled enough that he was slow moving out of the way. May’s sword caught him a stinging slash on the leg, although the sides of the weapon were too blunt to draw blood. He began to limp. ‘You claimed credit at the time.’
‘I did not claim it – it was given to me.’ May grinned mirthlessly when he saw his blow had slowed his opponent down. He renewed his attack with greater purpose. ‘One moment I was trying to work out why my gun had misfired, and the next I was being hailed as the hero who shot the King’s would-be assassin. It happened so fast that I had no time to think. On reflection, I see I should have been honest, but it is easy to judge with hindsight and it is too late to do anything about it now.’
Chaloner remained sceptical, although his convictions were beginning to waver. He recalled the sizeable hole in Fitz-Simon’s chest and his fleeting concern that it had been too large a wound to have been caused by May’s handgun. ‘If you did not kill Fitz-Simons, then who did?’
‘I have no idea. At first, I assumed it was you, and was pleased when people started to give me the credit that should have been yours. Then Colonel Holles pointed out how the dag you had confiscated from Fitz-Simons was too filthy to work, and I knew you could not have been responsible. He witnessed the whole incident from the cathedral, you know.’ May’s voice was bitter. ‘He knows I did not fire the fatal shot.’
Chaloner’s convictions wavered even more, mostly because he could not imagine May concocting a confession that showed him in such poor light. ‘Then why has he not said anything about it?’
‘I imagine because he intends to blackmail me. When I saw the body and recognised it as belonging one of Williamson’s “occasional informers” I was appalled! I was obliged to hide its face with a bag to prevent anyone else from seeing. And then it disappeared, and I have been waiting on tenterhooks for the prankster – you – to bring it back in a way that will humiliate me even further. I have been living a nightmare this last week, and it is all your doing. But now you will pay.’
Chaloner jerked away from the flailing blade. ‘You brought it on yourself by being dishonest. Put up your sword, May, and I will help you resolve this mess. We can talk to Holles, and—’
‘You had your chance to do all that,’ snarled May, ‘but instead, you have concentrated on making accusations that harm me. Say your prayers, Heyden. The game is over for you.’
He changed the grip on his sword and his expression became fiercely determined. Chaloner made as if to run to the next pillar, but altered course at the last moment, and powered towards May instead. He saw the surprise in the man’s eyes just as he reached him and snatched the weapon from his hand. It was absurdly easy, like taking honey-bread from a baby. May gaped in horror. Then there was a sharp crack and he crumpled to the ground. Chaloner spun around to see Scot standing there with a smoking gun, Eaffrey behind him.
‘You cannot manage five minutes without me, Chaloner,’ said Scot irritably. ‘I warned you to be wary of the man, and what do you do? Allow him to entice you into a duel!’
Chaloner knelt to feel for a lifebeat in May’s neck, but was not surprised to find there was none; Scot was a deadly shot. ‘I was in no danger – I had just relieved him of his sword.’
‘You sent me for help,’ Eaffrey pointed out. ‘So you were obviously worried about the outcome.’
‘I sent you to fetch Williamson,’ corrected Chaloner tiredly. ‘I have no wish to see May dead.’
‘The feeling was not reciprocated,’ said Eaffrey tartly. ‘He was going to kill you, and you had nothing with which to defend yourself. You seem sorry he is gone, but I am not. He was going to murder you and blackmail me to keep quiet about it.’
‘I think I have done him a terrible injustice,’ said Chaloner, sitting back on his heels. ‘I am beginning to believe he was telling the truth when he said he did not send Bristol that letter.’
‘Well, who did, then?’ demanded Eaffrey. ‘And why?’
‘It was written in blue ink,’ said Chaloner, rubbing his eyes. Fatigue was beginning to sap his energy and make him sluggish. ‘Maude saw Behn in possession of missives scribed in distinctive blue ink.’
‘So, I was right after all,’ said Scot in satisfaction. ‘I said days ago that the culprit was Behn.’
‘What does this do to our plans?’ asked Eaffrey, rather plaintively. ‘Shall we devise another way to see our child raised in the manner of a gentleman?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Chaloner, climbing slowly to his feet. ‘The correspondence Maude saw was received by Behn, not penned by him – only very odd people write letters to themselves. So, the blue ink means he was sent notes from the same person who wrote to Bristol, not that he scribed them himself.’
Scot was becoming exasperated. ‘Well, if it was not May or Behn, then who is left?’
‘I have no idea. And nor do I know who shot Fitz-Simons. May was telling the truth about that, too, because I was surprised at the time that such a large wound could have been made by his dag.’
‘But Holles saw May shoot him,’ said Scot. He passed Chaloner his gun to hold, while he knelt to inspect the body himself. ‘So May must have lying, although I cannot imagine why.’
‘Put your hands in the air, Heyden,’ ordered an imperious voice that made them all turn around. It was Spymaster Williamson. Holles and several members of the palace guard stood at his side, muskets at the ready, and Wiseman loomed behind them, his lecture notes folded into a bundle under his arm. ‘Or I will give the order to shoot. Drop your weapons now!’
Chaloner did as he was told, letting May’s sword clatter from his left hand and Scot’s gun drop from his right. The Spymaster had chosen elite marksmen to accompany him, and Chaloner knew they would not hesitate to open fire. With weary resignation, he saw Williamson’s gaze move from May, lying in a pool of his own gore, to the dag on the ground at his feet, and reach the obvious conclusion.
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