B004BDOJZ4 EBOK

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘May started it,’ said Scot, also seeing the line Williamson’s thoughts had taken. ‘Ask Eaffrey.’

  Williamson regarded Chaloner coldly. ‘So, you decided to rid yourself of an old enemy once and for all, did you? Could you not have reasoned with him? Talked to him?’

  ‘May was beyond reason,’ said Scot, standing next to Chaloner, to indicate where his loyalties lay. ‘You know what he is like once his temper is roused. He was insane enough to think he could disguise himself as Dillon – you can see that from his clothes – but he badly over-estimated his talents. And I shot him, anyway.’

  Chaloner could tell from the contemptuous expression on the Spymaster’s face that he thought Scot was protecting a friend with a false confession. He tried not to sag in defeat, suspecting Williamson would read resignation as guilt.

  ‘Is Dillon dead?’ asked Wiseman. ‘Only I thought I saw him in the audience during my dissection. It gave me rather a shock, to be frank, and put me right off my stride.’

  ‘That would have been May,’ said Scot. ‘Probably.’

  Williamson continued to glare at Chaloner. ‘Did May show you that letter before you gunned him down? Keep your hands in the air, or I will order Holles to open fire.’

  ‘What letter?’ asked Chaloner, hastening to comply. Williamson nodded that Scot was to search May’s body. Scot obliged, eventually locating a pocket sewn into the coat lining. He withdrew a piece of paper that was soiled and soft, as though it had been handled a lot. He scanned it quickly, then held it for Chaloner to read – the spy was not about to give Williamson an excuse to kill him by lowering his hands to take it. It was a brief note that said:

  Noe Mann shoulde beare the insults of a Womann like Silens Webb. Lette her Husbande paye the pryce for her Vicious Tonge. If you succeede, the Summe of Twentie Pounds wille be Youres. And nor need you fear Reprisals against you. Youre Maister wille allow noe Mann to hange for Murdur, and God wille be Thankfull for your Ridding Him of this Devil’s Sporn and soe wille I. Clarendon.

  ‘It was among Dillon’s possessions at Newgate,’ said Williamson.

  ‘Were there other letters, too?’ asked Chaloner. ‘In cipher?’

  Williamson nodded. ‘My clerks decoded them, but they all pertain to Fanning’s attempt to leave Newgate via a barrel of poisoned ale. I cannot imagine why Dillon kept them.’

  ‘Because he thought Fanning was wrong to escape,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Fanning offered to include him in the rescue, but Dillon declined, because he was utterly convinced that his employer would save him. He planned to show Fanning’s letters to his patron later, to prove who had remained steadfast and who had not.’

  Williamson was not very interested in Fanning’s floundering trust. ‘The important document is the one Scot holds, because it proves that Dillon and Fanning murdered Webb on Clarendon’s orders. Dillon obviously kept the note to remind himself that salvation would be supplied – you can tell from the state of it that he read it again and again, seeking reassurance. So, now we know why he killed Webb, and why he thought he would suffer no punishment for it.’

  ‘That is not Clarendon’s signature, sir,’ said Chaloner, disappointed in him; he had expected more from a man of Williamson’s reputation. ‘It is a forgery, and anyone can see it.’

  Williamson raised an eyebrow. ‘It looks authentic to me, and I see his mark with some regularity.’

  ‘It is shaky and hesitant, because it was copied,’ stated Chaloner firmly. ‘His usual signature is free-flowing and confident. And that is not all. This note asks for someone to be murdered. Clarendon is not a fool, and would never append his own name to such an order.’

  ‘That is true,’ acknowledged Williamson. ‘However, when I showed it to May, he pointed out that a man only exercises caution when there is a danger of his being apprehended. His observation is a valid one; Lord Clarendon must have assumed he would not be caught.’

  ‘I repeat: he is not a fool,’ said Chaloner, thinking the same could not be said about May – or about Williamson for listening to him. ‘He would never put his name to something like this, no matter how small the chances of discovery. And nor does he order a man murdered because he took offence at comments made by his wife.’

  ‘It does seem out of character – he is not a violent person,’ said Wiseman. His eyes widened in alarm when Chaloner shifted his position and six muskets rattled simultaneously as aim was adjusted. ‘And I abhor unnecessary bloodshed, too. Will you put those things down before someone is hurt?’

  ‘Not yet,’ snapped the Spymaster as Holles started to comply. ‘Not until Heyden has confessed to what he knows. And then we shall decide whether we shoot him here or he goes to the Tower. I would not stand in front of him, if I were you, Scot. Or you, Eaffrey. You both resigned today, so you are of no further use to me, and I do not care if I am obliged to shoot through you to reach him.’

  ‘Move away,’ murmured Chaloner to his friends. ‘He means what he says. No wonder it is taking you so long to arrange Thomas’s freedom, Scot. The man is ruthless.’

  ‘I accept your reasoning, Heyden,’ said Williamson, once Scot and Eaffrey had retreated to a safe distance. His face was cold and hard. ‘Clarendon did not order Dillon to kill Webb. However, that means we are back to the beginning again, because we still do not know the identity of Dillon’s master. So, you will provide me with the answer. If I am satisfied with it, I may let you live.’

  ‘Me?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. ‘But I do not know—’

  Williamson gave a nasty little smile, which put Chaloner in mind of a lizard. ‘Then you had better start doing some hard thinking. And if I am obliged to tell you again to keep your hands above your head, I shall order Holles to shoot them off.’

  Chaloner knew he would carry out his threat, just to avenge May. He fought to shake off the weariness that was making his wits sluggish, struggling for an answer that would save his life.

  ‘May,’ blurted Scot. ‘The master was May. He told Dillon—’

  Williamson turned his reptilian glare on his ex-spy. ‘May had invested a fortune with Webb, and Webb’s death meant he lost most of it. He would never have killed the man. Try again.’

  ‘I expect it was Behn,’ said Wiseman with his customary confidence. Chaloner was grateful, because their suggestions were giving him time to assess his own conclusions and test them for flaws. ‘Once Webb was dead, Behn persuaded Silence to make him a gift of Webb’s ship. And Behn and Webb argued violently on the night of the murder – I saw them myself.’

  ‘I think the killer is Silence,’ countered Eaffrey, seeing what Wiseman and Scot were doing and eager to play her part. ‘She is suddenly free and a wealthy woman.’

  Williamson’s smile was malicious. ‘Not as rich as she believes, though. I saw Webb’s last testament, and most of his fortune will go to the Guinea Company.’

  ‘Company members, then,’ said Scot, ‘because they knew the terms of the will, and decided they wanted the windfall sooner rather than later. Further, Temple is without a serious business rival now Webb has gone, and—’

  ‘Stop,’ snapped Williamson. ‘You are wasting my time with your guesses. Well, Heyden? Let us hear whether your wits will save your life.’

  Chaloner gestured to the letter, raising his hands again when Williamson’s eyes narrowed. ‘The note mentions an insult, and I think we can conclude that whatever Silence said to offend the writer was spoken at the Guinea Company dinner. We know it was busy that night, and that there were spats between a number of parties. However, Clarendon was not one of them, because he was not there. In addition, Silence likes the Earl, so would never have offended him. However, she did rail at someone by criticising his clothes and the way he smells.’

  ‘You mean Bristol?’ asked Williamson. ‘Yes, I heard Silence gave him a piece of her mind about his old-fashioned costume and the odour of onions. He had made some jibe about women wearing an excessive number of face patches, and she responded in kind. Yet a pow
erful noble does not order someone murdered over such a trifling matter.’

  ‘Silence brayed her comments to the entire Guinea Company,’ said Chaloner. ‘It would not have seemed trifling to Bristol. Besides, it was a good opportunity to have his arch-rival blamed for a crime, as attested by that ridiculous note. Can I put my hands down now, sir? They are—’

  ‘No, you cannot. So, you think Bristol is Dillon’s master?’

  Chaloner nodded. ‘Yes, but I do not think Dillon knew it. He told me he accepted commissions from a number of wealthy men after he betrayed Thurloe. Bristol was one, Clarendon was another—’

  ‘Yes!’ exclaimed Eaffrey. ‘I saw Dillon’s distinctive profile silhouetted in one of the Lord Chancellor’s windows very late one night. I asked William to tell you about it.’

  Chaloner continued. ‘So, I think Dillon took the note at face value, and was anticipating that Clarendon would rescue him – the Earl is a powerful man, so Dillon had no reason to doubt his influence. Unfortunately for Dillon, Clarendon did not know what was being expected of him, because he was not the author of the letter. And Bristol – who did write it – could hardly show his hand by intervening.’

  ‘Because that would lay him open to accusations of conspiracy to murder himself,’ mused Williamson.

  ‘There is a wine stain on the paper,’ added Chaloner, pointing to it. ‘I doubt it came from Dillon, who kept it safe, so it must have come from its writer. Bristol wrote it when he was drunk, without thinking through the consequences of his actions. It would not be the first time – he told Johnson and Willys to break into Clarendon’s offices when he was drunk, too – and they went off and did it, as you know.’

  It was some time before Williamson spoke. ‘I shall compare this letter to Bristol’s handwriting, and I imagine you might well be proven correct – this is a stupid note written by a man in wine-fuelled anger. I am sure he regretted it the following morning, when he realised Dillon had actually gone and done as he was ordered.’

  ‘I expect he regrets it still,’ said Scot wryly. ‘The note promises the recipient twenty pounds, which is a colossal sum for an impecunious noble.’

  ‘And it was definitely paid,’ said Chaloner. ‘Dillon was spending it on luxuries in Newgate.’

  ‘So Thomas has solved your mystery,’ said Eaffrey, making as if to leave and starting to pull Chaloner with her. ‘And we have a lot to do if we are to sail to Surinam next week. We need to—’

  ‘His insight does not make up for the fact that my best spy lies dead at his feet.’

  ‘It was not—’ began Chaloner, but what could he say? That the fatal shot had not come from him? Williamson had not believed Scot, and there was even less reason for him to believe Chaloner.

  ‘I doubt Heyden killed May, sir,’ said Holles. ‘He is a poor warrior – I saw his incompetence myself, when May had him cornered in the Spares Gallery. One of the barber-surgeons’ apprentices must have fired off a random ball, and then ran away when he saw what he had done.’

  Williamson tapped his chin for a moment, thinking. ‘I am about to turn a blind eye to the fact that Lord Bristol commissioned a murder. Meanwhile, Lord Clarendon will not want it put about that his spies go around shooting Grooms of the Privy Chamber. So, there is my solution: I shall spare Heyden’s life in return for Clarendon’s acquiescence about Bristol’s antics.’

  Chaloner sincerely hoped the Lord Chancellor would agree to the arrangement. The chance to strike a massive blow against his worst enemy was sure to be tempting.

  ‘That is a fair decision,’ said Holles, lowering his gun in relief.

  ‘I suppose I shall get used to this kind of thing eventually,’ said Williamson, ‘although it goes against the grain to let a friend’s killer go free in the interests of political expediency. Do not cross me again, Heyden. I swear I shall not be so generous the next time.’

  Scot watched him stride away, the soldiers at his heels. ‘That was close! You will have to come to Surinam with me now, Chaloner. You will not be safe here.’

  Chaloner waited until Williamson was out of sight before making his move. He stalked towards Holles, ripped the man’s dagger from his belt and held it to his throat. Holles’s eyes widened in horror, and he looked around for his men. But they had followed Williamson, and he was alone.

  ‘I spoke up for you,’ he cried. ‘I lied even – I happen to know you are very good with weapons. And I would never have obeyed his order to shoot you. What more do you want?’

  ‘The truth about Fitz-Simons,’ said Chaloner, not relinquishing his grip. Holles might have aimed elsewhere if the Spymaster had demanded an execution, but his men would not have done. ‘You did not see May shoot him, did you?’

  ‘I never said I did,’ objected Holles, trying to free himself. He stopped struggling when the blade dug into his skin. ‘I saw May take aim, but I could have told anyone that the fatal shot did not come from his dag – the angles were all wrong. But no one asked for my opinion, and Lord Clarendon told me to keep quiet about anything that might annoy May.’

  ‘I do not think he meant you to keep me in the dark, too,’ said Chaloner, exasperated with the soldier’s literal interpretation of the order. ‘You should have said something.’

  ‘I did what I was told,’ said Holles stubbornly. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’

  Chaloner was not so sure. ‘Why are you here today? It is not to learn about anatomy, because I know you have an aversion to such things.’

  ‘Brodrick is in the process of befriending Temple, to flatter him into confiding the details of Bristol’s next attack on Lord Clarendon. I am here to protect Brodrick, because this feud has suddenly grown deadly.’

  Chaloner released him. ‘Then go and protect him.’

  ‘He is a buffoon,’ said Scot, watching the colonel stride away with his dignity in tatters. ‘We should never have supported the Commonwealth all those years, Chaloner. It put soldiers in control of our country, and these military types are too stupid to make good leaders.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Chaloner bitterly. ‘We are better with men like Williamson. He is an ethical fellow.’

  The barber-surgeons’ guests were milling about in the yard, waiting for the dinner bell to sound. Unhappy and flustered, Eaffrey went to join them, although Chaloner noticed that she avoided Behn and went to talk to the navy clerk – Pepys – and his friends instead. Then a bell rang, and the guests moved quickly towards the Great Parlour, eager to be at the food. It was not many minutes before the grounds were deserted again, and he and Scot were alone.

  ‘Temple has asked Alice to marry him,’ said Chaloner. He rubbed a hand across his face, now so tired he felt light-headed. ‘She has accepted.’

  ‘Damn!’ muttered Scot, exasperated. ‘She always was blind when it came to men, but Temple is by far the most unsuitable candidate to date. What should I do? Needle him into insulting me, so I can challenge him to a duel? Let her make her mistake and live a life of misery?’

  ‘Arrange for some of her fortune to disappear,’ suggested Chaloner, not pointing out that Temple was likely to live a far more miserable life than his new wife. ‘He will not take her if she is poor.’

  Scot slapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Of course! I should have done it weeks ago. You always were good at devising non-violent solutions to problems. It is a virtue that will prove useful in Surinam.’

  ‘I doubt it. From what I have read, Surinam is an unstable place, full of guns and knives.’

  Scot took his arm, and guided him towards the now-deserted Anatomical Theatre, where Willys lay with his entrails neatly coiled on the side of the dissecting table. ‘You should collect your sword and daggers before you meet someone else you want to fight.’

  Chaloner had no wish to confront anyone else that day, although he knew his business was not yet done – he still did not know who had murdered Willys, Sarsfeild and now Fitz-Simons. He saw Behn lurking near the gate, and wondered why he had not gone for dinner with the other
guests; Behn did not seem like the kind of man who would willingly forgo a sumptuous feast. Chaloner was simply too tired to think about it, though, and it was with leaden legs that he followed Scot down into the grim dungeon. He looked around for his weapons, but they were not there.

  ‘Holles,’ said Scot irritably. ‘I saw his soldiers poking around after Lisle and Johnson were taken away. They must have stolen them.’

  ‘Did Wiseman succeed in convincing everyone that Willys’s body was Dillon’s?’ asked Chaloner. He leaned against a wall, and wondered when he had last felt so drained.

  ‘Yes, he did. He even had an answer for when Alice demanded to know why there were no ligature marks on the neck. He spun some yarn about skin not bruising under certain chemical conditions. Can you bring yourself to answer a few questions? I see now that the wicked mastermind behind Webb’s murder was Bristol—’

  ‘Not a wicked mastermind,’ said Chaloner. ‘A drunken fool who did something on the spur of the moment, and then declined to admit to what he had done. Poor Sarsfeild is the real victim in all this – Dillon and Fanning were killers, but the confectioner was not.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Scot. He smiled kindly. ‘But you are exhausted, and I can see you do not want to indulge my idle curiosity today, so we shall talk tomorrow, when you are feeling more alert. What will you do now? Join the barber-surgeons’ dinner?’

  ‘I am going home – to play my viol,’ replied Chaloner, flexing his fingers. ‘And then sleep.’

  ‘You can play it all you like in Surinam. We will need something to entertain us in the evenings, because I understand there is not much to do once the sun goes down.’

  ‘I cannot go to Surinam,’ said Chaloner, not liking the notion of bowing solos for the rest of his life. ‘London and its politics are bearable with music, and Surinam is humid – my viol will rot.’

  ‘That is a pity. It is a chance for a new life.’