B004BDOJZ4 EBOK

by Susanna GREGORY

  Chaloner nodded. ‘And it will also ensure that I never tell anyone it was you who wrote that letter to Bristol – the one with the nine names.’

  A gale of laughter billowed from the Great Parlour, followed by a cheer. The barber-surgeons were showing their guests a good time, and a distant part of Chaloner’s mind recalled someone saying that watching dissections always gave men a good appetite. He regarded Scot with a mixture of disappointment and hurt, as the final pieces of the puzzle came together.

  ‘You said you left African House early the night Webb died – you wanted to make the best of Behn’s absence and be with Eaffrey. But Behn had quarrelled with Webb and stalked off in a sulk, leaving the dinner sooner than anyone had anticipated. So, you could not have been with Eaffrey, because he would have been there before you. You lied about that, and so did she.’

  Scot gazed at him reproachfully. ‘Why would we make up stories about such a thing?’

  ‘Because almost immediately, I suspect Bristol regretted what he had asked Dillon to do, and sent someone to stop him: you. The landlord of the Dolphin recalled a second messenger asking for Dillon after the first note had been delivered. He said the man had a foreign accent, which put me in mind of Behn. However, you are skilled at disguises, and would never have gone on such a mission without donning one.’

  Scot regarded him pityingly. ‘Go home, Chaloner, before you say something you will regret. You are tired, and do not know what you are talking about.’

  ‘And that is why you left the dinner early: to deliver Bristol’s second note. But Dillon had already gone, so you went to Webb’s home instead. Perhaps you were too late to stop the murder, or perhaps you decided it was in your better interests to let Webb die. Either way, you saw Dillon and Fanning kill him. Then you wrote that letter to Bristol.’

  Scot sighed impatiently. ‘Why would I do that? My name was on the list, too.’

  ‘That is what May said when I accused him of sending it, and my answer to you is the same as the one I gave him: because it would have looked odd for it to be missing. And it was not your name, anyway. It was Peter Terrell’s, a man who can disappear today, if necessary, and be replaced by someone else. You risked nothing by including him.’

  ‘This is rubbish,’ said Scot warningly.

  ‘You used blue ink,’ Chaloner went on. ‘The same kind you used to send letters to Behn – Maude saw them. You were doubtless working for him in another of your guises, making sure his money-making ventures came to fruition. After all, there is no point in defrauding a poor man, is there?’

  ‘None of this is true. The messenger who went to the Dolphin was said to be a yellow-headed fellow. You can look among my collection of wigs – you will not find one like it.’

  Chaloner was sorry. ‘I told no one the landlord’s description of the courier – and he swears I am the only one who has asked – so there is only one way for you to know about the fair hairpiece.’

  Scot regarded him coldly. ‘Why would I write that letter to Bristol? What would be in it for me?’

  ‘Revenge for Williamson’s failure to release your brother. You encouraged Thomas to turn traitor and give evidence against his co-conspirators, expecting him to be freed at once. Yet Williamson declines to keep his side of the bargain, and Thomas is still in the Tower.’

  Scot scrubbed at his cheeks, making the pastes on them blur and mingle. ‘All right,’ he said softly. ‘I did send Bristol the letter to avenge myself on Williamson.’

  ‘Why Bristol?’

  ‘Because he was the one who set a murder in motion, and it appealed to my sense of justice that he should be the instrument of its resolution. I made sure he received the note when he was with the King, so he would have no choice but to share its contents. But so what? Dillon and Fanning did kill Webb, and they have received their just deserts.’

  ‘What about Sarsfeild?’

  Scot shrugged. ‘A casualty of war. Why did you meddle? You made life very difficult for me.’

  ‘And you reciprocated at every turn. You encouraged me to think Webb’s murder was something to do with the Castle Plot, when it was nothing of the kind. You told me several times that I should not trust Wiseman, in an attempt to make me waste time by investigating him as the killer. And then there was Fitz-Simons. I thought from the start that he had been killed to prevent him from talking to Williamson, and I was right. You shot him.’

  Scot shrugged again. ‘Another casualty of war.’

  ‘When Fitz-Simons murmured that Terrell “is not what he says”, he meant more than I realised. Somehow, he had learned that you wrote Bristol’s letter. Perhaps he saw you deliver it, or perhaps he recognised the ink. Regardless, you could not have Williamson knowing what you had done.’

  ‘Blue ink,’ murmured Scot ruefully. ‘Using it was a stupid and unforgivable mistake on my part. I was obliged to send Fitz-Simons a few notes in his capacity as government informer. He attended Dillon’s trial – dismally disguised as a milkmaid – and I knew that as soon as the law-court started to make an issue of the ink’s unusual colour, he would associate it with me. I hunted him for days, and then he appeared at Westminster Abbey. I shot him.’

  ‘Everyone – including Eaffrey – seems to think you included me in your list of names. Why?’

  ‘Because I thought it would allay suspicion against me if I included an old friend. I care nothing for May, Willys and the others, though. All I wanted was to deliver a stunning blow to Williamson’s little empire. Do not look disgusted, Chaloner. You were never in danger from my “accusation”. You were in Ireland when Webb was murdered, and could have proved it to any law-court’s satisfaction.’

  Chaloner stared at the ceiling. Scot was wrong: a judge would have treated his alibi with the same contempt with which he had treated Sarsfeild’s. ‘You must have been surprised when Garsfield’s name was changed to Sarsfeild. Do you know who did that? Eaffrey.’

  Scot closed his eyes. ‘I know. She does not share my confidence in English justice, and altered it before I had it delivered. She confessed to what she had done a few days ago – defiantly and unrepentantly, of course. She has always looked out for you. How did you guess it was her?’

  ‘Because she demonstrated to Thurloe how the changes had been made – changes so minuscule they were all but invisible. But she identified them with suspicious ease.’

  Scot grimaced. ‘Another foolish mistake on our part.’

  Solutions were coming so fast to Chaloner that it was difficult to analyse them all. Meanwhile, the enormity of Scot’s betrayal threatened to overwhelm him, and he had to force himself to speak. ‘It was you who disguised himself as a priest and killed Sarsfeild in Ludgate. You knew Thurloe and I had been investigating his alibi, and you wanted us to stop making efforts on his behalf, because we would have learned that he was innocent of everything except an unfortunate name and an unlucky address.’

  Scot sighed. ‘You are right – I knew that once you believed someone had changed the letter to protect you, the game would be up. You do not have many friends in London, and it was obvious that you would have looked to us. Eaffrey had no idea the trouble her tiny alterations would cause.’

  ‘She virtually told me,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Today, at Dillon’s execution. She said someone had done it to benefit me. I should have made the connection then.’

  ‘So, what happens now? Will you tell Williamson? I doubt if he will believe you. Or will you forget about our misunderstandings and come to Surinam?’

  ‘I doubt I would survive the voyage – you have tried to be rid of me several times already.’

  ‘That is not true,’ objected Scot indignantly.

  ‘The first time was at Bristol’s house. You were ready to hand me over – a perfect opportunity to be shot of the nuisance I was becoming – but Alice arrived, and you did not want your beloved sister to see you betraying an old friend, even one she does not like. Then, after we left the garden, you wanted to turn right when it wa
s obvious that if we did, we would run directly into Bristol’s men.’

  Scot’s expression was harsh. ‘You have a fertile imagination.’

  ‘The last time was here, in the Anatomical Theatre. You said you came to investigate Lisle, but you knew he was no real threat to an experienced spy like me. You were here to kill me and leave me for the dissectors, but Johnson got the better of you.’

  ‘That is an unpleasant thing to say.’

  ‘But true. Johnson has already told me that the barber-surgeons accept corpses with no questions asked. That is how you disposed of the man with the scarred throat – the man you killed in Behn’s office. You brought him here and they obligingly chopped him up for you.’

  ‘You cannot prove that.’

  ‘I probably can – by asking Williamson whether any of his spies had a damaged neck. He is almost certain to say yes. What did the poor man do, Scot? Stumble across your plan to trick Behn into marrying Eaffrey for the alimony you are determined to wring from him?’

  ‘Eaffrey,’ said Scot, turning when he heard footsteps. ‘Chaloner is making up all manner of tales.’

  ‘I have been listening,’ said Eaffrey. Chaloner was shocked by the dead, flat expression on her face. ‘It is a pity, because we were almost through this hellish time: your brother’s release is imminent, Webb’s murderers are dead, and we had plucked up the courage to tell Williamson that we no longer wish to work for him. And he did not even ask us about his missing spy, so we are clear of that nasty business, too.’

  Chaloner looked hard at her. ‘And Willys is dead. You arranged the diversion with the horse, while Scot stabbed him in the back. Why was that necessary?’

  Neither denied the accusation. ‘He was threatening to fabricate evidence that would see my brother executed,’ said Scot. ‘And do you know why? Because of you.’

  ‘Me?’ Chaloner did not see how he could be held responsible for anything Willys had done.

  ‘You suggested I investigate the Trulocke brothers, but it transpired that the man who oversaw the supply of weapons to the Irish rebels was none other than Willys.’

  Chaloner frowned. ‘But he said he prevented a shipment of arms from reaching the conspirators.’

  ‘He was lying. Subsequent probing has shown he was a close ally of Dillon’s; they were drinking together on the night of Webb’s murder. Dillon was a rebel, and he encouraged his friends – Willys, Fanning, Fitz-Simons and others to join him in Ireland. When I tackled him, Willys said that if I did not overlook the matter, he would tell Williamson that Thomas sold them the weapons. Unfortunately for Willys, he chose the wrong man to threaten.’

  ‘And England is now minus a traitor,’ added Eaffrey, a little defiantly.

  ‘You made the mistake of stabbing him with your left hand,’ said Chaloner. ‘You did it, because you knew May would make an issue of the fact that I can fight with both, but you forgot about the splint. It was a clever idea, but you did not think it through properly.’

  Scot sighed impatiently. ‘Yes, I killed Willys and yes, we wanted you accused, so you would stop your investigation and leave us alone. But nothing would have happened to you – your master is Lord Chancellor of England, and he would have stepped in to save you.’

  ‘And if not, we would have arranged your escape,’ added Eaffrey. ‘You were never in any danger. Damn it, Thomas! Why could you not leave this alone? Now what are we going to do? You have landed us all in a terrible mess.’

  ‘I should say,’ came a voice from the stairs. All three jumped in surprise, and turned to see Holles standing there, a cocked pistol in each hand. ‘A terrible mess is a good description of what you have made of our lives, Heyden. Search him for daggers, Scot.’

  ‘He is unarmed,’ said Scot. ‘I hid all his weapons before we came down here.’

  Chaloner looked from one to the other in confusion, then shook his head in disgust as Holles trained both dags on him. ‘Wiseman said you could not be trusted, and he was right.’

  Eaffrey spoke in a low voice. ‘You have always been loyal to a single master, Tom – first Thurloe, and now Clarendon. The rest of us are rather more practical. Bristol is generous, and Holles, William and I have all accepted commissions from him – to see him victorious over the man whose bigotry against Catholics has deprived him of the right to hold public office.’

  Chaloner was numb. ‘Now what? Do we all go to Surinam together?’

  Slowly, Scot took a gun from his belt, and aimed it at Chaloner’s chest. ‘I think it is too late for that.’

  ‘Would you like me to turn around?’ asked Chaloner softly. ‘So you can shoot me in the back?’

  Eaffrey stepped forward and snatched the weapon from Scot’s hand. ‘Let me.’

  She took aim, and Chaloner saw the fierce gleam in her eye. Then, at the last moment, she swung around and fired at Holles. But the colonel was already bringing his own gun to bear on her, and he shot first. The two almost-simultaneous reports were deafening in the confined space, and Chaloner dived for the floor. Eaffrey stumbled against Scot, and both crashed to the ground, but it was not Eaffrey who lay still. Holles’s aim had gone wide, and Chaloner saw a spreading stain of red under Scot. Eaffrey gazed at him and began a low, keening wail of distress.

  Meanwhile, Eaffrey’s ball had hit Holles, who lay on his side, gasping. He fumbled for his second dag. Chaloner scrambled towards him, but was too far away to prevent him from using it. A third shot rang out, and Eaffrey’s cries stopped abruptly. Chaloner reached Holles and searched him, but there were no more weapons. The soldier was dying, and blood bubbled between his lips.

  ‘I was testing them, to see if they really would kill you,’ he whispered, trying to grab Chaloner’s hand. ‘I was going to shoot them before they could do it, and all that posturing was to make them show their true colours.’

  Chaloner glanced to where Eaffrey and Scot lay in a motionless embrace. ‘I do not understand. Eaffrey just said—’

  ‘Of course I am not working for Bristol! He is a rake and nothing would induce me to spy for him, not even the fifty pounds he offered me. I have only ever served Lord Clarendon, but now you must take my place.’

  ‘You have killed my friends,’ said Chaloner, unable to keep the catch from his voice.

  ‘They were no friends of yours.’

  There came the sound of footsteps and people started to converge on the basement, alerted by the sound of the gunfire. Wiseman knelt next to Eaffrey and Scot, and shook his head at the clamour of questions. They were already dead, and there was nothing he could do to help them.

  Epilogue

  A robin sang in Lincoln’s Inn, perched high in the ancient elm that threw cool shadows across the path. Thurloe looked up at it, and gave a rare smile of genuine pleasure

  ‘We have won the war. There were casualties, but we won eventually, which just goes to show that God’s justice does prevail on occasion.’

  Leybourn breathed deeply of the rain-scented garden, strolling contentedly on Thurloe’s left, while Chaloner walked on the right. ‘The spat between Clarendon and Bristol does seem to have abated.’

  ‘I am talking about my trees,’ said Thurloe. ‘I lost some to Prynne’s axes, but a timely lightning strike – plus an oddly croaking voice that warned him of thousands of Roundheads – caused him to revise his plans. They will form part of the display now, instead of being removed to make way for grass. When all matures, Lincoln’s Inn garden may even be better than it was before.’

  ‘Did anyone else hear this “oddly croaking voice”?’ asked Leybourn, bemused.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Thurloe. There was a hint of laughter in his eyes that made Chaloner wonder whether he was telling the truth.

  ‘What will happen to Bristol and Clarendon now?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Will they call a truce?’

  ‘Never,’ said Thurloe. ‘Bristol is insane with frustrated ambition, and Clarendon will not enjoy a long political career, more is the pity. England needs men with scruples
, and that will not be found among the likes of Bristol, Buckingham and Temple.’

  ‘You had better secure yourself another master, then,’ said Leybourn to Chaloner. ‘What about Williamson? Surely he must see you are the kind of man his intelligence service needs, especially as he is now deprived of May, Eaffrey and Scot.’

  ‘He will never hire me,’ said Chaloner unhappily. ‘He thinks I killed May. Worse yet, he found some documents when he cleared May’s room.’

  ‘What sort of documents?’ asked Leybourn.

  ‘Ones that imply I stole Dillon’s body, and was planning to sell it to the barber-surgeons. May paid Lisle and Johnson to write letters offering to buy the thing from me – they were discussing it in the Anatomical Theatre, although I did not understand what they were talking about at the time.’

  ‘Surely Williamson cannot believe such a monstrous tale?’ demanded Leybourn, indignant on his behalf.

  Chaloner explained further. ‘Someone – Johnson, probably – brought Dillon’s corpse to Lincoln’s Inn after the hanging, which explains its disappearance. He hid it near that wall we blew up, along with the clothes similar to the ones I wore when I was disguised as an upholsterer.’

  Thurloe took up the tale. ‘May had a written statement from a “witness” who said he saw the suspicious interring of a body here. His crude little plan was for him and Williamson to unearth Dillon together, and for May to point out the significance of the clothes – to prove Thomas’s guilt. In the event, however, Williamson was obliged to excavate Dillon alone, and the upholsterer connection was overlooked – fortunately for Thomas.’

  ‘So Williamson is not sure what to believe,’ said Chaloner ruefully. ‘He would like me to be guilty, but without solid evidence, he is erring on the side of caution, and has declared the matter closed.’

  Leybourn paled suddenly. ‘Oh, Lord! I helped May! When we went to that tavern together, he asked which Inn you had attended. Like a fool I told him, because I wanted him to fall foul of Prynne. I thought I was being clever! I should have known there was something more to his questions.’