Blood on the Strand (20 page)

‘I have no idea whether anything Dillon said was true,’ concluded Chaloner eventually. ‘The only thing I know for certain
is that he was part of the Castle Plot, because I saw him there – he said his name was O’Brien. And I know he expects rescue.
Six of the nine accused are already free.’

‘Yes, but Fitz-Simons’s “disappearance” means he was shot.’

‘But perhaps not fatally – it was not his body in the charnel house, remember?’

‘That means nothing. I know it is an odd coincidence that a beggarly corpse called Fitz-Simons appears just as Surgeon Fitz-Simons
is killed, but it may be just that – coincidence. Besides, May arranged for Surgeon Fitz-Simons’s body to be buried in St
Martin’s Church, if you recall.’

Chaloner inclined his head. ‘True. Perhaps Beggar Fitz-Simons
is
irrelevant. However, the way Johnson opened the door to the charnel house was furtive, to say the least.’

Leybourn shrugged. ‘I imagine the anatomising of corpses is a clandestine sort of business, so you probably should not read
too much into the actions of a man who does it for a living. You say Fitz-Simons whispered two other names before he “died”
– Terrell and Burne. Perhaps you should ask Scot and May why
they
think their aliases should have been singled out for mention.’

‘If Scot
is
that particular Terrell – there is a fishmonger of the same name, do not forget.’ Chaloner saw Leybourn look doubtful. ‘Scot
is a good man, Will. He has saved me from trouble more times than I can remember, and there are few men I trust more. I can
quite honestly say that I would not be alive today if it were not for him.’

Leybourn rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘I was not suggesting there is anything untoward about Scot. However,
he
is a spy, and so are the others Fitz-Simons mentioned – Dillon and May. It seems unlikely that Fitz-Simons would cite two
spies and a fishmonger. But regardless, the whole case is becoming ever more curious. Dillon is probably right when he said
whoever wrote Bristol that letter may just have listed men who had crossed him in some way.’

Chaloner watched the chaos surrounding an overturned fruit barrow near an ornately turreted Tudor mansion called Bedford House.
Apples bounced everywhere, and were eagerly pounced on by children, beggars, horses and even a pig, despite the fact that
they were wizened and soft from having been stored too long. The barrow-boy screeched his dismay and wielded a stick, but
he might have well as railed against the tide, because his entire stock had been spirited away in a matter of moments.

‘I thought from the start that it was odd
nine
men should be needed to kill one,’ said Chaloner. ‘And if they were named from malice, then it means Dillon is wrongly convicted.
I hope he is right to put his trust in his patron, though, given what has happened to Fanning.’

‘Will you visit Sarsfeild in Ludgate? He might tell you this great man’s name.’

Chaloner was not enthused by the prospect. ‘I hate prisons. Will you go instead? The guards move about between gaols and I
am afraid my escape from Newgate attracted too much attention.’

‘I would rather not,’ said Leybourn. ‘I dislike the smell. Do you think Sarsfeild asked to be transferred when he heard Fanning
was murdered?’

‘He was transferred because the prison authorities want to make sure he does not die before his execution,’ said
Chaloner, surprised by the refusal. He had never asked Leybourn for a favour before, and wondered whether their friendship
was as solid as he thought. ‘Dillon is in decent lodgings, but Fanning was not, and probably neither was Sarsfeild. The public
dislike being cheated of their due, and the governor needs the last two alive.’

‘Sometimes I am ashamed to be a Londoner,’ said Leybourn. He stopped just past the New Exchange, poking the ground with his
foot. ‘Webb died here. His body was found by tradesmen the following day – honest ones, or his corpse would have been stripped.’

Chaloner looked around him. The New Exchange – no longer so new, given that it was more than fifty years old – boasted a splendid
stone façade in the style of a Gothic cathedral, and inside were two tiers of galleries containing exclusive little shops
and stalls. Goods of all descriptions could be bought, although only by the very rich, and it was
the
place to be seen by gentlemen and ladies of fashion. A short distance to the west was Clarendon’s city residence, Worcester
House. Tucked between it and the New Exchange was a smaller building.

‘This is Webb’s home?’ asked Chaloner, peering through the iron gates. The grounds contained far too many pieces of sculpture
for the available space; they rubbed shoulders with fountains and gazebos, as if their owner could not decide what he wanted,
so had purchased everything available.

Leybourn nodded. ‘Tasteful, is it not?’

Webb Hall had once boasted perfect classical proportions and some of the best Tuscan cornices on The Strand. Unfortunately,
someone with more money than taste had lavished entirely the wrong kind of attention
on the building, changing its windows, adding chimneys that spoiled its symmetry, and refacing it with cheap bricks. The
door had been enlarged and a garish porch tacked on to the outside, complete with window hangings of scarlet lace.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Chaloner, regarding it askance.

‘Oh, dear, indeed,’ agreed Leybourn, walking up the path and knocking at the door. ‘Now
this
looks like a brothel. I am surprised Temperance is not losing customers to it.’

‘Perhaps she is,’ said Chaloner, glimpsing a furtive movement at the side of the house. It was a man, hurrying to be away
from them. ‘Is that Johan Behn?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Leybourn. ‘Or he would not be climbing over the wall like a felon.’

The door was opened by a servant who wore a livery of green and orange stripes. He conducted them along a hallway that glittered
with gold leaf and opened the door to a drawing room that faced the river. A massive Turkish carpet covered the floor, anchored
down by four Grecian urns. Dark Dutch landscapes shared the walls with the paler hues of the Venetian schools, and small tables
had been placed in inconvenient places to display unique works of art. Through the window, Chaloner saw a bulky figure with
fair hair aiming for the private jetty that would allow him to take a boat.

‘There is a word for this,’ whispered Leybourn in Chaloner’s ear, too overwhelmed by the interior décor to consider looking
outside.

‘Vulgar?’

‘No,’ murmured Leybourn. ‘That is the word for
her
.’

A large lady reclined on an exquisite French-made couch, eating sugared almonds. She wore a loose black
gown, to indicate she was in mourning, and her hair was in elegant disarray. She also sported at least a dozen ‘face patches’,
which Chaloner found disconcerting, because it reminded him of a case of ‘black pox’ he had once seen in the Dutch Antilles.
He stepped forward to bow, noting that Leybourn remained by the door, as if anticipating that a quick escape might be required.

‘Forgive the intrusion, ma’am. My name is Thomas Heyden. The Lord Chancellor asked me to convey his personal condolences for
your loss.’

Silence’s small eyes gleamed with pleasure. ‘That is nice – he lives next door, you know.’

She adjusted her ample bosom, winked at Chaloner and patted the seat beside her, wanting him to sit closer than was seemly.
He pretended not to notice and took a chair in the window.

Silence sighed irritably. ‘Do not perch where I cannot see you. I insist you come over here – but bring me a glass of wine
before you come. No, not
half
a measure – fill it, man! You youngsters do not know the meaning of a “glass” of wine. Do you like my necklace? It is made
of
real
emeralds.’

‘It is very pretty,’ said Chaloner, inspecting it politely. When he tried to move away, she grabbed his wrist and hauled him
down next to her. From across the room, he heard Leybourn snigger.

‘Good, now we can talk properly,’ she said, resting her hand on his knee. He started to stand, but she gripped his coat in
a way that would have made escape undignified. ‘You look familiar. Are you kin to that rascal Thomas Chaloner, the regicide?
My Matthew used to clean his ditches in the old days, and he was always very generous with the ale afterwards.’

‘Your husband cleared ditches?’ asked Chaloner, deftly avoiding the question. ‘I thought he was a merchant.’

‘He found a purse of gold in one sewer, and wise investments set him on the road to wealth. Eventually, he was able to buy
a ship, and his fortunes blossomed ever after. Poor Matthew. I am devastated by his death. What is Lord Clarendon going to
do about it?’

‘The culprits have already been apprehended,’ said Leybourn. ‘And three men sentenced to hang.’

‘Three out of the nine who were named,’ she said with a pout. ‘Four were pardoned and two disappeared, never to be seen again.
I believe they
did
kill Matthew – he was a strong man, and it
would
have taken nine felons to subdue him – but I also believe they did it on the orders of someone else. And that same someone
then stepped forward and got six of them off.’

‘Who?’ asked Chaloner.

She sniffed and ate an almond. ‘Many men were jealous of my husband. Take Sir Richard Temple, for example. He
pretended
to be our friend, but he bitterly resented Matthew stealing his customers. Perhaps Matthew
did
poach them, but competition is the nature of mercantile business, is it not?’

Chaloner was thoughtful. Temple had been on Dillon’s list of suspects, too.
Was
the toothless politician involved in something untoward? ‘Who else?’

‘I do not like to say it, since Lord Clarendon has been kind enough to send me his personal condolences, but his cousin Brodrick
took offence at my husband’s dislike of music. Then there is the Earl of Bristol – he owed Matthew money, and no man likes
being in debt.’

‘How much money?’ asked Leybourn.

Silence addressed Chaloner. ‘Only
common
people talk
about money. The Bishop of London told me so, when I asked him how much he earns. Suffice to say Bristol owed us a thousand
pounds.’

‘Let’s not talk about money, though,’ murmured Leybourn. Chaloner fought the urge to laugh.

‘But Bristol needed more,’ Silence continued. ‘Matthew promised him – well, promised his
broker
, since an earl does not ask himself – another three hundred, which would have been paid today. Unfortunately for him, the
lawyers have frozen Matthew’s accounts until the will is settled. Still, it will all be mine, so
I
am not worried.’

‘Webb was willing to lend him more?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘Even though Bristol already owed him a small fortune?’

‘Bristol’s broker said he was willing to pay a higher rate of interest for a further advance. However, all this was arranged
before
we were introduced to him at the Guinea Company dinner, and I learned what kind of man he is.’

‘Webb did not actually know Bristol?’ asked Leybourn, confused. ‘Yet he lent—’

‘All loans are arranged through brokers,’ interrupted Silence, still addressing Chaloner. ‘At least, that is how it works
with us sophisticated types. Matthew had never met Bristol, and was looking forward to making his acquaintance at that dinner
– he wanted to lend him more money, to secure his long-term friendship. But before they could talk, Bristol made a rude remark
about my face patches. I was angry, I can tell you! I was going to tell Matthew to do no more business with him, but Matthew
was brutally slain before I could speak to him about it.’

‘Are Temple, Brodrick and Bristol your only suspects?’ asked Chaloner encouragingly.

‘No. There is also Surgeon Wiseman. He took against Matthew for supporting the use of slaves in the production of sugar.
He
could have plunged a rapier into Matthew’s breast. He is a medical man, after all, and would know where to strike – and he
does
own a sword.’

‘Every gentleman owns a sword,’ said Chaloner.

Silence ran her fingers down his scabbard. ‘I know
gentlemen
do. Do you know how to use it?’

‘It is for display,’ said Chaloner, not wanting her to demand a demonstration. ‘Anyone else?’

‘Matthew took a dislike to poor Johan Behn, although Johan would never hurt anyone, so he will not be guilty. Then there is
that sluttish Lady Castlemaine, who objected to Matthew calling her a whore – despite the fact that she is one. And he quarrelled
with others, too, because he spoke the truth. I cannot name them all, because there are so many.’

‘Will you tell us what happened the night your husband died? I understand you went home early.’

‘I was tired of drunken men pawing me with their hot hands.’ Chaloner heard Leybourn snort his disbelief. ‘So I summoned the
carriage, and Matthew said he would follow later. We have our
own
transport, you see, like all people of worth. The driver saw me inside the door, and he said he would go back for Matthew
at midnight, when the dinner was due to finish.’

‘The following day, when you realised Matthew was dead, did you ask the driver whether he had done as he had promised?’

‘No. It was obvious he had not, or Matthew would not have been walking. I sent him a note – I wrote it myself – and put it
on the table in his quarters to tell him he was dismissed. I have not seen him since, and
good riddance. His laziness gave wicked men an opportunity to kill my Matthew.’

‘When was the funeral?’

‘Last Thursday. I do not approve of delays where corpses are concerned – not after smelling Henry Lawes – but three weeks
was the quickest we could manage. I wanted it done properly, you see, with invitations issued to all the right people – people
of quality.’

‘Did they come?’ asked Leybourn, a little maliciously.

She glared at him. ‘Most had prior engagements – I obviously chose a bad day. Matthew is in St Paul’s Cathedral now, with
all those saints and bishops. We bought space in the vault when we first got rich, although we did not expect him to be in
it quite so soon.’