Blood on the Strand (22 page)

Annoyed with himself for forgetting that there was little point in visiting White Hall before ten o’clock, he turned his attention
to the other leads that needed to be explored. First, he wanted to visit St Martin’s Church, to ask whether the vergers really
had collected
a body – Fitz-Simons’s – from May. Secondly, he had to talk to Scot. And thirdly, he needed to go to St Paul’s Cathedral
and ascertain why Webb was not in his vault, but in the Anatomical Theatre at Chyrurgeons’ Hall. He recalled Wiseman saying
the faces of the dead were kept covered during the operation, and hoped it was true. He could not imagine Temple being very
pleased to discover a fellow member of the Guinea Company was being chopped into pieces before his eyes.

St Martin-in-the-Fields was a sturdy building with a strong tower and lofty sixteenth-century windows, although it had been
a long time since it had stood in any meadows. He found a verger, who informed him that he and a colleague had indeed been
summoned to White Hall to collect a corpse, but when they had arrived, the body was nowhere to be found.

‘Someone stole it, probably as a practical joke,’ opined the verger. ‘And we had a wasted journey. May refused to recompense
us for our time, though. Bastard!’

Chaloner took his leave, full of thoughts. Had Fitz-Simons staged a permanent disappearance by only pretending to die at May’s
hands? Had
he
killed a vagrant to take his place in the charnel house? If so, then Johnson was complicit in the plan, because he held the
keys to the shed where the impostor’s body was being stored. Did that mean Johnson would deny access to any surgeon who wished
to pay his last respects and view the corpse? Or was the entire Company aware of what was happening, but was rallying to defend
one of its own? The city companies were fiercely loyal to their members, and might well try to help Fitz-Simons out of trouble.

Scot was still not in his room at the Chequer, so Chaloner went to St Paul’s. It was a long walk from St Martin’s Lane
to London’s mighty cathedral, and he was tired from his late night, so he took a carriage. The driver, keen to deposit him
and collect another fare as soon as possible, flew along Fleet Street at a pace that was dangerous. Chaloner gripped the window
frame as he was hurled from side to side, certain all four wheels were never on the ground at the same time. All the while,
the hackney-man cursed and swore – at his pony, at other coachmen, at people on foot, at men on horses, at stray dogs and
at the world in general. Everyone was a fool, he informed Chaloner cheerfully at the end of the journey, and he himself was
the only man fit to take a cart along a road.

St Paul’s was in a sorry state. A hundred years earlier, lightning had deprived it of its steeple, and the architect Inigo
Jones had been invited to remodel its exterior. He had obliged with a façade that looked nothing like the rest of the church,
and a classical portico that stood out like a sore thumb. During the Commonwealth, the chancel had been used by a huge congregation
of Independents, who could not have cared less about the welfare of the building and only wanted a place large enough to rant
in; the nave had been designated as a barracks for cavalry. Soldiers and iconoclasts had smashed its statues, melted down
its plate, and punched out its medieval stained glass. Then they had turned their attention to the lead on the roof and in
the windows, so that holes now allowed birds, bats and rain inside. Pigeons nested in the ceiling, adding their own mess to
the ordure on the once-fine flagstones, and sparrows twittered shrilly above.

When the King had returned from exile, he had been shocked by the sorry state of his capital’s cathedral, and invited the
nation’s most innovative architects to submit plans for its rebuilding. The leading contender was
Christopher Wren, who had in mind a central dome with chunky square aisles. The King was keen to see the work begin as soon
as possible, and tiles, marble and wood had already been purchased. However, while His Majesty might have been satisfied with
Wren’s design, it was not received with equal enthusiasm by the Church, and the project was bogged down in an endless cycle
of arguments and opposition. While they wrangled, the old building slid ever deeper into decay.

Chaloner prowled the nave, hunting for a verger who might be willing to let him see the register of burials, to ascertain
whether Webb had made it as far as his pre-paid vault. He was in luck. The first man he asked was named John Allen, once a
gardener at Lincoln’s Inn. A bad back had forced him to retire, and Thurloe had helped him to secure work at the cathedral.
Allen was more than happy to help one of Thurloe’s friends; he fetched the register from an office, and scanned the list of
entries.

‘Webb,’ he said, jabbing with his finger. There were several names beneath Webb’s, suggesting that funerals in St Paul’s were
distressingly frequent. ‘He was supposed to go in the chancel crypt, but that is full at the moment. His wife – a fat, fierce
woman – said she paid for an inside spot, and insisted we keep our end of the bargain, so we put him in with Bishop Stratford,
whose top is loose.’

‘I am not sure what you mean,’ said Chaloner uneasily. ‘Whose top?’

‘The lid of Stratford’s sarcophagus.’ Allen led the way to one of the transepts. Against the wall was a medieval tomb, all
stone pillars and canopies. Prayerful angels had once watched over the dead prelate, although the Puritans had ensured that
they now did so without their heads.
Allen grabbed the lid of the tomb with both hands, to show how easily it could be moved.

‘Webb is in there?’

‘Well, we had to dispense with his coffin.’ Allen lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘You are a man of the world – you know
that a good, second-hand casket fetches a decent price, if you have the right contacts. For a shilling, I will show you his
corpse.’

Chaloner handed over the coin, expecting to have it back when it was revealed that Webb’s final resting place was not where
everyone assumed. To prove he was getting his money’s worth, Allen made a great show of puffing and groaning as he hefted
the slab to one side, eventually revealing that Webb was not the only one to enjoy the bishop’s company. It was crowded in
the sarcophagus, and Chaloner backed away with his sleeve over his mouth.

‘That is Cromwell’s hat-maker,’ said Allen helpfully, pointing to the oldest resident. The prelate’s mortal remains were,
presumably, the dust at the very bottom. ‘He has been here for about five years. Then there were two sisters – they came about
eighteen months ago, although they are reaching the point where we can squash them down to make room for someone else. The
fellow on top is Webb.’

‘This is what burial in St Paul’s entails?’ asked Chaloner, appalled. ‘After a few weeks, the remains are shoved to one side
so the next corpse can be rammed in?’

‘We leave it a bit longer than that,’ said Allen indignantly. ‘And space is tight in here, although we have lots of room in
the graveyard.’

‘That is not Webb,’ said Chaloner, pointing to the most recent addition.

Allen regarded him askance. ‘It most certainly is! I put him in here myself.’

‘Webb was a wealthy merchant – well fed and healthy enough to walk from African House to The Strand – but this fellow is severely
emaciated. Also, Webb was stabbed, but this man died because his skull has been smashed. It cannot be the same person. Did
Silence see the body removed from the coffin?’

‘Of course not! We do not let the next-of-kin see that sort of thing. What kind of men do you think we are? We open the caskets
and perform the interment after everyone has gone home. But if you are right, then where is Webb? And more to the point, who
do we have here?’

‘I have no idea, but I recommend you close the tomb and do not open it for anyone else. There is something very odd going
on, and you would be wise to have nothing to do with it.’

Allen regarded him soberly. ‘If it is
that
odd, then it will be dangerous, too. So, I give you the same advice – have nothing to do with it.’

Chaloner was beginning to wish he could.

The monarch and his Court were still exercising in St James’s Park by the time Chaloner returned to White Hall, so he walked
to the trees that stood along the wall separating the Privy Garden from King Street beyond, and found a venerable yew with
thick, leafy branches. He insinuated himself inside its thick canopy, well hidden from anyone who might glance in his direction,
and prepared to wait. He was not particularly interested in watching Lady Castlemaine’s possessions being carted this way
and that, but there was nothing else to do, and a certain degree of entertainment was to be had from the confusion. She was
becoming exasperated, and swore in a way that Chaloner had not heard outside the army
– and even then she could have taught his rough old comrades a few choice expressions.

After a while Bristol appeared, wearing a long gown and a soft linen hat that suggested he had only just prised himself from
his bed. He stretched, yawned and began to stroll around the garden, but the best place to be was near the trees, where he
was safely distant from clumsy servants with heavy pieces of furniture. The spot also put him well away from Lady Castlemaine’s
sharp tongue, and allowed him to ignore any appeals for help.

He lit a pipe, and the scent of tobacco wafted upwards, almost masking the odour of onions. He was not left alone for long,
because Adrian May approached with a letter in his hand. That morning, the spy’s bald pate was covered with a dashing red
hat that sported the largest feather Chaloner had ever seen – he could not imagine what sort of bird might once have owned
it, and only knew he would not like to meet one. With May was the obsequious Temple, exposing his toothless gums in a grin
of greeting. Temple wore a gold-brown periwig with curls that flowed so far down his back they covered his rump. Chaloner
suspected it had been designed for someone considerably taller.

‘Good morning, My Lord,’ gushed Temple. ‘I bring interesting news from Lincoln’s Inn.’

‘Is it about the garden?’ asked Bristol. ‘I already know that twisted old lawyer – Prynne – intends to take a rather pleasant
wilderness and spoil it with some nasty design of his own.’

‘Oh,’ said Temple, crestfallen. He thrust his fingers under his wig and scratched. ‘Have you heard about Thurloe, too? How
he is so dismayed by the proposed changes that he swallows all manner of tonics to calm himself ?’

Bristol shrugged. ‘So what? How is such information supposed to benefit me? I know Thurloe has taken Clarendon’s side in our
dispute, but no one cares what he does any more. His day is past.’

Temple’s eyes gleamed. ‘But think about it, My Lord. Thurloe is upset by what Prynne is doing, and Prynne has the King’s ear.
If we can encourage Clarendon to intervene on Thurloe’s behalf, it will pit him directly against His Majesty, who will be
irked.’

Bristol rubbed his chin, then smiled. ‘I like it, Temple. It will deepen the growing rift between the King and his Lord Chancellor
without any risk to ourselves. I shall make sure Clarendon hears about Thurloe’s distress, and recommend he acts before the
poor man pines away from sorrow.’

May stepped forward and handed over the missive he carried. ‘This is from Surgeon Johnson, sir. It has just arrived, so I
decided to bring it to you at once. I thought it might be important.’

Bristol broke the seal. ‘It is about the Private Anatomy he offered to arrange for me – I am obliged to wait a few days, it
seems. Johnson! The man is a buffoon. Do you know what he did on Saturday? I made some idle quip – drunken quip, if you want
the truth – about breaking into Clarendon’s office to look for evidence that he had been embezzling public funds, and would
you believe he actually went off and did it? I was appalled – supposing he had been caught, and everyone assumed
I
had put him up to it! How would that have looked?’

‘Not good,’ agreed Temple. ‘Did he find anything?’

‘Nothing – except a letter from Thurloe recommending Goddard’s Drops as a cure for fainting.’

‘Goddard’s Drops,’ mused Temple, scratching again.
‘It might be code – Thurloe
was
a Spymaster, after all. We may be able to … can you smell onions?’ He looked round him.

‘Not really,’ said Bristol, sniffing the air. ‘And I like onions.’

‘I think the Court surgeons might have had a hand in the disappearance of that beggar’s body,’ said May. He shoved a fingernail
under his hat and wiggled it back and forth. ‘My sources tell me that a number of people bribed the guards to see the corpse,
and that Wiseman was among them.’

‘I was among them, too,’ said Temple. ‘Cost me a shilling, which was a waste, because someone had tied a bag around its head,
so I could not see the face.
I
did not make off with the corpse, though, and I imagine Wiseman is far too wrapped up in himself to play pranks on others.’

‘Temple is right, May,’ agreed Bristol. ‘I imagine
Clarendon
stole your dead beggar – you have taken my side against him, so he probably wants to discredit you. You did look like a complete
ass when Spymaster Williamson came to view the thing, and you were forced to admit that you had lost it.’

May’s expression was dangerous. ‘Heyden probably did it, then, on Clarendon’s orders. I swear on my mother’s grave that I
will see that man hanged! So, since they have attacked me, I shall attack them back:
I
will raid Clarendon’s offices for you, My Lord, and I will find all the evidence you need to bring them
both
down. I am a spy, after all, and experienced in such matters.’

Bristol shook his head. ‘No – Williamson might find out, and I need you in his camp. You provide me with a good deal of very
useful information, and I cannot jeopardise
that
without good cause.’

‘Then I have another suggestion.’ May was disappointed with the decision, and Chaloner wondered why he had elected to throw
in his lot with Bristol when his master, Williamson, struggled to remain neutral. ‘The King will not keep his current bedchamber
for long – there are plans afoot to place him in new apartments overlooking the river, which means Lady Castlemaine’s chambers
will not be as close to him as she imagines. Her move will have been for nothing and when she finds out she will be livid.’