Blood on the Strand (23 page)

Temple removed his wig and used both hands to rake his scalp. ‘Really? Are you saying the King’s relocation is Clarendon’s
idea?’

‘Actually, it is the King’s,’ replied May, rubbing his own head. ‘He wants to use the old rooms as a laboratory. However,
there is no reason why Lady Castlemaine should know that. You should tell her this is Clarendon’s latest attempt to keep her
away from her royal lover.’

‘That is an excellent idea!’ exclaimed Bristol, fingernails clawing under his night-cap. ‘Lord, will it put the cat among
the pigeons!’

‘And quite a cat, too,’ said Temple approvingly.

‘I shall ask Buckingham to tell her,’ said Bristol, taking off his cap and scratching vigorously at the sparse hair underneath.
In his tree, Chaloner began to feel itchy, but resisted the urge to move lest he gave himself away. ‘She believes anything
he says. I had better catch him before he gets at the wine, though. I need him at least half sober when I confide, or he will
forget what he is supposed to do.’

All three moved away, scratching in unison. Chaloner waited a while longer, then abandoned his hiding place when he saw Eaffrey
and Behn, who had come to see if
they could help Lady Castlemaine with her furniture. He was pleased to see Eaffrey looking happy, although less pleased to
note that Behn seemed to be the cause. Behn greeted him cautiously when she introduced him as Heyden – and Chaloner was relieved
when Behn did not appear to associate him with the elderly upholsterer.

‘I understand you are a member of the Guinea Company,’ said Chaloner affably, determined to be more courteous to the surly
Brandenburger than he had been in his last disguise, out of respect for Eaffrey. ‘And you knew the subscriber who was murdered
last month.’

‘Matthew Webb,’ said Behn, nodding. ‘He was a very dear friend.’

‘Really?’ asked Chaloner, his good intentions slipping a little. ‘I heard you quarrelled, and that you left the gathering
early because of it.’

Eaffrey glared at him, but Behn waved a powerful hand to indicate that he had taken no offence. ‘Webb and I were going to
let people
believe
we argued, but it was actually a ruse – to weaken our rivals. It was Webb’s idea. He was a clever man, and I miss his company.’

Chaloner stared into the bright-blue eyes and had no idea whether to believe him. ‘Is that why you spend so much time with
his wife?’ Eaffrey glanced sharply at him. ‘You miss
his
company?’

‘The grieving widow,’ said Behn, with an expression that was unreadable. ‘I have made it my duty to visit and offer condolences.
It was a vicious attack, and I shall delight in watching the killers hang.’

When Behn was distracted by a screech of rage from Lady Castlemaine, who objected to a servant informing her that her new
chambers were now too full to hold any more looted furniture, Eaffrey glowered at Chaloner.
She had been irritated by his remark about Silence Webb, and the accusation of infidelity that was implicit in it. ‘Let us
talk about something else,’ she said shortly.

‘Very well,’ said Behn, turning back to Chaloner. ‘Eaffrey has told me about the adventures she shared with friends – such
as you – in Holland. However, it is wrong to put women in danger.’

‘It was my choice to go,’ said Eaffrey, before Chaloner could respond. ‘It was nothing to do with Thomas. He would never presume
to tell me what to do.’

‘
I
shall, though,’ said Behn coolly. ‘It will be my right, once we are wed.’

Eaffrey stared at him. ‘That is an archaic attitude to take, Johan. As far as I am concerned, marriage is a partnership in
which
both
sides are free to do as they please.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Behn, raising his eyebrows. ‘It is an unusual interpretation of matrimony.’

‘Eaffrey is an unusual lady,’ said Chaloner.

Behn opened his mouth to say something else, but just then Temple approached, all smiles as he raked his fingernails across
his scalp, hard enough to leave red marks.

‘Ah, Behn,’ he said. ‘I intend to nominate you as the next Master of the Guinea Company. I like your progressive attitude
to trade, and wish more of our members were like you.’

Behn inclined his head. ‘Of course you do, but we can oust the squeamish ones once I am elected. Together, we shall lead your
country to untold wealth and mercantile power.’

‘In Africa,’ agreed Temple, nodding vigorously. ‘And in Barbados.’

‘You mean by promoting slavery?’ said Chaloner. ‘That will make our country great, will it?’

‘Of course,’ said Behn. ‘And anyone who does not see it is a fool.’

‘You promised you would have no more to do with that sort of venture, Johan,’ said Eaffrey quietly. ‘I told you I disapproved,
and you—’

‘I said I would consider your request,’ said Behn, testily. ‘However, you are a woman, so you cannot possibly understand the
complexity of the finances involved. Please excuse me now.’

He took Temple by the arm, leading him away for a private discussion. Almost immediately, he began to scratch his head.

Eaffrey’s face fell at the curt dismissal. She turned to Chaloner with tears in her eyes. ‘Johan and I have been growing closer
for weeks now, and within moments,
you
manage to initiate two topics of conversation that see us voicing opposing and irreconcilable views.’

‘He is not worthy of you,’ said Chaloner simply.

‘That is for me to decide. You had better stay away from both of us in the future. You seem incapable of being civil, and
I do not want to lose him over some petty quarrel instigated by you.’

She turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving Chaloner startled and unhappy.

It was some time before the King and his entourage returned from St James’s Park, but when they did, all White Hall knew they
were back. Dogs burst yapping into the Palace Yard, with horses clattering behind them. Armies of grooms, kennel-men and stable-boys
surged forward to reclaim the animals, while courtiers milled around in a colourful, noisy gaggle. Scot was among the throng,
deep in conversation with Brodrick and two lords Chaloner did not recognise.

The brightest and loudest of the throng was Buckingham, and Chaloner watched Bristol sidle up to him and indicate that he
wanted to talk. Buckingham waved him away with an impatient flick of his hand, then slipped his arm around the waist of one
of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. She was a pretty young woman, who was unashamedly delighted by the attention. The Queen
watched with unhappy eyes, then turned to walk inside the Great Hall. She passed close to where Chaloner was waiting to waylay
Scot, and gave him a brief smile as she went.

Scot broke off his conversation the moment he spotted
his friend. Brodrick followed him, although the two nobles hurried to join the clot of drooling men who hung around Lady
Castlemaine. She was giving her opinion about her new living quarters, delivering the verdict while wearing a gown so low-cut
that nothing was left to the imagination.

‘We had some dashed good music last night, Heyden,’ said Clarendon’s cousin. His face was pale and puffy, and there was a
curiously chemical scent on his breath that suggested he had not long stopped drinking. The whites of his eyes were yellow,
and he rubbed his stomach as if it hurt. ‘I am tempted to offer my consort’s services to the Guinea Company, for their feast
of Corpus Christi later this month. At the annual dinner, the playing was dismal, because the entertainment was arranged by
Webb, who preferred tavern jigs to chamber music.’

‘Did you know Webb well?’ asked Chaloner, thinking that perhaps it was just as well he had lost his place to Greeting. He
played for personal enjoyment, not to entertain audiences and, as a spy, he tried to avoid doing anything that would thrust
him into a position where he would be noticed.

Brodrick shuddered. ‘God, no! Our paths crossed at the Guinea Company, but that was all – he hated music, you see. And not
only was he vulgar, but he was argumentative, too. On the evening he died, I personally saw him squabbling with Temple, Buckingham,
Lord Lauderdale, the Bishop of London, that yellow-legged creature of Bristol’s … ’

‘Willys?’ suggested Scot.

Brodrick snapped his fingers. ‘Willys! That is the fellow! Webb was a loathsome specimen. Do you not agree,
Terrell? He was not someone you would have wanted in your Royal Society, eh?’

‘Indeed not,’ agreed Scot. He did not look at Chaloner. ‘After my lecture on grasses yesterday, I spent the evening with the
scientist Robert Hooke, and
he
told me that Webb had also quarrelled with two of the men accused of stabbing him. He said it happened before everyone sat
down to eat.’

‘Yes, their names were Fanning and Dillon,’ said Brodrick. ‘They were later arrested and convicted of the crime. Dillon is
a Company member, and he brought Fanning as his guest – our current Master lets anyone join these days. Thank God he is due
to step down, and we can appoint someone else. I shall vote for Johan Behn, I think – it is time we had a leader who is young
and vigorous.’

‘Did either of you actually
see
Webb arguing with Dillon and Fanning?’ asked Chaloner.

Scot shook his head. ‘As I told you before, I was engrossed in a botanical discussion. I did not see Webb at all – quarrelling
with Dillon, Fanning or anyone else. I am only repeating what Hooke said.’

‘I saw them at the festivities, but did not witness the row,’ said Brodrick. ‘I do not think Dillon and his guest stayed long
– I remember them at the beginning of the evening, but not at the end. Perhaps they sneaked off to lie in wait for him. Or
perhaps they went to a tavern in an attempt to blot the row with Webb from their minds. Who knows?’

Chaloner recalled that Dillon had denied being at the dinner, and was not sure what to think. Why had he lied? Was it because
admitting to fighting with Webb that fateful night would have been incriminating? Or were
there people at African House who were spreading tales about Dillon because they wanted him to be
seen
as guilty, perhaps to shield the real killer?

‘Do you know an actress called Rosa Lodge?’ he asked, turning his thoughts to his other duties – protecting Lord Clarendon
from scandal.

Brodrick pointed at the woman the Duke was mauling. ‘Temple inveigled her an appointment to the Queen’s bedchamber. However,
if you are hoping for a private performance, you will be waiting a long time – Buckingham is there first, and he is unlikely
to relinquish her until she is all used up. What is so funny, Heyden?’

‘Bristol. Can you see his face?’

‘It is as black as thunder. Do you know why?’

‘Rosa Lodge was hired to seduce your cousin, and Buckingham has unwittingly ruined the plan – if she accuses Clarendon of
raping her now, no one will believe her, because everyone can see she is wanton. Bristol will have to move on to his next
plot, which entails telling Lady Castlemaine that it is Clarendon’s idea to move the King’s bedchamber away from her new quarters.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Brodrick, appalled. ‘Now that
is
potentially dangerous. I must warn him immediately. The Lady will be furious, and he needs to be prepared.’

When Brodrick had gone, Scot gripped Chaloner’s shoulder and hauled him into a small room that was used to store harnesses
for the royal carriage. He slammed the door shut, and Chaloner was astonished to see the anger in his face.

‘Where have you been these last two days? You have not been home, and I was assailed with a terrible fear that May or Behn
had dispatched you. I consigned myself
to a dreadful evening in their company, desperately trying to catch one of them out in some inadvertent admission.’

Chaloner was startled to learn Scot should have been concerned, especially over something as ephemeral as a bad feeling. ‘I
looked for you, too, at the Chequer Inn.’

‘The landlord did not mention it.’ Scot sounded tired. ‘Well, I am relieved to see you safe. The faces of friends lost to
spying keep haunting me, and I was afraid yours was about to join them.’

‘Why would you think that?’

Scot scrubbed at his eyes, hard enough to disturb his disguise. It was unlike him to be careless, and Chaloner saw he was
deeply unsettled. ‘Because White Hall is a dangerous place and you have chosen the wrong side – Clarendon’s overbearing pomposity
makes him deeply unpopular, whereas Bristol is generally liked. And I was horrified when Behn bested you in that tussle. If
you cannot defend yourself against him, then how will you fare against May?’

Chaloner thought he was overreacting. ‘Behn did not “best” me, I lost my balance.’

Scot glared out of the window, then forced a smile. ‘I am fussing like I did when you were a green youth on his first assignment.
You must forgive me.’

‘Is something wrong? Has something happened to make you more than usually uneasy?’

‘Temperance and Maude, for a start. They are both worthy ladies, I am sure, but Maude is apt to be indiscreet. Has she repeated
her clients’ chatter to you? Yes? Then how do you know she is not repeating
yours
to someone else? I am not saying there is malice in her, but betrayal is betrayal, nonetheless. Then there is your friend
Leybourn. Did you know he and May were acquainted well enough to enjoy a drink in a tavern together?’

Chaloner shook his head uneasily. ‘But he owns a bookshop – he deals with a lot of people.’

‘Yes, you are no doubt right.’ Scot sounded relieved – it was never easy to warn colleagues that those they considered friends
might be nothing of the kind, and it was clear he was glad it was over without an awkward confrontation. ‘Bear it in mind
for the future, though.’

‘I will. Thank you.’

‘I heard you were you looking for me on Sunday night.’ Chaloner had his own questions to ask about the truthfulness of friends.
‘I do not suppose it had anything to do with the name Peter Terrell being on a list of men accused of murdering Webb, did
it?’

Scot’s smile turned wry. ‘That was one subject I wanted to air, yes. I am afraid I misled you. My alias
was
on Bristol’s letter, and I neglected to tell you so when you raised the subject at the ball.’

Chaloner was taken aback by the blunt admission. ‘Why?’

‘It is second nature for men like us to keep secrets, so when you started to talk about the letter, I followed my instincts
to procrastinate without conscious thought. Barely an hour had passed before I realised there was no need to be furtive with
you – and that withholding information might even put you in danger – so I rushed to your rooms to make amends. But you are
never there; you do not even
sleep
there, it seems. I waited for hours – on Saturday night
and
Sunday.’

‘What were you going to tell me, exactly?’

‘That my alias
was
on that poisonous document, but that although I knew
of
Webb, I had never spoken to the
man – I was astonished when soldiers came and demanded that I accompany them to Newgate for questioning about his death.
Fortunately, I was able to escape, and Eaffrey sent word to Williamson, who made my name “disappear” from the legal proceedings.’

‘Not very effectively – a number of people know about you.’

‘Yes and no. Williamson fabricated another Peter Terrell, and most people think a dishonest fishmonger is involved in the
Webb case, not my Irish scholar. It means I am stuck with this disguise for a while, though, because to vanish now
will
arouse suspicion.’

‘What about the four who were pardoned – Clarke, Fitz-Gerrard, Burne, Willys? Do you know them?’

‘Yes – they are all intelligence agents. Clarke and Fitz-Gerrard were not even in England when Webb was murdered, so God alone
knows why their names were picked for this wretched list. You know Burne, because that is May’s alias. And Willys is Bristol’s
creature.’

‘Was Fitz-Simons a spy, too? He and you were the two who “disappeared”.’

‘He is what we call an “occasional informer”, which means he is basically Williamson’s eyes and ears at the Company of Barber-Surgeons.
He happened to be out when the soldiers called at his house, and he went on the run. I have no idea where he is now.’

‘Dead – he is the beggar May killed at Westminster Abbey.’

Scot stared at him in horror. ‘Are you sure? May had a bag wrapped around the head when I tried to inspect the corpse. Now
I see why! That damned lunatic did not want anyone to see he had shot one of his colleagues. Does Williamson know?’

‘I have no idea. Did you ever meet Fitz-Simons in Ireland? He was seen boarding a Dublin-bound ship in February, and he had
detailed plans of the castle.’

‘No, and I would be surprised if Williamson had used him there – he was an
informer
, not a spy, and he lacked the requisite skills for deep-cover work. However, that said, the Castle Plot was a serious attempt
to destabilise the government, so perhaps Williamson
did
employ every resource at his fingertips to ensure it failed, even men at the very bottom of his command.’

‘Do you think Fitz-Simons’s shooting had anything to do with the Castle Plot?’ asked Chaloner, deciding not to mention his
suspicions about the surgeon’s ‘demise’ until he was more certain.

‘Of course it might, if you say he was in Ireland! Poor Fitz-Simons was sadly inept, so perhaps inexperience led him to reveal
himself to the wrong person when he was at his Dublin duties.’

‘His name was on Bristol’s list, so someone thought he was worth exposing, incompetent or not.’

‘True. However, do not overlook the possibility that one of his colleagues objected to him reporting Company secrets to the
government. It might have been a barber-surgeon who added his name to the letter.’

‘Which one? Wiseman? Johnson? Master Lisle?’

‘I do not trust Wiseman,’ said Scot. ‘It would not surprise me at all to learn
he
has a murderous streak in him. But to return to the letter, five of the nine named were Williamson’s men, and one was Bristol’s.
The selection was odd, though; we six did not work together, and no one should have been able to link us. I can only assume
it was an attempt to undermine the entire intelligence network.’

‘How?’

‘Because applying for pardons made these men visible. Now it will be difficult for them to become anonymous again, which will
reduce their value.’

‘What about the remaining three – Dillon, Fanning and Sarsfeild?’

‘Williamson
says
they are nothing to do with him, but there is no way to know for certain. I have certainly never met any of them.’

‘You have – Dillon is the man we called O’Brien, from Dublin.’

Scot gaped at him. ‘Really? Then he
is
a spy, but I have no idea whose.’

‘Someone he trusts – he thinks he will be rescued from the scaffold. It is too late for Fanning, though, because he has been
strangled, although the official cause of death is gaol-fever. It happened on the eve of a planned escape, which may or may
not be significant. That leaves Sarsfeild.’

‘Sarsfeild,’ mused Scot. ‘It is similar to the name you used in Ireland: Garsfield.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘I am not sufficiently important to be included in any plot, and few people in London know
me anyway. Besides, Sarsfeild has been caught and sits in Ludgate.’

‘Or perhaps a slip of the pen means that entirely the wrong man is locked in a prison cell. Do not look dismissive, Chaloner
– Bristol and his minions will do anything to harm Lord Clarendon, including striking at his people. But why was the letter
sent to Bristol, do you think? And why did he pass it to the legal authorities, when his own henchman – Willys – might have
been hanged?’