Blood on the Strand (26 page)

Johnson grinned, and raised his cup. ‘No, but I promise you will not be disappointed, even so.’

Servants were beginning to stir, aware that while Bristol might still be sleeping, his guests nevertheless required attention.
Chaloner did not have much time – and certainly should not be spending it pondering the question of how Webb had ended up
at Chyrurgeons’ Hall. He climbed the stairs, thinking about what Thurloe had told him about the location of Bristol’s letter.
He saw a ‘China-painted’ chest in the second room he explored, and moved quickly towards it, first closing the door behind
him. Thurloe’s two keys worked perfectly, although it took him longer than he expected to undo the last lock. It was old and
worn, which made it difficult to pick, and the smell of tobacco and old wine had turned his stomach to the point where he
was feeling sick again. He took a deep breath and tried to force away the nausea. He did not have time for it.

Cheery greetings suggested Bristol was awake and had joined his visitors. The clatter of plates and cups followed, and then
the scent of cooking meat wafted up the stairs. Chaloner put his hand over his nose so as not to inhale it. The last lock
finally snapped open and he wrenched up the lid with more force than he had intended, so it cracked sharply against the wall.
The voices downstairs immediately went silent. Chaloner began to rummage through the haphazard papers within, then stopped
when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Someone was coming.

He rifled more urgently, hearing a second set of feet
join the first. Bristol’s voice drifted upwards, asking a servant whether he had left a window open. Stopping, the servant
declared he had not, because everyone knew that night air was poisonous to sleeping men. The footsteps continued up the stairs
and started along the corridor. Now there were more than two sets, and Chaloner supposed other retainers had joined their
master. He knew that if he was caught, there would be no excuse for what he was doing and he would be hanged, especially when
Bristol learned he was in Clarendon’s pay. There came the sounds of doors being opened.

Then he found what he was looking for. There was no time to read the letter and replace it, as Thurloe had recommended, so
he shoved it in his pocket and ran to the window. He tried to unlatch it, but it was painted shut. He raced to another one,
aware that Bristol was in the next room. He wrenched desperately at the catch, and it opened with a screech. The ground was
a long way below, and a scullion was right beneath him, sitting on a stool as he enjoyed an early-morning pipe. Then the office
door was flung open, and he heard Bristol give a furious yell as the intruder was spotted.

Chaloner did not look around, because he did not want Bristol to see his face. Taking a deep breath, he scrambled on to the
sill, then launched himself into the ivy that covered the wall, aiming to climb down it. It was not as strong as it looked,
and began to tear away from its moorings. With a tremendous hissing and scraping, the entire mass peeled away, bearing him
with it. He braced himself, expecting to land hard – probably hard enough to damage his lame leg and prevent him from escaping.
But the plant was reluctant to yield its hold on the wall, and did so slowly, so he was carried down at a
perfectly comfortable pace to land gently on both feet without the slightest jar. The pipe-smoking scullion fared less happily,
and disappeared under the billowing foliage with a cry of alarm.

Chaloner fought his way free of the leaves and started to run through the garden, but a sudden, gripping wave of dizziness
made it difficult for him to see where he was going. Bristol leaned through the window and yelled orders at his servants,
and soon several were in pursuit. Temple, abandoning his breakfast, panted along behind them. Chaloner reached the end of
the garden and wrenched open the gate. Then, instead of haring through it into the lane, he ducked back inside and hid behind
a rack that was used for drying onions. He knew he could not outrun fleet-footed pursuers while he was sick and reeling, and
that concealing himself was his only hope of escape. He leaned against a wall and took a deep, shuddering breath, closing
his eyes as he did so. The servants and Temple thundered past, followed by Bristol, who was yelling at the top of his voice.
Alice Scot walked sedately after them.

Alice hailed from a family of spies, and knew perfectly well that tearing blindly after an invisible target was a waste of
time. She studied the ground as she went, then stopped to inspect a broken twig. Chaloner watched in horror as she looked
directly towards his onion rack. She stepped off the path and bent to touch the soil. She had surmised that the culprit had
not fled into the lane, but was still in the garden. He swallowed hard, thinking how delighted she would be when she discovered
the identity of the thief. He tried to push himself upright, but his knees would not support him.

‘Alice,’ came a familiar voice, just as Chaloner was
bracing himself for capture – even a woman would have no trouble securing him when he could barely stand. ‘What on Earth
are you doing?’

‘William!’ she cried in delight. ‘I did not expect to see you here.’

Scot did not return her friendly greeting. ‘Obviously not.’

Her face fell when she saw what he was thinking. ‘It is nothing untoward, brother – just a card game that lasted until dawn.’

‘I assume Temple was there, too.’ Scot’s voice was cold.

Alice sighed. ‘Yes, although we were sitting at different tables for most of the night. And you? Are you on an assignment
for Williamson? Is that why you appear so unexpectedly in the Earl of Bristol’s vegetable garden in the hour after dawn?’

Scot rubbed his eyes, and Chaloner saw he did not feel particularly healthy, either. ‘I am sure our father was never obliged
to do this sort of thing. Espionage is not what it used to be, Alice.’

‘Then why do it? You promised to finish with spying after Dublin. You said it was too dangerous.’

‘Believe me, I shall – the moment Thomas is free.’

‘Have
you
had any luck? I still have not found the right man to bribe, but I am working on it.’

‘Keep your money, because Thomas’s situation took a great leap forward yesterday – Chaloner told me about a crooked gunsmith,
which allowed me to expose some illegal arms dealing. Williamson is delighted, and I sense it will not be long before he persuades
his masters to let Thomas go.’

Alice smiled. ‘At last.’

Scot pointed back towards the open office window, and
showed her a goblet. ‘Williamson asked me to acquire a gold cup that holds a certain significance for His Majesty – something
to do with a mistress. Obviously, I must have made too much noise, because I was almost caught. Will you help me escape? Go
back inside, and when he returns, tell Bristol that you saw a large, red-headed thief jump over the wall into the garden next
door. Hurry, though! I can hear them coming back already.’

She kissed his cheek and strode away. Moments later, Scot joined Chaloner behind the onions. ‘That was close,’ he said with
a grin. ‘She almost had you.’

Scot put his finger to his lips as Bristol and Temple stamped back through the garden, muttering venomously that the felon
was too fast for them, and declaring that the servants had better have more luck or there would be trouble. Eventually, they
went inside and Scot helped Chaloner to his feet.

‘How did you know I was here?’ asked Chaloner, feeling his stomach roll as he stood.

‘You had gone when I woke, and there is only one man you visit at such an ungodly hour.’ Scot held Chaloner’s ornamental ‘town’
sword in his hand. ‘I set out after you when I thought you might have forgotten this – no sane spy goes unarmed these days.’

Chaloner indicated the military-style weapon he carried at his side. ‘I prefer something a little more robust when I burgle
the houses of powerful courtiers. You taught me that. Did you see Thurloe?’

Scot nodded. ‘For the first time since I became a Royalist. He is not a man to bear grudges, but I was uneasy nonetheless.
I have never been able to read him, to know what he is really thinking.’

Chaloner was not surprised that Thurloe declined to be open with a man who had defected at a critical moment in the Commonwealth’s
painful collapse. ‘He is not an easy man to understand.’

‘As it happened, my apprehension was unnecessary. When I arrived, I found him preoccupied with another matter. His cat had
swallowed some of his morning tonic, and had immediately become ill. He suspects poison, and is beside himself with worry,
because he said you had taken some, too.’

‘Prynne,’ said Chaloner, holding his stomach. ‘Because Thurloe opposes his garden plans.’

Scot shook his head wonderingly. ‘Hell hath no fury like a lawyer crossed. Anyway, it would have been sheer folly for Thurloe
to rescue you himself – I imagine he is horribly out of practice – so I persuaded him to let me do it instead. He is waiting
nearby, in a carriage.’

‘His damned tonics!’ muttered Chaloner venomously. ‘My wits were too befuddled from last night’s wine to refuse it.’

Scot brandished the cup. ‘Fortunately, mine were not. I took this to cover up whatever you were doing in there – now they
will assume it was a simple theft when they look to see what is missing. We should not talk here, though. Put your arm around
my shoulder. We shall pretend we are drunk, as we did in France when you saved me from that vengeful cardinal. We both reek
of wine, so our ploy—’

He stepped smartly out of the way when the mention of wine was more than Chaloner’s stomach could bear. The spy felt far better
once the tonic had been added to the onions, and he wondered whether they would die as a result. Leaning heavily on Scot,
he staggered out of the garden.

‘Turn right,’ ordered Scot, closing the gate behind them.

‘We will run into Bristol’s servants if we go that way.’

‘I know what I am doing,’ said Scot impatiently. ‘And you are not well enough to—’

Chaloner did not feel like arguing. He took his own route, and was proven right, because moments later, a pack of retainers
converged on the gate. They were hot, cross and disappointed, and would certainly have challenged two ‘drunks’ so close to
their master’s home.

Scot shot him an apologetic grin. ‘It seems the apprentice has surpassed the master – either that, or I am losing my touch.
Christ, my head aches! That will teach me to drink with a man who cannot afford a decent vintage.’

Thurloe was waiting in a carriage, which was cunningly concealed behind some trees in the expanse of open land known as Lincoln’s
Inn Fields. The ex-Spymaster closed his eyes in relief when he saw Chaloner. Scot turned to leave, claiming he had pressing
business, although Chaloner knew he was discreetly allowing him to report to Thurloe alone. He caught his friend’s arm.

‘You took a risk in coming to my aid.’

Scot was dismissive. ‘Hardly! And it was nothing compared to your rescue of me in Holland last year.’ He brandished the cup
he had stolen. ‘Do you want this, or shall I toss it in the river?’

‘Send it anonymously to Lady Castlemaine. That should confuse everyone.’

Scot laughed, liking the notion of causing mischief. Then he saluted Thurloe and walked back towards the city.

‘I am sorry, Tom,’ said Thurloe, opening the door to the carriage and helping Chaloner inside. He peered
anxiously into his face. ‘I would have come to save you myself, but Scot said he would be better at it – and he was right,
of course. He is his father’s son for daring escapades.’

‘Who tried to poison you?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Prynne?’

‘Prynne?’ Thurloe was shocked. ‘He is a bigot, not a killer! I thought my elixirs were safe from meddlers, as I keep them
locked in the pantry upstairs, but the tonic is definitely the culprit, because it is the only thing the cat managed to steal.
The poor thing is terribly ill. Shall I take you to a surgeon?’

‘No, thank you!’ said Chaloner hastily. He handed over the letter he had retrieved from Bristol’s chest. It was written on
the kind of cheap paper that was available to everyone, although the ink was an unusual shade of blue.

To my Ld Bristoll, by Ye grace of God: This verye nyght I did Witnesse an act of Grayte Evill, that is Ye Murder of Mathew
Webbe by Nine Persons of Wycked Violence. These Persons naymed are Will
^m
Dyllon, Thos. Sarsfeild, Rich. Fanyng, Waltr. Fitz-Gerrard, Lowence Clarke, Geo. Wyllys, Greg
^y
Burn, Rich. Fissymons and Petr. Terel. Ye Murder was Donne as a Revengge becaws Ye said Webbe was Parte of Ye Layte Busness
in Ireland, and was a Rebell. Then he betrayd his Comraydes, becaws his Conscience called Hym. I am marvellously praepared
to leave all my Apprehenshons to wyser men, for it is God Almightie and Hys Instrumentes who will delivere alle evill spyes
and intelligencers to the Gallowes, for Hee shalle not suffere them to live. I knowe Youe are a decent Mann, who wille see
Right Donne in God’s Goode Nayme.

‘Look at the way he wrote Sarsfeild,’ said Thurloe thoughtfully. ‘His S may be a G, which would make it Thomas Garsfield –
the alias you used in Ireland. I hope this was not aimed at you.’

Chaloner did not think so for a moment. ‘I am not sufficiently important.’

‘You hail from an old and distinguished family, and your forebears were eminent politicians and intellectuals. You are not
as invisible as you seem to believe. Perhaps
Sarsfeild
had nothing to do with Webb’s murder, and an innocent man sits in Ludgate Gaol.’

‘We could ask him – check his alibi for the time of the murder, if he has one.’ Chaloner did not feel like making an assault
on a prison that morning, but it would have to be done soon, because it was already Wednesday, and the executions were scheduled
for three days’ time.

Thurloe tapped the letter with his forefinger. ‘Still, at least we know why Bristol was chosen as the recipient, and not Williamson.
The writer dislikes spies – and Williamson hires them.’