Blood on the Strand (3 page)

The sprawling Palace of White Hall, London’s chief royal residence, had been built piecemeal as and when past monarchs had
had the money and the need, and the result was a chaotic settlement with dozens of separate buildings, few of which seemed
to bear any relation to their neighbours. Thus ancient, windowless halls rubbed shoulders with flamboyant Tudor monstrosities,
and dark, grubby alleys sometimes opened out into elegant courtyards fringed with glorious gems of architecture.

Chaloner was still dressed in his street-cleaner’s disguise, which was simultaneously an advantage and a drawback. On the
one hand, no one would recognise him, which was always a good thing, but on the other,
he was more likely to be challenged as an intruder. Relishing an opportunity to practise his skills, he made his way undetected
through the maze of yards, halls, sheds and houses, coming ever closer to the sumptuous apartments that overlooked the area
of manicured grounds known as the Privy Garden, where the Earl of Clarendon had his offices.

Like most good spies, Chaloner worked hard at being nondescript. He was of medium height and stocky build, with brown hair
and grey eyes. He had no obvious scars or marks, although his left leg had been badly mangled at the Battle of Naseby, and
he tended to limp if he was tired or had engaged in overly strenuous exercise. That Friday had been an easy day for him, however,
and he walked with a perfectly even gait along the corridor that led to the Earl’s offices. He opened the door quickly, using
a thin piece of metal to assist him when he found it locked, and stepped inside to wait.

It was not long before Lord Clarendon arrived. He stood in the hall outside, congratulating May for shooting the wicked traitor
who had come so close to murdering the King. Williamson was with him, and his softer voice added its own praise. Chaloner
grimaced. People were assuming that May had acted correctly, which meant any attempt to tell them what had really happened
would look like sour grapes on his part – they would think he was making excuses for not killing the man himself. Eventually,
Clarendon finished the conversation and bustled into his rooms. In his wake was a short, smiling man with bushy brown hair
and dimples in his cheeks.

The Earl of Clarendon, who currently held office as Lord Chancellor of England, had gained weight since the Restoration. The
Court’s rich food was unsuitable for
a man who tended to fat and whose working day revolved around sedentary activities. Chaloner had even noticed a difference
in the Earl’s girth between the time he himself had been dispatched to Ireland to help quell a rebellion back in February
and his return five days ago. The Earl knew he was expanding at an alarming rate, but blamed it on a nasty brush with gout,
which had confined him to his bed for much of the past three months.

He had dispensed with the enormous blond wig he had worn in the procession, and had donned a smaller, more practical headpiece.
He had also removed his elaborate ceremonial costume and wore a pair of peach-coloured breeches and a coat of dark green –
although there was more lace on it than Chaloner thought was possible to attach to a single garment, and he hoped the man
took care near naked flames. The Earl was chatting to his companion about a popular new cure-all called Venice Treacle, asking
whether it might help with the residual pains in his lower legs.

When several minutes had passed, and the two men had still not noticed him in the shadows near the curtains, Chaloner cleared
his throat. The Earl almost jumped out of his skin. He spun around in alarm, and then closed his eyes and rested a plump hand
on his chest when he recognised the intruder.

‘I wish you would not do that,’ he snapped. ‘One day my heart will leap so much that it will stop and never start again. And
then where would you be?’

‘I am sorry, sir,’ said Chaloner, contrite. The Earl had asked on several occasions not to be startled, but noisy, attention-grabbing
entrances tended to be anathema to a spy.

‘I think
I
might be able to do something about a stopped
heart,’ said the other man comfortably. ‘I am a surgeon, after all, and intimately acquainted with that particular organ.’

‘This is Thomas Lisle,’ explained the Earl to Chaloner. ‘He is Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons, here to help me with
my gout.’

‘And you are a raker,’ said Lisle, his eyes crinkling in a smile. ‘However, as you have made your own way to My Lord Chancellor’s
rooms, and as he is not surprised to see you here, I surmise you are actually something rather different, and I shall enquire
no further.’

‘He is Thomas Heyden,’ said Clarendon, obviously feeling an explanation was in order anyway. ‘He has been at Westminster Abbey
today, protecting the King against assassins.’

‘We live in a wicked age,’ said Lisle, shaking his head sadly. ‘No one can be trusted, it seems.’

‘You are right,’ agreed the Earl sombrely, ‘although Heyden has proven himself loyal to me twice now – once in retrieving
some missing gold, and once when I sent him to Ireland with some of Williamson’s men to thwart the Castle Plot. He acquitted
himself admirably both times.’

While the Earl was speaking, Lisle produced several flasks from the bag he carried looped around his neck, and began to mix
them in a goblet. He barely reached Chaloner’s shoulder, and had the look of a gnome about him, with his brown face, kindly
eyes and slightly stooped posture. He wore the red-trimmed gown and hat that identified his profession, and he hummed under
his breath while he worked. When he had finished, he handed the cup to Clarendon with a conspiratorial grin.

‘The apothecaries will be after my blood if they learn I am dispensing medicines – tonics are their domain, and
they jealously defend their sole right to concoct them – but I refuse to watch a patient suffer when I can help him myself.
The head of a young kite boiled in wine is the perfect remedy for gout, although you will not find an
apothecary
who will ever share such a closely guarded secret.’

‘Thank you,’ said Clarendon, wincing as he swallowed the draft. ‘It was kind of you to come the moment I experienced a twinge.
The damp weather must have aggravated my condition and I am eager to nip it in the bud this time. I do not want to be laid
up for another three months.’

‘Keep your legs warm and dry,’ instructed Lisle, packing away his empty phials. ‘And apply that poultice I gave you before
you retire tonight. There is nothing like an ointment of crushed snails, suet of goat and saffron to ease your particular
trouble.’

‘Lisle is a good man,’ said Clarendon, when the surgeon had left. ‘The only thing I do not like about him is his association
with another
medicus
called Johnson, who is a loud, blustering fellow, full of wind and unfounded opinions.
He
openly supports that vile heathen, the Earl of Bristol.’

‘Lisle does?’

‘Johnson does. Lisle is like Williamson – he declines to take either side – although anyone with an ounce of sense will see
that
I
am in the right and Bristol is wrong. However, as Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons, Lisle will not want to offend
half his members by declaring an allegiance with me.’

‘It is a sorry state of affairs, sir,’ said Chaloner in a way that he hoped would discourage further confidences. Clarendon
had ranted at him about Bristol before, and the tirades were difficult to stop once they had started.
He tried to think of a way to change the subject, but nothing came to mind.

Clarendon looked pained. ‘Bristol is
determined
to destroy me, you know, Heyden.’

‘You are Lord Chancellor of England, sir,’ said Chaloner, when he saw the matter was not to be avoided, ‘while Bristol holds
no official post whatsoever. You are in a far stronger position to fight any battle than he.’ He wondered if it was true –
the gay and witty Bristol was much more popular at Court than the stuffy, respectable Clarendon.

‘I suppose so.’ The Earl pulled himself together and forced a smile. ‘You did not come to talk about my troubles, though.
I assume you are here to give me your version of today’s shooting?’

‘I thought you might have questions.’ Chaloner did not like the way the Earl had phrased his question – it made it sound as
though he was expecting to hear something other than the truth.

‘I do – especially since Colonel Holles told me what
really
happened. He saw you apprehend the beggar without incident, and thinks someone was overly hasty with the trigger. He has
a point: it does seem to be a pity that we have lost the chance to interrogate a would-be regicide.’

‘Will Holles tell Williamson this?’ asked Chaloner hopefully.

Clarendon shook his head. ‘I said he should keep it to himself. May has a wicked temper, and we do not want him thinking
you
have been going around questioning his actions to all and sundry. As I have told you before, your old mentor Thurloe sent
you to me on the understanding that I am careful with you. And while
Thurloe lost
most
of his power when the Restoration saw him dismissed from his posts as Secretary of State and Spymaster General, he still
has teeth and claws aplenty. I do not want
him
coming after me because May has skewered you in a silly duel.’

Chaloner tried to conceal his exasperation. When he had arrived in London the previous year, penniless and desperate for employment,
Thurloe had indeed recommended him to Clarendon with the stipulation that his life was not to be needlessly squandered. However,
the ‘request’ had been issued at a time when other spies had been murdered while working at White Hall, and that particular
danger was long over. The Earl’s continued unease about what Thurloe might do if Chaloner was harmed was beginning to be a
nuisance.

‘With respect, My Lord, I can look after myself – especially against May.’

‘So you say, but your profession is a risky one. How many elderly spies does one ever meet? None! And it is not
you
I am worried about, anyway – it is me. Thurloe has too many old friends like you – dangerous men who will still do anything
for him. I have no intention of crossing him.’

Chaloner was astonished that the Earl should consider him dangerous, sure he had never given him cause to think so. He ignored
the comment and addressed the slur on Thurloe’s character instead. ‘He is not a vindictive man, sir.’

The Earl raised an eyebrow. ‘You do not serve seven years in government without learning something about neutralising your
enemies, believe me. But let us return to today. Did you manage to talk to this beggar before he died?’

Chaloner decided he was unwilling to divulge the vagrant’s gabbled claims to anyone at White Hall until he had at least some
idea about what he had been trying to communicate. ‘A little,’ he replied vaguely. ‘He claimed he had information to impart,
but declined to confide in me.’

The Earl stroked his tiny beard – a thumbnail-sized patch under his lower lip; it matched his little moustache. ‘Do you think
May shot him to prevent this information from being passed on?’

Chaloner frowned, puzzled. ‘Why would he do that? The beggar seemed to think the government might be interested in what he
had to say.’

The Earl raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Because of what Holles told me: that the fellow was killed
after
you had relieved him of his dag. May is a devious fellow, with fingers in a great many pies. Perhaps he has his own reasons
for wanting to still the beggar’s mouth before it started flapping.’

It was an intriguing notion, although Chaloner was wary of embracing it too eagerly; he did not want his dislike of May to
lead him astray. ‘If Williamson is worth his salt as Spymaster, he will have reservations about the necessity of the execution,
too.’

‘May said he did it to save your life, and Williamson believes him. This beggar had a knife.’

‘He posed no danger, and May should have known it. Besides, I suspect Williamson would happily sacrifice me for the chance
to converse with a would-be assassin. Perhaps you are right, My Lord: May
did
want to silence him before he said anything incriminating.’

‘What did the fellow say to you?’ asked Clarendon curiously. ‘Holles says he saw you chatting for several moments before the
shot rang out.’

Chaloner hesitated. The Earl could not always be trusted to keep secrets – not from any desire to cause trouble, but from
his tendency to be overly trusting of the people he met – and if his suspicions about May were correct, then Chaloner would
be safer if no one knew the beggar had died reciting names. ‘He was declaring his innocence – telling me he was no king-killer.’

‘And what do
you
think? Did he intend to shoot the King?’

Chaloner considered the question carefully. He had believed the man’s claim that waylaying Williamson had been his main objective,
and the weapon had been in no state for a serious attempt at regicide anyway. ‘Not everyone in possession of a gun is bent
on murder,’ he said eventually.

The Earl walked to the window and stared out at the wet garden. The wind blew misty sheets of rain across the perfectly symmetrical
flower beds and the tiny clipped hedges. Chaloner went to stand next to him. He did not like the artificial neatness of White
Hall’s grounds, and preferred the tangled, chaotic jumble of places like Lincoln’s Inn, where long grass grew among wild flowers,
and where trees were gnarled and misshapen with age. It was some time before the Earl spoke.

‘May brought the body to White Hall, and it looked familiar to me. I am sure he was no vagrant.’

Chaloner was startled that Clarendon should recognise the man. ‘Where might you have seen him before, sir?’

The Earl shook his head slowly. ‘That is the annoying thing: I cannot recall. Perhaps I am mistaken, what with his stubbly
chin and his dirty clothes. Yet there was something about him … ’

‘Would you like me to find out who he was?’