Blood on the Strand (33 page)

‘And afterwards, you had better supervise Wiseman,’ snapped Johnson, trying unsuccessfully to resist as Lisle pulled him away.
‘The last time he performed, he could not locate the gall bladder.’

‘Because it was withered with disease,’ bellowed Wiseman after him. He lowered his voice to a more moderate level, although
it was still loud enough to be heard by passing students. ‘Pompous ass!
He
would not know a gall bladder if it came up and introduced itself to him.’

‘You should go inside now,’ said Reynell to Chaloner. ‘The theatre is almost full already, and if you leave it too long, you
will not get a seat.’

‘He is not here for that,’ said Wiseman. ‘He has convinced himself that Webb was anatomised here, so I offered to show him
our procedure for collecting bodies. Then he will see for himself that such a notion is preposterous.’

The clerk regarded Chaloner in astonishment. ‘How in God’s name did you reach that conclusion? Webb hated the medical profession,
and wanted nothing to do with our Company – he ruined Wiseman with slanderous accusations, he took Lisle to court over the
cost of a phlebotomy, and he threatened to sue the lot of us for postponing the Private Anatomy he had commissioned.’

Chaloner resisted the temptation to state the obvious – that Webb would hardly be in a position to prevent his corpse from
being misused once he was dead. ‘If Webb disliked surgeons so much, then why did he want to come here and watch a dissection?’
he asked instead.

‘Because it is the current fashion at Court to do so,’ explained Wiseman disapprovingly. ‘The King expressed an interest in
the workings of the human body, so now everyone is fascinated by the subject. Webb was a shallow fellow, who thought buying
a performance would prove he had good taste. I, for one, am grateful he died before he could use our profession in a shabby
attempt to advance himself.’

‘Lisle
did
want to refuse Webb,’ added Reynell, ‘but Johnson was afraid he might make trouble if we did. Webb was spiteful and vindictive,
and I am sure Johnson was right.’

A clock struck the hour and Wiseman took a breath.
‘I must go and prepare for my lecture. I always read my notes before I start, lest I omit something important. Not that I
make mistakes, you understand.
My
demonstrations are always perfect.’

‘Of course,’ said Reynell, when the surgeon paused for him to agree.

‘Then you will not mind showing Heyden how we prepare cadavers for teaching and research. It is a job for a clerk, after all,
not a busy and important surgeon.’

Reynell sighed his resignation as Wiseman strode away. ‘I am afraid we shall have to be quick, Mr Heyden. I am very busy with
preparations for Saturday. What do you want to know?’

‘Start from the beginning,’ suggested Chaloner, unable to think of a question that would move the discussion directly to Webb.

Reynell flapped a vague hand towards the north of the barber-surgeons’ domain. ‘The bodies arrive from the prisons by cart,
and we receive them through that little door at the end of our garden. We do not use the main gate, obviously, because it
might look ghoulish to passers-by.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner, suspecting it looked worse to sneak them in through the back. He followed the clerk to the Anatomical
Theatre, which had a small, discreet entrance at the side. It was locked, but Reynell opened it to reveal a flight of steps
that was dark, damp and covered in ominous stains.

‘The theatre has a special basement,’ Reynell explained, lighting a lamp. ‘So, when bodies arrive, we take them down there
for preparation. Watch your footing. Those spillages can be very slippery.’

Reluctantly – he did not like the look of the stairs or the sound of the vault – Chaloner descended, wrinkling his nose at
the eye-watering stench of decay and mould. The cellar was a low-ceilinged chamber, lit by several hanging lanterns that sent
eerie shadows around thick supporting pillars. There were no windows, and the only door was the one through which they had
entered. The walls were bare brick, and the dank space was used to keep samples as well as corpses, because rows of jars contained
all manner of objects. Chaloner saw a tiny human foetus in one, and looked away before he could identify anything else.

‘How many of these dissections do you perform?’ he asked. Five sheeted figures lay on crude wooden benches, and he realised
it was quite an industry.

‘Four public ones annually, and a variable number of private,’ replied Reynell. His voice was defensive, as if he had detected
distaste in the question. ‘We are due to receive a freshly hanged felon for the event on Saturday – we cannot use anything
but a new cadaver for that, or our guests will not fancy their dinner afterwards.’

‘Who are these others?’ asked Chaloner, gesturing around.

‘The ones we have finished with – or
should
have finished with. By rights, they should be in their graves by now, but Wiseman wants to use them to illustrate anatomical
variation in bladders. I shall have to dispose of them before Saturday, though, because Johnson will complain if their reek
wafts upstairs. That is the agreement, you see – we get the corpses, and in return, we pay for their burial in St Olave’s
churchyard.’

‘Can I see them?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Their faces, I mean.’

Reynell regarded him oddly. ‘What for? I assure you
Webb is not here. I was told he was interred with great pomp in St Paul’s Cathedral.’

‘Then you will not mind humouring me,’ said Chaloner, indicating the nearest body.

The clerk shrugged. ‘I suppose it is all right, although it is not a very nice thing to ask.’

He lifted the cover, and Chaloner was hard-pressed to prevent himself from recoiling. The face had not been immune from the
anatomists’ knives, and had been peeled away to reveal the skull underneath. The torso had been crudely stitched back together,
but the single rapier hole in the skin of the chest was still identifiable, and so were the grazes on the knees. Webb was
still above ground, and Reynell was wrong in declaring otherwise.

‘Do you have a name for this man?’ Chaloner asked.

Reynell consulted a ledger. ‘Martin Webster from Ludgate Gaol – brained by a fellow inmate while awaiting trial for burglary.
You can check with the warden, if you do not believe me.’

Martin Webster, Matthew Webb. Chaloner supposed a clerical error might have seen the wrong man delivered to Chyrurgeons’ Hall.
Webb would have been kept in his house from his death to his burial, so the hiccup must have occurred
after
the funeral: the vergers had allowed the mourners to leave before tipping Webb from his casket and squashing him inside the
bishop’s sarcopha gus. Ludgate was close to St Paul’s, so it was possible that Martin Webster had been granted a religious
ceremony in the cathedral before being shipped off to the surgeons – and the bodies had been confused at that point. But surely
the vergers could tell the difference between a plump merchant and an emaciated prisoner? Or had they just thought that Webster
would be an easier
fit in a small space, and had made a decision based on the fact that no one was ever likely to know?

Reynell covered the body. ‘You see? Just a felon.’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner, keeping his conclusions to himself. He lifted the sheet from the next corpse – because Reynell did not
know he had already identified Webb, he was obliged to inspect the rest for appearance’s sake – but the subject had been dissected
so thoroughly that there was nothing left but bones and a mess of pale organs. The same was true of the next two, but when
Chaloner moved towards the last one, the clerk turned away.

It was Fitz-Simons, complete with a hole in his chest that had been made by the ball from a gun. Chaloner glanced him over
briefly, but could see no other marks, and he knew from the wars that such a large wound so near the heart would have been
instantly fatal. So, Fitz-Simons had not disappeared after all, but had died when May had shot him.

‘Richard Fitz-Simons was a good friend,’ said Reynell softly. ‘And a member of the Company.’

‘How does he come to be here?’

Reynell’s face was a mask of anguish. ‘Because Wiseman managed to inspect the body of the “beggar” everyone was calling an
assassin, and recognised it as Fitz-Simons’s. We were terrified that someone would identify him, and that his actions – whatever
they were – would reflect badly on the whole Company. So we spirited him away without anyone knowing. Will you tell May?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘Why is he not buried? Surely it is safer to put him in the ground?’

‘Because his last will and testament specified that his cadaver was to be used for education.’ Reynell’s voice cracked; he
grieved for the man. ‘We plan to hold a
special dissection next week. Lisle will give a new lecture on the lungs, Wiseman will expound on the bladder, and Johnson
will take the musculature. They have vowed to lay their differences aside and do justice to Fitz-Simons’s generous spirit.
We shall revere his memory, and our apprentices will never forget him.’

Chaloner was sure he was right. ‘Wiseman told me surgeons do not dissect their colleagues.’

Reynell gave a humourless smile. ‘What would you expect him to say? That any dead
medicus
who wills us his corpse is eagerly received? We would lose our royal charter!’

It all sounded very gruesome to Chaloner. He walked back up the stairs and into the daylight with considerable relief, Reynell
following. ‘Did you ever meet Webb?’

Reynell nodded. ‘Several times, all when he was threatening members of the Company with legal action. He was an odious man.
Wiseman in particular despised him, and they had a blazing row on the night Webb was killed.’

‘Did they?’ asked Chaloner encouragingly. He wondered whether there was anyone in London who had
not
argued with the merchant that fateful night.

Reynell nodded again. ‘At the Guinea Company dinner. I was invited because my brother is a member, and Webb and Wiseman had
some sort of disagreement over the morality of slavery.’

‘Wiseman was at the dinner? He told me he was not.’

Reynell became flustered. ‘Did he? Perhaps I am mistaken, then. Yes! It must have been another evening, and not the day Webb
died. I am always getting confused. Please ignore what I just said, and put it down to fatigue. I have been working my fingers
to the bone in readiness for Saturday. You do believe, me, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ hedged Chaloner, supposing he had better tackle Wiseman himself, although it would not be a comfortable discussion
– the surgeon would not take kindly to being called a liar.

The Anatomical Theatre was almost full, and the dissection was about to begin. The body to be anatomised lay naked except
for a cloth across its face, and Reynell was telling porters where to put the ones that were to be used for comparative purposes.
Wiseman was already looming over a podium, while Lisle stood ready to begin cutting on his command. Chaloner loitered in the
doorway, watching the surgeons and their audience. He was startled to recognise Behn in the front row, sitting next to Johnson,
who looked as though he was giving the merchant a lecture on the theatre’s architecture. Behn looked bored, and handed him
something from a bag, clearly as a way to stem the tide of unwanted information. It was a pair of silver spoons.

Wiseman cleared his throat, and an expectant hush fell over the gathering. ‘Today, I shall share with you the mysteries of
the bladder,’ he declared. ‘Master Lisle will make the first incision, revealing the distinct layers of the abdominal cavity.’

Chaloner winced as Lisle began to wield a sharp knife, making clean, practised cuts to reveal a layer of pale-yellow fat below
the white skin. A film of connective tissue proved difficult to incise, and Lisle was obliged to exert more force. As he did
so, the cloth fell away from the corpse’s face and Chaloner gazed in shock when he recognised the small, pinched features
of Thomas Sarsfeild the confectioner. There was a red ring around his neck. Like Fanning, he had been strangled.

There was something about the cool precision with which the surgeons treated the hapless Sarsfeild that disconcerted Chaloner.
He had seen wounds and deaths aplenty, but it was not the same as watching a corpse methodically stripped of skin, muscles
and whatever lay beneath, and he found he did not like it at all. He left abruptly, and when Reynell reminded him that he
was expected at the Public Anatomy in two days’ time, Chaloner only just resisted the urge to tell him to go to Hell.

It was a long way from Chyrurgeons’ Hall to Lincoln’s Inn, and by the time he reached Thurloe’s chambers, having taken a tortuous
route to ensure he was not followed, the spy was tired, hot and thirsty. There was no reason to suppose anyone was watching
him, but it had been a difficult few days – he had been knocked to the ground, poisoned, attacked with swords, subjected to
improper surgical procedures and shot at – and his instincts warned him to take more than his usual care. He tapped softly
on Thurloe’s door, which was opened by Leybourn.

‘I was expecting Yates,’ said the surveyor, disappointed. ‘We sent for some food. Ah – here he is.’

The porter staggered along the hallway with a tray that contained an inordinate amount of bread, cheese and cold meat. Leybourn’s
eyes gleamed, and Chaloner supposed he was hungry. Yates placed the victuals on the table but, before he left, insisted on
sampling everything, to ensure it was poison-free. Thurloe only dismissed him when the surveyor commented unhappily on the
rapidly dwindling portions.

Leybourn closed the door behind the jovial porter and turned to the table, rubbing his hands eagerly. ‘I am ravenous. Do you
want anything, Tom?’

Remembering what had happened the last time he had swallowed something in the ex-Spymaster’s chamber, Chaloner declined. Thurloe
claimed he had no appetite either, and for a while, the only sounds in the room were Leybourn’s knife clacking on the pewter
plate, and a rhythmic hammering sound from outside. Chaloner looked questioningly at Thurloe.

‘The orchard,’ replied Thurloe quietly. ‘The felling began today.’

‘Already?’ Chaloner was stunned. ‘I thought you might delay it for a few weeks at least. You are a lawyer, after all, skilled
in postponement.’

‘I did my best, but Prynne’s is a powerful voice, and he invariably has what he wants. Close the window, Thomas. I cannot
bear to listen.’

Chaloner obliged, then, to take Thurloe’s mind off the destruction, began to tell him all that had happened since their last
meeting. The ex-Spymaster was thoughtful.

‘Willys’s murder does not sound like a carefully laid plan to me. Someone may just have snatched the opportunity
presented by the bucking horse – and the fact that you and he were left unguarded. Of course, we cannot discount the possibility
that the killer might have wanted you dead, too.’

‘Why?’ asked Leybourn, appalled by the tale. ‘What could anyone gain by dispatching Tom and Willys? They do not work for the
same faction. Willys was on the list naming Webb’s murderers and Tom was not. Tom has connections with the Castle Plot and
Willys did not—’

‘He did,’ interrupted Chaloner. ‘He was used to hinder the delivery of a shipment of arms.’

Leybourn continued as though he had not spoken. ‘There is no reason for anyone to strike at both. And perhaps there
was
no intention to have Tom accused of murder – he just happened to be in the cell next door. It was an unfortunate coincidence,
which May seized upon with alacrity.’

‘May,’ mused Chaloner. ‘Scot told me you and he went to a tavern together recently. Now why would a decent, law-abiding fellow
like you deign to associate with someone like that?’

Leybourn looked pleased with himself. ‘He heard you had training as a law-clerk, and was asking which of the Inns you attended
– he is obviously hoping to unearth some youthful scandal to use against you. However, when he declined to tell me why he
wanted to know, I suggested he should to talk to Prynne.’

‘Prynne will not remember me – or my youthful scandals,’ said Chaloner, surprised. ‘And he is hardly conducive company. If
May does go to see him, he will be in for a deeply unpleasant time.’

Leybourn feigned innocence. ‘Really? What a pity for him.’

‘Let us consider this murder rationally,’ said Thurloe, declining to waste time discussing pranks. ‘Who might want Willys
dead? It will not be Bristol, because Willys was a devious sort of man and such fellows are useful. It will not be Temple
either, because he would not deprive Bristol of an aide. What about someone loyal to Lord Clarendon? He would never order
a death himself, but his supporters are more practical about such matters.’

‘Brodrick?’ suggested Leybourn. ‘I confess Clarendon’s debauched kinsman mystifies me.’

‘And I do not like the way these surgeons appear every time there is some dramatic incident, either,’ said Chaloner. ‘Especially
Wiseman.’

‘Are you saying that because his splint means you cannot play your viol?’ asked Leybourn.

‘No,’ replied Chaloner shortly. ‘I am saying it because he lied about being at the Guinea Company dinner. He swore he did
not attend, but Reynell let slip with the truth. Not only that, but Wiseman argued with Webb about slavery on the night of
the murder – another detail he neglected to mention.’

‘Webb,’ mused Thurloe. ‘You still have not identified his killer, although you have followed the contorted travels of his
corpse. And Dillon will be hanged the day after tomorrow.’

‘Dillon does not think so,’ said Chaloner.

Thurloe was unhappy. ‘I have rescued men from similar situations in the past, and I can tell you that it is unwise to leave
it to the last minute. The nearer one comes to an execution, the more paperwork stands between prisoner and reprieve. His
master is making a grave mistake by dawdling.’

‘I am under the impression the man does not intend
to operate through official channels,’ said Leybourn. ‘Half of London is expecting an audacious rescue just as the noose
tightens around Dillon’s neck. There is also a rumour that Webb’s murder and the subsequent conviction of those three men
is connected to the Castle Plot. If that is true, then Dillon’s escape may herald the beginning of something dangerous.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Rebellion,’ elaborated Leybourn darkly. ‘A rerun of the one that failed in Dublin – only this time, there will be no men
hired by Williamson to make it flounder. I predict violence when Dillon reaches the scaffold, and I shall close my shop and
make sure the windows are barred.’

‘But who
is
this patron with a flair for the dramatic?’ asked Thurloe, becoming frustrated.

‘It is someone influential, or Dillon would not be so confident,’ said Leybourn. ‘It cannot be Williamson, because he arranged
releases for
his
people within hours of their arrests. Is it Bristol?’

‘Because he is Catholic?’ asked Thurloe. ‘And Catholics feature large in Irish rebellions? If that is what you mean, then
I urge you to rethink. Being a papist does not go hand in hand with sedition, although God knows we have given them cause
with all this insane Bill of Uniformity.’

‘What about Clarendon, then?’ asked Leybourn.

An image of the portly Lord Chancellor hurtling forward on a prancing horse to snatch Dillon from the scaffold formed in Chaloner’s
mind, and he smiled. ‘He is not a man for flamboyant gestures. Besides, he is too preoccupied with Bristol to stage last-ditch
reprieves for petty villains.’

‘Buckingham?’ suggested Leybourn, running out of
ideas. ‘He is a rash, ostentatious fellow. Or perhaps Lady Castlemaine intends to
seduce
His Majesty into signing a pardon. I have heard she is not choosy about lovers, so maybe Dillon is one of her conquests.’

‘We are looking at this the wrong way,’ said Thurloe, pursing his lips at the vulgarity. ‘We cannot identify Dillon’s master
unless we know who killed Webb. Webb was murdered for a reason, and we will only unravel this mess when we know what that
is. What are your theories, Tom?’

Chaloner raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Silence has emerged rather nicely from the tragedy, and so has Behn. Wiseman’s practice
was destroyed by Webb’s accusations. Lisle fell foul of him, too, and so did Johnson. Meanwhile, Webb insulted Brodrick’s
music, Bristol owed him money, and Temple had discovered the hard way that he was unscrupulous in business.’

‘
Dillon
did not quarrel with Webb, though,’ said Thurloe with satisfaction. ‘And neither did the other eight men named on the letter
sent to Bristol.’

‘Actually, Dillon did,’ said Chaloner. ‘He and Fanning were seen arguing with Webb on the night of the murder. As a result,
they left the Guinea Company dinner early, and Willys said he and Dillon then got drunk in a tavern together. However, the
more I think about
Sarsfeild
, the more I think he had nothing to do with it. There was something pathetically honest about his alibi.’

‘I thought we had agreed that Beck Marshall’s testimony was inconclusive.’

‘I have reconsidered. If Sarsfeild did murder Webb, intending to use Beck to prove his innocence, he would have done something
to make her remember him – left her a valuable gift, been sick in her bed, refused to pay.
Yet he did nothing memorable, which makes me think he had no idea she might later be important. There must be another Sarsfeild,
and this is a case of mistaken identity.’

‘Then perhaps we should try to save him, as well as Dillon,’ suggested Leybourn.

‘It is too late. He was strangled, and his body is being anatomised as we speak.’

Thurloe closed his eyes, appalled by the mounting carnage. ‘What about Fanning? Was his a case of mistaken identity, too?’

‘He was murdered before I could interview him, but
he
did not share Dillon’s trust of their master – he sent notes in cipher to Dillon, detailing his plans for escape.’

Thurloe was disheartened. ‘I had hoped Bristol’s letter might yield clues, but it is worthless. I took it to an expert in
such matters, but he said the handwriting is too heavily disguised for any conclusions to be drawn. He did say the ink was
an unusual blue – possibly foreign – but that was all.’

‘You are overlooking the obvious,’ said Leybourn. ‘It means the sender knew how to change his writing – a spy or a devious
businessman, perhaps. Maybe Williamson sent it.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Thurloe. ‘It exposed his own people.’

‘And he immediately saved them,’ said Leybourn, ‘thus earning their undying gratitude. Men work better for someone they know
they can trust. Perhaps it was all a trick, designed to secure greater loyalty. Or perhaps it is not the ones who were
pardoned
that we should be looking at, but the ones who were
convicted
. It is possible that Dillon, Sarsfeild and Fanning have outlived their usefulness, and
this is a good way of dispatching them without too much trouble.’

‘I think May sent it,’ said Chaloner. ‘He is keen to be indispensable to Williamson, but his skills do not match his ambition.
He wrote the missive to discredit rivals who are better than him. And he included his own name to allay suspicion, knowing
Williamson would arrange a pardon for him – but no doubt hoping he might neglect to do the same for the others.’

‘You are allowing personal dislike to blind you,’ said Leybourn. ‘And I am not sure you are right about Sarsfeild, either.
If he was just a hapless bystander, then how did he – of all the men who die daily in London’s gaols – end up as a candidate
for anatomy?’

‘None of this makes sense,’ groaned Chaloner. He wondered when he had last felt so hopelessly confounded. ‘Perhaps I
should
go to Surinam with Scot – the courts of Holland, Portugal and France did not prepare me for the intrigue and devilry of London.
My countrymen have me defeated.’

‘Your melancholy is the lingering effects of that poison,’ said Thurloe. ‘These things take their toll on a body. However,
I have concocted a tonic that will—’

‘I think he should resist swallowing any more rem edies for a while,’ said Leybourn briskly. ‘Have you learned who tried to
poison you yet? Was it Prynne?’

‘I thought not, but Yates says his rooms contain a large number of flasks full of unidentified substances. I cannot believe
he would harm me, but it seems he certainly has the means.’

When Chaloner returned home that evening, Scot was waiting, sitting on the stairs and reading
Musaeum
Tradescantianum
by the light of a single candle. So absorbed was he that he did not hear Chaloner’s soft-footed approach and leapt violently
when the spy spoke to him. It was the kind of mistake that saw men in their profession killed, and Chaloner wondered whether
his friend’s sudden desire to reside in Surinam was because he was losing his touch.

‘This is the most amazing book ever written,’ Scot declared, running appreciative fingers across its pages. ‘I have just reached
the part where the great gardener and traveller John Tradescan lists all the exotics he and his father collected on their
travels to Virginia. Have you read that section?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘Remiss though it may seem.’

Scot smiled ruefully. ‘This new science of botanicals is so exciting that it is difficult for me to understand why everyone
is not equally smitten. I cannot wait to board a ship for Surinam and dedicate my life to unveiling its arboreal mysteries.’

Chaloner unlocked the door and lit the lamp in his room. ‘You are serious about this? You really want to devote your life
to plants?’

Scot’s expression was quietly earnest. ‘I have never been more sincere about anything in my life, Chaloner – not
anything
. The moment my brother is released, I shall take him and Alice – and you, if you will come – to a new life, where we will
never again worry about the politics of dangerous men. I am weary of Roundheads and Cavaliers, of bearing the stigma of a
regicide father, and of sly assassins in the night. And there was Manning.’