Blood on the Strand (37 page)

Chaloner almost believed him, but Thurloe did not. He summoned a pair of porters with orders to escort Yates to Temple with
the message that he could have this would-be assassin back alive, but that the next one would not be so lucky. When they had
gone, he turned to Chaloner.

‘You must tell Lord Clarendon immediately. If Temple and Bristol are hiring spies to watch men who are only peripherally associated
with him, his close friends will be far more closely monitored – and Brodrick is apt to be indiscreet when he is drunk. And
speaking of being drunk, can you not stop William from caterwauling? He is drawing attention to us.’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner, thinking fast. ‘Go and stand in the middle of Dial Court, where everyone can see you, and expect fireworks
within a quarter of an hour. I will meet you at Tyburn at nine o’clock, for Dillon’s … I assume you will be there, to
see him rescued?’

Thurloe smiled grimly, immediately understanding Chaloner’s plan to provide him with an alibi for the incident that was about
to unfold. He handed him a tinderbox. ‘Yes, I will. Be careful with that powder; Prynne said the batch he bought for the well
was unusually potent.’

Chaloner jogged back to the orchard, and spent several minutes enlarging holes in the walls for his charges – for the explosion
to have an impact, the powder needed to be in a confined space, so it would destabilise the structure when it expanded on
ignition. He fiddled until he was satisfied, then laid a thin trail of the black substance, so it could be lit from a safe
distance. He did not have much left, so the ‘fuse’ was not as long as he would have liked, but he knelt and set Thurloe’s
tinderbox to it before someone could come along and ask what he was doing.

‘Roundheads!’ creaked an avian voice from above his head. ‘Thousands of ’em!’

Chaloner glanced up at the parrot in alarm, and waved his arms in a desperate attempt to frighten it away. The bird stepped
from side to side, but did not seem inclined to fly off. The powder began to splutter. Chaloner lobbed a handful of soil at
the parrot, before turning and running as hard as he could, to take cover behind one of the remaining oaks. He reached it
just as the first of his charges blew with a dull thump. Fragments of masonry shot into the air, then rained down all around
him. He covered his head with his hands, smelling the powder in his hat as he did so. The second blast was smaller and deeper,
but did more damage, because a huge part of the wall toppled inwards in a billow of dust. The third and final boom served
to smash some of the foundation stones into pieces too small for reuse, thus ensuring the repairs would cost Prynne especially
dearly.

Chaloner moved away from the tree and gazed into its branches, but there was not so much as an emerald feather to be seen.
He sighed. He liked birds, and was sorry to have been the cause of one’s demise.

‘Bugger the bishops,’ came a voice from behind him. He turned to see a beady eye regaling him balefully. ‘And make way for
the Catholics.’

Chaloner smiled, then clapped his hands to shoo it away. It was not a good idea to have mysterious voices chanting pro-Roman
sentiments at the scenes of explosions. The bird flapped towards the chapel roof, and the spy trusted it would not come back.
He stepped behind the tree again as people began to converge on the devastation he had
wreaked, yelling and shouting their alarm. Prynne was among them and so was Thurloe, Leybourn clutching drunkenly to his
arm. The surveyor lurched forward, and appeared to be genuinely puzzled by the wreckage. Chaloner held his breath, hoping
he would not say anything incriminatory. Thurloe tried to pull him back, but Leybourn freed his hand impatiently, almost falling
as he did so.

‘Lightning,’ he slurred. ‘I heard the crack as it struck the wall.’

‘Lightning?’ asked Prynne suspiciously. ‘It is not the right weather for lightning.’

‘God does not care about weather when He produces divine bolts,’ declared Leybourn, grabbing Prynne around the neck to hold
himself up. ‘Did you not hear the rumble of His wrath?’

‘I heard a rumble, right enough,’ said Prynne dryly, ‘but it was an exploding rumble, not thunder.’

‘Obviously, you have not read John Spencer’s book on prodigies and prophecies,’ said Leybourn waving a finger in the lawyer’s
face. ‘If you had, you would know what this means.’

‘Oh?’ asked Prynne, trying, without success, to free himself. ‘And what is that?’

‘That God does not like His trees knocked down and sold as firewood,’ said Leybourn. ‘And He will send great balls of fire
to destroy the walls of those who do. Just like He did at Jericho.’

Chaloner’s regicide uncle had taught him about the combined power of superstition and rumour, and he saw a good example of
it at Lincoln’s Inn that day. Thurloe stood back, arms folded in satisfaction, as servants and
benchers began to agree that Leybourn might have a point. Even Prynne looked uncertain. As a fervently – some might say violently
– religious man, Prynne was sensitive to what God might or might not like. It looked as though the plot had worked better
than Chaloner could have hoped, because there was no suggestion from anyone that gunpowder might have been the culprit.

He left Lincoln’s Inn and went to White Hall, where he told Lord Clarendon how Temple had hired Yates to spy. The Earl was
appalled, and ordered Brodrick to visit all his friends and warn them, lest they make indiscreet remarks in front of loyal
servants who were nothing of the kind.

‘May has been spreading tales about you,’ said Brodrick, walking with Chaloner to the gate. ‘He says
you
murdered the real Vanders, and the Dutch government has offered a reward for your head. Some greedy fool will decide to have
the fabulous sum he says is available, which means you are in serious danger – he knew what he was doing when he concocted
such a tale.’

‘This
must
mean I am right about him being the author of Bristol’s letter,’ Chaloner said, more to himself than Brodrick. ‘I am close
to the truth, and he is desperate to silence me before it is too late.’

‘Actually, I think he just dislikes you,’ said Brodrick. ‘If I were you, I would tackle him about it before it is too late.
He is in the Spares Gallery.’

Reluctantly – he resented wasting time combating the bald spy’s spiteful antics – Chaloner walked to the hall where ‘Vanders’
had been unmasked, May and Willys had tried to run him through, and Holles had come close to shooting him. It was unusually
busy that morning, because people had risen early to attend the public hangings at Tyburn. May was there, muttering to Behn.

‘Played any good tunes recently, Heyden?’ May asked, when Chaloner approached. He leaned against a wall and grinned with calculated
malice. ‘If you cannot hold a dagger, then I imagine you cannot hold a viol, either, and I know how important music is to
you.’

‘I would not mind buying a viol,’ said Behn, chuckling nastily. ‘I hear they make good firewood. Do you have one cluttering
up your house that you want rid of ?’

Chaloner smiled, unwilling to let them see how much their remarks rankled. ‘I hear you are making up stories, May, hoping
to stop me from uncovering evidence that proves you wrote Bristol that letter. But why name those particular nine men? Was
your intention to strip Williamson of all his best agents, so only you would be left?’

‘How many more times?’ snarled May. ‘I had nothing to do with that damned missive! But you are right about one thing: I
have
made it known that the Dutch government is offering a thousand pounds for Vanders’s killer. And it will be only a matter
of time before someone dusts off his dag in order to lay claim to the reward. Your days are numbered.’

The bells were chiming eight o’clock by the time Chaloner left White Hall, and he supposed it was time to make his way to
Tyburn. He took a carriage, which travelled up St Martin’s Lane to St Giles-in-the-Fields, a large, handsome church that was
only forty years old. Unfortunately, it had attracted the attention of Puritan iconoclasts, and there was not a single statue
that owned a head, hands or feet, and the once-fine chancel screen had been wrecked by axes. The ‘fields’ around St Giles
were long gone, too, although there was a rural echo in its leafy churchyard.

Past St Giles’s, the driver turned along the Oxford road, where people sat or stood, waiting for the cart carrying the condemned
men to pass – the governor had decided that Fanning and Sarsfeild should be replaced, to ensure the crowd had its money’s
worth, so Dillon’s final journey would be made in company with a robber and a mother who had smothered her baby. Some spectators
had brought food and ale, and shared it with others as they lounged in the sun. The atmosphere was festive, accompanied by
an air of eager anticipation, and Chaloner saw that people were looking forward to
witnessing Dillon’s fate, whatever it might be. Among the spectators were soldiers, pale and uneasy, and Chaloner was under
the impression that they might decide to make themselves scarce if a well-orchestrated plot to release the prisoner did swing
into action.

Thousands had gathered in the area of desolate scrub known as Tyburn. To accommodate their needs, traders sold ale, oranges,
tobacco, pies and gingerbread from carts and barrows. Wooden stools could be rented for a penny, to ease legs that did not
want to stand for hours; cushions cost extra. Pickpockets roamed, looking for victims, and prostitutes offered their services
for now – bales of hay and a hedge were available – or later. Already, people were drunk. Some sprawled snoring in the grass,
while others reeled and weaved, knocking into the sober and yelling songs or insults.

The first person Chaloner recognised was Wiseman, who was striding away from Tyburn and back towards the city. The surgeon
wore his distinctive scarlet robes, and when one undersized fellow sidled up to him and tried to grab his purse, he responded
with a careless flick of his wrist that saw the would-be thief cartwheel into an apple-seller. Wiseman stopped when he saw
Chaloner.

‘You are interested in these events, Heyden? I expected better of you.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘I came to ensure Lisle has help for when he claims the corpse. He is a gentle soul, and might be overwhelmed by the mob –
there are those who would snatch the body that is ours by rights, and sell parts of it for quack cures. Did you know some
folk still believe that placing the hand of a hanged man on the neck will cure scrofula? It is ridiculous, when we all know
the only sure remedy
for that is the touch of the King. The common man is very gullible, and has no idea what is best for him.’

‘Like wearing your splints, I suppose,’ said Chaloner caustically.

Wiseman inclined his head. ‘Yes, just like that. People are fools, and they are lucky there are men like me to save them from
themselves.’

‘So, are you not staying to help Lisle?’ asked Chaloner, declining to argue with him. It was not worth the aggravation.

‘Johnson, Reynell and a dozen apprentices are with him, so my services are not required. I am glad. There are more profitable
ways to spend a morning than witnessing this sort of thing.’

‘You lied to me about the Guinea Company dinner,’ said Chaloner, seizing the opportunity to question the man. ‘You said you
were not there the night Webb died, but that was false.’

Wiseman sighed irritably. ‘I suppose you wormed the truth out of Reynell, did you? How tiresome. I should have anticipated
that would happen, and told him to keep his mouth shut. Very well, I admit I was at the dinner. And I also admit that Webb
and I quarrelled when I told him what I think of men who condone slavery. So, what are
you
going to do about it? Reprimand me?’

‘Ask why you felt it was necessary to prevaricate.’

Wiseman grimaced. ‘All right. Since you are being gentlemanly about the matter, I shall confide. I lied because I did not
want my enemies at the Company of Barber-Surgeons – Johnson, in essence – to make an issue of the spat. He will do anything
to harm Lord Clarendon, and linking me – the Earl’s most prestigious supporter – to a murder was an opportunity he would have
seized
with delight. However, although Webb and I argued,
I
did not kill the fellow.’

‘Was it you who tended Temple’s head, after the incident with the candlestick?’

‘Yes – it was the only remotely interesting thing that happened all evening, although Temple was too drunk to appreciate my
skills.’ He glared at someone who jostled him, and brandished a meaty fist. ‘It is becoming too rough here for me. Good morning
to you.’

He strode away up Tyburn Lane, scattering people before him like a hot knife through butter. He shouted for a sedan chair
to take him to Chyrurgeons’ Hall, but the chair-bearers hastily made themselves scarce. His bulk would not make for an easy
fare, and they preferred to wait for a lighter customer. When he had gone, Chaloner turned towards the field of execution.

At the centre was the triangular gallows, built so nine felons could be dispatched simultaneously. There was an ancient oak
on a slight hill to the west of the gibbet, and Chaloner knew he would find Thurloe there. He eased his way through the hordes,
pausing to watch a small bear dance to the laboured notes of a cracked flute; the animal was an odd shape, and he suspected
a boy or an undersized man was inside its skin.

Prostitutes clawed at him as he walked, offering treats for a penny, and street preachers were using the opportun ity to proselytise.
Temperance’s doorman Hill was among them, and Chaloner saw spittle fly from the man’s mouth as he spouted his poison. He had
an audience of avid admirers, who were quite happy to believe that God did not like Catholics, taverns, Dutchmen, dancing
or large windows, and that ‘decent Christians’ would be perfectly justified in going out and attacking a few in His name.

Eventually, Chaloner reached the rise and looked around for Thurloe. The ex-Spymaster was standing in the shade, his silent
servant lurking protectively at his shoulder. The fellow smiled shyly when he saw Chaloner, and Thurloe said he had appeared
after the ‘lightning strike’ that morning.

Thurloe was not so rash as to go to a public place without a disguise, partly because he still had enemies who wanted him
dead, but also because crowds had a habit of turning into mobs, and once-powerful Parliamentarian spymasters made for tempting
targets. He wore the drab uniform of a chancery clerk, and his face was half hidden by the kind of bandage worn by those who
had toothache. A wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes meant very little of him could be seen.

‘How is Will?’ asked Chaloner, hoping the surveyor had been left in a safe place.

‘Prynne and I carried him to my quarters after the explosion. He is currently sound asleep.’

‘You will not try to cure him with one of your remedies, will you?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. Leybourn might awake too befuddled
to refuse, and he did not want him made worse. He saw Thurloe was offended that he was perceived as a menace to helpless drunks
so added, ‘Who knows what Yates might have done to them?’

‘The first thing my servant did when he returned was pour them all down the drain. Temple will be disappointed if he thinks
his creature might still succeed in harming me.’

‘Does Prynne believe the destruction of his wall was due to heavenly fury?’ Chaloner asked to change the subject. He hoped
he had not done so much damage that the old lawyer was suspicious.

‘He says he cannot be sure, but the other benchers
say they know a Divine Sign when they see one, and they are more willing to oppose him – and the King – now they think God
is on their side.’

‘Will it save your trees?’

Thurloe smiled. ‘I believe it might. We cannot leave a gaping hole in our defences, and Prynne has already been forced to
hire masons to begin repairs. He is dismayed by the additional expense, and I think he can be persuaded to work the remaining
trees into his grand design. I have lost a portion of my orchard, and he will have a reduced expanse of grass, but we can
both live with that.’

‘I dislike these occasions,’ said Chaloner, reacting sharply when he felt a hand slip into his pocket. The thief reeled away
clutching a bleeding arm, and Chaloner returned the dagger to his sleeve. ‘There must be ten thousand spectators here, enough
for a riot of enormous proportion.’

‘I would sooner be at home, too, but I want to know the identity of Dillon’s master, and I do not trust anyone but myself
to deduce the right answer from what occurs. Come with me. I have hired a cartwheel for us to stand on – we will not see a
thing otherwise. There are simply too many people.’

A great cheer went up from the distant city, and Chaloner supposed the cart carrying the convicts had started its journey
from Newgate. He followed Thurloe to a place where a number of semi-permanent structures had been rented to spectators over
the years. There were several large wheels, all with spokes arranged like ladders, along with a stand of crudely stepped planks,
where people could sit but still be high enough to enjoy the view. These cost a good deal of money, so only the wealthy could
afford them – especially for an occasion like the execution of a
man who thought he was going to be rescued. Chaloner was not surprised to see Temple perched on the highest tier, his mouth
almost disappearing under his nose as he devoured something with his toothless jaws. And nor was he surprised to see Alice,
thinking unchari tably that a hanging was exactly the kind of entertainment that would appeal to her bitter soul.

He
was
surprised to see Eaffrey however, because he thought she had more taste. She was with Behn, who looked as though he was thoroughly
enjoying himself. He had bought oranges from a fruit-seller, and was sharing them with Temple and Alice. Eaffrey declined,
and Chaloner thought she looked pale. He waited until the seat-vendor was looking the other way, then slipped past him to
join the chattering party on the top rung. Behn grimaced in annoyance when Chaloner insinuated himself between him and Eaffrey,
and Alice pointedly looked the other way.

‘I expected Silence Webb to invite me to join her party,’ said Temple, as if to explain why he had not secured himself a better
place. ‘She has been allocated a spot at the front, because Dillon is the rogue who killed her husband. Unfortunately, the
surgeons got there first. Damned vultures! You can see them with her now – but only because they want to make sure they get
the body.’

Chaloner looked towards the gallows, and saw a number of barber-surgeons forming a solicitous circle around Silence. Lisle
had a fatherly hand on her shoulder, although she did not seem particularly distressed by the occasion. On the contrary, she
was revelling in the attention; her eyes sparkled, and so did the jewels at her throat. Johnson and Reynell stood next to
a coffin. Both carried unsheathed swords, and Reynell appeared to be terrified. With them
was a gaggle of apprentices, blades flashing as they kept the crowd at bay. Chaloner could hear Johnson’s braying voice informing
anyone who happened to be listening that oranges rotted the bladder, because they were caustic.

‘Silence may have neglected you, but she invited
me
,’ said Behn to Temple. Then he shot Eaffrey a false and wholly unconvincing smile. ‘I declined, because I prefer to be with
my sweet lady.’

‘Johan and I have quarrelled,’ said Eaffrey in a low, sad voice to Chaloner, when Behn and Temple began to discuss the pros
and cons of standing too near the scaffold when a man was hanged. ‘He thinks you and I are lovers, and he finds himself jealous.’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner. ‘It might make him appreciate you more, and forgo the pleasures offered by Silence and Maude.’

‘And Adrian May’s mother,’ added Eaffrey with a rueful smile. ‘Johan seems to like crones, so perhaps he will leave me alone
once we are married. I will not complain. He is a bit of an ape.’

‘An ape with deep pockets.’

She smiled wanly. ‘I sincerely hope so. I understand William told you our plan? Do not be too harsh on us, Tom. It is not
as if Johan is kind or decent.’

Suddenly, Behn lurched violently to one side, rocking the structure hard with the obvious intention of making Chaloner lose
his balance and fall. Unfortunately for him, it was not the spy who took a tumble off the back, but Temple. Alice gave a shriek
of horror and tried to clamber towards her beau, but her skirts snagged in the rough wood, and the more she struggled, the
more firmly she became ensnared. Behn’s fumbling attempts to free her made matters worse, and so did Temple’s increasingly
agitated demands for help; he had landed in a morass of rotten fruit peelings left from previous executions, and the midden
was too slippery for an escape under his own power.

‘Have you seen William, Tom?’ asked Eaffrey, studiously ignoring the melee. ‘He was supposed to visit last night, but he failed
to arrive. It is unlike him to miss an assignation without sending word, and I have looked
everywhere
for him. I even visited Thurloe, and since relations between those two have been strained since William changed sides during
the collapse of the Commonwealth, you can tell how desperate I am.’

‘I have not seen him since Thursday – two days ago – but he knows how to look after himself.’

‘I found a body yesterday,’ she whispered. Chaloner glanced at her in shock, and saw the deep unhappiness in her eyes. ‘In
Johan’s office. I think he killed the man.’

Chaloner was alarmed. ‘Then you cannot go home with Behn today, and if Scot was here, he would say the same thing. Stay with
me – or I will take you to Scot’s rooms in the Chequer.’