Blood on the Strand (38 page)

She smiled wanly. ‘No, I shall foist myself on Alice. William told her that he and I are close, so she will not refuse me
sanctuary. Johan might try to kill you or Scot for taking me away from him, but he would never harm her, because she is a
woman.’

‘Whose body did you find?’ asked Chaloner, hoping her assessment was right. He disliked Alice, but she was Scot’s sister,
and he did not want to see her in danger.

‘A man who has visited him before – an ugly, squat fellow with a scar on his neck. He was knifed in the back, probably early
in the evening, when I was out at White Hall. The corpse was gone by this morning.’

‘Gone where?’

She shook her head. ‘Perhaps Johan dropped it in the river under cover of darkness.’ She fought back tears. ‘I want
William
, Tom! And I want him
now
!’

‘I will look for him this afternoon,’ he said soothingly, wishing he could take her in his arms and give her the comfort of
a hug. ‘Do not worry – he will not have gone far.’

‘I love him,’ she whispered. ‘And I cannot imagine life without him. I know you considered him as a suspect for Webb’s murder,
because he left the Guinea Company dinner early and declined to explain himself. But you know why now: he came to see me.’

He smiled at the notion. ‘He was never a suspect! I was bemused by the inconsistencies in his story, but he is not the kind
of man to kill and let others hang for the crime. I do not understand why he declined to confide in me, though. We have shared
far more sensitive secrets in the past.’

‘He did not understand it, either, which has made him worry all the more about the way our occupation has begun to warp his
judgement. He trusts you with his life, but lied instinctively when you asked questions. It taught him something about himself
that he did not like.’

‘It will not be for much longer,’ said Chaloner. ‘The Lord Chancellor told me today that Thomas will be released in a few
days. This time next week, you will all be on a ship sailing for Surinam. A big, happy family – you and Scot, Behn, Alice
and Thomas. And perhaps even Temple, too.’

Eaffrey lowered her voice further, choosing to ignore the mockery in his voice. ‘William was going to tell Alice he was taking
her to Surinam last night – without
Temple. She is a strong lady, and I am afraid she might have … ’

‘Alice would never harm him. It is a fiercely close family, no matter who wants to marry whom.’

‘Temple, then. He will not want to lose his wealthy widow. And then there is Johan, who courts his fat ladies, but hates the
thought of me seeing anyone else.’

‘I assume you are having second thoughts about marrying him now?’

‘William is, but I do not know how else we can secure a future for our child. However, the more I come to know Johan, the
less I understand him. I am used to clandestine dealings – for obvious reasons – but he has far more than a merchant should.
He writes letters in a complicated cipher that I cannot break, and there is an air of controlled violence about him. He would
never hurt a woman, but I fear for the men who cross him, including you. And I am afraid that he might have done something
to William.’

‘Behn is a lumbering brute,’ said Chaloner confidently. ‘He could never best Scot.’

Eaffrey’s face was a mask of unhappiness. ‘Spymaster Williamson asked me yesterday whether I thought Johan might have murdered
Webb – or hired louts to do it for him.’

‘Williamson is interested in Behn? That is enlightening.’

‘Johan is not a spy, Tom,’ said Eaffrey, seeing the road his thoughts had taken. ‘That is what
I
was charged to learn. How else do you think we met?’

Chaloner had guessed the relationship had owed its origins to Eaffrey’s work for the intelligence services. ‘So, when did
you decide to relieve Behn of his fortune by
marrying him? Before or after Williamson charged you to seduce him for his secrets?’

‘After – when I learned how rich he is.’

‘How can you be sure he is not a spy for Brandenburg?’

‘Lord, Tom! You are like the inquisition today! Because all the evidence points to ugly mercantile dealings, not treachery.
Believe me, I investigated this very carefully before I decided to marry him. Given my own occupation, I can hardly wed an
enemy intelligencer, can I?’ She winced when a great cheer went up from the crowd. ‘Dillon has arrived.’

Chaloner left Eaffrey when Behn abandoned his attempts to extricate Alice from the splinters and devoted his attention to
the condemned man instead. He was one of those who liked to play an active role in public executions, and began to howl abuse
at Dillon. Such behaviour was common among apprentices or drunken labourers, but merchants, on the whole, tended to be more
genteel. Alice screeched at him to come back and help her, but Behn was oblivious to all except the scaffold. Eaffrey winced
at his coarse manners, and went to assist Alice. Chaloner was about to do the same for Temple, but a pair of thickset louts
beat him to it. They hauled the politician to his feet, then relieved him of his purse while they were dusting him down.

The spy returned to Thurloe, and climbed two of the wheel’s rungs, enough to see Dillon’s head and shoulders among the mass
of people by the gibbet. Dillon wore his distinctive hat, which he doffed to the crowd, earning himself cheers of admiration.
The robber and the baby-killer had already been turned off their ladders, and their bodies twisted and turned as they swung
in the breeze.

‘I hope to God they were guilty,’ said Thurloe. ‘Not innocent, like Dillon.’

It was time to reveal what had been omitted from the letter written the previous night. Chaloner took a deep breath and began,
sorry for the pain he knew he was about to cause his friend. ‘Dillon described yesterday how he distracted Webb while Fanning
stabbed him. He claimed he acted on his master’s orders, but that he would willingly have helped to kill Webb anyway, because
he despises slavery. His master sent him a note, which he received in the Dolphin tavern after he had left the Guinea Company
dinner. He had abandoned the event early, because he had quarrelled with Webb.’

Thurloe regarded him with a stunned expression, then shook his head. ‘He was not telling the truth. Perhaps this so-called
confession is part of this complex game he is playing – he and his master.’

‘Not so, sir,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘I went to the Dolphin tavern afterwards, where I found a pot-boy who admitted to following
Dillon to The Strand on the evening of the murder. The lad is a thief, and I imagine he intended to rob Dillon, which is why
he has kept his story to himself until now.’

‘Yet he told you?’ asked Thurloe sceptically. ‘After all these weeks?’

‘I had a dagger at his throat, and he was far too terrified to tell me anything but the truth. He said he saw Dillon reach
Webb’s house and hide in the shadows. Eventually, Dillon was joined by a second man whose description matches Fanning’s. At
that point, the boy became uneasy and ran away.’

Thurloe shook his head stubbornly. ‘This unsavoury lad’s tale does not mean—’

‘Dillon told me Webb fell to his knees when he died, injuring them. I saw Webb’s body, and there
were
grazes on his legs. Only his killers would know such a detail.’

Thurloe gazed at him, shocked and hurt. ‘So, the conviction was sound? I have been working to free a guilty man? The bloody
rapier was not planted by spiteful hands, but was his – or Fanning’s?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘It would seem so.’

‘Then it explains why Dillon is so certain he will be saved today,’ said Thurloe tiredly. ‘He did his master’s bidding, and
he has a right to expect his master’s protection. So, whoever wrote Bristol’s letter was telling the truth. Does this mean
the other seven men were guilty, too?’

‘Dillon said it was just him and Fanning. I wonder how May – the author of the letter – came to know Dillon and Fanning were
the culprits. I suppose I shall have to ask him.’

‘I will tell my expert to compare May’s handwriting with that on Bristol’s note. It may prove conclusive. Did I tell you Eaffrey
came to see me after you left this morning? She is worried, because Scot is missing, and she thought I might know his whereabouts.
I showed her Bristol’s letter and, after studying it with my enlarging glass, she demonstrated how Garsfield had been changed
to Sarsfeild.’

Chaloner was dismissive. ‘I do not think—’

‘She made a convincing case. I could not see it until she copied the letters in a larger hand and showed me what had happened.
I believe she is right: the writer changed his mind after writing your alias, and altered the letters to spell a slightly
different name.’

‘Why would May do that? He would rather have me accused than all the others put together.’

‘Perhaps it was because you were in Ireland when Webb was murdered – like the spies Clarke and Fitz-Gerrard – and he knew
that if there were too many who could not possibly have committed the crime, it would lead to the whole letter being brought
into question.’

Chaloner did not believe him, so Thurloe handed him the note and the glass. ‘I can see the ink is blurred in places,’ he said
after several minutes of careful study, ‘but the changes are barely visible.’

‘You have ruined your eyes by studying music at night, and I have spoiled mine with too much reading. But I am sure Eaffrey
is right. When she realised you might be in danger, she begged me to send you on an errand out of London, to keep you safe.
She is a good friend to you, Thomas.’

The crowd went quiet when Dillon began to hold forth, using the condemned man’s prerogative to say whatever he liked during
his last moments on Earth. He sounded smug and confident, an attitude that was appreciated by the people, who cheered at the
jests he made. Next to him, the executioner showed signs of impatience. Dillon ignored him, but after an hour the mob became
restless, too; they liked a speech, but they liked a hanging more. At the front, someone yelled that he had a business to
run. Would Dillon mind hurrying up? The horde laughed and Dillon’s smile slipped a little.

Chaloner jumped down from the wheel, not wanting to see what happened next. Dillon continued to orate, giving his rescuers
every opportunity to come, but eventually he fell silent. There was a smattering of applause as the ladder on which he stood
was turned, and he was left kicking in the air.

‘Is anyone coming to save him?’ asked Chaloner.

‘No,’ said Thurloe, looking away.

When the hangman announced in a ringing voice that Dillon was dead, the crowd surged forward, following an ancient superstition
that touching a hanged man would work all manner of charms, ranging from curing warts to ending an unwanted pregnancy. Chaloner
imagined the surgeons would be struggling to prevent sly knives from making off with parts of the body, and thought he could
hear Johnson bawling threats.

‘His last expression was one of utter bewilderment,’ said Thurloe bleakly. ‘He really did believe he was going to be reprieved,
and was astonished to learn his faith was misplaced.’

‘Perhaps there were too many people,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘And his rescuers could not find a way through them. The press is
very tight around the scaffold itself.’

‘Shame!’ hollered Temple. He was standing on his seat, waving his fist in the air. His clothes were covered in slimy smears
from his tumble, and he was besieged by interested flies. ‘What happened to the rescue?’

‘I prefer a hanging,’ countered Behn, equally loud. ‘That is why we came, and I would have been disappointed had the occasion
not ended with a death. Dillon murdered a Guinea Company colleague, and it is only right that his neck has been stretched.’

‘That is boring,’ argued Temple. ‘You can see executions any time.
I
wanted a rescue.’

Chaloner regarded them thoughtfully, noting how most people sided with Temple. There was a growing rumble of resentment that
they had been cheated of what they had been promised, and someone yelled that it was Dillon’s
fault. Immediately, the mob pressed forward a second time, and the barber-surgeons’ weapons flailed as they used steel to
keep the horde away from their cadaver.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Thurloe, when Chaloner started to walk away. The spy had had enough of the day’s ‘entertainment’,
and did not want to linger when the situation looked set to turn violent. Leybourn had been right: Dillon’s hanging might
well precipitate something dangerous.

‘Monkwell Street. Lisle is going to remove my splint, thank God. And you should not linger here, either. People feel defrauded,
and who knows where they may direct their disappointment.’

Escape was easier said than done, however. Afraid that Dillon’s master might attempt to snatch the corpse – perhaps in the
hope of reviving it – soldiers prevented anyone from leaving until the surgeons and their prize had fought their way free
of the chaos and were in a cart heading towards the city. Then there was a fierce bottleneck, and Chaloner and Thurloe held
back, trying to avoid the scuffles that broke out as people pushed and shoved in a futile attempt to hurry it along. The sun
beat down on bare heads, and the ale that was needed to cool parched throats was doing nothing to calm the situation.

Eventually, the soldiers managed to assert control, and captains on horseback used their mounts to drive the multitude in
the direction they wanted it to go. Chaloner saw Thurloe safely into a sedan chair, with his manservant running at his side,
and set off towards Chyrurgeons’ Hall, hoping Lisle would be able to find the time to help him.

It was a long way from Tyburn to the barber-surgeons’ domain, but there were no hackneys available, because there had been
a scramble for them when the hanging was over. Then Chaloner saw Temple and Alice climbing
into the politician’s personal carriage. Both looked worse for wear: Alice’s skirts were torn, while Temple’s beautiful silk
coat would never be the same again. Eaffrey was with them, white-faced and unhappy, but there was no sign of Behn.