Blood on the Strand (41 page)

Scot nodded. ‘And I know you disagree, Chaloner, but I am sure the writer
did
mean Garsfield, not Sarsfeild. The confectioner was very unlucky.’

Chaloner was beginning to think it might be true, mostly because his favourite suspect for composing the note was May, and
May would never pass up an opportunity to harm him.

Scot read his mind. ‘May is not sufficiently clever. I think it is Behn again. There is something very odd about that man
– just ask Eaffrey. She will not like it, but I do not want them together again. You know what I mean, Chaloner. I would rather
be poor than see her in danger.’

‘
I
have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Wiseman cheerfully. He was panting heavily. ‘But do not enlighten me – I am
almost certainly safer not knowing. Lord! I did a magnificent job with this splint. It is as hard as a rock, and the secret
ingredient I added worked better than I could have hoped. I shall be a wealthy man once I perfect it. Everyone with broken
limbs will want one.’

Chaloner flinched when the blades gazed his arm, and hastily resumed his analysis. ‘Behn
is
dangerous. Eaffrey said he killed some sort of accomplice in his office, and that man is now in the basement with his limbs
cut off, ready to be anatomised.’

Scot’s face was pale. ‘You mean the fellow with the scarred throat?
He
is dead? Christ!’

Chaloner turned his thoughts to Webb again. ‘All three men who were convicted of Webb’s murder are now dead – although Fanning
did not have gaol-fever and Sarsfeild did not kill himself. Dillon was hanged, though.’

‘Was he?’ asked Scot. He touched the back of his head again, and winced. ‘I was not there, if you recall. Did you see the
body? Feel for a lifebeat? Put a glass against his lips to test for breath?’

‘
I
did not,’ said Wiseman, exchanging shears for a saw and working furiously. The room began to smell of burning glue, and Chaloner
hoped the dressing would not ignite. ‘That was Lisle and Johnson’s responsibility.’

‘You let Lisle and Johnson pronounce life extinct?’ echoed Scot incredulously. ‘Then perhaps there is a good reason for Dillon’s
disappearance – such as he was cut down before he was dead and is now with his mysterious master. It is probably not the rescue
he had in mind, but if it worked … ’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ admitted Wiseman, changing the angle of the saw. ‘But let us return to our summary. Johnson admitted
to killing Fanning, but denied touching Sarsfeild. I believe him. Why confess to one murder, but not another? We should have
asked whether he dispatched Willys, too.’

‘Then who did kill Sarsfeild?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Someone went to his cell disguised as a vicar and murdered him. If it was
not Johnson, then who was it? Behn? May?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Wiseman, mopping his brow. His customary composure had begun to slip, and he looked sheepish as he
gestured to the splint. ‘I am afraid I was so determined to trap Lisle that I made my glue a touch
too hard, and you have compounded the problem by climbing walls, brawling and trying to play the fiddle. It is no way to
treat these inventions.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Chaloner.

‘That is stuck. I cannot get it off.’

‘It is not stuck,’ said Chaloner quietly. ‘Believe me, you do not want it to be stuck.’

Wiseman bent to the task again. The soft menace in Chaloner’s words seemed to have had an effect, because he renewed his efforts
until he was red-faced and breathless. Then there was a loud crack. While Wiseman gripped the splint with both hands, Chaloner
hauled with all his might in the opposite direction, and eventually managed to wriggle, pull and twist himself free. It cost
most of the hair on his forearm and the skin on his knuckles, but these were small prices to pay for freedom.

‘It is a good thing his bones were not really broken,’ said Scot, as he watched. ‘If they had been, the violent removal of
the dressing would have snapped them again.’

‘True,’ mused Wiseman unhappily. ‘My splint will hold a damaged limb immobile for as long as it remains in place, the only
disadvantage being that it might have to remain in place for life.’

‘I think you had better devise another way to make your fortune,’ said Scot, laughing. ‘You are liable to be sued by unhappy
patients with this invention.’

‘How does it feel, Heyden?’ asked Wiseman, reaching out to examine him.

Chaloner pulled away. ‘Like it no longer requires a surgeon.’

The advertised Public Anatomy on the body of William Dillon, felon, was well attended, and Chaloner was astonished by how
many people the Company of Barber-Surgeons had managed to cram into its theatre. He was even more surprised by how many he
recognised, thinking it was not long ago that he did not know a soul in London.

Temple and Brodrick were among the first to arrive, talking and laughing to each other in a way that made them appear to be
good friends. Chaloner was uneasy, wondering why Clarendon’s cousin should so suddenly seek out the company of a man who was
so open in his disdain for the Earl – especially as it had only been a month since one had hit the other with a candlestick,
and only three days since they had sniped and bickered at Eaffrey’s dinner party. Perhaps Thurloe was right after all, and
Brodrick was not the loyal kinsman he claimed to be. Holles was with them, cautious and watchful. He spotted Chaloner and
raised an eyebrow, although the spy could not tell whether the ‘greeting’ was friendly or otherwise. Chaloner nodded back,
trying to decide why Holles should choose
to attend such an exhibition; the colonel had openly admitted to being squeamish.

Williamson was also there, May at his side. May’s gaze fell on Chaloner, and he muttered something that made the Spymaster
laugh. Scot, clothing and manners adjusted to Peter Terrell, flitted here and there, exchanging bows with people he thought
might speed his brother’s release. When Eaffrey arrived with Alice and Behn, he went immediately to kiss her hand, and Chaloner
saw her mutter a prayer of relief that he was safe. Without thinking, Alice ran to hug her brother, to show Eaffrey was not
the only one who had been worried about him. ‘Terrell’ hastened to pass off the gesture as a joke, but Chaloner saw that Temple
was suspicious. Realising with horror that she had almost given Scot away, Alice tried to pretend it was a case of mistaken
identity. Her garbled ‘explanations’ were making matters worse, so Chaloner went to intervene.

‘Did you enjoy yourself this morning?’ he asked, saying the first thing that came into his head. It was meant to be an innocuous
enquiry that would divert attention away from Scot, but he had forgotten she had missed the hanging because her clothes were
caught in the seat.

She glared at him. ‘Not as much as I would have done, had the condemned man been you.’

He winced. ‘You have a savage tongue, Alice.’

‘She is a tad sharp,’ agreed Temple. Chaloner grimaced a second time; he had not meant his comment to be overheard. Temple
turned to Brodrick, laughing. ‘Did I ever tell you that her brother sent me a letter offering a vast sum of money if I agreed
to leave her? I shall not take him up on his invitation, because it is common knowledge that Alice is the only Scot with any
cash, and
were I to accept his “generous” settlement, he would almost certainly default on payment.’

Alice gaped at him, while Terrell was suddenly nowhere to be seen. ‘William was going to
pay
you to abandon me?’ she demanded, aghast. ‘Why did you not mention this before?’

Temple shrugged. ‘It gave me cause to laugh for an hour, and then I forgot about it. He is irrelevant, anyway. I like you
well enough, and your money will allow me to buy that plantation I want. What more can a man ask? Bristol spoke to the King
on my behalf yesterday, and His Majesty said I can have you, should I feel so inclined.’

Alice’s hearing became highly selective; she smiled broadly. ‘You intend to marry me?’

Temple shrugged again. ‘Why not? We each have something the other desires – you will acquire a handsome husband with a glittering
future in British politics; I will get a woman with plenty of ready cash. Well, what do you think? Shall we do it?’

‘Yes!’ she cried, eyes shining. ‘I accept!’

‘You old romantic,’ said Brodrick to Temple. ‘There is a silver tongue on you, no doubt about it.’

Temple inclined his head graciously, then sauntered away with his new friend, leaving his bride-to-be gazing after him in
delight.

‘I wish you much happiness, Alice,’ said Chaloner, feeling he should say something nice to mark the occasion. He wondered
what Scot would say when he learned his sister was lost.

‘And I shall have it, too,’ she replied, sounding as though there would be trouble if she did not. ‘What are you doing here?
Did you come because you heard us
talking about Webb’s dissection at Eaffrey’s party, and you wanted to see one for yourself ?’

‘How did the surgeons acquire Webb’s body?’ asked Chaloner, curious to know how such an odd occurrence had been explained
to the spectators. ‘It was supposed to have been buried in St Paul’s.’

Alice watched Temple take his seat. ‘My Richard made a joke to Surgeon Johnson, remarking on the irony of him commissioning
a Private Anatomy, when a man who had tried to cheat him was newly dead. He asked whether it was possible to combine the two,
and we were both rather startled when Johnson replied – quite seriously – that he would see what he could do.’

‘Then what?’

‘A few days later, he said he had devised a way to acquire Webb’s corpse, but that it would cost extra. He said merchants’
entrails are oilier than those of normal men, so more money is needed to clean up afterwards. I agreed to pay the difference,
because Richard was so eager to see inside Webb. You look disapproving. Why? It was all perfectly ethical.’

‘Was it?’

‘Of course. Webb’s body was
lent
to the surgeons after his funeral, and what is left of him will go back inside his cathedral tomb. That is what Johnson told
us. He asked us not to mention it to Silence, though, because she was not invited to the cutting, and he did not want her
to take offence. And now you must excuse me, or I will lose my place next to Richard.’

She slipped away, leaving Chaloner full of questions. He was watching Samuel Pepys and a host of navy commissioners ushered
into seats of honour, when Wiseman approached and spoke quietly.

‘Do not think too badly of our Company, just because of Lisle and Johnson. It is full of good men. Lisle is vocal about the
amount of time he spends with the poor, but many others do an equal or greater amount of charitable work – they just do not
brag about it.’

‘We shall probably never know how many people Johnson killed,’ said Chaloner, not of a mind to be forgiving about such heinous
activities.

‘No, probably not,’ admitted the surgeon. He sighed. ‘But the audience is growing restless, so I had better begin my demonstration
before there is a riot. People are always impatient to see me at work. Are you going to stay? My invitation to you still stands.’

‘I have seen more than enough surgery and anatomy for one day, thank you.’

Wiseman grimaced. ‘I did what I thought was right, Heyden, and I would do the same again. Thanks to me, men can rest easy
in their coffins tonight, knowing they will stay there.’

He went to stand next to the dissecting table, to make sure all was in order. Willys had arrived, and lay with a cloth bag
tied firmly around his head. The barber-surgeons were taking no chances of it slipping off and revealing his identity. Then
the lecture began, and Chaloner became interested, despite himself. After a while, he saw Eaffrey slip away from Behn, and
indicate with a discreet flicker of her eyes that she wanted to speak privately. He waited a few minutes, so they would not
be seen leaving together, then followed.

Outside, the air was clean and fresh, a pleasant change from the stuffy atmosphere in the Anatomical Theatre, where every
man and some women puffed away on pipes, and the odour of overheated bodies, unwashed clothes
and the corpse mingled unpleasantly. In the sunshine, Chaloner could smell newly scythed grass and warm earth.

‘Thank you for finding William,’ said Eaffrey, when he joined her in the Great Parlour’s cool, cloister-like undercroft. ‘I
knew you would not let me down. I cannot tell you how worried I have been. What happened?’

‘He fell into the hands of men who wanted to make an exhibition of him,’ replied Chaloner vaguely. His sleepless night was
taking its toll, and he was too tired to embark on complex explanations. Scot could decide how much he wanted her to know
about his escapade himself.

‘Did you find your killer? The man who murdered Webb?’

‘Dillon and Fanning did it, but on someone else’s orders. I am inclined to suspect May, but Scot believes it is Behn.’

Eaffrey swallowed hard, but did not leap to Behn’s defence. ‘Your Irish alias
was
on Bristol’s letter, Tom,’ she said after a moment, raising her hand when Chaloner tried to speak. ‘I visited Thurloe this
morning, and he showed me the original note. He has a special glass that magnifies writing, and I saw quite clearly how the
name had been changed from Garsfield to Sarsfeild. You obviously have a friend – someone who knows no powerful patron would
step forward and provide
you
with a King’s pardon or let you “disappear”.’

‘Why would anyone help me? Other than Thurloe?’

‘Perhaps someone owes an obligation to the Chaloner clan. Perhaps you saved a life once, and that person found himself in
a position to reciprocate. Perhaps someone did not want Lord Clarendon to lose his best spy. There are all kinds of possibilities.’

Chaloner tried to make sense of it. ‘May wrote the letter, so the name must have been changed
after
he sent it to Bristol. But I doubt Thurloe was ever in a position to tamper with it – if he had been, he would not have asked
me to steal it, because he would already have known what it said. And nor would he have let innocent Sarsfeild be incarcerated
in Newgate on my behalf.’

‘Lord Clarendon, then. At a time when half the Court is baying for his blood, trustworthy allies are important. However, your
mysterious friend obviously wants to remain anonymous, or he would have made himself known to you, so my advice is to forget
about him. You say Dillon and Fanning murdered Webb, and they are dead, so let that mark the end of the matter. We shall see
Dillon dissected today, and then the whole affair can be buried with him.’

‘It is Willys being dissected, not Dillon. Did you notice how the cloth is
tied
around the corpse’s head, instead of being laid across its face? Many influential courtiers are here, and they might make
a fuss if they learn Bristol’s aide has been providing their afternoon’s amusement.’

Eaffrey made a moue of distaste.

‘Are you sure it is him?’ ‘As sure as I can be about anything on this case. I have answers to some questions, but not all.
Who killed Willys? Who dressed as a vicar and strangled Sarsfeild? Why did May send that letter to Bristol, when the ruse
could have misfired and seen him dismissed?’

‘Actually,’ came a voice far too close behind him, ‘you are quite wrong about May.’

Chaloner spun around to see a tall figure wearing a cloak and a hat that shaded his eyes and the top half on his face. The
rest was dominated by a sardonic grin.

* * *

There was a sword in Dillon’s hand, and he held it in a way that suggested he was about to use it. Eaffrey gasped in horror,
and Chaloner reached for his own weapon. It was not there, and he realised with a shock that he had neglected to retrieve
it after Johnson had disarmed him. He backed away, looking for something with which to defend himself, but the undercroft
was just an open-sided vault with pillars and a flagstone floor. And because it had been swept for the Public Anatomy, there
was not so much as a twig or a pebble that could be lobbed.

‘I saw you hanged!’ breathed Eaffrey, aghast. ‘Are you some fiend, to evade death?’

Dillon ignored her. ‘I have questions, Heyden,’ he whispered. ‘My master wants to know—’

‘That is a dismal attempt at deception,’ said Chaloner contemptuously, stepping behind one of the pillars when he recognised
the man’s true identity – Dillon had no reason to harm him, but someone else did. ‘You are too tall to be Dillon, your voice
is too deep and the hat is at the wrong angle.’

May ripped the offending item from his bald head. ‘It was worth a try.’

‘What do you want?’ demanded Chaloner, pulling Eaffrey behind him.

‘I want an end to the trouble you have caused me,’ snapped May. ‘I want you dead.’

Chaloner balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, ready to jump one way or the other when May attacked. ‘What trouble? Perhaps
we should go to see Williamson and—’

May snorted. ‘I do not think so! You will try to usurp my position – to have yourself hired and me dismissed, because you
think you are a better spy than me.’

‘He
is
a better spy than you,’ said Eaffrey, eyeing May
in distaste. ‘But he has no desire to work for Williamson or steal your post as chief toady. Why would he, when he is content
with Clarendon?’

May sneered. ‘Every decent spy wants to be in the government’s employ, so why should he be any different? He has done nothing
but tell lies about me ever since we returned from Ireland. But I shall have my revenge. First, I shall kill him, and then
I shall sit back and watch his reputation destroyed. I have taken the liberty of hiding one or two documents in pertinent
places, and when they come to light, they will ensure his name will always be associated with ignominy.’

‘That is an ungentlemanly thing to do,’ said Eaffrey angrily.

‘Ours is an ungentlemanly profession. And do not think
you
will avenge his death, madam, because I know about you – your real lover is Scot, and you intend to wed Behn for his money.
If you attempt to harm me, I shall tell Behn, and you will be poor for the rest of your life.’

‘You are a pig!’ spat Eaffrey in disgust. Chaloner glanced at her and wondered whether the threat was enough to buy her silence.
She did not want her child born into poverty, and Scot would have no money once his sister – and her fortune – married the
despicable Temple.

‘What lies have I told about you?’ he asked of May.

‘About that letter to Bristol. I did
not
write it, and I resent the implication that I would expose the identities of my fellow agents. Your accusations have made
my colleagues suspicious and wary of me. No doubt it is all part of your plan to usurp my place in Williamson’s confidence.’