Blood on the Strand (42 page)

‘It is nothing of the kind,’ said Chaloner impatiently,
tensing when May made a practice sweep with his blade, making it whistle through the air. ‘And what do you propose to do
here? Kill me with half the Court within shouting distance?’

May smiled grimly. ‘We both know no one will hear anything through those thick walls, not with Wiseman babbling about guts
and bladders. You can holler all you like, but I will still skewer you.’

‘Fetch Williamson, Eaffrey,’ ordered Chaloner. He glanced around to see she had gone.

‘She is a practical lady – and an ambitious one,’ said May gloatingly. ‘So do not expect help from that quarter. She will
not risk a comfortable future just to save your miserable life.’

Before Chaloner could reply, May advanced with a series of well-executed sweeps. Chaloner ducked one way, then the other around
the pillar, and May missed him by no more than the width of a finger.

‘I should have dispatched you in White Hall’, hissed the bald spy. ‘I would have done, had Holles not stopped me. You had
better draw, or this will be a very short fight.’

‘I cannot draw,’ said Chaloner, deeply unimpressed by the man’s powers of observation. ‘You can see I have no sword.’

May swished his blade triumphantly. ‘Then you should have come better prepared. Are you going to duck and weave all day, or
will you stand and die like a man?’

He darted forward, feinting at the last moment. Chaloner jigged away, but May’s sword caught in the lace on his cuff. He knocked
it free, then ran to another, thicker pier, hoping it would afford him greater protection.

‘I waited outside your room last night,’ said May, lunging hard and striking sparks from the pillar when his blade scored
down the stone. ‘But you have taken to sleeping elsewhere, and I wasted hours lurking in the darkness.’

‘You ate a pie,’ said Chaloner, remembering how a lack of peas had allowed him to conclude that it had not been Scot or Leybourn.
‘You dropped crumbs all over the stairs. What did you want?’

‘To kill you before you told anyone else about that letter.’

‘Of course. Stealthy murder is no stranger to you, is it? You killed Willys and tried to have me blamed. You pretended to
be a priest and strangled Sarsfeild in his cell. And it was you who ordered Fanning and Dillon to murder Webb.’

‘There you go again,’ snapped May, renewing his attack. He was furious, but although his blows were powerful, they were also
wild, so Chaloner had no trouble evading them. ‘Making accusations with no proof. I did
not
kill Webb, Sarsfeild, Willys or anyone else.’

‘Then why did you shoot Fitz-Simons?’ demanded Chaloner. He took a chance on an explanation. ‘Because you wanted to stop him
from telling Williamson what he knew – that
you
wrote the letter.’

‘I did not even kill Fitz-Simons,’ shouted May, exasperated. He grimaced and lowered his voice. ‘I aimed and pulled the trigger,
but the gun flashed in the pan. It was another man’s ball that hit him.’

Chaloner did not know whether to believe him, and was puzzled enough that he was slow moving out of the way. May’s sword caught
him a stinging slash on the leg, although the sides of the weapon were too blunt to draw
blood. He began to limp. ‘You claimed credit at the time.’

‘I did not
claim
it – it was given to me.’ May grinned mirthlessly when he saw his blow had slowed his opponent down. He renewed his attack
with greater purpose. ‘One moment I was trying to work out why my gun had misfired, and the next I was being hailed as the
hero who shot the King’s would-be assassin. It happened so fast that I had no time to think. On reflection, I see I should
have been honest, but it is easy to judge with hindsight and it is too late to do anything about it now.’

Chaloner remained sceptical, although his convictions were beginning to waver. He recalled the sizeable hole in Fitz-Simon’s
chest and his fleeting concern that it had been too large a wound to have been caused by May’s handgun. ‘If you did not kill
Fitz-Simons, then who did?’

‘I have no idea. At first, I assumed it was you, and was pleased when people started to give
me
the credit that should have been yours. Then Colonel Holles pointed out how the dag you had confiscated from Fitz-Simons
was too filthy to work, and I knew you could not have been responsible. He witnessed the whole incident from the cathedral,
you know.’ May’s voice was bitter. ‘
He
knows I did not fire the fatal shot.’

Chaloner’s convictions wavered even more, mostly because he could not imagine May concocting a confession that showed him
in such poor light. ‘Then why has he not said anything about it?’

‘I imagine because he intends to blackmail me. When I saw the body and recognised it as belonging one of Williamson’s “occasional
informers” I was appalled! I was obliged to hide its face with a bag to prevent anyone else from seeing. And then it disappeared,
and I have
been waiting on tenterhooks for the prankster – you – to bring it back in a way that will humiliate me even further. I have
been living a nightmare this last week, and it is all your doing. But now you will pay.’

Chaloner jerked away from the flailing blade. ‘You brought it on yourself by being dishonest. Put up your sword, May, and
I will help you resolve this mess. We can talk to Holles, and—’

‘You had your chance to do all that,’ snarled May, ‘but instead, you have concentrated on making accusations that harm me.
Say your prayers, Heyden. The game is over for you.’

He changed the grip on his sword and his expression became fiercely determined. Chaloner made as if to run to the next pillar,
but altered course at the last moment, and powered towards May instead. He saw the surprise in the man’s eyes just as he reached
him and snatched the weapon from his hand. It was absurdly easy, like taking honey-bread from a baby. May gaped in horror.
Then there was a sharp crack and he crumpled to the ground. Chaloner spun around to see Scot standing there with a smoking
gun, Eaffrey behind him.

‘You cannot manage five minutes without me, Chaloner,’ said Scot irritably. ‘I warned you to be wary of the man, and what
do you do? Allow him to entice you into a duel!’

Chaloner knelt to feel for a lifebeat in May’s neck, but was not surprised to find there was none; Scot was a deadly shot.
‘I was in no danger – I had just relieved him of his sword.’

‘You sent me for help,’ Eaffrey pointed out. ‘So you were obviously worried about the outcome.’

‘I sent you to fetch Williamson,’ corrected Chaloner tiredly. ‘I have no wish to see May dead.’

‘The feeling was not reciprocated,’ said Eaffrey tartly. ‘He was going to kill you, and you had nothing with which to defend
yourself. You seem sorry he is gone, but I am not. He was going to murder you and blackmail me to keep quiet about it.’

‘I think I have done him a terrible injustice,’ said Chaloner, sitting back on his heels. ‘I am beginning to believe he was
telling the truth when he said he did not send Bristol that letter.’

‘Well, who did, then?’ demanded Eaffrey. ‘And why?’

‘It was written in blue ink,’ said Chaloner, rubbing his eyes. Fatigue was beginning to sap his energy and make him sluggish.
‘Maude saw Behn in possession of missives scribed in distinctive blue ink.’

‘So, I was right after all,’ said Scot in satisfaction. ‘I said days ago that the culprit was Behn.’

‘What does this do to our plans?’ asked Eaffrey, rather plaintively. ‘Shall we devise another way to see our child raised
in the manner of a gentleman?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Chaloner, climbing slowly to his feet. ‘The correspondence Maude saw was
received
by Behn, not
penned
by him – only very odd people write letters to themselves. So, the blue ink means he was
sent
notes from the same person who wrote to Bristol, not that he scribed them himself.’

Scot was becoming exasperated. ‘Well, if it was not May or Behn, then who is left?’

‘I have no idea. And nor do I know who shot Fitz-Simons. May was telling the truth about that, too, because I was surprised
at the time that such a large wound could have been made by his dag.’

‘But Holles
saw
May shoot him,’ said Scot. He passed Chaloner his gun to hold, while he knelt to inspect the body himself. ‘So May must have
lying, although I cannot imagine why.’

‘Put your hands in the air, Heyden,’ ordered an imperious voice that made them all turn around. It was Spymaster Williamson.
Holles and several members of the palace guard stood at his side, muskets at the ready, and Wiseman loomed behind them, his
lecture notes folded into a bundle under his arm. ‘Or I will give the order to shoot. Drop your weapons now!’

Chaloner did as he was told, letting May’s sword clatter from his left hand and Scot’s gun drop from his right. The Spymaster
had chosen elite marksmen to accompany him, and Chaloner knew they would not hesitate to open fire. With weary resignation,
he saw Williamson’s gaze move from May, lying in a pool of his own gore, to the dag on the ground at his feet, and reach the
obvious conclusion.

‘May started it,’ said Scot, also seeing the line Williamson’s thoughts had taken. ‘Ask Eaffrey.’

Williamson regarded Chaloner coldly. ‘So, you decided to rid yourself of an old enemy once and for all, did you? Could you
not have reasoned with him? Talked to him?’

‘May was beyond reason,’ said Scot, standing next to Chaloner, to indicate where his loyalties lay. ‘You know what he is like
once his temper is roused. He was insane enough to think he could disguise himself as Dillon – you can see that from his clothes
– but he badly over-estimated his talents. And
I
shot him, anyway.’

Chaloner could tell from the contemptuous expression on the Spymaster’s face that he thought Scot was
protecting a friend with a false confession. He tried not to sag in defeat, suspecting Williamson would read resignation
as guilt.

‘
Is
Dillon dead?’ asked Wiseman. ‘Only I thought I saw him in the audience during my dissection. It gave me rather a shock, to
be frank, and put me right off my stride.’

‘That would have been May,’ said Scot. ‘Probably.’

Williamson continued to glare at Chaloner. ‘Did May show you that letter before you gunned him down? Keep your hands in the
air, or I
will
order Holles to open fire.’

‘What letter?’ asked Chaloner, hastening to comply. Williamson nodded that Scot was to search May’s body. Scot obliged, eventually
locating a pocket sewn into the coat lining. He withdrew a piece of paper that was soiled and soft, as though it had been
handled a lot. He scanned it quickly, then held it for Chaloner to read – the spy was not about to give Williamson an excuse
to kill him by lowering his hands to take it. It was a brief note that said:

Noe Mann shoulde beare the insults of a Womann like Silens Webb. Lette her Husbande paye the pryce for her Vicious Tonge.
If you succeede, the Summe of Twentie Pounds wille be Youres. And nor need you fear Reprisals against you. Youre Maister wille
allow noe Mann to hange for Murdur, and God wille be Thankfull for your Ridding Him of this Devil’s Sporn and soe wille I.
Clarendon.

‘It was among Dillon’s possessions at Newgate,’ said Williamson.

‘Were there other letters, too?’ asked Chaloner. ‘In cipher?’

Williamson nodded. ‘My clerks decoded them, but they all pertain to Fanning’s attempt to leave Newgate via a barrel of poisoned
ale. I cannot imagine why Dillon kept them.’

‘Because he thought Fanning was wrong to escape,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Fanning offered to include him in the rescue, but Dillon
declined, because he was utterly convinced that his employer would save him. He planned to show Fanning’s letters to his patron
later, to prove who had remained steadfast and who had not.’

Williamson was not very interested in Fanning’s floundering trust. ‘The important document is the one Scot holds, because
it proves that Dillon and Fanning murdered Webb on
Clarendon’s
orders. Dillon obviously kept the note to remind himself that salvation would be supplied – you can tell from the state of
it that he read it again and again, seeking reassurance. So, now we know why he killed Webb, and why he thought he would suffer
no punishment for it.’

‘That is not Clarendon’s signature, sir,’ said Chaloner, disappointed in him; he had expected more from a man of Williamson’s
reputation. ‘It is a forgery, and anyone can see it.’

Williamson raised an eyebrow. ‘It looks authentic to me, and
I
see his mark with some regularity.’

‘It is shaky and hesitant, because it was copied,’ stated Chaloner firmly. ‘His usual signature is free-flowing and confident.
And that is not all. This note asks for someone to be murdered. Clarendon is not a fool, and would never append his own name
to such an order.’

‘That is true,’ acknowledged Williamson. ‘However, when I showed it to May, he pointed out that a man only exercises caution
when there is a danger of his being
apprehended. His observation is a valid one; Lord Clarendon must have assumed he would not be caught.’

‘I repeat: he is not a fool,’ said Chaloner, thinking the same could not be said about May – or about Williamson for listening
to him. ‘He would never put his name to something like this, no matter how small the chances of discovery. And nor does he
order a man murdered because he took offence at comments made by his wife.’

‘It does seem out of character – he is not a violent person,’ said Wiseman. His eyes widened in alarm when Chaloner shifted
his position and six muskets rattled simultaneously as aim was adjusted. ‘And
I
abhor unnecessary bloodshed, too. Will you put those things down before someone is hurt?’

‘Not yet,’ snapped the Spymaster as Holles started to comply. ‘Not until Heyden has confessed to what he knows. And then we
shall decide whether we shoot him here or he goes to the Tower. I would not stand in front of him, if I were you, Scot. Or
you, Eaffrey. You both resigned today, so you are of no further use to me, and I do not care if I am obliged to shoot through
you to reach him.’