Blood on the Strand (5 page)

‘Rich, too,’ added Scot impishly. ‘Which is far more important.’

‘That is probably what this Temple thinks about Alice,’ said Chaloner. He changed the subject before he could land himself
in trouble – Scot was fiercely protective of his siblings. ‘What do you know about my Earl’s feud with Bristol? So far, I
have only heard one side of the story.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Scot wryly. ‘Clarendon holds forth to anyone who will listen and, as his spy, you can hardly ask him
to talk about something else. However, while
he
is decent and honest – albeit deadly dull – there is something a little knavish about Bristol.’

Eaffrey ate some tansy. ‘He kissed me last week, and I thought I would faint from the reek of onions. I swear he eats them
raw! And his clothes are horribly unfashionable. Yet even so, I prefer him to Lord Clarendon and his moralising.’

Chaloner regarded her askance. ‘You are in love with your new beau, but you let Bristol kiss you?’

She pushed him playfully. ‘I still need to earn a crust, and Spymaster Williamson wanted information only Bristol could provide.
It was not easy to flutter my eyelashes at one without the other noticing, but I have always enjoyed a challenge.’

‘I wish you would not take such risks,’ said Scot unhappily. ‘Now you have captured Behn’s heart, you have no reason to court
danger on Williamson’s behalf.’

‘Bristol is hardly dangerous,’ said Eaffrey contemptuously. ‘Not to me, at least – although Lord Clarendon should watch him.
Do not look shocked, Tom. I have always said that lying with a man is the easiest way to make him part with his secrets, although
I would not recommend
you
try it. It is best left to women, who know what they are doing.’

‘I am not shocked,’ said Chaloner, who knew perfectly well why Eaffrey often succeeded where her male colleagues failed. ‘I
am concerned. White Hall is a breeding ground for gossip, and it will only be a matter of time before someone tells your Johan
about Bristol. You may lose him … ’

She flapped her hand impatiently. ‘He will never find out. Try this tansy. It is rather unusual.’

‘Sugar-coated spinach is rarely anything else.’ Chaloner tried again to make his point. ‘If your lover learns that you and
Bristol—’

‘Did you hear about that murder on The Strand three weeks ago?’ interrupted Eaffrey. She ate more tansy, not seeming to care
that the landlord had provided them with some very odd victuals. ‘A wealthy merchant was reeling home from the annual Guinea
Company dinner, when he was stabbed.’

Scot grimaced. ‘I inveigled an invitation to that particu lar feast – as Peter Terrell – because my would-be brother-in-law
is a member of the Guinea Company, and I wanted to watch him on his home turf. It was a tedious occasion, and I shall devise
another way to spy on the fellow in future.’

‘You found it tedious?’ asked Eaffrey. ‘Johan was there, and
he
said it was overly lively. He reported several violent arguments, three of which were settled by duels the following morning.’

Chaloner watched her eat. ‘Is that what happened to the man killed on The Strand? He lost a duel?’

‘I have no idea – I only mentioned him as a means to stop you passing judgement on my personal life. It was the first thing
that came into my head. The second is William’s brother: how is he surviving in the Tower?’

‘Why is he still in prison at all?’ asked Chaloner curiously. ‘Surely he must have told Williamson everything he knows by
now? And anyway, I thought the agreement was for him to reveal the identities of his conspirators and then be allowed to live
out his days in peaceful exile.’

‘So did I,’ replied Scot bitterly, ‘but unfortunately, some
senior officials are now saying Williamson did not have the authority to make such a pact. I wish you were not so keen to
follow a career in intelligence, Chaloner. Now is the time to leave the spying business, not immerse yourself more deeply
in it.’

‘The beggar May shot today mentioned you before he died,’ said Chaloner. He did not have the luxury to make the choice Scot
was suggesting, because he needed to earn a living and was qualified to do very little else. ‘He told me Terrell is not what
he says.’

Scot regarded him uneasily. ‘Obviously he is right, but how did
he
know?’

‘He must have discovered that “Terrell” is an alias.’ Eaffrey finished the tansy with a satisfied sigh. ‘Someone in Williamson’s
office has been indiscreet.’

Scot was thoughtful. ‘The only spy I do not trust is Adrian May, but even he has more sense than to gossip about such matters.
However, there is a fishmonger called Peter Terrell – I have never met him, but I am told he is a terrible rogue. Perhaps
this beggar was talking about him.’

‘I need to identify him,’ confided Chaloner. ‘The beggar, I mean.’

‘When I heard the body had been taken to White Hall, I tried to inspect it.’ Scot smiled at Chaloner. ‘I thought May might
use the incident to harm you – by telling Williamson that it was your fault he was shot before he could be questioned. I wanted
to see if there was anything on the corpse that might exonerate you.’

‘Was there?’ asked Chaloner, not surprised by Scot’s course of action. They had always looked out for each other, and had
their situations been reversed, he would have done the same.

‘I only managed a glance before May ousted me. He had wrapped the fellow’s head in a sack, so I could not see his face. However,
I was able to observe that his clothes – his
disguise
, I should say – had chafed his clean, soft skin.
Ergo
, I suspect your “beggar” was a person of some standing, used to better-quality attire.’

‘Then I shall have to follow the lead provided by the gun,’ said Chaloner, disappointed there was not more. ‘The manufacturer’s
details were on the barrel: Trulocke of St Martin’s Lane. Perhaps
he
can tell me the name of the man who bought it, because it was a relatively new weapon.’

Scot’s handsome face creased into a frown of concern. ‘Did this “beggar” say anything else? I do not like the notion that
strangers know secrets about me.’

‘He mentioned Terrell and Burne, and was insistent that Dillon should be saved.’

Scot thought carefully. ‘I have never heard of Dillon, although it is a fairly common Irish name.
You
know someone called Burne, though – Gregory Burne.’

‘I do?’ It rang vague bells, but Chaloner could not place it.

‘Come on, Chaloner! You were never so slow witted in Holland – and you will not last long in this pit of vipers if you do
not pull yourself together.’

Chaloner looked to Eaffrey for help. She appeared equally blank, but suddenly snapped her fingers. ‘It was the name May adopted
in Dublin. He could not use his own, because
everyone
knows Williamson hires a spy called May, so he made one up.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, wondering how he could have been so dim – although in his defence, he had only heard May’s alias
once. The antagonism between them had been so intense that he had tried to stay out of the
man’s way, afraid it might harm their operation. Foiling the Castle Plot had been far too important a matter to risk over
personal rivalries.

‘So,’ mused Scot, seeing understanding dawn in his eyes. ‘It seems your beggar
was
referring to me and not the fishmonger, since he knew May’s alias, as well as mine. How did he come by such information?
And who is the Dillon you are supposed to save?’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘May claimed the man was working alone, but I had a feeling there was more to him than a lone gunman.
This investigation might be more complex than I anticipated.’

‘It might,’ warned Eaffrey. ‘And you do not know where it might lead, so watch your step.’

Scot stood. ‘There is a Royal Society gathering tonight – Robert Boyle is going to talk about the proportional relation between
elasticity and pressure, which promises to be exciting. Good luck, Chaloner – and please be careful. Far too many of our colleagues
have died spying over the last decade, and I do not want to lose any more.’

The daylight was fading by the time Chaloner left the Crown, so he decided to go home and consider how he would discover the
identity of the beggar
and
carry off his disguise as the Dutch upholsterer. The streets were still relatively empty as he made his way along The Strand,
but it was just late enough for a different kind of citizen to emerge and slink along its manure-coated cobbles. His raker’s
disguise meant he was ignored by the pickpockets who prowled in search of easy prey, although a rumpus near the Savoy Palace
indicated that others were not so lucky.

Home for Chaloner was a pair of dingy attics about halfway up Fetter Lane, rented from a landlord who was
mildly eccentric and blissfully incurious about his tenants. Fetter Lane boasted a mixture of buildings. Some, like the house
in which Chaloner lived, were dilapidated, and their owners should have invested money in replacing rotten timbers and sagging
roofs. Others were new and pristine – although they would not stay that way for long in London’s smoke-laden air. Opposite
Chaloner’s home was a large tavern called the Golden Lion, which had a reputation for turning a blind eye to all manner of
seditious activities. In addition, its landlord ran an unofficial post office, which Chaloner found convenient as a means
to collect and leave messages without revealing his own address. Farther south was the ugly Fetter Lane Independent Chapel,
and from his bedroom window, Chaloner could see the roofs of several famous Inns of Court.

He reached his front door and climbed the uneven stairs to his garret, wondering whether the dark cracks that jagged through
the plaster were new, or whether he had just failed to notice them before. A bucket placed to catch drips from a leaking roof
suggested there was certainly something amiss. He reached his sitting room, noting the way the floor sloped to one side, something
it had not done before Christmas, although his landlord told him there was nothing to be worried about. Chaloner was not so
sure, but the rooms suited him for several reasons – they were centrally located, the neighbours did not object to him playing
his viol, and they were cheap – and he was loath to give them up over something as inconsequential as imminent collapse.

As he shrugged out of his costume, his mind teemed with questions. He knew he needed to settle his thoughts before he attempted
any sort of analysis, so he went to
his bass viol, or viola de gamba, and began to practise a piece by the contemporary composer Matthew Locke. Chaloner was
not the most talented of players, but music soothed him, concentrated his wits, and there was little he enjoyed more than
joining like-minded people for an evening of chamber music. In the five days since he had returned from Ireland, he had been
invited to join three such events. The Locke was planned for the next gathering, and Chaloner was looking forward to it.

After an hour, he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about the tasks he had been allotted. First, there was
the beggar. The fellow had known details about Williamson’s spies that were supposed to be secret, which suggested some connection
to White Hall. What had he wanted Williamson to know? Was it just that Burne and Terrell were aliases – and the man naively
imagined the Spymaster was unaware of the fact? Who was Dillon? And perhaps most important of all, why had May shot him when
it had been obvious he had posed no threat? Had May known what the man had intended to tell Williamson? According to the beggar,
May had already refused to grant him an audience with the Spymaster, so they had clearly met on a previous occasion – something
May had neglected to mention. Why had May been secretive?

Chaloner thought about the beggar’s behaviour during his last moments on Earth. He must have been desperate to secure an interview,
because it was foolishness itself to loiter around royal processions with a firearm. The fact that it was not loaded would
have been deemed irrelevant at any trial, although it suggested to Chaloner that the fellow’s purpose had not been murder.
He decided to visit Trulocke’s shop as soon as it opened the following morning. Handguns were expensive, and he doubted
many were sold, so it should not be too difficult to find out who had bought one.

The second assignment was spying on the Earl of Bristol. Chaloner knew he would have no trouble eavesdropping on sensitive
conversations, because it was something at which he excelled. The challenge lay in knowing whom to stalk, because he was not
sure which courtiers had taken Bristol’s side, and who had remained loyal to Clarendon. He cursed his lack of knowledge about
British politics: identifying the right men would take time, which might be something his earl did not have.

He turned his thoughts to his disguise. He recalled Vanders from Holland, a wizened, white-bearded ancient who spoke eccentric
English. Chaloner could not make himself small, but he knew how to appear old and stooped, and he supposed poor English might
encourage people to say things around him they might otherwise keep to themselves. He only hoped no one had either attended
or heard about the upholsterer’s lavish funeral in The Hague three years earlier.

Chaloner awoke to another grey day, already thinking about Vanders. The upholsterer had been wealthy but mean, and people
had mocked his slovenly appearance. Chaloner rummaged in the chest where he kept the materials for his disguises, and emerged
with an unfashionably short jerkin and a pair of petticoat breeches – an item of clothing so voluminous that it was possible
to put both legs in the same hole and not notice. In a city where the current fashion was for long coats, knee-breeches and
elaborate lacy socks known as ‘boot hose’, he knew he would stand out as suitably outmoded, while at the same time not looking
so
disreputable that he would not be allowed inside White Hall.

He found an ancient horsehair wig, and ensured all his own hair was tucked well inside it – it would only take one strand
of brown to expose him as a man thirty years younger than the fellow he was attempting to emulate. Then, using a trick Scot
had taught him, he glued a light coating of lambswool to his cheeks and chin to produce a tatty white beard. He applied powders
and paints to construct some very plausible wrinkles around his eyes, and spent several minutes practising Vanders’s crabbed,
arthritic walk. He disliked being in White Hall without a sword, but Vanders had never worn one, so reluctantly he set it
aside. He did not dispense with the arsenal of knives he kept concealed in his clothing, however. There was a limit, even
to the best of disguises.