Blood on the Strand (8 page)

‘If you are going to save
him
, you will have your task cut out for you,’ said Leybourn, sipping the tonic, then setting it aside in distaste. He glanced
up to see Chaloner and Thurloe regarding him with puzzled expressions. ‘Was your Dillon a tall man, who always wore a large
hat to cover his face?’

Thurloe frowned. ‘How do you know that?’

‘He has been arrested for murder.’

‘Murder?’ echoed Thurloe, shocked. ‘But that is impossible! Dillon is a Quaker, and his religion forbids violence – it was
what led me to dismiss him. As Spymaster, I avoided assassination when I could, but sometimes there was no choice. Dillon
would not kill under
any
circumstances, and his refusal to eliminate a double agent brought about the deaths of several of my men. One was Henry Manning.’

Chaloner stared at him. Manning had been executed in Neuburg – taken into a wood and shot by Royalist soldiers. He could have
betrayed other agents when he had been interrogated, but he had not, and Chaloner was still alive to prove it. If Dillon’s
principles had brought about Manning’s capture and death, then he was no friend of Chaloner’s.

‘Well, he has killed someone now,’ said Leybourn. ‘He was found guilty and sentenced to hang. The execution is planned for
next Saturday.’

Thurloe shot to his feet, and the cat hurtled away in alarm. ‘I do not believe it!’

‘I am afraid it is true. I attended the trial at the Old Bailey myself – it was quite a case, and I am surprised you did not
hear about it. Dillon and another eight men were arrested for the crime, because a letter naming them was sent to the Earl
of Bristol by an anonymous witness.’

‘Sent to Bristol?’ asked Chaloner, bemused. ‘Why him?’

‘Because he is a decent man who can be trusted to do the right thing,’ replied Leybourn wryly. ‘According to the letter.’

‘And I suppose no one knows the author of this note?’ said Thurloe scathingly.

Leybourn shook his head. ‘Of course not. But on its basis, soldiers searched the homes of the accused, and a bloody rapier
was found in Dillon’s. Its tip matched the fatal injury in the victim’s chest. The jury was invited to compare wound to weapon,
and all agreed that one caused the other.’

‘That may well be true,’ said Thurloe. ‘However, we all know that sort of evidence can be planted.’

‘The jury did not think so. Its verdict was unanimous.’

‘Who did Dillon kill?’ asked Chaloner.

‘A merchant called Matthew Webb,’ said Leybourn. ‘I know nothing about him, other than that he was wealthy. I can find out
more, if you like. Some of my customers may know him.’

‘That would be appreciated,’ said Thurloe, inclining his head. ‘What about the other eight who were named in this anonymous
missive? Were they sentenced to death too?’

Leybourn rubbed his chin. ‘Oddly, no. Only three of the nine turned up at the Old Bailey, and they were the ones convicted.
Meanwhile, four had produced official pardons from the King, although no one explained how they came by such things. And the
other two “disappeared”, but no hue and cry was ever raised to catch them. It was all very strange – and more than a little
suspicious.’

‘Did no one ask about it at the trial?’ asked Chaloner.

Leybourn’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Of course not! Only a fool would question why a brazenly peculiar verdict was being passed by
one of the King’s judges.’

‘Dillon will certainly be innocent,’ said Thurloe, agitated. ‘I must do something to help him. I cannot let the poor man die.’

‘I will tell you the identity of the beggar when I learn his name,’ offered Chaloner. ‘
He
wanted Dillon saved, so he clearly concurred with your assessment of the verdict.’

‘Thank you. I shall make a few enquiries of my own, too. I do not like the smell of this business.’

Thurloe was unsettled by the notion that one of his former spies was in prison, and decided to visit Dillon in Newgate Gaol
immediately; Leybourn went with him. Meanwhile, the day was now sufficiently advanced for Chaloner to head for St Martin’s
Lane, where the Trulocke brothers had their business, and ask about the beggar’s gun. It was drizzling heavily, a sullen,
drenching spray that soaked through clothes and turned the streets into rivers of mud. Water splattered from the eaves of
houses, black with soot from the smoking, grinding industries that huddled along the banks of the Fleet river.

The streets were a marked contrast to the previous day, and were teeming with life, especially around the elegant piazza known
as Covent Garden. In it, an army of beggars appealed for alms, or offered songs or recitations of religious verses in exchange
for pennies, and ragged children sold fruit that was almost certainly stolen. They clamoured at passers-by, their voices almost
inaudible above the cacophony of hoofs, wheels and feet on stone cobbles. Gulls and kites perched on the chimneys above the
square’s curiously arcaded houses and on
the roof of St Paul’s Church, waiting to swoop down on any discarded food, while pigeons waddled and pecked among the filth.

The recently established fruit and vegetable market was in full swing, operating from a collection of ramshackle huts that
were supposed to be temporary, but that were beginning to take on an air of permanence – some had elegant awnings, and others
displayed the names of their owners in large, gaudily painted letters. The air was ripe with the stench of garlic and stagnant
water, and rain had turned the ground into a foetid quagmire of mud, animal dung, human urine and the rotten remains of whatever
had been dumped in the past. Splashes of colour were provided by the home-woven baskets that displayed early-cropping apples
from Kent, or oranges and lemons from southern France. Traders bellowed about their wares, and a furious altercation was erupting
between a barrow-boy and the driver of a carriage, which had collided outside the church. The resulting mess of rolling cabbages,
splintered wood and bucking mule was blocking the road, and it was not long before others added their voices to the quarrel
and fists started to fly.

Chaloner threaded his way through the melee, leaving the din of traffic behind briefly when he walked down a little-used alley,
but emerging into it again when he reached St Martin’s Lane. The west side of the street was full of grand mansions, each
with its own coach-house, while opposite were shops. Carts rattled and creaked as they went about their business, and there
was a tremendous racket from a wagon bearing a cage that was full of stray dogs. The occupants howled, yipped and snarled
their distress, and several heartless boys ran
behind them, throwing stones to enrage them further. The driver was slumped in his seat with his head on his chest, suggesting
he was either asleep, drunk or dead, and his ancient nag plodded along with its ears drooping miserably.

The Trulocke premises stood on the east side of the street, in the shadow of the ornate sixteenth-century Church of St Martin.
It was a small, narrow building, with thick shutters and a seedy appearance. A dripping board above the door declared that
Edmund, George and William Trulocke, brothers of Westminster, were licensed by the Gunmaker’s Company to sell small-arms and
muskets. The notice was weather-beaten and its words barely distinguishable, which added to the shop’s general aura of neglect
and decrepitude.

Chaloner had never had occasion to buy a firearm. When he needed one for his work, he usually resorted to theft, while during
the wars, muskets had been provided free of charge to soldiers of the New Model Army. Therefore, he looked around with interest
as he made his first foray into a gunsmith’s emporium, noting immediately the sharp scent of powder and the more powerful
reek of heated metal and hot oil. Displayed on the walls were various types of musket, but Chaloner was surprised to note
several handguns, too. Because governments were nervous of handguns – which could be hidden under a cloak, and aimed and fired
with one hand, making them ideal for assassins – their sale tended to be restricted, and it was unusual to see so many in
one place.

A small but pugnacious dog was tethered just inside the door, and Chaloner was obliged to move smartly to avoid its snapping
teeth. A shaven-headed giant with a single yellow tooth jutting from his lower jaw came to
see why the animal was barking, and Chaloner could see two more hulking brutes in the workshop behind. He was immediately
unsettled: they were not the kind of men he liked to see in charge of weapons stores – it did not take a genius to see they
would have them out on the streets at the first sign of civil unrest.

‘George Trulocke,’ said the man, jabbing a thumb at his own chest. ‘You want a pistol, grandfather? To protect you against
street felons? We can make you one, but there is a waiting list and you cannot have it for at least a month.’

‘Business is good, then?’ asked Chaloner, speaking loudly to make himself heard over the dog. The knot on the leash slipped,
allowing its dripping fangs to come within a hair of his ankle.

‘He will not hurt you,’ said Trulocke, sniggering when the spy jumped away.

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner coolly. ‘He will not.’

The man chortled again, and Chaloner realised his Vanders disguise meant people would be inclined to underestimate him. The
dog knew better, though, and its barks subsided into a bass growl that saw saliva pooling on the floor.

‘Well?’ said Trulocke, when he had his mirth under control. ‘What do you want? We make a nice wheel-lock dag that would suit
a gent your age, but if you want it quicker than a month, it will cost you. However, we might come to an arrangement if you
consider ordering several.’

Chaloner masked his surprise at the offer. Handguns were hideously expensive – far more so than muskets – and there could
not be many people with the means to purchase ‘several’. There was also no need for anyone
to want more than a couple – at least, not for legitimate reasons. He recalled that in Ireland, the rebels had been equipped
with a unexpectedly large number of them, something he and his fellow spies had discussed at length. Could the insurgents
have made an arrangement with an obliging gunsmith like Trulocke? He supposed he should investigate, but for now, he needed
to concentrate on the beggar.

‘Have you sold a snaphaunce recently?’ he asked, referring to the type of firing mechanism he had noted on the vagrant’s weapon.

‘Why should I tell you that?’ asked Trulocke warily.

Chaloner smiled pleasantly. ‘Because the Lord Chancellor wants to know.’

Trulocke’s wariness increased. ‘And you expect me to believe that he asked
you
to find out?’

The dagger from Chaloner’s sleeve had been in the palm of his hand ever since he had entered the shop. He took a step back
and threw it into the wall behind Trulocke’s head. It passed so close to the gunsmith’s ear that he raised his hand instinctively,
to see if it was still attached. Deftly, Chaloner produced a second blade and held it in a way that made Trulocke know he
was ready to use it.

‘Are you going to answer, or would you rather we conversed in the Tower?’

Trulocke swallowed, and his eyes slid towards the workshop, where his colleagues were labouring over something that produced
a lot of orange sparks. However, he had second thoughts about calling for help when he glanced back at the spy and saw the
dangerous expression on his face. The tone of his voice quickly went from belligerent to wheedling. ‘Me and my brothers sell
snaphaunces all the time. We are gunsmiths, so what do you expect?’

‘I expect you to sell mostly muskets,’ replied Chaloner, gesturing to the long-barrelled weapons displayed on the walls. ‘Shall
I be more specific about this particular dag? It has an iron grip, carved with a ornate pattern of winding leaves. And your
name is set into the barrel.’

‘Fitz-Simons,’ said Trulocke with considerable reluctance. ‘Richard Fitz-Simons. He bought a snaphaunce from us three months
ago, along with a dozen muskets, but we never—’

‘Where does Fitz-Simons live?’

Trulocke licked his lips. ‘He never told me and I never asked. And I never spoke to
you
, neither. He knows some brutal men, and I am a peaceful sort of fellow who deplores violence.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘You own a gun shop. That is hardly the activity of a pacifist.’

‘I sell firearms for shooting pigeons.’

‘You offered me one to use on felons,’ Chaloner pointed out. Trulocke opened his mouth to make excuses, then closed it again
when nothing plausible came to mind, so Chaloner continued. ‘What does Fitz-Simons look like?’

The gunsmith rubbed his bristly chin with an unsteady hand. ‘Fat, with a scar in his eyebrow, which is old – probably from
the wars. I think he might be a surgeon. Why do you want to know? Is he in trouble? If so, it has nothing to do with us. We
run a legal business here.’

‘Why do you think he might be a surgeon?’

‘Because he owns a bag full of metal implements. I saw them when he opened it to put the dag inside. I broke my leg last year,
see, and the barber-surgeon who set it owned equipment like that.’

‘Is there anything else? My Lord Chancellor will not like it if I am obliged to come back because you have not been honest.
And neither will I.’

Trulocke flinched when Chaloner reached past him to retrieve his dagger. ‘No, I swear! However, if
I
wanted to find Fitz-Simons, I would ask for him in Chyrurgeons’ Hall on Monkwell Street.’

It was nearing ten o’clock by the time Chaloner reached White Hall, where he learned there was to be a grand ball with music
and dancing that day, all part of the festivities commemorating the coronation. He wondered whether His Majesty was aware
that only the Court was celebrating, and that outside in busy King Street, people muttered rebelliously as cartload after
cartload of food, ale and wine trundled through the palace gates.

Reluctant to use the main entrance when it was being watched by so many hostile eyes, Chaloner headed for a small door that
led to Scotland Yard, once a handsome palace for Scottish kings, but now a huddle of sag-roofed apartments for minor Court
officials. He knocked at the porters’ lodge, murmured a password to the soldier on duty, and waited in an anteroom for Colonel
Holles to come and admit him.

‘Heyden?’ Holles asked in an undertone when he arrived, looking around to make sure no one could hear him. ‘Your disguises
never cease to amaze me. Who are you this time?’

Philip Holles was a professional gentleman–soldier devoted to Lord Clarendon. He had often spirited Chaloner to the Earl’s
chambers for secret meetings, and sometimes gave him licence to lurk in parts of the palace that were supposed to be off-limits
to all except
members of the Royal Household. He was a useful ally, and Chaloner had grown to like him. He was tall and burly, with the
kind of moustaches no one had worn for years, and everything about him bespoke his military past.

‘Kristiaan Vanders from Holland,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Here to upholster Clarendon’s furniture. He thinks Bristol will poach
me to decorate
his
house instead, which will allow me to spy on him.’

‘Good,’ said Holles fervently. ‘Someone needs to, because Bristol has been encouraging all manner of unpleasant types to join
his side this week – folk such as Lady Castlemaine, Adrian May and Sir Richard Temple. Our poor earl will be destroyed if
we do not take steps to protect him.’

‘The dispute does seem to be a bitter one,’ acknowledged Chaloner.

Holles blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘That is an under-statement – they hate each other! Of course, it was Bristol who started
this current quarrel. He went around bragging about being a papist, thus
forcing
Lord Clarendon to remove him from his official posts. He
asked
for what happened to him.’

Knowing Holles would be appalled and bemused by his moderate views on religion, Chaloner declined to comment. He changed the
subject slightly. ‘Did you say May now supports Bristol, too?’

‘Yes, damn him to Hell! I hope this does not mean Spymaster Williamson is about to follow suit. He has remained neutral so
far, and it would be a bitter blow if
he
were to declare for Bristol.’

‘It is a sorry state of affairs – and petty, too. They should put their energies into something more useful – such as
avoiding a war with the Dutch or running the country in a more efficient manner.’

Holles nodded agreement. ‘I doubt May will be much of a bonus to Bristol’s faction, though. He is a good swordsman by all
accounts, but not overly endowed with wits.’

‘He is a decent shot,’ said Chaloner ruefully. ‘He picked off that beggar easily enough.’

Holles grimaced. ‘Did the Earl mention that I saw what happened yesterday? I wanted to tell Williamson that the man’s death
was not your fault, but Clarendon told me to keep my mouth shut.’

‘I do not suppose you know a surgeon called Fitz-Simons, do you?’ asked Chaloner, wishing the Earl had kept
his
mouth shut. A few words from a respected soldier like Holles would have counter-balanced the poisonous report May was sure
to have made.

‘Yes, of course – a portly chap with a scar over one eye. He is one of four barber-surgeons who hold royal appointments, so
they are often here at Court. Fitz-Simons is conspicuous by his absence today, though, and Surgeon Lisle told me an hour ago
that he is worried about him. Why do you ask?’

So, that explained why Lord Clarendon had claimed there was something familiar about the beggar, thought Chaloner, and why
Fitz-Simons had inside knowledge about White Hall. ‘Did you inspect that beggar’s body yesterday?’ he asked, ignoring the
question.

‘No, because May whisked it away too quickly. He brought it here with its head wrapped in a sack, set guards over it, and
summoned vergers to cart it off to St Martin’s for immediate burial. The Earl demanded to see its face, though, and that Irish
scholar – Terrell – contrived to
have a quick peek when the guards were looking the other way. Oh, and Surgeon Wiseman marched up and inspected it at length.
May threatened to shoot him if he did not leave, and Wiseman pretended not to hear, which was amusing. But May kept everyone
else away – including me.’