Blood on the Strand (9 page)

‘What excuse did he give for that?’

‘He said putting a corpse on display would be gratuitously ghoulish, although it has never bothered anyone at White Hall before.
Do you think he is hiding something?’

Chaloner was surprised he should need to ask. ‘You say Surgeon Lisle is worried about—’

Holles suddenly understood the line of questioning. ‘You think the beggar and Fitz-Simons are one and the same? It is possible,
I suppose – both were plump, although I never saw the dead man’s face because of the bag over his head. However, it certainly
explains why May was so eager to be rid of the corpse before anyone could identify it.’

‘It does?’

Holles nodded. ‘He will not want everyone to know he shot a Court surgeon, will he?’

‘I imagine that depends on what the Court surgeon was doing. Fitz-Simons was in disguise with a gun, and I wager his motive
had nothing to do with medicine.’ Chaloner thought aloud. ‘But if Fitz-Simons had access to White Hall through his royal appointment,
then why would he turn himself into a beggar to pass information to Williamson? Why not just waylay him here?’

‘He was only surgeon to the servants,’ explained Holles. ‘He is not like the other three – Lisle, Wiseman and Johnson – who
tend monarchs, dukes and earls.
Fitz-Simons is not allowed to frequent the parts of the palace that Williamson inhabits.’

‘I have met Lisle,’ said Chaloner, recalling the brown, smiling face of the man who had mixed the potion for the Earl’s gout.
‘Clarendon told me he is friends with another leech called Johnson.’

‘Lisle is a good soul. He volunteers his services at St Thomas’s Hospital, because he believes the poor have a right to surgery
as well as the rich, and he helps my men when they sustain injuries during training, even though he is not paid for it. He
is trying to remain neutral in the Clarendon–Bristol dispute, because he is Master of his Company, and he does not want to
annoy half his membership by declaring a preference.’

‘And Johnson?’

Holles’s moustache dipped in disapproval. ‘Bristol helped him get his Court appointment, so he is Bristol’s man to the core.’

‘What about the last surgeon – Wiseman? Who does he support?’

Holles pointed through the window, to where a man clad in a glorious red robe strutted proudly across the yard. He was unusually
large, and cut an impressive figure as he moved, enough to make other people give him the right of way.

‘He likes Lord Clarendon. Unfortunately, the fellow has a tongue like a rapier and, because he is on our side, we are obliged
to put up with it.’

‘Had Fitz-Simons chosen any particular earl to support?’

Holles shrugged. ‘He might have done, but he was too lowly for his opinion to matter – as I said, he worked among servants,
not courtiers. What do you think he was doing with that gun?’

‘What do you know about the Company of Barber-Surgeons?’ asked Chaloner, again ignoring the question.

‘Just that they have a hall with a dissecting room on Monkwell Street, where they slice up the corpses of hanged felons and
give public lectures about them. It all sounds revolting to me, and I would not be seen dead there.’ He winced at his choice
of words. ‘I would rather be in a brothel.’

‘I imagine most men feel the same,’ said Chaloner, sure the general populace would not be queuing up to witness such a spectacle.

‘Then you would be wrong. Dissections are very popular at Court, and you are considered unfashionable if you have not attended
one. I just thank God I am a soldier, and so not a slave to such trends – I detest the sight of innards and gore.’ Holles
shuddered and changed the subject. ‘I have discovered a rather splendid bawdy house in Hercules’s Pillars Alley. Have you
been? If not, I can arrange an introduction. It is very selective about its members, but the lady of the house likes me.’

‘She does?’ asked Chaloner, somewhat coolly. ‘And why is that?’

Holles twirled his moustaches. ‘She says I remind her of a soldier in Shakespeare’s
Henry the Fourth
, which I am sure is a great compliment. I always tip her girls very handsomely, you see.’

Chaloner suspected it was the tips that made him welcome, and assumed Holles had never seen the play, or he would not have
been flattered when Temperance compared him to Falstaff.

The colonel escorted Chaloner inside White Hall, then left him to his own devices. The first person Chaloner
saw was Eaffrey, who was far too experienced a spy to ignore the elderly stranger, who indicated that he wanted to speak
to her. She slipped away from Lady Castlemaine and her simpering entourage, and went to stand near a fountain in the middle
of the cobbled Great Court. The fountain had once spouted clean, bubbling water, but it had not worked since the wars, and
what filled its marbled troughs was green, sludge-like and malodorous. Eaffrey tossed a pebble at it, and the stone seemed
to hesitate on the surface before sinking out of sight.

‘That is an impressive disguise, Tom,’ she muttered, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘You will soon be better
than William.’

Chaloner sat on a low wall, and pretended to fiddle with the buckle on his shoe. As he did so, he automatic ally scanned the
people who scurried past. ‘That large man with the yellow hair seems to be watching you rather closely. Do you know him?’

‘That is Johan, my Brandenburg merchant,’ said Eaffrey, waving in a way that was distinctly coquettish. The fellow acknowledged
with a salute, although he did not return her smile, and Chaloner wondered whether there was something in his disguise that
had aroused suspicion. Behn was tall and broad, with a mane of thick blond hair, and his fine clothes indicated he was a man
of wealth. ‘Is he not handsome?’

‘He is all right,’ said Chaloner, taking an instant dislike to the bulky Adonis. The physical attraction he had developed
for Eaffrey during their passionate interlude in Holland had never completely left him, and he was disgusted when it occurred
to him that he might be jealous. Then he recalled what Thurloe had told him – that Behn owned a sugar plantation that used
slaves – and felt that
alone was reason enough for the man to be the recipient of his antipathy.

She grimaced at his lack of enthusiasm, but did not press the matter. ‘Have you come to gather intelligence at the Court ball?
If so, then you have badly miscalculated, because you will not be allowed in looking like that. You are far too shabby for
such an august occasion.’

‘I am supposed to be Kristiaan Vanders, here to spy on Bristol.’

‘Vanders died three years ago, of syphilis.’ Chaloner started to laugh – he had not known the cause of the old man’s demise
– but Eaffrey did not join in. ‘It is not funny, Tom! You do not need me to tell you that this sort of reckless prank might
see you killed. And I doubt you know enough about upholstery to fool all but the totally ignorant.’

‘There is nothing I can do about it – Clarendon issued a direct order.’

She gritted her teeth, furious on his behalf. ‘That arrogant old fool! Do you need help? I can pass you a little gossip I
heard today. A politician called Sir Richard Temple – not the brightest star in the sky, but someone who has declared an allegiance
to Bristol – is going to give Clarendon a parrot as a peacemaking gesture. Parrots talk, and the hope is that the bird will
repeat something incriminating.’

Chaloner laughed again. ‘Truly? Or are you jesting with me?’

‘I am perfectly serious: the feathered spy will be presented this afternoon. I heard Temple telling Johan all about it just
a few minutes ago. Did I tell you I intend to marry Johan, by the way?’

Chaloner regarded the burly merchant doubtfully, wondering what it was about Behn that had captured her heart. ‘Are you sure
about this, Eaffrey? I heard he owns a plantation that uses slaves.’

‘Yes, but he has promised to do away with it, because he knows how much I disapprove. I would like you two to be friends.
Let me introduce you.’

‘Wait, I—’

But it was too late to point out that he would be wise to maintain a low profile until he was sure no one at Court had ever
met Vanders, because she was already summoning the fair
beau idéal
with a crooked finger. ‘Johan, I would like you to meet Mr Vanders, from Holland. He is an upholsterer.’

Chaloner would have had to be blind not to notice the adoring expression on her face when she addressed the merchant, and
he supposed she really was in love with the fellow.

‘
Kristiaan
Vanders?’ asked Behn suspiciously. ‘I thought he was dead.’

‘There was a rumour to that effect,’ replied Eaffrey smoothly. ‘But it was premature, and he recovered from his French pox,
as you can see. Some men do, if they are touched by God.’

‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said Behn in German, a language Chaloner understood, but spoke only poorly. He wondered
if Behn knew Vanders was fluent, and was testing him. ‘Although I confess I have never been very impressed by your turkeywork
sofas – too ornate by half.’

‘Each to his own,’ replied Chaloner in English. ‘We should not use German here, though – people might think we are spies.’
Behn opened his mouth to pursue
the matter, so Chaloner changed the subject, saying the first thing that came into his head. ‘Have you ever had syphilis,
Mr Behn?’

Eaffrey shot him an irritable look, and he supposed it was not the sort of conversation she had envisioned for his first meeting
with the man of her dreams.

‘No,’ said Behn, sufficiently startled by the bald query to abandon his interrogation.

‘Good,’ said Chaloner, before he could resume. ‘It is an extremely uncomfortable condition.’

‘That was rude,’ hissed Eaffrey, when Behn’s attention was caught by a flurry of trumpets that heralded the arrival of the
Duke of Buckingham. ‘Johan is important to me – and you should know how I feel, because you have been in love yourself. With
Metje,’ she added, lest he needed reminding of the woman he had once intended to marry, but who was now dead.

Chaloner relented, and tried to make himself more amenable when Behn turned to face him again. ‘I hear you own a sugar plantation,’
he said, determined, however, that the conversation would not be in German or about sofas, either. ‘How interesting.’

‘There is money to be had in sugar,’ said Behn. ‘Especially if you use slaves to work your fields.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, taken aback by the blunt admission. Eaffrey seemed to be holding her breath in anticipation of fireworks,
but Chaloner could not afford to draw attention to himself with a quarrel. He swallowed his growing dislike for the merchant
and smiled in what he hoped was a benign manner.

‘Of course, there are those who disapprove,’ Behn went on, ‘but they usually concede my point when I challenge them to settle
the matter with swords.
I
am
no weakling, afraid to shed a bit of blood for what I believe – especially if it is someone else’s.’ He fingered the hilt
of his blade meaningfully.

‘Johan is a member of the Guinea Company,’ gabbled Eaffrey, desperately scrabbling about for a non-contentious topic. ‘He
expects to be elected Master soon.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped that an august body like the Company of Royal Adventurers Trading to Africa – the Guinea Company,
for short – would have more decency than to vote for someone who held such reprehensible convictions. ‘They must think very
highly of you,’ was all he said, although Behn seemed to sense his distaste, even so.

‘They do.’ The merchant scowled at Chaloner, who supposed the disdain he felt was being reciprocated in full. ‘However, their
feasts can be dangerous. A member called Webb was stabbed on his way home from one just three weeks ago. Have you noticed
how many unnatural deaths there are in London, Vanders?’ Behn drew his dagger and inspected it, testing the blade with his
thumb.

Chaloner shook his head artlessly, although his thoughts were racing. Eaffrey had mentioned a merchant stabbed after a Guinea
Company dinner, although he had not realised then that the victim was Webb – the man Dillon was accused of killing. Scot said
he had been there, spying on the man who wanted to marry his sister, and Chaloner was suddenly hopeful that a good and reliable
witness might help him unravel what had happened. Meanwhile, Behn was glowering, underlining his threat by wielding his knife
in a way that was distinctly provocative.

‘I heard three felons are awaiting execution for that crime,’ said Chaloner, patting his arm paternally, just
hard enough to make him fumble the blade and drop it. Eaffrey shot him an anguished look, which he felt was unjustified –
after all,
he
was not the one brandishing weapons. ‘So, I doubt there will be any more murders of men walking home from dinner. You need
not be frightened.’

Furious, Behn retrieved his dagger. ‘It is not
my
safety I am concerned about. I am young and fit, and know how to look after myself. It is the elderly who should be worried.’

‘Did you see Webb the night he was killed?’ asked Chaloner, treating the threats with the contempt they deserved by pretending
he did not understand them. He glanced at Eaffrey and saw her regarding Behn unhappily. It occurred to him that she was seeing
her lover in a new and unattractive light, and sincerely hoped she would think very carefully about a future with him.

‘That is an odd question,’ snapped Behn. ‘It sounds as if you think
I
might have killed him.’

‘Why would I do that?’ asked Chaloner, who had thought nothing of the kind – although Behn’s overly defensive comment certainly
made him consider the possibility. ‘I was just wondering whether he had argued with anyone at this Guinea Company dinner,
and the wrong men sit in Newgate Gaol.’

Behn’s eyes flicked towards Eaffrey in a way that made it obvious he was hiding something. ‘I cannot discuss Company business
with outsiders,’ he declared. ‘The subject is closed.’

‘You opened it,’ Chaloner pointed out.

‘I think Lady Castlemaine wants us, Johan,’ said Eaffrey, hastily cutting across the indignant response Behn would have made.
‘Look, she is waving.’