Blood on the Strand (10 page)

‘She obviously means to ask you where she left her clothes,’ said Chaloner. ‘Because she does not appear to be wearing them.’

Behn swivelled around quickly, and his mouth fell open. The lady in question strutted towards the Duke of Buckingham in what
appeared to be a shift. The material was outrageously thin, and every detail of her elegant figure could be seen through
it. Chaloner glanced around, and saw that at least thirty men were watching her, ranging from the Bishop of London, whose
small eyes were transfixed in glittering admiration, to the King, who frowned in a way that suggested he objected to sharing.

‘
Gott in Himmel
!’ breathed Behn, transfixed. ‘What a magnificent pair of onions!’

‘Speaking of onions, here is Bristol,’ said Eaffrey, placing herself between Behn and the glorious apparition as a black carriage
with a scarlet trim rattled into the courtyard. ‘I can smell him from here.’

‘And
I
can smell Lady Castlemaine’s perfume,’ said Behn, ducking around her to resume his ogling. ‘It makes a man heady with delight.’

Chaloner had wasted enough time on Behn, and was keen to get on with his investigation into the death of Fitz-Simons. ‘Can
you introduce me to any surgeons, Eaffrey? I understand the Court has several.’

‘Suffering from a recurrence of your French pox, are you?’ asked Behn with mock sympathy, only turning towards him when Lady
Castlemaine had disappeared inside Bristol’s carriage.

‘Stiff knee,’ replied Chaloner, leaning down to rub his left leg. A twinge told him he would have a real one if he was obliged
to spend too long hobbling around as the arthritic Dutchman.

‘Sore joints are a symptom of syphilis,’ said Behn in his native tongue. ‘The disease fills the bones with pus, which eventually
addles the brain. Perhaps that is why you have forgotten your German.’

‘Or perhaps I just do not choose to speak it with oafs,’ retorted Chaloner, nettled at last. Surely Eaffrey could not expect
him to endure insult after insult without making some defence?

‘There is Lord Clarendon,’ said Eaffrey tiredly. ‘You had better go and introduce yourself, Mr Vanders, since you said he
is expecting you.’

Chaloner bowed and abandoned the happy couple. He heard Eaffrey asking, in a somewhat strained voice, whether Lady Castlemaine’s
onions were really all that special, but did not catch the merchant’s response. He put Eaffrey out of his mind as he made
his way to where Clarendon, clad in a glorious coat of deep pink, was talking to a pale, thin fellow with broken blood vessels
in his nose and a shabby, dissipated air. The man was Clarendon’s favourite cousin, Sir Alan Brodrick.

Everyone knew Clarendon had great ambitions for Brodrick, but most people also knew the hopes were unlikely to be realised,
because of Brodrick himself. He drank too much, attended too many wild soirées and, although he was intelligent enough to
hold high office, he was also lazy and careless. The Earl was the only person who thought he owned any virtues, and dismissed
the tales of his kinsman’s debauchery as spiteful rumour. Chaloner would have despised Brodrick with the rest, were it not
for the fact that the man was an accomplished violist. They had enjoyed several evenings of duets and chamber music together
– and Chaloner was willing to forgive a great deal where music was concerned.

‘My Lord Chancellor,’ said Chaloner, effecting the kind of bow favoured by the Dutch. ‘I am—’

‘Assassins!’ screeched the Earl, when he turned to see the squalid fellow bobbing at his side.

Chaloner stood his ground. ‘It is me, sir,’ he whispered, aware that soldiers were responding to the alarm and hurrying towards
him, weapons drawn. Behn was among them. ‘Heyden.’

But the Earl was not listening, and flung out a chubby arm to protect himself. Chaloner ducked to avoid being slapped, and
was off balance when Behn made a flying tackle that saw them both crash to the ground. In a desperate attempt to preserve
his disguise, Chaloner clutched his wig, not wanting his brown hair to spill from underneath it. It meant he landed awkwardly
with the full weight of the Brandenburger on top of him, and he felt something twist in his left arm.

‘I have him,’ yelled Behn, gripping Chaloner by the scruff of his neck and hauling him to his feet. Chaloner’s hand was numb
and he could not feel whether his dagger had dropped from his sleeve into his palm – although it would have done him scant
good if it had, since he could hardly stab Behn in the middle of White Hall. ‘I
knew
there was something odd about him. Shall I slit his throat?’

‘No!’ cried Brodrick, catching on to the situation far more quickly than his bemused kinsman and stepping forward to prevent
Behn from following through with his kind offer. ‘This is Mr Vanders the upholsterer. Unhand him immediately, sir.’

‘Oh,’ said Clarendon sheepishly, finally realising what had happened. ‘
That
Vanders.’

* * *

‘It was your own fault,’ said the Earl accusingly, as he sat with Chaloner and Holles in his White Hall office. ‘You should
have warned me. And the incident has done neither of us any good, because now people think I bully old men – and I can imagine
what Bristol will make of
that
.’

Chaloner drank more of the wine Holles had poured him, and made no reply. He was more angry with himself than with Clarendon,
disgusted that he had allowed Behn, of all people, to knock him to the ground. He comforted himself with the knowledge that
at least his disguise was still intact. The wig had remained in place, and Behn had not managed to smudge any of his carefully
crafted wrinkles.

‘Do not worry,’ said Holles kindly. ‘The surgeon will be here soon, and he will put all to rights.’

Chaloner did not need the services of a
medicus
, but it was too good an opportunity to miss by saying so. He was not sure which of the bone-setters – Lisle, Wiseman or Johnson
– would answer the summons, but he intended to make full use of whoever arrived by asking whether they knew why their colleague
Fitz-Simons had been so desperate to speak to Spymaster Williamson. His wrist was sore, but it was nothing that would not
be better by morning, and he was actually in more discomfort from jarring his lame leg, although he was not going to admit
that
particular weakness to anyone in White Hall.

The door opened to admit Brodrick, who had offered to fetch the surgical help. He was alone, and Chaloner assumed he had allowed
himself to become side-tracked by the copious bowls of wine that had been placed in every public corridor. These were to ensure
the ball got off to a good start.

‘The rumours have started, cousin,’ said Brodrick to the Earl, trying to keep the amusement from his voice as he leaned against
the wall, goblet in one hand and smoking pipe in the other. ‘
Everyone
is talking about how you felled an insolent Dutchman with a vicious punch to the nose.’

‘I did nothing of the kind!’ cried Clarendon, appalled. ‘I flung out an arm, but no contact was made. It was Behn who bowled
Heyden from his feet. Is it Bristol who is telling these lies?’

Brodrick grinned as he sipped his claret. ‘He is certainly making sure they are common knowledge, but the tale actually originated
with Surgeon Wiseman. He says he saw it happen.’

‘Then he is mistaken!’ wailed the Earl. ‘I thought Wiseman was on my side. Has he migrated to Bristol’s camp, then?’

‘Absolutely not,’ replied Brodrick. ‘And what he has done is rather clever: he has let it be known that you have teeth, and
that you are prepared to use them. He has done you a great favour.’

Holles nodded agreement. ‘It is true, My Lord. Bristol will be obliged to revise his opinion of you now, and that cannot be
a bad thing – it is always good to have one’s enemies off balance. He will think twice about insulting you again, lest you
wallop
him
, too.’

Brodrick laughed. It was the kind of scenario that suited his sense of the ridiculous. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I
am off to spin a few tales of my own. I shall say the Dutch upholsterer lies at death’s door, and that those who meddle with
the Lord Chancellor do so at their peril.’

‘Yes!’ said Holles, eyes gleaming. ‘And I shall add to the speculation by ordering a coffin.’

‘No!’ shouted the Earl, horrified. ‘I do not want to be considered a ruffian! I shall tell anyone
I
meet the truth: that the Brandenburg merchant was the one who harmed Heyden … I mean Vanders.’

Brodrick winked conspiratorially at Chaloner, to let him know that he thought this would only add fuel to the fire. It would
be seen as a case of ‘he doth protest too much’, and would ‘prove’ Lord Clarendon had indeed indulged in a brief spurt of
violence.

‘I hope this injury will not affect your playing, Heyden,’ said Brodrick, hastily changing the subject when he saw his cousin
begin to lose his temper for real. He removed a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘Here is the new piece I commissioned from
Locke, and you will see that the bass viol has some challenging solo work. I shall have to invite Greeting if you are unavailable,
and he will not be easy to dislodge once he is installed. Can you come tonight?’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner firmly, taking one look at the music and deciding wild horses would not prevent him from taking part.

‘Good. I tried to summon Lisle to tend you – he is the gentlest of the Court surgeons, and to my mind the best – but a carriage
has overturned in King Street and he was the only
medicus
willing to help the victims without waiting to hear whether they have the resources to pay him. So he is unavailable. However,
I met your friend Eaffrey, and she is scouring the palace for Wiseman or Johnson.’

‘Let us hope it is Wiseman, then,’ said Holles, when Brodrick had gone. ‘I would not let Johnson near my worst enemy. But
I did not know you were a friend of the lovely Eaffrey, Heyden.’

Chaloner glanced sharply at him, and saw from the colonel’s glistening eyes that his interest in brothels probably extended
to the ladies at Court, too.

‘Eaffrey,’ said the Earl, his voice dripping disapproval. ‘Williamson told me that he sends her to “bestow her charms” on
men, which means she offers her body in exchange for their innermost secrets. He says she is very good at it. I hope you do
not enjoy
that
sort of relationship with her, Heyden. I would not like
my
innermost secrets blurted across a silken pillow.’

‘If she “bestowed her charms” on me, I would let her have her wicked way, then fob her off with rot,’ said Holles, saving
Chaloner from informing the Earl that he was perfectly capable of enjoying a woman without discussing his work, and it was
no one’s business who he slept with anyway. And he was about to tell Holles that Eaffrey was used to men thinking like him,
and that the colonel would be putty in her hands regardless, when a servant knocked on the door. He announced that Sir Richard
Temple was waiting to present a peace-offering, in the fervent hope that relations between him and the Lord Chancellor might
be more friendly in the future.

‘You see?’ said Clarendon miserably. ‘Temple is so terrified by my newly violent reputation that he feels obliged to bribe
me, to make sure I do not savage
him
with my fists for siding with Bristol. Hide behind the curtains, if you please, Heyden. I do not want him to see you damaged.’

‘He is here to provide you with a parrot, sir,’ said Chaloner, remembering what Eaffrey had told him. ‘It has been trained
to repeat conversations, apparently. You should accept it, then teach it some rubbish – to trick him.’

‘I most certainly shall not,’ said Clarendon haughtily. ‘I am Lord Chancellor of England, and such deceptions are beneath
my dignity. I shall accept his gift graciously, and demonstrate my moral superiority by rising above sly pranks.’

Chaloner felt like retorting that he would not remain in office long if he refused to meet his enemies on their own ground,
but supposed it was the spy in him talking. Perhaps the Earl was right to remain aloof from petty behaviour, and an ethical
stance would see him victorious in the end. Obediently, he went to stand behind the heavy drapes in the window.

Temple was not alone when he sidled into the Lord Chancellor’s domain, and Chaloner saw the Earl’s expression harden when
Lady Castlemaine swept in behind him, still wearing her skimpy shift. In deference to the Earl’s sensibilities, however, she
had thrown a cloak around her shoulders, although the appreciative Holles was still treated to the sight of a pair of shapely
calves emerging from under it. Pointedly, Clarendon kept his own eyes fixed on her companion.

Temple was not an attractive man. His complexion was swarthy, and he had more warts than Oliver Cromwell. Although not yet
thirty, he had no teeth whatsoever, and when he flashed an insincere smile of greeting at the Earl, he revealed a disconcertingly
large array of gums. Studying him through a hole in the curtain, Chaloner could see no earthly reason why Alice Scot should
have selected him as a potential husband, and thought there was no accounting for taste. In his hand, Temple carried a cage
covered with a dark cloth, which he set carefully on the table.

The Earl sneezed. ‘What can I do for you, Temple?’

Lady Castlemaine’s catlike eyes narrowed when he declined to acknowledge her presence, and Chaloner thought him unwise to
goad such a dangerous enemy for no good reason – even a simple nod would have been enough to satisfy her.

Carefully, Temple removed the cloth to reveal a bright-green bird. Parrots had been unknown in England a century before, but
with more of the Americas being discovered every year, they were becoming an increasingly common sight in the menageries of
the wealthy. The parrot eyed Clarendon malevolently and flapped its brilliant wings.

‘Roundheads!’ it squawked piercingly. ‘Thousands of ’em.’

Clarendon regarded it balefully. ‘Is that for me?’

‘I thought you might like it,’ said Temple with a smile so obsequious that Chaloner winced. ‘I know my association with Bristol
means that we have been at loggerheads of late, but I am weary of strife. I would like to be your friend.’