Blood on the Strand (15 page)

Leybourn chuckled. ‘She complained about the smell, which was crass: corpses do reek, but decent folk pretend not to notice,
out of respect for the next of kin. And she
took exception to the music the King had chosen. She was lucky everyone was too startled by her opinions to arrest her. Did
you say there is some suggestion that Webb’s killer – Dillon – was involved in the Castle Plot?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘He and Fitz-Simons had charts of Dublin Castle, and they left London on an Ireland-bound ship before the
rebellion began. The government knew about the revolt long before it happened, which must mean someone betrayed it.’

‘Someone?’ echoed Leybourn quizzically. ‘You mean a someone like Fitz-Simons or Dillon?’

‘It is possible. Or perhaps Webb was the traitor, and
that
is why Dillon killed him.’

‘I thought Dillon was innocent. Thurloe says so, and he is not usually wrong about such things.’

Chaloner sighed. ‘True.’

Leybourn was thoughtful. ‘Webb knew a lot of people, not all of them salubrious. Perhaps he did catch wind of a plot involving
Londoners, and tried to curry favour by passing the information to official quarters. You will have to find out if you want
to get to the bottom of his murder. So, you have a choice of motives: rebellion or slavery. Neither will be comfortable to
explore.’

‘Murder is seldom comfortable,’ said Chaloner. He did not add that neither was anything else Thurloe and Clarendon asked him
to investigate.

Chyrurgeons’ Hall had started modestly, with a simple house raised in the fifteenth century. It had expanded since, and now
the Company of Barber-Surgeons owned several buildings. These included the impressive Great Parlour, which boasted a first-floor
refectory with an open undercroft beneath it. This was attached to the equally handsome Anatomical Theatre – by means of a
cloister at ground level, and a covered corridor above. In addition, there was the Court Room, in which the Company held its
meetings, bounded by a number of semi-per manent sheds, a granary and several cottages. The complex was accessed by a gate
from Monkwell Street, which was manned by a watchful guard – the Company was wealthy, and often attracted thieves and burglars.
The guard told Chaloner that Wiseman was still at church, but that the Company Clerk, Richard Reynell, was willing to entertain
his visitor until he returned.

Reynell was a middle-aged man with a foxy face and small, intelligent eyes. His clothes were surprisingly stylish for one
whose salary could not have been huge, although the oily hair that hung in lank tendrils down his back
detracted from the overall impression of elegance. Surgeon Johnson – the bushy-bearded fellow who had attempted to burgle
the Lord Chancellor’s office – was with him, dressed in the same puce-coloured, paunch-hugging coat he had worn the previous
day. A multitude of stains suggested its owner had enjoyed a good night at the palace. Around his right forefinger was a bandage,
and he held the afflicted member high above his head, as if testing the direction of the wind.

‘I am draining out poisoned blood,’ he explained, seeing Chaloner looking at it. ‘It was bitten by a green parrot, you see,
and it is well known among the more educated men of my trade that they are the most dangerous kind. No man wants to be savaged
by a
green
parrot.’

‘If you drain the bad blood by holding your finger aloft, then surely the toxins will flood into your arm,’ said Chaloner,
puzzled. ‘And then into the rest of your body.’

‘Yes, but that is what livers are for,’ declared Johnson. Even Reynell frowned his surprise at this particular piece of information.
‘They attract dirty blood and convert it to pellets that are then expelled in vomit. I shall take a purge later and will be
cured tomorrow.’

Chaloner was glad it had not been Johnson who had answered the summons to tend him the day before. ‘How did you come to be
pecked in the first place?’ he asked.

‘I was attending a lady, who was racked by a fit of violent sneezing. I immediately ascertained that this was being caused
by a crucifix on her wall. As I was removing the offending object, the bird landed on my hat, and I was injured in the ensuing
struggle.’

‘Do you physic many White Hall courtiers?’ Chaloner
asked politely, feeling some sort of response was required,

but declining to address Johnson’s bizarre diagnosis.

‘Dozens,’ bragged Johnson. ‘I am far more popular than that scoundrel Wiseman, because
I
do not regard patients as subjects for wild experiments.’

‘I can see why that would have an appeal,’ agreed Chaloner.

‘Some people even prefer me to Lisle,’ Johnson went on. ‘Despite the fact that he is much loved in London. The problem with
Lisle is that he is a bit too free with the truth. Who wants to know he is going to die? It is better to tell a man he is
going to get better. Also, patients tend to be more generous with the fees when you give them good news, so there is always
that to consider, too.’

‘The Earl of Clarendon,’ said Chaloner innocently. ‘Have you ever tended him? In his offices?’

Johnson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Certainly not! He has set himself against poor Bristol, you know. I like Bristol, because he got
me my Court post. He and I are going to invent a revolutionary new chewing machine for men with no teeth. It will make us
a good deal of money.’

The clerk looked concerned. ‘We are already rich, so should not draw attention to ourselves with odd inventions – we do not
want a reputation like Wiseman’s. It is better to maintain a low profile.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner, bemused.

Reynell’s expression was unreadable. ‘Once people know you, they start to pry into matters that are none of their concern.
Fame is not a desirable condition.’

‘Piffle,’ countered Johnson. He turned to the spy. ‘We were talking about me and my battle with the Devil’s familiar.’

‘Clarendon?’

‘The parrot,’ said Johnson impatiently. Chaloner regarded him coolly. He liked birds, but he had not taken to Johnson; if
the surgeon had done anything unsporting, he was ready to extract revenge on the creature’s behalf. ‘After our tussle, it
flew out of the window. The last I heard was that it has made friends with the Bishop of London, and refuses to leave his
shoulder. Since it raced to save that crucifix, I can only conclude that the bishop is also of the Roman persuasion, and that
the parrot has recognised one of its own – an agent of Satan.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, wondering what it was about religion that turned men into drooling fanatics. He addressed Reynell,
keen to change the subject. ‘Have you worked here long?’

‘Long enough,’ replied Reynell cagily. ‘Why do you want to know?’

Chaloner did not want to know; he was just making conversation. He tried again, ‘I have never been here before, but I understand
your Anatomical Theatre was designed by Inigo Jones.’

‘Jones was an architect,’ announced Johnson, as if he imagined Chaloner was a half-wit. ‘He threw up the Banqueting House,
and … and a few other places, too. We asked him to do us a new Anatomical Theatre because the public kept looking through
the windows of the old one, wanting to know what we were up to. So, Jones built us one with windows that are unreachable by
nosy ghouls.’

‘Would you like to see it?’ asked Reynell.

Chaloner was not seized with any particular desire to inspect a place where corpses were dismembered, but he had raised the
subject and felt he had no choice but to accept. He followed them towards an oval building, inside of which were four tiers
of cedar-wood seats, placed so
every spectator would have an unimpeded view of the large dissecting table in the centre of the room. The walls were graced
with statues of the Seven Liberal Sciences, and for some inexplicable reason, the signs of the zodiac were painted above them.
Dominating all was a painting by Hans Holbein, depicting King Henry VIII handing the barbers and the surgeons the warrant
that made them an official city guild.

The spy was disconcerted to see the table occupied by a cadaver, because Wiseman had told him Public Anatomies only took place
four times a year. The body was covered by a sheet, but a pair of yellow feet protruded from the bottom. There was a faint
pink stain over the area of the heart, and Chaloner was not sure why, but he was suddenly seized by the absolute conviction
that the corpse belonged to Fitz-Simons, shot in the chest by May. He moved closer, wanting to know for certain.

‘My speciality is pumping wax into a corpse’s veins,’ announced Johnson, flicking up the sheet to reveal two plump, greyish
legs. The major blood vessels in the groin had been exposed, and one partially removed, so it could be attached to a bowl
by means of a pipe. Chaloner also noticed grazes on the corpse’s knees, as if the man had fallen as he had died. ‘For the
demonstration of the venous system. It is a skilled business, and you will not be surprised to learn that I am extremely good
at it.’

Chaloner nodded. He was not particularly squeamish, but there was something about the cold, dispassionate treatment of the
body in Chyrurgeons’ Hall that unsettled him. Surreptitiously, he edged towards the sheet, intending to tweak it off ‘by accident’,
then take his leave as soon as he had his answer.

‘Stand back,’ ordered Johnson. ‘Bodies are delicate, not to be pawed by non-members.’

‘I will not touch it, I assure you,’ said Chaloner fervently, wondering what sort of ‘pawing’ was enjoyed by the elite who
were members.

Johnson raised a cynical eyebrow, apparently of the belief that onlookers would be unable to help themselves.

‘Laymen can be very salacious,’ explained Reynell. He started to sniff. ‘Does this room smell? I have been among the odours
of the trade for so long that I can no longer tell.’

Chaloner nodded. The corpse stank and, since he assumed it was being prepared for the Public Anatomy the following Saturday,
he was glad he would not be around when the demonstration started; by then, it would be overpowering to the point of noxious.
He was surprised Fitz-Simons had grown rank so quickly, and wondered if he had been left in a warm place. ‘I doubt surgeons
will mind,’ he said. ‘They must be used to it.’

‘We are not concerned about surgeons,’ said Johnson. ‘This particular anatomy is to be private.’

Chaloner regarded him blankly, but Johnson did not seem to think the statement required further clarification, and turned
back to his charge, covering the legs with the sheet and patting it tight around the edges in a macabre parody of tucking
someone into bed. It was Reynell who explained.

‘We perform two types of anatomy: private and public. The latter are major events, and Company members are permitted to invite
guests. Afterwards, because it is a well-known medical fact that watching dissections makes men hungry, we have dinner together
with plenty of wine. It is always very jolly.’

‘Jolly?’ Chaloner was not sure he would feel ‘jolly’ after enduring such a spectacle.

Reynell nodded keenly. ‘There are four
Public
Anatomies a year, and we are assigned executed felons for that express purpose. Of course, it is not always easy to lay claim
to them, because sometimes the families get there first. Or the spectators at the scaffold.’

‘Witches try to steal the fingers,’ elaborated Johnson. ‘And the ears, and sometimes the—’

‘We also perform
Private
Anatomies,’ Reynell went on. ‘Often, a surgeon may want to demonstrate some aspect of physiology to students, or perhaps
test a novel theory. In addition, we conduct Private Anatomies for interested amateurs, because the founding of the Royal
Society has precipitated an insatiable demand for scientific learning. This body is for a Private Anatomy, which will be this
afternoon.’

‘On a Sunday?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Is that allowed?’

‘We have special dispensation, on the grounds that sometimes corpses cannot wait,’ said Reynell darkly. ‘However, all these
new religious laws may mean a curtailing of our activities in the future. We shall go the way of the Puritans, and all Sabbath-day
pleasure will be banned.’

‘Dissections come under the definition of “pleasure” do they?’ asked Chaloner, amused.

Reynell nodded fervently. ‘People enjoy them
very
much. You should tell Wiseman to invite you next Saturday. You will not
believe
the fabulous time you will have. And, as for the dinner afterwards … well, suffice to say there are already three bullocks
hanging in the kitchens.’

Chaloner thought it astonishing that people would
want to eat after seeing entrails brandished about. Surgeons he could understand, but he was not sure
he
would be ready to devour red meat after watching some hapless villain ruthlessly sliced to pieces.

‘Did Surgeon Fitz-Simons ever hold Private Anatomies?’ he asked.

A furtive look was exchanged. ‘Why do you ask about him?’ demanded Johnson curtly.

Chaloner shrugged, and pretended not to notice the hostility. ‘I met him once, that is all.’

Johnson ushered him towards the door in a way that was only just polite. ‘I have work to do.’

Chaloner was relieved to be outside, despite the fact that he had failed to confirm whether the corpse was Fitz-Simons. He
took a deep breath of relatively untainted air, thinking wistfully of the sweet scent of Thurloe’s garden. Meanwhile, Johnson
and Reynell were engaged in a low-voiced debate, but when Chaloner took a few steps towards them, the clerk grabbed the surgeon’s
arm and pulled him away. Chaloner was puzzled: Reynell had not been odd before the question about Fitz-Simons.

He was not left alone for long before a familiar figure approached. It was Lisle, his brown, wrinkled face creased into a
smile. ‘Mr Heyden,’ he said pleasantly. ‘The Earl of Clarendon’s friend.’

Chaloner gestured to Johnson. ‘I may not be welcome here if you tell
him
that.’

Lisle laughed. ‘Johnson is a man who sees life in extremes – you are either in Bristol’s camp or you are an agent of the Devil.
Wiseman is much the same in his defence of Clarendon. Personally, I prefer not to become involved in squabbles that are none
of my business.’

‘Where is African House?’ asked Chaloner, deciding to learn whether Lisle was the surgeon Scot said had attended the Guinea
Company dinner. ‘I have been ordered to represent Lord Clarendon at a function there, but I am a stranger to London, and have
no idea how to find it.’

‘Behind Throgmorton Street,’ replied Lisle promptly. ‘As Master of the barber-surgeons, I am often invited to the dinners
of other guilds, and those held by the Guinea Company are among the best. They are good men.’

‘I was under the impression that some condone slavery. That does not make them “good men”.’

‘The government would disagree – it has issued charters for the exploration of Africa with a view to expanding trade; this
will ultimately include slaves. Wiseman is furious about it, and spends a lot of time lobbying politicians and merchants in
an effort to stop it from happening. Personally, I think it is a lost cause, and prefer to donate a day of each week to treating
London’s poor, because they are people I
can
help.’

‘I heard there was an argument at the last Guinea Company dinner, between those who object to slavery and a merchant called
Webb.’

‘The dear departed Webb,’ said Lisle with distaste. ‘It is difficult to condemn anyone for arguing with
him.
I seldom meet a man in whom I can see no redeeming qualities, but Webb was one.’