Blood on the Strand (19 page)

‘Fanning,’ said the guide, gesturing to one of several corpses that lay in an untidy line on the sticky floor. ‘He died of
gaol-fever last night.’

Chaloner was tempted to ask for his shilling back. Looking at a body was not how he had interpreted the invitation to ‘see’
Fanning, but that would take time, and he had lingered too long already. He stepped forward to inspect Fanning’s face, and
recognised it: he had been one of the sullen, slovenly fellows who had accompanied Dillon to meetings and secret assignations
in Ireland, and was identifiable not only by his very black hair, but by a purple birth-stain on his left hand.

‘Do not touch him,’ warned the guard. ‘Not unless you want to catch a sickness.’

But Chaloner knew perfectly well that strangling was not contagious, and it was no fever that had killed the man. He crouched
down to examine the lines around the throat more closely, wondering who was sufficiently audacious to kill a man in prison.
Was it one of Fanning’s friends, who had decided it was easier to dispatch him than supply guards with doctored wine? Was
it the mysterious master, who objected to Fanning commissioning his own rescue? Or perhaps it was Dillon, because he did
not want Fanning’s escape to anger their patron into washing his hands of both of them.

‘When was he found?’ he asked, as the guide escorted him out of the vile yard.

‘At dawn, when we took him his breakfast. He was not as wealthy as Mr Dillon, so we only looked in on him twice a day – Mr
Dillon can have us visit him every time he rings his little bell. Poor Fanning. Gaol-fever gets a lot of them in here.’

‘Can you explain how he came by those marks on his neck?’

‘It happens when the ague stops their breath,’ said the guide in a way that suggested he believed it. ‘The governor will be
sorry to lose him early – the public hate it when hangings are cancelled.’

‘I do not suppose Fanning confided in you, did he?’ asked Chaloner, clutching at straws. ‘Told you about the crime he was
supposed to have committed?’

‘He never said nothing,’ said the guide, opening a door that led to the main entranceway. Chaloner heaved a sigh of relief.
Safety and freedom were almost within his grasp. ‘He was a sour, angry cove, with a foul tongue.
He was a ship’s chandler, though, so no common villain.’

‘Can I see Sarsfeild?’ asked Chaloner, while every fibre of his being urged him to walk out of the gate and never return.
‘He was convicted of the same crime as the other two.’

The guide looked annoyed. ‘I wish you could, because it would cost you another shilling, but he was transferred to Ludgate
as soon as we heard Fanning was dead. Hah! Here is the governor at last. Come with me, so I can tell him you are here. He
likes it when friends visit.’

The heavy front door had been opened to admit a fat gentleman in a tight red coat. Chaloner’s guide started to move towards
him with a greasy smile, but another guard got there first and started to talk about a consignment of tallow. A porter leaned
hard on the massive gate, to begin the process of closing it. Chaloner took a step towards it, then broke into a run. His
guide yelled, and Chaloner turned sideways to shoot through the gap, stumbling when his shirt caught on the rough wood. He
tore it free. The door started to open again, and Chaloner saw guards massing behind, ready to pour out. He raced towards
the nearby market, where he was soon lost among the chaotic jumble of stalls.

The stench of prison clung to Chaloner as he left Newgate market. He was due to meet Leybourn at a nearby coffee house in
an hour – where they would fortify themselves before going to visit Silence Webb – and he considered going home to change
first. Temperance’s house was closer, though, and he thought a spell in the yeasty warmth of her kitchen might dispel some
of the reek that hung about him. He hesitated when he recalled she had gone from Puritan maid to brothel-master in the course
of the last three months, but he did not have many friends in London, and was reluctant to lose one because he disapproved
of her new occupation. He tapped on her door, and was conducted to the kitchen by a woman whose hair was a mass of purple
ringlets. Temperance was sitting at the table, poring over a ledger. She was pleased to see him, but immediately wrinkled
her nose.

‘That bad?’ he asked apologetically.

She nodded. ‘What have you done to your arm? Come and sit by the fire while you tell me, and Maude will make us some of her
famous coffee.’

Chaloner rarely discussed his work with ‘civilians’.
Leybourn was different, because he undertook the occasional mission for Thurloe, but Temperance was another matter entirely.
He deflected her questions with a combin ation of abbreviated truths and subject changes, as he had done with acquaintances
all his adult life. Temperance was not so easily misled, however, and refused to accept the explanation that he had simply
fallen over.

‘Colonel Holles claimed you were viciously attacked at the Court ball.’

Chaloner recalled Holles mentioning Temperance’s establishment, and saw he would have to be careful, if the soldier was the
kind of fellow to gossip. ‘He is wrong – it was just an accident.’

Temperance nodded in a way that said she did not believe him. ‘And Will Leybourn told me you are investigating the vagrant
May shot. He said there are connections between that death, the murder of Webb
and
the Castle Plot, and asked me to listen for any idle chatter among my guests.’

Chaloner was startled and angry. ‘Then he should not have done. It may not be safe.’

‘There is no danger in listening, then relaying snippets to trusted friends,’ objected Temperance. She grinned suddenly. ‘I
will be like the Bishop of London’s new parrot. He is teaching it prayers, and it is rewarded with a nut each time it masters
a new one. How will you reward me?’

She was underestimating the risk, and Chaloner did not care what the Bishop of London did with his bird. ‘Please do not do
this, Temperance. I have lost too many friends to spying already.’

Temperance’s smile was mischievous. ‘Perhaps you have, but did
they
enjoy the favour of powerful courtiers
like Bristol and Lady Castlemaine? I provide a unique service, and no one will risk the Court’s anger by meddling with me.
You worry too much.’

‘Here you are,’ said Maude, placing a dish of dark sludge in front of him. It looked as if it might relieve him of teeth if
he attempted to swallow any. ‘It has extra sugar, on account of your bad arm.’

‘I have forsworn sugar,’ he said, relieved to have an excuse, ‘because of the slave trade.’

‘Have you?’ asked Maude, puzzled. ‘I am not sure my coffee is drinkable without it.’

Chaloner doubted it was drinkable with. ‘Pity.’

‘Mr Terrell, the Irish scholar, was here last night, asking for you,’ said
Maude, downing the brew herself and smacking her lips to show he was missing something good.

‘Adrian May and Johan Behn were with him,’ added Temperance disapprovingly. ‘I do not think much of May at all. He leers at
my girls and he has an ugly temper. I do not like Behn, either.’

‘I do,’ said Maude. Her expression became dreamy and, to his utter astonishment, Chaloner saw she was smitten with the bulky
Brandenburger. She was old enough to be his mother, so it was not an attraction he would have anticipated. ‘I heard that Eaffrey
Johnson wants to marry him, but if she does not make an honest man of him soon, then I shall do it for her. Johan will make
a perfect husband for any red-blooded woman – rich, handsome, charming and clever.’

‘
Behn?
’ asked Chaloner in disbelief, wondering if they were talking about the same fellow. The familiar use of the merchant’s first
name did not escape his notice, either, and he had the sudden suspicion that Maude might know
Behn rather better than was decent for a man with an adoring fiancée.

‘He may look pretty, but he has the feel of a bully about him,’ said Temperance, cutting across Maude’s indignant reply. ‘And
there is something about him I do not trust. If I were Eaffrey, I would look elsewhere for
my
perfect husband.’

Maude sniffed huffily. ‘You do not know what you are talking about, and if you cannot see Johan’s charms, then there must
be something wrong with you. And he is
not
a bully, either – at least, not with ladies.’

‘He bullies men, then?’ pounced Chaloner. ‘Who, exactly?’

Maude poured herself more coffee. ‘He quarrelled with Webb once or twice – I heard some of the Guinea Company men talking
about it. Webb had accused Johan of seducing his wife, you see, although obviously a comely fellow like Johan would never
set his sights on a woman like
Silence
.’ She fluffed up her hair in a way that suggested she considered herself a far better catch.

‘Do not forget what else the Guinea Company men told you, Maude,’ said Temperance coolly. She disapproved of her friend’s
hankering for the merchant. ‘They also said Behn left the most recent dinner early and in a foul temper because of a quarrel
with Webb. And it was after
that
that Webb was murdered.’

‘You said Terrell was asking for me,’ said Chaloner, after several minutes of listening to Maude’s spirited defence of the
man who had captured her fancy. There was no point in arguing with her – her case was based on supposition and the kind of
wishful thinking that was immune to reason – so neither he nor Temperance tried. ‘Did he say why?’

‘He had been waiting at your house all evening, and was worried when you did not return,’ explained Temperance. ‘He said he
had something urgent to tell you
and
he was afraid Wiseman’s surgery might have had some adverse effects. I told him you were adept at looking after yourself,
but my assurances did nothing to ease his concern.’

Maude finished her coffee, and to show there were no hard feelings about their difference of opinion regarding Behn, said,
‘I heard Temple hatching a plot against your earl, Thomas. Would you like me to tell you about it?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner gently. ‘Sometimes, information is leaked to a particular person to test whether he or she can be trusted.
You may put yourself in danger if you talk to the wrong people.’

‘No one will trace this to me, because I happened to be under a bed at the time. Temple was telling Bristol that the best
way to attack Clarendon was to damage his reputation for “moral rectitude”.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, more interested in why the bulky matron should have been under a bed containing Temple and Bristol
than in learning about the toothless politician’s latest hare-brained scheme. Unfortunately for his burning curiosity, it
was hardly something he felt he could ask.

‘Temple has hired an actress called Rosa Lodge,’ elaborated Maude. ‘And the plan is for her to accuse him of rape. Petticoats
will be left in Clarendon’s chamber to support her allegation.’

‘That is ridiculous! He is not that kind of man, and no one will believe this Rosa Lodge.’

‘That is not the point,’ said Maude. ‘An accusation does not have to be true for it to cause trouble.’

Chaloner regarded her unhappily, aware that she was
right. Temple would fan the flames of rumour and suspicion, and the Earl would be deemed guilty by default.

‘That bandage makes you very visible and you once told me a spy should conceal distinguishing features,’ said Temperance,
when he made no reply. She stood, and fetched a handsome purple coat from a cupboard in the hall. ‘This will hide it far better,
because it has longer sleeves.’

‘The man who owned it has gone to Rome,’ added Maude, guessing the reason for his reluctance to accept it. ‘So do not worry
about it being recognised. Besides, you cannot go about your business smelling like that – you will have half the dogs in
London following you. Take your clothes off, and I will air them in the garden.’

‘I am not undressing in front of you,’ objected Chaloner, the spectre of Temperance’s prim mother looming large in his mind.

‘You think this is a brothel, and that we intend to seduce you,’ said Maude, eyes narrowed. ‘Well, I assure you it is not.
It is a
gentleman’s club
.’

‘I cannot imagine what your parents would think, Temperance,’ said Chaloner. This was not true – he could imagine
exactly
what the prudish Puritans would have said about their only daughter’s enterprise, and it would not have been pleasant.

Temperance’s grimace told him she knew, too. ‘I have never criticised the life you lead, Thomas, and you should return the
courtesy. At least
I
do not visit
you
stinking of corpses.’

Dressed in the purple coat, a clean shirt and breeches that smelled sweetly of lavender, Chaloner felt more human. He walked
along The Strand to Covent Garden,
where his favourite coffee house was located. Will’s was a comfortable, manly place, full of tobacco smoke and the sharp
aroma of roasting beans. Coffee houses were the exclusive domain of men, where they went to discuss politics, religion, literature,
the increasing trouble with Holland, and any other contentious subject they felt like airing. The government wanted to suppress
them before they became centres of sedition, but Spymaster Williamson had argued that it was better to leave them as they
were, so he could plant informers to listen to what was being said and who said it. He even operated one or two shops of his
own, and hired to run them men with a talent for encouraging dangerous talk.

That day, Will’s was quiet, because it was past the time when men gathered for their midday meals. After Newgate, Chaloner
did not feel much like eating, but Leybourn had brought a tray of pastries with him, and devoured the lot while talking non-stop
about the Arctic travels of Martin Frobisher.

‘You were supposed to be reading about Guinea,’ said Chaloner, when he managed to interject a comment into the continuous
stream of information. ‘To help us solve Webb’s murder.’

Leybourn waved a dismissive hand. ‘Guinea is boring, but the search for a Northwest Passage is an adventure fit to stir the
heart of any Englishman. Are you unwell? You are very quiet.’

‘I wish you had not recruited Temperance and Maude to eavesdrop on their customers. You should know better.’

Leybourn grimaced. ‘I did not “recruit” anyone. I asked, casually, whether they had heard anything about Webb, the Castle
Plot or what Bristol plans to do to your earl, and they leapt at the chance to help us. You seem
angry. Why? Surely you cultivated sources like these in the past.’

‘Not among my friends.’

Leybourn regarded him coolly. ‘You regularly ask
me
for information. Am I not a friend, then?’

‘That is different. You undertake assignments for Thurloe all the time.’

‘Not
all
the time,’ said Leybourn huffily. ‘In fact, I am only ever obliged to do it when you appear and start meddling in perilous
situations. However, if you are afraid for Temperance, I suppose I can ask her to desist, although it will not be easy. She
was looking forward to the challenge.’

Chaloner suspected he was right, and that she would eavesdrop with or without their blessing. He said nothing, and watched
Leybourn reduce a pie to a pile of crumbs and discarded peas – Leybourn did not like peas and always picked them out. It was
an aversion he shared with Scot, and Chaloner found himself thinking about the letter that had seen Dillon sentenced to death.
Was
Scot’s current alias one of the nine names on the list? If so, then why had he not mentioned it when they had discussed Webb’s
murder at the Court ball on Saturday? Or did the letter refer to the disreputable fishmonger of the same name? What had Scot
wanted with him the previous night, and why had he been with May and Behn? Chaloner found himself becoming uneasy with all
the questions that rattled around in his mind, and began to wish he was back in Ireland, where everything had been so much
more simple.

Leybourn made an effort to overcome his sulks and forced a smile. ‘So, you visited Temperance’s bawdy house again, did you?’

‘It is a
gentleman’s club
, apparently. I hope it does not land her in trouble. People are fickle, and what is popular today might be the target of
hatred tomorrow. I had no idea she would reveal a hitherto unknown talent for brothel-keeping. She does not seem the type.’

‘You know enough madams to judge, do you? Come on, Tom – do not be Puritan about this. We had more than enough of that under
Cromwell, and I, for one, like a bordello.’

‘You do?’ asked Chaloner, startled. He had not thought the surveyor a bordello kind of man.

‘I have no wife,’ said Leybourn, a little soulfully. ‘But I would like to be married, and it is not easy to meet ladies in
the bookselling business. Bordellos offer a unique opportunity to enjoy female company, and I am ever hopeful of finding the
perfect spouse in one.’

‘You may find yourself looking a long time,’ warned Chaloner.

‘I hope not,’ said Leybourn wistfully. ‘Have you finished the coffee? We had better tackle Silence Webb before our courage
fails. I confess I am not looking forward to this. I know Thurloe told me to explore worthy widows with a view to marriage,
but I would rather remain single than take Silence.’

As they walked to The Strand, where the grandly named ‘Webb Hall’ was located, Chaloner told Leybourn what Temperance and
Maude had overheard, and summarised his interview with Dillon. Leybourn stopped him once or twice, to make the point that
being given such sensitive information might place
him
in danger, just as it might Temperance, but he had a naturally curious mind, and his pique was soon forgotten as he put his
own questions and observations.