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.’
‘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-Simo
ns 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.
Blood On The Strand: Chaloner's Second Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner) Page 8
