Chaloner had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Goddard’s Drops?’
Wiseman regarded him askance. ‘Where have you been for the last year? The moon? They are his famous recipe for fainting, and have made him extremely rich. My splint will do the same for me. It is a revolutionary mixture of starch, egg whites, strong glue and chalk. But do not worry – it will only be for a month, and then we shall have it off.’
‘Have what off ?’ asked Chaloner warily.
‘The splint, of course. The arm should survive, but only if you follow my orders.’
It was clear that Wiseman had not been joking when he had proposed prescribing an expensive ‘cure’ in order to charge the Earl an exorbitant fee, and although he disliked being used for such a deception, Chaloner decided not to object if it allowed him to ask questions about Fitz-Simons. Besides, none of the ingredients in the bandage sounded particularly sinister, and he would be able to pull it off as soon as he was away from White Hall. Wiseman seemed to read his thoughts, however.
‘You think you will get rid of it the moment I have gone. Well, you can try, but once it is in place, it can only be removed by a professional, such as myself. And do not think I do this for the money, either. The Court never pays its bills, and any treatment I provide will almost certainly go unrecompensed. Why do you think I am so poor? Of course, my colleagues Lisle and Johnson never seem short of funds. Indeed, of late they have both been awash with money. I cannot imagine how.’
‘But my viol,’ objected Chaloner, beginning to be unsettled. ‘I need both hands—’
‘It will be as good as new in a month,’ said Wiseman, going to a table and starting to mix powders in a bowl. A rank smell began to pervade the room. ‘Probably. You can forget about music until then, though. But we were talking about the fact that my colleagues always seem to earn more than me.’
‘Perhaps it is something to do with their nicer bedside manners,’ said Chaloner pointedly.
Wiseman snorted his disagreement. ‘There is nothing wrong with the way I deal with patients. They are nearly all fools, and so should expect to be treated as such. Did you know that Lisle reaped so much money last week that he was in a position to donate three bone chisels to St Thomas’s Hospital? Meanwhile, Johnson is moving in higher circles at Court than he was before – and socialising with such folk is an expensive business. Perhaps they are growing rich because they both support Bristol over Clarendon. Should I change allegiances, do you think?’
‘I doubt that has anything to do with it – Bristol is notoriously short of funds himself, so cannot afford to pay for friendship. And Lisle does not side with Bristol anyway. He is neutral.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Wiseman, whisking the contents of his bowl with considerable vigour. ‘And I would not demean myself by siding with Bristol, anyway. He is too debauched for my liking.’
Chaloner was keen to bring the discussion around to Fitz-Simons. ‘You are a member of the Company of Barber-Surgeons?’ he asked, watching Wiseman empty a packet of white powder into his concoction. There was a soft fizzing sound, as something reacted with something else.
‘Why?’ demanded Wiseman archly. ‘Do you doubt my credentials?’
‘I am making conversation.’
Wiseman carried the bowl to the table. His mixture looked like thick glue. Then he took Chaloner’s arm and began to bind it with strips of cloth and thin pieces of metal, pausing every so often to slather on his evil-smelling adhesive. Apart from the stench, it looked harmless enough, and Chaloner let him proceed in the interests of learning what he wanted to know. Regardless of what the surgeon said, the dressing would be off that evening.
‘I am the Company’s most celebrated member. Have you heard about our Public Anatomies – so called because we invite members of the public to watch the dissections of convicted criminals four times a year? There is one next Saturday, as it happens. Would you like to come? There is always room for a man disguised as an elderly Dutch upholsterer.’
Chaloner glanced sharply at him. ‘How did you—’
‘The skin on your arm – it no more belongs to a sixty-year-old man than mine does. I suspect you are Heyden, the Lord Chancellor’s henchman. He said you were recently back from Ireland, and it seems you have made a dramatic re-entry into Court life. Do not worry,’ Wiseman added, before Chaloner could think of a suitable lie or object to the term ‘henchman’. ‘I will not give you away, especially if you are here to oppose Bristol.’
‘Then you can help me do just that by answering some questions,’ said Chaloner, seizing the opportunity while he could. ‘Do you know a man called Richard Fitz-Simons?’
‘Why? Does he owe you money? If so, you are unlikely to be repaid. He does not own a large practice – and never will, as long as he disappears for months on end. In fact, he left a few weeks after Christmas, and only returned ten days ago. We were worried that he would miss the Public Anatomy.’
‘He will miss it,’ said Chaloner. ‘He is dead.’
Wiseman gazed at him. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked eventually.
Chaloner nodded. ‘And since Colonel Holles has already told me that you inspected the body of the man I believe to be Fitz-Simons, this news cannot come as a surprise to you.’
Wiseman frowned, although more in concern than annoyance at being caught out. ‘I saw something familiar in the shape of the body that was carried across the courtyard in White Hall, and I defied May by going to look. May does not seem aware that the beggar and Fitz-Simons are one and the same, though. Will you tell him? I hope you do not.’
‘Why was Fitz-Simons in disguise in the first place?’ asked Chaloner, declining to make promises before he had the whole story.
Wiseman stirred his glue, which was beginning to set in the bowl. His expression was pained, as if he was undergoing some kind of internal debate, and it was some moments before he spoke. When he did, it was hesitantly, and some of his arrogance seemed to have left him.
‘I have not mentioned this to anyone else, but you are the Earl’s spy, and it might do me good to share my burden. Fitz-Simons often vanished, as I said. In February, he claimed he was going to visit his mother in York, but that is untrue, because I know both his parents are dead. And then Johnson saw him board a ship bound for Dublin.’
Chaloner’s thoughts began to race. ‘Why there?’
‘I do not know for certain. However, he had a friend called Dillon – Irish, as is apparent from his name – who is currently accused of murder. Now, it seems strange to me that Dillon and Fitz-Simons left for Dublin before the Castle Plot started, and returned after it failed.’
Chaloner gaped at him. ‘You think Fitz-Simons went to join the rebellion?’
‘I would have said no – except for one thing.’ Absently, Wiseman, smeared more of his glue on the dressing. ‘There was a plan of Dublin Castle in his room – I saw it when I went to borrow some ink. It was a detailed diagram, and I have not been able to put it from my mind. Treason is a terrible crime of which to accuse a colleague … ’
Chaloner was thoughtful. Had Fitz-Simons taken part in the uprising? Was that why he had bought a gun from Trulocke – and why Trulocke claimed Fitz-Simons kept company with ‘dangerous men’? And was Dillon a rebel, too? If he had worked for Thurloe during the Commonwealth, then it was quite possible that he still hankered after the ‘Good Old Cause’. And if that were true, then Thurloe might be accused of treachery himself if he openly tried to secure Dillon’s release.
‘The plan of the castle was probably Dillon’s,’ Wiseman went on. ‘I saw him myself, walking about with large pieces of paper rolled under his arm. He is distinctive, with the hat that always covers his face.’
‘Do you think Dillon was accused of murder because he took part in the Castle Plot, then?’
‘It is possible,’ replied Wiseman. His relief at having shared his ‘burden’ was palpable, and his hauteur was returning fast. ‘What was Fitz-Simons thinking, to become embroiled in such d
ark affairs? I hope it does not bring the Company into disrepute.’
‘Did you know the man Dillon is said to have killed?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Webb?’
Wiseman nodded. ‘Although it is not an acquaintance of which I am proud. Webb was a vile fellow, who saw nothing wrong in a business that involves the selling of human lives. He owned a ship that transported sugar purchased from slave-driven plantations, you know.’
‘So, someone might have killed Webb because he was unscrupulous,’ mused Chaloner, thinking aloud. ‘And if so, then his death may have nothing to do with the Castle Plot. I am told he was stabbed on the way home from a Guinea Company dinner. I did not suppose you were there, were you? I know it is common practice for the city companies to invite auspicious guests to these occasions.’
‘Being auspicious, I have attended such feasts in the past,’ replied Wiseman without the flicker of a smile. ‘But I was not at that one.’
‘Did Fitz-Simons know the others who were sentenced with Dillon – Sarsfeild and Fanning?’
‘Not as far as I know, although it is possible. Hah! I have finished. What do you think?’
Chaloner’s forearm was encased in a rigid shell that carried the odour of boiled horse bones. ‘It is not very pretty.’
‘Surgery seldom is. Your limb is completely immobilised, which will facilitate clean healing. Come to Chyrurgeons’ Hall tomorrow, and I shall check it. You will not be able to remove it, so do not try – I added a secret compound that renders the material resilient to tampering by amateurs. As I said, only a qualified medicus – with special compounds and equipment – can do that.’
The moment the door closed behind Wiseman, Chaloner attacked the splint with a knife. He was horrified to discover that it was already rock hard, and all he did was blunt his blade. He tried smashing it on the Earl’s marble fireplace, but that hurt him more than the dressing, and he realised he would have to borrow one of his landlord’s saws when he went home. Abandoning his efforts, he began to review what he had learned about Dillon and Fitz-Simons instead.
Both men had been in Ireland at the time of the Castle Plot, and now one was dead and the other awaiting execution. May had killed Fitz-Simons as he had tried to tell Williamson that Dillon was innocent. What did that say about May? Or was the incident just how it had appeared: May had shot a man wielding a knife? And what about the anonymous letter received by the Earl of Bristol, which had incriminated Dillon? Was that someone’s way of making sure a rebel was hanged? And if so, then did it mean the two men condemned to die with him – Fanning and Sarsfeild – were also rebels?
Chaloner went to sit in the window, to consider the matter further. Because the Earl’s offices were located on the first floor, he found himself with an excellent view of the ball, which was centred around the spacious galleries fringing the Privy Garden below. He realised it was a unique opportunity to observe which courtiers sought out Bristol’s company and who preferred Clarendon’s. He prised the casement open, too, so he could also catch snippets of conversation as people passed underneath him.
The King’s musicians were playing in the Stone Gallery, a long ground-floor corridor that formed the eastern edge of the courtyard, and their sweet sounds wafted upwards. One had a bass viol, and Chaloner gazed at his hand, hoping he would be able to join Brodrick’s consort that night. He did not want to lose his place to the status-seeking Greeting, who would never relinquish the opportunity to perform in such lofty company once he was established. The players were bowing a piece by Henry Lawes, which reminded Chaloner of Silence Webb’s ill-considered comments at the composer’s funeral.
The Webb murder was odd. Nine men had been accused – a suspiciously large number for a crime that tended to be committed by a single perpetrator – but only three had been convicted. Had Williamson arranged the four pardons, as Holles contended? And what had happened to the two men who had ‘disappeared’? Chaloner did not like the notion that someone could write an anonymous letter, and it would result in men sentenced to death. As Thurloe had said, it was easy to plant a bloody rapier in a man’s home.
His mind drifted as the courtiers and their hangers-on began to assemble in small groups. He saw Holles, resplendent in his ceremonial uniform, gazing lasciviously at a trio of pretty ladies-in-waiting. Then Lady Castlemaine appeared, and the colonel’s moist eyes remained fixed on her provocatively swinging hips until they turned the corner and were out of sight. When Eaffrey sauntered into view, the bulging orbs swivelled around to leer at her. Chaloner wondered what was wrong with the man, and thought he would do well to find himself a wife, a mistress or both before his indiscriminate ogling landed him in trouble.
Behn was with Eaffrey, and she was listening to what he was saying as though it was the most interesting thing she had ever heard. Chaloner was disgusted, because he had imagined that she had owned more taste – and more self-respect than to throw herself quite so completely at the feet of such a man. She sensed she was being watched, because she suddenly looked up at Chaloner’s window. She murmured something in Behn’s ear; he bowed, then strode away in the opposite direction. Moments later, the door to Clarendon’s office opened, and Eaffrey slipped inside. Scot was with her, still disguised as the Irish scholar. Eaffrey’s eyes opened wide with astonishment when she saw Chaloner’s bandaged arm, and Scot frowned in concern.
‘So, the rumours are true?’ asked Scot. ‘I thought Wiseman was just trying to unnerve Bristol with his tales of the Lord Chancellor’s sudden penchant for savagery.’
‘Or was it Johan, and not the Earl, who harmed you?’ asked Eaffrey. Chaloner tried to decide whether she admired or disapproved of her lover’s display of manly aggression, but he could not tell. ‘He flew to Clarendon’s aid like a rampaging bull.’
‘This splint is just Wiseman’s way of letting the Earl know he is getting his money’s worth for my treatment,’ said Chaloner, loath to admit that Behn had bested him. He might try it again, and Chaloner did not want to hurt the man Eaffrey intended to marry. ‘There is nothing wrong with me, but I cannot get the damned thing off.’
Scot sat next to him, and a dagger appeared in his hand, as if by magic. He began to hack at the dressing. ‘I was worried when I heard Wiseman was sequestered in here with you. Had you not emerged by three o’clock, I was going to fabricate an excuse to come to your rescue.’
‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Do you know something that suggests he might be dangerous?’
Scot was sawing furiously. ‘Not really – I just have an uncomfortable feeling about him. His Court appointment means he must be good at his trade, or he would be dismissed. Yet he has very few patients outside White Hall, and even less money. It is oddly inexplicable, and I do not like it. Also, I know for a fact that he is a liar. An example is the Guinea Company dinner. Did I tell you I went there to spy on Temple? Well, I did not go exactly – my “scholar”, Peter Terrell, did.’
‘And Wiseman tried to mislead you in some way?’ asked Chaloner.
Scot paused to wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Yes. A few hours before it was due to start, he and I were in a tavern with a group of fellows from the Royal Society, talking about the plantations in Barbados. I am more interested in the botanical aspects of the business, but Wiseman was rattling on about the slaves. Someone mentioned that Webb – who I have since learned was the man stabbed on his way home from the dinner – owned a ship that transports sugar from Barbados to London, and Wiseman pretended to be surprised.’
‘How do you know he was pretending?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Because I heard him and Webb having a violent set-to about it in the Turk’s Head Coffee House around Christmas time. So, Wiseman knows perfectly well how Webb made his fortune, and it was odd that he denied doing so later. Personally, I think Wiseman is fighting a losing battle as far as his objection to slave-produced sugar is concerned. England wants cheap sugar, and the only way to get it is by using forced labour. It is an economic necessity.’
Chaloner disagreed. ‘Merchants are resourceful – they will find another way to make their ventures profitable. We live in enlightened age, and owning fellow humans is barbaric.’
Scot regarded him askance. ‘You sound like a Quaker, man! And the use of slaves in Barbados is a fact. If you disapprove, then make a stand by refusing to consume sugar. I wager your lofty principles will not last long, because coffee is unpalatable without it.’
Chaloner felt himself growing angry. He accepted the challenge. ‘Very well. Any business that involves slavery is objectionable, and I want no part of it.’
‘I agree,’ said Eaffrey. She eyed Scot defiantly. ‘And so would any decent man.’
Scot raised his hands defensively. ‘It is the way of the future. I deplore it, too, but there is nothing we can do to stop it. A man who harvests slaves today will be wealthy tomorrow. Ask anyone in the Guinea Company – including Johan Behn. He uses slave labour on his plantations, Eaffrey.’
‘He is in the process of changing that,’ said Eaffrey stiffly. ‘He promised.’
Scot made no reply, although it was clear that he doubted Behn would do any such thing. He renewed his assault on the splint.
‘Did Wiseman attend the Guinea Company dinner after this altercation in the tavern?’ asked Chaloner, also keen to talk about something else. ‘He told me he did not.’
Scot shrugged. ‘I am afraid I cannot prove him a liar on that count, because the hall was very crowded and my attention was divided between talking about plants and watching Temple – my would-be brother-in-law. I have no idea whether Wiseman was there or not. I remember Webb, though – or rather, I remember Silence. She told Bristol he stank of onions.’
‘Well, he does,’ said Eaffrey. ‘I thought I might pass out when he spoke to me just now.’
‘There was certainly one medical man at the dinner, though,’ Scot went on thoughtfully. ‘Clarendon’s debauched cousin – Brodrick – “accidentally” cracked Temple over the head with a candlestick at one point, and I heard someone say that a Court surgeon had tended the wound. I cannot tell you which of the three – Lisle, Wiseman or Johnson – did the honours, because I was busy discussing orchids at the time.’
Blood On The Strand: Chaloner's Second Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner) Page 11
