Blood On The Strand: Chaloner's Second Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner)

by Susanna GREGORY

  Alice hailed from a family of spies, and knew perfectly well that tearing blindly after an invisible target was a waste of time. She studied the ground as she went, then stopped to inspect a broken twig. Chaloner watched in horror as she looked directly towards his onion rack. She stepped off the path and bent to touch the soil. She had surmised that the culprit had not fled into the lane, but was still in the garden. He swallowed hard, thinking how delighted she would be when she discovered the identity of the thief. He tried to push himself upright, but his knees would not support him.

  ‘Alice,’ came a familiar voice, just as Chaloner was bracing himself for capture – even a woman would have no trouble securing him when he could barely stand. ‘What on Earth are you doing?’

  ‘William!’ she cried in delight. ‘I did not expect to see you here.’

  Scot did not return her friendly greeting. ‘Obviously not.’

  Her face fell when she saw what he was thinking. ‘It is nothing untoward, brother – just a card game that lasted until dawn.’

  ‘I assume Temple was there, too.’ Scot’s voice was cold.

  Alice sighed. ‘Yes, although we were sitting at different tables for most of the night. And you? Are you on an assignment for Williamson? Is that why you appear so unexpectedly in the Earl of Bristol’s vegetable garden in the hour after dawn?’

  Scot rubbed his eyes, and Chaloner saw he did not feel particularly healthy, either. ‘I am sure our father was never obliged to do this sort of thing. Espionage is not what it used to be, Alice.’

  ‘Then why do it? You promised to finish with spying after Dublin. You said it was too dangerous.’

  ‘Believe me, I shall – the moment Thomas is free.’

  ‘Have you had any luck? I still have not found the right man to bribe, but I am working on it.’

  ‘Keep your money, because Thomas’s situation took a great leap forward yesterday – Chaloner told me about a crooked gunsmith, which allowed me to expose some illegal arms dealing. Williamson is delighted, and I sense it will not be long before he persuades his masters to let Thomas go.’

  Alice smiled. ‘At last.’

  Scot pointed back towards the open office window, and showed her a goblet. ‘Williamson asked me to acquire a gold cup that holds a certain significance for His Majesty – something to do with a mistress. Obviously, I must have made too much noise, because I was almost caught. Will you help me escape? Go back inside, and when he returns, tell Bristol that you saw a large, red-headed thief jump over the wall into the garden next door. Hurry, though! I can hear them coming back already.’

  She kissed his cheek and strode away. Moments later, Scot joined Chaloner behind the onions. ‘That was close,’ he said with a grin. ‘She almost had you.’

  Scot put his finger to his lips as Bristol and Temple stamped back through the garden, muttering venomously that the felon was too fast for them, and declaring that the servants had better have more luck or there would be trouble. Eventually, they went inside and Scot helped Chaloner to his feet.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ asked Chaloner, feeling his stomach roll as he stood.

  ‘You had gone when I woke, and there is only one man you visit at such an ungodly hour.’ Scot held Chaloner’s ornamental ‘town’ sword in his hand. ‘I set out after you when I thought you might have forgotten this – no sane spy goes unarmed these days.’

  Chaloner indicated the military-style weapon he carried at his side. ‘I prefer something a little more robust when I burgle the houses of powerful courtiers. You taught me that. Did you see Thurloe?’

  Scot nodded. ‘For the first time since I became a Royalist. He is not a man to bear grudges, but I was uneasy nonetheless. I have never been able to read him, to know what he is really thinking.’

  Chaloner was not surprised that Thurloe declined to be open with a man who had defected at a critical moment in the Commonwealth’s painful collapse. ‘He is not an easy man to understand.’

  ‘As it happened, my apprehension was unnecessary. When I arrived, I found him preoccupied with another matter. His cat had swallowed some of his morning tonic, and had immediately become ill. He suspects poison, and is beside himself with worry, because he said you had taken some, too.’

  ‘Prynne,’ said Chaloner, holding his stomach. ‘Because Thurloe opposes his garden plans.’

  Scot shook his head wonderingly. ‘Hell hath no fury like a lawyer crossed. Anyway, it would have been sheer folly for Thurloe to rescue you himself – I imagine he is horribly out of practice – so I persuaded him to let me do it instead. He is waiting nearby, in a carriage.’

  ‘His damned tonics!’ muttered Chaloner venomously. ‘My wits were too befuddled from last night’s wine to refuse it.’

  Scot brandished the cup. ‘Fortunately, mine were not. I took this to cover up whatever you were doing in there – now they will assume it was a simple theft when they look to see what is missing. We should not talk here, though. Put your arm around my shoulder. We shall pretend we are drunk, as we did in France when you saved me from that vengeful cardinal. We both reek of wine, so our ploy—’

  He stepped smartly out of the way when the mention of wine was more than Chaloner’s stomach could bear. The spy felt far better once the tonic had been added to the onions, and he wondered whether they would die as a result. Leaning heavily on Scot, he staggered out of the garden.

  ‘Turn right,’ ordered Scot, closing the gate behind them.

  ‘We will run into Bristol’s servants if we go that way.’

  ‘I know what I am doing,’ said Scot impatiently. ‘And you are not well enough to—’

  Chaloner did not feel like arguing. He took his own route, and was proven right, because moments later, a pack of retainers converged on the gate. They were hot, cross and disappointed, and would certainly have challenged two ‘drunks’ so close to their master’s home.

  Scot shot him an apologetic grin. ‘It seems the apprentice has surpassed the master – either that, or I am losing my touch. Christ, my head aches! That will teach me to drink with a man who cannot afford a decent vintage.’

  Thurloe was waiting in a carriage, which was cunningly concealed behind some trees in the expanse of open land known as Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The ex-Spymaster closed his eyes in relief when he saw Chaloner. Scot turned to leave, claiming he had pressing business, although Chaloner knew he was discreetly allowing him to report to Thurloe alone. He caught his friend’s arm.

  ‘You took a risk in coming to my aid.’

  Scot was dismissive. ‘Hardly! And it was nothing compared to your rescue of me in Holland last year.’ He brandished the cup he had stolen. ‘Do you want this, or shall I toss it in the river?’

  ‘Send it anonymously to Lady Castlemaine. That should confuse everyone.’

  Scot laughed, liking the notion of causing mischief. Then he saluted Thurloe and walked back towards the city.

  ‘I am sorry, Tom,’ said Thurloe, opening the door to the carriage and helping Chaloner inside. He peered anxiously into his face. ‘I would have come to save you myself, but Scot said he would be better at it – and he was right, of course. He is his father’s son for daring escapades.’

  ‘Who tried to poison you?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Prynne?’

  ‘Prynne?’ Thurloe was shocked. ‘He is a bigot, not a killer! I thought my elixirs were safe from meddlers, as I keep them locked in the pantry upstairs, but the tonic is definitely the culprit, because it is the only thing the cat managed to steal. The poor thing is terribly ill. Shall I take you to a surgeon?’

  ‘No, thank you!’ said Chaloner hastily. He handed over the letter he had retrieved from Bristol’s chest. It was written on the kind of cheap paper that was available to everyone, although the ink was an unusual shade of blue.

  To my Ld Bristoll, by Ye grace of God: This verye nyght I did Witnesse an act of Grayte Evill, that is Ye Murder of Mathew Webbe by Nine Persons of Wycked Violence. These Persons naymed are Will m
Dyllon, Thos. Sarsfeild, Rich. Fanyng, Waltr. Fitz-Gerrard, Lowence Clarke, Geo. Wyllys, Greg y Burn, Rich. Fissymons and Petr. Terel. Ye Murder was Donne as a Revengge becaws Ye said Webbe was Parte of Ye Layte Busness in Ireland, and was a Rebell. Then he betrayd his Comraydes, becaws his Conscience called Hym. I am marvellously praepared to leave all my Apprehenshons to wyser men, for it is God Almightie and Hys Instrumentes who will delivere alle evill spyes and intelligencers to the Gallowes, for Hee shalle not suffere them to live. I knowe Youe are a decent Mann, who wille see Right Donne in God’s Goode Nayme.

  ‘Look at the way he wrote Sarsfeild,’ said Thurloe thoughtfully. ‘His S may be a G, which would make it Thomas Garsfield – the alias you used in Ireland. I hope this was not aimed at you.’

  Chaloner did not think so for a moment. ‘I am not sufficiently important.’

  ‘You hail from an old and distinguished family, and your forebears were eminent politicians and intellectuals. You are not as invisible as you seem to believe. Perhaps Sarsfeild had nothing to do with Webb’s murder, and an innocent man sits in Ludgate Gaol.’

  ‘We could ask him – check his alibi for the time of the murder, if he has one.’ Chaloner did not feel like making an assault on a prison that morning, but it would have to be done soon, because it was already Wednesday, and the executions were scheduled for three days’ time.

  Thurloe tapped the letter with his forefinger. ‘Still, at least we know why Bristol was chosen as the recipient, and not Williamson. The writer dislikes spies – and Williamson hires them.’

  ‘Bristol has a spy called Willys, though,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘And Willys is one of the men cited in the letter.’

  Thurloe shrugged. ‘Perhaps the writer did not know that – perhaps he thinks Willys is a servant and no more. What do you think of the Earl’s cousin, Brodrick – other than his musical abilities?’

  Chaloner was taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. ‘Other than those, not much. He does not do anything, except attend parties. I do not know why Clarendon places such faith in his abilities, when he never sees them used.’

  ‘That is probably what people say about you, but all the while you are working very hard at gathering intelligence and listening to idle chatter.’

  Chaloner tried to understand what he was saying. ‘You think Brodrick is a spy?’

  ‘It is possible. Have you shared any sensitive information with him?’

  ‘I told him about a plan to have Clarendon blamed for the location of the King’s new bedchamber.’

  ‘Then you must question Clarendon immediately. If Brodrick has shared this information with him, then perhaps he is loyal. If he has not, then you might want to ask yourself why.’ Thurloe turned to the letter again. ‘Now we have yet another motive for Webb’s murder; this claims he was involved in the Castle Plot, but betrayed it to the government.’

  ‘Well, someone did,’ said Chaloner. ‘We had weeks to infiltrate the rebels and foil their plans.’

  A second visit to Newgate could be postponed no longer, even though all Chaloner wanted to do was to lie down until his stomach stopped pitching. He did not think he had felt so unwell since he had been injured by an exploding cannon at the Battle of Naseby – and then he had been expected to die.

  ‘You have not forged another pass for me, have you?’ he asked weakly.

  ‘There are many ways to gain access to prisons, and counterfeit letters is just one of them,’ replied Thurloe evenly. He handed Chaloner a very heavy purse. ‘Another is bribery.’

  Leaving Thurloe outside, Chaloner used the ex-Spymaster’s money to secure an interview, although even the princely sums on offer bought him no more than five minutes in the condemned man’s company. He had borrowed Thurloe’s hat and coat, and smothered his face with a chalky powder the ex-Spymaster had thought to bring with him. A black eye-patch completed the disguise, which was crude by Chaloner’s standards, but hopefully good enough to ensure none of the guards would associate him with the man who had deceived them two days before.

  ‘You again,’ said Dillon, as Chaloner entered the visitors’ room. The prisoner sported his trademark hat, so his eyes and upper face were hidden. He looked sleek and contented, and his clothes were different to the ones he had worn last time. ‘Nice patch. Is it a disguise, or have you been fighting?’

  ‘Do you know Thomas Sarsfeild?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘I have already told you no,’ said Dillon. He stood. ‘Is that all? I am reading John Spencer’s book on the end of the world in the year sixty-six, and I want to how what to avoid when the time comes.’

  ‘Thurloe said you refused to tell him anything that might allow him to save you,’ said Chaloner, thinking Dillon was very certain about his longevity. He was not sure he would have been so complacent, had he been in the condemned man’s situation.

  ‘His interference is unnecessary and unwelcome. My master will save me when the time is right.’

  ‘Four men named in Bristol’s letter have already been pardoned and two allowed to disappear. If you were going to join their ranks, surely something would have happened by now?’

  ‘Why should you care what happens to me?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Chaloner, thinking of Manning. ‘But Thurloe does, and I have agreed to help him. Who wrote this?’ He handed Dillon the letter he had stolen. ‘Do you recognise the writing?’

  ‘Ah – the famous accusation! I saw it at my trial, although I cannot imagine how you come to have it. However, I still do not know who wrote it, and I still do not recognise the writing. Next question.’

  ‘Was Webb involved in the Castle Plot? Did you kill him because he betrayed you, and so was the cause of the rebellion’s failure? I know you argued with him the day he died.’

  Dillon raised his eyebrows. ‘You have been assiduous in your researches! Next question.’

  ‘You have not answered the ones I have already asked.’

  ‘And nor shall I. Leave this business alone, Heyden. I will not hang. My master has a sense of the dramatic, and I do not anticipate that the crowds at my execution will be disappointed.’

  ‘You expect to be rescued at the scaffold?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.

  Dillon winked, then demanded to be returned to his cell. Chaloner did not linger once he had gone, eager to be away from the reeking gaol. He climbed wearily into Thurloe’s carriage, feeling his heartbeat slow to a more normal level – the guard had taken rather too long to open the last gate.

  ‘What is the matter?’ asked Thurloe in alarm. ‘Is Dillon unwell? Dead, like Fanning?’

  ‘He is perfectly happy. I just hate prisons.’

  ‘Because of that business in France four years ago? Perhaps I should visit Sarsfeild in Ludgate.’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner, although he was tempted. ‘It is too dangerous for you. I will do it.’

  Ludgate was one of the portals that had once formed part of the city’s defensive walls. It had been rebuilt eighty years before, and its upper chambers had always been used as a prison for petty criminals and debtors. It was a long, functional building that lacked the formidable security associated with Newgate, and Chaloner was relieved to note it lacked Newgate’s stench, too. Inside, a second purse disappeared into the pockets of guards as Chaloner bought his way towards a convicted felon.

  ‘Newgate’s governor did not want to lose a second convict to gaol-fever before he can be strung up,’ chattered one particularly helpful – and impecunious warden – as they walked to Sarsfeild’s cell together. ‘The event has already been advertised, see, and folk are disappointed when they do not get what they are promised. Dillon is different, because he has money to buy a clean, safe cell, but Sarsfeild is poor and was at risk from infection.’

  ‘Have you heard any rumours about Fanning’s death?’

  The warden held out his hand for another of Thurloe’s coins. ‘One guard said there was a cord around his neck when the body was found, but he is given to strong drink, and no one b
elieved him. Unfortunately, he died the following night, so you cannot ask him yourself.’

  ‘He died?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. ‘How?’

  ‘Hit by a cart when he left his favourite tavern. Strong drink, see. Never touch it myself. There was a whisper that Fanning was going to escape by plying us guards with poisoned wine, but we have not been fooled by that sort of thing since the Middle Ages. We are professionals, after all.’

  Chaloner was conducted down a narrow corridor, which smelled of boiled cabbage, to a cell at the far end. It was a dismal hole, but at least it had a window that allowed relatively fresh air to blow in. Sarsfeild was a small man whose clothes had once been respectable. Now he was filthy, unshaven and frightened. When he came towards Chaloner, his face was streaked, as though he had been crying.

  ‘I will tell you anything,’ he said, tears flowing. ‘I will say anything, only please let me go. I did not kill Matthew Webb, or even know him. I am a confectioner – I deal in sugar and sweetmeats. I have no reason to stab anyone. There has been a terrible mistake.’

  ‘Sugar?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Where does it come from?’

  ‘Barbados, I believe.’

  ‘I mean which merchant sells you the raw materials for your trade?’

  Sarsfeild’s face was a mask of despair. ‘All right, I admit I met Webb once or twice, because he sold the cheapest sugar, but I did not murder—’