‘I was there. A pretty maid-in-waiting wanted to go, and asked me to accompany her, to protect her from rakes and vagabonds. I remember the three guilty men – Dillon, Fanning and Sarsfeild, all from the parish of St Martin-in-the-Fields – but I forget the names of the other six. Four of them produced King’s pardons, though, and I heard the order for their release came from a High Authority.’ He pursed his lips.
‘Who?’ asked Clarendon curiously. ‘The King?’
‘No,’ said Holles, a little impatiently. ‘It is how we soldiers refer to matters of intelligence and state security. I mean Spymaster Williamson, My Lord,’ he added in a low hiss, when the Earl continued to look blank.
Chaloner groaned. Williamson was unlikely to be pleased with anyone who began poking about in a case in which a politically expedient verdict had been secured. Unfortunately, though, Chaloner had offered to look into the matter for Thurloe, as well as for the Earl, and was committed to obtaining at least some answers. He had no choice but to continue.
‘That is a sound I like to hear,’ said a massive, red-robed figure from the door. ‘It means my services are needed. Groans are music to any surgeon’s ears.’
Chapter 4
Lord Clarendon and Holles beat a hasty retreat when Surgeon Wiseman began to unpack his jangling bag of implements. The Earl claimed the ball was about to begin, and there were young ladies to whom he had promised dances – although Chaloner suspected they would not be overly disappointed if more sprightly, fun-loving men stepped in to take his place – and the colonel decided he was in need of an escort. Holles’s face turned pale when Wiseman produced a short saw, making Chaloner wonder how he had coped with the gore that was an inevitability in military confrontations.
Chaloner expected the Earl to berate Wiseman for spreading rumours about his allegedly violent behaviour, but Clarendon merely muttered that he had no intention of prolonging an encounter with the surgeon, lest he be obliged to witness something unpleasant. Master Lisle was gentle and conservative with treatments, he said, but Wiseman had another reputation entirely, and no sane man wanted to watch him with his victims.
‘Send me your bill, Wiseman,’ he said as he shot through the door, Holles close on his heels. ‘And make sure you tell a servant to clean up the mess before I come back.’
Wiseman watched them leave, an amused smile stamped across his florid features. ‘Well, if I am to be paid whatever I decide to charge, then I may as well dispense some expensive therapy. We had better have a glass of claret first, though, to fortify ourselves.’
Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘I do not think that will be necessary.’ He was about to add that nothing was wrong with him, but then there would be no reason for the man to stay and answer questions.
Wiseman poured two cups full to the brim, and handed one to his patient. ‘This is my way of demonstrating my perfectly steady hands. See how I do not spill a single drop, even though there is a meniscus over the top? Damn! Do not worry. It will come out if you soak it in cold water.’
The surgeon had flowing locks of a reddish-brown colour, which almost exactly matched his eyes, and there was arrogance in everything about him – from his flamboyant scarlet clothes to the superior gaze he directed around the Earl’s offices. His lips curled in a perpetual sneer of condescension, and he regarded Chaloner as though he considered him some half-wit from Bedlam. The spy decided there was only so far he was willing to go for this particular investigation, and he did not like the way the surgeon was laying out rows of sharp implements.
‘There is no need for–’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Wiseman irritably. ‘You are suddenly feeling better. All my patients say that when they see me prepare, and it is highly annoying. Your arm is broken and it needs my attention.’
Chaloner was astounded by the diagnosis. ‘It is not!’
Wiseman grabbed Chaloner’s wrist in a way that hurt. ‘Do not tell me it cannot be broken because you can still move your fingers: that is a layman’s myth. If I do not apply one of my special splints now, the bone will rot from within, and it would be a pity to see it cut off for want of a little surgery.’
Chaloner regarded him in disbelief; the man was deranged. ‘You are mistaken. It is only a–’
‘Are you qualified to say what will fester?’ demanded Wiseman. ‘No, you are not, so kindly allow me to decide what is best. I am proud of my Court appointment and decline to lose it just because you refuse treatment and die. However, you are lucky, because I recently devised a new dressing for this kind of injury – one that I predict will make me very wealthy. Wiseman’s Splint will do for me what Goddard’s Drops did for Jonathan Goddard. God knows, I could do with the money.’
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.’