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.’