Chaloner regarded him in dismay, thinking what a chasm the departure of his mentor would leave in his own life. ‘I could ask the Earl to intervene,’ he offered.
‘That would mean him trying to circumvent a direct order from the King, and I can imagine what Bristol would make of that. I am afraid I shall have to hope for a small victory in Yates’s flower seeds.’ Thurloe turned to face him, and his eyes immediately lit on the splint. ‘Lord! What happened to you? You must come inside and allow me to prepare you a tonic.’
Chaloner shook his head, having tasted some of Thurloe’s tonics on previous occasions. ‘Did you see Dillon in Newgate yesterday?’
‘We were only granted five minutes, but he assures me he is innocent. He also says he is not worried by his situation, because he expects to be rescued by the man who hires him. However, he declined to tell me the identity of his master, or how the fellow plans to snatch him from the jaws of death.’
‘There is a lot that is odd about Webb’s murder, so Dillon is probably telling the truth about his innocence. He is a pawn in some larger game, perhaps one designed to damage this secret employer of his.’
Thurloe looked unhappy. ‘You are almost certainly right. What have you learned about the affair?’
Chaloner began to recite facts in random order. ‘No one knows who sent the anonymous letter to Bristol – the rumours that say it was May or Bristol himself have nothing to support them. The men sentenced to hang with Dillon are called Sarsfeild and Fanning. No one seemed to like Webb very much. The man May shot was a surgeon named Fitz-Simons – I shall visit Chyrurgeons’ Hall later, and ask his colleagues about him.’
Thurloe nodded appreciatively. ‘You have been busy. Is there anything else?’
‘Yes. Please do not communicate with Dillon again: there is some suggestion that he might have been involved in the Castle Plot.’
Thurloe rubbed his eyes. ‘I suppose it is possible. He is an Irish Parliamentarian, and his family suffered badly when the Royalists confiscated their lands after the Restoration.’
‘Your enemies may use any renewed association with him to harm you. I do not want you arrested on trumped-up charges of treason, so it would be best if you had no more to do with him.’
‘I cannot leave a former employee to hang, Tom,’ said Thurloe reproachfully. ‘All my spies risked their lives when they worked for me, and I owe them my loyalty in return.’
‘Is Dillon worthy of it?’ asked Chaloner, sure he was not. ‘He caused Manning’s death, and you were obliged to dismiss him. He does not sound like the sort of man to lose your freedom for.’
‘It is not for me to judge him,’ said Thurloe stubbornly. ‘I leave that to God.’
Chaloner knew there was no point in arguing with Thurloe once God was involved. However, while he admired Thurloe’s dogged devotion to his people, he thought it misplaced in Dillon’s case. He tried one last time. ‘It does not sound as though he needs your help, sir. His new master–’
‘We all need help on occasion, Thomas. But I shall refrain from visiting him if you agree to go in my stead. I am not sure his faith in this patron is justified, and I would like to know more about the fellow and what Dillon himself understands about the crime for which he was convicted.’
Chaloner hated prisons with a passion, and tried to think of an excuse to avoid the commission. ‘I doubt the guards will let me in,’ was the best he could do on the spur of the moment.
Thurloe raised an eyebrow. ‘I do not recommend knocking on the door and asking to be admitted. It will be better to show the wardens a permit from their governor.’
Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘And how do I obtain one of those?’
Thurloe gave one of his enigmatic smiles. ‘I prepared – forged, perhaps I should say – a letter last night. The governor will be away until Monday afternoon, so you will have to go before then. Early tomorrow would be best, because that is when supplies are delivered and all is chaos. Do you mind?’
Chaloner knew Thurloe would do it for him, if their roles were reversed. ‘No,’ he lied, hoping he did not sound as unhappy as he felt. ‘Not at all.’
Monkwell Street not only boasted the eclectic collection of buildings associated with the Company of Barber-Surgeons, but it was also where Chaloner’s friend Will Leybourn lived. It was a narrow road, dominated by Chyrurgeons’ Hall to its west, and St Giles without Cripplegate to the north. Leybourn’s shop stood on the eastern side, and comprised a chamber full of crooked shelves and chaotically arranged tomes, with a printing-binding room and kitchen behind. The upper floors boasted bedchambers and the tiny garret Leybourn used for writing his own erudite works on mathematics and surveying. Suspecting Leybourn was still asleep, Chaloner picked the lock and let himself in. He was warming ale and toasting bread over the fire when the surveyor crept down the stairs with a poker in his hand.
‘I wish you would not do that,’ Leybourn grumbled irritably. ‘What is wrong with knocking?’
‘You need a better lock,’ said Chaloner. He did not add that the best ones in London were unlikely to keep him out – it was rare to find a building he could not enter, once he put his mind to it.
Leybourn regarded him in concern. ‘What happened to you? It was nothing to do with this Dillon business, was it?’
Chaloner shook his head, declining to admit, even to Leybourn, that he had been tackled by the boyfriend of an ex-lover while attempting to hang on to his wig. ‘You are good at alchemy. Can you concoct something to dissolve this dressing?’
Leybourn inspected it carefully. ‘That is Wiseman’s work. I heard he had invented a new method for immobilising damaged limbs, and that he intends to make his fortune from it. I would not tamper, if I were you. Chemical substances often react unpredictably, and we might do real harm if we meddle. It might explode or release poisonous gases.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. ‘What sort of surgeon is he?’
‘A talented one, by all accounts. Ask him to remove it. It will be safer for all of us.’
‘Later today, then,’ said Chaloner, determined to be rid of it. It was beginning to chafe, and he was sure it – not anything Behn had done – was the reason his wrist ached. He drank some warmed ale and stared at the fire. ‘I am doing something I swore I would never do again: working for two different people.’
‘Thurloe and Clarendon,’ said Leybourn. ‘But at least it is on the same case: Dillon.’
‘Yes, but Thurloe is determined to save Dillon, and since it looks as though Dillon was involved in the Castle Plot, they are probably hoping for different outcomes.’
Leybourn was full of questions, so Chaloner told him all he had learned, finding it helpful to voice his thoughts aloud and listen to Leybourn’s observations. They discussed Dillon, Webb and the Castle Plot until a jangle of bells told them St Giles’s was ready for Sunday service. Chaloner glanced out of the window to see people flocking towards its doors. New laws and a vicious backlash against non-Anglicans meant those who did not attend were regarded as either nonconformists or Catholic, and thus objects of suspicion. Folk stayed away at their peril.
St Giles’s was a large church with a tall, thin tower and chimneys tacked on to its aisles, to keep its congregation warm in winter. The medieval glass had fallen victim to Puritan fanatics who thought bright colours might distract the faithful from God, but most of the memorials had survived their depredations. Tablets still clung to ancient walls and elderly merchants continued to rest in marble eternity under its steeply pitched roof. Some had broken noses and fingers, where the iconoclasts’ hammers had tried to cleanse the world of unnecessary art, but the majority of them had outlasted the frenzy.