‘Not everything is as it seems,’ repeated Chaloner. ‘How do you come to be in this mess?’
‘I am accused of murdering a merchant called Webb, but I assure you I did not. The charge is a ruse, to be rid of me.’
‘Because you were involved in the Castle Plot?’
‘Very possibly, since one of my companions from that particular incident – Richard Fanning – was sentenced with me. I do not know Sarsfeild, though. However, I suppose he might have played a role unknown to me. It was a large revolt, involving hundreds of people, after all.’
‘What about the others? I understand nine of you were accused.’
‘Nine! As if it would take nine men to dispatch one. What nonsense!’
Chaloner struggled not to jump in alarm when there was a sudden thump on the door. The dagger slipped into his hand, and he wondered whether it would be better to fight his way out or bluff when the governor arrived. But it was only the guide sweeping the floor outside.
‘Do you know the others?’ he pressed, keen to ask his questions and leave. ‘Other than Fanning?’
Dillon shot him an unreadable smile. ‘I really cannot recall. Prison has a numbing effect on a man’s mind, and I do not blame Fanning for taking matters into his own hands.’
‘What do you mean?’
Dillon leaned close to Chaloner and lowered his voice again. ‘He will not be in Newgate this time tomorrow, because his friends are going to pull a trick with poisoned wine. He says such a rescue is safer than waiting for our master to help us, although I disagree.’
‘How do you know what Fanning intends?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Are you in adjoining cells?’
‘Lord, no!’ exclaimed Dillon with a fastidious shudder. ‘I am a man of means, and do not fester in the kind of pit Fanning can afford. My guards are kind enough to let us exchange missives – for a price – so I am aware of his plans. I told him he is making a mistake: he should wait for our patron to act.’ He touched his coat absently, and Chaloner saw a bundle of papers in an inner pocket, at least one of them much fingered.
‘Does your master write to you in here?’ he asked, looking at it.
Dillon’s fingers dropped away from the letters, a movement that looked furtive. ‘No. He will not let me down, though, not a man of his eminence. He told me I would come to no harm, and I believe him.’
‘Thurloe says you have an aversion to killing,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject abruptly.
‘I am a Quaker.’ Dillon’s expression was unreadable again. ‘Did you know Manning? Is that why you are hostile now you know my real identity? His death was not my fault, you know; I had already abandoned Thurloe to work for the Royalists when he ordered me to eliminate that double-agent. But I could hardly kill one of my new colleagues, could I?’
‘You have a curious history,’ said Chaloner, declining to comment. ‘First, you work for Thurloe, then you become a Royalist, and now you travel to Ireland to ferment revolt. I saw you with Thomas Scot before he surrendered himself. You were lucky you were not taken with the men he betrayed.’
‘That was not luck.’ Dillon shot him a nasty grin. ‘You are not the only one capable of infiltrating a hopelessly amateur rebellion by pretending to be part of it.’
Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him. He stood and began to pace, aiming to put himself behind Dillon and grab the papers from his pocket. ‘Who sent you there?’
Dillon looked smug. ‘I am not at liberty to say, although not everyone wanted the revolt to fail, just as not everyone wanted it to succeed. The politics of our time are very complex.’
‘They are when you become involved,’ muttered Chaloner. He saw he would have no straight answers about the Castle Plot, so moved back to the murder of Webb. ‘Two of the eight accused with you were Fanning and Sarsfeild–’
‘Both here, in Newgate,’ interjected Dillon. ‘Meanwhile, four had the King’s pardon and two have disappeared completely – all of which is very revealing.’
‘Not to me. Perhaps you would care to explain.’
Dillon sighed. ‘The anonymous letter that listed us was a flagrant piece of spite – some cowardly rat attempting to avenge himself on all his enemies in one fell swoop. However, he picked on men who have powerful friends. Four were influential enough to be released the moment their names were known – Willys, Clarke, Fitz-Gerrard and Burne.’
‘Burne?’ echoed Chaloner, startled. He certainly knew that alias.
‘Gregory Burne, more usually known as Adrian May. It is no secret that he is Williamson’s spy and proud of it. A dangerous devil, with all his pride and arrogance. Have you met him?’ Dillon did not wait for an answer. ‘I doubt he had anything to do with Webb’s death, because he is too slow and stupid for stealthy murder. The two who vanished were Fitz-Simons and Terrell. I know you have come across Fitz-Simons, because Thurloe told me.’
Chaloner kept his face impassive, but his stomach churned. It was not the mention of Fitz-Simons that unsettled him, but that of Terrelclass="underline" his friend William Scot.
There was another thump on the door, and his time Chaloner failed to disguise his agitation. Dillon give his lopsided grin, amused by his visitor’s growing unease. Chaloner struggled to pull himself together, resenting the notion that he was a source of entertainment to the leering man opposite. He rubbed his head as he paced back and forth, trying to make some sense of the gloating revelations.
First, there was Terrell. Had Scot’s name been included in the letter because someone did not like him, as Dillon believed? All spies had enemies – sometimes very dangerous ones – so it was not impossible that Scot had incurred someone’s wrath. And recently, he had been crucial in undermining the Irish rebellion – it might well have succeeded, had Scot not come up with the idea of using his brother to yield vital information. Or was it not Scot’s alias that was included in the letter, but the ‘dishonest fishmonger’ of the same name, whom both Scot himself and Clarendon had mentioned?
Secondly, there was ‘Burne’. May had also been in Ireland, and was the kind of man to accrue enemies – and not only from spying. As Dillon had said, May was dangerous and arrogant, and Chaloner was not the only one who disliked him.
Thirdly, there was Willys. A man called Willys had tried to burgle the Earl’s offices with Johnson. Of course, it was a common name, and Chaloner knew coincidences were not impossible.
And finally, there was Fitz-Simons, who had disguised himself as a vagrant in a desperate attempt to talk to Williamson. Did that mean he was Williamson’s spy, too? His last words had been about three other men accused of killing Webb – Terrell, Burne and Dillon – so he clearly knew something about the case. Chaloner frowned as he considered the shooting. He had assumed May’s shot was fatal, but perhaps he was wrong, and Fitz-Simons was not dead at all – that the ‘death’ had been a ruse to allow him to disappear for ever. It would explain why May had opened fire unnecessarily – he had been following orders to help the man. And the body in St Olave’s charnel house was certainly not the same person Chaloner had seen killed. There had been plenty of blood and a ‘hole’ in Fitz-Simons, but these could be fabricated with paints, and Chaloner had not bothered to feel for a pulse. Furthermore, May had almost immediately covered the ‘beggar’s’ head with a bag, thus preventing anyone from seeing his face.
Dillon was trying, unsuccessfully, to read his thoughts. ‘Fitz-Simons was shot at Westminster last Friday. Thurloe told me you were with him, and that he had asked you to make sure I was safe.’