‘You may find yourself looking a long time,’ warned Chaloner.
‘I hope not,’ said Leybourn wistfully. ‘Have you finished the coffee? We had better tackle Silence Webb before our courage fails. I confess I am not looking forward to this. I know Thurloe told me to explore worthy widows with a view to marriage, but I would rather remain single than take Silence.’
As they walked to The Strand, where the grandly named ‘Webb Hall’ was located, Chaloner told Leybourn what Temperance and Maude had overheard, and summarised his interview with Dillon. Leybourn stopped him once or twice, to make the point that being given such sensitive information might place him in danger, just as it might Temperance, but he had a naturally curious mind, and his pique was soon forgotten as he put his own questions and observations.
‘I have no idea whether anything Dillon said was true,’ concluded Chaloner eventually. ‘The only thing I know for certain is that he was part of the Castle Plot, because I saw him there – he said his name was O’Brien. And I know he expects rescue. Six of the nine accused are already free.’
‘Yes, but Fitz-Simons’s “disappearance” means he was shot.’
‘But perhaps not fatally – it was not his body in the charnel house, remember?’
‘That means nothing. I know it is an odd coincidence that a beggarly corpse called Fitz-Simons appears just as Surgeon Fitz-Simons is killed, but it may be just that – coincidence. Besides, May arranged for Surgeon Fitz-Simons’s body to be buried in St Martin’s Church, if you recall.’
Chaloner inclined his head. ‘True. Perhaps Beggar Fitz-Simons is irrelevant. However, the way Johnson opened the door to the charnel house was furtive, to say the least.’
Leybourn shrugged. ‘I imagine the anatomising of corpses is a clandestine sort of business, so you probably should not read too much into the actions of a man who does it for a living. You say Fitz-Simons whispered two other names before he “died” – Terrell and Burne. Perhaps you should ask Scot and May why they think their aliases should have been singled out for mention.’
‘If Scot is that particular Terrell – there is a fishmonger of the same name, do not forget.’ Chaloner saw Leybourn look doubtful. ‘Scot is a good man, Will. He has saved me from trouble more times than I can remember, and there are few men I trust more. I can quite honestly say that I would not be alive today if it were not for him.’
Leybourn rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘I was not suggesting there is anything untoward about Scot. However, he is a spy, and so are the others Fitz-Simons mentioned – Dillon and May. It seems unlikely that Fitz-Simons would cite two spies and a fishmonger. But regardless, the whole case is becoming ever more curious. Dillon is probably right when he said whoever wrote Bristol that letter may just have listed men who had crossed him in some way.’
Chaloner watched the chaos surrounding an overturned fruit barrow near an ornately turreted Tudor mansion called Bedford House. Apples bounced everywhere, and were eagerly pounced on by children, beggars, horses and even a pig, despite the fact that they were wizened and soft from having been stored too long. The barrow-boy screeched his dismay and wielded a stick, but he might have well as railed against the tide, because his entire stock had been spirited away in a matter of moments.
‘I thought from the start that it was odd nine men should be needed to kill one,’ said Chaloner. ‘And if they were named from malice, then it means Dillon is wrongly convicted. I hope he is right to put his trust in his patron, though, given what has happened to Fanning.’
‘Will you visit Sarsfeild in Ludgate? He might tell you this great man’s name.’
Chaloner was not enthused by the prospect. ‘I hate prisons. Will you go instead? The guards move about between gaols and I am afraid my escape from Newgate attracted too much attention.’
‘I would rather not,’ said Leybourn. ‘I dislike the smell. Do you think Sarsfeild asked to be transferred when he heard Fanning was murdered?’
‘He was transferred because the prison authorities want to make sure he does not die before his execution,’ said Chaloner, surprised by the refusal. He had never asked Leybourn for a favour before, and wondered whether their friendship was as solid as he thought. ‘Dillon is in decent lodgings, but Fanning was not, and probably neither was Sarsfeild. The public dislike being cheated of their due, and the governor needs the last two alive.’
‘Sometimes I am ashamed to be a Londoner,’ said Leybourn. He stopped just past the New Exchange, poking the ground with his foot. ‘Webb died here. His body was found by tradesmen the following day – honest ones, or his corpse would have been stripped.’
Chaloner looked around him. The New Exchange – no longer so new, given that it was more than fifty years old – boasted a splendid stone façade in the style of a Gothic cathedral, and inside were two tiers of galleries containing exclusive little shops and stalls. Goods of all descriptions could be bought, although only by the very rich, and it was the place to be seen by gentlemen and ladies of fashion. A short distance to the west was Clarendon’s city residence, Worcester House. Tucked between it and the New Exchange was a smaller building.
‘This is Webb’s home?’ asked Chaloner, peering through the iron gates. The grounds contained far too many pieces of sculpture for the available space; they rubbed shoulders with fountains and gazebos, as if their owner could not decide what he wanted, so had purchased everything available.
Leybourn nodded. ‘Tasteful, is it not?’
Webb Hall had once boasted perfect classical proportions and some of the best Tuscan cornices on The Strand. Unfortunately, someone with more money than taste had lavished entirely the wrong kind of attention on the building, changing its windows, adding chimneys that spoiled its symmetry, and refacing it with cheap bricks. The door had been enlarged and a garish porch tacked on to the outside, complete with window hangings of scarlet lace.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Chaloner, regarding it askance.
‘Oh, dear, indeed,’ agreed Leybourn, walking up the path and knocking at the door. ‘Now this looks like a brothel. I am surprised Temperance is not losing customers to it.’
‘Perhaps she is,’ said Chaloner, glimpsing a furtive movement at the side of the house. It was a man, hurrying to be away from them. ‘Is that Johan Behn?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Leybourn. ‘Or he would not be climbing over the wall like a felon.’
The door was opened by a servant who wore a livery of green and orange stripes. He conducted them along a hallway that glittered with gold leaf and opened the door to a drawing room that faced the river. A massive Turkish carpet covered the floor, anchored down by four Grecian urns. Dark Dutch landscapes shared the walls with the paler hues of the Venetian schools, and small tables had been placed in inconvenient places to display unique works of art. Through the window, Chaloner saw a bulky figure with fair hair aiming for the private jetty that would allow him to take a boat.
‘There is a word for this,’ whispered Leybourn in Chaloner’s ear, too overwhelmed by the interior décor to consider looking outside.
‘Vulgar?’
‘No,’ murmured Leybourn. ‘That is the word for her.’
A large lady reclined on an exquisite French-made couch, eating sugared almonds. She wore a loose black gown, to indicate she was in mourning, and her hair was in elegant disarray. She also sported at least a dozen ‘face patches’, which Chaloner found disconcerting, because it reminded him of a case of ‘black pox’ he had once seen in the Dutch Antilles. He stepped forward to bow, noting that Leybourn remained by the door, as if anticipating that a quick escape might be required.