‘Williamson says they are nothing to do with him, but there is no way to know for certain. I have certainly never met any of them.’
‘You have – Dillon is the man we called O’Brien, from Dublin.’
Scot gaped at him. ‘Really? Then he is a spy, but I have no idea whose.’
‘Someone he trusts – he thinks he will be rescued from the scaffold. It is too late for Fanning, though, because he has been strangled, although the official cause of death is gaol-fever. It happened on the eve of a planned escape, which may or may not be significant. That leaves Sarsfeild.’
‘Sarsfeild,’ mused Scot. ‘It is similar to the name you used in Ireland: Garsfield.’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘I am not sufficiently important to be included in any plot, and few people in London know me anyway. Besides, Sarsfeild has been caught and sits in Ludgate.’
‘Or perhaps a slip of the pen means that entirely the wrong man is locked in a prison cell. Do not look dismissive, Chaloner – Bristol and his minions will do anything to harm Lord Clarendon, including striking at his people. But why was the letter sent to Bristol, do you think? And why did he pass it to the legal authorities, when his own henchman – Willys – might have been hanged?’
‘Perhaps he thought it was a secret test of his integrity, and was too frightened to do anything else. Have you given any more thought to who might have written it?’
‘Far too much, and it is beginning to interfere with my other duties – not that my thinking is doing me much good. I am still none the wiser, which bothers me; I dislike not knowing my enemies. Do you have any suspects?’
‘Adrian May,’ said Chaloner, voicing something that had been in his mind ever since he had heard the bald spy urging his services on Bristol.
Scot was thoughtful. ‘Eaffrey would agree with you – she heard a rumour to that effect. However, the man most inconvenienced by the missive was May’s master: Williamson. His best spies have been exposed, including May himself.’
‘Cover,’ replied Chaloner immediately. ‘It would have looked suspicious for an agent of May’s prominence to be omitted from the list, and he is not entirely stupid.’
‘Perhaps. The master of Dillon, Fanning and Sarsfeild, whoever he is, has been incapacitated by this letter, too. I suppose, we shall know him when he steps forward to rescue them from the gallows.’
‘If he bothers. Fanning is already dead, and Dillon may be counting his chickens before they are hatched. I wish you had told me all this sooner.’
Scot grimaced. ‘So do I – although, in my defence, I have spent hours looking for you over the last three days. If you were not so damned elusive, you would have known everything ages ago.’
Chaloner sighed and rubbed his head. ‘Even with your information, I still do not understand what is going on – not with Webb, Fitz-Simons, Bristol’s letter or their links to the Castle Plot. I am better at spying on the Dutch than on my fellow countrymen. I understand foreigners better, I think.’
‘Then come to Surinam with me. That is overrun with Hollanders, and we can do a lot for England there. I shall leave as soon as my brother is free. Of course, that assumes I can get him released – his interrogators want to know about weapons now, but Thomas has no idea where the rebels got them.’
Chaloner had his suspicions. ‘Try asking the Trulocke brothers, gunsmiths on St Martin’s Lane.’
Scot gazed at him, hope burning in his pale eyes. ‘You have good reason to suggest this?’
‘Good enough to recommend you investigate them.’
Scot took his hand, and Chaloner saw a sparkle of tears. ‘This may be enough to see Thomas out.’
‘Your sister thinks she is going to take him home to Buckinghamshire when he is released. She will be surprised when she learns you have other plans for him.’
‘Not as surprised as when she hears she is coming, too. I cannot leave her here – prey for money-seeking scoundrels like Temple. We shall all go to Surinam, although I shall tell her so only at the very last minute. She might marry Temple in an attempt to stay here with him otherwise.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, appalled. ‘Please tell me well in advance when you intend to abduct her, so I can make sure I am as far away as possible. She will be furious.’
‘Better furious than married to Temple.’
Chaloner was unsettled by the knowledge that the likes of Temple were prepared to employ increasingly shabby tactics to harm Lord Clarendon, and supposed he would have to increase his efforts to monitor them. He was not overly concerned for his own safety, because he had been in far more dangerous situations in the past, and did not feel particularly at risk. He also thought Scot was wrong to think his name had been on Bristol’s list, because he was simply not important enough to warrant such attention.
He spent the rest of the day in White Hall, moving silently among courtiers and servants, asking the occasional question, but mostly just listening. The palace was not known for its discretion, but even so, he was astonished at how readily people yielded their secrets. No one was safe from wagging tongues, and he was startled to learn that even his fictitious Dutch upholsterer – Vanders – was said to be enjoying a rambunctious affair with one of Lady Castlemaine’s maiden aunts.
Tucked in a corner of the spacious Great Court was an awkwardly shaped chamber with a sagging roof known jokingly as the Spares Gallery. It was chiefly a repository for any paintings the King did not like, and included portraits of a few historical black sheep, as well as artwork by famous artists that was not quite up to par. It had been taken over by high-ranking retainers, who used it as a common room. When Chaloner ran out of people to quiz, he repaired to the Spares Gallery, where there was always ale warming over a fire, and usually bread and cheese set out on a table, too.
The hall was crowded, which suited him – it was easier to be invisible in a full room than in one that was half empty. He drank a cup of ale, then spotted Willys slouching morosely in a window seat. He went to sit next to the aide, ready to leave if there was any residual antagonism from the altercation with Holles earlier. Willys, however, seemed to have forgotten the incident, and Chaloner’s sympathetic manner soon had him confiding all manner of intimate details about Bristol.
It did not take long for Chaloner to realise Willys was not very bright. Even the dimmest of retainers knew never to chatter about his master’s sleeping habits, dietary preferences – most of which involved onions – and mistresses. Willys, however, was flattered by the fact that someone was ready to listen to him, and once he started, he was difficult to stop. Chaloner tried several times to steer the discussion around to the fact that the aide’s name was on an incriminating letter, but Willys declined to be diverted. By the end of an hour, Chaloner’s head was spinning, and he knew far more about Bristol’s private life than he ever would about his own earl’s.
It was not easy to escape from the garrulous aide, and it was dusk by the time Chaloner managed it. Because he felt he had lost his way among the jumble of information he had accumulated, he decided to visit Thurloe – to tell him all he had learned in the hope that the ex-Spymaster might see some order in it. When he arrived at Lincoln’s Inn, Thurloe was pacing in agitation.
‘I hoped you would come,’ said the ex-Spymaster without preamble. ‘I went to see Dillon–’
Chaloner was dismayed. ‘You promised you would not visit Newgate again.’
Thurloe grimaced. ‘I donned a disguise, Thomas; credit me with some intelligence, please. Dillon’s execution will be on Saturday, but I have exhausted all I can do to help him. You are his only hope now.’