‘That is not true. He is in the pay of a more powerful master than you, and expects to be reprieved.’
Thurloe frowned. ‘I know you do not like him because of what happened to Manning – he said you were hostile when you visited – but I am sure you will not allow your personal feelings to interfere with your sense of justice. He says he did not kill Webb, and I believe he is telling the truth.’
‘You are probably right. Of the nine names in Bristol’s letter, five are government intelligencers and one is Bristol’s aide – his spy, in essence. Scot thinks someone cited them as an act of spite – or perhaps revenge – against the secret services. And of the remaining three, Dillon and Fanning are also spies; I saw them in Ireland myself, although I have no idea whose side they were on.’
‘It is possible that they were sent by the government, too – unbeknown to the rest of you. However, as I have said, Dillon is Irish, and his family lost lands in the Royalists’ reorganisation, so it is equally possible that he was part of the revolt. I asked him about it, but his answers were slyly vague. The only thing I know for certain is that he thinks his master is more powerful than Williamson. What about the last man – Sarsfeild? Is he in the pay of this mysterious patron?’
‘Dillon says not, but who knows? Sarsfeild was transferred to Ludgate after Fanning was murdered, so perhaps his patron arranged for him to be in a safer place until he can arrange a release.’
‘You must speak to Dillon again. The governor knows the letter you used last time was a forgery, so you will have to devise another way to gain access. And then you must go to Ludgate and interview Sarsfeild. Perhaps he will be more forthcoming.’
‘Why are you so determined to save Dillon? He betrayed you, and Manning paid the price.’ Chaloner thought, but did not say, that Dillon did not want Thurloe’s assistance, and that the ex-Spymaster was wasting his time and energy by attempting to interfere.
Thurloe sighed. ‘Because injustice troubles me, Thomas. It always has. I know you are busy trying to save Clarendon from Bristol, but I am sure you can spare a few moments to prevent an innocent man from hanging – because that is what will happen on Saturday, no matter what Dillon thinks.’
‘I am not sure visiting him is the best way to a solution.’ Chaloner was ready to go to extreme lengths to avoid spending more time inside Newgate. ‘It would be better to find Webb’s real killer.’
‘How? Do you have any clues?’
‘Some. Silence took the family carriage when she left the Guinea Company dinner, and the coachman was stabbed to prevent him from returning to collect Webb. Webb was forced to walk home from African House, and the killer or killers dispatched him with a single wound to the chest. It was premeditated murder, not a chance killing. The weapon was later placed in Dillon’s room to implicate him.’ Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘Why Dillon? Why not May, Fitz-Simons or one of the others? Is it a blow aimed at Dillon’s patron, to make him reveal himself as a man who hires spies?’
‘Or as a man who has dealings with Irish rebels,’ suggested Thurloe.
‘It seems to me that the answers to some of these questions lie in Bristol’s letter. If we learn who wrote it, we may better understand what is happening.’
‘How do you propose we do that?’
‘By looking at the original. We have only been told about these names – we have not seen the document itself. It is possible that it contains more information, or even clues that may identify its sender. Do you know anyone in Bristol’s entourage who may be able to tell you where it is now?’
Thurloe nodded. ‘And then you can read it in situ. Do not steal it – we do not want anyone to know what we are doing.’
‘All right,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘As long as it does not involve climbing any walls.’
It was too late for visiting prisons that night, although Thurloe immediately set off to question his contacts about the whereabouts of Bristol’s letter. Chaloner was tired after his restlessness the night before, so went home, stopping at a cookshop on the way to purchase a meat pie, wine and boiled fruit. When he arrived, Scot was waiting, hiding in the cupboard outside his door. Chaloner supposed they had been spies for so long that they resorted to cloak-and-dagger tactics even when visiting friends. He mentioned it and Scot laughed, seeing humour in the way they had been conditioned. They shared the food – after Scot had ascertained it was free of peas – then discussed their futures.
‘I shall resign from the intelligence services the moment I secure my brother’s release,’ said Scot through a mouthful of pie. ‘And my whole family will be in Surinam four months later.’
‘You will be back within a year, complaining that life on the edge of the world is dull.’
Scot shook his head. ‘I am serious about this. I will give up spying. Encroaching age has taught me that I am not immortal, and there are things I would like to do before I die.’
‘Such as what?’
Scot’s expression was shy, as if he was afraid of being ridiculed. ‘I really do intend to devote my life to botanicals. There are trees and plants in Surinam that have never been seen, let alone described in the scientific literature. I cannot imagine anything more pleasant than a day in the jungle, surrounded by foliage, writing learned dispatches for the Royal Society.’
Chaloner saw he was sincere. ‘Then I wish you success of it.’
‘You feel the same about music,’ persisted Scot, not sure he was truly understood. He tapped Chaloner’s splinted arm. ‘These things heal, you will regain your skill.’
‘That is not what Lisle says. I was sure there was nothing wrong with me, but he is beginning to make me wonder whether I was mistaken.’
‘Surgeons are irredeemably gloomy. They do it to frighten their patients into paying them more than they should. Your leg healed well enough, did it not? You barely limp these days.’
‘I do if I am obliged to run hard. If my arm becomes like my leg, then I will go to Surinam with you, because I will be useless for anything else. Will you have another go at hacking off the splint?’
Scot did his best, and ruined Chaloner’s favourite dagger and a metal rasp in the process, but it was to no avail. Chaloner was both disgusted and disheartened.
Scot poured more wine. ‘Are you still a creditable forger?’
‘Why?’ Chaloner was beginning to feel drunk, because although there was plenty of wine, there had not been much food once it had been divided in half and his stomach was still empty.
‘Because you may be able to translate your talent for reproducing documents to drawing my specimens. Decent scientific illustrators are worth their weight in gold, and if you are any good at it, you will make a fortune. In fact, you might find yourself in demand for many reasons in Surinam – women like a man with artistic talents, too.’
‘They do not flock to my door when they hear my viol.’
‘Then perhaps you are not as good a player as you think you are.’
‘I do not want Eaffrey to wed Behn,’ said Chaloner. His voice was slurred, and he was aware that he was drinking far too much. He poured himself another cup. ‘He will crush her spirit.’
‘She is more likely to crush his. Do not underestimate her – she knows what she is doing.’
‘He is wooing Silence Webb. Secretly.’
Scot stared at him, then burst out laughing. ‘Really, Chaloner! I know you do not like the man, but there is no need to malign him quite so badly. No fellow in his right senses would carry on with her.’
‘I saw him,’ persisted Chaloner. ‘Twice.’