‘How?’ Scot raised his hand. ‘No, do not tell me. I would rather not know. However, you should remember that Behn did business with Webb, and it is possible that he is paying court to Silence to make sure she does not sign his interests away to another party.’
‘What about Alice?’ asked Chaloner, seeing Scot would not be convinced, so changing the subject in the random way of the intoxicated. ‘Have you devised a way to abduct her before she marries the odious Temple? You should not leave it too long, because she really does love him.’
‘Perhaps I should kill him,’ said Scot. ‘No, that will not work, because she will know it was me, and I do not want her in one of her tempers. Your duel with her first husband was years ago, but she still bears you a grudge. I could not bear her treating me so coldly – not my own sister.’
‘Plants,’ suggested Chaloner drunkenly. ‘You must have read about plants that reduce people to a state of torpor in your Musaeum Tradescantianum. Feed her some of those.’
Scot looked shocked. ‘I want to save her, not kill her! Besides, Thomas might be stuck in the Tower for weeks, and I cannot drug her indefinitely. The best solution would be if you married her. I would not mind you as a brother-in-law.’
‘She would have her sharpest dagger in my heart on our wedding night.’
Scot guffawed, and refilled their cups. ‘Alice could do a good deal worse, and it is a great pity you do not like each other. Perhaps you will fall in love en route to Surinam.’
Chaloner had no idea how late he and Scot stayed up, but he woke to find himself slumped uncomfortably across the table with his head on his arms, while Scot snored on the bed. It was still dark outside, but dawn was not far off, and he supposed it was the rumble of the day’s first cart that had disturbed his sleep. He lurched to the window and opened it for some fresh air. Scot did not stir, not even when Chaloner tripped over an upturned chair, suggesting the older man had imbibed even more than he had. His head pounded viciously as he washed his face and changed clothes that were stiff with spilled claret. Before he left, he placed a blanket over the slumbering Scot.
‘You reek of strong drink,’ said Thurloe accusingly when he arrived at Lincoln’s Inn. ‘And you look as though you have been up all night, carousing – red eyes, pale face, wincing because you think my voice is loud. Anyone would think you were a courtier.’
Chaloner flopped into Thurloe’s fireside chair. ‘I expected you to be walking in the garden.’
‘I could not bring myself to go. Prynne showed me the plans for his dovecote yesterday – the only feature in this barren wilderness he dares to call an arbour. It is ugly in the extreme, and I cannot see any self-respecting bird deigning to take up residence in it.’
‘Cave fanaticum,’ murmured Chaloner, trying to remember how much wine he and Scot had actually swallowed the previous night. He suspected it was the best part of a gallon jug.
‘Beware the fanatic,’ translated Thurloe. ‘I am surprised you remember any Latin, given the state you are in. Speaking of Latin, did I tell you Prynne gave me a copy of his Histriomastix in an attempt to ingratiate himself? I have never read such vitriol! Even my deeply held Puritan convictions do not lead me to rant against bay windows, holly bushes and New Year gifts.’
‘Bay windows?’ echoed Chaloner, wondering why religion led people to rage against such peculiar things.
‘I am ashamed to call him a fellow bencher. And his diatribes against Jews defy decency, logic and sanity.’ Thurloe turned when there was a tap at the door. ‘Yates? Is that my morning bread?’
The wall-eyed porter bustled in with a tray, the Inn’s tabby cat stalking at his heels. Yates kept one eye on the cat and the other on Thurloe, as he began to inform the ex-Spymaster, in unnecessary detail, about the state of his usual servant, who had gone to his sister to recover from a bout of the bloody flux. Chaloner wondered how Yates had prised such intimate details from a man who, as far as everyone knew, was mute. He tried to tune out the chatter, which was far too graphic to be heard so early in the morning. Eventually, Yates finished his gruesome monologue and left. Thurloe sat at the table and selected a sliver of barley bread, while the cat jumped into his lap.
‘You should try this. It is said to be good for the digestive health.’
Chaloner felt his gorge rise at the prospect of food, as it always did the morning after too much wine. ‘I came to ask whether you had discovered the whereabouts of Bristol’s letter.’
‘It is in his house on Great Queen Street. We are almost neighbours – I can see his roof from here.’
‘I thought he lodged at White Hall.’ Chaloner recalled him wandering around the Privy Gardens in his night-clothes the previous morning.
‘Only when he is too drunk to go home. There is a rear-facing office on the upper floor of his mansion, in which there is a large China-painted chest. The letter will be in that.’
‘Do you know anything about the lock?’
‘Three separate keys are required to open it. I took the liberty of acquiring two – do not ask how; suffice to say I need them back as soon as possible – but you will have to pick the last. However, I do not recommend going now. It is too near dawn and Bristol might be awake.’
‘He sleeps late, so now will be the perfect time,’ countered Chaloner, thinking about what Willys had told him. Bristol seldom rose before nine o’clock, no matter where he slept, which his married mistresses found inconvenient.
‘If you will not eat anything, then drink this.’ Thurloe handed Chaloner one of his infamous potions. ‘I made it myself, and it contains Venice Treacle among other things, which is an excellent remedy for overindulgence. You cannot burgle a house while you are still half drunk.’
Chaloner swallowed what was in the cup without thinking. Then, for the next few minutes, he fought a violent urge to be sick, and sat with his hands pressed hard against his face. Eventually the nausea receded, and he opened his eyes to see Thurloe looking pleased.
‘The most efficacious medicines are always the most unpleasant, and judging from your reaction, I suspect this one has done you much good. The barber-surgeons say Venice Treacle is a quack remedy, but I beg to differ. They are clever fellows, but they do not know everything about health.’
‘Do you know a medic called Wiseman?’
Thurloe nodded. ‘He deplores the Court’s excesses, and supports your earl’s efforts to curb them.’
‘What do you think of him as a man?’
‘Arrogant and cynical – but if I were obliged to rummage in people’s innards, I might be arrogant and cynical, too. He is probably decent, at heart. You are lucky to have him as your surgeon.’
Chaloner was not so sure, preferring to take his chances with Lisle. He pulled uncomfortably at the splint, looking forward to Saturday, when it would come off. ‘What about Lisle and Johnson?’
‘Wiseman thinks they are mediocre practitioners, but both have royal appointments, so he is almost certainly wrong. I like Lisle, who provides his services free of charge to the poor. Why do you ask?’
‘Dillon listed all three as possible culprits for killing Webb.’
Thurloe was thoughtful. ‘Wiseman did despise Webb, mostly because of his involvement with the slave plantations, but there was also an incident just after the Restoration in which Webb accused Wiseman of revealing personal secrets. I do not know if it was true, but it damaged Wiseman’s practice – no one wants a medicus who gossips about embarrassing symptoms.’
‘So, he has a powerful reason for wanting Webb dead?’