‘He is not the only one. Lisle had a dispute with Webb, too – Webb claimed he overcharged for a phlebotomy, and the matter went to the law-courts. Webb won, but there was evidence that money changed hands to secure the verdict he wanted. Then Webb commissioned a Private Anatomy at Chyrurgeons’ Hall, but Lisle and Johnson were obliged to cancel at the last minute – something about a leaking roof – and Webb threatened to sue again.’
‘Dillon also included Temple and Brodrick among his suspects.’
Thurloe considered the accusation, nodding slowly. ‘Temple lost customers to Webb, and Webb insulted Brodrick’s music – something very dear to him.’
‘And then there is Silence. If Webb was as awful as everyone says, then perhaps she is better off without him. She is not very grief-stricken. She did not bury him in the place he bought for himself, either, but let him be shoved in someone else’s tomb – not that the corpse was his, anyway.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Thurloe uneasily. ‘I hope you have not been opening graves.’
‘I wanted to know whether the surgeons will deposit him in his own vault when they have finished with him. Perhaps they intend to, but have not yet had the chance – he was only dissected on Sunday, after all. But then what happens to the body already there – the emaciated fellow?’
‘I do not see how this is relevant to Dillon, and time is passing,’ said Thurloe. He frowned as he pushed the cat from his lap. ‘I still believe this is no time to burgle Bristol. Perhaps I should come with you. I may be out of practice, but I have not forgotten all the skills I once taught you.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner hastily. He would hang for certain if he was caught burgling Bristol in company with Cromwell’s old Spymaster. He stood, feeling his stomach pitch at the movement, and heartily wished he had declined the tonic.
Dawn was beginning to paint the eastern sky, although the streets were still in deep shadow. Chaloner walked briskly, hoping exercise might make him feel better, taking deep breaths of comparatively fresh air as he went. Great Queen Street lay to the west of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and had a rural feel about it. Trees whispered in the breeze, birds sang and the wind blew from the west, so brought with it the sweet scent of new crops. He found the lane that ran around the back of the houses and located Bristol’s garden, which was almost entirely laid down to onions. A maid was in it, hanging washing on a clothes line. He waited until she had gone, then slipped quietly through the gate, moving through the burgeoning crops to reach a paved yard fringed by sculleries and pantries.
Apart from the maid, there was no activity, and he supposed the staff had adapted themselves to their master’s erratic hours – Bristol probably disliked being woken early by clattering pots, but demanded attention late at night. Chaloner let himself in through the rear door and slunk stealthily up a silent corridor to the main rooms at the front. He could hear someone snoring, and opened a door to a handsome parlour to see Bristol himself, reclining comfortably in a cushion-filled chair. A cup dangled from one hand, while the other rested on his paunch; his head was back and he breathed wetly. Around him was the debris of a good night. Empty decanters littered a card-strewn table, and the air was still thick with tobacco smoke. Chaloner felt his stomach pitch at the powerful scent of wine, and held his breath until the feeling passed.
Voices emanated from the room opposite, so he tiptoed towards it and peered through a crack in the door. A dozen people had gathered there, picking at the bread and biscuits that had been laid out under cloths on a sideboard. Chaloner recognised three of them. Temple worked his toothless jaws, as if sleep had rendered them stiff. Alice Scot looked bright and alert, and was chattering gaily about Lady Castlemaine’s new diamond ring. And the whites of Surgeon Johnson’s eyes were deep red, to match the wine that had spilled down his coat during the revelries of the night before.
‘I like Lady Castlemaine,’ Johnson announced, loudly enough to make several of his companions – and Chaloner – wince. He lowered his voice, putting a hand to his own head. ‘I am told she is probably a papist, but I am ready to ignore that, because she has such fine thighs.’
‘A good reason for tolerance,’ said Alice facetiously. ‘And what about Lord Bristol, who is also Roman Catholic? Will you forgive him, too, on the basis of his fine thighs?’
‘I doubt his rival Lady Castlemaine’s,’ said Johnson, evidently unequal to irony at such an early hour. ‘He puts on a good card game, though, so I am willing to overlook the matter of his religion.’
‘Most noble,’ growled a man Chaloner thought was a bishop. ‘His God must have been watching over him last night, though, because he carried all before him. What do you say to a game tonight, Johnson?’
‘I am afraid not. I have another Private Anatomy to perform.’
‘Another?’ asked Temple with sudden eagerness. He took Alice’s hand. ‘Can we come? We enjoyed the last one you arranged. It was highly entertaining.’
‘I had no idea Webb contained so many entrails,’ agreed Alice. ‘Of course, he was a very slippery fellow, so I suppose it should come as no surprise that he owned more than most.’
Chaloner was startled, because Wiseman had said the face of the subject remained covered during the cutting – so Alice and Temple should not have known whose innards they were being shown.
‘He had three times as many as the average man,’ declared Johnson authoritatively. ‘And they were twice as oily. But I am afraid you cannot come to the dissection this evening, because it is a very private affair. However, I can arrange another, if you found the last one edifying. It will cost, but … ’
‘It will not be Webb, though,’ said Temple with deep regret.
Chaloner gaped at him. Was this the motive for Webb’s murder? He was killed to provide Temple’s entertainment? Or had the surgeons merely taken advantage of an opportunity presented?
Johnson grinned, and raised his cup. ‘No, but I promise you will not be disappointed, even so.’
Servants were beginning to stir, aware that while Bristol might still be sleeping, his guests nevertheless required attention. Chaloner did not have much time – and certainly should not be spending it pondering the question of how Webb had ended up at Chyrurgeons’ Hall. He climbed the stairs, thinking about what Thurloe had told him about the location of Bristol’s letter. He saw a ‘China-painted’ chest in the second room he explored, and moved quickly towards it, first closing the door behind him. Thurloe’s two keys worked perfectly, although it took him longer than he expected to undo the last lock. It was old and worn, which made it difficult to pick, and the smell of tobacco and old wine had turned his stomach to the point where he was feeling sick again. He took a deep breath and tried to force away the nausea. He did not have time for it.
Cheery greetings suggested Bristol was awake and had joined his visitors. The clatter of plates and cups followed, and then the scent of cooking meat wafted up the stairs. Chaloner put his hand over his nose so as not to inhale it. The last lock finally snapped open and he wrenched up the lid with more force than he had intended, so it cracked sharply against the wall. The voices downstairs immediately went silent. Chaloner began to rummage through the haphazard papers within, then stopped when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Someone was coming.
He rifled more urgently, hearing a second set of feet join the first. Bristol’s voice drifted upwards, asking a servant whether he had left a window open. Stopping, the servant declared he had not, because everyone knew that night air was poisonous to sleeping men. The footsteps continued up the stairs and started along the corridor. Now there were more than two sets, and Chaloner supposed other retainers had joined their master. He knew that if he was caught, there would be no excuse for what he was doing and he would be hanged, especially when Bristol learned he was in Clarendon’s pay. There came the sounds of doors being opened.