‘Turn right,’ ordered Scot, closing the gate behind them.
‘We will run into Bristol’s servants if we go that way.’
‘I know what I am doing,’ said Scot impatiently. ‘And you are not well enough to–’
Chaloner did not feel like arguing. He took his own route, and was proven right, because moments later, a pack of retainers converged on the gate. They were hot, cross and disappointed, and would certainly have challenged two ‘drunks’ so close to their master’s home.
Scot shot him an apologetic grin. ‘It seems the apprentice has surpassed the master – either that, or I am losing my touch. Christ, my head aches! That will teach me to drink with a man who cannot afford a decent vintage.’
Thurloe was waiting in a carriage, which was cunningly concealed behind some trees in the expanse of open land known as Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The ex-Spymaster closed his eyes in relief when he saw Chaloner. Scot turned to leave, claiming he had pressing business, although Chaloner knew he was discreetly allowing him to report to Thurloe alone. He caught his friend’s arm.
‘You took a risk in coming to my aid.’
Scot was dismissive. ‘Hardly! And it was nothing compared to your rescue of me in Holland last year.’ He brandished the cup he had stolen. ‘Do you want this, or shall I toss it in the river?’
‘Send it anonymously to Lady Castlemaine. That should confuse everyone.’
Scot laughed, liking the notion of causing mischief. Then he saluted Thurloe and walked back towards the city.
‘I am sorry, Tom,’ said Thurloe, opening the door to the carriage and helping Chaloner inside. He peered anxiously into his face. ‘I would have come to save you myself, but Scot said he would be better at it – and he was right, of course. He is his father’s son for daring escapades.’
‘Who tried to poison you?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Prynne?’
‘Prynne?’ Thurloe was shocked. ‘He is a bigot, not a killer! I thought my elixirs were safe from meddlers, as I keep them locked in the pantry upstairs, but the tonic is definitely the culprit, because it is the only thing the cat managed to steal. The poor thing is terribly ill. Shall I take you to a surgeon?’
‘No, thank you!’ said Chaloner hastily. He handed over the letter he had retrieved from Bristol’s chest. It was written on the kind of cheap paper that was available to everyone, although the ink was an unusual shade of blue.
To my Ld Bristoll, by Ye grace of God: This verye nyght I did Witnesse an act of Grayte Evill, that is Ye Murder of Mathew Webbe by Nine Persons of Wycked Violence. These Persons naymed are Willm Dyllon, Thos. Sarsfeild, Rich. Fanyng, Waltr. Fitz-Gerrard, Lowence Clarke, Geo. Wyllys, Gregy Burn, Rich. Fissymons and Petr. Terel. Ye Murder was Donne as a Revengge becaws Ye said Webbe was Parte of Ye Layte Busness in Ireland, and was a Rebell. Then he betrayd his Comraydes, becaws his Conscience called Hym. I am marvellously praepared to leave all my Apprehenshons to wyser men, for it is God Almightie and Hys Instrumentes who will delivere alle evill spyes and intelligencers to the Gallowes, for Hee shalle not suffere them to live. I knowe Youe are a decent Mann, who wille see Right Donne in God’s Goode Nayme.
‘Look at the way he wrote Sarsfeild,’ said Thurloe thoughtfully. ‘His S may be a G, which would make it Thomas Garsfield – the alias you used in Ireland. I hope this was not aimed at you.’
Chaloner did not think so for a moment. ‘I am not sufficiently important.’
‘You hail from an old and distinguished family, and your forebears were eminent politicians and intellectuals. You are not as invisible as you seem to believe. Perhaps Sarsfeild had nothing to do with Webb’s murder, and an innocent man sits in Ludgate Gaol.’
‘We could ask him – check his alibi for the time of the murder, if he has one.’ Chaloner did not feel like making an assault on a prison that morning, but it would have to be done soon, because it was already Wednesday, and the executions were scheduled for three days’ time.
Thurloe tapped the letter with his forefinger. ‘Still, at least we know why Bristol was chosen as the recipient, and not Williamson. The writer dislikes spies – and Williamson hires them.’
‘Bristol has a spy called Willys, though,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘And Willys is one of the men cited in the letter.’
Thurloe shrugged. ‘Perhaps the writer did not know that – perhaps he thinks Willys is a servant and no more. What do you think of the Earl’s cousin, Brodrick – other than his musical abilities?’
Chaloner was taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. ‘Other than those, not much. He does not do anything, except attend parties. I do not know why Clarendon places such faith in his abilities, when he never sees them used.’
‘That is probably what people say about you, but all the while you are working very hard at gathering intelligence and listening to idle chatter.’
Chaloner tried to understand what he was saying. ‘You think Brodrick is a spy?’
‘It is possible. Have you shared any sensitive information with him?’
‘I told him about a plan to have Clarendon blamed for the location of the King’s new bedchamber.’
‘Then you must question Clarendon immediately. If Brodrick has shared this information with him, then perhaps he is loyal. If he has not, then you might want to ask yourself why.’ Thurloe turned to the letter again. ‘Now we have yet another motive for Webb’s murder; this claims he was involved in the Castle Plot, but betrayed it to the government.’
‘Well, someone did,’ said Chaloner. ‘We had weeks to infiltrate the rebels and foil their plans.’
A second visit to Newgate could be postponed no longer, even though all Chaloner wanted to do was to lie down until his stomach stopped pitching. He did not think he had felt so unwell since he had been injured by an exploding cannon at the Battle of Naseby – and then he had been expected to die.
‘You have not forged another pass for me, have you?’ he asked weakly.
‘There are many ways to gain access to prisons, and counterfeit letters is just one of them,’ replied Thurloe evenly. He handed Chaloner a very heavy purse. ‘Another is bribery.’
Leaving Thurloe outside, Chaloner used the ex-Spymaster’s money to secure an interview, although even the princely sums on offer bought him no more than five minutes in the condemned man’s company. He had borrowed Thurloe’s hat and coat, and smothered his face with a chalky powder the ex-Spymaster had thought to bring with him. A black eye-patch completed the disguise, which was crude by Chaloner’s standards, but hopefully good enough to ensure none of the guards would associate him with the man who had deceived them two days before.
‘You again,’ said Dillon, as Chaloner entered the visitors’ room. The prisoner sported his trademark hat, so his eyes and upper face were hidden. He looked sleek and contented, and his clothes were different to the ones he had worn last time. ‘Nice patch. Is it a disguise, or have you been fighting?’
‘Do you know Thomas Sarsfeild?’ asked Chaloner.
‘I have already told you no,’ said Dillon. He stood. ‘Is that all? I am reading John Spencer’s book on the end of the world in the year sixty-six, and I want to know what to avoid when the time comes.’
‘Thurloe said you refused to tell him anything that might allow him to save you,’ said Chaloner, thinking Dillon was very certain about his longevity. He was not sure he would have been so complacent, had he been in the condemned man’s situation.
‘His interference is unnecessary and unwelcome. My master will save me when the time is right.’