‘Four men named in Bristol’s letter have already been pardoned and two allowed to disappear. If you were going to join their ranks, surely something would have happened by now?’
‘Why should you care what happens to me?’
‘I don’t,’ said Chaloner, thinking of Manning. ‘But Thurloe does, and I have agreed to help him. Who wrote this?’ He handed Dillon the letter he had stolen. ‘Do you recognise the writing?’
‘Ah – the famous accusation! I saw it at my trial, although I cannot imagine how you come to have it. However, I still do not know who wrote it, and I still do not recognise the writing. Next question.’
‘Was Webb involved in the Castle Plot? Did you kill him because he betrayed you, and so was the cause of the rebellion’s failure? I know you argued with him the day he died.’
Dillon raised his eyebrows. ‘You have been assiduous in your researches! Next question.’
‘You have not answered the ones I have already asked.’
‘And nor shall I. Leave this business alone, Heyden. I will not hang. My master has a sense of the dramatic, and I do not anticipate that the crowds at my execution will be disappointed.’
‘You expect to be rescued at the scaffold?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.
Dillon winked, then demanded to be returned to his cell. Chaloner did not linger once he had gone, eager to be away from the reeking gaol. He climbed wearily into Thurloe’s carriage, feeling his heartbeat slow to a more normal level – the guard had taken rather too long to open the last gate.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Thurloe in alarm. ‘Is Dillon unwell? Dead, like Fanning?’
‘He is perfectly happy. I just hate prisons.’
‘Because of that business in France four years ago? Perhaps I should visit Sarsfeild in Ludgate.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner, although he was tempted. ‘It is too dangerous for you. I will do it.’
Ludgate was one of the portals that had once formed part of the city’s defensive walls. It had been rebuilt eighty years before, and its upper chambers had always been used as a prison for petty criminals and debtors. It was a long, functional building that lacked the formidable security associated with Newgate, and Chaloner was relieved to note it lacked Newgate’s stench, too. Inside, a second purse disappeared into the pockets of guards as Chaloner bought his way towards a convicted felon.
‘Newgate’s governor did not want to lose a second convict to gaol-fever before he can be strung up,’ chattered one particularly helpful – and impecunious warden – as they walked to Sarsfeild’s cell together. ‘The event has already been advertised, see, and folk are disappointed when they do not get what they are promised. Dillon is different, because he has money to buy a clean, safe cell, but Sarsfeild is poor and was at risk from infection.’
‘Have you heard any rumours about Fanning’s death?’
The warden held out his hand for another of Thurloe’s coins. ‘One guard said there was a cord around his neck when the body was found, but he is given to strong drink, and no one believed him. Unfortunately, he died the following night, so you cannot ask him yourself.’
‘He died?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. ‘How?’
‘Hit by a cart when he left his favourite tavern. Strong drink, see. Never touch it myself. There was a whisper that Fanning was going to escape by plying us guards with poisoned wine, but we have not been fooled by that sort of thing since the Middle Ages. We are professionals, after all.’
Chaloner was conducted down a narrow corridor, which smelled of boiled cabbage, to a cell at the far end. It was a dismal hole, but at least it had a window that allowed relatively fresh air to blow in. Sarsfeild was a small man whose clothes had once been respectable. Now he was filthy, unshaven and frightened. When he came towards Chaloner, his face was streaked, as though he had been crying.
‘I will tell you anything,’ he said, tears flowing. ‘I will say anything, only please let me go. I did not kill Matthew Webb, or even know him. I am a confectioner – I deal in sugar and sweetmeats. I have no reason to stab anyone. There has been a terrible mistake.’
‘Sugar?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Where does it come from?’
‘Barbados, I believe.’
‘I mean which merchant sells you the raw materials for your trade?’
Sarsfeild’s face was a mask of despair. ‘All right, I admit I met Webb once or twice, because he sold the cheapest sugar, but I did not murder–’
‘Where do you live?’
‘The Strand; I have a shop in the New Exchange. I know how this looks – I bought sugar from Webb, and we are almost neighbours – but that is where our association ends. I did not kill him!’
Chaloner thought about Scot’s theory, reiterated by Thurloe: that a mistake had been made, and that the letter’s author had intended Chaloner’s name to be on the list. And so ‘Garsfield’, who had been active in thwarting the Castle Plot, was overlooked in favour of Sarsfeild the confectioner, because the man was an associate of Webb’s and lived nearby. Could it be true? The man in Ludgate had none of Dillon’s dash and swagger, and certainly was not expecting rescue.
‘The King himself has tasted my wares,’ Sarsfeild continued, when Chaloner made no comment. ‘If you tell His Majesty about my predicament, and ask for a royal pardon, I will keep you in sweetmeats for the rest of your life.’
‘I do not have that sort of authority, I am afraid. Where were you the night Webb was murdered?’
Sarsfeild looked relieved. ‘I keep telling people, but no one will listen: I went to see a play called The Humorous Lieutenant, then I went home with an actress called Beck Marshall who lives in Drury Lane. Please go to see her. She will tell you I was with her all night, so cannot have murdered Webb.’
‘I will do what I can. Did you hear what happened to Fanning?’
Sarsfeild gave a bitter smile. ‘Gaol-fever – it was why I was moved. The governor does not want the public to be cheated of their entertainment on Saturday.’
Chapter 8
At the western end of the great expanse that was St Paul’s churchyard was a coffee house with a sign above it that identified it as the Turk’s Head. There were several places of refreshment in the city with that name, but the one in St Paul’s was famous because it was used by local booksellers to strike deals with their customers. Besides coffee, the Turk’s Head offered sherbets flavoured with roses or lemons, chocolate – a dark, bitter beverage endured only by truly dedicated followers of fashion – and stationery. For six shillings, a pound of East India ‘berries’ could be purchased, along with free instructions on how to produce the perfect dish of coffee. Thurloe bought some when he learned the East India type was said to be good for ‘griping pains in divers regions’.
‘Are you sure you do not want any sugar?’ asked the ex-Spymaster, as they took seats in a room so warm that its patrons’ clothes – wet from the morning’s drizzle – steamed furiously. ‘Coffee does not taste very nice without it. It does not taste very nice with it, either, but at least it is an improvement.’
‘Sarsfeild bought sugar from Webb,’ said Chaloner, thinking about what he had learned. ‘And they lived close to each other, although I imagine Sarsfeild’s home is rather less grand than Webb Hall. These two connections may have been enough to see him accused of a crime he did not commit. Alternatively, they may mean he had a motive to stab Webb, since most people seem to have been seized with the desire to stick a rapier in the fellow once they had made his acquaintance.’