‘Which do you think is true?’ asked Thurloe, sipping his coffee and wincing at the flavour.
‘I have no idea. The disparity between the two convicted men is puzzling. Dillon has everything he wants, and is convinced he will be saved in a dramatic gesture by his patron. Sarsfeild has no money to pay for his keep, and is certain he is going to die.’ Chaloner rubbed his head. He still felt sick, and the unsweetened coffee was not helping. ‘They do not seem like the kind of men to work together.’
‘So, you think the letter might have meant to accuse “Garsfield” after all?’
‘No – I only used that alias once, and that was in Dublin. Most of the rebels I met are either dead or in prison, and my fellow spies either know me as Heyden or by my real name.’
‘Let us review this logically. How many agents were involved in thwarting this rebellion?’
‘About two dozen that I know of. Some are still in Ireland, some have been sent to new assignments overseas, and the only ones currently in London are May, Eaffrey and Scot.’
‘But these three know you by more familiar names, so would not have used Garsfield anyway. What about Thomas Scot? Was he aware of your real identity?’
‘We have known each other since we were children, so yes, he knew.’
‘You were part of a covert operation that resulted in his imprisonment, the failure of his revolt, and the death or incarceration of his co-conspirators. Perhaps he wants revenge on you, and used your Garsfield identity to ensure the letter was not traced back to him.’
‘But his brother’s alias is in the letter, too,’ argued Chaloner. ‘And Thomas would never hurt his family. They have grown closer since their father’s execution, and he would never put Scot at risk.’
Thurloe was quiet for a long time, making patterns in the sludge at the bottom of his bowl with a pewter spoon. ‘I think you are right,’ he said eventually. ‘This letter did not refer to you. That leaves two possibilities. First, Sarsfeild’s name was included for spite – perhaps his confectionery made someone’s teeth fall out–’
‘Temple!’ exclaimed Chaloner.
Thurloe inclined his head. ‘And secondly, Sarsfeild is guilty of the murder, but is ready to say or do anything to escape the inevitable.’
They continued to discuss the letter, but found they could not agree on its meaning. Thurloe thought it proved that Webb had been part of the Castle Plot – had betrayed his co-conspirators and been killed for it – but refused to believe that Dillon had struck the fatal blow. Chaloner was unwilling to dismiss the possibility that linking Webb to the Castle Plot might just be someone’s way of trying to make sure the letter was taken seriously.
‘I should do as Sarsfeild suggested,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject when they started to go around in circles. ‘Speak to the actress Beck Marshall of Drury Lane, to see if he has a credible alibi.’
‘I could go with you,’ said Thurloe reluctantly, ‘although it is distasteful. I dislike the theatre and all it has come to represent: immorality, hedonism and vice.’
‘Prynne would be pleased to hear you say that. It is what he thinks.’
Thurloe smiled bleakly. ‘Yes, but, unlike him, I do not itch to burn them all to the ground with players and audience still inside.’
Beck Marshall was in bed when they knocked on the door of the house she shared with her sister. A servant went to rouse her, but it was a long time before she sauntered, semi-naked, into her front parlour. Her face bore the ravages of a wild evening, and her fashionable patches were sadly smudged, giving her a striped appearance. She reeked of wine, and Chaloner wondered whether he had looked as dissipated when he had arrived at Thurloe’s rooms that morning.
‘Sarsfeild,’ Beck mused. ‘Yes, I entertained him on the night The Humorous Lieutenant opened, because he brought me a box of sugared almonds. I still have some left. Would you like one?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Thurloe coolly. ‘Did Sarsfeild leave you at all that night, or did he stay with you the whole time?’
She shot him a leering smile that made him recoil in revulsion. ‘I cannot remember one man from another, to be frank, although you might prove to be the exception. Shall we find out?’
‘We shall not, madam,’ said Thurloe icily. ‘Now, please try to remember Sarsfeild, because his life may depend on it.’
‘Why is everything so desperately important these days?’ Beck asked in a bored voice. ‘I thought we were done with all that when the King ousted those miserable Puritans. All I want is some fun–’
‘Sarsfeild,’ prompted Thurloe curtly. ‘Did he stay all night with you?’
Beck pouted. ‘He probably did, because he will have wanted his money’s worth for the almonds, but I cannot recall for certain. Do you have any sweetmeats on offer, Mr Heyden? You look like a man who knows how to enjoy himself, even if your prudish friend–’
‘No, he does not,’ snapped Thurloe. ‘And you should wash your face, girl. You look like a tiger.’
Chaloner was laughing as they took their leave of Beck Marshall. Thurloe’s reaction to her had taken his mind of his roiling stomach, for which he was grateful, because he was beginning to feel better. The ex-Spymaster glared at him.
‘You were tempted by her,’ he said accusingly. ‘I could see you were seriously considering providing her with a gift in exchange for an hour of her company.’
Chaloner regarded him in amusement. ‘I have never paid a prostitute in my life.’
Thurloe was unimpressed. ‘That is an ambiguous answer, because it suggests you inveigle their services free of charge. But discussing your sinful past will take us nowhere. What did you think of Sarsfeild’s alibi? Can we believe he spent the night with that flighty child or not?’
‘Her testimony is inconclusive. Miss Marshall would say anything for the right price, but she honestly does not remember how long Sarsfeild stayed with her. Also, we cannot discount the possibility that she might have passed out from wine at some point, and awoke to find him next to her in the morning. Unfortunately for Sarsfeild, he chose the wrong woman to speak for him.’
‘I imagine he will be more careful next time.’
‘If there is a next time,’ said Chaloner soberly.
Thurloe insisted on taking Chaloner to White Hall in his carriage after they had left Drury Lane, even though it was in the opposite direction from Lincoln’s Inn.
‘Take my coat again,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Bristol might be there, and although you say he did not see your face, he certainly saw your clothes and that purple is distinctive. I am sure you have a spare cap. You usually do. And wipe that powder from your face. It makes you look like a Court debauchee – although perhaps it is not the chalk that is responsible. Even Brodrick would have been shocked by your rakish appearance this morning.’
‘Perhaps, but at least he would not have given me poison to drink,’ retorted Chaloner.
Thurloe winced. ‘I have said I am sorry – several times. Are you sure you are feeling better? Your temper does not seem to have improved. Perhaps you should go home.’
‘I would like to, but you told me to warn Lord Clarendon about Lady Castlemaine and the King’s new rooms, because you fear Brodrick cannot be trusted.’
‘Well, that is what he is paying you for,’ remarked Thurloe, a little acidly. ‘Meanwhile, I shall take Bristol’s letter to a handwriting expert I know, and see what he can tell me about it.’
Chaloner made his way towards White Hall’s main gate, stopping to state his business in the guard room, where he was immediately hauled into a private chamber by Colonel Holles.