‘Good God!’ exclaimed the soldier, peering into Chaloner’s face. ‘What happened to you?’
‘I drank something that disagreed with me. I am sure I would feel better if I could remove this damned splint, though. You would not believe how much it itches. Wiseman is a quack.’
Holles kicked his foot and looked oddly furtive. ‘He is not a quack,’ he said in a loud, artificial voice. ‘He is a good, honest fellow. A veritable Hypocrites.’
Chaloner snorted his disdain. ‘Lisle does not think so. I have tried at least three times to hack this thing off, but it has set like a rock. Wiseman must have used too much glue.’
‘The amount of glue I used was precisely what that was needed,’ came Wiseman’s haughty voice from the adjoining chamber, where he had been binding a soldier’s bruised ankle. He looked larger than ever that day, because the room was small and his bulk took up more than his share of it. Holles gave him an embarrassed grin before shooting out on the pretext of interviewing a band of acrobats.
‘Then why is it so hard?’ demanded Chaloner, not intimidated by the surgeon’s vast red presence.
‘Because I made it hard,’ replied Wiseman. ‘What has Lisle been saying about me?’
Chaloner was sure Wiseman would not approve of his colleague’s intentions for Saturday, and was not going to risk a confrontation between the two surgeons that would result in neither removing the splint. He procrastinated. ‘He said you have a reputation for innovation.’
Wiseman knew he was being fobbed off with an answer that meant nothing. He grabbed Chaloner’s hand and his jaw dropped when he inspected his handiwork. ‘God in heaven! What have you been doing? Climbing trees?’
Chaloner hoped the surgeon would not associate him with the ‘thief ’ who had escaped Chyrurgeons’ Hall by scaling its protective walls. ‘Nothing I would not normally have done,’ he replied coolly.
‘Well, what you “normally do” does not seem to suit your humours,’ said Wiseman caustically. ‘Have you been drinking?’
Chaloner objected to the man’s accusatory tone. ‘Yes – a tonic containing Venice Treacle.’
Wiseman frowned. ‘Venice Treacle should not have harmed you. However, I know the lingering effects of wine when I see them. My advice to you is to drink plenty of watered ale, to wash them out.’
‘I would feel better without this splint. It is hot and it rubs. It is time you removed it, and–’
Wiseman sighed impatiently. ‘It is not time. Look, I know what I am doing, Heyden, because I am the best surgeon in London. In fact,’ he said as he walked away, ‘I am a genius.’
Chaloner was tempted to see whether he would feel quite so full of hubris with a splint cracked across his pate. He was not usually given to violent urges, but it had not been a good morning, and although he felt better than when he had been burgling Bristol’s home, the combined effects of too much wine and whatever Thurloe had fed him lingered on. He was stalking across the Pebble Court when someone tried to collide with him. Even preoccupied with the state of his health, his instincts did not let him down. He jigged automatically to one side, and May staggered into thin air.
‘Watch where you are going!’ May snarled, trying to regain his balance. His latest hairpiece – a pale-ginger periwig – slipped to one side, then tumbled to the ground, revealing his shiny head.
‘I was,’ retorted Chaloner tartly. ‘Fortunately for you.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ demanded May, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword.
‘Threatening you with what?’ asked Chaloner, all the frustrations of the morning suddenly boiling up in a spurt of hot temper. The dagger dropped from his sleeve into the palm of his hand. ‘Ridicule, for losing the body of the man you shot?’
May glowered at him. ‘If I find out you were responsible for that, I will kill you.’
‘You can try,’ said Chaloner contemptuously. ‘Of course, mislaying corpses is not the only stupid thing you have done recently. The letter you sent Bristol, which might see innocent men hanged, will be investigated and I shall see its culprit brought to justice.’
May gazed at him, anger forgotten in the face of his astonishment. ‘You think I wrote that? But my alias – Burne – was among the accused. If I had been the author, I would have left it off.’
‘You included yourself deliberately, to allay suspicion.’
May stepped back. ‘You are clearly unwell or you would not be making such wild accusations. I do not fight sick men, and you look terrible.’
‘Then talk to me instead.’ As quickly as it had flared, Chaloner’s rage subsided, and he knew he was lucky May had declined to react to his inflammatory remarks. The King had forbidden brawling among courtiers, and while a Groom of the King’s Privy Chamber might escape with a reprimand, matters would be a lot more serious for an ex-Cromwellian spy. He replaced the knife surreptitiously, masking what he was doing by leaning down to retrieve May’s wig. ‘Who sent the note?’
‘I have no idea. It saw me accused of murder, too, but I spent no more than an hour in Newgate before my pardon arrived. Williamson does not allow his best men to rot in prisons.’ When May reached out to snatch the hairpiece away from Chaloner, his fingers brushed the splint, and he grabbed it before the spy could stop him. ‘I knew there was something wrong with you. What happened?’
Chaloner chose not to answer. ‘I do not suppose it was you who was going to rescue Fanning by sending his Newgate guards a barrel of poisoned wine, was it?’ He had no reason for asking, other than that it had been an idiotic notion and May was an idiotic man.
May’s expression was haughty. ‘Hardly “poisoned” – just treated with a soporific. How do you know? Fanning swore he would tell no one but Dillon – to ask whether he wanted saving, too.’
‘And did he?’
May shook his head as he replaced his wig. ‘He said he preferred to wait for his patron to do it. Still, my efforts were not needed in the end, because Fanning died of gaol-fever before I could act.’
‘Why were you willing to help him escape? Was he one of Williamson’s men?’
May’s expression was disdainful. ‘Your wits are slow today, Heyden. Of course he was not one of Williamson’s men – if he had been, he would have been pardoned with the rest of us. However, he once helped me in an embarrassing matter pertaining to a lady, and I wanted to pay a debt due.’
Chaloner wondered whether Fanning might still be alive, were it not for May’s ill-conceived and not-very-secret rescue. ‘Apparently, guards have not been fooled by drugged wine for centuries.’
‘So they say, but it has never failed me yet, and the best tricks are always the old ones. Remember that, Heyden. It may save your life some day – if you live that long. Incidentally, I heard your earl hid his whore’s petticoats under his pillow the other day, then tried to burn the evidence.’
Chaloner laughed, genuinely amused. ‘Anyone with even the smallest smattering of intelligence will know that he would never betray his marriage vows. You will have to do better than that, if you want to drag him into the mire with you.’
May regarded him with dislike. ‘I shall see that as a challenge issued.’
The Stone Gallery was a long chamber with portraits of venerable old Royalists lining one wall, and windows that flooded them with light on the other. Nobles and government ministers gathered there, and it was said that more state decisions were made in the Stone Gallery than in meetings of the privy council. The Lord Chancellor grabbed Chaloner’s arm and led the way to his offices; the hallway was also a place for eavesdropping and gossip, and not somewhere to receive briefings from spies.