Or had it been Johnson who had physicked Temple? Chaloner might have assumed so, were it not for the incident with the surgeon’s parrot-savaged finger. Johnson had odd ideas about healing, and Chaloner could not shake the conviction that if he had done the honours, then he would have devised a treatment so bizarre that it would have been gossiped about afterwards. Of course, there was always the possibility that he was wrong, and that Johnson had been in an orthodox frame of mind that night.
‘Webb was unpopular with everyone,’ elaborated Lisle hastily, seeming to sense that Wiseman’s answers were leading Chaloner to consider him a suspect for foul play. ‘He accused me of overcharging for a phlebotomy, then he bribed the courts to secure himself a favourable verdict. And he was threatening to sue the Company for postponing the Private Anatomy he had commissioned.’
‘You were at White Hall when Webb was murdered, Master Lisle?’ asked Chaloner, eager to eliminate at least one man from his lengthy list of potential culprits. ‘You came here to tend the Earl?’
Lisle shook his head. ‘I was at Worcester House – his home. I arrived at six o’clock, and remained with him most of the night. He slept eventually, but I did not want to leave until I was sure the attack had passed. Gout is very painful.’
Chaloner nodded, disappointed. If the Earl had been asleep, then it meant he could not vouch for his surgeon, and Worcester House was next door to the place where Webb had been killed. Thus none of Chaloner’s suspects from Chyrurgeons’ Hall could be eliminated. However, some of their names could be underscored. After all, why would anyone lie, unless to mask guilt?
On his way home, Chaloner stopped off at the Golden Lion, and swallowed as much watered ale as he could manage. He was tired after two nights of poor sleep, and when he reached his rooms, he lay on his bed with the intention of dozing for ten minutes before returning to White Hall in a new disguise. He woke only when the bells were chiming six o’clock.
He felt better than he had done in days, and supposed Wiseman had known what he was talking about with regard to the poison. He was just shaving with his sharpest dagger when a messenger arrived with an invitation to dine with Eaffrey and Behn in an hour. It was an odd time to eat – most people did it in the middle of the day – but Eaffrey had never allowed herself to be constrained by convention. He was tempted to decline, because an evening with the belligerent Brandenburger held scant appeal, but he supposed it was Eaffrey’s way of making peace after their quarrel, and he did not want to reject the hand of friendship. He donned his best clothes and set out for Behn’s home.
Leather Lane, part of the rapidly expanding area known as Hatton Garden, lay near the edge of the sprawling metropolis, north of Holborn. It was a pleasantly affluent part of the city, with spacious houses and well-tended gardens, and was named after Hatton House, a rambling Elizabethan ruin that was fighting a losing battle with nettles and ground elder. The Fleet river lay not far away, but the wind was from the west, so blew away the fumes from the slaughterhouses, tanneries and sundry other reeking industries that plied their trades along its foetid banks.
Chaloner knocked at Behn’s door, and was admitted by a liveried servant. When he was shown into the dining room, the merchant greeted him coolly, suggesting the invitation had not been his idea. Chaloner was bracing himself for a trying evening when a Frenchman wearing an outrageous outfit of orange silk burst in, all fluttering fans and heavily accented English. It took a moment for Chaloner to recognise Scot’s pale eyes under all the make-up, but he was pleased: the gathering would not be tedious at all if Scot was in one of his flamboyant moods.
The table was set for nine people: Eaffrey and Behn sat at either end, and between were their guests. In the seat of honour was Brodrick. Next to him was a pair of giggling adolescent girls. Chaloner had been listening to Scot furtively whispering his latest discovery – that Fanning was suspected of smuggling guns to the Irish rebels – and had missed Eaffrey’s introduction, but it did not matter, since neither child said a word to him all evening, and each time he tried to talk to them, their response was to dissolve into paroxysms of helpless laughter.
‘Is there something wrong with them?’ he asked Scot in an undertone.
‘They were invited so Eaffrey would not be surrounded by too many men. Personally, I think she is being overly prudish. She should dispense with the wool-heads and invite a couple of fellows from the Royal Society instead. They know how to entertain a man after dinner.’
‘Who are the last two guests?’ Just then, the door opened and they were ushered in. ‘Oh, no!’
It was Alice, clinging proprietarily to the arm of Richard Temple. She wore the yellow skirts she had donned for the ball, and he was resplendent in a suit of blue satin, complemented by a highly laced pink shirt. Alice’s expression darkened when she spotted Chaloner.
‘Lord!’ groaned Scot. ‘Eaffrey should have warned me. Now you two will squabble all night, and when I am not trying to keep the peace, I shall be forced to smile and nod at the snake who wants my sister for her money. Eaffrey will be cross if I spoil her party by being rude to the fellow.’
‘I would not have accepted this invitation had I known you were going to be here,’ said Alice, coming to speak to Chaloner when Temple and Brodrick began a barbed conversation in which there was no room for anyone else – the spy and Scot’s prickly sister were not the only ones at the party who disliked each other.
‘Please, Alice,’ said Scot quietly. ‘He is my friend.’
‘William!’ cried Alice in delight when she recognised her brother. She coloured furiously at the careless slip and lowered her voice. ‘Your disguise certainly fooled me! Who are you meant to be?’
‘A Parisian perfume-maker. It is a ruse to insinuate myself into Brodrick’s company – he has the ears of powerful men, and I want to talk to him about Thomas’s release. That is mostly why Eaffrey arranged this little gathering, along with the fact that she wants to give Chaloner another chance to befriend Behn. I suppose Behn must have insisted on asking Temple – to prove he has friends, too.’
‘Richard plans to nominate him as the next Master of the Guinea Company,’ explained Alice. ‘They are becoming firm allies, and will probably discuss business all night. Lord! I hope that does not leave me talking to Chaloner.’
‘Please do not argue this evening,’ begged Scot of them both. ‘I cannot work on Brodrick if he is more interested in listening to you two snipe at each other. And I would be grateful if you did not betray Chaloner, either, Alice. No one here knows his real name, and I want it to stay that way.’
‘Why?’ demanded Alice. ‘Is he ashamed of his Parliamentarian connections, then?’
‘Because he is going to ask Lord Clarendon to help Thomas,’ replied Scot, knowing her weak spot. ‘If you expose him, you deprive our brother of a possible means of escape.’
‘I suppose it is only for a few hours,’ said Alice begrudgingly. ‘And he did tell you about the Trulocke guns.’
Scot nodded. ‘Williamson now knows Thomas is innocent of buying illegal firearms, and if he is convinced, he will persuade others, too. Thomas’s situation is looking decidedly more promising.’
‘What are you three muttering about?’ asked Temple. Eaffrey had provided sweetmeats to hone the appetite before the meal, and they contained nuts, which Temple’s gums could not accommodate. He spat them politely into his handkerchief, then shook the linen out so they pattered to the floor.