‘Actually, Dillon did,’ said Chaloner. ‘He and Fanning were seen arguing with Webb on the night of the murder. As a result, they left the Guinea Company dinner early, and Willys said he and Dillon then got drunk in a tavern together. However, the more I think about Sarsfeild, the more I think he had nothing to do with it. There was something pathetically honest about his alibi.’
‘I thought we had agreed that Beck Marshall’s testimony was inconclusive.’
‘I have reconsidered. If Sarsfeild did murder Webb, intending to use Beck to prove his innocence, he would have done something to make her remember him – left her a valuable gift, been sick in her bed, refused to pay. Yet he did nothing memorable, which makes me think he had no idea she might later be important. There must be another Sarsfeild, and this is a case of mistaken identity.’
‘Then perhaps we should try to save him, as well as Dillon,’ suggested Leybourn.
‘It is too late. He was strangled, and his body is being anatomised as we speak.’
Thurloe closed his eyes, appalled by the mounting carnage. ‘What about Fanning? Was his a case of mistaken identity, too?’
‘He was murdered before I could interview him, but he did not share Dillon’s trust of their master – he sent notes in cipher to Dillon, detailing his plans for escape.’
Thurloe was disheartened. ‘I had hoped Bristol’s letter might yield clues, but it is worthless. I took it to an expert in such matters, but he said the handwriting is too heavily disguised for any conclusions to be drawn. He did say the ink was an unusual blue – possibly foreign – but that was all.’
‘You are overlooking the obvious,’ said Leybourn. ‘It means the sender knew how to change his writing – a spy or a devious businessman, perhaps. Maybe Williamson sent it.’
‘Why would he do that?’ asked Thurloe. ‘It exposed his own people.’
‘And he immediately saved them,’ said Leybourn, ‘thus earning their undying gratitude. Men work better for someone they know they can trust. Perhaps it was all a trick, designed to secure greater loyalty. Or perhaps it is not the ones who were pardoned that we should be looking at, but the ones who were convicted. It is possible that Dillon, Sarsfeild and Fanning have outlived their usefulness, and this is a good way of dispatching them without too much trouble.’
‘I think May sent it,’ said Chaloner. ‘He is keen to be indispensable to Williamson, but his skills do not match his ambition. He wrote the missive to discredit rivals who are better than him. And he included his own name to allay suspicion, knowing Williamson would arrange a pardon for him – but no doubt hoping he might neglect to do the same for the others.’
‘You are allowing personal dislike to blind you,’ said Leybourn. ‘And I am not sure you are right about Sarsfeild, either. If he was just a hapless bystander, then how did he – of all the men who die daily in London’s gaols – end up as a candidate for anatomy?’
‘None of this makes sense,’ groaned Chaloner. He wondered when he had last felt so hopelessly confounded. ‘Perhaps I should go to Surinam with Scot – the courts of Holland, Portugal and France did not prepare me for the intrigue and devilry of London. My countrymen have me defeated.’
‘Your melancholy is the lingering effects of that poison,’ said Thurloe. ‘These things take their toll on a body. However, I have concocted a tonic that will–’
‘I think he should resist swallowing any more remedies for a while,’ said Leybourn briskly. ‘Have you learned who tried to poison you yet? Was it Prynne?’
‘I thought not, but Yates says his rooms contain a large number of flasks full of unidentified substances. I cannot believe he would harm me, but it seems he certainly has the means.’
When Chaloner returned home that evening, Scot was waiting, sitting on the stairs and reading Musaeum Tradescantianum by the light of a single candle. So absorbed was he that he did not hear Chaloner’s soft-footed approach and leapt violently when the spy spoke to him. It was the kind of mistake that saw men in their profession killed, and Chaloner wondered whether his friend’s sudden desire to reside in Surinam was because he was losing his touch.
‘This is the most amazing book ever written,’ Scot declared, running appreciative fingers across its pages. ‘I have just reached the part where the great gardener and traveller John Tradescan lists all the exotics he and his father collected on their travels to Virginia. Have you read that section?’
Chaloner shook his head. ‘Remiss though it may seem.’
Scot smiled ruefully. ‘This new science of botanicals is so exciting that it is difficult for me to understand why everyone is not equally smitten. I cannot wait to board a ship for Surinam and dedicate my life to unveiling its arboreal mysteries.’
Chaloner unlocked the door and lit the lamp in his room. ‘You are serious about this? You really want to devote your life to plants?’
Scot’s expression was quietly earnest. ‘I have never been more sincere about anything in my life, Chaloner – not anything. The moment my brother is released, I shall take him and Alice – and you, if you will come – to a new life, where we will never again worry about the politics of dangerous men. I am weary of Roundheads and Cavaliers, of bearing the stigma of a regicide father, and of sly assassins in the night. And there was Manning.’
Chaloner had a sudden, sharp vision of the spy who had been shot because of Dillon’s betrayal. ‘What does he have to do with it?’
‘I saw him taken off into that wood, and I knew what was going to happen, but I was powerless to do anything about it. The whole horrible business hit me hard – so hard that I should have resigned, but it was a momentous decision and I kept putting it off. When it became obvious that the Commonwealth was lost, it was partly fear that prompted me to change sides – which is not something I am proud to admit.’
‘We were all afraid then,’ said Chaloner quietly.
Scot sighed. ‘Well, I shall be glad to leave spying behind, and I find myself resenting every day I am obliged to don paints and powder to work for Williamson.’
‘It cannot be for much longer. Have you heard any fresh news about your brother’s release?’
Scot nodded. ‘I have unearthed several documents that prove the Trulocke brothers sold guns to men associated with the Castle Plot, and Williamson is so pleased that he says Thomas might be free in a matter of days. I have you to thank for that – and my way of reciprocating is to take you from this life while you are still in one piece.’
‘How would I earn my keep?’
Scot handed him a bundle of scientific sketches. ‘If you can draw some of equal quality, we shall make our fortune in Surinam. Try copying a few, to catch the feel of them. You are one of the best forgers I know, and the techniques cannot be so different – an attention to detail, an eye for colour. I have a feeling you will manage very well.’
It was difficult not to become infected by Scot’s enthusiasm, so Chaloner did as he was told, and was astonished when he discovered how easy it was to reproduce a respectable copy of the diagram, even using a cheap pen and ink that clotted.
‘You do have an aptitude for this,’ said Scot with immense satisfaction as he inspected the results. ‘I knew it! You can sell your viola de gamba, invest in paints and decent brushes, and your name shall stand with mine when we send our work to the Royal Society.’
Chaloner stared at his viol, feeling some of his good humour evaporate. He seriously doubted that drawing flowers would ever replace the joy of making music. ‘I am going to see Lisle on Saturday. He has promised to remove the splint and see what damage Wiseman might have done.’