‘Played any good tunes recently, Heyden?’ May asked, when Chaloner approached. He leaned against a wall and grinned with calculated malice. ‘If you cannot hold a dagger, then I imagine you cannot hold a viol, either, and I know how important music is to you.’
‘I would not mind buying a viol,’ said Behn, chuckling nastily. ‘I hear they make good firewood. Do you have one cluttering up your house that you want rid of?’
Chaloner smiled, unwilling to let them see how much their remarks rankled. ‘I hear you are making up stories, May, hoping to stop me from uncovering evidence that proves you wrote Bristol that letter. But why name those particular nine men? Was your intention to strip Williamson of all his best agents, so only you would be left?’
‘How many more times?’ snarled May. ‘I had nothing to do with that damned missive! But you are right about one thing: I have made it known that the Dutch government is offering a thousand pounds for Vanders’s killer. And it will be only a matter of time before someone dusts off his dag in order to lay claim to the reward. Your days are numbered.’
Chapter 11
The bells were chiming eight o’clock by the time Chaloner left White Hall, and he supposed it was time to make his way to Tyburn. He took a carriage, which travelled up St Martin’s Lane to St Giles-in-the-Fields, a large, handsome church that was only forty years old. Unfortunately, it had attracted the attention of Puritan iconoclasts, and there was not a single statue that owned a head, hands or feet, and the once-fine chancel screen had been wrecked by axes. The ‘fields’ around St Giles were long gone, too, although there was a rural echo in its leafy churchyard.
Past St Giles’s, the driver turned along the Oxford road, where people sat or stood, waiting for the cart carrying the condemned men to pass – the governor had decided that Fanning and Sarsfeild should be replaced, to ensure the crowd had its money’s worth, so Dillon’s final journey would be made in company with a robber and a mother who had smothered her baby. Some spectators had brought food and ale, and shared it with others as they lounged in the sun. The atmosphere was festive, accompanied by an air of eager anticipation, and Chaloner saw that people were looking forward to witnessing Dillon’s fate, whatever it might be. Among the spectators were soldiers, pale and uneasy, and Chaloner was under the impression that they might decide to make themselves scarce if a well-orchestrated plot to release the prisoner did swing into action.
Thousands had gathered in the area of desolate scrub known as Tyburn. To accommodate their needs, traders sold ale, oranges, tobacco, pies and gingerbread from carts and barrows. Wooden stools could be rented for a penny, to ease legs that did not want to stand for hours; cushions cost extra. Pickpockets roamed, looking for victims, and prostitutes offered their services for now – bales of hay and a hedge were available – or later. Already, people were drunk. Some sprawled snoring in the grass, while others reeled and weaved, knocking into the sober and yelling songs or insults.
The first person Chaloner recognised was Wiseman, who was striding away from Tyburn and back towards the city. The surgeon wore his distinctive scarlet robes, and when one undersized fellow sidled up to him and tried to grab his purse, he responded with a careless flick of his wrist that saw the would-be thief cartwheel into an apple-seller. Wiseman stopped when he saw Chaloner.
‘You are interested in these events, Heyden? I expected better of you.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I came to ensure Lisle has help for when he claims the corpse. He is a gentle soul, and might be overwhelmed by the mob – there are those who would snatch the body that is ours by rights, and sell parts of it for quack cures. Did you know some folk still believe that placing the hand of a hanged man on the neck will cure scrofula? It is ridiculous, when we all know the only sure remedy for that is the touch of the King. The common man is very gullible, and has no idea what is best for him.’
‘Like wearing your splints, I suppose,’ said Chaloner caustically.
Wiseman inclined his head. ‘Yes, just like that. People are fools, and they are lucky there are men like me to save them from themselves.’
‘So, are you not staying to help Lisle?’ asked Chaloner, declining to argue with him. It was not worth the aggravation.
‘Johnson, Reynell and a dozen apprentices are with him, so my services are not required. I am glad. There are more profitable ways to spend a morning than witnessing this sort of thing.’
‘You lied to me about the Guinea Company dinner,’ said Chaloner, seizing the opportunity to question the man. ‘You said you were not there the night Webb died, but that was false.’
Wiseman sighed irritably. ‘I suppose you wormed the truth out of Reynell, did you? How tiresome. I should have anticipated that would happen, and told him to keep his mouth shut. Very well, I admit I was at the dinner. And I also admit that Webb and I quarrelled when I told him what I think of men who condone slavery. So, what are you going to do about it? Reprimand me?’
‘Ask why you felt it was necessary to prevaricate.’
Wiseman grimaced. ‘All right. Since you are being gentlemanly about the matter, I shall confide. I lied because I did not want my enemies at the Company of Barber-Surgeons – Johnson, in essence – to make an issue of the spat. He will do anything to harm Lord Clarendon, and linking me – the Earl’s most prestigious supporter – to a murder was an opportunity he would have seized with delight. However, although Webb and I argued, I did not kill the fellow.’
‘Was it you who tended Temple’s head, after the incident with the candlestick?’
‘Yes – it was the only remotely interesting thing that happened all evening, although Temple was too drunk to appreciate my skills.’ He glared at someone who jostled him, and brandished a meaty fist. ‘It is becoming too rough here for me. Good morning to you.’
He strode away up Tyburn Lane, scattering people before him like a hot knife through butter. He shouted for a sedan chair to take him to Chyrurgeons’ Hall, but the chair-bearers hastily made themselves scarce. His bulk would not make for an easy fare, and they preferred to wait for a lighter customer. When he had gone, Chaloner turned towards the field of execution.
At the centre was the triangular gallows, built so nine felons could be dispatched simultaneously. There was an ancient oak on a slight hill to the west of the gibbet, and Chaloner knew he would find Thurloe there. He eased his way through the hordes, pausing to watch a small bear dance to the laboured notes of a cracked flute; the animal was an odd shape, and he suspected a boy or an undersized man was inside its skin.
Prostitutes clawed at him as he walked, offering treats for a penny, and street preachers were using the opportunity to proselytise. Temperance’s doorman Hill was among them, and Chaloner saw spittle fly from the man’s mouth as he spouted his poison. He had an audience of avid admirers, who were quite happy to believe that God did not like Catholics, taverns, Dutchmen, dancing or large windows, and that ‘decent Christians’ would be perfectly justified in going out and attacking a few in His name.
Eventually, Chaloner reached the rise and looked around for Thurloe. The ex-Spymaster was standing in the shade, his silent servant lurking protectively at his shoulder. The fellow smiled shyly when he saw Chaloner, and Thurloe said he had appeared after the ‘lightning strike’ that morning.