Chaloner was dismissive. ‘I do not think–’
‘She made a convincing case. I could not see it until she copied the letters in a larger hand and showed me what had happened. I believe she is right: the writer changed his mind after writing your alias, and altered the letters to spell a slightly different name.’
‘Why would May do that? He would rather have me accused than all the others put together.’
‘Perhaps it was because you were in Ireland when Webb was murdered – like the spies Clarke and Fitz-Gerrard – and he knew that if there were too many who could not possibly have committed the crime, it would lead to the whole letter being brought into question.’
Chaloner did not believe him, so Thurloe handed him the note and the glass. ‘I can see the ink is blurred in places,’ he said after several minutes of careful study, ‘but the changes are barely visible.’
‘You have ruined your eyes by studying music at night, and I have spoiled mine with too much reading. But I am sure Eaffrey is right. When she realised you might be in danger, she begged me to send you on an errand out of London, to keep you safe. She is a good friend to you, Thomas.’
The crowd went quiet when Dillon began to hold forth, using the condemned man’s prerogative to say whatever he liked during his last moments on Earth. He sounded smug and confident, an attitude that was appreciated by the people, who cheered at the jests he made. Next to him, the executioner showed signs of impatience. Dillon ignored him, but after an hour the mob became restless, too; they liked a speech, but they liked a hanging more. At the front, someone yelled that he had a business to run. Would Dillon mind hurrying up? The horde laughed and Dillon’s smile slipped a little.
Chaloner jumped down from the wheel, not wanting to see what happened next. Dillon continued to orate, giving his rescuers every opportunity to come, but eventually he fell silent. There was a smattering of applause as the ladder on which he stood was turned, and he was left kicking in the air.
‘Is anyone coming to save him?’ asked Chaloner.
‘No,’ said Thurloe, looking away.
When the hangman announced in a ringing voice that Dillon was dead, the crowd surged forward, following an ancient superstition that touching a hanged man would work all manner of charms, ranging from curing warts to ending an unwanted pregnancy. Chaloner imagined the surgeons would be struggling to prevent sly knives from making off with parts of the body, and thought he could hear Johnson bawling threats.
‘His last expression was one of utter bewilderment,’ said Thurloe bleakly. ‘He really did believe he was going to be reprieved, and was astonished to learn his faith was misplaced.’
‘Perhaps there were too many people,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘And his rescuers could not find a way through them. The press is very tight around the scaffold itself.’
‘Shame!’ hollered Temple. He was standing on his seat, waving his fist in the air. His clothes were covered in slimy smears from his tumble, and he was besieged by interested flies. ‘What happened to the rescue?’
‘I prefer a hanging,’ countered Behn, equally loud. ‘That is why we came, and I would have been disappointed had the occasion not ended with a death. Dillon murdered a Guinea Company colleague, and it is only right that his neck has been stretched.’
‘That is boring,’ argued Temple. ‘You can see executions any time. I wanted a rescue.’
Chaloner regarded them thoughtfully, noting how most people sided with Temple. There was a growing rumble of resentment that they had been cheated of what they had been promised, and someone yelled that it was Dillon’s fault. Immediately, the mob pressed forward a second time, and the barber-surgeons’ weapons flailed as they used steel to keep the horde away from their cadaver.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Thurloe, when Chaloner started to walk away. The spy had had enough of the day’s ‘entertainment’, and did not want to linger when the situation looked set to turn violent. Leybourn had been right: Dillon’s hanging might well precipitate something dangerous.
‘Monkwell Street. Lisle is going to remove my splint, thank God. And you should not linger here, either. People feel defrauded, and who knows where they may direct their disappointment.’
Escape was easier said than done, however. Afraid that Dillon’s master might attempt to snatch the corpse – perhaps in the hope of reviving it – soldiers prevented anyone from leaving until the surgeons and their prize had fought their way free of the chaos and were in a cart heading towards the city. Then there was a fierce bottleneck, and Chaloner and Thurloe held back, trying to avoid the scuffles that broke out as people pushed and shoved in a futile attempt to hurry it along. The sun beat down on bare heads, and the ale that was needed to cool parched throats was doing nothing to calm the situation.
Eventually, the soldiers managed to assert control, and captains on horseback used their mounts to drive the multitude in the direction they wanted it to go. Chaloner saw Thurloe safely into a sedan chair, with his manservant running at his side, and set off towards Chyrurgeons’ Hall, hoping Lisle would be able to find the time to help him.
It was a long way from Tyburn to the barber-surgeons’ domain, but there were no hackneys available, because there had been a scramble for them when the hanging was over. Then Chaloner saw Temple and Alice climbing into the politician’s personal carriage. Both looked worse for wear: Alice’s skirts were torn, while Temple’s beautiful silk coat would never be the same again. Eaffrey was with them, white-faced and unhappy, but there was no sign of Behn.
Chaloner knew Temple lived near Moorgate, and would pass Monkwell Street on his way home, so he waited until the driver flicked his whip at the horses, then jumped on the back, standing on the platform designed for a footman. The driver did not notice, Eaffrey, Temple and Alice could not see him, and it was a lot faster than walking. He leapt off when they reached Wood Street, almost taking a tumble when his foot skidded in fresh manure. A group of leatherworkers cheered his acrobatics, causing Alice to glance out of her window. Her face hardened when she saw Chaloner, and he bowed insolently. He shot up the nearest lane when she screeched at the coachman to stop, unwilling to miss his appointment with Lisle by letting himself become embroiled in an altercation.
When he knocked on the door to Chyrurgeons’ Hall, he found everyone engaged in fevered preparations for the Public Anatomy. Apprentices were sweeping paths and scrubbing windows with long-handled brooms, and an army of servants scurried around the kitchen block, obeying the frenzied shrieks of the French chef. Delicious smells wafted across the yard, making Chaloner think that he might attend the exhibition after all, even if only to avail himself of the feast afterwards. Reynell spotted him and offered to conduct him to the Anatomical Theatre, where Lisle was waiting.
‘He is going to remove my bandage in that dissecting room?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
‘In the basement,’ explained Reynell. ‘He is desperately busy, mixing coloured waxes and making sure all his implements are in order, and does not have time to traipse back to his rooms to deal with patients. It makes no difference: a hacksaw can be wielded anywhere, and he said you would not mind where he performed the operation, just as long as Wiseman’s splint comes off.’
‘Did you manage to secure Dillon’s corpse? I saw you leave Tyburn with a coffin, but it was impossible to tell what was in it.’