When he went to fetch what he needed for his operation, Chaloner turned to Scot. ‘I thought you said he could not be trusted, but now it transpires that he works for Williamson, too.’
Scot shrugged. ‘I do not trust anyone at White Hall, no matter what his credentials, and there is something sinister about the man. I was right anyway – normal people do not use patients to trap their errant colleagues, after all.’
Wiseman returned with a huge pair of shears. ‘Tell us again what happened, Scot,’ he ordered as he sat in front of Chaloner. ‘How did Johnson come to wallop you on the head with his bone chisel?’
Scot touched the lump and winced. ‘It is very simple. Chaloner told me Lisle was planning to “help” him today, because you had bungled the original treatment. However, I knew you were unlikely to make the kind of mistakes Lisle had accused you of, so I decided to spy on the man and his domain. I was exploring the Anatomical Theatre when Johnson jumped me – to my eternal shame. I was in and out of awareness for hours, and only came to properly when he dragged me to the floor.’
Chaloner scowled at Wiseman. ‘If you had not encouraged Lisle to want my corpse, I would not have agreed to keep an appointment with him, and Scot would not have come to save me. Your plan put us both in danger.’
Wiseman waved a hand to show he thought it did not matter, and began to ply his shears. ‘Lisle did something right at least – this splint will be easier to remove now it is cracked. And it saved your arm without a doubt. I would have been amputating by now, had Lisle’s blows done what he intended.’
Scot watched him. ‘I thought you had invented some mysterious compound to dissolve your glue. Why are cutters necessary?’
‘I lied,’ said Wiseman. ‘There is no compound on Earth that can dissolve a Wiseman Splint.’
‘I do not understand much of this,’ said Chaloner, talking to take his mind off the fact that a man he did not like was labouring over his arm with a very sharp implement. He was sure he could work everything out for himself, but he did not want to sit in silence. ‘Can we go over it again? Webb was stabbed by Dillon and Fanning on the orders of their master. Who is he? Behn?’
Scot nodded slowly. ‘I certainly think so, but we shall never know for certain, given that both assassins are dead and Behn is unlikely to confess without their testimony. Meanwhile, someone must have witnessed the murder, and wrote to Bristol about it. Fanning and Dillon were guilty, but the other seven names were included for spite.’
‘Because someone does not like spies,’ agreed Wiseman, wiping sweat from his forehead. ‘This fellow struck Williamson hard by exposing his people.’
Scot nodded. ‘And I know you disagree, Chaloner, but I am sure the writer did mean Garsfield, not Sarsfeild. The confectioner was very unlucky.’
Chaloner was beginning to think it might be true, mostly because his favourite suspect for composing the note was May, and May would never pass up an opportunity to harm him.
Scot read his mind. ‘May is not sufficiently clever. I think it is Behn again. There is something very odd about that man – just ask Eaffrey. She will not like it, but I do not want them together again. You know what I mean, Chaloner. I would rather be poor than see her in danger.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Wiseman cheerfully. He was panting heavily. ‘But do not enlighten me – I am almost certainly safer not knowing. Lord! I did a magnificent job with this splint. It is as hard as a rock, and the secret ingredient I added worked better than I could have hoped. I shall be a wealthy man once I perfect it. Everyone with broken limbs will want one.’
Chaloner flinched when the blades gazed his arm, and hastily resumed his analysis. ‘Behn is dangerous. Eaffrey said he killed some sort of accomplice in his office, and that man is now in the basement with his limbs cut off, ready to be anatomised.’
Scot’s face was pale. ‘You mean the fellow with the scarred throat? He is dead? Christ!’
Chaloner turned his thoughts to Webb again. ‘All three men who were convicted of Webb’s murder are now dead – although Fanning did not have gaol-fever and Sarsfeild did not kill himself. Dillon was hanged, though.’
‘Was he?’ asked Scot. He touched the back of his head again, and winced. ‘I was not there, if you recall. Did you see the body? Feel for a lifebeat? Put a glass against his lips to test for breath?’
‘I did not,’ said Wiseman, exchanging shears for a saw and working furiously. The room began to smell of burning glue, and Chaloner hoped the dressing would not ignite. ‘That was Lisle and Johnson’s responsibility.’
‘You let Lisle and Johnson pronounce life extinct?’ echoed Scot incredulously. ‘Then perhaps there is a good reason for Dillon’s disappearance – such as he was cut down before he was dead and is now with his mysterious master. It is probably not the rescue he had in mind, but if it worked … ’
‘It is possible, I suppose,’ admitted Wiseman, changing the angle of the saw. ‘But let us return to our summary. Johnson admitted to killing Fanning, but denied touching Sarsfeild. I believe him. Why confess to one murder, but not another? We should have asked whether he dispatched Willys, too.’
‘Then who did kill Sarsfeild?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Someone went to his cell disguised as a vicar and murdered him. If it was not Johnson, then who was it? Behn? May?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Wiseman, mopping his brow. His customary composure had begun to slip, and he looked sheepish as he gestured to the splint. ‘I am afraid I was so determined to trap Lisle that I made my glue a touch too hard, and you have compounded the problem by climbing walls, brawling and trying to play the fiddle. It is no way to treat these inventions.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Chaloner.
‘That is stuck. I cannot get it off.’
‘It is not stuck,’ said Chaloner quietly. ‘Believe me, you do not want it to be stuck.’
Wiseman bent to the task again. The soft menace in Chaloner’s words seemed to have had an effect, because he renewed his efforts until he was red-faced and breathless. Then there was a loud crack. While Wiseman gripped the splint with both hands, Chaloner hauled with all his might in the opposite direction, and eventually managed to wriggle, pull and twist himself free. It cost most of the hair on his forearm and the skin on his knuckles, but these were small prices to pay for freedom.
‘It is a good thing his bones were not really broken,’ said Scot, as he watched. ‘If they had been, the violent removal of the dressing would have snapped them again.’
‘True,’ mused Wiseman unhappily. ‘My splint will hold a damaged limb immobile for as long as it remains in place, the only disadvantage being that it might have to remain in place for life.’
‘I think you had better devise another way to make your fortune,’ said Scot, laughing. ‘You are liable to be sued by unhappy patients with this invention.’
‘How does it feel, Heyden?’ asked Wiseman, reaching out to examine him.
Chaloner pulled away. ‘Like it no longer requires a surgeon.’
Chapter 12
The advertised Public Anatomy on the body of William Dillon, felon, was well attended, and Chaloner was astonished by how many people the Company of Barber-Surgeons had managed to cram into its theatre. He was even more surprised by how many he recognised, thinking it was not long ago that he did not know a soul in London.