‘You mean Bristol?’ asked Williamson. ‘Yes, I heard Silence gave him a piece of her mind about his old-fashioned costume and the odour of onions. He had made some jibe about women wearing an excessive number of face patches, and she responded in kind. Yet a powerful noble does not order someone murdered over such a trifling matter.’
‘Silence brayed her comments to the entire Guinea Company,’ said Chaloner. ‘It would not have seemed trifling to Bristol. Besides, it was a good opportunity to have his arch-rival blamed for a crime, as attested by that ridiculous note. Can I put my hands down now, sir? They are–’
‘No, you cannot. So, you think Bristol is Dillon’s master?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘Yes, but I do not think Dillon knew it. He told me he accepted commissions from a number of wealthy men after he betrayed Thurloe. Bristol was one, Clarendon was another–’
‘Yes!’ exclaimed Eaffrey. ‘I saw Dillon’s distinctive profile silhouetted in one of the Lord Chancellor’s windows very late one night. I asked William to tell you about it.’
Chaloner continued. ‘So, I think Dillon took the note at face value, and was anticipating that Clarendon would rescue him – the Earl is a powerful man, so Dillon had no reason to doubt his influence. Unfortunately for Dillon, Clarendon did not know what was being expected of him, because he was not the author of the letter. And Bristol – who did write it – could hardly show his hand by intervening.’
‘Because that would lay him open to accusations of conspiracy to murder himself,’ mused Williamson.
‘There is a wine stain on the paper,’ added Chaloner, pointing to it. ‘I doubt it came from Dillon, who kept it safe, so it must have come from its writer. Bristol wrote it when he was drunk, without thinking through the consequences of his actions. It would not be the first time – he told Johnson and Willys to break into Clarendon’s offices when he was drunk, too – and they went off and did it, as you know.’
It was some time before Williamson spoke. ‘I shall compare this letter to Bristol’s handwriting, and I imagine you might well be proven correct – this is a stupid note written by a man in wine-fuelled anger. I am sure he regretted it the following morning, when he realised Dillon had actually gone and done as he was ordered.’
‘I expect he regrets it still,’ said Scot wryly. ‘The note promises the recipient twenty pounds, which is a colossal sum for an impecunious noble.’
‘And it was definitely paid,’ said Chaloner. ‘Dillon was spending it on luxuries in Newgate.’
‘So Thomas has solved your mystery,’ said Eaffrey, making as if to leave and starting to pull Chaloner with her. ‘And we have a lot to do if we are to sail to Surinam next week. We need to–’
‘His insight does not make up for the fact that my best spy lies dead at his feet.’
‘It was not–’ began Chaloner, but what could he say? That the fatal shot had not come from him? Williamson had not believed Scot, and there was even less reason for him to believe Chaloner.
‘I doubt Heyden killed May, sir,’ said Holles. ‘He is a poor warrior – I saw his incompetence myself, when May had him cornered in the Spares Gallery. One of the barber-surgeons’ apprentices must have fired off a random ball, and then ran away when he saw what he had done.’
Williamson tapped his chin for a moment, thinking. ‘I am about to turn a blind eye to the fact that Lord Bristol commissioned a murder. Meanwhile, Lord Clarendon will not want it put about that his spies go around shooting Grooms of the Privy Chamber. So, there is my solution: I shall spare Heyden’s life in return for Clarendon’s acquiescence about Bristol’s antics.’
Chaloner sincerely hoped the Lord Chancellor would agree to the arrangement. The chance to strike a massive blow against his worst enemy was sure to be tempting.
‘That is a fair decision,’ said Holles, lowering his gun in relief.
‘I suppose I shall get used to this kind of thing eventually,’ said Williamson, ‘although it goes against the grain to let a friend’s killer go free in the interests of political expediency. Do not cross me again, Heyden. I swear I shall not be so generous the next time.’
Scot watched him stride away, the soldiers at his heels. ‘That was close! You will have to come to Surinam with me now, Chaloner. You will not be safe here.’
Chaloner waited until Williamson was out of sight before making his move. He stalked towards Holles, ripped the man’s dagger from his belt and held it to his throat. Holles’s eyes widened in horror, and he looked around for his men. But they had followed Williamson, and he was alone.
‘I spoke up for you,’ he cried. ‘I lied even – I happen to know you are very good with weapons. And I would never have obeyed his order to shoot you. What more do you want?’
‘The truth about Fitz-Simons,’ said Chaloner, not relinquishing his grip. Holles might have aimed elsewhere if the Spymaster had demanded an execution, but his men would not have done. ‘You did not see May shoot him, did you?’
‘I never said I did,’ objected Holles, trying to free himself. He stopped struggling when the blade dug into his skin. ‘I saw May take aim, but I could have told anyone that the fatal shot did not come from his dag – the angles were all wrong. But no one asked for my opinion, and Lord Clarendon told me to keep quiet about anything that might annoy May.’
‘I do not think he meant you to keep me in the dark, too,’ said Chaloner, exasperated with the soldier’s literal interpretation of the order. ‘You should have said something.’
‘I did what I was told,’ said Holles stubbornly. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’
Chaloner was not so sure. ‘Why are you here today? It is not to learn about anatomy, because I know you have an aversion to such things.’
‘Brodrick is in the process of befriending Temple, to flatter him into confiding the details of Bristol’s next attack on Lord Clarendon. I am here to protect Brodrick, because this feud has suddenly grown deadly.’
Chaloner released him. ‘Then go and protect him.’
‘He is a buffoon,’ said Scot, watching the colonel stride away with his dignity in tatters. ‘We should never have supported the Commonwealth all those years, Chaloner. It put soldiers in control of our country, and these military types are too stupid to make good leaders.’
‘Yes,’ said Chaloner bitterly. ‘We are better with men like Williamson. He is an ethical fellow.’
The barber-surgeons’ guests were milling about in the yard, waiting for the dinner bell to sound. Unhappy and flustered, Eaffrey went to join them, although Chaloner noticed that she avoided Behn and went to talk to the navy clerk – Pepys – and his friends instead. Then a bell rang, and the guests moved quickly towards the Great Parlour, eager to be at the food. It was not many minutes before the grounds were deserted again, and he and Scot were alone.
‘Temple has asked Alice to marry him,’ said Chaloner. He rubbed a hand across his face, now so tired he felt light-headed. ‘She has accepted.’
‘Damn!’ muttered Scot, exasperated. ‘She always was blind when it came to men, but Temple is by far the most unsuitable candidate to date. What should I do? Needle him into insulting me, so I can challenge him to a duel? Let her make her mistake and live a life of misery?’
‘Arrange for some of her fortune to disappear,’ suggested Chaloner, not pointing out that Temple was likely to live a far more miserable life than his new wife. ‘He will not take her if she is poor.’
Scot slapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Of course! I should have done it weeks ago. You always were good at devising non-violent solutions to problems. It is a virtue that will prove useful in Surinam.’