Eaffrey stepped forward and snatched the weapon from Scot’s hand. ‘Let me.’
She took aim, and Chaloner saw the fierce gleam in her eye. Then, at the last moment, she swung around and fired at Holles. But the colonel was already bringing his own gun to bear on her, and he shot first. The two almost-simultaneous reports were deafening in the confined space, and Chaloner dived for the floor. Eaffrey stumbled against Scot, and both crashed to the ground, but it was not Eaffrey who lay still. Holles’s aim had gone wide, and Chaloner saw a spreading stain of red under Scot. Eaffrey gazed at him and began a low, keening wail of distress.
Meanwhile, Eaffrey’s ball had hit Holles, who lay on his side, gasping. He fumbled for his second dag. Chaloner scrambled towards him, but was too far away to prevent him from using it. A third shot rang out, and Eaffrey’s cries stopped abruptly. Chaloner reached Holles and searched him, but there were no more weapons. The soldier was dying, and blood bubbled between his lips.
‘I was testing them, to see if they really would kill you,’ he whispered, trying to grab Chaloner’s hand. ‘I was going to shoot them before they could do it, and all that posturing was to make them show their true colours.’
Chaloner glanced to where Eaffrey and Scot lay in a motionless embrace. ‘I do not understand. Eaffrey just said–’
‘Of course I am not working for Bristol! He is a rake and nothing would induce me to spy for him, not even the fifty pounds he offered me. I have only ever served Lord Clarendon, but now you must take my place.’
‘You have killed my friends,’ said Chaloner, unable to keep the catch from his voice.
‘They were no friends of yours.’
There came the sound of footsteps and people started to converge on the basement, alerted by the sound of the gunfire. Wiseman knelt next to Eaffrey and Scot, and shook his head at the clamour of questions. They were already dead, and there was nothing he could do to help them.
Epilogue
A robin sang in Lincoln’s Inn, perched high in the ancient elm that threw cool shadows across the path. Thurloe looked up at it, and gave a rare smile of genuine pleasure, ‘We have won the war. There were casualties, but we won eventually, which just goes to show that God’s justice does prevail on occasion.’
Leybourn breathed deeply of the rain-scented garden, strolling contentedly on Thurloe’s left, while Chaloner walked on the right. ‘The spat between Clarendon and Bristol does seem to have abated.’
‘I am talking about my trees,’ said Thurloe. ‘I lost some to Prynne’s axes, but a timely lightning strike – plus an oddly croaking voice that warned him of thousands of Roundheads – caused him to revise his plans. They will form part of the display now, instead of being removed to make way for grass. When all matures, Lincoln’s Inn garden may even be better than it was before.’
‘Did anyone else hear this “oddly croaking voice”?’ asked Leybourn, bemused.
‘Of course not,’ said Thurloe. There was a hint of laughter in his eyes that made Chaloner wonder whether he was telling the truth.
‘What will happen to Bristol and Clarendon now?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Will they call a truce?’
‘Never,’ said Thurloe. ‘Bristol is insane with frustrated ambition, and Clarendon will not enjoy a long political career, more is the pity. England needs men with scruples, and that will not be found among the likes of Bristol, Buckingham and Temple.’
‘You had better secure yourself another master, then,’ said Leybourn to Chaloner. ‘What about Williamson? Surely he must see you are the kind of man his intelligence service needs, especially as he is now deprived of May, Eaffrey and Scot.’
‘He will never hire me,’ said Chaloner unhappily. ‘He thinks I killed May. Worse yet, he found some documents when he cleared May’s room.’
‘What sort of documents?’ asked Leybourn.
‘Ones that imply I stole Dillon’s body, and was planning to sell it to the barber-surgeons. May paid Lisle and Johnson to write letters offering to buy the thing from me – they were discussing it in the Anatomical Theatre, although I did not understand what they were talking about at the time.’
‘Surely Williamson cannot believe such a monstrous tale?’ demanded Leybourn, indignant on his behalf.
Chaloner explained further. ‘Someone – Johnson, probably – brought Dillon’s corpse to Lincoln’s Inn after the hanging, which explains its disappearance. He hid it near that wall we blew up, along with the clothes similar to the ones I wore when I was disguised as an upholsterer.’
Thurloe took up the tale. ‘May had a written statement from a “witness” who said he saw the suspicious interring of a body here. His crude little plan was for him and Williamson to unearth Dillon together, and for May to point out the significance of the clothes – to prove Thomas’s guilt. In the event, however, Williamson was obliged to excavate Dillon alone, and the upholsterer connection was overlooked – fortunately for Thomas.’
‘So Williamson is not sure what to believe,’ said Chaloner ruefully. ‘He would like me to be guilty, but without solid evidence, he is erring on the side of caution, and has declared the matter closed.’
Leybourn paled suddenly. ‘Oh, Lord! I helped May! When we went to that tavern together, he asked which Inn you had attended. Like a fool I told him, because I wanted him to fall foul of Prynne. I thought I was being clever! I should have known there was something more to his questions.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Thurloe. ‘You should. The man was a spy, after all.’
Leybourn looked suitably chastened. ‘I owe you an apology for declining to visit gaols when you asked, too, Tom. Thurloe tells me you have a better reason than most for wanting to avoid them.’
‘Why did you refuse?’ asked Chaloner curiously.
‘Rats,’ replied Leybourn in a low voice. He shuddered. ‘I cannot abide them, and the ones in Newgate are notoriously bold.’
Chaloner went back to his analysis. ‘I did not kill May, though, no matter what Williamson thinks. I hoped to resolve our differences without bloodshed.’
‘That would have been impossible,’ said Thurloe. ‘May’s hatred of you was fanatical, as attested by this ridiculous business with stolen corpses.’
‘Why did Scot kill him?’ asked Leybourn. ‘I still do not understand. Was it to save you?’
‘No – I had already disarmed him when Scot fired his dag. May had to die because he had just threatened to expose Scot and Eaffrey’s plans to defraud Behn.’
‘How did he know what they intended to do?’ asked Leybourn doubtfully. ‘He was a dismal spy, and could never have learned such a closely guarded secret.’
‘I cannot prove it, but I believe the man with the scarred neck – who was one of Williamson’s officers – found out by chance,’ said Chaloner. ‘Like Eaffrey, he had also been charged to monitor Behn’s activities by worming his way into his confidences, and he must have overheard a conversation between Scot and Eaffrey in Behn’s house. He told May about it, so Scot killed them both.’
Leybourn blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘Tell me again what happened in Chyrurgeons’ Hall last week. I should not have tested so many of Prynne’s strong wines that day, because I still do not understand how the murder of Webb was connected to what those surgeons were doing.’
‘It was not connected,’ said Chaloner. ‘Or not significantly so. It all started when Silence Webb insulted Bristol at the Guinea Company dinner. Bristol immediately decided to avenge himself. He baulked at harming a woman, but her unpleasant husband was fair game, so he ordered Dillon and Fanning to oblige. He wrote a note, spitefully signing it with Clarendon’s name.’