‘I need to identify him,’ confided Chaloner. ‘The beggar, I mean.’
‘When I heard the body had been taken to White Hall, I tried to inspect it.’ Scot smiled at Chaloner. ‘I thought May might use the incident to harm you – by telling Williamson that it was your fault he was shot before he could be questioned. I wanted to see if there was anything on the corpse that might exonerate you.’
‘Was there?’ asked Chaloner, not surprised by Scot’s course of action. They had always looked out for each other, and had their situations been reversed, he would have done the same.
‘I only managed a glance before May ousted me. He had wrapped the fellow’s head in a sack, so I could not see his face. However, I was able to observe that his clothes – his disguise, I should say – had chafed his clean, soft skin. Ergo, I suspect your “beggar” was a person of some standing, used to better-quality attire.’
‘Then I shall have to follow the lead provided by the gun,’ said Chaloner, disappointed there was not more. ‘The manufacturer’s details were on the barreclass="underline" Trulocke of St Martin’s Lane. Perhaps he can tell me the name of the man who bought it, because it was a relatively new weapon.’
Scot’s handsome face creased into a frown of concern. ‘Did this “beggar” say anything else? I do not like the notion that strangers know secrets about me.’
‘He mentioned Terrell and Burne, and was insistent that Dillon should be saved.’
Scot thought carefully. ‘I have never heard of Dillon, although it is a fairly common Irish name. You know someone called Burne, though – Gregory Burne.’
‘I do?’ It rang vague bells, but Chaloner could not place it.
‘Come on, Chaloner! You were never so slow witted in Holland – and you will not last long in this pit of vipers if you do not pull yourself together.’
Chaloner looked to Eaffrey for help. She appeared equally blank, but suddenly snapped her fingers. ‘It was the name May adopted in Dublin. He could not use his own, because everyone knows Williamson hires a spy called May, so he made one up.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, wondering how he could have been so dim – although in his defence, he had only heard May’s alias once. The antagonism between them had been so intense that he had tried to stay out of the man’s way, afraid it might harm their operation. Foiling the Castle Plot had been far too important a matter to risk over personal rivalries.
‘So,’ mused Scot, seeing understanding dawn in his eyes. ‘It seems your beggar was referring to me and not the fishmonger, since he knew May’s alias, as well as mine. How did he come by such information? And who is the Dillon you are supposed to save?’
Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘May claimed the man was working alone, but I had a feeling there was more to him than a lone gunman. This investigation might be more complex than I anticipated.’
‘It might,’ warned Eaffrey. ‘And you do not know where it might lead, so watch your step.’
Scot stood. ‘There is a Royal Society gathering tonight – Robert Boyle is going to talk about the proportional relation between elasticity and pressure, which promises to be exciting. Good luck, Chaloner – and please be careful. Far too many of our colleagues have died spying over the last decade, and I do not want to lose any more.’
The daylight was fading by the time Chaloner left the Crown, so he decided to go home and consider how he would discover the identity of the beggar and carry off his disguise as the Dutch upholsterer. The streets were still relatively empty as he made his way along The Strand, but it was just late enough for a different kind of citizen to emerge and slink along its manure-coated cobbles. His raker’s disguise meant he was ignored by the pickpockets who prowled in search of easy prey, although a rumpus near the Savoy Palace indicated that others were not so lucky.
Home for Chaloner was a pair of dingy attics about halfway up Fetter Lane, rented from a landlord who was mildly eccentric and blissfully incurious about his tenants. Fetter Lane boasted a mixture of buildings. Some, like the house in which Chaloner lived, were dilapidated, and their owners should have invested money in replacing rotten timbers and sagging roofs. Others were new and pristine – although they would not stay that way for long in London’s smoke-laden air. Opposite Chaloner’s home was a large tavern called the Golden Lion, which had a reputation for turning a blind eye to all manner of seditious activities. In addition, its landlord ran an unofficial post office, which Chaloner found convenient as a means to collect and leave messages without revealing his own address. Farther south was the ugly Fetter Lane Independent Chapel, and from his bedroom window, Chaloner could see the roofs of several famous Inns of Court.
He reached his front door and climbed the uneven stairs to his garret, wondering whether the dark cracks that jagged through the plaster were new, or whether he had just failed to notice them before. A bucket placed to catch drips from a leaking roof suggested there was certainly something amiss. He reached his sitting room, noting the way the floor sloped to one side, something it had not done before Christmas, although his landlord told him there was nothing to be worried about. Chaloner was not so sure, but the rooms suited him for several reasons – they were centrally located, the neighbours did not object to him playing his viol, and they were cheap – and he was loath to give them up over something as inconsequential as imminent collapse.
As he shrugged out of his costume, his mind teemed with questions. He knew he needed to settle his thoughts before he attempted any sort of analysis, so he went to his bass viol, or viola de gamba, and began to practise a piece by the contemporary composer Matthew Locke. Chaloner was not the most talented of players, but music soothed him, concentrated his wits, and there was little he enjoyed more than joining like-minded people for an evening of chamber music. In the five days since he had returned from Ireland, he had been invited to join three such events. The Locke was planned for the next gathering, and Chaloner was looking forward to it.
After an hour, he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about the tasks he had been allotted. First, there was the beggar. The fellow had known details about Williamson’s spies that were supposed to be secret, which suggested some connection to White Hall. What had he wanted Williamson to know? Was it just that Burne and Terrell were aliases – and the man naively imagined the Spymaster was unaware of the fact? Who was Dillon? And perhaps most important of all, why had May shot him when it had been obvious he had posed no threat? Had May known what the man had intended to tell Williamson? According to the beggar, May had already refused to grant him an audience with the Spymaster, so they had clearly met on a previous occasion – something May had neglected to mention. Why had May been secretive?
Chaloner thought about the beggar’s behaviour during his last moments on Earth. He must have been desperate to secure an interview, because it was foolishness itself to loiter around royal processions with a firearm. The fact that it was not loaded would have been deemed irrelevant at any trial, although it suggested to Chaloner that the fellow’s purpose had not been murder. He decided to visit Trulocke’s shop as soon as it opened the following morning. Handguns were expensive, and he doubted many were sold, so it should not be too difficult to find out who had bought one.