Chaloner stared at him. Manning had been executed in Neuburg – taken into a wood and shot by Royalist soldiers. He could have betrayed other agents when he had been interrogated, but he had not, and Chaloner was still alive to prove it. If Dillon’s principles had brought about Manning’s capture and death, then he was no friend of Chaloner’s.
‘Well, he has killed someone now,’ said Leybourn. ‘He was found guilty and sentenced to hang. The execution is planned for next Saturday.’
Thurloe shot to his feet, and the cat hurtled away in alarm. ‘I do not believe it!’
‘I am afraid it is true. I attended the trial at the Old Bailey myself – it was quite a case, and I am surprised you did not hear about it. Dillon and another eight men were arrested for the crime, because a letter naming them was sent to the Earl of Bristol by an anonymous witness.’
‘Sent to Bristol?’ asked Chaloner, bemused. ‘Why him?’
‘Because he is a decent man who can be trusted to do the right thing,’ replied Leybourn wryly. ‘According to the letter.’
‘And I suppose no one knows the author of this note?’ said Thurloe scathingly.
Leybourn shook his head. ‘Of course not. But on its basis, soldiers searched the homes of the accused, and a bloody rapier was found in Dillon’s. Its tip matched the fatal injury in the victim’s chest. The jury was invited to compare wound to weapon, and all agreed that one caused the other.’
‘That may well be true,’ said Thurloe. ‘However, we all know that sort of evidence can be planted.’
‘The jury did not think so. Its verdict was unanimous.’
‘Who did Dillon kill?’ asked Chaloner.
‘A merchant called Matthew Webb,’ said Leybourn. ‘I know nothing about him, other than that he was wealthy. I can find out more, if you like. Some of my customers may know him.’
‘That would be appreciated,’ said Thurloe, inclining his head. ‘What about the other eight who were named in this anonymous missive? Were they sentenced to death too?’
Leybourn rubbed his chin. ‘Oddly, no. Only three of the nine turned up at the Old Bailey, and they were the ones convicted. Meanwhile, four had produced official pardons from the King, although no one explained how they came by such things. And the other two “disappeared”, but no hue and cry was ever raised to catch them. It was all very strange – and more than a little suspicious.’
‘Did no one ask about it at the trial?’ asked Chaloner.
Leybourn’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Of course not! Only a fool would question why a brazenly peculiar verdict was being passed by one of the King’s judges.’
‘Dillon will certainly be innocent,’ said Thurloe, agitated. ‘I must do something to help him. I cannot let the poor man die.’
‘I will tell you the identity of the beggar when I learn his name,’ offered Chaloner. ‘He wanted Dillon saved, so he clearly concurred with your assessment of the verdict.’
‘Thank you. I shall make a few enquiries of my own, too. I do not like the smell of this business.’
Chapter 3
Thurloe was unsettled by the notion that one of his former spies was in prison, and decided to visit Dillon in Newgate Gaol immediately; Leybourn went with him. Meanwhile, the day was now sufficiently advanced for Chaloner to head for St Martin’s Lane, where the Trulocke brothers had their business, and ask about the beggar’s gun. It was drizzling heavily, a sullen, drenching spray that soaked through clothes and turned the streets into rivers of mud. Water splattered from the eaves of houses, black with soot from the smoking, grinding industries that huddled along the banks of the Fleet river.
The streets were a marked contrast to the previous day, and were teeming with life, especially around the elegant piazza known as Covent Garden. In it, an army of beggars appealed for alms, or offered songs or recitations of religious verses in exchange for pennies, and ragged children sold fruit that was almost certainly stolen. They clamoured at passers-by, their voices almost inaudible above the cacophony of hoofs, wheels and feet on stone cobbles. Gulls and kites perched on the chimneys above the square’s curiously arcaded houses and on the roof of St Paul’s Church, waiting to swoop down on any discarded food, while pigeons waddled and pecked among the filth.
The recently established fruit and vegetable market was in full swing, operating from a collection of ramshackle huts that were supposed to be temporary, but that were beginning to take on an air of permanence – some had elegant awnings, and others displayed the names of their owners in large, gaudily painted letters. The air was ripe with the stench of garlic and stagnant water, and rain had turned the ground into a foetid quagmire of mud, animal dung, human urine and the rotten remains of whatever had been dumped in the past. Splashes of colour were provided by the home-woven baskets that displayed early-cropping apples from Kent, or oranges and lemons from southern France. Traders bellowed about their wares, and a furious altercation was erupting between a barrow-boy and the driver of a carriage, which had collided outside the church. The resulting mess of rolling cabbages, splintered wood and bucking mule was blocking the road, and it was not long before others added their voices to the quarrel and fists started to fly.
Chaloner threaded his way through the melee, leaving the din of traffic behind briefly when he walked down a little-used alley, but emerging into it again when he reached St Martin’s Lane. The west side of the street was full of grand mansions, each with its own coach-house, while opposite were shops. Carts rattled and creaked as they went about their business, and there was a tremendous racket from a wagon bearing a cage that was full of stray dogs. The occupants howled, yipped and snarled their distress, and several heartless boys ran behind them, throwing stones to enrage them further. The driver was slumped in his seat with his head on his chest, suggesting he was either asleep, drunk or dead, and his ancient nag plodded along with its ears drooping miserably.
The Trulocke premises stood on the east side of the street, in the shadow of the ornate sixteenth-century Church of St Martin. It was a small, narrow building, with thick shutters and a seedy appearance. A dripping board above the door declared that Edmund, George and William Trulocke, brothers of Westminster, were licensed by the Gunmaker’s Company to sell small-arms and muskets. The notice was weather-beaten and its words barely distinguishable, which added to the shop’s general aura of neglect and decrepitude.
Chaloner had never had occasion to buy a firearm. When he needed one for his work, he usually resorted to theft, while during the wars, muskets had been provided free of charge to soldiers of the New Model Army. Therefore, he looked around with interest as he made his first foray into a gunsmith’s emporium, noting immediately the sharp scent of powder and the more powerful reek of heated metal and hot oil. Displayed on the walls were various types of musket, but Chaloner was surprised to note several handguns, too. Because governments were nervous of handguns – which could be hidden under a cloak, and aimed and fired with one hand, making them ideal for assassins – their sale tended to be restricted, and it was unusual to see so many in one place.
A small but pugnacious dog was tethered just inside the door, and Chaloner was obliged to move smartly to avoid its snapping teeth. A shaven-headed giant with a single yellow tooth jutting from his lower jaw came to see why the animal was barking, and Chaloner could see two more hulking brutes in the workshop behind. He was immediately unsettled: they were not the kind of men he liked to see in charge of weapons stores – it did not take a genius to see they would have them out on the streets at the first sign of civil unrest.