‘George Trulocke,’ said the man, jabbing a thumb at his own chest. ‘You want a pistol, grandfather? To protect you against street felons? We can make you one, but there is a waiting list and you cannot have it for at least a month.’
‘Business is good, then?’ asked Chaloner, speaking loudly to make himself heard over the dog. The knot on the leash slipped, allowing its dripping fangs to come within a hair of his ankle.
‘He will not hurt you,’ said Trulocke, sniggering when the spy jumped away.
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner coolly. ‘He will not.’
The man chortled again, and Chaloner realised his Vanders disguise meant people would be inclined to underestimate him. The dog knew better, though, and its barks subsided into a bass growl that saw saliva pooling on the floor.
‘Well?’ said Trulocke, when he had his mirth under control. ‘What do you want? We make a nice wheel-lock dag that would suit a gent your age, but if you want it quicker than a month, it will cost you. However, we might come to an arrangement if you consider ordering several.’
Chaloner masked his surprise at the offer. Handguns were hideously expensive – far more so than muskets – and there could not be many people with the means to purchase ‘several’. There was also no need for anyone to want more than a couple – at least, not for legitimate reasons. He recalled that in Ireland, the rebels had been equipped with a unexpectedly large number of them, something he and his fellow spies had discussed at length. Could the insurgents have made an arrangement with an obliging gunsmith like Trulocke? He supposed he should investigate, but for now, he needed to concentrate on the beggar.
‘Have you sold a snaphaunce recently?’ he asked, referring to the type of firing mechanism he had noted on the vagrant’s weapon.
‘Why should I tell you that?’ asked Trulocke warily.
Chaloner smiled pleasantly. ‘Because the Lord Chancellor wants to know.’
Trulocke’s wariness increased. ‘And you expect me to believe that he asked you to find out?’
The dagger from Chaloner’s sleeve had been in the palm of his hand ever since he had entered the shop. He took a step back and threw it into the wall behind Trulocke’s head. It passed so close to the gunsmith’s ear that he raised his hand instinctively, to see if it was still attached. Deftly, Chaloner produced a second blade and held it in a way that made Trulocke know he was ready to use it.
‘Are you going to answer, or would you rather we conversed in the Tower?’
Trulocke swallowed, and his eyes slid towards the workshop, where his colleagues were labouring over something that produced a lot of orange sparks. However, he had second thoughts about calling for help when he glanced back at the spy and saw the dangerous expression on his face. The tone of his voice quickly went from belligerent to wheedling. ‘Me and my brothers sell snaphaunces all the time. We are gunsmiths, so what do you expect?’
‘I expect you to sell mostly muskets,’ replied Chaloner, gesturing to the long-barrelled weapons displayed on the walls. ‘Shall I be more specific about this particular dag? It has an iron grip, carved with a ornate pattern of winding leaves. And your name is set into the barrel.’
‘Fitz-Simons,’ said Trulocke with considerable reluctance. ‘Richard Fitz-Simons. He bought a snaphaunce from us three months ago, along with a dozen muskets, but we never–’
‘Where does Fitz-Simons live?’
Trulocke licked his lips. ‘He never told me and I never asked. And I never spoke to you, neither. He knows some brutal men, and I am a peaceful sort of fellow who deplores violence.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘You own a gun shop. That is hardly the activity of a pacifist.’
‘I sell firearms for shooting pigeons.’
‘You offered me one to use on felons,’ Chaloner pointed out. Trulocke opened his mouth to make excuses, then closed it again when nothing plausible came to mind, so Chaloner continued. ‘What does Fitz-Simons look like?’
The gunsmith rubbed his bristly chin with an unsteady hand. ‘Fat, with a scar in his eyebrow, which is old – probably from the wars. I think he might be a surgeon. Why do you want to know? Is he in trouble? If so, it has nothing to do with us. We run a legal business here.’
‘Why do you think he might be a surgeon?’
‘Because he owns a bag full of metal implements. I saw them when he opened it to put the dag inside. I broke my leg last year, see, and the barber-surgeon who set it owned equipment like that.’
‘Is there anything else? My Lord Chancellor will not like it if I am obliged to come back because you have not been honest. And neither will I.’
Trulocke flinched when Chaloner reached past him to retrieve his dagger. ‘No, I swear! However, if I wanted to find Fitz-Simons, I would ask for him in Chyrurgeons’ Hall on Monkwell Street.’
It was nearing ten o’clock by the time Chaloner reached White Hall, where he learned there was to be a grand ball with music and dancing that day, all part of the festivities commemorating the coronation. He wondered whether His Majesty was aware that only the Court was celebrating, and that outside in busy King Street, people muttered rebelliously as cartload after cartload of food, ale and wine trundled through the palace gates.
Reluctant to use the main entrance when it was being watched by so many hostile eyes, Chaloner headed for a small door that led to Scotland Yard, once a handsome palace for Scottish kings, but now a huddle of sag-roofed apartments for minor Court officials. He knocked at the porters’ lodge, murmured a password to the soldier on duty, and waited in an anteroom for Colonel Holles to come and admit him.
‘Heyden?’ Holles asked in an undertone when he arrived, looking around to make sure no one could hear him. ‘Your disguises never cease to amaze me. Who are you this time?’
Philip Holles was a professional gentleman – soldier devoted to Lord Clarendon. He had often spirited Chaloner to the Earl’s chambers for secret meetings, and sometimes gave him licence to lurk in parts of the palace that were supposed to be off-limits to all except members of the Royal Household. He was a useful ally, and Chaloner had grown to like him. He was tall and burly, with the kind of moustaches no one had worn for years, and everything about him bespoke his military past.
‘Kristiaan Vanders from Holland,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Here to upholster Clarendon’s furniture. He thinks Bristol will poach me to decorate his house instead, which will allow me to spy on him.’
‘Good,’ said Holles fervently. ‘Someone needs to, because Bristol has been encouraging all manner of unpleasant types to join his side this week – folk such as Lady Castlemaine, Adrian May and Sir Richard Temple. Our poor earl will be destroyed if we do not take steps to protect him.’
‘The dispute does seem to be a bitter one,’ acknowledged Chaloner.
Holles blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘That is an under-statement – they hate each other! Of course, it was Bristol who started this current quarrel. He went around bragging about being a papist, thus forcing Lord Clarendon to remove him from his official posts. He asked for what happened to him.’
Knowing Holles would be appalled and bemused by his moderate views on religion, Chaloner declined to comment. He changed the subject slightly. ‘Did you say May now supports Bristol, too?’