Blood on the Strand by Susanna Gregory

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 tosee 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.
    ‘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 anyoneto 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