expression on his face. The tone of his voice quickly went from belligerent to wheedling. ‘Me and my brothers sellsnaphaunces 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 exceptmembers 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
‘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 exceptmembers 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
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