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matters.
     However, there is a fishmonger called Peter Terrell – I have never met him, but I am told he is a terrible rogue. Perhaps
     this beggar was talking about him.’
    ‘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 barrel: 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 theman’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