Blood on the Strand by Susanna Gregory

as himself, and decided it must have been
     fifteen years ago, during the wars. He could not say what colour his hair might be, because it was never the same shade twice,
     and his face had been so variously marked with scars, warts and freckles that Chaloner had no idea which were real and which
     were the result of pastes and plasters. Most of what Chaloner knew about disguises had been learned from Scot, who was ten
     years his senior.
    That day Scot was dressed in a fashionable coat of deep red, which was enlivened with a sash of yellow satin, and there was
     an exotic flower pinned among the frothing lace at his throat. Under his arm, he carried a book entitled
Musaeum Tradescantianum
, a catalogue of the remarkable collection of artefacts and plants held inOxford. His cheeks had been shadowed to make them appear sallow, and he had somehow lengthened his nose. The only familiar
     feature was his pale-blue eyes.
    Scot peered at Chaloner, then laughed. ‘I trained
you
well – I did not recognise you at all! I saw a rough villain follow Eaffrey to this secluded alley, and I came to protect
     her virtue.’
    Eaffrey showed him her knife. ‘Your chivalry was unnecessary, although appreciated.’
    ‘I hear you are posing as a scholar,’ said Chaloner, nodding at the book Scot held.
    Scot nodded, eyes gleaming with a sudden and uncharacteristic passion – he was not usually an effusive man. ‘Williamson asked
     me to explore accusations of fraud in the Royal Society, but I quickly learned there is nothing amiss. However, I have neglected
     to tell him so, because the Society’s meetings are so damned fascinating – especially anything to do with botanicals. Would
     you believe I have actually read this book and enjoyed every word?’
    It did not sound very likely, and Chaloner doubted such a dry subject would hold Scot’s bright mind for long. Scot sensed
     his scepticism.
    ‘I mean it, Chaloner. I am weary of espionage and its dangers, and the sooner I can take a ship for Surinam, where I shall
     spend my days studying its flora, the better.’
    ‘Why are you here, then?’ asked Chaloner. ‘You could be on your way now. Or is Williamson reluctant to release one of his
     most experienced and valued spies?’
    Scot smiled. ‘I have not told him my decision to leave yet, although he will be peeved when I do. He has come to trust me,
     despite May’s constant whispers that former Parliamentarians should be banned from the intelligence services. However, the
     reason I am still here ismy brother – I cannot leave as long as Thomas is a prisoner in the Tower.’
    Chaloner was intrigued. ‘You intend to help him escape?’
    ‘Christ, no! We are talking about the Tower here, Chaloner, not some city gaol! I want him out, but I have no desire to be
     killed in the process. I shall rescue him by diplomatic means – by oiling the right palms, and by bringing pressure to bear
     on those with influence. I
will
prevail – hopefully soon – and then I shall leave England for good.’
    ‘I shall be sorry to lose you,’ said Chaloner, meaning it.
    Scot looked away. ‘And there is the rub. I will miss my friends – and you two most of all.’
    A dank, dripping lane in the nether regions of White Hall was no place for friends to exchange news, so Chaloner, Scot and
     Eaffrey went to the Crown, a cookshop on nearby King Street. It was not a very salubrious establishment, and its owner, a
     man named Wilkinson, had a reputation for being rude to his customers. The Crown had once been a tavern, but had started to
     sell food when Wilkinson realised there was a palace full of hungry courtiers opposite. It was a large building, filled with
     the scent of baked pies, spilled ale and tobacco smoke. Eaffrey, Scot and Chaloner ordered beef pasties with onions, and something
     called a ‘green tansy’, which Wilkinson declined to define, but which transpired to be a mess of eggs, cream, spinach and
     sugar.
    As they ate, Chaloner