Snow indicated he should continue writing, so he added William the Conqueror and Francis Bacon. ‘You stabbed him with Bennet’s dagger, and we were paid to get rid of the body.’
‘Get rid of the body?’ echoed Chaloner, finishing the list with Julius Caesar and handing it to Snow. ‘Why would Kelyng feel the need to do that, if Jones was killed by an intruder? The only reason for hiding a corpse is so no one learns what really happened to it. What did you do? Drop it in the river?’
‘We are a bit more clever than that,’ said Storey smugly. We–’
‘We followed orders,’ interrupted Snow sharply, throwing his companion an ugly glance. ‘But we do not have time for more talking. Say your prayers.’
He drew a pistol, but dropped it with a yelp when Chaloner struck his wrist with the hilt of his dagger. A short lead pipe appeared in Storey’s hands, and he brought it down in a savage arc that would have meant instant death had it met its target. But it was a predictable move, and Chaloner had no trouble in stepping out of its way. The weapon smashed one of the wigmaker’s model heads, sending shards and dust across the shop and the hair cartwheeling towards the window. Jervas came dashing towards them with a wail of horror, Sarah at his heels.
‘That cost four pounds!’ Jervas cried. ‘And the hair came from the prettiest whore in Southwark! You must pay for the damage. You–’
His tirade ceased abruptly when Storey turned on him, pipe clutched in both hands. He raised it high in the air, and then began to bring it down as hard as he could. Chaloner shoved him, so he stumbled into Snow, and the blow went wide. Both robbers crashed to the floor amid a cascade of heads and hairpieces. Snow gave a muted yelp when a particularly heavy model struck his temple; he tried to stand, but fell back amid the chaos. Chaloner started to kick the pistol out of reach, but Storey grabbed his leg while he was off balance, and then there were three men on the ground. Suddenly, the gun was in Storey’s hands, and he was pointing it at Chaloner’s chest.
Chaloner sensed Sarah was nearby, but did not realise she had joined the affray until the lead pipe landed sharply on the top of Storey’s skull. The thief collapsed as if poleaxed, and the gun skittered from his nerveless fingers as he hit the floor. Chaloner scrambled to his feet and snatched the bar away from her when she looked as though she might use it a second time. Her grip was powerful, and she was not easy to disarm. At first, he thought she was inflamed with the kind of bloodlust he had seen on the battlefield, when it was difficult to stop men from fighting, but then he saw the stricken expression on her face. Hastily, he seized her arm, afraid she might faint.
‘He was going to kill you,’ she whispered, her eyes huge with shock. ‘Shoot you.’
‘He would not have succeeded,’ he said, escorting her to a bench. He showed her the weapon, and when she did not understand what it was telling her, added, ‘It is not primed.’
She looked as though she might be sick, so he set the hollow cranium of one of the broken models in her lap, not wanting Jervas to have even more of a mess in his shop. The wigmaker sank down next to her, appalled by the violence in his domain.
‘I did not know,’ said Sarah unsteadily. ‘I saw the evil expression on his face …’
‘His determination did not match his skill,’ said Chaloner, speaking calmly to reassure her. ‘That pair is incompetent, and should not be allowed out without supervision.’
Jervas disagreed, and poked Storey’s leg with his foot, as he might prod something unpleasant. ‘He was not incompetent. He would have killed me, had you not pushed him over. And I am an innocent bystander – you are the one with debts.’
Sarah swallowed hard. ‘What shall we do? If you let them live, they may try to harm you again.’
‘But if I dispatch them, their master may send others who are better. It is safer to let them live to fight another day – although I suspect it is too late for Storey. I think the blow crushed his skull.’
‘You mean he is dead?’ breathed Jervas, aghast. He crossed himself in an automatic but imprudent demonstration of his native Catholicism. ‘God help us! Bodies in my shop, my wigs destroyed! I wish you had not chosen my premises in which to hide from these creditors, Mr Heyden.’
So did Chaloner, who was sorry for the trouble he had caused. ‘Do you have a back door?’
Wordlessly, Jervas pointed, and watched as Chaloner hauled first Snow and then Storey into the alley outside, laying them side by side in the sticky mud. When he had finished, Chaloner rested his hand on the pulse in Snow’s neck. It was strong and regular, and the fellow stirred in a way that suggested he would soon be awake. Storey did not, however, and although he was breathing, his face was waxen beneath his crushed pate. Chaloner suspected he would never regain his senses.
‘Oliver Greene,’ he said loudly, remembering the old woman with the donkey. ‘And young Charles-Stewart, too.’
‘What are you doing?’ asked Sarah, watching him collect Snow’s hat and Storey’s cudgel. She had not moved from the bench, although she was no longer so pale. Jervas understood, though, and was busy with a brush, sweeping evidence of the fight under the counter. ‘A third man is waiting across the street, and he looks horribly like Gervaise Bennet. You should not be lingering here. I thought you planned to escape through the back door, not trot back and forth with bodies.’
‘We cannot leave these men with Jervas. It is not his fault I hid with him, and he should not have to bear the consequences when Snow wakes up.’
‘Will you pay for his damaged wigs as well?’ she asked unsteadily.
‘I wish I could, but I do not think threepence will cover them.’
She placed several gold coins in the startled wigmaker’s hand, and, quelling his effusive gratitude, walked outside to stand with Chaloner in the alley. She was no longer trembling, although he noticed she declined to look at the two crumpled forms, one of which was beginning to groan as he came to.
‘Were you following me?’ Chaloner asked her.
‘Not exactly. I – along with half of London – went to see the King’s paintings today. I imagine that is why you are wearing your best clothes, too. When I spotted you leaving White Hall, I decided to see where you went.’
Chaloner was nonplussed. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because of something John said – that if ever I am in trouble, I should turn to you. I love my brother, and trust his opinion on most things, but I like to make up my own mind about who will be a friend in times of crisis.’
‘Your brother? Thurloe is your brother?’
She regarded him askance. ‘I know some of his spies consider him an exulted being – an aloof, iron man with no kith or kin – but he told me you regularly asked after his family in your letters.’
‘He never mentioned a sister to me, or a brother-in-law called Dalton.’
She seemed surprised. ‘Did he not? How odd. I married a decade ago – John advised against the match, but it was hard to refuse a wealthy vintner with six houses and a personal carriage. I have since repented my greed, and wish I had waited for a handsome soldier, but one learns by one’s mistakes.’
‘Why did you not tell me this on Friday?’
‘It was none of your business. I only left John’s sitting room to talk to you because I thought I might learn something that would help him in his struggle against Kelyng.’
Chaloner was beginning to dislike Sarah Dalton. ‘And did you?’
‘Not really. You were too careful. What are you going to do next? Kill Bennet? He is probably the leader of this unpleasant threesome.’
‘I thought I would stroll over and thrust my dagger into his chest. No one will notice.’ He saw her nod agreement, and experienced a flash of irritation. ‘Of course not! I have just explained why it is better to leave them alone.’