He edged along the alley. Nothing moved, except rats foraging among discarded offal from an unlicensed butcher’s shop and a few rags swinging on a washing line high above his head. The lane emptied into a larger street, and he hung back to assess it. To his right was a tiny square dominated by a rust-and slime-dappled water pump; to his left was a dung cart loaded with barrels for collecting the urine and faeces used by tanneries and gunpowder manufacturers. The cart was so wide that it filled the street completely, leaving gaps of no more than the width of a hand between it and the walls to either side.
Chaloner suspected the dung collector had been paid or forced to leave his wagon in a position that would prevent pursuit. The vehicle’s stench seared the back of his throat, and he did not relish the prospect of scrambling across its top – he knew that as soon as he did, the driver would flick his whip and the whole thing would jolt forward. If he did not topple into the brimming barrels of his own accord, someone would give him a helping hand, or stab or shoot at him when he was struggling for balance.
He tensed when a window creaked above him, then stepped smartly under the overhanging façade of a towering, five-storied tenement. Swill from a chamber-pot splattered to the ground, joining the refuse and ashes that formed the foetid carpet under his feet. He edged forward, narrowing the gap between him and the cart until he was close enough to crouch down and peer underneath it.
He saw several pairs of human legs, and there was a low murmur of conversation, although he could not hear what was being said. He stood abruptly when an old woman with a donkey approached from the direction of the square. She released the low, mournful cry that every Londoner knew meant there was fresh milk to be purchased for children and invalids. Customers would answer the call with jugs, and the animal would be milked on the spot. The woman was not alone in advertising her wares. From somewhere deeper inside the labyrinth came the rising yell of a fish-seller, while the bass bellow of a tallow merchant offered the stinking fat that could be turned into cheap candles.
Chaloner considered his options. The robbers were confident now they were on home ground, lingering at the front of the wagon to chat with the dung collector. And they had good reason to feel safe: even if Chaloner did manage to scale the cart and lay hold of them, then what would he do? Their friends would never allow him to march them to the nearest parish constable, and besides, constables were notoriously corrupt if the right coins appeared, and just as likely to slip a dagger between Chaloner’s ribs and release the thieves. The sensible decision would be to return to Lincoln’s Inn and tell Thurloe that he had done his best, but the culprits had been too far away by the time he had been ordered to give chase.
But he could scarcely apologise to Thurloe for failing to catch Charles-Stewart’s killers with one breath, and ask for a testimonial with the next. If he wanted to convince the ex-Spymaster of his worth, then he had no choice but to do as he had been ordered.
‘Milk, mister?’ came a voice at Chaloner’s side. The old woman was moving towards him, hemming him in with her donkey. His fingers tightened around his dagger as he scanned the street for signs of danger, aware that she might have been sent to distract him while an attack was set up.
‘Not today.’ There was no one else in the street, so he turned his attention to the cart and the men to the front of it.
She eased closer. Her eyes were black and shiny, and gleamed in a face that was a mask of wrinkles. ‘You will not catch them from here. Go down the alley by the pump, and turn left when you see the barber’s sign. Left again by the ditch will bring you to a place where you can surprise them.’
Chaloner nodded his thanks, but did not imagine for a moment that she was being helpful. She was probably trying to send him into a trap. ‘I will wait here.’
He crouched again, using the donkey as a shield from anyone who might be aiming a pistol at him. The milling legs behind the cart had been reduced to just three pairs as onlookers lost interest. One wore boots that had been polished a deep, glossy black. These, Chaloner knew, belonged to the shorter of the two villains – the one who had snatched the satchel. It was the taller of the pair, who now paced restlessly, that had stabbed Charles-Stewart. The third man wore shoes that were thickly crusted in excrement, and were unquestionably the dung collector’s.
Chaloner assessed the cart objectively, noting the sturdy planking around its edges. If he kept to one side and moved quickly enough, he might be able to jump over it and surprise them. His best option would be to fight into a position where he could hold his dagger to the throat of the taller one and ‘persuade’ him to return to Lincoln’s Inn, preferably carrying the satchel. One killer and the return of stolen property might be enough to secure Thurloe’s good graces.
The old woman poked him with a bony finger. ‘They will have a knife in you before your feet touch the ground on the other side.’
Chaloner glanced up at her, surprised she should find his intentions so transparent. ‘Is that so?’
Her face was bleak as she petted her donkey. ‘They killed my son – my Oliver – so I will shake the hand of any man who slits their throats, but you will not do it by climbing across the cart. They will be expecting you.’
Chaloner did not think he looked like the sort of fellow who slit throats, but supposed his very presence in the Fleet Rookery was enough to make folk assume the worst. His leather jerkin, breeches and riding boots were worn and unfashionable, but they were of good quality and marked him as someone who had not always been poor. He was of average height and build, with brown hair and grey eyes. He had a pleasant face, but not one that was in any way remarkable, and he had worked hard over the years to make his appearance as unmemorable as possible. Outstanding features were a serious disadvantage for a man who made his living as a spy.
‘Who will be expecting me?’ he asked, watching his quarry intently.
The old woman tutted her annoyance. ‘Snow and Storey. The men you are chasing.’
‘Are those their names? They did not bother with a formal introduction.’
She made a wheezing sound he assumed was a chuckle. ‘Snow wears good boots – he dyes them blacker every night. Storey has yellow hair and is taller. Murdering bastards!’
Chaloner wished she would go away.
‘They work for Sir John Kelyng and his chamberlain,’ she went on. ‘They think that makes them better than the rest of us, although most around here would say it makes them vermin.’
Chaloner had no idea who she was talking about. After a decade overseas, he was a virtual stranger in his own country, and he knew he would have to conceal his ignorance of local politics when he spoke to Thurloe. He did not, however, need to hide it from nosy old ladies in the Fleet Rookery.
‘Sir John Kelyng?’ he asked, his attention fixed on the feet behind the cart. ‘Who is he?’
The old woman regarded him in disbelief. ‘You do not know Kelyng?’
Chaloner turned to look at her. ‘Should I?’
She continued to gape at him. ‘He is one of the King’s new sergeants-at-law, and was in prison for most of the last ten years, because he was so hearty a Royalist. Now he is out of the Tower, and is devoting himself to ferreting out traitors.’
‘What kind of traitors?’
‘Traitors to the King – men who prefer Cromwell’s lot. His chamberlain scours the gutters for scum like Snow and Storey, and pays them to listen in taverns for anyone saying the wrong things.’
Chaloner was not surprised. Although the King had been restored to his throne with blaring trumpets and cheering crowds, his ministers knew perfectly well that he would sit uneasily for a while yet. Spies would be hired to watch for any hint of rebellion, and Kelyng was doubtless just one of many who had been ordered to hunt down potential troublemakers.