The old woman rambled on, giving examples of Kelyng’s disreputable doings. ‘Parson Vane was fined thirty shillings for saying the old king deserved what he got, and they cut off the butcher’s ear for agreeing with him. Snow and Storey have no friends around here.’
Chaloner pointed to the strategically positioned cart. ‘But people are still prepared to help them.’
‘Potts was too scared to refuse. But while they can force a man to block a road, they cannot make us do everything they want. You got here unharmed, although you were watched from the moment you stepped off Holborn. So, take the lane by the pump, and stick your dagger through their rotten gizzards. And when you do, whisper “Oliver Greene”. Then they will know who sent you to kill them.’
Chaloner suspected it would be a bad idea to do as she suggested, and he was not for hire as an avenging angel anyway. But his other options were limited, so he nodded his thanks and walked to the alley she had indicated, aware of her approval.
The lane was home to some of the most ramshackle buildings he had ever seen. There was not a vertical line in sight, and he wondered whether she had directed him down it because it was in imminent danger of collapse. He began to run, dagger openly drawn. A man started to come of out of a door, but backed inside hurriedly when he saw Chaloner and his glinting blade. Then came the sound of a key being turned; in the Fleet Rookery it was always wiser to see and hear nothing.
A left turn took Chaloner into an alley so narrow that he had to turn sideways. It was a perfect place for an ambush, since he could not protect himself in such a confined space. But he met no one, and emerged into a lane that was considerably wider – large enough for a horse-drawn carriage to pass, although its wheels scraped against the houses on either side, producing showers of rotten splinters and earning yells of outrage from the owners. After another left turn, he saw the old woman was right: he could now see his quarry clearly.
Snow and Storey had moved with the dung collector, Potts, to stand outside an alehouse. These had been declared illegal during the Commonwealth, since they fermented sedition and disorder, but the one in the Fleet Rookery looked as though it had ignored the prohibition. The benches outside were worn shiny from generations of rumps, while the taps and barrels in the adjacent yard were in good working order. The three men were drinking, celebrating the escape. The two robbers looked hard, rough and villainous, and exactly the kind of lout hired by ruthless officials to root out treachery among the poorer classes. Snow still carried the satchel he had grabbed from Thurloe, although he had made no attempt to inspect its contents. Either he knew better than to try, or he could not read.
Chaloner slid into the shadows of a doorway, and reviewed the situation. Storey wore a sword and Snow had a pistol. It was the firearm that would be the problem: Chaloner was not afraid of being shot at – it was an old gun from the wars, of a type that was notoriously unreliable – but the noise of its discharge would draw unwanted attention. The alehouse was busy, despite the fact that it was not long past dawn, and at the first sounds of a skirmish, men would rush out to join in.
Potts climbed on to his wagon and scanned the lane Chaloner had recently vacated. ‘You lost him,’ he said, jumping down again. ‘He was a constable, you say? Which parish?’
‘Er … Whitechapel,’ replied Snow, swigging his beer.
‘You were thieving over there?’ asked Potts, eyeing the pouch. It was battered and old, but still not something Snow would have owned.
Snow was indignant. ‘No, we were not!’
‘Why was he after you, then?’ asked the dung collector with cool logic.
Storey looked smug. ‘Because we are loyal to the Crown. Traitors – like Oliver Cromwell’s lickspittle son Richard – want to kill us, so they can start a revolt and behead another King Charles. We stand in their way, and they will do anything to be rid of us.’
‘The King recruited us special,’ bragged Snow. ‘He hates rebels – you only have to go to Westminster Hall to see that.’
‘I did go,’ said Potts. ‘I saw Oliver Cromwell’s head on a pole, and a few others, too. King-killers, they said. Henry Thurloe was there – the old Spymaster.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Or did Thurloe get a post in the new government? It is difficult to keep up with it all – not that it makes much difference to me. I still scrape dung, no matter who is in charge.’
‘John Thurloe,’ corrected Snow superiorly. ‘And there is a difference between the King and the Commonwealth. There were no alehouses under Cromwell, for a start.’
Potts looked dubious, indicating Chaloner’s assessment had been accurate: the Fleet tavern had ignored the edicts, and no one had bothered – or dared – to stop it.
‘But Thurloe’s head is not outside Westminster,’ said Storey, eager to show off his superior knowledge of powerful men. ‘Kelyng said the man had collected so much dirty information about Royalists when he was Cromwell’s Spymaster, that no one dares move against him now, lest he reveals something embarrassing.’
‘Kelyng told you that?’ asked Potts. He looked more uneasy than impressed. ‘Personally?’
‘Well, he told his chamberlain, but we were meant to hear,’ confided Snow. ‘He also said that Thurloe was offered a post in the new government, but he rejected it, and sits at Lincoln’s Inn reading books about the law, hoping to find a legal way to get rid of the King.’
‘Well, Thurloe was a lawyer once,’ Storey pointed out. ‘He says he refused the King’s offer because of poor health, but Kelyng says he is lying. Kelyng means to bring him low anyway.’
Chaloner frowned, wondering whether their gossip bore any relation to the truth. He had assumed the theft of the satchel was simply that – two robbers opportunistically grabbing something that might be valuable – but now it seemed one of the King’s officers had actually commissioned Snow and Storey to intercept Thurloe’s private post. Thurloe had acquired many enemies during his years as Cromwell’s most trusted advisor, so it was no surprise to learn that some remained determined to see him destroyed.
Potts’s face assumed a wily expression. ‘If that constable was Thurloe’s man, then you owe me another jug of ale. I might have been killed helping you, and …’
In one sure, swift movement, Snow whipped a dagger from its sheath and had the man pressed against the wall with the blade under his chin. Terrified, Potts struggled to stand on tiptoe, to relieve the sharp pressure against the soft skin of his neck.
‘You might be killed yet – for a traitor,’ said Snow coldly. ‘Shall I tell Kelyng that your loyalty to the King costs? Do you want to be hanged and quartered, like the regicides?’
‘The what?’ squeaked Potts in alarm. ‘I do not know them! I am not one of their number!’
Snow sighed his disdain at the fellow’s ignorance. ‘The regicides were the men who signed the old king’s death warrant – fifty-nine of them. Three had a traitor’s death back in April, and unless you want to die like them, you will be satisfied with what you have already been given.’
He released Potts, who backed away, hand to the oozing cut on his throat. Without another word, the dung-collector clambered into his wagon and flicked his whip at the horse. The animal strained forward, then moved ahead, making the contents of its barrels slosh over the rims and forcing Storey and Snow to scramble into the alehouse to avoid the yellow-brown cascade. Inside the tavern, men huddled over their beer and pretended not to notice.