‘The turkey!’ exclaimed Temperance. When she next spoke, her voice was some distance away. ‘I let it out to drive off the burglar.’
North promptly disappeared, doors slammed and there was a lot of agitated hollering. Then it was quiet again, except for North bemoaning the fact that the gun had flashed in the pan when Faith had tried to shoot the rampaging turkey, and Faith complaining that the thief had managed to duck away from the bullet that should have killed him. Shivering in the bitter night, Ellis was not long in returning to his warm bed, leaving Chaloner to tell the people in the alley that there was no fire after all. There were venomous mutters when he explained that the commotion had been caused by a prowler, and someone threw water at him. When he returned, sodden, to his back door, he saw Metje standing on the crate North had abandoned. Even in the dark, he could tell she was angry.
‘Where is the turkey?’ he asked, not liking to think of her at its mercy.
‘In the sitting room,’ she snapped, glancing behind her to ensure she was not overheard. ‘It is not so stupid as to stay out here when there is frost in the air. It had a go at North, then made for the best room of the house, where the embers of a good fire are glowing.’
‘Oh,’ he said tiredly.
‘What were you doing?’ she demanded furiously. ‘I know all that commotion was your fault.’
‘I was worried about you. You did not come.’
‘I did not want to come. I am angry with you – and you will not win my favour by hurting the man who pays my wages, either. Are you limping again? What happened this time? Another fall from a cart?’ Her voice had a hard, callous ring that was unfamiliar.
‘North hit me with his club. I did not know he kept such a weapon in his house.’
‘I told you about it when you offered to waylay him by pretending to have the plague. I am going inside now, Thomas. Do not lob any more bricks at my window; I do not want to see you.’ Her voice softened. ‘But perhaps I will come tomorrow, since you have been to such pains to secure my attention.’
Chaloner fell asleep over his decoding, leg propped on a stool in front of him. He awoke cold and stiff to hear the bells chime six o’clock. He returned to the cipher, and supposed he must have been overly exhausted the previous night, because suddenly there was a pattern that made sense:
e
d
y
on
seven
s cache
raise God
r of London
th day of Decbr.
obert Lee, Clerk.
He gazed at it. Praise God – the phrase Hewson had muttered, the words on Clarendon’s desk, and the message Clarke had asked the measurers of cloth to send his wife. He rubbed his leg. Seven what? The Seven? Seven thousand pounds – Barkstead’s cache? Without more of the original document, he knew he had taken interpretation as far as he could. However, he could conclude one thing: Lee’s paper contained more proof that all three of his investigations were inextricably linked.
Driven by hunger, Chaloner scoured his room for money, but all he found was a token. Tokens were issued by some taverns in lieu of change, since small denomination coins were often in short supply, so he visited the Rose at Covent Garden, and exchanged it for a pie that smelled rancid. He ate it anyway, and walked towards the Thames with the grenade in his pocket. The missile was not something he intended to keep, not just because incendiary devices were inherently unstable, but because men could be hanged for owning items that might be used to ferment rebellion.
A cat watched him hurl it into the river, so hard and far that its splash was inaudible. Then he stood on the Milford Stairs, listening to the water gurgle around the piers, while the cat wound about his legs, purring. It was still early, so the Thames was relatively empty of traffic. One craft rocked towards him, though, its oarsman driven on by a strident voice that made Chaloner jump towards the shadows to avoid being seen. He watched Preacher Hill reach the quay just as a robust recitation of Psalm Eighteen was completed. The boatman was breathless, and slumped on his seat as though he was drained of strength, although this did not stop him from pushing off as soon as Hill had alighted.
‘Thank you, my son,’ boomed Hill. ‘The Lord be with you.’
‘Fuck off!’ came the reply. ‘And never set foot in my boat again, you fanatical bastard!’
Hill grinned, before shifting his Bible to its customary position under his arm. When he passed the cat, it arched its back and spat at him. He stopped walking, then made a sudden lunge that saw the animal grabbed by the scruff of the neck. It yowled and hissed, but was powerless to resist as Hill drew back his arm and prepared to lob it into the river.
‘Good morning, Preacher,’ said Chaloner, stepping from his hiding place and catching the man’s wrist. The cat dropped from Hill’s fingers, and scampered away. ‘You were not thinking of sending one of God’s creatures to a watery grave, were you?’
Hill’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you doing here? You should be …’
‘Be what?’ asked Chaloner, immediately suspicious. ‘Be dead from the grenade someone tossed into my room last night? You seem to like hurling things around.’
Hill raised his eyebrows. ‘Someone tried to blow you up? The Devil must have been watching over his own, then. Who threw it? One of the apprentices from the tannery again?’
‘Again?’
‘I found a fireball in the chapel last night, although no attempt had been made to ignite the fuse – those stupid lads do not know how such devices work. I took it home with me, and I shall throw it at them if they try anything untoward again.’
‘Temperance said your homily last night was about turning the other cheek.’
‘I am the Lord’s soldier, and we are sometimes obliged to meet violence in kind. But the reason I am surprised to see you has nothing to do with explosives – North said he was going to ask you to kill the turkey, and I did not think you would survive the experience.’
Chaloner was curious as to why Hill was crossing the Thames at such an odd hour. ‘Were you over in Southwark because its whores are less likely to recognise you than London ones?’
Even in the pre-dawn light, he saw Hill’s face turn puce. ‘Do not make an enemy of me, Heyden. I am a friend of Gervaise Bennet, and I will set him after you if you make trouble for me.’
‘I am not afraid of Bennet.’
Hill was contemptuous as he turned to stalk away. ‘Then you are a fool.’
Chaloner watched him go, uneasy with the notion of Hill telling Bennet where he lived. He was not unduly worried for himself, but what would happen if Metje was home when Bennet struck?
He had intended to visit Ingoldsby that morning, but when he reached the Temple Bar he began to feel sick. He returned to his rooms, wondering whether the wretched illness that followed was a result of the Rose’s rotten pie or drinking so much water the previous night. He was better by the evening, but did not go out, for fear of missing a visit from Metje. He lit the lamp and played his viol, but she failed to appear, even when he bowed her favourite dance several times in a row.
Unable to sleep after dozing much of the day, he rose at two o’clock and went to the Puritans’ chapel, tucking himself behind a water butt and in the mood for confronting louts with grenades. But nothing happened until six, when a lone man approached. He was swathed in a cloak too large for him, and clearly did not want to be recognised. He reached the chapel, then leapt away in alarm when he discovered the hiding place behind the barrel was already taken. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, but when he saw Chaloner already armed, he turned and raced towards Fleet Street. Chaloner started to give chase, but his bout of sickness had left him unsteady on his feet, and it was obvious he was not going to catch the fellow. He gave up, and returned to his rooms, annoyed by his weakness, but supposing the fellow might think twice about causing mischief another time.