‘Look at his boots,’ he said shortly, becoming tired of May’s condescension. As they were obliged to work together, the man could at least try to conceal his antagonism. Chaloner had managed it, and he expected the courtesy to be returned, so they could concentrate on the task in hand. ‘How many vagrants do you know who can afford such good-quality footwear?’
May raised a laconic eyebrow. ‘I saw one with a fine lace waistcoat yesterday, which had clearly been filched from someone’s washing line. Decent boots are more indicative of a fellow’s morals than his designs on the King’s blood.’
Chaloner was not so sure. ‘I am going to talk to him.’
May moved his coat to one side, revealing the dag – a heavy handgun – he had shoved into his belt. ‘Go on, then,’ he jeered. ‘And if you do learn he is a dangerous fanatic with a musket under his rags, rub your nose with your left hand. Then I shall put a hole in him for you.’
Chaloner made his way towards the beggar, sweeping his brush back and forth to clear a path among the sodden litter of old leaves and rubbish that carpeted the ground. May leaned against a wall, affecting a relaxed attitude by removing a pipe from his pocket and tamping it with tobacco. The operation took both hands, which meant he would be unable to retrieve the gun very fast in an emergency. It made Chaloner realise yet again what a dismal intelligence officer May was, and was surprised Spymaster Williamson tolerated such flagrant ineptitude.
He moved closer to his quarry, keeping his head down to conceal his face, but at the same time watching the vagrant intently. The man’s face was far too clean, and the stubble on his chin indicated that although he had not shaved that morning, he had certainly done so the day before. He was about Chaloner’s own age – early thirties – and his demeanour was that of someone in a state of high agitation. He lay on his side, in an attempt to look as though he was sleeping, but his knuckles were white as he gripped the hem of his cloak, and his dark eyes were full of unease as he stared at the abbey’s door – through which the King would emerge within the hour.
Chaloner pretended to notice him for the first time. ‘You cannot stay here,’ he said, prodding him with his foot. The dagger he always kept hidden in his sleeve slid into the palm of his hand, and it would be embedded in the fellow’s heart long before May could draw and aim his gun. ‘Go and sleep somewhere else.’
The ‘beggar’ made a show of coming awake, rubbing his eyes. ‘It is raining,’ he whined, trying without success to disguise a voice that was cultured. ‘Do not oust me until it eases. I mean no harm.’
But Chaloner had detected a bulge under the man’s cloak that could only belong to a weapon. Since few regicides hatched their nefarious plans alone, he knew Williamson would want to question this one about his associates, which meant taking him alive. He made a halfhearted swipe at a patch of sludge with his brush, then let the broom handle slide from his hands. It dropped into the man’s lap. He leaned down, as though to retrieve it, then made a grab for the gun instead. The vagrant was no match for his speed and dexterity, and Chaloner had him disarmed in an instant. The fellow’s jaw dropped in horror when his own dag was pressed against his temple.
‘This is not how it appears,’ he gabbled in alarm, promptly abandoning his rough speech. He was round and plump, with an ancient scar above one eye that looked as though it might have been earned in the wars. ‘It is nothing to do with the King. I need to speak to Spymaster Williamson, but his servants refuse to let me see him, and I am desperate. All I want is a few moments of his time. Please!’
‘That can be arranged,’ said Chaloner, thinking the fellow would be speaking to Williamson now, whether he wanted to or not. He stepped away and indicated with a jerk of the gun that his captive should stand. ‘What do you want to talk to him about?’
The vagrant struggled to his feet. ‘There has been a misunderstanding that must be put right. I am accused of dreadful things, but I am innocent, and Williamson is the only one who will believe me.’
Chaloner raised his hand to summon May, but his colleague’s attention was focused entirely on his pipe: the rain was making it difficult to light. He was glad he was not rubbing his nose in a frantic plea for help. ‘That verger will–’
‘No!’ cried the beggar urgently. ‘Your “verger” is a spy called Adrian May – one of the men who refuses to let me speak to Williamson. Do not call him, I beg you!’
‘He will not stop you from seeing Williamson now,’ said Chaloner dryly, indicating the weapon he had confiscated.
‘I know I should have devised another way, but my wits are too frayed for sensible thought,’ said the man miserably. Chaloner was under the impression that he was speaking more to himself than to his captor. ‘It occurred to me to throw myself on Lord Clarendon’s mercy, but his secretary is even more protective of his master than Williamson’s minions are, and he guards him like a jealous dog.’
‘What is your name?’ Chaloner placed his hand on the fellow’s shoulder and began to propel him towards Colonel Holles – as Master of the Palace Guard, it fell to Holles to transport suspects to a place where they could be interrogated. But before his prisoner could reply, May became aware that the situation had changed while he had been preoccupied with tobacco. He dropped his pipe and hauled the dag from his belt.
‘He is going to shoot!’ cried the beggar, stopping in horror. ‘He is aiming right at me!’
‘May, wait!’ yelled Chaloner, watching his colleague cock his gun so it was ready to fire. He held the confiscated weapon aloft, to show him there was no danger.
‘He has a knife!’ bellowed May in reply. Chaloner glanced at the beggar’s hand and saw it was true, although it posed no danger. Chaloner still held his own blade and, if he missed, handguns were designed with large, bulbous butts that could be used as clubs. There was no possibility of him being bested in a scuffle.
‘He is going to kill me!’ shrieked the vagrant, becoming more agitated as May ran a few steps nearer, dag held in both hands. ‘I meant no harm – my gun is not even loaded. Look for yourself.’
Chaloner did not need to look. First, the weapon reeked of burned oil, and he knew such a very dirty gun was unlikely to work. Secondly, the powder pan was empty, which meant there was nothing to ignite the charge and make the missile fly. And thirdly, there was no ball in the barrel anyway.
‘Disarm,’ he called to May, knocking the blade from the beggar’s unresisting hand. May was now quite close. ‘He is harmless.’
May took a firmer grip on his dag and squinted along the barrel. The beggar grabbed Chaloner’s arm and cowered behind him. With a sense of shock, Chaloner saw May intended to shoot anyway.
‘Terrell is not what he says,’ stammered the vagrant, desperately trying to shield himself. ‘Tell Williamson that, but no one else. And then save Dillon.’
‘What?’ Most of Chaloner’s attention was on May, who was jigging this way and that as he tried to get a clear view of his intended victim. If he did shoot the fellow, it would be cold-blooded murder, and Williamson would be furious that an opportunity to question a possible assassin had been lost.
‘Dillon,’ repeated the beggar, tugging Chaloner’s coat hard enough to make him stumble. It was a stupid move, because it exposed him to May. ‘You must save Dillon, and Burne is another who is–’
There was a sudden crack, loud enough to startle a flock of pigeons and send them flapping into the air. Immediately, Holles appeared with a sword in his hand, looking around wildly. Next to Chaloner, the beggar dropped to the ground, while May shook the smoke from his gun and replaced the weapon in his belt.