There was a moment of silence, then pandemonium erupted. So many soldiers rushed from the abbey that Chaloner wondered whether any had remained behind to guard the King. He thought about the danger of diversions, and suggested some went back inside. No one listened to him.
May was the hero of the day. He maintained a cool, dignified poise as the palace guards clapped him on the back and congratulated him for dispatching a would-be assassin. Colonel Holles snatched the gun from Chaloner, eager to inspect the weapon that was to have been used. He did not approve of regicide on his watch, and was incensed by the notion that a plot might have come close to succeeding.
‘This dag is a disgrace,’ he said with a good deal of professional disdain. ‘It is not even loaded – and probably would not have worked if it had been. What sort of murderer was he?’
‘A dead one,’ said May smugly. ‘And one we shall not have to pay the executioner to hang.’
While May basked in the glory of his achievement, Chaloner bent to examine the vagrant. He moved the ragged jacket aside to look at the hole caused by the ball, and was surprised May’s gun had caused such massive damage – it was not a large-bore weapon. Of course, May had fired from very close range, and Chaloner had seen enough death on the battlefield to appreciate the deadly power of firearms when their victims were only a few yards distant. A red splatter on his own cloak indicated how near to him the beggar had been standing, and he glanced uneasily at May, wondering how confident he had been of his own marksmanship.
‘It would have been better to keep him alive,’ he said in an undertone, when the soldiers’ attention had moved to Holles and the deplorable state of the felon’s weapon. ‘Now we do not know his name or the identity of the man who sent him – assuming he was an assassin, and not just someone who wanted an innocent word with a member of His Majesty’s government.’
He was not sure what to believe about his brief conversation with the beggar, although he was unwilling to share details with May – the man would assume he was trying to undermine him, and he did not want the animosity between them to escalate any further.
May was dismissive. ‘He was not working for anyone. You can tell from his pathetic disguise that he was a rogue fanatic, acting alone. If you were familiar with London – as a spy should be – then you would be aware that these lunatics appear at regular intervals.’
Chaloner was unconvinced. ‘Now he is dead, we will never know, will we?’
‘He had a knife,’ argued May. ‘And do not tell me you had seen it already, because I saw your surprise when I pointed it out. I saved your life, and you should be thanking me, not criticising me.’
Chaloner was astonished May should have drawn such a conclusion. ‘I was in no danger–’
‘That is not how it appeared to me,’ said May icily. ‘And I shall say so in my report to Williamson, along with the fact that you bungled the arrest. If you had searched him properly, he would not have drawn a dagger and I would not have been obliged to kill him. This death was your fault.’
Chaloner sighed, knowing May would do exactly what he said. And he was loath to admit it, but May was right: he should have looked for other weapons on his captive. However, that did not detract from the fact that May had been very eager to open fire. Chaloner wondered why. It would certainly not have been to protect his colleague from harm.
May smiled unpleasantly when he made no reply. ‘I saw him muttering to you before I dispatched him. What did he say?’
‘He was begging not to be murdered, because he had important information to pass to the Spymaster General. Will you include that in your report, too?’
May did not believe him. ‘How could a low villain like him know anything to interest us?’
‘He was not a “low villain”. He was well spoken and he talked about White Hall as though he had been there. I suspect you have made a grave mistake by murdering him.’
‘If you say it was murder once more, I shall bury you next to him. You were bad enough in Ireland last month – we could have crushed that rebellion in half the time if you had not been so damned cautious.’ May became aware Chaloner was barely listening to him, so said something spiteful in an attempt to regain his attention. ‘Williamson will never hire you, you know.’
Chaloner was inspecting three pale bands on the beggar’s fingers, which suggested the man had worn rings until recently. What pauper habitually donned jewellery? ‘I do not need him to hire me – not any more. I am perfectly happy with Lord Clarendon.’
May sneered at him, unconvinced. ‘The feud between your new master and the Earl of Bristol means you will never be promoted to the secret services. You see, if Williamson does employ you, it will look as though he is taking sides – trying to harm Clarendon by depriving him of a useful retainer.’
‘I doubt Clarendon sees it like that,’ said Chaloner, sure it was true. He was useful to the Earl, but a long way from being indispensable. He wished it were otherwise, because courtiers were constantly being urged to ease back on their expenditure, and he was always worried that the Earl might see eliminating the salary of his spy as an easy way to cut costs.
‘We shall see. Do not think you will come to Williamson as long as I am his friend, anyway. He listens to me, and I shall oppose any application you make.’
Chaloner turned away, not dignifying the threat with a response. He thought about what the beggar had said before he was shot, and wondered how best to communicate it to the Spymaster. Finding a way to Williamson’s White Hall offices without May’s knowledge presented no great challenge, but he suspected that appearing unannounced would not be a good idea – Williamson was likely to have him arrested before he could speak. He would have to find another way to pass on the information.
Or should he? The vagrant’s words had meant nothing to him, and if they were meaningless to Williamson, too, then was there any point in relaying them? He decided to make a few enquiries first, to see if he could unravel their meaning. Repeating garbled sentences verbatim was likely to make him look stupid, and he needed to provide Williamson with solid, useful intelligence if he wanted to make a good impression – and despite May’s warnings, Chaloner would apply for work with the government if his earl ever dismissed him. Therefore, he had to determine why Terrell was not what he claimed, who Burne was, and why Dillon required saving.
So it was decided. Only when he had answers would he ask to speak to Williamson.
It was still raining when the royal party emerged from the abbey, and there was an undignified scramble for horses and carriages. The King and Lady Castlemaine were first away, eager to escape the damp chill of the medieval building. Buckingham and the Queen were quick in following, but Bristol took rather longer, hopping about with one foot in the stirrup when his lively horse would not keep still as he tried to mount it. Eventually, he took a second tumble. Clarendon happened to be watching, and this time he sniggered openly. Bristol scowled in a way that made him look dangerous.
Williamson nodded to May, silently ordering him to assist the wallowing noble, although Chaloner could not tell whether he did so from compassion, friendship or pity. Virtually the entire Court had taken sides in the Bristol–Clarendon dispute, but no one knew where Williamson stood. Chaloner assumed he was waiting to see who would win before committing himself, which was the sensible option for any ambitious politician.
Eventually, all the courtiers had been helped on to horses or into carriages, and Colonel Holles came to stand down the security detail. His Majesty had been pleased with their diligence, he said, especially when it transpired that an assassin had indeed been waiting. As an expression of appreciation, he had provided a few shillings for ale, so they could drink to his health that evening. There was a cheer, which faltered somewhat when it transpired that the King’s idea of ‘a few’ was two, which would not go far among so many men.