There was no point in Chaloner trying to tell his own side of the story, and the fact that the Hectors were going to be summoned before the official forces of law and order did not bode well. People were beginning to rally to their howls — he could see torches bobbing on the street. There was really only one thing to do. Chaloner turned and ran.
He blundered through the dark trees, branches clawing at him as he went. He tried to move faster, but was unsteady on his feet and could not make the kind of speed he needed to escape. Meanwhile, his pursuers knew the lie of the land, and they had lamps to guide them. They were gaining, and it was only a matter of time before they would have him. And then they would kill him, because they would be inflamed by the thrill of the chase, and he doubted they would be interested in listening to reason.
He was on the verge of turning to face them — he still had a dagger, and would not go without a fight — when he lost his footing on the slippery ground. He started to slide downwards, wincing when he twisted his left leg, which had not been right since it had been injured in the Battle of Naseby almost twenty years before. He landed with a splash in a deep ditch. He imagined it usually ran dry, but that night it was swollen from the rain and a powerful current began to tug him towards a culvert. He could have extricated himself without too much difficulty, but that would have put him in the hands of his pursuers, so he let the water sweep him into a low tunnel. He stopped it from taking him too far into the darkness, because he did not know where it went, and he had no wish to share Smegergill’s fate and drown. At the entrance, he saw torches bobbing as people searched for him.
He held his breath when he heard dogs barking, but the rain and the stream meant tracking him was impossible, and it was not long before the hunters’ determination to catch him wavered before the prospect of a fire and a jug of hot ale. He waded to the entrance, checked the coast was clear, and scrambled up a bank that was thick with brambles. When he reached the road, he turned up his collar and began to walk. He was cold, wet, his head and leg hurt, and he did not feel up to trudging all the way home to Fetter Lane, so he headed for a haven that was considerably closer: Leybourn’s house in Monkwell Street.
He tapped on the door and leaned against the wall, feeling exhaustion wash over him. There was no reply and the house was in darkness. He supposed Leybourn had gone to bed, and was on the verge of picking the lock to let himself in when he recalled that the surveyor now had a wife who might not appreciate an uninvited guest at such an hour. He knocked again, and eventually the door opened.
‘What do you want?’ came Mary’s disapproving voice. ‘It is close to ten o’clock, and decent folk are in bed. Have you no consideration?’
‘Who is it?’ called Leybourn, from the stairs. ‘Lord, help us, Mary! Have you actually opened the door? How many times have I warned you against that? You will have us both slaughtered in our beds, because no honest men call at this hour of the night.’
‘That is true,’ said Mary, a note of triumph in her voice. ‘It is your friend, Heyden. He is drunk, and I do not think we should let him in.’
‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. His voice sounded hoarse and slurred to his own ears, so he did not like to imagine what Mary would make of it. ‘Is the vicar of St Giles’s here again, fretting about his Christmas decorations?’ He winced when a lamp was thrust towards him.
‘Christ, Tom!’ Leybourn sounded shocked. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Smegergill is dead,’ said Chaloner, aware that relief and tiredness were making him incoherent, but not really caring.
‘What is he talking about? Who is Smegergill?’ demanded Mary. She released a low screech of alarm when Chaloner pushed his way past her into the house. ‘He is covered in blood! He must have killed someone. Perhaps he will kill us, too!’
Leybourn half-dragged, half-carried Chaloner through the dark bookshop, clamouring for answers as he settled him next to the embers of the kitchen fire. Chaloner was simply too weary to reply. He closed his eyes.
When Chaloner regained his senses, he was in Leybourn’s favourite chair. He looked around, noting that the kitchen was no cleaner than the last time he had seen it, and that there was an unpleasant smell of burning. He jumped up in alarm when he saw someone had covered him with a blanket and stoked up the fire — and that he was gently smouldering. He quickly patted out the flames, wondering whether Mary had done it on purpose, to put him off making inconvenient visits in the future. It was a draconian measure, but she struck him as a woman who did not do things by halves.
He squinted against the light of the lamp and wondered how long he had been asleep. Leybourn was dozing in the chair opposite, while Mary was sitting at the kitchen table with a sour expression on her face. Chaloner supposed her displeasure derived from the fact that he had woken up before he had been incinerated. His movements disturbed the surveyor, who opened his eyes and took a deep, noisy breath. When Chaloner looked back at Mary, the sulky glare was gone and she was smiling sweetly.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked Chaloner politely. He was not deceived by her concern, but was determined he would not be the one to start an argument.
‘Better, thank you. What is the time?’
‘I heard the watchmen call four o’clock not long ago,’ she replied, in the same pleasant tone. ‘Will you be leaving soon, while it is still dark? I imagine you will not want anyone to see you.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Leybourn, looking from one to the other uncertainly.
‘The murder,’ said Mary, all quiet reason. ‘There is blood on him, and none of it is his own.’
Chaloner rubbed his head and tried to remember what had happened, but found his memory was hazy. ‘Smegergill is dead. He drowned when he was held face-down in a puddle.’
‘Who is Smegergill?’ asked Leybourn uneasily. ‘Who did this to you?’
‘Do not ask,’ advised Mary. ‘It is better we do not know, because knowledge of his crimes puts us at risk, and I have no wish to be hanged as his accomplice. Make him leave, William. You are not a carefree bachelor now. You have a responsibility to your dependents: me.’
Leybourn regarded her in anguish, and Chaloner saw the surveyor was hard-pressed to make the choice. Eventually, he swallowed hard. ‘You had better go to my brother, Mary. Rob will make sure none of this reflects on you.’
‘You choose him over me?’ she asked, aghast.
‘No,’ said Chaloner, standing up. ‘I should not have come. I was not thinking properly.’
‘You were not thinking at all,’ said Leybourn kindly. ‘You were dazed. But you are safe now, and we will ask no awkward questions — what we do not know, we cannot tell. Best say nothing, Tom.’
Chaloner regarded him in surprise. ‘I have done nothing wrong,’ he objected, astonished to think Leybourn might imagine he had.
‘You killed someone,’ reiterated Mary. Her voice was harsh now she had won Leybourn to her way of thinking, and she was making no attempt to mask her dislike. ‘There is blood on your hands.’
Chaloner had a sudden, vivid recollection of almost severing a man’s finger, and gradually, the events of the night began to trickle back to him. ‘Smegergill and I were going to take a carriage to the Rhenish Wine House, but we were attacked outside St Bartholomew’s Church. I should have been able to repel them, but I failed. And Smegergill paid the price for my ineptitude.’
‘Smegergill was killed by robbers?’ asked Leybourn. He sounded relieved, and glanced at Mary, to make sure she had heard. ‘They must have been Hectors, since St Bartholomew’s is their domain.’
‘He knew my father,’ said Chaloner, realising he was not relating the tale in a logical order but unable to do much about it; his wits were still not functioning properly. ‘He was afraid the thieves were actually wardens, come to take him to Bedlam.’