Eventually, Gold stood to leave, hauling Bess away from Peters and Neale, who were vying for her attention in a way that was beginning to be uncouth. It was the cue for a general exodus as, food eaten, people began to make their farewells. Outside, patrons waited for each other — crime was rife in Westminster, and only a fool walked there alone after dark. They began to wander away in groups of three or four, while a gaggle of about two dozen headed along St Margaret’s Lane. Chaloner followed when he saw Greene, Jones and the Symons couple were among the throng, with Gold, Bess, Peters and Neale trailing along behind them.
When the company reached Old Palace Yard, most began to climb into the hackney carriages that were for hire there, but Greene and his companions lingered, talking in low voices. Chaloner eased closer, but stopped short of the alley he had been aiming for when he saw someone was already in it. It was Swaddell, listening intently to what was being said.
‘… not meet for a while,’ Jones was suggesting. ‘It is the most sensible thing to do.’
‘I disagree,’ said Symons. He sounded almost tearful. ‘Now is the time we need it most, and I refuse to countenance what you are proposing. It is wrong!’
‘My husband has a point,’ said Margaret quietly. ‘You should not allow-’
‘It is only for a while,’ interrupted Jones. ‘Just until this blows over. Then we can resume, if you feel we must, although I believe it is unnecessary. What do you say, Gold?’
But Gold’s eyes were on Bess. ‘Did Peters just put his hand on my wife’s rump?’
‘On her hips,’ corrected Greene. He stiffened suddenly when Swaddell’s foot clinked against something metal that had been left in the alley. ‘What was that? Is someone spying on us?’
Jones drew his sword, and so did Gold. Swaddell promptly beat a hasty retreat down the lane. His footsteps rang out, and Jones immediately waddled off in pursuit. Meanwhile, Gold gave a howl of outrage, and dived after Peters with his naked blade. Suddenly, he was not a feeble old man, and Symons, Neale and Greene were hard-pressed to restrain him. Peters ran for his life, Bess pouted, and Gold’s friends bundled him into a coach before he could do any harm.
‘Impertinent dog!’ Gold roared. ‘Get in the coach, friends. We shall hunt him down like vermin!’
‘What about Jones?’ asked Greene uneasily. ‘He heard someone in that lane, so we should wait for him to come back and tell us-’
‘It was probably a rat,’ said Bess, shooting her husband a sulky look. ‘There are a lot of them about at this time of night. Great big ones that spoil a person’s fun.’
‘Symons! Greene! Neale! Get in the carriage,’ yelled Gold, still incensed. ‘You, too, Margaret. I am sure you know how to deal with Court cockerels. When we catch him, you shall chop off his-’
‘I am taking Margaret home,’ interrupted Symons. ‘It is too cold for her to be out. But Jones knows how to look after himself, and if he did hear someone, it will only be a beggar. He can deal with one of those without our help. He was once a soldier, after all, and distinguished himself during the wars.’
‘You are probably right,’ said Greene, although he did not look happy. ‘He should be able to manage a beggar.’
Chaloner watched them leave, then turned towards the alley, which he knew led to a wharf — a gloomy, ramshackle dock that was used by the fuel barges that came from Newcastle. He moved cautiously, ready to hide in the shadows when Jones and Swaddell came back — which he knew they would, because it was a dead end, and there was nowhere else for them to go.
But they did not return, and eventually he arrived at the pier. It was lit by a lantern on a pole, which swung gently in the breeze. He wondered why anyone would bother to illuminate the place, when fuel was expensive and the lamp itself was likely to be stolen by anyone who knew it was there. He looked around, and saw the wharf was bounded on three sides by high walls, while the fourth was open to the river. There were no doorways, alcoves or sheds, and the only way out was the way he had come. Thus he was astonished to find no sign of Swaddell or Jones.
Puzzled, he walked to the wharf ’s edge, and looked into the water. The only place for them to have gone was the river, but it was bitterly cold and he did not see either eager to take a dip. Yet he could see something bobbing there, and was about to kneel for a closer look, when he heard a sound. He spun around, and saw half a dozen figures converging on him from the alley. All carried swords.
‘Never meddle in matters that do not concern you,’ said one softly. Like his companions, he wore a wide-brimmed hat that concealed his face, and he moved with an easy confidence. Chaloner knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that they were members of the train-band from the Painted Chamber.
‘What matters?’ he demanded, drawing his own weapon as they advanced on him.
‘Murders and rings,’ replied the leader in the same low whisper. ‘It will be the end of you.’
His sudden attack forced Chaloner to jerk away, and his colleagues lunged forward before the spy had regained his balance. Chaloner fought hard, using every trick he had ever learned, but they were experienced warriors, and although he managed to score hits on two, he was no match for so many. He was going to be killed unless he did something fast. He drove them all back with a wild, undisciplined swipe that took them off guard, then turned and leapt into the river.
Water roared in Chaloner’s ears, and seaweed brushed his face as he sank. The tide was in, and the river ran deep and agonisingly cold. His downward progress ended when his feet sank into a layer of silt. It clung to his legs, and he could not kick himself free. He strugged violently, but the mud was reluctant to relinquish its prize. It was not long before his lungs began to burn from the lack of air, but just when he thought he might drown, one foot came free, followed by the other. He propelled himself upwards, emerging next to one of the wharf ’s thick wooden struts. A light above his head told him that his attackers had removed the lamp from its post, and were using it to search. He paddled under the pier and tried to control his ragged breathing, aware that he was a sitting duck if they had guns. Suddenly, a great, whale-like form surfaced next to him in a violent explosion of spray.
‘Help!’ Jones gurgled in a voice that was full of water. ‘Help me!’
Instinctively, Chaloner moved towards him, intending to direct one of the flailing arms towards the weed-encrusted pillar, so Jones could keep himself afloat. But the fat man grabbed him, and they both went under. Chaloner tried to punch his way free, but Jones’s grip was made powerful by terror. The spy’s feet touched the river’s sticky bottom a second time, and he was aware of mud sucking at his ankles.
He fought harder, and felt his knuckles graze against something hard: it was one of the pier’s legs. He grasped it, and used it as an anchor to tear free of Jones’s panicked clutch. The move seemed to weaken Jones, enabling Chaloner to spin him around, to prevent him from grabbing his rescuer a second time, then kick upwards, keeping a firm grip on the man’s collar as he did so. It was like dragging lead, and there was a moment when he thought Jones was just going to be too heavy for him — that he would have to let him go. But then he glimpsed light shimmering down through the black water, and seeing it so close gave him the strength he needed to swim the last few feet.
‘There!’ snapped the train-band leader, as spy and Yeoman of the Household Kitchen surfaced at last and took great gasps of sweet air. ‘Shoot him!’
Immediately, something zipped past Chaloner’s face. They were using a crossbow, presumably because the discharge of firearms on government property would attract unwanted attention.
‘Save me!’ screamed Jones, oblivious to the danger. ‘I cannot swim!’
‘Quickly,’ hissed the leader. ‘Make an end of this before someone hears.’