‘I am not convinced her death was natural. Surgeon Wiseman said it was impossible to tell whether she had a sharpness of the blood or whether she had been poisoned, although he offered to run some experiments. Regardless, her demise sounds uncannily similar to Scobel’s.’
Thurloe regarded him sombrely. ‘I am not happy about leaving you here alone. There is plenty of room in the carriage, and I cannot see how this affair will end happily. You say the Earl was on the verge of dismissing you today. Leave him of your own accord, and come with me.’
The prospect of spending time with a happy family, away from the scandals and intrigues of White Hall, was an appealing one. And what did London hold for him, other than a leaking garret, a master who did not like him, and a cat that had started to hunt birds? He supposed there was Hannah — and there was his self-respect. He had never abandoned a case because he was uneasy before, and he did not want to start now. Reluctantly, he shook his head.
He escorted the ex-Spymaster to where a coach was waiting to take him to Aldersgate. But although he was sorry to see Thurloe go, there was also an element of relief. He had not liked the notion of his friend involving himself in the investigation, and now he would be safely away from the city and its myriad dangers. He watched the carriage rattle away, then turned towards Westminster. It was cold, dark, pouring with rain and not a time when most men would pay a visit to a charnel house, but if Kersey had gone home, then Chaloner would just have to break in to see Greene’s body.
The foul weather meant the roads were essentially deserted — even the festivities for the Twelve Days of Christmas could not induce people to leave their warm homes and brave these elements. Chaloner trudged wearily along The Strand, thinking the tattered, wind-torn greenery that bedecked its buildings was more depressing than decorative. A group of beggars had been hired to sing carols outside the New Exchange, but there was no one to hear them, and their voices formed a mournful duet with the desolate sigh of the wind.
He reached Westminster, and left the relatively well-lit Old Palace Yard to head for the darker streets near the river, where the mortuary was located. He thought about Greene. Had the clerk been drowned by the same person who had put the ring in his house? Did the killer hope Greene’s death would mark the end of the matter — that it would be assumed he had committed suicide, sick with remorse for his crimes? The more Chaloner thought about the callous campaign waged against the hapless clerk, the more he became determined that the killer would not get away with it.
He was so engrossed in his ruminations that he almost missed the shadow that flitted towards the wharf where Jones had died. Snapping into a state of high alert, he followed.
He reached the alley’s entrance and peered down it. The blackness was impenetrable, and totally silent. However, it was not silent behind him, and he whipped around when he heard the unmistakeable sound of a shoe scraping on cobbles, drawing his sword as he did so. He was only just in time. Two men were bearing down on him, blades at the ready. He parried their attack, but then became aware of footsteps coming from the alley, too. Two more soldiers were emerging from the darkness, aiming to trap him in a pincer-like movement. Their confid ent manoeuvres told him they were members of the train-band. Again.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded, backing against a wall so they could not outflank him.
‘You should have gone to Oxfordshire.’ Chaloner recognised the voice of the leader from the last time they had met. ‘It is a pity you stayed.’
The spy’s stomach lurched at the notion that they knew Thurloe. ‘Who are you?’
‘You think Greene killed those officials,’ the leader went on. ‘You have been listening to the Lord Chancellor and that idiot Turner, and you let them convince you. You are a fool!’
Chaloner’s thoughts reeled in confusion. ‘How did you-’
‘Our orders were to kill him, not engage him in conversation,’ muttered a soldier who was bigger than the others. ‘You are too fond of your own tongue, Payne.’
Payne was clearly irked by the reprimand, but was too professional to start an argument when there was work to be done. He nodded to his comrades, who began to advance. Chaloner was heavily outnumbered, but was not about to go down without a fight. He launched himself at Payne, taking the man off-guard with the ferocity of his attack. Even so, Payne managed a thrust that punched a hole through his coat, although the wad of documents he had taken from Greene saved him from injury.
Then the big man was on him. Chaloner fended him off, then attacked Payne again. Backing away fast, Payne missed his footing, and stumbled into his larger colleague, so they both fell. And suddenly, there was no one between Chaloner and the road leading to Old Palace Yard. If he reached it, he might yet escape, because he did not think the train-band would kill him in front of witnesses — and there was always someone about in Westminster’s busiest square, even on a dark, filthy night like this one.
He began to sprint towards it. Payne released an angry yell and started to follow, his comrades streaming at his heels. Chaloner did not look around, but powered on, dropping his sword because holding it was losing him speed. Ahead, he could see that some kind of function had just ended in Parliament House, and carriages were converging there to take the participants home. Chaloner tore towards them. He gained the edge of Old Palace Yard, and heard several of the soldiers skid to a hasty standstill, clearly loath to enter such a well-lit area.
Unfortunately, no such reservations hampered Payne. He ran harder, single-mindedly determined that his quarry should not escape a third time. By contrast, Chaloner’s leg was starting to hurt, and it was slowing him down. Payne was gaining on him, and he knew it would only be a matter of moments before he was caught — and he had thrown away his sword, so would be unable to defend himself. Payne would strike him down the moment he was in range, then disappear into the night.
He was vaguely aware of a coach bearing down on him, travelling far too fast. The driver gave a warning yell when he saw Chaloner, and the spy only just managed to jig to one side, narrowly avoiding the thundering hoofs. Lightning quick, he reached up to grab the door-handle as the carriage hurtled past. The manoeuvre almost ripped his arm from its socket, and for one agonising moment, he thought he was going to be dragged under the wheels. But he managed to gain a toehold on one of the coach’s steps, and then he was being carried along as the vehicle charged towards St Margaret’s Street.
The driver did not see what had happened, but the coach’s occupant had heard the thump of someone landing on his private conveyance. Outraged, he stuck his head through the window to see what was going on. It was Brodrick. His eyes widened in astonishment when he saw Chaloner, and they widened even more when Payne leapt up beside the spy and tried to stab him.
It was not easy clinging to a speeding carriage with one hand while trying to defend himself against a flailing dagger with the other, and Chaloner was struggling to hold his own. But with unexpected aplomb, the Earl’s cousin produced a sword and poked Payne in the shoulder. More startled than hurt, Payne dropped away, hitting the ground and rolling several times. Amazingly, he staggered to his feet and tried to give chase, but managed only a few faltering steps before collapsing. Chaloner saw his comrades surround him quickly, and bundle him down a quiet lane, away from curious eyes. Relief slackened the spy’s grip on the door, but Brodrick grabbed him before he fell, and supported him until they had cleared Westminster and were cantering along King Street. Only then did he shout to the driver to stop.