Haddon had gone when Chaloner left the Earl, so the spy took the opportunity to speak to Bulteel alone. Hannah and Temperance had told him to refuse the invitation to be godfather, while the Earl had recommended that he accept. He wished he had asked Thurloe, the one person whose opinion he truly respected. But Thurloe was gone, so he would have to make up his own mind. Bulteel’s face fell when Chaloner told him of his decision.
‘So, I have no idea how to find the King’s statue,’ the spy concluded tiredly. ‘The Earl will dismiss me, and your son deserves someone who at least has a job. I am sorry.’
‘You are giving up?’ demanded Bulteel. ‘Why? You still have twenty-four hours left, and you are not a man to be deterred by insurmountable odds. And do not forget Jones’s gold, either. Retrieving that for Backwell’s Bank must count for something — they may give you a reward, and you can share it with the Earl. He likes money.’
‘Bribery?’ asked Chaloner mildly. ‘I thought you were above that.’
‘I am above it — I was thinking it was something you could do. I refuse to see Turner win this race when he has done nothing to deserve it. Besides, there are a lot of questions raised by saying Greene is the killer — such as the fact that he had alibis for Vine and Langston. And why would he run away now? It makes no sense.’
‘Because he killed Matthias, and knew it was one victim too many.’
‘Rubbish!’ declared Bulteel with uncharacteristic force. He changed tack. ‘What about Jones, then? No one seems to care that he should die in the same week as the other three, whereas I think it is extremely odd. Look into his death, Tom. I am sure you will find something amiss.’
Chaloner stared at him. ‘You seem very determined that I should succeed.’
‘I am determined,’ said Bulteel vehemently. ‘But even if you fail, I still want you to be godfather to my baby. You are my friend, and that is more important than anything else.’
Chaloner continued to stare. He liked Bulteel, and liked even more the notion of being part of a family again. And while he might not be able to help with money or influence, he could teach the boy Latin, Greek and French — and other languages, too, if he had an aptitude. He could also show him how to fight, ride and play musical instruments.
‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘As long as you are sure.’
Bulteel’s thin face broke into a broad grin. ‘Really? And will you come to dine on Twelfth Night?’
Chaloner nodded.
Bulteel clasped his hand. ‘Then go out and show that arrogant Turner what real investigations are all about. Solve the riddle of Jones’s death. Meanwhile, I shall double my efforts to locate the bust. We make a formidable team, you and I — sly thieves and wicked murderers cannot pull the wool over our eyes.’
Chapter 11
The fog had almost completely dissipated by the time Chaloner headed for Westminster, with only the occasional wisp lingering near the river. A bitter wind sliced in from the north, though, and he wondered whether there would be snow. It felt cold enough, and the clouds that hung overhead were a dirty yellow-grey, which he was sure could not be entirely attributed to London’s soot.
As he walked, he did what Bulteel had suggested, and turned his thoughts to Jones. The train-band had contributed to the fat man’s death by failing to pull him from the water when he was drowning, and by shooting at him with crossbows. Chaloner decided they would face justice for what they had done, regardless of the fact that Jones was a criminal himself.
The soldiers seemed to have some association with the alley that led to the pier, so it was high time the area was subjected to a proper search. He would look for evidence that would prove they were killers — not just of Jones, but of the two men and the woman who had been stabbed, too — so it could be passed to the appropriate authorities. And then he would present Jones’s gold to the Earl, and let him take the credit — and the reward — for returning it to the bank. Bulteel was right: it might be enough to earn him a reprieve.
The towering buildings on either side rendered the alley dark and gloomy, even in broad daylight. They formed a solid brick slit, with no windows or doors to break the monotony. Near the middle, the lane curved to the left, and a slight bulge there made him wonder whether a gate might be concealed among the shadows. It would make sense: the soldiers had to have come from somewhere. However, he suspected going to inspect it would be tantamount to suicide — the train-band clearly went to great lengths to ensure no one knew anything about them.
As he pondered what to do, a wagon trundled out, piled high with coal, and he heard someone shout that the barge was almost empty — one more load should see the job finished. Another cart stood nearby, and he guessed it was the one designated to transport the last of the cargo. He hopped into the back, burrowing beneath a tarpaulin; it stank of wet, mouldy canvas, and he was aware of an oily black grit staining his clothes.
It was not many moments before a driver arrived, clicking at his horse to indicate it was to trot down the alley. There was a long metal hook near Chaloner’s foot, used for freeing the tarpaulin when it became snagged under cargo, and he grabbed it as a plan began to form in his mind. He watched the left side of the alley intently, until he saw what he had suspected: there was a door in the shadows. It was virtually invisible, because it was flush with the wall and had been painted to look like the surrounding bricks. It would certainly go unnoticed by anyone who was not looking for it.
He jammed the hook into the moving wheel. Immediately, there was a screech of tortured metal, which made the driver haul on the reins to bring the cart to a hasty standstill. Swearing under his breath, the man jumped down and came to inspect the damage.
‘The hook is mangled in the wheel,’ he called to the bargemen waiting on the pier. ‘You will have to wait until I fetch a smith to cut it free.’
‘But that will take ages,’ one objected. ‘We shall hire someone else.’
The carter sounded smug. ‘The alley is too narrow for anyone to get past me. And I am not going anywhere until my wheel is fixed.’
The bargeman glared. ‘Then hurry up. We will be in Heaven, having a pipe and a drop of ale.’
‘Do not offer to help, boys,’ muttered the carter to their retreating backs. ‘I can manage alone. It will take longer, of course. A lot longer …’
Chaloner watched as the secret door opened and Payne stepped out. Behind him was a short hallway, with doors leading to a room on either side and a flight of stairs at the far end. Men emerged from both chambers, to listen to what was going on.
‘Get this thing out of here,’ Payne ordered curtly. ‘It is blocking the way.’
The carter started to walk away. ‘Too bad. You will have to wait until I have hired a-’
‘Stop,’ commanded Payne. Something in his voice made the carter turn to look at him. ‘Shift it now. This lane is in constant use.’
The carter put his hands on his hips. ‘How, when the wheel is jammed? By magic? Besides, I have never seen anyone else use this alley, so it is not in constant use.’
Payne addressed one of the men in the hall. ‘Fetch the captain.’
The man snapped a salute that was reminiscent of Cromwell’s New Model Army, although his moustache and hat were all Cavalier. He was back in moments with someone who wore plain, practical clothes and a dour expression on his heavy featured face.
‘What is going on?’ demanded Doling. ‘Move this thing, or we will move it for you.’
So, thought Chaloner, here was the man in charge. However, he knew for a fact that Doling was not the ‘commander’ who had questioned the vicar of Wapping so ruthlessly, because he had no scar on his neck: Chaloner remembered seeing his turkey-skin throat outside the charnel house, when his lace had blown away. The soldiers had another leader, one who was vicious and determined. Was it someone Chaloner knew? Payne, for example? One of the prayer-group men, perhaps? Or someone at Court?