The situation with the wagon had reached an impasse. Even with the best will in the world, the carter could not do what he was told, and the vehicle would remain where it was until the wheel could be made to turn again. At least, that was what Chaloner thought. But Doling nodded to his men, who proceeded to position themselves around it, while Doling himself climbed into the driver’s seat. He clicked his tongue at the horse, and the men started to push.
‘Hey!’ shouted the carter angrily. ‘What do you think you are doing? If you move it when the wheel is stuck, you will damage it even more. And who are you anyway, that you cannot wait?’
‘Busy men,’ replied Doling tersely, as the vehicle began to creak forward. The broken wheel skidded through the mud. ‘And that is all you need to know.’
His voice was low and dangerous, and the carter backed away in alarm. The wagon continued to inch ahead, but it was heavy work and progress was slow. After a while, during which scant headway was made, Doling told Payne to fetch ‘all the others’. The men who had been pushing took the opportunity to catch their breath, going to stand in a menacing circle around the hapless carter.
Assuming Doling’s order meant the soldiers’ lair was going to be temporarily empty, Chaloner knew it was an opportunity he had to seize. He peered out from under the tarpaulin, mind working furiously as he tried to devise a plan. Then he smiled when he saw the door opened outwards into the lane — and that the cart and soldiers were well beyond it. As soon as he was sure they were not looking in his direction, he abandoned his hiding place and ran towards the door, ducking quickly behind it. As long as no one closed it, or walked to or from the main road, he would remain hidden.
A dozen more soldiers trooped into the lane and ranged themselves around the vehicle. Doling flicked the reins, the men began to heave, and the cart was on the move a second time, the immobile wheel digging a deep furrow as it was forced along. This was too much for the carter — no man likes watching while his means of making a living is manhandled. He threw a punch at Payne. Chaloner expected him to be run through, but then realised that would attract too much attention — the bargemen would wonder what had happened to him, and their curiosity would be a nuisance to men who clearly preferred the shadows. Payne shoved the carter away, and the resulting set-to kept anyone from noticing Chaloner ease around the door and dart into their domain.
He inspected the room on the left first. It was a barracks, with bunks around the wall and a table in the middle for communal eating. A chamber at the back served as a storage place for ammunition, food and clothing. All was scrupulously clean, and the weaponry was new and of unusually high quality. In short, the place smacked of the professional warrior.
The room on the right was smaller and dominated by a desk. Chaloner leafed through a handful of documents. They were mostly rotas, listing which men had worked which shifts, with remarks in the margin about individual performances. Doling had signed each one. There were also requisition forms for specific pieces of equipment.
Chaloner was bemused. Doling said he had been hired by Backwell’s to improve their security after a robbery — the one masterminded by Jones, presumably. Did that mean the train-band was the bank’s personal army? But Chaloner did not think a modest commercial enterprise would run to such an expensive operation, and suspected Doling had other uses for his men. Was he a rebel, aiming to overthrow the Royalist government? If so, then surely it was chancy to base the operation in Westminster? The train-band obviously took precautions against discovery, probably using the wharf, rather than roads, to travel around the city — which explained why it was lit at night — but it was still a risk of enormous proportion.
So what did all this tell Chaloner about Jones? Had the fat Yeoman of the Household Kitchen stumbled across the train-band’s lair, and been allowed to drown to ensure his silence? Or was the opposite true — that Jones knew exactly who operated from the alley, and he had followed Swaddell to make sure he did not live to talk? But then surely the train-band would have rescued Jones?
Of course, there was yet another possibility, which was that Swaddell knew about the train-band, and had led Jones down there on purpose. And what did that suggest? That the soldiers were working for the Spymaster? That answer made sense on two counts: the train-band’s location at the heart of government, and the fact that the soldiers were provided with decent clothes and good weapons. Chaloner supposed he would have to find out whether Swaddell or Williamson had a scarred neck.
Aware that time was passing, he began to root through more papers, looking for a clue that would tell him why the train-band had been established in the first place. It did not take him long to find a log-book. Like most military officers, Doling kept a record of what his unit had been ordered to do. There was an entry referring to ‘information gathering’ at Wapping, which corresponded to the day the vicar had been interrogated. There was also a note marking the fact that Payne had been detailed to collect a red hat from a fashionable milliner.
Was Gold involved, then, thought Chaloner, recalling Bess’s new headpiece? He had never seen the man’s neck, but he knew for a fact that Gold was not the harmless old ancient he wanted everyone to see. But it was not the time for analysis, and Chaloner felt he had pushed his luck far enough. He replaced everything as he had found it, and aimed for the front door. He was about to slip through it when he heard footsteps in the alley. He had taken too long, and the soldiers were coming back.
Fighting his way past a score of skilled warriors was not an option, so Chaloner’s only hope was that the stairs went somewhere he could hide until it was safe to come out. He climbed them quickly, praying they did not lead to a dead end. He was not a moment too soon, because the soldiers moved fast, and he had only just reached the shadows when Doling stamped through the door. The captain was unsettled by the incident, and was telling Payne that nothing like it was ever to happen again.
‘We depend on the alley being clear,’ he snapped. ‘Without it, we are fish in a barrel.’
Chaloner sincerely hoped that did not mean there was only one exit, because it might be days before they all went out again, and he did not want to miss the music at Gold’s house that night — or the opportunity to see whether his host had a scar on his neck.
Suddenly, Doling went quiet. It was an unnatural silence, and Chaloner eased into a position where he could see what was happening. Doling was examining footprints. A lot had been tracked inside, but the train-band wore military-style boots, while Chaloner had donned shoes that day. Doling’s head snapped up, and he looked directly at the stairs.
‘After him!’ he cried.
Chaloner turned and fled. There was a door after two flights, but it had been nailed closed — apparently, the soldiers did not want anyone from the adjacent building to stumble into their domain by accident. He headed upwards again, hoping they had not done the same on every floor.
But they had. The third level was similarly barricaded, and so was the fourth. He was nearing the roof, and could hear the thunder of footsteps close behind him — the warriors were gaining, because of the vital seconds Chaloner was losing to check doors. They were not shouting, as many might have done in the excitement of the chase, but continued at a steady pace. Their discipline was formidable, and suddenly the spy’s chances of surviving another encounter seemed very slim.