What should he do? Continue upwards, and die when there was nowhere else to go? Turn and fight now? But Chaloner had never liked giving up, and something kept him running until the stairs ended in a tiny door that had daylight and a howling wind coming through cracks in its wood. Now he understood why Doling had been so keen to keep the alley open — there really was nowhere else to go.
The door was locked, but Chaloner’s probe was at the ready, and he had it open in a trice. He jumped through it, and braced it shut with a piece of timber. The lead soldier slammed against it, and Chaloner heard him swear when he found it blocked. The man began to hit it, not wild, undisciplined blows, but methodical ones aimed at a spot where the wood was most rotten. It would only be a matter of time before he was through. Chaloner glanced around quickly, assessing his options.
He was at the edge of a sharply pitched roof. There was only a five-storey drop to his left, so he turned right, scrambling upwards towards the apex. Loose tiles rattled beneath him, slick with damp and moss. He missed his footing and began to slide back down, only arresting his downward progress by grabbing a hole provided by a missing slate. The soldiers were almost through the door. He began climbing again, faster this time, just as the door finally collapsed in an explosion of splintering wood. He reached the top of the roof, and clambered across it.
The pitch was not so steep on the other side, but it still ended in a five-storey drop — this one down to the alley. He looked at the building opposite, the roof of which was lower. The soldiers were almost on him, and he could not fight them all — he would either be run through or pushed to his death. But the roof opposite offered a chance, so he took several steps back, then ran forward and propelled himself into space with every ounce of his strength. He heard wind whistling past his ears, but his flight lasted only a moment, and then he was across.
He landed hard, driving the breath from his body and cracking several tiles. He tasted blood in his mouth, and for a moment, he could not move. Just when he was beginning to think he might have done himself a serious injury, his legs finally obeyed the clamouring orders from his brain. He began to scramble away, aiming to put as much distance between him and the train-band as possible.
Then there was an almighty crash, and he glanced back to see he was not the only one capable of death-defying leaps: Payne had followed. He wondered what sort of man would risk his life just to catch an intruder. Meanwhile, the remaining soldiers were putting away their daggers, and turning to retrace their steps. They appeared unconcerned, as if there was no question that Payne would succeed.
Chaloner found himself amid a chaotic jungle of rooftops that formed some of Westminster’s poorer houses, shops and taverns. Most were in a dismal state of repair, and the going was treacherous. Fortunately the same was true for Payne, who took a bad tumble that lost him vital seconds. It was just as well, because not only was Chaloner tiring, but he had jolted his lame leg, and was limping badly. He tried to increase his speed, but found he could not do it.
He was obliged to make a second leap when the roof along which he was crawling ended in a dizzying drop. It was not across as great a gap, but he almost did not make it regardless. For a moment, he hung in space, suspended by his hands. It was Payne’s jeering laugh that gave him the impetus to swing up his legs, and begin running again, this time along the edge of a large hall. It ended in another sheer drop, so he made a right-angled turn, heading for the distinctive mass of the Painted Chamber. Payne was hard on his heels, swearing foully, and promising all manner of reprisals for the trouble the spy was causing. Chaloner glanced behind him, wondering whether to stand and fight now Payne was alone. But a rooftop was a precarious battlefield, and there was always the danger that his bad leg would turn traitor and tip him into oblivion.
The Painted Chamber had a turret on one of its corners, and Chaloner could tell from its narrow windows that there was a spiral staircase inside. He staggered towards it, and ripped open the door. There was no way to secure it behind him, so he began to descend, hurling himself downwards three steps at a time, trying to ignore the burning pain in his knee. He could hear Payne following, breathing hard and still full of curses and threats.
Eventually, he reached the door that led to the main hall, while the staircase wound on down towards the basement. He hauled it open, then turned back, grabbed a wooden grille — placed in a window-slit to keep out birds — and hurled it down the steps. Then he darted through the door and closed it behind him, listening with baited breath to see whether Payne would fall for the ploy. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the soldier continue down, following the clatter made by the tumbling grille in the belief that it was his quarry.
He braced a chair under the handle, then peered out from behind a pile of chests to see he was near the spot where Chetwynd, Vine and Langston had died. The hall was full of people — clerks labouring over documents, government officials issuing orders, and members of the House of Lords in their ermine-fringed robes. A row of pegs hammered into the wall next to him held a variety of garments, so he grabbed a coat and a peculiar three-cornered hat, and donned them quickly to conceal his filthy clothes. Then he strode boldly through the throng, trying to look as though he had every right to be there. No one stopped him, and it was not many moments before he reached the main exit.
Out in the street, he saw members of the train-band everywhere, scanning the faces of passers-by. He reached Old Palace Yard undetected, but Doling blocked the way to the comparative safety of White Hall — and while Chaloner’s disguise might fool the captain from a distance, he was too dishevelled to risk passing too close. He needed somewhere to improve his disguise, so he aimed for the abbey.
Westminster Abbey was always a curious combination of busy and deserted. The makeshift booths, selling books, food and candles, that had once thronged the churchyard had gradually eased their way inside, so parts of the nave now resembled a marketplace. But there were also a number of chapels and alcoves that were away from the bustle, providing small havens of tranquillity.
Chaloner found a quiet corner, and sat for a few moments, feeling his heartbeat return to normal and the ache recede from his leg. He would have rested longer, but time was passing, and he could not afford to waste any. He stood, removed his own coat and bundled it under his arm, so the stolen one did not make him seem quite so bulky, then washed his face and hands in a puddle near a leaking window. By the time he had cleaned his shoes and donned the hat, he appeared reasonably respectable — or at least, did not look as though he had been leaping across rooftops.
He was about to leave, when he saw a familiar figure. It was the surviving Lea, sobbing as he knelt at an altar. There was no one else around, and although he knew he should respect the man’s privacy Chaloner had questions to ask and time was of the essence.
‘I really am sorry about your brother,’ he said gently, kneeling next to him.
Lea spoke with difficulty. ‘His funeral is supposed to be in St Margaret’s Church, but he died serving his country, so I want it here. In this grand abbey.’
‘How did he die serving his country?’ Chaloner raised his hands defensively when Lea turned on him, eyes blazing with anger. ‘Forgive me, but I thought he fell in the river.’
It was clearly not the time to mention that Matthias had been poisoned.
‘He could swim,’ said Lea fiercely. ‘And he should not have been near the river anyway — when we got home that night and realised we had no bread, he went to the bakery in King Street, which is a long way from the Thames. It is obvious what happened: he was taken to a quiet place and pushed in. He was murdered.’