‘Actually, I am letting you out here,’ called the driver, and the coach came to a sudden stop. ‘The weather is getting worse by the minute, and I am not risking my horse any longer.’
Chaloner could see his point: the snow was almost halfway up the wheels. He peered out of the window, and saw they were near Bishopsgate Street, where there were several respectable inns. Hannah would be safe there while he went about his business — he did not want her with him when he confronted Turner, and he did not have time to walk her all the way home.
‘Can you reach the Mitre?’ he asked.
The driver gave a reluctant nod, and it was not long before Hannah was installed in the best room the tavern could offer, with a roaring fire, mulled wine and clean blankets.
‘That hackneyman exaggerated the severity of the storm,’ she declared dismissively. ‘If you keep to the smaller roads, you will find the drifts are much more manageable. But you must go now, Tom — by tomorrow, Turner’s claws might be too deeply embedded for us to extract.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Chaloner, casting one last, longing glance at the fire before heading on to the streets again. It seemed colder than ever, and contrary to Hannah’s assurances, the snow was knee-deep even in the narrowest of lanes. It was impossible to walk normally, and his leg hurt. Only the thought of Temperance drove him on. She might be slipping away from him as a friend, but he still felt a modicum of responsibility towards her, no matter how much she had changed.
Snowflakes whirled around him so thickly that he could not see, and he had reached St Mary Axe before he realised he was walking in the wrong direction. With a muffled curse, he turned down Lymestrete, where the blizzard drove directly into his face. He put his head down, and ploughed on, so tired now that he did not notice someone coming towards him until it was too late. His hand dropped to his sword, but a shoulder sent him crashing into a wall before he could draw it.
Winded and dazed, he pulled himself into a sitting position. His assailant was already some distance away, and his eyes focussed just in time to see him dart down an alley. The fellow was carrying a sack that was heavy enough to make him stagger. And then he was gone.
*
Slowly, Chaloner climbed to his feet, resting his hand on the wall to steady himself. He realised he needed to pay closer attention to his surroundings, because he had just learned the hard way that the instincts that normally warned him of impending danger were not functioning properly. He took a deep breath of cold air to clear his wits, then resumed his journey.
He was almost at the end of Lymestrete, when he happened to glance to his right. Most of the larger houses were owned by people wealthy enough to keep a lamp burning in their downstairs windows all night, as dictated by the city fathers, but one mansion was notable for its darkness. It took a moment for Chaloner to recognise it as Tryan’s home, and was surprised — Tryan was an alderman, and was supposed to set a good example. Then he noticed the front door was ajar.
His senses snapped into a different level of awareness. No sane person left his door open at night, so something was wrong. Temperance momentarily forgotten, he stumbled towards it. He stepped inside and listened intently. The house was eerily silent.
‘Tryan?’ he called softly.
But of course the merchant was not home — he had been asked out by the dean of St Paul’s and would be at the cathedral, shivering his way through a lengthy ceremony during which far too many clerics would be given an opportunity to speak. Tryan had bragged about the invitation several times, so doubtless all manner of folk knew about it. And someone had taken advantage of the information to burgle him, because the wood around the door was damaged, indicating a forced entry. Chaloner supposed the culprit was the man who had bowled him over, fleeing the scene of his crime with a sack of loot. It was a pity Tryan was going to return to find his home had been invaded, but there was nothing the spy could do about it. He was about to go on his way when he heard a sound.
‘Help,’ came the merest of whispers. ‘Please!’
It came from the parlour at the front of the house, and Chaloner could just make out someone lying on the floor. It was Tryan. Chaloner knelt next to him, and eased him into a more comfortable position. Then he fetched blankets and set about lighting a fire, because the room was deathly cold. As he worked, he looked around him. The heavy, iron-bound chest he had seen on his previous visit was open, and papers were scattered around its feet.
‘The rogue knew,’ rasped Tryan, his eyes huge in his white face. ‘He knew I kept the key in my desk, because he went straight to it. And I did not even have time to aim my gun before he hit me.’
‘Who have you told about the key?’ asked Chaloner, tucking a blanket more tightly around him.
‘Just my manservant and maid — I gave them the night off, because they have been so good to me.’ Tryan’s face was anguished. ‘The thief took everything! I had one thousand and fifty pounds in cash, and four thousand pounds in jewels, which I keep here because I distrust banks. But now I am ruined! What have I done to deserve this terrible thing?’
Chaloner tensed when he heard footsteps in the hall. He drew his sword and stepped behind the door, assuming the burglar had come back to see what else he could steal. The blade wobbled in the hilt, telling him he had better buy a replacement as soon as possible, because the one he had borrowed from Landlord Ellis promised to fall apart at the first riposte.
‘Hill! Susan!’ cried Tryan, when two people walked in. They wore his livery, so Chaloner assumed they were his servants, returning from their night out. ‘I have been robbed!’
The pair suddenly became aware of Chaloner standing in the shadows. Bravely, Hill raised his fists, although they would be of little use against a sword, even a defective one. Meanwhile, Susan grabbed a poker from the hearth and stood next to him, ready to protect her fallen master.
‘No!’ gasped Tryan. ‘This man saw the door open and came to help me — he is not the thief.’
‘I knew we should not have left you,’ declared Hill, lowering his hands. His voice was full of bitter self-reproach. ‘I told you it was not safe to be here alone, not when you have been telling everyone that you planned to be out this evening.’
‘Not to mention your habit of saying you distrust banks,’ scolded Susan, kneeling at Tryan’s side and inspecting his battered face. ‘It is asking for villains to come and try their luck.’
Chaloner helped Hill carry the old man to his bed, then Susan ordered them out while she tended his wounds, clicking and soothing like a mother hen. Tryan was fortunate to have such devoted staff, thought Chaloner, as the manservant escorted him towards the front door.
‘I saw the thief,’ he said, more to himself than Hill as they walked along the corridor together. ‘At least, I saw someone carrying a heavy bag. He knocked me over.’
Hill was quietly furious. ‘If I catch him, I will kill him! It is one thing to steal the old fellow’s money, but did he have to beat him, too? And how did he know about the key? My master may blather about his distrust of banks and his invitations out, but he does not tell just anyone where he keeps his key. The thief will be someone who knows him and his habits.’
‘Hargrave?’ asked Chaloner. He seemed the obvious candidate.
But Hill shook his head. ‘He is at St Paul’s — when my master decided the weather was too foul for a man of his age to be traipsing about, Hargrave offered to go in his place.’
Chaloner was about to leave, when he saw something lying on the floor, dark against the pale wood. He bent to retrieve it. It was an ear-string. Hill snatched it from him.
‘I have seen this before,’ he said, turning it over in his hands.