‘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?
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 angr
ily. ‘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.
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 b
y 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.
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 34
