Storey and Snow ordered more ale, while Chaloner waited patiently. It was now obvious that his first priority was to learn as much as he could about Kelyng and that arresting the robbers came second – he could always hunt them out later and see them brought to justice. Eventually, the two men drained their flagons and left the alehouse, making obscene gestures when the landlord suggested payment.
It was a dull day, with pewter-coloured clouds blocking out the sun and rendering the alleys even more dark and oppressive than usual. The dimness helped Chaloner, though, allowing him to follow his quarry more easily. Stalking was a skill he had honed to perfection, and neither man had any inkling that he was being pursued. He found a filthy blanket, crushed into the muck of the street and full of vermin. He pulled it over his head, stooping and exaggerating his limp as he did so. The hasty disguise was far from perfect, but it was sufficient to fool the likes of Snow and Storey.
It was not long before they were out of the Fleet’s dark kingdom and back on Holborn, retracing the route along which they had been chased. Chaloner ditched the blanket, and retrieved the hat he had tucked inside his jerkin. Once he had donned it, and turned his black cloak inside out to display its tan-coloured lining, he was confident they would not recognise him should they happen to glance around. The pair swaggered down Fetter Lane, past the house where Chaloner rented rooms and, for a moment, he thought they might stop for yet more ale at the Golden Lion, a tavern popular with men who liked the fact that its landlord never asked questions about their business.
He ducked into the tavern’s stable when he saw his neighbour, William North, striding towards him. He did not want to be waylaid with polite conversation, and he certainly did not want to explain why he was shadowing criminals. North was a Puritan, and his dark, plain clothes contrasted starkly with the flamboyant merchants around him who were dressed in the very latest fashions – cassocks with wide cuffs, petticoat breeches with cascading ribbons and frills, ruffled shirt sleeves, and the curly wigs popular at Court. He carried a Bible in one hand, but since he was also a moderately successful jeweller, there was a sheaf of accounts in the other. Preoccupied with his own affairs, the Puritan did not so much as glance towards the stable as he hurried past with his chattering colleagues.
Snow and Storey turned on to Fleet Street, then headed for the Strand, passing the Norman church of St Clement Danes with its stocky tower of pale stone. The Strand was one of London’s major thoroughfares, with handsome mansions on its southern side, and an unruly clutter of hovels and taverns lying to the north. Here, private carriages were more numerous than handcarts, ferrying the wealthy to and from their businesses and homes. Sleek merchants peered out, their elegant wives rocking next to them. Pickpockets slunk here and there, maimed soldiers from the wars begged for alms, and a band of drunken seamen staggered noisily towards their ship, shadowed by hopeful prostitutes.
At the end of the Strand was a spacious avenue leading to the Palace of White Hall, the King’s London residence. This was a sprawling mass of buildings that included not only accommodation for the monarch and his retinue, but tennis courts, a bowling alley, gardens, a chapel, offices for his Ministers of State, and the Banqueting House – outside of which Charles I had been beheaded some thirteen years before.
The Banqueting House held a further significance for Chaloner. Like many men who had backed the losing side and been forced to abandon their property after the collapse of the Commonwealth, one of his uncles had converted land to coins and cached them. The elder Chaloner had secreted his treasure under a flagstone in the Banqueting House’s main chamber. His reasoning had been that the new regime would be too busy with its survival to think about prising up a good marble floor, and his hoard would therefore be safe. On his deathbed, he had confided its location to his nephew, with the request that Chaloner retrieve the money and present it to his sons when the current wave of persecution was spent. Uncomfortable and wary in the city where he was so much a stranger, Chaloner had kept his curiosity in check, and had not even gone to see whether he could identify the right tile.
One peculiar characteristic of the Palace of White Hall was that the main road from the city to Westminster ran clean through its centre. The avenue – the southern part of which was named King Street in deference to the fact that it cut the sovereign’s lodgings in half – was always thick with carts, carriages, horses, livestock, soldiers, merchants, courtiers and clerks, and the heaving throng made it even easier for Chaloner to follow the two robbers. The thunder of wheels, feet and hoofs on cobbles, the babble of conversation, and the various bells, gongs and rattles used by traders were deafening. The cacophony almost drowned out the ranting of the street preacher who stood on the stump of the old Charing Cross and the agitated yaps of a dog tethered outside the Angel tavern.
White Hall was even busier than usual that day, because the Banqueting House was set to be used for a ceremony in which Charles ‘touched’ his subjects in the hope of curing them of the glandular disease known as the King’s Evil, or scrofula. He took such duties seriously, and the occasions always attracted crowds.
Chaloner was not surprised that Snow and Storey were taking the stolen satchel to White Hall, since, as a man apparently devoted to exposing the King’s enemies, Kelyng might well work or live near the buildings from which the affairs of state were run. The two thieves did not enter the palace grounds, however. They stopped at a well outside, where they pretended to mingle with servants from the nearby mansions.
The area around the conduit was crowded. Some folk carried containers that were suspiciously small, indicating they were there only because it afforded an opportunity to exchange gossip with the members of other rich households, while others pushed carts loaded with empty barrels. Chaloner had spent a good deal of time at such places in the past, collecting information that was then converted into cipher and sent to Thurloe. He eased into the throng, smiling at a young woman and engaging her in idle conversation. His naturally affable manner meant people seldom objected to his friendly approaches, enabling him to blend into his surroundings without raising suspicion. He made a show of listening to her lurid revelations about the wanton Lady Castlemaine – the King’s favourite mistress – but most of his attention was on Storey and Snow. He could tell from their forced casualness that they were waiting for something to happen.
Within moments, a man wearing a livery of mustard yellow approached. He was in his late forties, with a lined, dour face. He carried himself erect, in the way of an old soldier, and there were two other details that rendered him distinctive: first, upon his little finger, he wore an emerald ring that looked altogether too expensive to be owned by a servant, and second, he was missing an eye.
He pushed his way towards the robbers, making no attempt to disguise the fact that they were his objective. Snow handed him the satchel and received a purse in exchange, while Storey attempted to create a diversion by jostling a groom. The groom’s tunic was emblazoned with the arms adopted by Sir Richard Ingoldsby, a man known even to an outsider like Chaloner. Ingoldsby, a regicide, had convinced King Charles that he had not meant to add his signature to his father’s death warrant – Cromwell had grabbed his hand and shaped the letters against his will. Contrary to all reason, the King had believed him, and even the most hardened of cynics were astonished to learn that not only had Ingoldsby been forgiven his crime, but he was to be awarded a knighthood, too.