The groom whipped out a pistol, making bystanders scatter in alarm. Storey promptly fled, forcing Snow to race after him. Chaloner watched them go, but made no attempt to follow. He knew their names and a tavern where they drank; they would still pay for murdering the post-boy. But first, he needed to concentrate on the more immediate problem represented by Kelyng and why he should want to intercept Thurloe’s private messages, so he turned back to the servant who had purchased the satchel. The fellow crossed the street and made for the Royal Mews – once stables but now converted to homes for senior court officials – and disappeared through a door that led to an ill-kept garden. Chaloner darted after him, and the man’s jaw dropped in astonishment when the satchel was ripped from his hands.
‘You have no right to come in here,’ he began angrily, trying to grab it back. ‘You–’
Chaloner drew his dagger, making him jump away in alarm. ‘Who do you work for?’
The servant glanced behind him, although whether because he was looking for rescue or because he was afraid of being heard answering, Chaloner could not be sure. ‘This is Sir John Kelyng’s house.’
‘Who is he?’
The man’s eyebrows shot up, but he answered anyway. ‘One of His Majesty’s lawyers, famous for his prosecution of regicides and traitors.’ His hand started to edge towards his knife, but Chaloner saw the stealthy movement, and knocked the weapon from his fingers.
‘Why does he pay ruffians to steal satchels?’
‘His affairs are none of your business,’ the servant replied irritably. ‘Now give me that bag.’
Chaloner took a step forward, dagger at the ready. ‘He told me to collect a pouch from the fountain,’ replied the servant with an impatient sigh, seeing in Chaloner’s determined expression that he had no choice but to reply. ‘He did not tell me why, and I am not so reckless as to ask.’
‘I do not believe you.’
‘That is not my problem. Now, I have more important–’
Chaloner swung around when he heard the rustle of leaves behind him. A sharp hiss cut through the air, and instinct and training were responsible for his abrupt dive off the moss-encrusted path. A moment later, the servant joined him on the ground, a blade embedded in his chest and his single eye already beginning to glaze with encroaching death. Blood gushed from his mouth in a way that indicated a lung had been pierced. He turned his head slightly, and looked at Chaloner.
‘Praise God’s one son,’ he whispered.
All Chaloner’s attention was on the trees where the knifeman still hid. He did not reply.
‘Praise God’s one son,’ said the man, a little louder. He coughed and tugged Chaloner’s cloak. The ring flashed green on his finger. ‘It is dangerous for … seven. Remember …’
Chaloner glanced at him and saw desperation in his face. ‘Lie still. I will find help.’
The man revealed bloodstained teeth in a grimace that indicated he knew he was beyond earthly assistance. ‘Remember to … trust no one. Praise God’s one …’
‘Amen,’ muttered Chaloner mechanically, concentrating on the leaves that were beginning to tremble in a way that suggested another attack was about to be launched. He looped the satchel around his shoulder, gripped his dagger and prepared to make his move.
‘You do not … understand.’ Chaloner glanced at the servant a second time, and sensed he no longer knew what he was saying. ‘I am … John Hewson … of seven … Trust no one, and praise …’
There was a sharp crack, as someone trod on a twig in the bushes ahead. Chaloner tensed, trying to see through the tangled undergrowth. He heard Hewson’s breathing stop, and a detached part of his mind pondered the question of whether the knife had missed its real target, or whether Hewson had been killed because he was dispensing information. There was no way to know, although he was able to conclude, from the direction of the snap and the shivering foliage, that there were two men lurking in the thicket ahead. Knowing they would expect him to head for the gate, since it was the obvious route to freedom, he scrambled upright and ran in the opposite direction – towards the house that stood at the end of the garden. There was a loud pop as a pistol went off, and he hit the ground hard. His senses reeled from the impact, and he became aware of urgent shouting from the road. The King was coming. Then another shot rang out.
The discharge of firearms close to a monarch was a relatively unusual event in London, and, after a short, stunned silence, chaos erupted. Footsteps clattered as people ran towards the Banqueting House, and voices clamoured to know what was happening. An agitated horse whinnied in a way that suggested its rider was losing control of it, and a dog barked furiously. The word ‘treason’ was suddenly in the air, and it was not long before folk were yelling that the King had been assassinated.
Inside the garden, Chaloner’s attackers held a hissing conversation that suggested one of them had not associated the discharge of his own firearm with the commotion, and was keen to go to the King’s assistance. The other rebuked him with a testy impatience that indicated it was not the first time his companion had drawn stupid conclusions. While they argued, Chaloner climbed to his feet, ignoring the protesting stab in his weak leg, and took refuge in a patch of nettles. The weeds were thick, but he was oblivious to their stings as he waited to see what his assailants would do, fingers wrapped loosely around his dagger.
He ducked when they moved along the path towards him. The one in front wore a white skullcap, a cloak of burgundy wool, blue petticoat breeches and a satin shirt with ruffled sleeves. His face reminded Chaloner of a wolf’s, with pointed chin, wide mouth, sharp yellow teeth and close-set eyes. He carried a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other, and his face wore a fierce expression that turned to anger when he saw the servant.
‘Jones is dead,’ he whispered furiously, turning to his companion.
‘So I see,’ replied the other. Chaloner studied him carefully, sensing him to be the more dangerous of the pair. He was heavily built, and had massive fists, like hams. He was almost as finely dressed as the first man, although his coat was last year’s fashion and his wig looked as though it had been made using someone else’s measurements. Rings adorned his fingers, and there was a pair of calfskin gloves tucked into his belt. However, his finery and the superior airs he gave himself did not disguise the fact that he had probably not been born to them, and that elegance and wealth was something he had acquired along the way.
‘That is your dagger,’ hissed the wolf.
The second man seemed unperturbed by what was essentially an accusation. ‘Then the intruder used it to kill Jones. It is obvious.’
The wolf sighed angrily, but appeared to accept the claim. ‘He will be heading for the back gate, aiming to escape into the crowds around the Banqueting House. Guard it, while I search the garden.’
‘I would rather–’ began the second.
‘No, Bennet!’ interrupted the wolf. ‘I do not want your opinion. Just do as I say.’
Bennet’s face was a mask of disapproval, but he slouched off in the direction indicated by his companion’s pointing finger. The wolf, using his sword as a scythe to probe the vegetation, began to move towards Chaloner, who picked up a handful of dirt and tossed it into a bed of mint.
‘Stay where you are,’ ordered the wolf, when Bennet immediately turned towards the noise with a predatory grin. ‘It is a trick.’
Chaloner grabbed a second fistful of soil and lobbed it at the gate, which had Bennet kicking at the brambles in a frenzied attempt to determine whether someone was hiding there. When the wolf turned to berate him, Chaloner leapt to his feet and ran full pelt towards the house. Another crack echoed as a pistol was discharged, and splinters flew from a nearby tree. Chaloner hurdled a bed of winter cabbages, jigged behind a tangle of raspberry canes, and raced into the steamy warmth of a kitchen. Startled scullions gaped as he pounded through their domain, his feet skidding on the grease-coated floor. He saw an exit at the far end and powered towards it, knocking over a boy carrying a tureen of soup; the bowl crashed to the floor, adding its contents to the already slick surface.