Chaloner found himself in a long hallway, at the end of which was a door. He heard Bennet shout behind him, ordering him to stop. A scullion grabbed his arm, but Chaloner felled him with a punch. He reached the door, and spent several agonising seconds pulling away a bar, praying it would not be locked, too – if it was, then he was a dead man, because there was nowhere to hide and even the most inept of gunmen could not fail to miss him at such close range.
The yelling grew closer. Bennet cursed foully as he lost his footing in the oily spillage and went flying in a whirlwind of arms and legs. Chaloner tugged at the door. It did not budge. The wolf was scrambling over Bennet and bringing a pistol to bear, triumph lighting his pointed features. Made strong by desperation, Chaloner hauled on the door again. Something snapped and it flew open. Then he was outside, disappearing into the crowd that was surging towards the Banqueting House.
Chaloner mingled with the throng, pulling off hat, wig and cloak and tucking them under his arm in an attempt to change his appearance and confuse his pursuers. He knew they would expect him to head in the opposite direction, to put as much distance between him and the scene of Hewson’s – or was it Jones’s? – death as possible, so he did the reverse: he allowed the crowd to take him back towards Kelyng’s rear gate, and then on to White Hall. He listened to people’s speculations as he moved among them, keeping his head down and working at being inconspicuous.
Everyone seemed to know that shots had been fired as the King had ridden from St James’s Park to the Touching Ceremony, and some folk claimed to have heard them. A baker said there had been three loud bangs, but a woman swore on the lives of her children that there had been eight. Most believed an attempt had been made on the King’s life, although an apprentice wearing a blood-splattered apron maintained that the King had shot one of his spaniels, to show his new government what would happen to them if they used him as they had his father. A fat vicar was of the opinion that the incident originated with Lady Castlemaine, whose husband had executed one of her many lovers. Chaloner recalled a comment his uncle had once made about how a mob could be controlled with rumours, but how dangerous it could be if the tales took on a life of their own.
He glanced behind him. The wolf was on the doorstep, scanning the street with one hand behind his back to conceal his reloaded weapon. He scowled when Bennet arrived and elbowed him to share the vantage point. Unlike his companion, Bennet made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was armed, and Chaloner was under the impression that he would shoot if he recognised his prey, regardless of the fact that he would probably hit the wrong person.
More people joined the crowd, and Chaloner was jostled by a thin, ungainly creature with red-rimmed eyes and the stooped shoulders of a scholar. In a gesture of apology, the man draped a comradely arm around his shoulders, and Chaloner, knowing he was less likely to be spotted with someone than alone, made no effort to shrug him off. When he glanced around again, the wolf was swimming against the crowd in the direction he imagined Chaloner would have taken, although Bennet continued to monitor the faces that streamed past.
‘Do not be alarmed, friends,’ called a chambermaid from a window above their heads. ‘It is only Kelyng’s men blasting at each other with pistols. They do it all the time.’
‘It was the King!’ shouted a grubby boy. ‘His Majesty shot Kelyng.’
Another rumour was born, and people seemed pleased to learn the identity of this particular victim. Smiles broke out, and the butcher’s apprentice pulled a flask from his jerkin and offered a toast.
‘It does not surprise me that Kelyng’s rabble are responsible,’ said the thin man to Chaloner, raising his voice above the babble. ‘It is common knowledge that he has been hiring felons and vagabonds these last few months. Such men will not be easy to control, and spats among them will be inevitable.’
‘Why has Kelyng been recruiting such folk?’ asked Chaloner.
The man grimaced. ‘He says it is to protect the King against the remnants of the last government – rebels who remain loyal to Richard Cromwell – but I am more inclined to believe the story that he intends to take up where John Thurloe left off, and employ a legion of spies that will make him the most powerful man in the country.’
Chaloner was thoughtful. Was that why Kelyng had sent men to intercept Thurloe’s post? Did he realise that in order to create such an army, the vestiges of the last one needed to be totally eradicated? Yet Snow and Storey were overconfident and stupid, while the wolf and Bennet had hardly been a model of competence, either. Thurloe was more than a match for any of them. Chaloner’s new friend was speaking again.
‘I wish a pox on the lot of them, personally. We were promised a new order, but this government is no better for the common man than was the last one.’
‘You do not look like a common man to me,’ said Chaloner. He ducked away from the fellow’s embrace; he was no longer in danger, and did not need to maintain the disguise.
The man inclined his head in formal greeting. ‘William Leybourn: bookseller, printer, surveyor and mathematician. I live on Monkwell Street in Cripplegate, should you want to browse the finest collection of tomes in the city – including some written by me. And you? What is your trade, other than running for your life?’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘I saw you race from Kelyng’s house as though it were on fire, and I know what it means when a man removes hat, wig and cloak on a cold winter’s day – he does not want to be recognised. I also saw the furious expression on Kelyng’s face when he realised he had lost you.’
Chaloner was startled by the revelation. ‘That was Kelyng?’
It was Leybourn’s turn to be astonished. ‘You do not recognise Kelyng?’
Chaloner cursed himself for speaking without thinking. ‘I have not been in London long,’ he explained, slipping easily into the role of country bumpkin; a good deal could be learned by pretending to be a clueless provincial. The ruse did not work, however, and Leybourn narrowed his eyes and regarded him suspiciously.
‘Where were you before? The moon?’
Chaloner changed tactics, opting for honesty instead. ‘The United Provinces of the Netherlands.’ Bitter experience had taught him it was wise to be truthful when possible, since it left fewer opportunities for being caught out in lies.
‘I see,’ said Leybourn. ‘Well, you will not learn much that makes sense from the Dutch. All they do is eat cheese and bathe in butter. Do not look shocked. You must have read the broadsheets telling us how wicked Hollanders are waiting to invade us – to kill our children while we sleep.’
‘Yes, but I am not so stupid as to believe them.’
‘And neither am I,’ said Leybourn. ‘But you did not know that when you spoke, and to admit that you reside in Holland, when there are rumours of a royal assassination, is wildly reckless. If I were to yell that you were a Dutchman, and that you had just shot at the King, you would be torn apart before you could say Rembrandt. People are afraid of the Dutch.’
Chaloner saw he had a point, although it was unsettling to hear emotions ran quite so high. The woman who had shared his bed for the past three years, and whom he loved dearly, was Dutch, and she had mentioned a growing antipathy towards her, even from friends. He had dismissed her concerns as the natural sensitivity of a foreigner abroad – he had experienced similar misgivings himself in the past – but now saw he should probably take them seriously.