‘We are abandoning Kelyng to follow our own path,’ added Snow, lest Chaloner had not understood. ‘Me and the men want a strong leader – and besides, Mr Bennet said he would pay us double.’
‘Do you think Fanny will accept you if you make a name for yourself in rebel-hunting?’ asked Chaloner in distaste. ‘I doubt she will change her mind, no matter how many “traitors” you murder.’
Bennet shrugged. ‘She will have to marry someone, and there are not many who will take her now she carries a dead man’s child.’
‘Lee’s?’ asked Chaloner. Several facts snapped together in his mind. ‘Did you shoot Lee – to eliminate a rival? That will not make her love you. Robinson said she is grief-stricken.’
‘She is not in a position to be choosy. It will not be long before I prove myself Kelyng’s superior in every way, and Robinson will be only too grateful to have me as his son-in-law.’
‘When you killed Lee, who was with him?’
Bennet shrugged. ‘A couple. My argument was not with them, so I let them live.’
Chaloner saw he had been wrong: Lee’s death had nothing to do with Barkstead’s treasure, but his meeting with the ‘couple’ had, as attested by the fact that he had been holding a document containing a list of the Seven. Were they Ingoldsby and his wife? But why would they run away and leave their kinsman’s body to be discovered by someone else? Robinson and Fanny? But Chaloner recalled Fanny’s eager happiness as she waited for her lover to pay her a birthday visit: she would not have done that had she known he was dead. Dalton and Sarah? That certainly held all manner of possibilities, since Dalton’s own name was on the list snatched from Lee’s dead hand.
‘Who killed Storey?’ asked Snow, waving his sword when Sonya moved towards Wade’s body. ‘If you tell me her name, I will …’ He trailed off. There was really very little he could offer, since Bennet clearly had no intention of sparing his victim.
‘I do not think Kelyng will be easy to depose,’ said Chaloner, taking several steps away while Sonya was preoccupied. ‘It has nothing to do with personality or suitability, but with resources: he is wealthier than you.’
Bennet made a lunge that frightened Sonya away from Wade and back towards the agent. ‘He will have an accident when he goes to feed your bird. And your pet will fall foul of a blade, too. Fanny likes turkey meat, and it will be a good way to begin courting her again.’
Sonya gave a low growl. Its tale swished this way and that, and its eyes held a wild, opaque look. When its head gave a curious twitch, Chaloner saw it was definitely one of its bad days. He backed away until he reached the portcullis, then began to ascend the metal-studded framework. Snow poked the lion with his sword. It trotted forward and made a half-hearted swipe at Chaloner that missed, then padded off in the opposite direction. Bennet yelled and banged his dagger against the wall. Alarmed by the noise, Sonya veered back towards the gate. Chaloner continued to climb, but the portcullis was not high enough to keep him out of claw range. Bennet struck Sonya with the flat of his sword. The lion roared its outrage, and turned in a tight circle.
‘In a moment, it will lose what vestiges of reason it has left,’ said Bennet, his face split in a savage smile. ‘And you will be ripped from the gate and torn limb from limb. It happened to one of His Majesty’s measurers of cloth only yesterday.’
‘If you tell us the name of the wench, I will call the beast to heel,’ offered Snow unconvincingly.
Chaloner began to tire of the game. ‘This has gone far enough. Stop, before you are hurt.’
‘Sonya would not dare touch us,’ said Snow, although he shot the animal an uneasy glance.
‘It is exactly the kind of inept scheme I would expect from men who have never heard of St Thomas à Becket,’ Chaloner went on, disgusted with them both. ‘Back off, while you can.’
‘It is all right,’ said Snow sympathetically, when Bennet’s jaw dropped in astonishment at the insult. ‘I do not know this so-called saint, either.’
Bennet’s expression was dangerous. He jabbed Sonya. ‘Don’t you dare accuse me of stupidity.’
The lion’s tail was twitching faster. It stood on its hind legs and swiped, catching a claw in Chaloner’s boot and almost dragging him down. He saw yellow teeth, chipped and broken, and recalled its heavy body when it had jumped on him before. He jerked his foot away, and Bennet darted forward to jab the hapless beast again. Sonya dropped to all fours and snapped round to face him.
‘Do not run,’ advised Chaloner, knowing what would happen if he did. He saw men converge at the far end of the enclosure. ‘The keeper is coming. Back away, before it is too late.’
‘Hey!’ shouted Bennet, as the sword was knocked from his hand by a powerful paw.
‘Stand still,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘And do not make–’
Bennet took three rapid steps backwards before turning to flee. Sonya tensed, and then its huge body hurtled through the air to land in the middle of Bennet’s back, sending him crashing to the ground.
‘–any sudden moves,’ finished Chaloner, looking away.
That evening, Metje escaped early from her duties by claiming she did not feel safe with the turkey roaming the house, and asked permission to spend the night with a friend. North had refused at first, on the grounds that it was already dark, but then Chaloner had arrived – invited by Temperance to taste her new batch of knot biscuits – and Metje had asked him to escort her.
‘This is decent of you, Heyden,’ said North gratefully. ‘I cannot countenance a woman going out alone at this time of night, but I have been uneasy every since that villain attacked me with his gun, and I do not want to be out there myself. He may recognise me and try it again.’
‘Can I come?’ asked Temperance eagerly. ‘I do not like the turkey, either.’
‘Next time,’ replied Metje gently. ‘It would be unfair for us both to arrive at my friend’s home unannounced.’
Temperance’s face fell, but she managed a smile. ‘Please arrange it, then. I am bored with spending every evening at home or at chapel.’
‘Child!’ admonished North. ‘Think about what you say. Your poor brother would be saddened to hear you speak so. What else would you be doing on a winter evening?’
‘The theatre would be nice,’ replied Temperance wistfully. ‘Or, if those are too full of sin, then a night of music, or perhaps a visit to Mr Heyden’s rooms to play cards.’
‘Play cards?’ echoed Faith, shocked. She gazed at Chaloner as though he had put the idea into her daughter’s head. ‘But that would entail gambling!’
‘I do not own any cards,’ said Chaloner, not wanting to be considered a source of vice. He tried to think of something innocuous to offer as an alternative. ‘But I will read Hobbes’s Leviathan to you.’
A wary silence greeted his offer. ‘Do you have nothing else?’ asked North eventually. ‘I have seen that book, and it is awfully thick. We will be listening to you for months, and it is dull stuff.’
‘Seditious, too,’ said Faith accusingly. ‘You are trying to corrupt us.’
‘We should be on our way or Mrs Partridge will be abed before I arrive,’ said Metje, after Chaloner had suggested several safe alternatives that included Gratian’s Decretum (in Latin) and a collection of erudite essays entitled Sophistic Recollections. ‘We should let Temperance select one of these fascinating epistles, since she was the one who suggested the diversion. Chose well, though, dear. An evening is a long time in winter, and we shall rely on you to see us all pleasantly entertained.