It was an awkward way to move a person, and Thurloe was heavy. The knotted strips shot through his hands and he lost his grip. Thurloe plummeted downwards, where his fall was broken by Leybourn. Chaloner glanced behind him, seeing nothing but a wall of orange.
‘Jump!’ screamed Sarah.
Feeling his shirt begin to smoulder, Chaloner let himself drop.
As soon as Chaloner landed, Leybourn was on him, smothering the flames with his cloak. Sarah had already run for water, and upended a pail over both of them, making them gasp in shock at the sudden chill. While Sarah made sure Chaloner was fully doused, Leybourn went to Thurloe, assessing him for damage, then dragged him to the comparative safety of a nearby alley, away from the inferno that had once been a fine house, and from men with guns. Chaloner, with Sarah clutching his shoulder for support, limped after them.
Once he was sure they were well hidden, Chaloner donned his sodden cassock, relishing its coolness against his hot skin, and left them to recover while he went in search of Bennet and Snow. The back of the house was deserted – none of the crowd had lingered once the bully boys had arrived. He found Snow propped against a wall, a crude bandage around his leg. His face was white, and too much blood seeped from the wound. Chaloner’s dagger lay on the ground next to him.
‘Where is Bennet?’ demanded the agent, leaning down to retrieve it.
‘Gone for help,’ said Snow, wincing as he tried to grab the knife first and failed. ‘You clipped his shoulder when you shot at him, so I hope he does not faint along the way.’
‘Why did you set the fire?’
Snow shook his head. ‘That was not us. We were waiting for the woman to come out, and the place started to burn as we watched. I saw a man leave through the front door, though, before it started.’
‘Who?’
Snow grinned mirthlessly. ‘Got any money?’
Chaloner rummaged for a shilling. ‘Who?’ he repeated.
Snow stretched out his hand for the coin, but fell back when Chaloner declined to relinquish it before he had his information. ‘I did not recognise him – his hat hid his face.’
‘Describe him, then. Was he tall? Fat? Thin?’
Snow screwed up his face and gripped his leg with both hands. His face turned from white to a sickly grey. ‘Christ, Heyden! You did not have to hurl your dagger quite so hard! I think you have done for me. I told you, I did not see him properly.’
‘There was nothing unusual about him? No uneven gait or oddly coloured clothing?’
Snow was about to say no, when he reconsidered. ‘His coat was green – and tight, as if he had grown out of it.’
Chaloner knelt next to him and slipped the hilt of the man’s dagger through the bandage, twisting it tight enough to make him shriek. ‘Hold this. It should stem the bleeding until Bennet comes back.’
Snow was beginning to be frightened. ‘What if he does not?’
‘I will fetch someone else – but only if you agree to stop stalking Sarah Dalton. She did not kill Storey – I did. I hit him when you were stunned.’
Snow stifled a groan. ‘No one will help me, Heyden. We drove everyone off – or Bennet did.’
Chaloner dropped the shilling into his callused hand. ‘Then I will tell them you can pay.’
Snow coughed weakly. ‘That might do it. People will do anything for money.’
Chaloner was sure he was right. He walked to the front of the house, where a fascinated crowd was watching the houses on either side of Dalton’s begin to smoulder, although soldiers under a competent-looking captain had arrived and were organising a bucket chain. Chaloner told a bulky matron about Snow’s predicament – and his shilling – then limped back to where Leybourn crouched over Thurloe. Sarah stood next to them, her face a mask of shock.
‘Is he all right?’ asked Chaloner, indicating the prone ex-Spymaster with a nod of his head.
‘Yes, he is,’ said Thurloe, opening his eyes. ‘Wet, sore and dishevelled, but nothing a few days by the fi … in bed will not cure. And you? Did you hurt your leg when you jumped?’
Chaloner shrugged. ‘It has been worse.’
Sarah raised a shaking hand to her head. ‘It was like a nightmare, being trapped inside that chest and smelling smoke. I do not suppose you saw my husband, did you? Did he escape?’
Thurloe looked away. ‘He is dead.’
A loud explosion boomed from the house, raising a collective shriek from the onlookers. Sarah watched the black smoke that billowed into the grey sky. ‘There goes the first of his gunpowder.’
Chaloner gaped at her. ‘His what?’
‘He always keeps two barrels in the house. He says you never know when it might come in useful. That was the first one blowing. The second will not be far behind. How did he die? Was it the fire?’
‘He was stabbed,’ said Thurloe. ‘Who did it? Bennet?’
‘Bennet was never in the house,’ replied Leybourn. ‘I saw him and Snow lurking in the street outside when Sarah was packing her clothes. They must have followed us – I am not very good at detecting that sort of thing. She should have taken Thomas instead.’
Sarah drew a shuddering breath. ‘Thomas may have been able to prevent my husband from forcing me into a box and leaving me to burn, too.’ She swallowed hard, and tried to steady her voice. ‘He said he could not afford to let me live. He also said it was only a matter of time before Bennet finished you off, John, and he planned to strangle Thomas when he came to translate letters tomorrow.’
Thurloe frowned. ‘But if Bennet was outside, and Dalton ambushed you, then who killed Dalton?’
‘Someone he knew,’ said Leybourn. ‘Before the fire started – while Sarah was collecting her clothes and I was waiting on the landing – there was a knock at the door. The servants were at church, so Dalton answered himself. I heard him wish someone a good morning, and then everything went quiet. I do not think he would have addressed a stranger in that friendly way.’
‘Who was it?’ asked Thurloe. ‘Did you recognise the voice?’
‘I did not hear it,’ replied Leybourn. ‘Perhaps it was Ingoldsby.’
‘Ingoldsby is trapped at Westminster Abbey with the King all this morning,’ said Thurloe. ‘I know for a fact he was invited, and he dares not refuse. Ingoldsby is not the culprit.’
‘I heard voices in the room below my bedchamber,’ said Sarah. ‘But my husband was not arguing with this visitor: he was discussing business. I heard him mention his new trade agreement with the Dutch, and how wealthy it will make him.’
‘It was Downing,’ said Chaloner quietly. ‘Snow told me he saw someone wearing a tight green coat emerging through the front door before the fire started. Downing owns such a garment.’
‘Downing stabbed Dalton?’ asked Leybourn. ‘But why?’
‘He has always been jealous of my husband’s good relationship with the Dutch merchants,’ said Sarah. ‘But I did not think he was envious enough to kill him over it.’
Clutching Leybourn’s arm for support, Thurloe staggered to his feet. It was the first time Chaloner had seen him less than perfectly attired, with his crumpled clothes, matted hair and smoke-blackened face. ‘Then we shall have to ask him about it.’
Leybourn gaped at him. ‘Ask Downing whether he stabbed Dalton?’
‘I will not put it quite like that,’ said Thurloe dryly. ‘You can credit me with a little subtlety, Will – I was not appointed spymaster for my habit of barging into delicate situations with bald questions. But it is cold here, and I do not want to take a chill. Come to my chambers.’