‘I waited outside your room last night,’ said May, lunging hard and striking sparks from the pillar when his blade scored down the stone. ‘But you have taken to sleeping elsewhere, and I wasted hours lurking in the darkness.’
‘You ate a pie,’ said Chaloner, remembering how a lack of peas had allowed him to conclude that it had not been Scot or Leybourn. ‘You dropped crumbs all over the stairs. What did you want?’
‘To kill you before you told anyone else about that letter.’
‘Of course. Stealthy murder is no stranger to you, is it? You killed Willys and tried to have me blamed. You pretended to be a priest and strangled Sarsfeild in his cell. And it was you who ordered Fanning and Dillon to murder Webb.’
‘There you go again,’ snapped May, renewing his attack. He was furious, but although his blows were powerful, they were also wild, so Chaloner had no trouble evading them. ‘Making accusations with no proof. I did not kill Webb, Sarsfeild, Willys or anyone else.’
‘Then why did you shoot Fitz-Simons?’ demanded Chaloner. He took a chance on an explanation. ‘Because you wanted to stop him from telling Williamson what he knew – that you wrote the letter.’
‘I did not even kill Fitz-Simons,’ shouted May, exasperated. He grimaced and lowered his voice. ‘I aimed and pulled the trigger, but the gun flashed in the pan. It was another man’s ball that hit him.’
Chaloner did not know whether to believe him, and was puzzled enough that he was slow moving out of the way. May’s sword caught him a stinging slash on the leg, although the sides of the weapon were too blunt to draw blood. He began to limp. ‘You claimed credit at the time.’
‘I did not claim it – it was given to me.’ May grinned mirthlessly when he saw his blow had slowed his opponent down. He renewed his attack with greater purpose. ‘One moment I was trying to work out why my gun had misfired, and the next I was being hailed as the hero who shot the King’s would-be assassin. It happened so fast that I had no time to think. On reflection, I see I should have been honest, but it is easy to judge with hindsight and it is too late to do anything about it now.’
Chaloner remained sceptical, although his convictions were beginning to waver. He recalled the sizeable hole in Fitz-Simon’s chest and his fleeting concern that it had been too large a wound to have been caused by May’s handgun. ‘If you did not kill Fitz-Simons, then who did?’
‘I have no idea. At first, I assumed it was you, and was pleased when people started to give me the credit that should have been yours. Then Colonel Holles pointed out how the dag you had confiscated from Fitz-Simons was too filthy to work, and I knew you could not have been responsible. He witnessed the whole incident from the cathedral, you know.’ May’s voice was bitter. ‘He knows I did not fire the fatal shot.’
Chaloner’s convictions wavered even more, mostly because he could not imagine May concocting a confession that showed him in such poor light. ‘Then why has he not said anything about it?’
‘I imagine because he intends to blackmail me. When I saw the body and recognised it as belonging one of Williamson’s “occasional informers” I was appalled! I was obliged to hide its face with a bag to prevent anyone else from seeing. And then it disappeared, and I have been waiting on tenterhooks for the prankster – you – to bring it back in a way that will humiliate me even further. I have been living a nightmare this last week, and it is all your doing. But now you will pay.’
Chaloner jerked away from the flailing blade. ‘You brought it on yourself by being dishonest. Put up your sword, May, and I will help you resolve this mess. We can talk to Holles, and–’
‘You had your chance to do all that,’ snarled May, ‘but instead, you have concentrated on making accusations that harm me. Say your prayers, Heyden. The game is over for you.’
He changed the grip on his sword and his expression became fiercely determined. Chaloner made as if to run to the next pillar, but altered course at the last moment, and powered towards May instead. He saw the surprise in the man’s eyes just as he reached him and snatched the weapon from his hand. It was absurdly easy, like taking honey-bread from a baby. May gaped in horror. Then there was a sharp crack and he crumpled to the ground. Chaloner spun around to see Scot standing there with a smoking gun, Eaffrey behind him.
‘You cannot manage five minutes without me, Chaloner,’ said Scot irritably. ‘I warned you to be wary of the man, and what do you do? Allow him to entice you into a duel!’
Chaloner knelt to feel for a lifebeat in May’s neck, but was not surprised to find there was none; Scot was a deadly shot. ‘I was in no danger – I had just relieved him of his sword.’
‘You sent me for help,’ Eaffrey pointed out. ‘So you were obviously worried about the outcome.’
‘I sent you to fetch Williamson,’ corrected Chaloner tiredly. ‘I have no wish to see May dead.’
‘The feeling was not reciprocated,’ said Eaffrey tartly. ‘He was going to kill you, and you had nothing with which to defend yourself. You seem sorry he is gone, but I am not. He was going to murder you and blackmail me to keep quiet about it.’
‘I think I have done him a terrible injustice,’ said Chaloner, sitting back on his heels. ‘I am beginning to believe he was telling the truth when he said he did not send Bristol that letter.’
‘Well, who did, then?’ demanded Eaffrey. ‘And why?’
‘It was written in blue ink,’ said Chaloner, rubbing his eyes. Fatigue was beginning to sap his energy and make him sluggish. ‘Maude saw Behn in possession of missives scribed in distinctive blue ink.’
‘So, I was right after all,’ said Scot in satisfaction. ‘I said days ago that the culprit was Behn.’
‘What does this do to our plans?’ asked Eaffrey, rather plaintively. ‘Shall we devise another way to see our child raised in the manner of a gentleman?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Chaloner, climbing slowly to his feet. ‘The correspondence Maude saw was received by Behn, not penned by him – only very odd people write letters to themselves. So, the blue ink means he was sent notes from the same person who wrote to Bristol, not that he scribed them himself.’
Scot was becoming exasperated. ‘Well, if it was not May or Behn, then who is left?’
‘I have no idea. And nor do I know who shot Fitz-Simons. May was telling the truth about that, too, because I was surprised at the time that such a large wound could have been made by his dag.’
‘But Holles saw May shoot him,’ said Scot. He passed Chaloner his gun to hold, while he knelt to inspect the body himself. ‘So May must have lying, although I cannot imagine why.’
‘Put your hands in the air, Heyden,’ ordered an imperious voice that made them all turn around. It was Spymaster Williamson. Holles and several members of the palace guard stood at his side, muskets at the ready, and Wiseman loomed behind them, his lecture notes folded into a bundle under his arm. ‘Or I will give the order to shoot. Drop your weapons now!’
Chaloner did as he was told, letting May’s sword clatter from his left hand and Scot’s gun drop from his right. The Spymaster had chosen elite marksmen to accompany him, and Chaloner knew they would not hesitate to open fire. With weary resignation, he saw Williamson’s gaze move from May, lying in a pool of his own gore, to the dag on the ground at his feet, and reach the obvious conclusion.
‘May started it,’ said Scot, also seeing the line Williamson’s thoughts had taken. ‘Ask Eaffrey.’
Williamson regarded Chaloner coldly. ‘So, you decided to rid yourself of an old enemy once and for all, did you? Could you not have reasoned with him? Talked to him?’