‘Was anything else worrying Maylord? Other than the contents of these documents?’
‘He thought he was being cheated,’ replied Smegergill as they walked. The streets were dimly lit by lanterns placed outside some houses, but the rain-clouds blotted out any light there might have been from the moon. ‘Do you know Cromwell? He has a discerning ear for music.’
‘How did Maylord think he was being cheated?’
‘He owned some property, although I forget what, exactly. He told me it was not making the sort of returns it should, and was quite upset about it. Do you play the viol, Frederick? No! You said you play the virginals, like your mother. You see? I am not as senile as you think!’
Long Lane was wholly devoid of hackney carriages, so they turned south, taking a short-cut to Duck Lane, which Smegergill insisted would be teeming with coaches. They had just reached St Bartholomew the Great and its dark, leafy graveyard, when the hairs on Chaloner’s neck stood on end, the way they always did when something was amiss. He stopped dead in his tracks and listened hard.
‘Perhaps you should find the man who cheated Maylord over his property,’ chattered Smegergill, ‘They might have argued and come to blows. Perhaps he stabbed poor Maylord.’
Chaloner drew his sword and pushed the musician behind him. Something was definitely wrong.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Smegergill. Alarm flashed in his eyes. ‘Is it the Bedlam men?’
Chaloner had no idea what he was talking about, and was more concerned about the danger lurking in the shadows, anyway. ‘The what?’
‘The wardens from St Mary’s Bethlehem — the lunatic house,’ Smegergill gabbled. ‘Two Court musicians have been locked away there recently, and I might be their next victim.’
‘Why?’ asked Chaloner, most of his attention on the churchyard, because he was certain someone was hiding there. ‘You are not insane.’
‘Neither were they. You will not let them take me, will you? The others were snatched on dark nights, just like this one.’
Chaloner silenced him with an urgent wave of his hand and took a step towards the trees. Then something struck him hard on the jaw and his senses reeled. He fell to his knees and saw a stone at his feet; someone had lobbed it with considerable strength and accuracy. He was vaguely aware of footsteps behind him and of Smegergill speaking, but the words were a meaningless buzz. He tried to stand, but his movements were sluggish and uncoordinated, and he was powerless to prevent the sword being pulled from his fingers.
Then he was dragged off the road and into the churchyard. He struggled, but too many hands were holding him, and he was dizzy and disorientated. A kick to his stomach effectively quashed any further attempts to extricate himself, leaving him gasping for breath. When someone started to go through his pockets, he supposed he was the latest victim of Smithfield’s infamous Hectors. He was disgusted with himself, furious that common thieves had so easily bested a man of his experience.
‘Nothing,’ came one voice. Chaloner supposed his purse had been found, and for once he was glad it was empty. ‘Except a cucumber.’
‘A poisonous one?’ asked someone else. He laughed nasally, as though he had a cold. ‘Make him eat it.’
‘Where is the old man?’ said a third man. His lilting accent said he was from north of the border. ‘He was here a moment ago.’
Chaloner made a mammoth effort to break free, and the dagger he kept in his sleeve slipped into the palm of his hand. One man tried to grab it, but reeled back with a badly sliced finger for his pains. Chaloner had just staggered to his feet when someone dealt him a powerful blow with a cudgel. It was hard enough that it would certainly have killed him, had he not been wearing Isabella’s metal-lined hat. Even so, it knocked him flat, and he could not have moved to save his life. He heard more voices, then there was a soft crack, as if a blow had fallen. Moments later, someone kicked him in the side, although not very hard. It was followed by more footsteps and silence.
Chapter 5
Chaloner climbed to his feet, wincing at the sharp ache in his head as he moved. It was pitch black in the churchyard, but when he removed his hat, his probing fingers detected a substantial dent in the protective metal. The robbers would be astonished to learn he had survived such a solid clout. He stood still for a few moments, willing the dizziness to recede, then began to search for Smegergill.
It did not take him long to locate the old man. He tripped over him in the dark, where he was lying face-down in a puddle. He hauled him up quickly, but Smegergill was already dead. Chaloner felt sick with self-recrimination. It was his fault the musician had embarked on a futile search for a carriage in the dead of night, and then he had failed to protect him. He closed his eyes, disgusted with himself. St Bartholomew’s was in Smithfield, and he had been listening to tales about the dangers of that place all day. How could he have been so stupid? Furthermore, a man with his skills and experience should never have allowed a gang of common louts to best him. He pulled the body into a faint shaft of light from the road, and saw a cut on Smegergill’s lip. Had someone lobbed a stone at him, too, then pressed his face into water until he had stopped struggling?
Recalling how he had been searched for valuables, he tried to locate Smegergill’s purse, and was surprised when he found it still attached to his belt. It was empty except for a key. The thieves had also missed a heavy — and doubtless valuable — ring that Smegergill had been wearing on his index finger. Chaloner did not intend to remove it, but it slid off into his hand when he tried to inspect it. As he gazed numbly at it, he tried to work out what had happened. Sensibly, the robbers had dealt with their younger, stronger victim first, so it was no surprise that Chaloner had been stripped of his possessions immediately — or would have been, had he owned anything worth taking — before they had turned to Smegergill. So why had Smegergill been left with his ring and purse? Had the felons been disturbed before they could finish? Chaloner had not heard a third party arrive, but that was not surprising, given that he had been barely conscious at the time.
Nearby voices made him jump in alarm. Should he shout for help, or were the robbers returning to end what they had started? His head pounded, and he doubted he would emerge triumphant from another skirmish. Of course, the voices could belong to people who would help him carry Smegergill to a church and send for the parish constable. Unfortunately, though, he suspected they were more likely to draw entirely the wrong conclusion from a man kneeling next to a corpse, and accuse him of the murder instead. He scrambled to his feet when a man and a woman stepped into the churchyard with a lantern, apparently intent on finding a dry spot for a romp.
The man stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Chaloner, and his eyes were drawn to the still figure on the ground. ‘What have you done?’ he cried, beginning to back away.
Instinctively, Chaloner donned his hat. It was partly to stop the light from lancing into his eyes, but also to conceal his face. He could predict from the tone of the question how the encounter was likely to end, and did not want the fellow or his lady to be able to identify him later. He had enough to do, without being obliged to prove his innocence for a crime he had not committed.
‘He has a ring,’ shouted the woman. The fact that she had noticed such a detail in the dim lamplight indicated she was the kind of person who would be more interested in what happened to Smegergill’s belongings than his earthly remains. ‘He is going to steal it. Robbery!’
‘Murder!’ yelled her friend. ‘Call the Hectors! They will not like this!’