The Westminster Poisoner

Chapter 12

The snow was now swirling so densely that it was difficult to walk. Chaloner forced himself on, wishing he could go faster. The streets were deserted, and there was not a horse or a carriage in sight. If there had been, he would have hijacked it, so desperate was he to reach Temperance. As he struggled along, he tried to take his mind off his fears for her while he analysed what he knew of Turner.

He had known the man was a liar, but he had not imagined him to be a thief, too. However, the attack on Tryan was such an audacious, meticulously executed crime that the spy was sure it could not be his first. So what other felonies had he committed since arriving in London? He was not responsible for the business at Backwell’s Bank, because that had been Jones, and the only other significant incident was the theft of the old king’s bust. Chaloner stopped dead in his tracks.

‘No!’ he whispered into the blizzard, forgetting the frantic race to Hercules’ Pillars Alley as answers came crashing into his mind like bolts of lightning. ‘It cannot be!’

But when he reviewed the evidence, he knew he had his solution, and it was so obvious, he wondered why he had not seen it before. The clues were there, but he had not put them together.

First, Turner said Lady Muskerry had taken him to the Shield Gallery before the statue had gone astray; he must have seen the priceless works of art then, and decided one would not be missed. Second, conversations had revealed his total ignorance of sculpture, indicating he would not have made a wise choice about what to steal — and taking the Bernini had been foolish. Third, Meg had smuggled him in and out of White Hall on her laundry cart, claiming Lady Castlemaine needed protection from the Earl — a ludicrous tale that should have warned Chaloner to look into it: clearly, Turner had needed the cart to transport his ill-gotten gains. And finally, there was his odd reluctance to arrest Greene — he felt a kinship with a fellow criminal, and wanted to give him every chance to escape or be exonerated.

‘Damn!’ Chaloner breathed, aghast at himself. ‘How could I have been so stupid?’

So, where was the statue now? Turner was unlikely to have taken it home, but it was valuable, so he would have put it somewhere safe. Chaloner closed his eyes in disgust when he realised he knew the answer to that, too. ‘James Grey’ had encouraged Temperance to redecorate her brothel, purchasing sculpture rather than paintings, because her patrons were apt to be wild and carvings were more durable. The bust was not in the public rooms — someone would have recognised it — but she had spare pieces in her cellar, ready to be rotated when she grew tired of the ones on display. She knew nothing about art, either, and would not recognise Bernini’s work, so it was the perfect hiding place. And if someone should happen to stumble across it?

‘Then he would disappear and let her hang.’ Chaloner was barely aware that he spoke aloud as anger boiled up inside him. He started to move forward again, cursing when his exhausted muscles were slow to respond to the urgent clamouring of his brain.

Rage kept him ploughing towards Hercules’ Pillars Alley, allowing him to ignore the burning pain in his lame leg and the agony of frozen fingers. All he wanted to do was charge into the club and force a confession from the sly colonel with his fists. And then Temperance would see what sort of man she professed to love. But when he reached his destination, his training took over: his wild fury drained away and was replaced by the cool professionalism that had allowed him to survive ten years in espionage. So, instead of storming into the house like a lunatic, he slid into the shadows outside, and thought about what he was going to do.

Once his judgement was unimpaired by anger, he saw it would be foolish to dash into a situation that might see him killed. First, he was too tired for fighting. Second, his sword was broken. And third, Temperance might rush to her lover’s defence, and then what would he do? Exchange blows with her, too? And would Turner even be there? He had just committed a violent crime, and was now more than five thousand pounds richer; perhaps he would decide that Temperance and the bust were not worth the bother. But indentations in the snow from the road to the club’s front door told the spy that this was wishful thinking: Turner had been unable to resist the lure of easy pickings, and he was there, inside the house, plying his evil charms on the woman Chaloner loved like a sister.

The spy approached the building and tapped softly on the door, but the servants had evidently been given the evening off, because there was no reply. The door was locked, but that was no obstacle to him. His metal probe was in his hand without conscious thought, and he had it open in moments. He padded silently across the hall to the parlour, where he peered through a gap between door and wall. The snow that had caked on his coat and shoes began to melt, forming puddles on the floor.

Temperance was sitting at one end of a guest-filled table, and Turner was at the other. They held goblets, filled to the brim with wine, and were toasting each other’s health. Chaloner winced when he saw the shining adoration in her eyes, and hated himself for what he was about to do. The colonel’s face was red from his journey through the snow, and his cloak had been flung carelessly across the back of a chair. He looked remarkably lively, though, and Chaloner supposed he was buoyed up by the success of his robbery.

Turner and Wiseman were the only men present, the other guests being the ‘working girls’ and Maude. Belle was among them, and Chaloner shook his head when he saw she still wore her locket: Turner had shown him a duplicate in order to claim the ten shillings. Wiseman was relating some tale about a Public Anatomy he had performed, and his audience — a jaded group that was not easily entertained — was transfixed. The surgeon was unused to receiving such a positive reaction to his grisly anecdotes, and was happier than Chaloner had ever seen him.

While they were occupied, the spy decided to see whether his suspicions were correct. He headed for the cellar, lighting a lamp in the kitchen to take with him. As he descended the stairs, he marvelled at the size of Temperance’s collection. A dozen crates contained the most valuable items, while the more robust specimens sat out draped in sheets — with the notable exception of Nero, who glowered, uncovered, from the top of a tall box.

Chaloner began his search. The Bernini was in the third chest he opened, and he paused for a moment to admire it. He had seen the old king once, across a battlefield, but he recalled the pinched, arrogant features quite clearly. The artist had captured the hauteur and pride in the face, and yet there was also a touching vulnerability about it. He could see why Bernini was regarded as a genius.

He took a deep breath, trying to summon the energy he needed to confront Turner, and was about to walk back up the stairs, when he saw a trail of water splashes on the floor. He followed them to a sack that was heavily encrusted with snow. When he opened it, he found it full of money and jewels. He was still staring, disgusted that Turner should have beaten an old man to get it, when he heard a creak. He doused the lantern, ducked into the shadows and waited.

Turner walked into the cellar holding a lamp of his own. His eyes immediately lit on the opened box that contained the stolen masterpiece. He set the lantern on a crate and drew his sword.

‘Come out,’ he called softly. ‘I know you are here, because you have left wet marks on the floor.’

Chaloner supposed he had. The snow that covered his clothes was continuing to melt, and he, like Turner’s sack, left drips wherever he went. He stepped out, and thought he saw alarm flash in the colonel’s eyes when he was recognised, but it was quickly masked.

‘What are you doing here?’ Turner demanded uneasily. ‘Temperance will be hurt when she learns you declined her invitation to dine, just so you could use the opportunity to sneak into her home and help yourself to her things.’

‘I am not the thief here,’ said Chaloner quietly. ‘I do not break in to the houses of elderly merchants when I think they are at church, and batter them half to death when I discover they are not.’

‘What is this?’ demanded Turner, struggling to feign bemusement. ‘What elderly merchant?’

Chaloner pointed to the sack. ‘The one you almost killed to get that. Do not deny it, Turner. Your ear-string dropped off during the attack, and identifies you as the culprit.’

Turner’s hand flew to his empty lobe in horror. Seeing he was trapped, he dropped the pretence of innocence, and tried another tactic. ‘This is not how it looks. I was worried about him keeping such a large sum in his house, so I decided to put it in a bank, where it will be safe. But he came back unexpectedly, and went for his gun. I panicked. I am not proud of myself, but it is what happened. It is all a terrible misunderstanding.’

‘If you say so,’ said Chaloner, too tired to argue with him. ‘But that is for a judge to decide.’

Turner shook his head in stunned disbelief. ‘This cannot be happening, not now! I have a job I love, wealthy ladies shower me with gifts, and Temperance is on the verge of giving me half her club. Those meetings at John’s Coffee House work! You ask for success with like-minded men, and lo and behold, success is yours.’

Chaloner was taken aback by the claim. ‘You attribute your recent rise in fortune to prayers?’

Turner shrugged. ‘Well, something caused my luck to change. I joined originally to gain Tryan’s confidence — to find out whether he really did have a fortune in his parlour. But when I realised prayers might be the key to my various triumphs, I decided I had better keep going. Do you want to enrol? I can get you in — in exchange for your silence about tonight’s little episode, naturally.’

Chaloner regarded him in disdain. ‘You are a callous dog, Turner. Or is your real name Grey?’

He drew his sword when Turner did not reply, glancing down when the hilt made a peculiar grating sound and something small and metallic fell from it and skittered across the floor. The blade was held in place by a thread, and would not survive the first parry. He cursed himself for not borrowing a better one from Tryan, because he should have anticipated how an encounter with Turner would end. At some point during his frantic race — probably when he had been knocked off his feet as Turner had been fleeing from Lymestrete — he had also lost the daggers he kept secreted about his person. Fortunately, the colonel noticed neither his lack of handy weapons nor the state of his sword. He began to back away.

‘Please!’ he cried, alarmed. ‘I am sure we can work this out without resorting to violence.’

‘We can,’ agreed Chaloner evenly. ‘And it entails you putting up your weapon and turning around.’

‘No!’ Turner’s face was as white as the snow that was falling outside. ‘They will execute me, and you know how I feel about hanging.’

Chaloner was unmoved. ‘Then you should have thought of that before you broke the law.’

Turner swallowed hard, clearly loath to engage in a skirmish he thought he was unlikely to win. Then he closed his eyes in weary resignation, and slowly reached out to place his sword on the nearest crate. Unfortunately, Chaloner’s blade chose that moment to drop out of its hilt. The colonel’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment, but his reactions were fast. He snatched up his weapon again, even as Chaloner darted towards it, and the spy was lucky to avoid the lunge that was aimed in his direction.

‘And you berated me for poor weapon maintenance the other night,’ Turner crowed, his confidence flooding back now he had the advantage. ‘Hypocrite!’

‘You are still not leaving this cellar a free man,’ warned Chaloner.

Turner laughed derisively. ‘And who will stop me? Not you, because you will be dead. You seem to know rather too much about me, and I do not want you telling tales to His Portliness.’

Chaloner grabbed an old broom that had been left lying on the floor. Turner might have the upper hand at that precise moment, but the spy had faced worse odds. All he needed to do was even them out a little. He looked around quickly, and a plan began to form in his mind.

‘I appreciate that the King’s statue posed an irresistible temptation for you,’ he said, jigging away from the stabbing blade. ‘But I will never forgive you for involving Temperance. Or Meg, although I cannot imagine she knew why you needed her cart.’

‘Meg would have demanded a share,’ said Turner, watching Chaloner with narrowed eyes as the spy weaved between the crates. ‘So I kept her in the dark. But how do you know I involved Temperance?’

The question took Chaloner by surprise, given where they were. ‘Other than the stolen bust being hidden in her cellar? Well, there is the note offering to sell it to Margaret Symons, which is in her handwriting. You persuaded her to scribe it, lest someone recognised your own scrawl.’

Turner grinned slyly. ‘It suits me to be cautious. She had no idea what she was scribbling about, though — I doubt her affection for me runs deep enough to defraud the King on my account.’

Chaloner was not so sure about that. He moved further behind the sculpture as Turner continued to speak. His ploy to distract the man by encouraging him to gloat was working — like many criminals, he could not resist bragging about his achievements.

‘I assumed some wealthy Royalist would buy it, but the King made such a fuss about its loss that I dared not approach any. I had no idea he would miss it so much. God knows why — it is ugly.’

‘It is of his father,’ said Chaloner, astounded not only by the man’s ignorance of art, but by his lack of understanding for his victim. ‘Of course he will miss it.’

‘I tried selling it to artists in the end,’ Turner went on, waving his free hand to indicate Chaloner did not know what he was talking about. ‘And I even offered it to Greene, thinking he might exchange it for a pardon. He was a fool to refuse, because I do not see how else he will evade the noose.’

‘You think he is guilty?’ Chaloner stumbled when Turner managed to land a sly jab with his sword. It did no harm, but the colonel had moved fast, and Chaloner knew he would have to be careful. His lame leg was slowing him down, and the trek through the snow had taken too great a toll on his strength — unlike Turner, he did not have the exhilaration of a successful burglary to fuel him.

The colonel nodded. ‘I wanted to believe he was the victim of a monstrous conspiracy, as you suggested, but there are too many inexplicable coincidences. He must have killed those three clerks because they were more successful than him, and he was jealous.’

One more jig put Chaloner in the position he had been aiming for — with Turner trapped between two tall boxes where he would be unable to make full use of his sword. He took a firmer grip on the broom, readying himself for attack. Turner was still chattering.

‘I thought it would be easy to make a tidy profit from the statue, because everyone here is so fabulously gullible. For example, selling those lockets to swooning women has been child’s play.’

The confession made Chaloner falter. ‘You sold those keepsakes?’ he asked, astounded by the man’s audacity. ‘I thought you dispensed them to make each lady think she was special.’

Turner’s smug grin was back. ‘I did — I just wheedled a small donation from her at the same time. They are wealthy lasses, and do not mind lending me money for my poor sick mother.’

‘And then you make bets with men like me, saying you can charm these lockets away from their owners. But, of course, you do no such thing. Belle is still wearing hers, and the one you showed me this morning is a duplicate.’

‘I keep a supply in my hat,’ confided Turner, winking. ‘I almost lost them when Lady Castlemaine demanded I hand it over — I had to pretend I wanted to keep it because it was a gift from Bess.’

‘You could have returned the statue to the Earl,’ said Chaloner, aiming to disconcert him by turning the discussion to the crime that had transpired to be something of a disaster. ‘He would have been far too delighted to ask awkward questions, and you could have secured his good graces permanently.’

Turner sneered. ‘And what would he have given me for it? Nothing! However, I am beginning to see there is no alternative, so I shall make him a gift of it after I kill you. I will tell him you stole it.’

Chaloner dived forward, startling the colonel with the speed of his attack. Turner tried to fight back, but found he had insufficient room to manoeuvre. The spy met each feeble thrust with the broom, then jabbed hard, catching Turner a painful blow on the ribs. But Turner recovered quickly, and reciprocated by slashing at Chaloner’s legs. He missed, but the move caused the spy to stagger, and Turner took the opportunity to dart around a crate and tip Nero off his pedestal. Chaloner hurled himself backwards to avoid being crushed, and fell awkwardly. Turner grinned when he saw the spy sprawled on the floor sans broom, and prepared to make an end of him.

Chaloner looked around desperately for some kind of weapon — anything that would slow Turner’s relentless advance — but there was nothing. He took a deep breath and braced himself for the stroke that would end his life. But suddenly, there was a thud and Turner gave a sharp yelp of pain — someone had lobbed a wine decanter that had hit him square in the back. Temperance was on the stairs.

Turner whipped around, then started to stride towards her. Chaloner struggled to his feet, sure Turner was going to kill her, but his legs were like rubber, and he could not move nearly fast enough. The colonel reached her first.

‘Dearest,’ he said with one of his most winning smiles. ‘Chaloner stole the King’s bust, and hid it in your cellar. But he has been unable to sell the thing, so hopes to secure his future with the Earl by blaming you for the crime.’

‘He is lying,’ said Chaloner, although with scant hope of being believed. Why would she take his word over that of an adored lover?

‘We have been fighting,’ continued Turner, ignoring him. ‘But I won, and it will not take a moment to finish him off. Go upstairs, love. You do not want to see this.’

‘I heard you,’ said Temperance in a low, broken voice. ‘I was hard on your heels when you came down here. I heard everything you said.’

Unabashed, Turner winked at her. ‘You heard me confounding him with a false confession. It is a technique I have used to corner felons before, and you should not worry your pretty head with it.’

While Turner was talking, Chaloner summoned the strength for a final assault. He tore across the room, and crashed into the man, bowling him from his feet. The sword flew from Turner’s hand, and by the time he had gathered his wits, the spy was sitting astride him and his own dagger was being held to his throat. Turner regarded it in astonishment, as if he could not imagine how he had lost the encounter.

‘Stand up,’ ordered Chaloner, grabbing the sword. He was aware of Temperance’s bitter weeping behind him, and it tore at his heart. For two pins, he would have run Turner through there and then.

‘Do not let him take me,’ Turner begged, climbing to his feet and stretching a pleading hand towards Temperance. ‘I will be hanged. And anyway, I stole the bust for us, so we could-’

‘No more lies, James,’ Temperance sobbed. ‘Do not talk to me.’

Turner was shrewd enough to recognise a lost cause when he saw one. He turned to Chaloner instead. ‘If you let me go, I will tell you where to find Greene — or rather where Greene will be at dawn. The whores in the Dog and Duck have been sheltering him, but I met Meg earlier, and she could not resist confiding in me.’

Chaloner indicated that Turner was to precede him up the stairs. Temperance followed.

‘He plans to visit the Painted Chamber at first light,’ continued Turner, rather desperately. ‘According to Meg, he wants to collect a few things before fleeing to France. You can go there and arrest him. It will delight His Portliness, and save you your job.’

‘And why should I believe you?’

‘Because I do not want to hang,’ said Turner. His voice was unsteady. ‘So I am offering you valuable information in exchange for an hour to leave the city. Besides, I suspect you think I am the clerk-killer — you seem to be blaming me for everything else — and I want to prove my innocence by giving you the real villain. Greene.’

‘There is no need,’ said Chaloner. They reached the top of the stairs, and Temperance stepped around them to open the door. ‘You have an alibi for Chetwynd’s murder: Meg said you and she meet each Monday and Thursday and stay together from dusk until dawn. You were with her when he died.’

He heard Temperance catch her breath, but did not take his eyes off Turner. She tugged open the door, then stood aside for the colonel to pass. As he went, Turner reached out to touch her cheek. She ducked away violently, unwittingly placing herself between him and Chaloner’s sword. As quick as lightning, Turner shoved her hard, so she toppled towards the cellar stairs. Chaloner tried to catch her, but she was a large woman and represented a lot of weight. She fell, dragging the spy down the steps with her. Then the door slammed, and Chaloner heard the key turn in the lock.

‘Tom?’ asked Temperance softly in the silence that followed. ‘Are you all right?’

Chaloner was unable to answer until she had removed herself from his chest. Then he lurched up the stairs and hauled furiously at the door, disgusted with himself for letting Turner escape. By the time he had picked the lock, the colonel was long gone. He did not feel equal to a chase, so he limped back to the kitchen instead. Temperance was sitting at the table, sobbing so hard he was not sure how to comfort her. He said nothing, and knelt by her side, waiting until she was ready to talk. He was aware of the minutes ticking away, but nothing seemed more important than his friend at that moment.

While she wept, he thought about Turner’s claim. Was he telling the truth about Greene being in the Painted Chamber at dawn? Or was it yet another lie? And how far off was daybreak anyway? He had lost all sense of time. In the parlour, he could hear Wiseman’s voice, and the sound of women laughing. At least someone was having a good time.

‘No!’ exclaimed Temperance suddenly, brushing away her tears. She sat bolt upright. ‘Oh, no!’

‘What?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. It was not a reaction he had been anticipating.

She leapt to her feet and began to bundle him towards the door. ‘James — I have just realised what he is going to do. He will see us as the only thing standing between him and the fulfilment of his nefarious plans. He will run straight to your Earl and spin a web of lies that will see us blamed for robbing Tryan and stealing the statue.’

Chaloner disengaged his arm. Turner had just had a very narrow escape, and would be halfway to the coast by now, thanking his lucky stars for his deliverance. ‘Even he is not audacious enough to-’

She punched his shoulder, hard, to express her exasperation. ‘He is, Tom! He is the most plausible liar in London — he must be, if he can deceive me. And who do you think your Earl will believe? A Royalist colonel who solves murders, or you, who keeps to the shadows and insults him at every turn?’

‘But you heard him confess,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘You will bear witness that-’

‘You think the Earl will listen to a brothel-keeper, do you?’

She had a point. ‘But it is not-’

‘You do not know James like I do,’ she snapped. ‘He loves money, and we have just deprived him of five thousand pounds. He will be livid — itching for revenge. And what better way, than to see us accused of the crimes he committed? I cannot believe I have been such a fool.’

Neither could Chaloner. ‘It could happen to anyone,’ he began lamely.

‘He used me to mislead you,’ she went on bitterly. ‘He encouraged me to think Brodrick stole the bust, in his capacity as Lord of Misrule. And then he urged me to share my so-called theory with you — to throw you off his own scent. He is a villain to the core! But do not stand there looking bewildered, Tom! Go! Take my horse.’

‘You have a horse?’

‘I did,’ said Temperance grimly, when she led the way across the yard and saw the stable door ajar. Footprints in the snow showed where someone had dashed in and a nag had galloped out. ‘You will have to run. Your life — and mine — depends on you reaching the Earl in time to refute James’s lies.’

Chaloner tried to do as she ordered, but he was exhausted, and every inch was a struggle. The blizzard had dwindled to the occasional flurry, but the temperature had plummeted, and there was a crust of ice on top of the snow. Every step involved crunching knee-deep into it, and hauling the other leg out behind him. It would have been gruelling exercise had he been fresh, but his energy reserves were almost entirely depleted, and his leg ached badly.

He laboured along The Strand with his breath coming in sharp bursts. He began to sweat from the effort, but did not dare stop to remove his coat, afraid he would never start again if he did. When he reached Charing Cross, he was tempted to give up, and hope the Earl would be prepared to listen to him regardless of what Turner had said in the interim. But there was Temperance to consider. The Earl was not going to champion a woman who ran a bordello, whether she was innocent or not.

The city was eerily quiet, sounds being muffled by the blanketing snow. He heard the clocks strike five, and was surprised it was so late; it felt earlier, because most of London still slept. He did not imagine the Earl would be at his offices at such an hour, so he stopped at Worcester House, hammering on the door with a ferocity that hurt his hands. But the servant who answered it told him the Earl was not there — he had already gone to White Hall. Chaloner had miscalculated, and had lost valuable moments doing so.

He reached the palace after what seemed liked an age, and stumbled through the gate. He was able to put on a spurt of speed once he was inside, but knew it was too little, too late — when he arrived and placed his ear against the office door, he could hear Turner speaking. The monologue was occasionally punctuated by the Earl, and once by Haddon. Chaloner rested his forehead against the wall in weary despair. The colonel had already spun his tale, and he was elegant, plausible and charming. Temperance was right: the Earl would never believe Chaloner over his new darling.

So what should he do now? Slip away before he was arrested? But then what would happen to Temperance? He took a deep breath, and tried to hear what was being said.

‘… Greene in the Painted Chamber,’ Turner was declaring.

‘Is he?’ asked the Earl. ‘Then why have you not arrested him?’

‘I would have done, sir,’ said Turner patiently. ‘But, as I just told you, I have only just escaped from Chaloner and his friend the brothel-keeper. They locked me in their cellar all night, and I am lucky to escape with my life. It was they who stopped me from apprehending Greene.’

‘I do not believe you,’ said Haddon indignantly. ‘Thomas would never do such terrible things. You are just trying to have him dismissed, so you can be appointed in his place.’

‘Dismissed?’ echoed Turner. ‘I want him thrown into your deepest dungeon! He stole from the King, not to mention battering poor Tryan to within an inch of his life. And he told me he felt sorry for Greene, because he is a fellow criminal. A man like that cannot be allowed his freedom.’

‘Put up your weapon, colonel,’ ordered the Earl. ‘I do not feel safe with you waving it about.’

Chaloner reached for his own sword, not liking the notion of Turner being in the Earl’s company with a naked blade, only to realise he did not have one. The only remotely sharp implement to hand was Bulteel’s paper-knife. He grabbed it, and had just put his ear to the door again when there was a shriek.

‘Stop!’ cried the Earl. ‘I command you to disarm!’

‘You do not believe me,’ hissed Turner. ‘You think I am lying.’

‘We can talk about this like civilised men,’ came Haddon’s unsteady voice. ‘But putting your sword at the Lord Chancellor’s throat is not the best way to make your case.’

Chaloner had heard enough. He threw open the door and burst in, paper-knife at the ready.

‘Thomas!’ shouted the Earl in relief. Turner jerked around when the spy entered, enabling the Earl to scamper away from him. ‘Thank God! Turner has taken leave of his senses, and means to kill us.’

‘Well, why not?’ demanded Turner. His voice was cold and dangerous. ‘I have spent all night locked in a filthy basement on your behalf, and now you say you do not believe me! How can you take his side over mine? He is a killer, trained by Spymaster Thurloe, no less — and he refused to accept that you were right about Greene. He defied you.’

‘All that is true,’ said the Earl. ‘But you also said he was a thief, and that I will never believe.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Turner. ‘Go to Hercules’ Pillars Alley and see for yourself. He is-’

‘Because he has had plenty of chances to steal in the past, and he never has,’ replied the Earl. ‘His honesty is beyond question. You, on the other hand, know a suspicious amount about these crimes.’

‘Because I solved them!’ yelled Turner in exasperation. ‘You stupid, ignorant old fool! Why could you not have listened to me? We might have enjoyed a profitable partnership.’

‘Partnership?’ echoed the Earl in disbelief. ‘How dare you presume! Well, what are you waiting for, Thomas? I have had enough of this ridiculous situation. Take him into custody immediately.’

Chaloner glanced at his paper-knife, wondering how he was expected to arrest the sword-toting Turner when he was basically unarmed. But the Earl pulled the kind of face that indicated this was an irrelevancy, and that Chaloner should get on with it and stop making excuses.

‘Catch!’ shouted Haddon, tossing his ornamental dress-sword towards the spy.

Unfortunately, Chaloner could not move quickly enough, and Turner reached it first. He kicked it under a chest, then launched a fierce and determined attack, apparently knowing that to lose this time meant certain death. The spy scrambled behind the desk, and lobbed the paper-knife. Had it been a dagger, it would have killed Turner instantly, but it was too blunt to penetrate and only bounced uselessly to the floor. Outraged, Turner lunged across the table towards him, forcing him to retreat faster than his leg appreciated. Meanwhile, the Earl’s expression went from vengeful confidence to alarm when he realised his champion was not as invincible as he had thought.

Chaloner knew he was going to be skewered unless he thought of something fast. He glanced around quickly, then pretended to catch his foot in one of the Turkish rugs. The Earl gave a cry of dismay when he went sprawling. Grinning malevolently, Turner moved in for the kill. Chaloner waited for him to close, then kicked out hard, driving him backwards. There was a resounding clang as the colonel’s head connected with the precariously placed chandelier. He crashed to the floor and lay still. Climbing quickly to his feet, Chaloner ripped a sash from one of the curtains and tied Turner’s hands before he could regain his senses and create any more mischief.

‘I had a feeling he was not all he claimed,’ said Haddon, bolder now the danger was over. ‘I have a gift for sensing wickedness, and there is a lot to sense in him — he is a liar and a thief.’

But the Earl was no longer interested in Turner. ‘There is work to be done, Thomas. Greene is in the Painted Chamber, and it is time he was in custody. Go and apprehend him.’

‘I will come with you,’ offered Haddon kindly, reaching out to steady the spy when he reeled from pure exhaustion. ‘But we had better hurry, or Greene may decide to leave.’

Numbly, Chaloner followed him out, hoping he would have the strength to carry out his orders — he did not think he had ever been so tired. He was not so weary that he forgot to take Turner’s sword with him, however.

Dawn was breaking at last, a pale, distant glow in the night sky. It revealed a world that was unrecognisable, with roofs coated in a thick layer of white, and great clots of snow lodged in the branches of trees. The streets around White Hall and Westminster were used by monarchs and nobles, so labourers had been employed to shovel paths along them, which meant the journey to the Painted Chamber was much easier than the one from Hercules’ Pillars Alley. Even so, Chaloner struggled.

‘What is wrong?’ asked Haddon, eyeing him in concern. ‘Did Turner score a sly hit? I find that hard to believe. The Earl said he could never best you in a thousand years.’

‘Did he? When? Until a few moments ago, he was all for Turner.’

‘Yes and no,’ replied Haddon. ‘He is not a fool, and detected inconsistencies in the tales he was spun — in response to a few hints by me, naturally. Moreover, he was unimpressed by the fact that Turner’s sword broke when the Lord of Misrule attacked him, and asked me to investigate his military claims. I learned he was never a colonel in the Royalist army.’

‘He probably cannot cook, either,’ muttered Chaloner. He did not want Haddon with him when he arrested Greene. The steward would be in the way, and might be injured if there was a scuffle. He tried to think of an excuse to be rid of him. ‘I saw Bulteel buying more spices yesterday.’

Haddon stopped dead in his tracks and regarded him closely. ‘Did you? Do you think he might be planning a repeat performance of the pepper-cake incident? My poor darlings have still not recovered.’

‘Perhaps you should check them,’ suggested Chaloner, hoping his lies would not exacerbate the feud between secretary and steward to the point where it could never be mended.

‘Perhaps I should,’ said Haddon worriedly. ‘But what about you? You need my help.’

‘I will manage,’ said Chaloner. ‘It is only Greene — and I have a sword.’

Haddon’s face was a study in indecision, but eventually affection for his dogs won out. With a muttered apology, he slipped off in the direction of Cannon Row. Relieved to be rid of the responsibility of protecting him, Chaloner toiled on alone. He sincerely hoped Greene would not elect to fight, because he suspected that even a clerk with no experience with weapons would best him at that moment.

It felt like hours before he reached the Painted Chamber, and when he did, he was obliged to take a moment to recover — to catch his breath and wait for the burning weariness to ease from his legs. Then he pushed open the door and entered its cold, dim interior. It was empty on two counts — it was still too early for the clerks to begin their work, and Twelfth Night was a popular holiday, when men tended to stay at home with their families. His footsteps echoed hollowly as he walked. Daylight was just beginning to filter through the windows, ghostly and grey from the reflection of the snow outside. It did not take him many moments to see that no one was there, and he was not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

Now what? He sat heavily on a desk, uncertain what to do next. Should he hire a horse and ride to the coast, which was where any sane fugitive from justice would be heading? Or should he go to the Dog and Duck, on the off-chance that Greene had decided to remain in hiding with his prostitute friends? Unfortunately, either option required more energy than he had left.

‘What are you doing here?’

Greene’s voice was so close behind him that Chaloner leapt to his feet and spun around in alarm. He started to reach for his sword, but the clerk was holding a gun, and even in the poor light, Chaloner could see it was loaded and ready to fire. Greene did not look comfortable with the weapon, and the hand that held it shook.

‘You lied to me,’ said Chaloner, beginning to back away. ‘I believed you when you said you were innocent — and I believed your reasons for why the evidence against you should be disregarded, too.’

‘Yes, you did,’ agreed Greene quietly. ‘I cannot imagine why — I certainly would not have done. And stand still, or I shall shoot you.’

‘So the Earl was right,’ said Chaloner, doing as he was told — it was always wise to obey orders issued by men wielding firearms. By the same token, he knew it was reckless to taunt Greene with a discussion of his crimes, but he could not help himself. ‘You were running away when we caught you outside this hall. You had just murdered Chetwynd. But what did you do with the cup?’

Greene smiled, although it was a pained, unhappy expression. ‘I was not alone. I was never alone.’

For a moment, Chaloner thought he was claiming some sort of divine guidance, but then realised that God was unlikely to make incriminating goblets disappear into thin air. The clerk was talking about a real accomplice, one of flesh and blood.

‘Who helped you?’ demanded Chaloner. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, and he was ready to whip it out the moment Greene lowered his guard.

The clerk made a dismissive motion: he was unwilling to say. ‘I was expecting Turner this morning, not you. He has finally grasped that I am guilty, so it was decided to entice him here and kill him. But as you are here and he is not, I suppose I shall have to poison you instead. I am sorry, but it must be what is meant to happen.’

‘He will be here soon,’ lied Chaloner. ‘What will you do then? If you kill either of us, my Earl will hunt you down.’

Greene shrugged. ‘How? He could not trap me when he had you and Turner, so how will he manage alone? Besides, I am taking a ship to the New World tomorrow, and that will be an end to the matter. My master, who has guided my hand in everything, will have to use other faithful servants to carry on his work — thanks to your Earl’s determination to unmask me, my usefulness to him is at an end.’

‘Are you saying someone told you to commit these crimes?’ asked Chaloner in disbelief. ‘How in God’s name could you let yourself be used so? I thought you were an ethical man.’

‘I have tried to be.’ Greene looked miserable, a far cry from the gloating Turner. ‘I swore an oath to be honourable, and I have followed it faithfully. You no doubt think that murder is dishonourable, but these were wicked men, and my master said God wanted them gone — that it was my destiny to dispatch them for Him. And I have always believed everything that happens is predetermined, so …’

‘I suppose your master used your association with Lady Castlemaine to persuade you to do his bidding,’ said Chaloner, more strands of the mystery coming together in his mind. ‘You ran errands for her that decent men would have declined, and he threatened to tell. She gave you a book …’

‘L’Ecole des Filles.’ Greene blushed. ‘I should not have accepted it, but I was curious and Langston said it was good. She lied about him being alive at four o’clock, by the way — I killed him at two. But she did not lie because she knows I am the killer — her sole objective was to oppose your Earl.’

‘And everything Turner and I discovered about you was true: you did beg or steal brandywine from White Hall to disguise the taste of poison.’

‘I did, although it was not my idea.’

‘Chetwynd would have been easy to kill — he would not have been suspicious of a friend offering him a warming drink on a cold night. But how did you persuade Vine and Langston? With a gun?’

‘I told them it is more pleasant than being gut-shot,’ said Greene, gesticulating with his dag in a way that might see it go off. ‘And we have all seen enough of war to know that is true. I shall offer you the same choice, but I recommend the poison. It is quick and relatively painless.’

Chaloner had no intention of swallowing anything. His fingers tightened around his sword, although Greene did not notice — he was still talking, using the flat, resigned tone that indicated he thought the whole business had been inevitable.

‘None of it was my idea: I was his puppet in everything. He told me what time I was to go out, which routes to travel, when I should approach Munt for brandywine, even which clothes to wear. And he told me to toss Jones’s purses in the river, although your witness was mistaken in what he saw, because I really did throw ten, not three.’

‘You are a fool! Can you not see what is happening? Someone left a red-stoned ring in your home and hid brandywine in your office. I suspect it is your master, and that he intends to have you blamed for these murders — you said yourself that your usefulness to him is at an end.’

Greene nodded. ‘I will be blamed, but I shall be in the New World, where it will not matter.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Chaloner. He gestured at the gun. ‘If I am going to be killed anyway, what does it matter if you tell me his name?’

Greene smiled. ‘He will be here soon, and you can see for yourself. He always comes when I kill, probably to make sure I do not weaken and show mercy.’

But the last pieces of the puzzle had snapped into place, and Chaloner knew exactly who Greene’s master was. ‘My belief in your innocence was based on the fact that I was watching your house when Vine was killed, but now I see what happened. Your master told you to leave by another door when you went to commit the crime. And he suggested you hide your wet coat and shoes, too.’

Greene inclined his head. ‘He has a mind for details.’

‘And he was on hand to advise me to look for damp clothing when I returned from Westmister. He chose his victims because they were men who pretended to be upright but were flawed — Chetwynd’s corruption, Langston’s venality, Vine’s liking for blackmail. Earlier, in the Earl’s office, Haddon said he had a gift for detecting wickedness.’

‘He told me the same. He said hypocrisy is endemic at Westminster and White Hall, and that it was necessary to take a stand against it. But here he is now.’

The door opened and the Lord Chancellor’s steward walked in. He was not alone, because the train-band were with him, led by Doling and Payne.

While Greene’s attention was taken by the new arrivals, Chaloner darted towards him. Startled, Greene raised the gun and jerked the trigger, but the weapon flashed in the pan. Chaloner snatched it from him and hurled it through a window. Perhaps someone would hear the smashing glass and send for the palace guards. Regardless, he felt better once it was no longer in Greene’s unsteady grip.

He whipped around when the soldiers started to stride towards him, weapons drawn. Their message was unmistakeable: there would be no escape this time. He glanced at Haddon. The walk through the snow had warmed the steward, and he had loosened his collar. There was a faint scar on his throat, like the one the Wapping vicar had described. Chaloner also noticed he was wearing a ruby ring on a string around his neck. Haddon saw him looking at it.

‘Vine ripped it off me in his death throes,’ he explained, tucking it back inside his coat. ‘It belonged to my wife, and I did not want to lose it. Payne retrieved it for me, although I understand you got it first.’

Chaloner gazed at him. ‘I thought you were a gentle man, but you are responsible for four murders: Chetwynd, Vine, Langston and Lea.’

‘I did what was necessary. And I am sorry it must end like this — I had hoped to spare you. My plan was to kill Turner, and have you continue to assert Greene’s innocence, but that is no longer a viable option. Lay hold of him, Doling.’

Chaloner drew his sword as Doling approached, and they exchanged a series of vicious ripostes. But Payne circled behind them, sword jabbing at the spy’s back. When Chaloner spun around to tackle him, Doling knocked the weapon from his hand, enabling the others to seize him. He struggled when he was searched for knives, but it was a token effort, and he knew he was well and truly their prisoner. He did manage to kick Payne on the shin, though, causing the man to leap away with a howl of pain.

‘Do not harm him,’ shouted Haddon urgently, when Payne prepared to exact revenge. ‘We need him unmarked if my plan is to work — Wiseman will notice any suspicious wounds.’

‘He will,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘And he will know I am not the kind of man to swallow poison-’

‘You will drink it,’ interrupted Payne with grim determination. ‘We will make you.’

Chaloner bucked, aiming to free a hand and grab a dagger from one of his captors, but they were too professional to fall for such a trick, and all he did was encourage them to hold him more tightly.

‘You cannot escape from us,’ Payne jeered, clearly delighted to have the troublesome spy at his mercy at last. His grip was hard enough to hurt. ‘Not this time.’

Chaloner was beginning to believe he might be right. But he was not going to go without some sort of fight, and he had two weapons left to him: his tongue and his wits. He would just have to keep Haddon and his cronies talking until he could devise a solution to his predicament. Of course, his wits were like mud, and he could barely put together sensible sentences, let alone formulate a plan that might save his life. But he had to rise to the challenge, because he was determined not to give Payne the satisfaction of defeating him.

‘You are Reeve the corn-chandler,’ he said, trying to force his exhausted mind to function. ‘You disguised yourself to attend the coffee-house meetings, because you wanted to monitor the activities of your victims-’

‘He actually wanted one of us to go,’ interrupted Payne. ‘But Doling refused to be in company with such low villains, while I am not very good at subterfuge. He decided to watch them himself.’

Haddon said nothing, and for a moment there was silence. Chaloner flailed about for something else to say. ‘Why did you use Greene to kill, when you have a train-band at your disposal?’

‘Because it suited me,’ replied Haddon shortly. He turned to Doling. ‘I do not anticipate many clerks will arrive for work this morning, but we should hurry regardless. Besides, I do not want to leave my dogs alone for too long. I am sure I saw Bulteel lurking in Cannon Row when I went there just now.’

Doling did not answer, and his dour face was cold and hard as he watched the steward remove two bottles from a satchel and begin to mix them. The aroma of brandywine began to pervade the hall. It made Chaloner queasy. Payne noticed his reaction and grinned nastily.

‘Matthias Lea declined our concoction at first,’ Payne said. ‘But he drank it in the end. He was a vile creature — he betrayed his old colleagues in order to get a post with the Royalist government. So did his brother, who will shoot himself this evening, wracked by grief over the loss of his kinsman.’

‘You told me Greene was innocent when we met near your lair,’ said Chaloner, supposing he would have to keep Payne talking, given that Doling and Haddon were disinclined to be communicative. Of course, chatting would do him scant good if his wits failed to keep their side of the bargain. ‘Why?’

Payne shrugged. ‘On the off-chance that you might escape. Haddon was not quite finished with him and your belief in his innocence was staying the Earl’s hand — keeping him free to continue our work. It does not matter now, though. We have more villains to dispatch, but we shall use other means.’

‘What other means?’ asked Chaloner. Haddon seemed to be having trouble with his potion, because he was frowning in a way that said he was dissatisfied with it. Greene stepped forward to help.

‘Accidental drownings come next,’ replied Payne gleefully. ‘And after that, mishaps with speeding carriages. Eventually, evil will be eradicated.’

‘Drownings,’ pounced Chaloner. ‘Like Jones. He happened across your domain, so you pushed him in the river.’

‘Actually, he came hurtling down the alley so fast, he could not stop — he sank like a stone. Then you came along. You jumped in the water rather than fight us, then surfaced screeching for rescue.’

‘Jones was a thief,’ said Doling grimly. ‘His death I do not regret. He stole from the bank that now employs me — the news is all over London.’

‘Do you know why Jones was in the alley?’ asked Chaloner. He could see from the bemused expressions on the soldiers’ faces that they had not thought to ask. ‘Because he was chasing one of Williamson’s spies — a man who subsequently escaped.’

‘Our boat!’ exclaimed Payne. ‘We thought it had been swept away by the tide, but Williamson’s man must have climbed into it and rowed away.’

‘He will have told the Spymaster about you,’ said Chaloner, aiming to give them cause for anxiety.

Payne laughed derisively. ‘Who do you think provides us with quarters and weapons? Williamson often calls on our services, mostly to quell minor rebellions, which we do quietly and decisively.’

Chaloner was confused. ‘So, you are not Haddon’s men?’

‘That is none of your business,’ snapped Doling. ‘Enough talking.’

Chaloner turned to him. ‘How can you condone what Haddon is doing?’ he demanded, hoping to appeal to some deeply embedded sense of military honour. ‘You are a soldier, not an assassin.’

‘We are warriors, fighting vice,’ declared Payne, before Doling could speak. ‘It is no different from any other war. I used to pray with Chetwynd and the others in Scobel’s house, but their duplicity sickened me. The Restoration has allowed evil men to prosper at the expense of good ones. Look at Symons and Doling. They are decent, but they were dismissed to make room for scoundrels.’

‘Hargrave will be next,’ said Haddon casually, as though he was issuing invitations to dinner. ‘He rents out sub-standard buildings, and profits from supplying materials for Langston’s disgusting plays. Then Brodrick is a cruel man, who uses ferrets and bears for practical jokes, while Bulteel feeds pepper-cake to dogs, and embezzles money from his Earl.’

‘No!’ objected Chaloner, appalled. ‘Bulteel is the most honest man in White Hall — more honest than you, because he does not pretend to be virtuous while he breaks the law.’

Haddon abandoned his chemistry, and strode forward to strike the spy. ‘How dare you judge me!’

‘So much for no suspicious marks,’ muttered Payne, a little resentfully.

‘And you can hold your tongue, too,’ snapped Haddon, rounding on him. ‘You have no business gossiping when I told you we need to hurry. Do you want to be caught?’

‘We will not be caught,’ said Payne confidently. ‘Not when we have you to guide us. The best thing I ever did was swear that oath to you. You have led us down this glorious path-’

‘We all swore it,’ interrupted one of the soldiers, although he did not look entirely happy. ‘We pledged to live righteous lives, and signed a pact in our own blood. But-’

‘You swore to him?’ Chaloner’s thoughts whirled as he stared at Haddon. ‘Thurloe said Scobel was fat and bearded, but sickness can waste a man, while beards can be shaved. You did not die … Margaret Symons saw you! She said her uncle stood by her bed, but we thought she was delirious.’

‘She and my nephew nursed me back to health three years ago,’ replied Haddon. He did not seem disconcerted that Chaloner had guessed his real identity — and why should he? The spy was in no position to tell anyone. ‘And then I watched my so-called friends slide from the promises they had made. It has taken me all this time to decide to put an end to their sinfulness, but I wanted to give them every chance to reform.’

‘It was futile thinking they would,’ put in Payne. ‘As I have told you before.’

‘Symons should have inherited a fortune from you,’ said Chaloner, speaking more quickly when he saw Haddon — he could not think of him as Scobel — inspect the contents of the cup, and give a satisfied nod. ‘But he did not, because you were alive and still needed it.’

‘It has all gone now. I enjoy working for the Earl, though. He is impatient, condescending and opinionated, but good at heart. And he likes dogs.’

‘So did Scobel,’ Chaloner recalled. ‘One howled over his grave, apparently.’

‘The coffin was stuffed with my clothes, and the poor beast was deceived. Payne killed the man who shot her.’ Haddon gave the cup one last stir, then picked it up.

‘I am not comfortable with this,’ said Doling uneasily. ‘Killing wicked men is one thing, but-’

‘We cannot let him jeopardise our work,’ said Haddon. ‘And I have a plan that will ensure no questions are asked. Greene will kill him, then swallow the rest of the poison in a fit of remorse. The case will be closed, and I shall advise the Earl that nothing will be gained by further investigation.’

‘What?’ asked Greene in horror, as two soldiers stepped forward to hold him.

‘I told you they could not be trusted,’ said Chaloner.

Greene struggled instinctively when he was grabbed, but it was not long before the gloomy, resigned expression was back in his eyes. He went limp in his captors’ arms. Chaloner tried to capitalise on the diversion by breaking free, but Payne subdued him with several vicious punches that made his head spin, ignoring Haddon’s protestations about suspicious marks. The spy had been in many difficult situations during his eventful life, but this was by far one of the most serious — he could not see any way to help himself, no matter how hard he tried to force his sluggish mind to work.

‘Drink the wine,’ ordered Payne, taking the cup from Haddon and holding it out to Greene.

‘Refuse,’ countered Chaloner. His voice sounded thick and slurred to his own ears. ‘Do not make it easy for them — they promised you passage to the New World, but they repay you with death.’

‘Perhaps it is for the best,’ said Greene flatly. ‘I never was easy with the notion of killing, even for God. And working for Lady Castlemaine made me feel … tainted.’

‘You are tainted,’ said Haddon softly. ‘But if you take your own life, God will forgive you. Drink. It will soon be over.’

Greene indicated the soldiers were to release one of his hands, then he took the cup and held it to his lips. He hesitated for a moment, then tipped it back and swallowed. Chaloner watched in disbelief — he had expected the man to put up at least a modicum of self-defence. After a moment, the clerk doubled over and started to retch. Chaloner began to struggle again when Payne walked towards him, and succeeded in knocking the cup with his chin, so some of its contents slopped to the floor.

‘Hold him still,’ Payne snarled.

Chaloner summoned the last of his strength and fought, writhing and twisting with all his might, knowing resistance was his only chance of life. More poison spilled, and in frustration, Payne pushed his dagger against the spy’s throat. There was a sharp pain, but Chaloner knew it was a victory, because it was yet another mark Wiseman would question. More men came to pin him down. He managed to bite one and butt another in the face with his forehead. Curses filled the air.

‘It will taste of brandywine,’ snapped Haddon, becoming angry when he saw the length of time it was taking. ‘Do not make such a fuss.’

‘I do not like this,’ said Doling, backing away from the fracas suddenly. ‘I swore to fight evil, not to dispatch honest men for doing their duty.’

‘We have no choice,’ said Haddon impatiently. ‘Do you want to hang for murder? No? Then help Payne restrain him. The longer you let him keep us here, the greater are our chances of discovery.’

Liquid splashed on Chaloner’s cheek as the cup was lowered towards him, and he imagined he could feel it corroding his skin. He resisted with every fibre of his being, but his strength was spent, and Payne now gripped him so hard that he could barely breathe. His vision began to darken.

‘No,’ ordered Doling. ‘That is enough. Let him go.’

Chaloner was astonished when the soldiers promptly stepped away. Unfortunately, Payne did not follow their example: he responded by tightening his hold further still, and the spy found he was too weak to break loose. Worse, he could not breathe at all, and it occurred to him that suffocation was just as effective a way to kill as poison. Payne was about to do his master’s bidding without the toxin coming anywhere near him.

Suddenly, there was a tremendous crash, and the door flew open. The Earl stood there, Bulteel at his heels. The secretary looked terrified, and the Earl was panting hard.

‘Stop!’ the Earl bellowed. ‘I command you to stop!’

For a moment, no one moved. The train-band gaped at him, while even Haddon seemed taken aback. He recovered quickly, though.

‘Bulteel,’ he said, ignoring the Earl. ‘Your timing is impeccable. I said I would make you pay for what you did to my dogs, and I happen to have some spare poison. Fetch him, Payne. Doling can finish Thomas — we have wasted enough time on him.’

‘What about the Earl?’ asked Payne, releasing Chaloner and hurrying to do as he was told. The spy collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath. ‘Can we dispatch him, too? He is from White Hall, so he will be corrupt.’

‘He is-’ Whatever Haddon was about to say died in his throat, and an expression of astonishment filled his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing emerged. Then he pitched forward. Payne rushed to catch him, gazing in horror at the knife that protruded from his master’s back.

Chaloner managed to raise his head, and saw triumph gleam in Greene’s eyes. He could not imagine how the dying clerk had mustered the strength to lob his knife, but he had done it, and Haddon was choking as blood filled his lungs.

‘You-’ Payne’s face was as black as thunder, and he dropped Haddon to take a menacing step towards the clerk. Doling interposed himself between them.

‘Enough,’ said Doling quietly. ‘It is over.’

‘Are you insane?’ snarled Payne, trying to thrust past him. ‘We must finish this — if we let these men live, we will be signing our own death warrants.’

‘So be it,’ said Doling, pushing him away. His men stood behind him, silent and obedient.

Eyes flashing with rage, Payne turned on Doling, but his hot-tempered lunges were no match for the older man’s cool, practised ripostes. His eyes bulged as Doling’s sword bit into his chest. Then he crashed to the floor, and lay still. There was a brief silence, then Chaloner heard the tap of the Earl’s tight little shoes as he moved forward tentatively.

‘London is no place for us,’ said Doling softly. ‘We thought we could stop the seeping wickedness that pervades the city, but we became as soiled as the men we sought to eradicate.’

‘I should say,’ agreed the Earl, looking around in distaste. ‘And associating with Spymaster Williamson is unlikely to lead you along the path of righteousness, either.’

‘Payne was the killer,’ said one of the soldiers. ‘He stabbed two men and a woman just for asking about us. Doling tried to stop him, but Scobel had Payne under his thumb, and it turned him mad.’

‘I would like to take my men away from the city,’ said Doling, in the same low, level voice. ‘Lead them somewhere safe. Will you try to stop me, sir?’

‘No,’ said the Earl hastily, reading a threat in the quietly spoken words. ‘However, I suspect Williamson will ensure you never reach a court if you are captured, because he will not want his role in this affair made public. So I advise you to leave the country with all possible speed.’

Doling gave him a curt nod, and strode out, his warriors streaming at his heels.

Chaloner forced himself to sit up, aware that by bursting in with only Bulteel at his side, the Earl had just committed an act of remarkable courage. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked weakly.

The Earl raised his eyebrows. ‘That is not my idea of a heartfelt expression of gratitude, Thomas. What is wrong with you? I have just risked my life to save yours, and I am not a naturally brave man — at least, not where dangerous villains are concerned.’

‘How did you know …’ Chaloner was too tired to think of the question he wanted to ask.

‘You have Bulteel to thank for that. He happened to be near Haddon’s house in Cannon Row, when he spotted him conferring with Payne — a man who is wanted for murder in Westminster. He came to tell me, and we set off together. The palace guards should be here at any moment.’

‘Thank you,’ Chaloner managed to say.

The Earl shrugged carelessly, although he looked pleased with himself. ‘You are welcome. After all, I do not want to lose both my spies in the same day.’