Blood on the Strand (2 page)

Chaloner pretended to notice him for the first time. ‘You cannot stay here,’ he said, prodding him with his foot. The dagger
he always kept hidden in his sleeve slid into the palm of his hand, and it would be embedded in the fellow’s heart long before
May could draw and aim his gun. ‘Go and sleep somewhere else.’

The ‘beggar’ made a show of coming awake, rubbing his eyes. ‘It is raining,’ he whined, trying without success to disguise
a voice that was cultured. ‘Do not oust me until it eases. I mean no harm.’

But Chaloner had detected a bulge under the man’s cloak that could only belong to a weapon. Since few regicides hatched their
nefarious plans alone, he knew Williamson would want to question this one about his associates, which meant taking him alive.
He made a halfhearted swipe at a patch of sludge with his brush, then let the broom handle slide from his hands. It dropped
into the man’s lap. He leaned down, as though to retrieve it, then made a grab for the gun instead. The vagrant was no match
for his speed and dexterity, and Chaloner had him disarmed in an instant. The fellow’s jaw dropped in horror when his own
dag was pressed against his temple.

‘This is not how it appears,’ he gabbled in alarm, promptly abandoning his rough speech. He was round and plump, with an ancient
scar above one eye that looked as though it might have been earned in the wars. ‘It is nothing to do with the King. I need
to speak to Spymaster Williamson, but his servants refuse to let me see him, and I am desperate. All I want is a few moments
of his time. Please!’

‘That can be arranged,’ said Chaloner, thinking the fellow would be speaking to Williamson now, whether he wanted to or not.
He stepped away and indicated with a jerk of the gun that his captive should stand. ‘What do you want to talk to him about?’

The vagrant struggled to his feet. ‘There has been a misunderstanding that
must
be put right. I am accused of dreadful things, but I am innocent, and Williamson is the only one who will believe me.’

Chaloner raised his hand to summon May, but his colleague’s attention was focused entirely on his pipe: the rain was making
it difficult to light. He was glad he was not rubbing his nose in a frantic plea for help. ‘That verger will—’

‘No!’ cried the beggar urgently. ‘Your “verger” is a spy called Adrian May – one of the men who refuses to let me speak to
Williamson. Do not call him, I beg you!’

‘He will not stop you from seeing Williamson now,’ said Chaloner dryly, indicating the weapon he had confiscated.

‘I
know
I should have devised another way, but my wits are too frayed for sensible thought,’ said the man miserably. Chaloner was
under the impression that he was speaking more to himself than to his captor. ‘It occurred to me to throw myself on Lord Clarendon’s
mercy, but his secretary is even more protective of his master than Williamson’s minions are, and he guards him like a jealous
dog.’

‘What is your name?’ Chaloner placed his hand on the fellow’s shoulder and began to propel him towards Colonel Holles – as
Master of the Palace Guard, it fell to Holles to transport suspects to a place where they could be interrogated. But before
his prisoner could reply, May became aware that the situation had changed while he had been preoccupied with tobacco. He dropped
his pipe and hauled the dag from his belt.

‘He is going to shoot!’ cried the beggar, stopping in horror. ‘He is aiming right at me!’

‘May, wait!’ yelled Chaloner, watching his colleague cock his gun so it was ready to fire. He held the confiscated weapon
aloft, to show him there was no danger.

‘He has a knife!’ bellowed May in reply. Chaloner
glanced at the beggar’s hand and saw it was true, although it posed no danger. Chaloner still held his own blade and, if
he missed, handguns were designed with large, bulbous butts that could be used as clubs. There was no possibility of him being
bested in a scuffle.

‘He is going to kill me!’ shrieked the vagrant, becoming more agitated as May ran a few steps nearer, dag held in both hands.
‘I meant no harm – my gun is not even loaded. Look for yourself.’

Chaloner did not need to look. First, the weapon reeked of burned oil, and he knew such a very dirty gun was unlikely to work.
Secondly, the powder pan was empty, which meant there was nothing to ignite the charge and make the missile fly. And thirdly,
there was no ball in the barrel anyway.

‘Disarm,’ he called to May, knocking the blade from the beggar’s unresisting hand. May was now quite close. ‘He is harmless.’

May took a firmer grip on his dag and squinted along the barrel. The beggar grabbed Chaloner’s arm and cowered behind him.
With a sense of shock, Chaloner saw May intended to shoot anyway.

‘Terrell is not what he says,’ stammered the vagrant, desperately trying to shield himself. ‘Tell Williamson that, but no
one else. And then save Dillon.’

‘What?’ Most of Chaloner’s attention was on May, who was jigging this way and that as he tried to get a clear view of his
intended victim. If he did shoot the fellow, it would be cold-blooded murder, and Williamson would be furious that an opportunity
to question a possible assassin had been lost.

‘Dillon,’ repeated the beggar, tugging Chaloner’s coat hard enough to make him stumble. It was a stupid move,
because it exposed him to May. ‘You
must
save Dillon, and Burne is another who is—’

There was a sudden crack, loud enough to startle a flock of pigeons and send them flapping into the air. Immediately, Holles
appeared with a sword in his hand, looking around wildly. Next to Chaloner, the beggar dropped to the ground, while May shook
the smoke from his gun and replaced the weapon in his belt.

There was a moment of silence, then pandemonium erupted. So many soldiers rushed from the abbey that Chaloner wondered whether
any had remained behind to guard the King. He thought about the danger of diversions, and suggested some went back inside.
No one listened to him.

May was the hero of the day. He maintained a cool, dignified poise as the palace guards clapped him on the back and congratulated
him for dispatching a would-be assassin. Colonel Holles snatched the gun from Chaloner, eager to inspect the weapon that was
to have been used. He did not approve of regicide on his watch, and was incensed by the notion that a plot might have come
close to succeeding.

‘This dag is a disgrace,’ he said with a good deal of professional disdain. ‘It is not even loaded – and probably would not
have worked if it had been. What sort of murderer was he?’

‘A dead one,’ said May smugly. ‘And one we shall not have to pay the executioner to hang.’

While May basked in the glory of his achievement, Chaloner bent to examine the vagrant. He moved the ragged jacket aside to
look at the hole caused by the ball, and was surprised May’s gun had caused such massive
damage – it was not a large-bore weapon. Of course, May
had
fired from very close range, and Chaloner had seen enough death on the battlefield to appreciate the deadly power of firearms
when their victims were only a few yards distant. A red splatter on his own cloak indicated how near to him the beggar had
been standing, and he glanced uneasily at May, wondering how confident he had been of his own marksmanship.

‘It would have been better to keep him alive,’ he said in an undertone, when the soldiers’ attention had moved to Holles and
the deplorable state of the felon’s weapon. ‘Now we do not know his name or the identity of the man who sent him – assuming
he
was
an assassin, and not just someone who wanted an innocent word with a member of His Majesty’s government.’

He was not sure what to believe about his brief conversation with the beggar, although he was unwilling to share details with
May – the man would assume he was trying to undermine him, and he did not want the animosity between them to escalate any
further.

May was dismissive. ‘He was not working for anyone. You can tell from his pathetic disguise that he was a rogue fanatic, acting
alone. If you were familiar with London – as a spy should be – then you would be aware that these lunatics appear at regular
intervals.’

Chaloner was unconvinced. ‘Now he is dead, we will never know, will we?’

‘He had a knife,’ argued May. ‘And do not tell me you had seen it already, because I saw your surprise when I pointed it out.
I saved your life, and you should be thanking me, not criticising me.’

Chaloner was astonished May should have drawn such a conclusion. ‘I was in no danger—’

‘That is not how it appeared to me,’ said May icily. ‘And I shall say so in my report to Williamson, along with the fact that
you
bungled the arrest. If you had searched him properly, he would not have drawn a dagger and I would not have been obliged
to kill him. This death was
your
fault.’

Chaloner sighed, knowing May would do exactly what he said. And he was loath to admit it, but May was right: he
should
have looked for other weapons on his captive. However, that did not detract from the fact that May had been very eager to
open fire. Chaloner wondered why. It would certainly not have been to protect his colleague from harm.

May smiled unpleasantly when he made no reply. ‘I saw him muttering to you before I dispatched him. What did he say?’

‘He was begging not to be murdered, because he had important information to pass to the Spymaster General. Will you include
that in your report, too?’

May did not believe him. ‘How could a low villain like him know anything to interest us?’

‘He was not a “low villain”. He was well spoken and he talked about White Hall as though he had been there. I suspect you
have made a grave mistake by murdering him.’

‘If you say it was murder once more, I shall bury you next to him. You were bad enough in Ireland last month – we could have
crushed that rebellion in half the time if you had not been so damned cautious.’ May became aware Chaloner was barely listening
to him, so said something spiteful in an attempt to regain his attention. ‘Williamson will never hire you, you know.’

Chaloner was inspecting three pale bands on the beggar’s fingers, which suggested the man had worn rings
until recently. What pauper habitually donned jewellery? ‘I do not need him to hire me – not any more. I am perfectly happy
with Lord Clarendon.’

May sneered at him, unconvinced. ‘The feud between your new master and the Earl of Bristol means you will
never
be promoted to the secret services. You see, if Williamson does employ you, it will look as though he is taking sides – trying
to harm Clarendon by depriving him of a useful retainer.’

‘I doubt Clarendon sees it like that,’ said Chaloner, sure it was true. He was useful to the Earl, but a long way from being
indispensable. He wished it were otherwise, because courtiers were constantly being urged to ease back on their expenditure,
and he was always worried that the Earl might see eliminating the salary of his spy as an easy way to cut costs.

‘We shall see. Do not think you will come to Williamson as long as
I
am his friend, anyway. He listens to me, and I shall oppose any application you make.’

Chaloner turned away, not dignifying the threat with a response. He thought about what the beggar had said before he was shot,
and wondered how best to communicate it to the Spymaster. Finding a way to Williamson’s White Hall offices without May’s
knowledge presented no great challenge, but he suspected that appearing unannounced would not be a good idea – Williamson
was likely to have him arrested before he could speak. He would have to find another way to pass on the information.

Or should he? The vagrant’s words had meant nothing to him, and if they were meaningless to Williamson, too, then was there
any point in relaying them? He decided to make a few enquiries first, to see if he could unravel their meaning. Repeating
garbled sentences verbatim was likely
to make him look stupid, and he needed to provide Williamson with solid, useful intelligence if he wanted to make a good
impression – and despite May’s warnings, Chaloner
would
apply for work with the government if his earl ever dismissed him. Therefore, he had to determine why Terrell was not what
he claimed, who Burne was, and why Dillon required saving.

So it was decided. Only when he had answers would he ask to speak to Williamson.

It was still raining when the royal party emerged from the abbey, and there was an undignified scramble for horses and carriages.
The King and Lady Castlemaine were first away, eager to escape the damp chill of the medieval building. Buckingham and the
Queen were quick in following, but Bristol took rather longer, hopping about with one foot in the stirrup when his lively
horse would not keep still as he tried to mount it. Eventually, he took a second tumble. Clarendon happened to be watching,
and this time he sniggered openly. Bristol scowled in a way that made him look dangerous.

Williamson nodded to May, silently ordering him to assist the wallowing noble, although Chaloner could not tell whether he
did so from compassion, friendship or pity. Virtually the entire Court had taken sides in the Bristol–Clarendon dispute, but
no one knew where Williamson stood. Chaloner assumed he was waiting to see who would win before committing himself, which
was the sensible option for any ambitious politician.

Eventually, all the courtiers had been helped on to horses or into carriages, and Colonel Holles came to stand down the security
detail. His Majesty had been pleased with their diligence, he said, especially when it
transpired that an assassin had indeed been waiting. As an expression of appreciation, he had provided a few shillings for
ale, so they could drink to his health that evening. There was a cheer, which faltered somewhat when it transpired that the
King’s idea of ‘a few’ was two, which would not go far among so many men.

Chaloner knew his earl would want an eyewitness account of the beggar’s death, so he decided to stop at White Hall on his
way home. The streets were strangely quiet, and the churches, which had been compelled to hold special services of thanksgiving
for the three-year anniversary, were mostly empty. The stalls that lined busy King Street were dutifully shuttered, although
their owners had been furious at the royal decree prohibiting trade that day – Fridays were always good for commerce because
of the many markets taking place. Dogs scavenged among the rubbish that carpeted the cobbles, and a preacher stood on a box
and informed passers-by that the world would shortly be consumed by fire and brimstone, so folk had better repent while they
could.