At the top of the stairs, the King offered his Queen a solicitous hand across the treacherous carpet of hailstones, although Chaloner thought there was scant affection in the gesture. There was, however, a great deal of fondness in the arm he proffered to Lady Castlemaine. The royal paramour wore a triumphant smirk as she strutted inside, head held high. When she had gone, the King and Queen turned to salute the assembled masses together. The King had insisted on doing this, despite rumours that someone might try to assassinate him that day, because he liked to think of himself as a man of the people. He had even declared a public holiday, so work would not prevent the citizens of London from coming to see him.
The citizens were mostly elsewhere that inhospitable Friday morning, however, and the ‘crowd’ that had gathered to watch him ride from White Hall to Westminster Abbey was pitifully small. There was a smattering of merchants representing various city companies, along with a few Royalist fanatics who were always present at such occasions, and a gaggle of beggars who hoped someone might throw them some coins. When the King had returned from exile three years before, London’s streets had been packed with cheering, jubilant supporters, and Chaloner was amazed that Charles and his Court had managed to alienate the population quite so completely within such a short period of time.
Knowing a lost cause when he saw one, the King disappeared inside the church almost before he had finished the royal salute, but the Queen lingered. Chaloner raised his hand in greeting, because he thought a raker would probably do so, and was surprised when she waved back. It was the second time she had smiled at him since his arrival in England a few months earlier, and he was oddly touched.
‘There is no need to go overboard,’ snapped Adrian May, the agent with whom Chaloner had been assigned to work that day. ‘And while you leer at the Queen, an assassin might be priming his gun.’
Chaloner resisted the urge to point out that an assassin could prime all he liked, but the King was now inside the building, and so safe from danger. He nodded noncommittally, reluctant to quarrel.
May was a thickset man with a smooth bald head and a vast collection of wigs to cover it; Chaloner had never seen him with the same hairpiece twice. That day he sported a cheap grey one, because he was in disguise as an abbey verger. May not only held high rank in the government’s fledgling intelligence service, but was a Groom of the King’s Privy Chamber, too. Combined, these made him an influential figure in the world of British espionage. Sadly, he had scant aptitude for the business, and Chaloner disliked both him and his dangerous incompetence intensely.
Meanwhile, May disapproved of Chaloner because he had been away from England for so long that he was a virtual stranger in the country of his birth – after the civil wars, Chaloner had completed his studies at Cambridge and Lincoln’s Inn, then had immediately been assigned duties overseas. He had returned to England after the collapse of Cromwell’s regime, only to find himself regarded with suspicion and distrust by almost everyone he met. And May’s suspicion and distrust were the most fervent of all.
Pushing his antipathy towards May to the back of his mind, Chaloner began another circuit of the abbey, plying his broom as he went. Hailstones cracked under his feet, although the storm had abated and the deluge had dwindled to a hearty drizzle. May grabbed his arm and stopped him.
‘How many more times are you going to walk around?’ he demanded. ‘Williamson’s informant said the assassin ation attempt would be made during the procession – and the procession is now over. After a few prayers, everyone will go his own separate way, and the King’s life will be the responsibility of the palace guard again.’
‘He still has to come out, though,’ said Chaloner, too experienced to be complacent. ‘And that will be an ideal time to attack.’
‘But we have already searched for lurking killers,’ argued May, falling into step beside him. Chaloner wished he would go away – real vergers would not keep company with rakers and any would-be regicide with a modicum of sense would know it. ‘The streets are clear. Besides, there are a dozen threats on His Majesty’s life each week, and few ever amount to anything. We are wasting our time.’
‘You just said an assassin might be priming his gun,’ Chaloner pointed out, unwilling to let him have it both ways.
May’s voice became mocking. ‘I suppose the great Spymaster Thurloe taught you to be ever cautious. However, a good agent knows which threats are real and which are hoaxes, and only a fool treats them with equal seriousness.’
Chaloner did not reply. John Thurloe, who had masterminded Cromwell’s highly efficient intelligence network, had taught him his skills, and his decade-long survival was testament to the fact that he had learned them well – too well to be cavalier about matters as serious as threats to the King’s safety.
May grimaced in annoyance when Chaloner declined to discuss the matter. ‘You are not very talkative today. What is wrong with you?’
Chaloner pointed to St Margaret’s Church, a handsome building of pale-yellow stone that stood between the abbey and Westminster Hall. ‘See that beggar? He has been loitering in that porch for the last hour. Perhaps the threat of assassination is real after all.’
Rain pattered in the mud as May regarded Chaloner in astonishment. The deluge had turned his wig into a mass of sodden strands that reeked of horse, and his shoes squelched as he walked. An explosion of laughter came from a group of palace guards, who were waiting to escort the King back to White Hall. Their leader, Colonel Holles, hastened to silence them, afraid they would disturb the ceremonies inside the abbey. Meanwhile, May’s surprise at Chaloner’s statement turned to disdain.
‘It has been pouring all morning and beggars shelter where they can. As I said, you must learn to distinguish between real menaces and imagined ones, Heyden. You are a fool if you see anything sinister in that fellow’s presence.’
Tom Heyden was Chaloner’s usual alias, and only a handful of people knew his real identity – because he was kin to one of the fifty-nine men who had signed Charles I’s death warrant, Chaloner was a name best kept from Royalist ears. The older Chaloner had died of natural causes shortly after the Restoration, but there were still plenty of Cavaliers who would be delighted to wreak revenge on a member of his family. It was unfortunate, but there was not much Chaloner could do about it, except wait for the righteous anger to cool.
‘Look at his boots,’ he said shortly, becoming tired of May’s condescension. As they were obliged to work together, the man could at least try to conceal his antagonism. Chaloner had managed it, and he expected the courtesy to be returned, so they could concentrate on the task in hand. ‘How many vagrants do you know who can afford such good-quality footwear?’
May raised a laconic eyebrow. ‘I saw one with a fine lace waistcoat yesterday, which had clearly been filched from someone’s washing line. Decent boots are more indicative of a fellow’s morals than his designs on the King’s blood.’
Chaloner was not so sure. ‘I am going to talk to him.’
May moved his coat to one side, revealing the dag – a heavy handgun – he had shoved into his belt. ‘Go on, then,’ he jeered. ‘And if you do learn he is a dangerous fanatic with a musket under his rags, rub your nose with your left hand. Then I shall put a hole in him for you.’
Chaloner made his way towards the beggar, sweeping his brush back and forth to clear a path among the sodden litter of old leaves and rubbish that carpeted the ground. May leaned against a wall, affecting a relaxed attitude by removing a pipe from his pocket and tamping it with tobacco. The operation took both hands, which meant he would be unable to retrieve the gun very fast in an emergency. It made Chaloner realise yet again what a dismal intelligence officer May was, and was surprised Spymaster Williamson tolerated such flagrant ineptitude.
He moved closer to his quarry, keeping his head down to conceal his face, but at the same time watching the vagrant intently. The man’s face was far too clean, and the stubble on his chin indicated that although he
had not shaved that morning, he had certainly done so the day before. He was about Chaloner’s own age – early thirties – and his demeanour was that of someone in a state of high agitation. He lay on his side, in an attempt to look as though he was sleeping, but his knuckles were white as he gripped the hem of his cloak, and his dark eyes were full of unease as he stared at the abbey’s door – through which the King would emerge within the hour.
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 und
ermine 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.’
Blood On The Strand: Chaloner's Second Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner) Page 2