‘But how do we get in?’ gulped Greeting, openly petrified. ‘I can see from here that the back door is guarded, while you have just told us that a dozen deadly dissidents are outside the front one, along with the spectre, so that is obviously unavailable.’
‘Through the tunnel that leads from the garden to the cellar,’ replied Chaloner.
A flash of lightning showed Reymes gawping his astonishment. ‘What tunnel? Wilkinson never mentioned any tunnel. Of course, I was never happy including him in our plans – he will be part of this plot, you can be sure of that, the damned fanatic!’
‘Yes, what tunnel, Chaloner?’ asked Greeting uneasily. ‘And how do you know about it?’
‘Because I saw it when I explored the rectory the other day,’ explained Chaloner. ‘It exits by the compost heaps, which is why Wilkinson spends so much time there – either keeping the door free of weeds, or making sure that no one else tries to use it.’
‘That is interesting,’ mused Hungerford. ‘Because Kole liked to poke around there as well. I saw him several times, and so did the Gorges dancing masters. We often discussed it in the Swan.’
‘Kole was a spy,’ confided Greeting. ‘I caught him searching Underhill’s room once, and do you know what he said? That it was Underhill who was the spy! I did not believe him, of course.’
‘Perhaps Kole was afraid that Underhill might unearth something to harm his claim on the College,’ said Reymes. ‘I knew I should not have invited a person like him to stay in my house – he was obviously a dishonest rogue.’
‘So why did you?’ asked Hungerford curiously.
‘Because he offered to pay rent and I needed the money. Not that he honoured the agreement.’
‘Follow me,’ instructed Chaloner quickly, before Reymes could work himself into a lather about that too. ‘Quietly, if possible.’
Although the noise from Buckingham House was beginning to flag, it was still enough to mask the racket that Chaloner’s chosen helpmeets – Reymes, Greeting, Hungerford and the two courtiers whose names he could not recall – made as they edged towards the place where Wilkinson had so often knelt. Even so, Chaloner winced at every curse, scrape, crack and snap.
When they arrived, he removed a strategically placed log to reveal an iron handle set into a rectangular stone. He grasped it and pulled. It opened easily, suggesting that Wilkinson had gone to some trouble to keep it in good working order. Beyond was a dry, airless space filled with floating dust. He climbed in, wincing when Hungerford, who was behind him, began to cough.
‘Cover your mouths and noses,’ he ordered, and there was another agonising delay while they obliged, taking longer than they should have done because their hands were unsteady, either through excitement or terror.
It was an awful journey. The tunnel was low and narrow, obliging them to crawl, which was not easy over a floor strewn with sharp stones. There was a constant medley of expletives, which intensified when the passage tapered further still, and their progress brushed loose earth from the ceiling, creating more dust and less breathable air.
Just when Chaloner was beginning to think he might be wrong about where the tunnel went, they reached another trapdoor. He listened intently for a moment, then gave it a shove, relieved beyond measure when it swung open to reveal the cellar beyond. He had harboured an unspoken fear that Wilkinson or one of the brown-coats might have re-bolted it.
The basement was in darkness. He scrambled out, lit a candle and explored quickly while his companions caught their breath and brushed themselves off. But the cellars were empty, and the boxes of coins gone. Predictably, Reymes was hot-eyed with anger.
‘The Sick and Hurt Fund!’ he spluttered. ‘How could they? Is the King’s gold not enough?’ He turned furiously to the others. ‘They have stolen the money intended for the relief of those maimed in defence of the realm. Will you allow them to get away with such an outrage?’
‘We shall not,’ declared Greeting stoutly. ‘And if I survive, I shall write a song condemning them, one that will be sung in taverns and ale-houses for years to come.’
The others hissed vehement agreement, which was encouraging, so Chaloner led them to the stairs before their righteous anger could wane. And if luck was on his side, Wadham would return with Warwick and his men. He grimaced. Of course they would be of scant use, and what he really needed was Spymaster Williamson and a contingent of loyal, well-trained soldiers.
The rectory appeared to be deserted, and Chaloner could only suppose that everyone was outside with the carts. He sent the four courtiers to reconnoitre the bedrooms and attics, while he and Reymes took the ground floor. Three brown-coats were in the kitchen, packing the kind of rations that were taken on long journeys, but that was all. He and Reymes returned to the cellar, where the others were waiting to report that the barracks upstairs were devoid of bedding, clothes or personal belongings. The thieves were ready to depart.
‘We should strike now,’ said Greeting, pale with anxiety. ‘Or it will rain and our plan will—’
‘Strike?’ came a soft voice. ‘You will not be striking anything. And what are you doing in my house anyway? You have no right to be here.’
Wilkinson stood there with a brace of pistols, and Chaloner cursed himself for sending amateurs to search the building. He should have done it himself, because although the rector could not shoot them all, the sound of a firearm discharging would bring Sutcliffe running, and that would be the end of their effort to save the country from poverty-induced anarchy.
He tensed, assessing whether he could surge forward and disarm the priest without the guns going off. But Wilkinson’s hands shook with the thrill of cornering officials from the government he so hated, and Chaloner knew that overpowering him quietly would be impossible. A knife, then? Chaloner drew one, but then felt the weighty bulk of the telescope in his pocket. He shifted the dagger to his other hand, and eased the instrument out.
‘What you are doing is disgusting,’ snarled Reymes, regarding the rector with contempt. ‘You aim not only to steal from your King, but from the men who fought the Dutch on your behalf.’
‘Not my behalf,’ countered Wilkinson, while Chaloner winced at the rising voices. ‘It is a wicked war, and I argued against starting it. Not that anyone listened. And as for the King, I hate him. He took my lovely college and turned it into a prison. How dare he! It could have been the envy of Oxford and Cambridge had it been allowed to flourish.’
‘All you want is to court controversy,’ sneered Reymes. ‘But we have had enough of religious strife, and His Majesty is right to turn the place into something useful.’
‘It will not be a prison for much longer,’ vowed Wilkinson shrilly. Chaloner glanced uneasily towards the door, half expecting to see Sutcliffe there. ‘I am going to buy it with the King’s own gold, and become provost of the greatest theological foundation the world has ever seen. I shall create such schism and debate—’
Reymes cut across him with a bark of scornful laughter. ‘You think no one will notice you purchasing a large estate when the Treasury has just gone missing from your house? Besides, I imagine Sutcliffe will have something to say about your plans. He thinks the College belongs to him.’
‘He agreed to relinquish his claim in exchange for my help.’ Wilkinson’s eyes blazed madly. ‘Which I gave willingly – to thwart men like you.’
‘Not now, Reymes,’ murmured Chaloner, but the commissioner ignored him.
‘I might have known you had no honour,’ he spat at Wilkinson. ‘And I was right to accuse you of lying when you claimed to have followed Cocke all over London on our behalf last week.’
‘Oh, I followed him all right! I never did trust him. But it was not for your benefit, it was for mine. I want the gold here, and I needed to make sure he did not do something to put the scheme in jeopardy.’ Wilkinson jerked his thumb at Chaloner. ‘I lied to him, though – I could not care less whether Cocke brought the plague to Chelsea.’
‘So you a
re just another filthy money-grubber,’ said Reymes contemptuously. ‘You pretended to be accommodating, lending us your home and helping with our plans, but all for selfishness. You are a snake, who does not deserve to call himself an Englishman. A rebel, in fact.’
‘I am no rebel,’ shouted Wilkinson, and Chaloner cringed, sure the dissidents would hear. ‘I shall serve my country by making Chelsea famous for theology. Which is a lot more worthy than storing Dutch prisoners and hiding the King’s gold.’
‘Reymes, please,’ whispered Chaloner sharply, as the commissioner drew breath to respond in kind. ‘This is not the time.’
But Reymes had been obliged to suppress his temper for too long already, and it began to erupt like a volcano. ‘You will never be provost of anything,’ he screeched. ‘Sutcliffe will dispatch you, just as he dispatched Franklin. And it will serve you right for joining ranks with an assassin.’
‘He has already tried.’ Wilkinson’s face was alight with the power of his convictions. ‘But his blade missed, although I let him think he had succeeded.’
Chaloner did not blame the Garden Court dissidents for asking Franklin to play the role of rector when Warwick had arrived – the secretary was likely to have taken one look at Wilkinson and hauled the gold straight back to London. He tried again to silence Reymes, but the commissioner was beyond reason.
‘I will kill you!’ Reymes howled, fists clenching in fury. ‘You are scum, and God will help me strike you dead.’
Incensed, Wilkinson pointed a gun at him, hatred suffusing his face. Chaloner hurled the telescope as hard as he could, heart hammering as the rector’s finger tightened on the trigger. Just when it seemed the dag would go off, the telescope landed, hitting the rector right in the middle of the forehead. The gun clattered harmlessly to the floor, landing just before Wilkinson himself.
‘Lock him in the strongroom,’ ordered Chaloner, as the courtiers clustered around to congratulate him on his aim. ‘No, do not leave him his guns, Greeting! Take one yourself, and give the other to Hungerford.’
When the rector was safely secured, Chaloner led the way upstairs, where a flash of lightning and an almost simultaneous clap of thunder told him that the storm was virtually overhead. It would start to rain soon, and unless he acted fast, his plan would fail. He turned to Greeting.
‘Go upstairs and use a lamp to signal Eleanore. The rest of you, come with me.’
It was so long before Eleanore and Strangeways fired their first shot that Chaloner began to fear that they had either been caught or had run away. Out in the yard, the crack caused immediate consternation among the rebels, which intensified when the second shot rang out. Then the bomb ignited with a boom that sent several scurrying for cover, and others falling to the ground with their hands over their heads. A dead tree caught fire, sending flames leaping high into the sky. Suddenly, there was a yell.
‘The road north!’
What did that mean? And had it been Eleanore’s voice?
The third shot killed the regicide Dendy outright, which had not been part of the plan, although a victorious whoop from Strangeways told Chaloner that the fishmonger had used the delay to secure himself a better vantage point. At the same time, smoke billowed across the yard. It frightened the horses, which began to dance and fret. All three carts swayed precariously.
Sutcliffe, who had been standing in open-mouthed shock, suddenly swept into action. He whipped around, and screamed at his mercenaries to counter-attack. When they hesitated, uncertain where their assailants were hiding, he led the charge himself, but a fourth shot dropped him to the ground, clutching his leg. Most of the dissidents, more used to causing trouble than stopping it, promptly fled to the safety of the house. Only Lisle and Dove stood their ground, howling frantically as they tried to rally their bewildered troops.
Chaloner surged forward with a battle cry that he had not used since the wars. Overhead, thunder clapped so loudly that he did not hear the shrieking clash of metal as his sword met its first opponent. Then all was a chaotic mêlée as weapons flailed in the darkness, not helped by the lightning that flickered or the smoke from the fire, which made it difficult for the combatants to see. More than one fell to the blade of a friend, aimed in error.
‘The road north,’ howled someone a second time.
Chaloner was not in a position to ask what it meant. He was heavily outnumbered, forced to give ground again and again, and he could see at least one courtier dead on the ground. He battled on, although with the sinking sense that he had overestimated his ability to stop what had been set in motion. His only hope was that Eleanore or Strangeways would escape to tell everyone what had happened. He coughed as smoke rolled across him, distantly aware that Wilkinson’s tinder-dry garden was now well and truly alight.
The clamour of fighting, along with the stench of burning and the almost continual lightning, unnerved the horses further still, and one pair bucked so violently that their wagon lurched to one side. Several of the metal chests fell off and burst open, spilling their contents across the ground.
They were full of dirt.
Chapter 19
Most of the brown-coats abandoned the skirmish to race towards the carts, howling their shock and dismay, but Chaloner was being pressed hard by three resolute mercenaries, and dared not turn to see what was happening. He heard Lisle’s bellow of frustrated disbelief, though.
‘We have been betrayed! There is no gold.’
Sutcliffe hobbled forward, careless of the swords that flailed around him, and kicked open another crate. Gravel trickled out, clearly visible in the glow from the approaching fire.
‘Did you know, Reymes?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, of course,’ declared the commissioner defiantly, although it was patently obvious that he was as stunned as everyone else.
Sutcliffe was silent for a moment, then started to laugh – a harsh sound that drew glances of consternation from his men. The dissidents abandoned the sanctuary of the house and ran to join him, while Chaloner’s mind was a chaos of questions, even as he fought for his life. Had Warwick guessed that the Treasury was at risk, so had delivered decoy chests instead? Then why had he not returned to catch the would-be thieves red-handed?
Then a gunshot rang out, louder than the thunder that pealed overhead, and one of Chaloner’s attackers fell dead. Another bang saw a second follow suit. It was Eleanore, striding towards them and tossing away the guns as they were spent. Chaloner summoned every last ounce of his remaining strength and drove the last mercenary back in a frenzied assault, not stopping until the man was staggering in the burning grass. The fellow shrieked as his breeches ignited, and Chaloner left him frantically trying to bat out the flames with his hands.
‘Behind you!’ screamed Eleanore.
Chaloner turned to see Dove, sword poised for the kill, and only just managed to block the blow. The force of it knocked him off his feet, though, and he fell awkwardly. Dove came to stand over him and the blade began to descend again, but Eleanore swept forward and Chaloner heard her gasp as the weapon entered her body.
Dove was in the process of hauling it out of her when Hungerford appeared. The courtier was a terrifying sight, blood-splattered and savage-faced, and Dove fell under a brutal flurry of blows. Without a backward glance, Hungerford lurched away to kill someone else. There was a ripping crack as thunder rolled overhead, and the air was scarcely breathable from the fire that danced across the garden. The surviving dissidents were clustered around the carts, voices shrill with disbelief, but Chaloner only had eyes for Eleanore.
‘What a pity,’ she murmured. ‘I hoped you might stay here with me when all this was over. Chelsea is a pretty place, and you would be safe from the plague.’
‘I still could,’ said Chaloner, stomach churning as he watched her life slip away. ‘You are right: it is a pretty place.’
‘The Treasury carts,’ she whispered. ‘There are five of them, not three. I saw them while we were waiting for your signal. The oth
er two took the road north. I tried to tell you, but you did not hear … They carry the King’s gold. These are a ruse.’
‘How do you—’
‘I followed them, which is why our bomb was late. Warwick had caught up with them … he was laughing with his friends … saying the ploy had worked.’
‘He is Secretary of the Treasury.’ Chaloner tried to stem the flow of blood from her wound, although he knew it was hopeless. ‘He will be taking it to Hampton Court.’
‘Hampton Court is west,’ she whispered, barely audible. ‘He went north … He is stealing it.’
Chaloner did not care. ‘Never mind that. Concentrate on breathing.’
She nodded, but her eyes had a glazed, unfocused look. She smiled briefly, then her face went slack and her head lolled. He shook her gently, but there was no response.
Chaloner was not sure how long he knelt in the rectory garden, cradling Eleanore’s body, but he gradually realised that the sounds of battle had faded away. Dazed, he glanced around him.
The fire still raged, but it had rolled past the house, and the smoke had blown away, so it was possible to see. Most of the brown-coats and all Sutcliffe’s mercenaries had gone, unwilling to linger in a place of danger now it was clear that the promised riches would not be forthcoming. But the rebels remained, and they outnumbered Chaloner’s surviving helpmeets two to one. Grimly, each side waited for the other to make the first move, while Lisle stayed by the carts, doggedly smashing open box after box in the hope that one might contain something other than soil.
With another flicker of lightning and the loudest roll of thunder yet, the first drops of rain began to fall, hissing as they hit the fire-scorched ground. Then Wadham staggered through the gate. He gazed around wildly before stumbling towards Chaloner.
‘Warwick was not on the King’s Road,’ he gasped. ‘You can see along it for miles at the Bloody Bridge, even in the dark, but it was empty, so I ran west, to see if he was aiming for Hampton Court instead. He was not on that track either, which means he must have gone north…’
The Chelsea Strangler Page 39