The Westminster Poisoner (45 page)

But they had. The third level was similarly barricaded, and so was the fourth. He was nearing the roof, and could hear the
thunder of footsteps close behind him – the warriors were gaining, because of the vital seconds Chaloner was losing to check
doors. They were not
shouting, as many might have done in the excitement of the chase, but continued at a steady pace. Their discipline was formidable,
and suddenly the spy’s chances of surviving another encounter seemed very slim.

What should he do? Continue upwards, and die when there was nowhere else to go? Turn and fight now? But Chaloner had never
liked giving up, and something kept him running until the stairs ended in a tiny door that had daylight and a howling wind
coming through cracks in its wood. Now he understood why Doling had been so keen to keep the alley open – there really
was
nowhere else to go.

The door was locked, but Chaloner’s probe was at the ready, and he had it open in a trice. He jumped through it, and braced
it shut with a piece of timber. The lead soldier slammed against it, and Chaloner heard him swear when he found it blocked.
The man began to hit it, not wild, undisciplined blows, but methodical ones aimed at a spot where the wood was most rotten.
It would only be a matter of time before he was through. Chaloner glanced around quickly, assessing his options.

He was at the edge of a sharply pitched roof. There was only a five-storey drop to his left, so he turned right, scrambling
upwards towards the apex. Loose tiles rattled beneath him, slick with damp and moss. He missed his footing and began to slide
back down, only arresting his downward progress by grabbing a hole provided by a missing slate. The soldiers were almost through
the door. He began climbing again, faster this time, just as the door finally collapsed in an explosion of splintering wood.
He reached the top of the roof, and clambered across it.

The pitch was not so steep on the other side, but it
still ended in a five-storey drop – this one down to the alley. He looked at the building opposite, the roof of which was
lower. The soldiers were almost on him, and he could not fight them all – he would either be run through or pushed to his
death. But the roof opposite offered a chance, so he took several steps back, then ran forward and propelled himself into
space with every ounce of his strength. He heard wind whistling past his ears, but his flight lasted only a moment, and then
he was across.

He landed hard, driving the breath from his body and cracking several tiles. He tasted blood in his mouth, and for a moment,
he could not move. Just when he was beginning to think he might have done himself a serious injury, his legs finally obeyed
the clamouring orders from his brain. He began to scramble away, aiming to put as much distance between him and the train-band
as possible.

Then there was an almighty crash, and he glanced back to see he was not the only one capable of death-defying leaps: Payne
had followed. He wondered what sort of man would risk his life just to catch an intruder. Meanwhile, the remaining soldiers
were putting away their daggers, and turning to retrace their steps. They appeared unconcerned, as if there was no question
that Payne would succeed.

Chaloner found himself amid a chaotic jungle of rooftops that formed some of Westminster’s poorer houses, shops and taverns.
Most were in a dismal state of repair, and the going was treacherous. Fortunately the same was true for Payne, who took a
bad tumble that lost him vital seconds. It was just as well, because not only was Chaloner tiring, but he had jolted his lame
leg,
and was limping badly. He tried to increase his speed, but found he could not do it.

He was obliged to make a second leap when the roof along which he was crawling ended in a dizzying drop. It was not across
as great a gap, but he almost did not make it regardless. For a moment, he hung in space, suspended by his hands. It was Payne’s
jeering laugh that gave him the impetus to swing up his legs, and begin running again, this time along the edge of a large
hall. It ended in another sheer drop, so he made a right-angled turn, heading for the distinctive mass of the Painted Chamber.
Payne was hard on his heels, swearing foully, and promising all manner of reprisals for the trouble the spy was causing. Chaloner
glanced behind him, wondering whether to stand and fight now Payne was alone. But a rooftop was a precarious battlefield,
and there was always the danger that his bad leg would turn traitor and tip him into oblivion.

The Painted Chamber had a turret on one of its corners, and Chaloner could tell from its narrow windows that there was a spiral
staircase inside. He staggered towards it, and ripped open the door. There was no way to secure it behind him, so he began
to descend, hurling himself downwards three steps at a time, trying to ignore the burning pain in his knee. He could hear
Payne following, breathing hard and still full of curses and threats.

Eventually, he reached the door that led to the main hall, while the staircase wound on down towards the basement. He hauled
it open, then turned back, grabbed a wooden grille – placed in a window-slit to keep out birds – and hurled it down the steps.
Then he darted through the door and closed it behind him, listening with
baited breath to see whether Payne would fall for the ploy. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the soldier continue
down, following the clatter made by the tumbling grille in the belief that it was his quarry.

He braced a chair under the handle, then peered out from behind a pile of chests to see he was near the spot where Chetwynd,
Vine and Langston had died. The hall was full of people – clerks labouring over documents, government officials issuing orders,
and members of the House of Lords in their ermine-fringed robes. A row of pegs hammered into the wall next to him held a variety
of garments, so he grabbed a coat and a peculiar three-cornered hat, and donned them quickly to conceal his filthy clothes.
Then he strode boldly through the throng, trying to look as though he had every right to be there. No one stopped him, and
it was not many moments before he reached the main exit.

Out in the street, he saw members of the train-band everywhere, scanning the faces of passers-by. He reached Old Palace Yard
undetected, but Doling blocked the way to the comparative safety of White Hall – and while Chaloner’s disguise might fool
the captain from a distance, he was too dishevelled to risk passing too close. He needed somewhere to improve his disguise,
so he aimed for the abbey.

Westminster Abbey was always a curious combination of busy and deserted. The makeshift booths, selling books, food and candles,
that had once thronged the churchyard had gradually eased their way inside, so parts of the nave now resembled a marketplace.
But there were also a number of chapels and alcoves that were away from the bustle, providing small havens of tranquillity.

Chaloner found a quiet corner, and sat for a few moments, feeling his heartbeat return to normal and the ache recede from
his leg. He would have rested longer, but time was passing, and he could not afford to waste any. He stood, removed his own
coat and bundled it under his arm, so the stolen one did not make him seem quite so bulky, then washed his face and hands
in a puddle near a leaking window. By the time he had cleaned his shoes and donned the hat, he appeared reasonably respectable
– or at least, did not look as though he had been leaping across rooftops.

He was about to leave, when he saw a familiar figure. It was the surviving Lea, sobbing as he knelt at an altar. There was
no one else around, and although he knew he should respect the man’s privacy Chaloner had questions to ask and time was of
the essence.

‘I really am sorry about your brother,’ he said gently, kneeling next to him.

Lea spoke with difficulty. ‘His funeral is supposed to be in St Margaret’s Church, but he died serving his country, so I want
it here. In this grand abbey.’

‘How did he die serving his country?’ Chaloner raised his hands defensively when Lea turned on him, eyes blazing with anger.
‘Forgive me, but I thought he fell in the river.’

It was clearly not the time to mention that Matthias had been poisoned.

‘He could swim,’ said Lea fiercely. ‘And he should not have been near the river anyway – when we got home that night and realised
we had no bread, he went to the bakery in King Street, which is a long way from the Thames. It is obvious what happened: he
was taken to a quiet place and pushed in. He was
murdered
.’

‘Who do you suspect of the crime?’ asked Chaloner.

Lea gazed at him. ‘You believe me? No one else does. I wish we had never inherited Chetwynd’s beastly fortune, because it
has brought us nothing but trouble. Hargrave is a dishonest rogue.’

‘You think Hargrave killed Matthias?’

‘He might have done. He let us move into the fine house Chetwynd rented from him – and had already paid for – but it leaks
like a sieve and stinks of mould. We were better off in our old place.’

‘Is Hargrave your only suspect?’

‘Oh, no!’ said Lea bitterly. ‘There are plenty who wish us ill. There are the hypocrites who meet at John’s Coffee House to
ask God to make them richer and more powerful – Gold, Neale, Tryan and Symons. They hated Matthias for writing a pamphlet
about false piety, in which he named them.’

‘But you and Matthias attended these meetings, too,’ said Chaloner, not bothering to point out that the hapless Symons was
neither rich nor powerful. ‘I have witnesses who will swear to it.’

‘Yes, but that was years ago, when Scobel was still alive. Then there was talk of a Restoration, and it seemed foolish to
hobnob with men like Symons and Doling – faithful Commonwealth clerks. So we stopped going.’

‘Your strategy worked, because you retained your posts, while they were dismissed.’

‘No, we retained them because we took matters into our own hands. We told secrets about former colleagues, which persuaded
the right people we were loyal.’ Lea saw Chaloner’s distaste. ‘Well, what else were we to do? A man has to eat! Scobel died
of a sharpness of the blood soon after, but Symons said it was a broken heart,
because we had betrayed him. Of course, Symons had his revenge.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He would not let us rejoin the prayer meetings when all the fuss had died down. Our fortunes have bubbled along at a constant
rate, but they have not exploded, like those who continued to pray – Gold, Jones, Chetwynd, Vine, Langston, Tryan and Hargrave.’

‘Do you suspect anyone else of killing your brother, other than the prayer-group men?’ asked Chaloner, wondering why so many
intelligent people should be prey to such rank superstition.

‘I barely know where to begin.’ Lea’s expression was vengeful. ‘There is Spymaster Williamson, who does not like the way we
earn extra pennies – the government will not fall to rebellion now, so what is the harm in penning a few manifestos?’

‘Quite a bit, if enough people agree with the sentiments expressed in them.’

Lea grimaced. ‘I doubt it. However, Williamson concurs with you, because Swaddell said he would kill us if we did not desist.
Well, we did not desist, so perhaps he carried out his threat. Then there is Doling, who … But no, we should not discuss
him. He is too deadly for
me
to cross.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘You work in Westminster, near a certain alley—’

Lea’s face was a mask of fear. ‘What of it? We never saw anything that led us to …’ He trailed off.

‘You learned about the train-band,’ surmised Chaloner. ‘Dangerous men, who probably have a wealthy and powerful master.’

Lea put his face in his hands. ‘I told Matthias we should pretend not to have noticed them, but he said
our fortunes were on the rise at last, and we should seize every opportunity that presented itself. He left a letter, suggesting
Doling might like to pay a small sum to keep his activities secret.’

It was a misjudgement on an appalling scale, and Chaloner wondered how Matthias could have been so recklessly stupid. He took
his leave of Lea, and walked outside to find it was dusk, the short winter day over almost before it had begun. The soldiers
were still prowling around Old Palace Yard, discreetly scanning the faces of the people who passed, but the gathering gloom
helped Chaloner to elude them. He met Wiseman as he was approaching White Hall. The surgeon was trying to hail a hackney to
take him home.

‘You are limping again,’ said Wiseman, abandoning his increasingly bellicose attempts to attract a driver’s attention, and
turning to assess Chaloner with a professional eye. ‘Would you like my—’

‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly. ‘Have you heard whether Greene has been found?’

‘A warrant has been issued for his arrest, but the palace guards have had no luck in tracing him. His friends say he has no
reason to disappear, and fear he is poisoned or adrift in the river. His detractors say he has gone into hiding, so he can
continue to murder as he pleases.’

‘Then have you seen Turner?’

‘He has spent the day hunting the lost statue.’ Wiseman grabbed the spy’s shoulder suddenly, startling him with the strength
of the grip – the muscle-honing was clearly paying off, because it was like being held by a vice, and Chaloner could not have
broken free to save his life. ‘Have you been invited to Gold’s home for dinner and music tonight?’

‘Yes,’ replied Chaloner warily, wincing as the surgeon’s fingers tightened further still. ‘Why?’

Wiseman released him abruptly, and when he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically bitter. ‘I knew it! Gold has invited
everyone except me. I am never included in these affairs, although I cannot imagine why. I come from a respectable family,
and
I hold high office in the King’s Court.’

‘Perhaps it is because you describe surgical techniques while people are eating,’ suggested Chaloner, knowing from personal
experience that Wiseman’s dinner-table conversation could spoil even the most resilient of appetites.