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vantage point. Unlike his companion, Bennet made no attempt
     to disguise the fact that he was armed, and Chaloner was under the impression that he would shoot if he recognised his prey,
     regardless of the fact that he would probably hit the wrong person.
    More people joined the crowd, and Chaloner was jostled by a thin, ungainly creature with red-rimmed eyes and the stooped shoulders
     of a scholar. In a gesture of apology, the man draped a comradely arm around his shoulders, and Chaloner, knowing he was less
     likely to be spotted with someone than alone, made no effort to shrug him off. When he glanced around again, the wolf was
     swimming against the crowd in the direction he imagined Chaloner would have taken, although Bennet continued to monitor the
     faces that streamed past.
    ‘Do not be alarmed, friends,’ called a chambermaid from a window above their heads. ‘It is only Kelyng’s men blasting at each
     other with pistols. They do it all the time.’
    ‘It was the King!’ shouted a grubby boy. ‘His Majesty shot Kelyng.’
    Another rumour was born, and people seemed pleased to learn the identity of this particular victim. Smiles broke out, and
     the butcher’s apprentice pulled a flask from his jerkin and offered a toast.
    ‘It does not surprise me that Kelyng’s rabble are responsible,’ said the thin man to Chaloner, raising his voice above the
     babble. ‘It is common knowledge that he has been hiring felons and vagabonds these last few months. Such men will not be easy
     to control, and spats among them will be inevitable.’
    ‘Why has Kelyng been recruiting such folk?’ asked Chaloner.
    The man grimaced. ‘He
says
it is to protect the King against the remnants of the last government – rebels who remain loyal to Richard Cromwell – but
     I am more inclined to believe the story that he intends to take up where John Thurloe left off, and employ a legion of spiesthat will make him the most powerful man in the country.’
    Chaloner was thoughtful. Was that why Kelyng had sent men to intercept Thurloe’s post? Did he realise that in order to create
     such an army, the vestiges of the last one needed to be totally eradicated? Yet Snow and Storey were overconfident and stupid,
     while the wolf and Bennet had hardly been a model of competence, either. Thurloe was more than a match for any of them. Chaloner’s
     new friend was speaking again.
    ‘I wish a pox on the lot of them, personally. We were promised a new order, but this government is no better for the common
     man than was the last one.’
    ‘You do not look like a common man to me,’ said Chaloner. He ducked away from the fellow’s embrace; he was no longer in danger,
     and did not need to maintain the disguise.
    The man inclined his head in formal greeting. ‘William Leybourn: bookseller, printer, surveyor and mathematician. I live on
     Monkwell Street in Cripplegate, should you want to browse the finest collection of tomes in the city – including some written
     by me. And you? What is your trade, other than running for your life?’
    Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Why do you say that?’
    ‘I saw you race from Kelyng’s house as though it were on fire, and I know what it means when a man removes hat, wig and cloak
     on a cold winter’s day – he does not want to be recognised. I also saw the furious expression on Kelyng’s face when he realised
     he had lost you.’
    Chaloner was startled by the revelation. ‘That was Kelyng?’
    It was Leybourn’s turn to be astonished. ‘You do not recognise Kelyng?’
    Chaloner cursed himself for speaking without thinking. ‘I have not been in London long,’ he explained, slipping easily into
     the role of country bumpkin; a good deal could be learned by pretending to be a clueless provincial. The ruse did not work,
     however, and Leybourn narrowed his eyes and regarded him suspiciously.
    ‘Where were you before? The moon?’
    Chaloner changed tactics, opting for honesty instead.