A Conspiracy of Violence (12 page)

Clarendon’s quarters were impressive, as befitted a
principal advisor to the King. They boasted several cartoons by famous Flemish artists, and a Renaissance sculpture of Hercules.
Chaloner was admiring the latter when the Earl entered, so soft footed in velvet slippers that he did not hear him arrive,
and spun around in alarm at the sound of a voice so close behind him. His reaction startled Clarendon, who dropped the vase
he was carrying. It shattered with a crash on the marble floor, and the guards in the hall immediately burst in, pistols at
the ready.

‘Intruder!’ yelled their captain, spotting Chaloner. ‘Shoot him!’

‘No!’ cried the Earl, waving short, plump arms as they aimed their weapons and Chaloner dived for cover behind him. ‘It was
an accident. A vessel slipped from my fingers.’

The captain regarded Chaloner with narrowed eyes. ‘How did you get in?’

‘I admitted him, sir,’ said one of the soldiers uncomfortably. His voice took on a wheedling tone. ‘He has a written invitation.’

‘Give it to me,’ ordered the captain. He snatched the proffered missive and read it several times, while Chaloner watched
uneasily, hoping no one had made a mistake. Eventually, it was handed back with a curt nod, and the captain turned to Clarendon.
‘It is lucky you stopped us, My Lord, or we would have killed him. He is not on the visitors list you submitted on Friday.’

‘He is from Thurloe,’ said the Earl in a whisper, although his voice was still loud enough for Chaloner to hear, and probably
some of the soldiers, too. He gave a slow, meaningful wink. ‘
Thurloe
. We do not include
his
men on our official lists.’

‘Another spy,’ said the captain flatly. ‘Well, I hope he
is better than the last one. Mind your feet, sir. You do not want to cut yourself through those thin slippers. What did you
drop? A wine jug?’

‘A crystal vase,’ said Clarendon, inspecting the mess sorrowfully. ‘I always said it was a bad idea to use exquisite art for
everyday use, but the King likes to be surrounded by fine things.’

‘I had noticed,’ muttered the captain. He spoke a little more loudly. ‘I shall fetch a brush, sir. Meanwhile, I advise you
not to walk about.’

The Lord Chancellor nodded then waved a chubby, ruff-clad hand to indicate the soldiers were to leave. While they shuffled
out, Chaloner studied him covertly. Sir Edward Hyde, recently dubbed Earl of Clarendon, was short, fat and fussy, and did
not look at all like the kind of man who had navigated a disenfranchised king through years of bitter exile. He wore a fluffy
wig that made his face look pouchy, and his clothes were tight and unflattering. Chaloner had heard that younger, wittier
courtiers had no respect for Clarendon, although he was reputed to be a man of principle, and that they teased him about his
obesity.

‘Philip Evett is a good sort,’ said Clarendon, once the door had closed. ‘He has been with me for years – ever since I went
into exile with the King – and it is good to have a trustworthy man in charge of my personal safety. Did you see how quickly
he dashed in to protect me?’

Chaloner nodded, not pointing out that if the sound had been a discharging gun, then the captain would have been too late.
‘Yes, My Lord.’

Clarendon lowered his voice. ‘Did Thurloe tell you what happened to Colonel Clarke? He was murdered – his belly sliced open
like a pig’s. It happened not far from where you are standing now.’

‘Did it?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether the Earl was trying to unnerve him by describing what had happened to his predecessor.
Was it some sort of warning, or perhaps a threat?

‘In a corridor that leads to the servants’ quarters. The poor maid who found him screamed herself hoarse with fright. I had
asked him to investigate a series of thefts from the kitchens, so I imagine he was stabbed because he had uncovered the villain.
I found papers in a secret pocket in his tunic, but they were written in cipher, and I have not been able to break the code.’
The Earl rummaged on his desk and presented Chaloner with several slivers of parchment. ‘Can you do it?’

Chaloner could: it was the common substitution code he and other agents used for sending routine messages to Thurloe, and
was familiar enough to allow him to read it without a crib. One message was short, and informed the recipient that Seven were
in considerable danger. The other was longer:
It hath pleaysed God hitherto to give alle men an opportunitaye to Praise God’s One Sonne above alle else, and I am with greate
passion to see it donne
.

‘These were concealed in Clarke’s clothing?’ he asked, thoughts tumbling in confusion. ‘Praise God’s one son’ was the phrase
Hewson had muttered as he had died; Hewson had also made mention of the number seven.

The Earl nodded as he took them back, stuffing them carelessly inside a drawer. ‘Yes. I assume they relate to the investigation
he was conducting for me, but I cannot be certain until I have their meaning.’

‘Perhaps I could look into the matter for you, sir,’ suggested Chaloner, trying to sound as though the idea had just occurred
to him.

‘No, thank you,’ said Clarendon curtly. ‘He was Thurloe’s kinsman, sent to me as a favour because I asked for a good spy.
I feel responsible for his death, and consider it far too important a matter to entrust to someone I do not know – no offence.
I will order Evett to work on it with me.’

Chaloner tried again. ‘I have some experience with—’

‘I said no,’ said Clarendon firmly. ‘If you see him, you can tell Thurloe that he need not fear the culprit will go unpunished,
because
I
am looking into the crime personally. Now, since we are alone, we should take the opportunity to talk privately, Heyden.
Or do you prefer to be called Chaloner?’

Chaloner kept his expression blank. ‘Either is acceptable, sir,’ he said, assuming Thurloe had told him his real name, although
he could not imagine why. His family connections would hardly encourage the Earl to hire him, which meant he would not be
able to do what Thurloe had asked.

Clarendon pursed his lips. ‘I expected to see
some
reaction when I mentioned the fact that I know your uncle signed the warrant that killed the King’s father.’

‘I did not condone my kinsman’s actions, sir. I would have stopped him, had I been able.’

‘Brave words, but unfortunately not ones that will see you safe from vengeful hands – and there are far too many of those
around these days. Thurloe did not tell me, in case you wonder how I come to know – your uncle did. I met him in France once,
where he mentioned a nephew of the same name who was Thurloe’s Dutch agent. I drew my own conclusions when Thurloe described
your career. Besides, you have your uncle’s eyes – a fine dark grey. However, this information will remain
with me alone, and in White Hall you will be known as Thomas Heyden.’

‘Very well, sir,’ said Chaloner, wishing his uncle had been less verbose. Between dragging him to war and telling Royalists
he was Cromwell’s spy, it was almost as if the man had wanted him killed. He might have assumed that were the case, had it
not been for the fact that he was the only one entrusted with the secret of the hidden silver.

The Earl sighed irritably. ‘You could at least pretend to be grateful for my magnanimity. Do you know why I am prepared to
keep your identity quiet?’

‘Because Thurloe said that knowing a secret about someone will ensure he will never betray you?’

Clarendon’s eyebrows shot up. ‘He most certainly did not! He said the key to loyalty is making sure people are paid on time,
if you must know. But I am prepared to protect you because our country has an urgent need for reliable men, and we are not
in a position to be choosy. I understand you know a great deal about Holland, and you speak the language well enough to pass
for a Dutchman.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Thurloe thinks you should return there as soon as possible, because he says there will be a war soon. The problem with
that plan is that Cerberus – that is what I call George Downing, because he is such a twofaced dog – does not share Thurloe’s
good opinion of you, and Joseph Williamson, who has taken charge of the intelligence services, declines to hire men with dubious
testimonials. Thurloe suggests we put you to the test – we use you here for a few months and allow you to prove yourself.
Will you accept the challenge?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Chaloner, feeling as though he was selling his soul – and to a man who did not know that the mythical
Cerberus had three heads. ‘What would you like me to do?’

Clarendon smiled. ‘Here comes Evett with the brush, so we shall have no more talk of regicides and spies in Holland. I shall
tell you what I want, as soon as we have cleaned up this mess.’

The captain had brought the kind of broom that was used to sweep leaves from the garden, and was wholly unsuitable for collecting
small shards of glass from a marble floor. Neither he nor Clarendon seemed aware of the fact, and a good deal of effort went
into something that should have been completed in moments. The Lord Chancellor tutted and fussed over the breakage.

‘Can this be repaired, do you think, Heyden?’

‘No, sir. It has shattered into too many pieces.’

‘Well, collect them up anyway, and I shall work on them this evening. The King is hosting another masque. It is bound to end
late, and I shall need something to keep me occupied, since the racket will keep me awake.’ He dropped to his knees. ‘Put
the larger bits in my handkerchief. Come on, or we shall be here all day.’

Chaloner knelt and began to gather splinters. He was unhappy, worried by the fact that his uncle had been very loose tongued
to members of an enemy court, and wary of the panting, sweating man on the floor beside him, suspecting there was more to
the Earl than he allowed people to see. The desire for deception meant he was potentially dangerous, and Chaloner began to
see what sort of life he might lead if he followed through with the challenge.

He stood to collect one or two fragments that had somehow landed on the desk. As he did so, he noticed that among the scattered
papers were reports from the five agents Thurloe had sent. For example, Simon Lane’s familiar scrawl read:
C talked all through church with Jo
. Leaving such communications lying around was careless at best, and criminally negligent at worst. Pretending to pat the
table for more shards, Chaloner shoved Lane’s missive under another document for safety, but was startled when his tampering
revealed a paper on which praise god’s one son was printed in large, capital letters. The words were brown, and the parchment
scorched: they had been written in lemon or onion juice, which needed to be heated before it became visible. Some of the letters
were similar to ones in the notes the Earl had found in Clarke’s clothing, suggesting they had been penned by the same person.

He crouched behind the table to hide his consternation. Who had sent the Lord Chancellor a missive containing that particular
phrase, and what did it mean? Or had it been intended for someone else, and the Earl had intercepted it? And why had Clarke
converted the same words to cipher and hidden them in his secret pocket? Were the Earl and Clarke associated with John Hewson,
who had ordered Chaloner to praise God’s one son as he lay dying, or was that coincidence? Chaloner did not think so. He was
beginning to think there was an important message in those four syllables, something vital enough for Hewson to gasp with
his last breath.

‘I think that is all of it,’ said Evett eventually, standing with his cupped hands full of glass.

‘Put it on the table by the window, if you please,’ said the Earl, following him, to make sure he did as he was told. ‘Perhaps
I shall work a miracle tonight, when the
King and his courtiers chase each other around dressed as wild animals.’

‘Wild animals?’ blurted Chaloner, unable to help himself. He was disconcerted and uneasy, already regretting his promise to
do the Earl’s bidding. It would be safer to walk away and have no more to do with any of it. And do what? The notion of being
a burden to his family was a powerful reason to see the thing through. He tried to gather his scattered, disorganised thoughts,
before he made a mistake or said something best kept to himself.

‘The masque,’ said the Lord Chancellor, as if that explained everything.

‘They dress up,’ added Evett in a disapproving undertone. ‘Skins, feathers and furs have been arriving all week, and most
of them stink. No one will be allowed in unless he or she is in the guise of some wild beast. The King will be a lion, naturally,
and Lady Castlemaine will not tell anyone her chosen creature. She says we must wait and see.’

‘A fox, most likely,’ said the earl. ‘Or a wolf. It will be nothing cuddly, you can be sure of that.’

‘There is a rumour that the Duke of Buckingham will be a pig,’ said Evett with a perfectly straight face.

Clarendon chuckled. ‘A boar, Philip, not a pig. No, do not withdraw. Come and enjoy a cup of tea by the fire. It arrived fresh
this morning.’

‘Tea?’ asked Evett with infinite suspicion. He was Chaloner’s age, with a head of reddish curls that tumbled around his shoulders.
He wore the loose breeches and short doublet of the palace guard, and there was a thin scar on his left cheek that looked
as though it had been made by a duelling sword. It was not disfiguring, and
added a certain dash to his appearance; uncharitably it occurred to Chaloner that he might have put it there himself.

‘It is a beverage,’ explained the Earl. ‘Popular in Portugal. Come – do not stand on ceremony with me. You to my left, Heyden
on my right. There. Now we can all enjoy the warmth of the fire.’

He leaned forward and poured a thick, brown liquid into three glasses. Leaves rose to the surface of each, where they formed
a floating mat. Clarendon handed them to his guests.

‘We
drink
this?’ asked Evett, regarding it warily. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Clarendon cheerfully. ‘The Portuguese ambassador tells me it is excellent for the spirit
and
the digestion. Come on, man! Do not be shy.’