A Conspiracy of Violence (14 page)

‘Why are you following me?’ asked Chaloner, in the same low voice. He did not want to attract Sarah Dalton towards a situation
that might end in violence, no matter whose side she was on.

‘Bennet hired us to ask you a few questions, then kill you,’ replied Snow, seeing there was no point in continuing the charade:
they had been exposed and that was that. ‘He paid us two shillings.’

Chaloner was taken aback by the bald confession. ‘Why does he want me dead?’

‘Kelyng probably told him to arrange it,’ replied Storey. ‘But we never asked why.’

‘You commit murder for them, and they do not bother to tell you the reason?’ Chaloner asked, making his voice drip contempt.
‘They must think very little of you.’

‘It is because you killed One-Eyed Jones,’ snapped Storey, nettled. ‘They want revenge.’

‘But they want questions answered first, you say? What do they want to know?’

Storey smiled, revealing a set of unexpectedly white teeth. ‘That is more like it. Cooperation. They want the names of John
Thurloe’s six brothers.’

Chaloner was taken aback at the bizarre nature of the enquiry. ‘What for?’

Storey’s grin vanished. ‘How should I know? They just want names and the places where they might be found. If you tell us,
I will kill you quickly – you will not feel a thing.’

Chaloner was surprised Kelyng should need anyone to furnish him with such information – Thurloe was fond of his family, and
their identities were no secret. ‘Well,
there is Thomas, who lives in Becket,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘Then there is another John, this one from Gaunt, and
there is Guy from Fawkes. Would you like me to continue?’ He waited for the inevitable eruption of anger.

Storey shot him an apologetic grin, while Snow counted off the names on his fingers. ‘We cannot remember all that, and it
would not do to get it wrong. Would you mind writing it down?’

Bemused, Chaloner went to where Jervas kept his pens and ink, and began to scribe. He was aware of Sarah watching him curiously.
‘This is a very strange thing to be asking.’

Storey agreed with a sigh. ‘There is no fathoming the likes of Kelyng and Bennet. Still, they do what they must to rid London
of traitors, and it is not for us to question their tactics.’

‘How did you find me?’

‘Bennet saw you coming out of White Hall,’ said Storey, prepared to be helpful in his turn. ‘We have been watching the area,
although we had little to go on – a lame man with short hair.’

Chaloner was furious at himself for making two elementary mistakes: removing his wig and forgetting to disguise his limp.
They combined to make him easily identifiable, and the area around the Royal Mews was sufficiently busy that Bennet had obviously
predicted it would not be long before his quarry appeared. Just because Chaloner had put the incident in Kelyng’s garden to
the back of his mind did not mean Kelyng had done so, too.

‘How do you know
I
killed Jones?’ he asked.

Snow indicated he should continue writing, so he added
William the Conqueror and Francis Bacon. ‘You stabbed him with Bennet’s dagger, and we were paid to get rid of the body.’

‘Get rid of the body?’ echoed Chaloner, finishing the list with Julius Caesar and handing it to Snow. ‘Why would Kelyng feel
the need to do that, if Jones was killed by an intruder? The only reason for hiding a corpse is so no one learns what really
happened to it. What did you do? Drop it in the river?’

‘We are a bit more clever than that,’ said Storey smugly. We—’

‘We followed orders,’ interrupted Snow sharply, throwing his companion an ugly glance. ‘But we do not have time for more talking.
Say your prayers.’

He drew a pistol, but dropped it with a yelp when Chaloner struck his wrist with the hilt of his dagger. A short lead pipe
appeared in Storey’s hands, and he brought it down in a savage arc that would have meant instant death had it met its target.
But it was a predictable move, and Chaloner had no trouble in stepping out of its way. The weapon smashed one of the wigmaker’s
model heads, sending shards and dust across the shop and the hair cartwheeling towards the window. Jervas came dashing towards
them with a wail of horror, Sarah at his heels.

‘That cost four pounds!’ Jervas cried. ‘And the hair came from the prettiest whore in Southwark! You must pay for the damage.
You—’

His tirade ceased abruptly when Storey turned on him, pipe clutched in both hands. He raised it high in the air, and then
began to bring it down as hard as he could. Chaloner shoved him, so he stumbled into Snow, and the blow went wide. Both robbers
crashed to the
floor amid a cascade of heads and hairpieces. Snow gave a muted yelp when a particularly heavy model struck his temple; he
tried to stand, but fell back amid the chaos. Chaloner started to kick the pistol out of reach, but Storey grabbed his leg
while he was off balance, and then there were three men on the ground. Suddenly, the gun was in Storey’s hands, and he was
pointing it at Chaloner’s chest.

Chaloner sensed Sarah was nearby, but did not realise she had joined the affray until the lead pipe landed sharply on the
top of Storey’s skull. The thief collapsed as if poleaxed, and the gun skittered from his nerveless fingers as he hit the
floor. Chaloner scrambled to his feet and snatched the bar away from her when she looked as though she might use it a second
time. Her grip was powerful, and she was not easy to disarm. At first, he thought she was inflamed with the kind of bloodlust
he had seen on the battlefield, when it was difficult to stop men from fighting, but then he saw the stricken expression on
her face. Hastily, he seized her arm, afraid she might faint.

‘He was going to kill you,’ she whispered, her eyes huge with shock. ‘Shoot you.’

‘He would not have succeeded,’ he said, escorting her to a bench. He showed her the weapon, and when she did not understand
what it was telling her, added, ‘It is not primed.’

She looked as though she might be sick, so he set the hollow cranium of one of the broken models in her lap, not wanting Jervas
to have even more of a mess in his shop. The wigmaker sank down next to her, appalled by the violence in his domain.

‘I did not know,’ said Sarah unsteadily. ‘I saw the evil expression on his face …’

‘His determination did not match his skill,’ said Chaloner, speaking calmly to reassure her. ‘That pair is incompetent, and
should not be allowed out without supervision.’

Jervas disagreed, and poked Storey’s leg with his foot, as he might prod something unpleasant. ‘
He
was not incompetent. He would have killed me, had you not pushed him over. And I am an innocent bystander – you are the one
with debts.’

Sarah swallowed hard. ‘What shall we do? If you let them live, they may try to harm you again.’

‘But if I dispatch them, their master may send others who are better. It is safer to let them live to fight another day –
although I suspect it is too late for Storey. I think the blow crushed his skull.’

‘You mean he is
dead
?’ breathed Jervas, aghast. He crossed himself in an automatic but imprudent demonstration of his native Catholicism. ‘God
help us! Bodies in my shop, my wigs destroyed! I wish you had not chosen my premises in which to hide from these creditors,
Mr Heyden.’

So did Chaloner, who was sorry for the trouble he had caused. ‘Do you have a back door?’

Wordlessly, Jervas pointed, and watched as Chaloner hauled first Snow and then Storey into the alley outside, laying them
side by side in the sticky mud. When he had finished, Chaloner rested his hand on the pulse in Snow’s neck. It was strong
and regular, and the fellow stirred in a way that suggested he would soon be awake. Storey did not, however, and although
he was breathing, his face was waxen beneath his crushed pate. Chaloner suspected he would never regain his senses.

‘Oliver Greene,’ he said loudly, remembering the old woman with the donkey. ‘And young Charles-Stewart, too.’

‘What are you doing?’ asked Sarah, watching him collect Snow’s hat and Storey’s cudgel. She had not moved from the bench,
although she was no longer so pale. Jervas understood, though, and was busy with a brush, sweeping evidence of the fight under
the counter. ‘A third man is waiting across the street, and he looks horribly like Gervaise Bennet. You should not be lingering
here. I thought you planned to
escape
through the back door, not trot back and forth with bodies.’

‘We cannot leave these men with Jervas. It is not his fault I hid with him, and he should not have to bear the consequences
when Snow wakes up.’

‘Will you pay for his damaged wigs as well?’ she asked unsteadily.

‘I wish I could, but I do not think threepence will cover them.’

She placed several gold coins in the startled wigmaker’s hand, and, quelling his effusive gratitude, walked outside to stand
with Chaloner in the alley. She was no longer trembling, although he noticed she declined to look at the two crumpled forms,
one of which was beginning to groan as he came to.

‘Were you following me?’ Chaloner asked her.

‘Not exactly. I – along with half of London – went to see the King’s paintings today. I imagine that is why you are wearing
your best clothes, too. When I spotted you leaving White Hall, I decided to see where you went.’

Chaloner was nonplussed. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because of something John said – that if ever I am in trouble, I should turn to you. I love my brother, and
trust his opinion on most things, but I like to make up my own mind about who will be a friend in times of crisis.’

‘Your brother? Thurloe is your
brother
?’

She regarded him askance. ‘I know some of his spies consider him an exulted being – an aloof, iron man with no kith or kin
– but he told me
you
regularly asked after his family in your letters.’

‘He never mentioned a sister to me, or a brother-inlaw called Dalton.’

She seemed surprised. ‘Did he not? How odd. I married a decade ago – John advised against the match, but it was hard to refuse
a wealthy vintner with six houses and a personal carriage. I have since repented my greed, and wish I had waited for a handsome
soldier, but one learns by one’s mistakes.’

‘Why did you not tell me this on Friday?’

‘It was none of your business. I only left John’s sitting room to talk to you because I thought I might learn something that
would help him in his struggle against Kelyng.’

Chaloner was beginning to dislike Sarah Dalton. ‘And did you?’

‘Not really. You were too careful. What are you going to do next? Kill Bennet? He is probably the leader of this unpleasant
threesome.’

‘I thought I would stroll over and thrust my dagger into his chest. No one will notice.’ He saw her nod agreement, and experienced
a flash of irritation. ‘Of course not! I have just explained why it is better to leave them alone.’

‘Do not yell at me when I have just saved your life.’

‘The gun was not loaded, if you recall.’

‘But I did not know that when I raced to your rescue. It still counts.’

He suspected there was no point in arguing. ‘All right,’ he said tiredly. ‘Thank you.’

She seemed satisfied with his capitulation. ‘Will you escort me home, or do you plan to leave me standing in this filthy lane
until that man wakes up and strips me of my virtue?’

‘I doubt they would dare,’ muttered Chaloner unchivalrously.

The Dalton house on the Strand was a grand affair of yellow brick. It was set back from the street, separated from it by a
strip of garden that had been planted with blocks of herbs. Lavender, mint, lemon balm and rosemary stood to attention within
their designated enclosures, although their sweet aroma did little to mask the pungent stench from the urine barrel that was
waiting to be emptied. Judging by its overflowing state, the collectors were late.

Inside, the scent of freshly baked pies filled the hall, which was a pleasant place lit by coloured-glass windows on either
side of the door. Servants hurried to take Sarah’s hat and cloak, and she indicated with an imperious gesture that Chaloner
was to follow her along a corridor. Chaloner was about to say he had other business when a door opened, and Dalton came out
on a waft of oranges. There was also something less pleasant, a hint of burning, which made Chaloner wonder whether he had
been destroying documents.

‘Where have you been?’ he demanded of his wife. ‘I have been looking for you.’

Since Chaloner had last seen him, Dalton had undergone a transformation. He looked pale and troubled, and
there were rings around his eyes that suggested he slept badly.

‘To see the King’s paintings,’ replied Sarah coolly, clearly annoyed by the tone of his voice. ‘I told you at breakfast. Had
you forgotten?’

Dalton rubbed his face and relented. ‘I wondered whether you had gone to visit your brother.’

‘I am worried about him. Did he tell you Kelyng tried to steal his post again? That man will not leave him alone.’

‘Sweet God!’ breathed Dalton, appalled. ‘Why does Kelyng not concentrate on men who mean the King harm
now
, rather than ones who took Cromwell’s side during the Protectorate? It makes no sense to me.’ He shook his head, and changed
the subject. ‘Did you like His Majesty’s paintings?’

‘Not much,’ replied Sarah. ‘There were too many naked fat women in them – like on the Banqueting House’s dismal ceiling.’

‘Rubens,’ said Chaloner, surprised. ‘Most people admire his use of colour and light.’

She waved a dismissive hand, and turned back to her husband. ‘Do you remember Heyden, dear? He visited John sporting a horsehair
periwig on Friday, and now he wears none.’

‘Wigs are a sore trial; I would just as soon go bareheaded.’ To prove it, Dalton whipped off his own, revealing a few grey
wisps on a balding pate. He looked twenty years older, and Chaloner was treated to a stronger waft of burning. The merchant
had definitely been wearing his hairpiece when he had been near a fire.