A Conspiracy of Violence (15 page)

‘Put it back on, dear,’ said Sarah, taking it from him
and jamming it firmly on his head. It was not quite straight, although he did not seem to care. ‘Or you will take a chill.’

‘Have you come about employment, Heyden?’ Dalton asked. ‘I recall inviting you, although my mind is full of other problems
at the moment. Business,’ he added hastily, as if he were afraid Chaloner might think his concerns ranged along other lines.
‘All about business – and a clerk with a knowledge of Dutch would be a great asset, although Downing tells me you are dishonest.’

‘He is a fine one to talk!’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘A more disreputable snake does not exist.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Dalton. ‘Which is why I usually ignore his opinions. Thurloe speaks highly of you, though, and that is a fine
compliment. He approves of very few men.’

‘There are not many who deserve his approbation,’ said Sarah dourly. ‘Kelyng, Downing, Bennet, the Duke of Buckingham. None
are men
I
would choose for decent company.’

‘I do not need you yet, Heyden,’ said Dalton, ignoring her. ‘But come next Monday, and I shall have some documents ready for
translation. And now I should leave you, or I will be late.’

‘Late for what?’ asked Sarah.

‘Downing summoned me to an urgent meeting,’ said Dalton unhappily. ‘I do not want to go, but I cannot plead illness, because
he has seen me up and about this morning.’

‘You need not do everything he says,’ said Sarah. ‘John resists his charms, and so could you.’

‘But your brother has nothing to lose,’ said Dalton. ‘He was Secretary of State and now he is a lawyer – you cannot sink much
lower than that. But I have a great
deal of money tied up in this city, and cannot afford to aggravate important men without good reason. Still, I am loath to
go, after what happened this morning. I shall see you for dinner, Sarah. Good day, Heyden.’

‘What happened this morning?’ asked Chaloner, when he had gone.

‘Over the past few weeks, he has been spotting old friends who are dead,’ replied Sarah unsympathetically. ‘These “turns”,
as he calls them, are probably induced by worry over his new Dutch contract. If it is successful, it will bring him great
wealth – not that he needs more. Will you accept his offer and translate for him?’

‘Probably.’ It sounded dull, but would be a good deal safer than working for the Lord Chancellor. Also, there was the fact
that Metje had encouraged him to accept anything offered by Dalton, and he did not want to disappoint her.

Sarah regarded him thoughtfully. ‘My brother never –
never
– discusses his spies with me, but he often talks about you and says I can trust you. I think he is more concerned about
Kelyng’s machinations than he is willing to admit, and is making the kind of preparations that suggest he considers himself
to be in mortal danger. He wants his friends to know each other.’

‘I am not his friend,’ said Chaloner, startled. ‘Just someone he hired.’

‘You underestimate the affection he holds for you – you do not write to a man every week for ten years and not come to feel
something for him. If John is in danger from Kelyng, will you help him?’

Chaloner was surprised by the appeal, and imagined Thurloe would be horrified if he knew what his sister was doing, dignified
and private man that he was. He
nodded, although he suspected he would not be of much use, given that London and its people were such a mystery to him. ‘If
I can.’

‘Thank you,’ she said softly.

As soon as he had escaped from Dalton’s house, Chaloner retraced his steps along the Strand, and was amazed to see Bennet
still standing opposite the wigmaker’s shop. He estimated his skirmish with Snow and Storey had occurred nigh on an hour ago,
and was astonished the chamberlain had not guessed something was amiss and gone to investigate. Chaloner certainly would have
done, since the only reason for Snow and Storey not to have appeared with bloodstained hands was because they had become victims
themselves. As he had nothing particularly pressing to do, he took up station near the New Exchange, with its double galleries
of booths and stalls, and waited to see what would happen.

Bennet was becoming impatient. He stamped his feet and blew on his fingers, indicating he had been standing still too long,
and his hand strayed frequently to the bulge under his cassock where his pistol lay. Once or twice, he seemed about to brave
the traffic and go to see what had happened, but he was indecisive, and ended up doing nothing. Eventually, Chaloner glimpsed
a pair of very black boots making their way towards him. It was Snow, swaying unsteadily and with his hand to his head.

Chaloner was some distance away, but did not need to hear what was being said to understand the gist of the conversation.
Snow approached obsequiously, adopting a submissive posture, like a weak dog in a pack of hounds; Bennet swelled at the sight
of such brazen subservience. Snow said something, and Bennet’s every
gesture expressed his anger. Snow cringed, as if he was afraid of being struck. Then he handed over the piece of paper containing
the names of Thurloe’s ‘brothers’, and Chaloner braced himself for fireworks. But Bennet only pocketed the note, indicating
with a nod that Snow was dismissed. The felon lurched away, while Bennet continued to wait.

Eventually, Bennet was joined by another man. It was Kelyng, who seemed surprised to see his henchman leaning against a wall
in a bustling part of the Strand. Chaloner watched Bennet pass him the paper, then laughed when Kelyng went rigid with rage.
Spitting his fury, Kelyng ripped the note into tiny shreds and began to scream abuse that was audible even at a distance,
most of it centred around the fact that Bennet was so stupid that it was not surprising the Lord Mayor’s daughter had refused
him. Wanting to hear what transpired when Kelyng’s temper was spent and his voice dropped to a more moderate level, Chaloner
edged closer.

He was fortunate: Kelyng hauled his chamberlain towards the ramshackle premises of a grocer – an ancient, rickety affair jutting
into the street in a way that had recently been deemed illegal because it interfered with the free flow of traffic. Chaloner
eased towards them, making his way past rough shelves that displayed maggoty cabbages and tough turnips, eventually taking
up station behind a teetering pyramid of apples. Kelyng shoved Bennet into a corner and continued to rail, while the grocer
slunk to the opposite end of his domain and pretended not to notice. He studiously ignored Chaloner, too, clearly thinking
that those who eavesdropped on Kelyng and Bennet did so at their own peril.

Bennet did not take kindly to being manhandled, even
by the man who paid his wages. He freed his arm with a glower, but Kelyng was too interested in giving vent to his own spleen
to notice the dangerous expression on his chamberlain’s face.

‘… a disaster,’ he was snapping. ‘Thurloe probably knows by now.’

‘He already knows you intend to bring him low,’ replied Bennet tightly. ‘This latest incident with the limping agent will
not surprise him.’

‘But I do not want him on his guard,’ snarled Kelyng. ‘It will make my task all the more difficult.’

‘The damage was already done,’ argued Bennet. ‘The agent will already have told him what happened in your garden. What occurred
today makes no difference one way or the other.’

‘But
why
did you try to kill the spy?’ demanded Kelyng furiously. ‘His death will serve no useful purpose, and might even prompt Thurloe
to take some sort of revenge against us. I do not want hired assassins after me when I am trying to cleanse London of traitors.’

‘I was trying to disarm a loose cannon – to rid us of a man who might cause problems later.’

Kelyng switched to another topic, pacing restlessly in the narrow space and sounding as though he was talking more to himself
than to his henchman. ‘I
wanted
the letter in that satchel. I
needed
it to build my case, and we came so very close to getting our hands on it. Damn that spy!’

‘What was in it?’ asked Bennet, sounding as though he did not much care. ‘A missive from one of Thurloe’s foreign agents?’

Kelyng made a face, to indicate he thought Bennet a fool for asking. ‘All those are forwarded straight to Williamson these
days. I cannot find any fault with
Thurloe’s conduct there – unfortunately. But I have reason to believe this latest satchel contained something pertaining
to his brothers.’

Bennet was nonplussed. ‘You mean his half-brother, Isaac Ewer, whose widow married Clarke?’

‘No, stupid,’ snapped Kelyng. Chaloner saw the chamberlain bristle, and suspected Kelyng would soon have a problem: Bennet
disliked the way he was being treated, and was fast reaching the point where he would rebel. ‘Ewer has been dead for years.
I mean his
other
brothers – and we are not talking about St Thomas à Becket, Julius Caesar or Guy Fawkes, either. Fool!’

‘His other Ewer kin are nothing,’ said Bennet, rigid with barely controlled anger. ‘I looked into them myself: they are poor
farmers with no interest in politics.’

‘That is why I wanted that satchel!’ Kelyng snarled. ‘I
know
the Ewers are irrelevant, but Thurloe has six other brothers, and I believe the contents of that pouch would have told me
their names. The limping agent might know, too, but
you
let him escape. I told you to arrest him, but instead you take matters into your own hands – interviewing him yourself, then
trying to kill him. You are an idiot.’

Bennet gritted his teeth. ‘I
will
kill him for you.’

Kelyng sighed in exasperation. ‘I do not
want
him dead: I want him in custody. However, I doubt he knows much. He is a hireling, like you, and obviously not trusted with
important secrets.’

There was a tic at the corner of Bennet’s mouth. ‘With respect,
sir
, he made a fool of you—’

‘He made a fool of
you
,’ shouted Kelyng. ‘And watch where you are putting your great clumsy feet, man! You almost trod on that dog.’

‘A dog! I
do
apologise,’ breathed Bennet almost inaudibly. He glowered at the mutt, and for a moment, Chaloner thought he might strike
the back of Kelyng’s head when he bent to pet it.

Kelyng seemed oblivious to the fury that was boiling in his accomplice as he swept the animal into his arms. ‘Thurloe is so
close with his secrets that even Dalton cannot worm them out of him.’

‘Dalton?’ asked Bennet. His temper was under control, but Chaloner thought he looked more dangerous for it.

‘His sister’s husband. He is doing his best, but Thurloe trusts no one, and the documents Dalton manages to steal for me have
been next to useless – defunct property deeds and letters to physicians.’

A funeral procession rolled past outside. The cart carrying the coffin clattered on the cobblestones, and the two women at
the front leaned on each other and wailed in a way that suggested they would never overcome their grief. They wore veils and
black flowing cloaks, and Chaloner had seen them before: professional mourners, employed to put on a good show when the next-of-kin
felt they were not up to the task. Others followed more sedately, talking among themselves in the way of people who have not
seen each other for a long time. Their good-humoured chatter and the women’s howls drowned out the discussion between Kelyng
and Bennet, and Chaloner was obliged to wait until the cortège had passed, hoping he did not miss anything important.

He thought about what he had learned so far. Thurloe trusted his sister, but he had said nothing about her husband. Did that
mean he knew Dalton was betraying him? Thurloe was astute, and might well have recognised his kinsman’s treachery. Or was
he blissfully

unaware, and would be shocked when he found out? The procession finished eventually, and Chaloner was able to hear again.

‘… that Thurloe should walk free when he served Cromwell.’ Kelyng spat the last name, which frightened the dog into scampering
away. ‘It is because of Thurloe that the Commonwealth lasted as long as it did. Without him, one of our rebellions would have
succeeded, and we would have had the King back on his throne years ago.’

‘I know.’ Bennet’s bored tone suggested he was used to this kind of rant.

‘I will not rest until he is in his grave – him and
all
the evil minions who helped him, no matter who they are or what they did.’

‘So you have said before. Many times.’

‘So, there are six to go,’ concluded Kelyng. ‘I think—’

‘Is that Tom Heyden?’ came a voice from the other side of the apples. Chaloner winced when he recognised William Leybourn,
the inquisitive bookseller. ‘That is a handsome cassock. Can I assume you dressed up to see the paintings?’

His voice was loud, and Chaloner glanced towards Kelyng and Bennet, to see whether they had heard his name brayed so cheerfully.
Fortunately, they were more interested in their own discussion, Bennet listening intently to what his master had to say. Chaloner
wished he could hear, too, but that was not possible with the bookseller clamouring about which picture was the most valuable.

‘I am busy, Leybourn,’ he interrupted tersely. ‘Perhaps we could discuss this later.’

‘You are inspecting apples,’ said Leybourn, startled. ‘How is that so pressing?’

Chaloner itched to shove him away, but did not want to create a scene. ‘Another time.’

Leybourn was offended. ‘Very well. I apologise for breaking into your reverie on fruit, and I shall certainly think twice
about approaching you in the future.’

‘Good,’ breathed Chaloner under his breath. But by the time Leybourn had gone, Bennet and Kelyng had left the grocer’s and
were climbing into a carriage that bore them away. His eavesdropping was over.

Deep in thought, Chaloner retraced his steps to Will’s Coffee House, only to find the building mostly empty. It was well past
the time when men gravitated towards such places for their midday meals, and only the stragglers were left.