A Conspiracy of Violence (16 page)

The establishment was managed by a man named William Urwin, who played the violin to his patrons and recited mediocre verses
of his own composition. He was also the proud owner of a collection of ‘curiosities’, which included the mummified body of
an ape, a German clock with chimes, and a psalter said to have belonged to the Venerable Bede.

The coffee house’s lower floor also served as a barber shop, where patrons could be shaved and, if necessary, be bled and
have teeth drawn. The upper level was more conventional, and comprised a large room full of tables where men could dine with
companions, and small booths around the edges if they craved solitude. The upstairs was devoid of customers that day, most
preferring the diminishing company of the lower chamber, but Chaloner opted for a booth anyway. He drew the curtain to repel
anyone who might want to talk, and sat stirring the thick, murky brew in front of him. He continued to stir and
to think, until the coffee grew cold and the venison pastry on the plate at his side congealed in its viscous gravy.

Until that March, his life had been straightforward – the wars, his studies at Cambridge, a brief spell as a clerk in Lincoln’s
Inn, and then duties overseas. He had only ever served one master – Downing did not count, because Chaloner had worked independently
of him, and the diplomat had rarely given him orders – and suddenly he was faced with the prospect of juggling between two
men who would be demanding of his loyalties: the Earl of Clarendon and Thurloe. The count could be raised to
four
, if North and Dalton were to be included. He found himself uncertain as to what to do.

He knew he stood at an important crossroads, and that any decision he made would dictate the rest of his life. He had four
choices. He could take the sensible option, which was to return to Buckinghamshire and live quietly. The Chaloner estates
at Steeple Claydon were large, if not wealthy, and there would be a corner for him somewhere, although he was loath to inflict
himself on his siblings at a time when it was difficult for former Parliamentarians to make ends meet. He supposed he could
earn a living by teaching at the local school, or perhaps even enrol in his old College at Cambridge and take a higher degree,
although neither prospect filled him with enthusiasm.

The second possibility was to return to the United Provinces. He had friends there, and it would not be difficult to secure
a post as a clerk. But administration without the additional thrill provided by spying would be tedious, and there was also
the fact that discord was rumbling between the two nations. As part of a diplomatic or ambassadorial mission, he would have
an excuse
for being there, but it would be dangerous to go alone. He suspected it would not be many months before Englishmen in Holland
would be in an untenable position, and it was one thing to be executed as a spy when he was guilty, but another altogether
to be shot when he was innocent.

His third choice was to accept the challenge thrown down by the Lord Chancellor. However, he sensed with every fibre of his
being that the Earl would not make a good master. His agents would not be safe, and Chaloner would probably spend a good deal
of time looking over his shoulder, not sure who to trust – especially if Thurloe wanted him to investigate murders and spy
on Royalist fanatics at the same time.

And finally, he could decline the Earl’s commission and continue to work for North, his income occasionally boosted by translating
for Dalton. But he could not survive long on such meagre earnings, and Metje would never marry him.

He stirred the cold beverage, wondering what Thurloe would say about him being forbidden to explore Clarke’s death. The ex-Spymaster
was sure to ask what he had been ordered to do instead, and Chaloner had promised not to mention the missing gold. He intended
to keep his word, not out of loyalty to the Lord Chancellor, but because the Earl might have ordered his silence to see how
far he could be trusted. Or was Thurloe doing the testing, to assess whether Chaloner’s allegiance would be with his old master
or the new one? He rubbed his eyes. There were no answers, and it was one of few times in his life when he was wracked with
indecision.

He had been allotted three independent tasks: unveil Clarke’s killer, monitor Kelyng and find some buried
treasure. Any investigation involved talking to people and listening to speculation and rumour, and he supposed it was not
impossible to research all three cases simultaneously without overstepping the boundaries he had been set. He had juggled
a good deal of complex information in the past, and the prospect of carrying out three enquiries at the same time did not
daunt him.

He considered what he knew, beginning with Clarke. Perhaps most pertinent were the two messages found in his clothing, written
in the kind of code that indicated they had been intended for Thurloe. One had contained the phrase ‘praise God’s one son’
and the other had mentioned the number seven. Both had been written in the same hand as the note on Clarendon’s desk that
had declared PRAISE GOD’S ONE SON in lemon juice or onion

juice – which became visible only when heated, and was a well-known device for sending secret information.

Had Clarke penned them all, or had he taken them from someone else? Chaloner was inclined to believe they were Clarke’s, and
Clarke had died before he could pass them to their intended recipient. Praising Jesus was also the message breathed by the
dying Hewson – or was it Jones? Clarendon claimed he could not decode the cipher, although that was irrelevant, since the
presence of the onion-or lemon-juice message indicated the Earl had some knowledge of the odd phrase, and possibly even knew
what it meant. Did Thurloe know, too? And was Clarke’s death a result of his dabbling with the information they contained,
or something to do with the thefts from the White Hall kitchens?

Secondly, he thought about Kelyng. He had learned two things. First, Dalton was passing him Thurloe’s secrets, and second,
what Kelyng hoped to learn by intercepting
Thurloe’s post was the identity of his brothers. What brothers? Thurloe’s only male blood kin were the Ewers, whom Kelyng
had dismissed as of no consequence. Chaloner wondered whether it was significant that Kelyng had mentioned
six
brothers – which made
seven
when Thurloe was included. And the number seven had been muttered by Hewson as he had died and was included in one of Clarke’s
ciphered notes. It suggested a connection between Kelyng and the messages Hewson and Clarke had been trying to pass.

And lastly, there was the treasure. If Chaloner was not permitted to speak to anyone connected with the case, it was not going
to be an easy nut to crack. But he had faced worse odds in the past, and he enjoyed a challenge. He made his choice: he would
remain in London and see what might be done about locating Barkstead’s gold,
and
he would try to watch Kelyng and make enquiries after Clarke’s killer. It would keep him busy, but he was no stranger to
hard work.

A sudden clamour of voices broke into his thoughts. He had been aware of people entering the room, but had taken no notice,
concealed as he was inside his booth. Now he lifted a corner of the curtain to look at them, puzzled by the abrupt outburst.

Seven people sat around the largest table, five of whom he recognised. At one end was a man he had last seen drifting on the
Thames: the Lord Mayor and Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir John Robinson. Opposite Robinson were four other familiar faces. First,
there was Dalton, wafting his orange-scented linen with a trembling hand. Second, there was Chaloner’s Puritan employer, North,
a stricken expression on his face. Third, there was Robert Leybourn, the bookseller’s sardonic brother. And finally,
there was Downing, sitting with his arms folded and his eyes flicking around the room as though he were looking for something.
Chaloner supposed this was the ‘urgent meeting’ Dalton had mentioned to his wife. He closed the curtain to the merest slit,
and prepared to do what came naturally to him: sit quietly and listen.

‘I do not believe it!’ one man cried, his voice rising above the others by sheer dint of its volume. He reminded Chaloner
of a pig, with jowls that wobbled over his collar and fingers so fat they were elongated triangles. ‘You must be mistaken.’

‘There is no mistake,’ replied Robinson soberly. ‘I saw the body myself. So did Dalton.’

‘I chanced to meet Robinson when he was going to view the corpse, so I went with him,’ explained Dalton. ‘It was as well I
did, given that it took both of us to make the identification. Recognising a man who has been consumed by flames is not easy.’

So, thought Chaloner, that explained the stench of burning on Dalton. It also accounted for why he had seemed troubled: inspecting
a charred corpse was enough to put anyone off his stride.

‘Gentlemen!’ Downing snapped, when there was another flurry of raised voices. ‘This is not Parliament, so do not behave like
a rabble, I beg you. All your questions will be heard, and we will answer as best we can. One at a time, please. North?’

‘You said the body had been burned beyond recognition, so how can you be sure it was him?’ asked North in a hushed voice that
had Chaloner straining to hear.

‘I tried to do it from the shape of his teeth,’ said Robinson, a detail that made North and several others wince. ‘But Dalton
searched the body for jewellery.’

‘You saw his ring?’ asked North in the same low whisper. His face was ashen, and his neighbour poured him coffee and urged
him to drink it. ‘The one with the emerald?’

Dalton nodded unhappily. ‘On his little finger. There was an ancient mangling of the skull, too, and you will recall that
he lost an eye at the storming of Kilkenny.’

Chaloner frowned. The man Bennet had knifed had worn a green ring and was missing an eye – but he had certainly not been near
a fire.

‘Poor devil,’ said Robinson. ‘We must stick together now, and allow nothing to break the bonds of our Brotherhood.’

‘Our Brotherhood,’ said North softly. ‘Sometimes, it is the only thing that makes sense in this cruel, wicked city. I am grateful
I joined you when I came here from Ely after the Restoration.’

‘We are all of the same mind,’ said Robinson kindly. ‘But we should never give voice to thoughts that may be deemed seditious
– it is not safe, not even here, when we are alone.’

There was a general murmur of agreement. ‘I shall miss him,’ said the pig-faced man soberly. ‘He was generous with his donations
to our cause.’

‘God rest his soul,’ whispered North. ‘Poor John Hewson.’

Chaloner gazed at the gathering, his thoughts rolling in confusion. He doubted there were two one-eyed, beringed men by the
name of John Hewson, but how had the fellow come to be burned? And the gathering at Will’s Coffee House comprised wealthy,
influential citizens, so why should a servant be mourned in such company? He
thought about what had happened in Kelyng’s garden. Hewson must have been told to collect the satchel from Snow and Storey,
or he would not have known they had it, and the fact that he took it to Kelyng’s house suggested he was following Kelyng’s
orders. Kelyng had referred to him as Jones, indicating he had probably inveigled employment under false pretences. He was
really Hewson, member of some mysterious Brotherhood.

Then he had been killed by Bennet, and Bennet had told Kelyng that Chaloner was responsible for the mishap, although Hewson’s
friends were now saying he had been incinerated. Why had Bennet killed Hewson? Was he just a poor marksman, or had he taken
the opportunity to dispatch Hewson for reasons he was unwilling to share with his master? And then what? Had Snow and Storey
been instructed to burn the body in an attempt to disguise what had really happened? They had not done it very well, if they
had left a ring and other identifying features for his friends to see.

Chaloner recalled what Hewson had muttered as he lay dying. He had recommended trusting no one and he had spoken his own name.
Why? Because he had wanted someone to know what had happened to him, perhaps because he guessed what might be done to his
corpse? And what about the rest – the mumbling about God’s son? The more Chaloner thought about the odd phrase, the more certain
he became that it had nothing to do with religion.

He studied Hewson’s colleagues. Most seemed genuinely upset by the news of his death, although Downing was already putting
the incident behind him, looking to the future. North was the most grief-stricken, but Chaloner knew him to be a kindly man,
often moved
by the sufferings of others. Dalton, on the other hand, was the most disturbed – a reaction quite different from North’s
gentle compassion.

‘Will this damage us?’ asked a hulking man with thick, blunt features. His posture was hunched, as though he was uncomfortable
with his size and sought to conceal it. ‘Hurt our cause?’

‘I do not see how, Thomas,’ replied Downing. ‘Do you?’

The man cringed under the attention that swivelled towards him. ‘I am only a clerk, and not in a position to answer such a
question.’

‘Has there been any more news about that business in the Tower?’ asked the pig suddenly. He looked irritable when Thomas did
not understand him. ‘Barkstead’s gold, man!’

Everyone looked interested in the answer, and there was disappointment all around when Thomas muttered that there had not.
Chaloner’s first instinct was to assume the Brotherhood’s interest in the matter was sinister, but then realised that the
affair was probably common knowledge. The Tower’s many inhabitants were bound to have gossiped about Evett’s activities with
spades and hired diggers.

‘Damn!’ said Downing. ‘But it will appear sooner or later, and our cause will benefit eventually. Barkstead was one of us
– a brother – and it is only right that his treasure should come our way.’

‘It is what he would have wanted,’ agreed Robert Leybourn.

‘How would
you
know?’ demanded the pig immediately. ‘You never met him – he fled from England long before you were admitted to our ranks.’