A Conspiracy of Violence (19 page)

‘Yes, yes,’ said Chaloner, knowing he was wasting his time, but persisting anyway. ‘But it would be better if you were to
ignite a little more quietly. You can see from here that more chapel windows were broken last night. It is because the patrons
of the Golden Lion are tired of hearing your braying voice when they come for a drink.’

‘Ale is the Devil’s brew,’ snapped Hill. ‘It is my sacred duty to disturb those seduced by it.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, seeing the situation was hopeless.

‘Preacher Hill,’ said Temperance, coming outside to see what was happening. Faith was behind her. ‘And
Thomas, too. Do not stand in the cold, brothers. Come inside.’

‘It is no warmer, because there are holes where there should be glass,’ added Faith, shooting them both a resentful glare.
‘But it is out of the wind.’

‘Wind is created by the Lord,’ declared Hill loud enough to startle two passing horses. ‘And so is inclement weather. It is
profane to attempt to ameliorate it.’

‘You do spout some rubbish, Preacher,’ said Faith. ‘But perhaps a decent breakfast will unscramble your wits, so please dine
with us after the service. I bought a ham yesterday.’

‘Fine food is how the Devil corrupts the weak,’ boomed Hill. ‘But I shall partake of a little ham, just to demonstrate to
you lowly sinners how I accept temptation, then rise above it. However, I shall not come if Heyden is invited, too – or if
you tell me I cannot extol the Lord.’

‘Are you coming to breakfast, Thomas?’ asked Temperance eagerly, her happy tone attracting the immediate attention of her
mother. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

‘I have an appointment at nine o’clock, and I doubt Hill will have finished extolling by then.’

‘He might,’ whispered Temperance with a mischievous smile, ‘if he knows there is food waiting.’

‘Has your turkey arrived yet?’ asked Hill of Faith. ‘I am partial to turkey meat, as well as ham.’

‘It has arrived, all right,’ said Faith grimly. ‘And it has taken up residence in the kitchen, since it decided the yard was
not to its liking. That is why we have ham today – it can be eaten cold, and no one will be obliged to encroach what is now
the bird’s domain.’

‘
I
shall deal with it,’ announced Hill. ‘Once it hears the word of the Lord, it will become compliant, like Isaac
did with Abraham. And then I shall crush its skull with my Bible. No turkey defies God.’

Chaloner regarded him uncertainly. ‘You plan to brain it with a book?’

‘With the Bible,’ corrected Hill. ‘It is very heavy, and should do the trick nicely.’

‘That is horrible,’ said Chaloner. ‘It probably will not work, and is sure to make a mess. Besides, I doubt you will tame
it with scripture. I have met it, and it is not a God-fearing bird.’

Everyone jumped away in alarm when Hill hauled a pistol from under his cloak. ‘If it resists, then the Lord has other means
of destroying His enemies.’

Chaloner started to laugh after the preacher had strutted inside the chapel. He was surprised to find Temperance smiling,
too.

‘Is he quite sane, do you think?’ she asked, watching Hill reach the pulpit and begin to leaf through the Good Book for a
suitably rabid text. Two sections were particularly well thumbed, and Chaloner suspected they were the violently radical books
of Daniel and Revelation.

‘Not really. If you have any influence over your parents, you should tell them to muzzle the man. He is doing your community
no good with his controversial opinions.’

‘I know,’ said Temperance. ‘But unfortunately, they never listen to me. If they did, there would not be a turkey usurping
our kitchen.’

After Temperance had gone, Chaloner lingered a while, unsettled by his argument with Metje, by the man who had tried to entice
him into the alley, and by Preacher Hill’s antics. When other members of the congregation
began to arrive and Hill girded himself up for his morning tirade, Chaloner left to walk to Lincoln’s Inn. Dawn was late
in coming, because of the thick grey clouds that slouched above the city, and it was bitterly cold. A scything wind whipped
old leaves and rubbish into corners, and cut through clothes. A pack of stray dogs snarled and worried over something in the
middle of the road. They scattered when a coach clattered towards them, and Chaloner saw they had been devouring one of their
own. The vehicle’s wheel hit the corpse and lurched hard to one side, making the passenger curse at the driver. Chaloner glimpsed
the angry face within, and was sure it was the Duke of Buckingham, travelling home after a night of debauchery with his mistresses.

It was early enough that the Lincoln’s Inn porter was still asleep, and it was some time before he could be roused. Once inside,
Chaloner went directly to Dial Court – it was still too dark for Thurloe to be walking in the gardens – and knocked softly
on the door to Chamber XIII. Inside, the piles of completed correspondence on the table indicated the ex-Spymaster had been
awake and working for some time. Over his day clothes, he wore a silk dressing gown and a soft white skullcap. A fire roared
furiously and the window shutters were firmly closed, so Chaloner thought the room stifling to the point of discomfort. Thurloe
beckoned him in and locked the door.

‘The Earl of Clarendon sent me a packet of this newfangled stuff called tea yesterday. Would you like some? It is all the
rage at Court, and said to be an excellent tonic – much better than coffee, which makes the heart race in those with frail
constitutions.’

‘I do not have a frail constitution, sir,’ said Chaloner,
supposing the Portuguese ambassador had declined to accept a package that had already been tasted, so Clarendon had foisted
it on Thurloe instead.

Thurloe looked him up and down. ‘No, I suppose you do not. But tell me what happened at White Hall. I was astonished Clarendon
waited until Monday to summon you – had it been me, I would have had you there the day I received the note. Did he ask you
to look into Clarke’s death, as I suggested he should?’

‘He ordered me not to interfere, because he plans to investigate personally.’ Chaloner watched Thurloe carefully as he added,
‘With his aide, Captain Evett.’

‘Evett,’ mused Thurloe thoughtfully, pouring himself some tea. ‘I know the name.’

Chaloner’s thoughts raced: Thurloe was familiar with more than Evett’s name, if they were both members of the Brotherhood.
He had planned to describe how he had eavesdropped on the meeting, and to warn Thurloe that Downing was revealing its secrets,
but now he reconsidered. Was it wise to bring up a matter Thurloe might want to keep to himself ? He had also intended to
tell Thurloe about the messages in Clarke’s clothes, but hesitated about that, too, although he was not sure why.

Thurloe leaned back in his chair, tea in hand, and stared at Chaloner. ‘Did Clarendon tell you
why
he wants to look into Clarke’s murder himself ? It is most irregular.’

‘He said it was an important matter, so should not be delegated to a man he does not know. He feels guilty about what happened,
and is determined to provide you with answers.’

‘Pride,’ said Thurloe with disapproval. ‘The undoing of many a good man. But perhaps Evett will accept your help – I shall
write to him before you leave, and you can
deliver the message yourself. I would send one to Clarendon, too, but I cannot think of a tactful way to suggest he should
leave such business to men who know what they are doing.’

‘How well did you know Clarke, sir?’ asked Chaloner, trying another way to see whether Thurloe was willing to acknowledge
the Brotherhood. ‘He was kin, but that does not mean you were close.’

‘True. I was fond of him, but I did not know him as well as I know you.’ He sipped the tea and shuddered. ‘Nasty!’

Chaloner was nonplussed. Although they had sent each other hundreds of letters he would not have considered Thurloe an intimate
by any stretch of the imagination. Thurloe read his bemusement, and elaborated uncomfortably.

‘You wrote kind words to me after the deaths of my two children.’

Chaloner was none the wiser. ‘That was years ago, sir.’

Thurloe nodded awkwardly. ‘But most of my correspondents did not acknowledge the tragedy, so I was naturally drawn to those
who did. Clarke was one of those whose letters were purely professional, with none of the kindly, personal addenda you always
included. He was not a friend, not like you.’

This time Chaloner was unable to conceal his astonishment. He had not imagined for a moment that his casually penned postscripts
had been taken so seriously. He thought about Thurloe recommending him to Sarah in the event of a crisis – and Sarah’s claim
that Thurloe was fond of him – and began to wonder whether this dignified, proper man had indeed taken the letters to be genuine
expressions of affection.

Thurloe became brusque, obviously embarrassed. ‘Forgive me, Tom; I am maudlin today. It must be this horrible tea. You were
asking about Clarke. He was a soldier who believed in moderation, and was of the opinion that the best future for our country
lies in tolerance and forgiveness.’

‘Moderation,’ mused Chaloner. He decided to test the extent of Thurloe’s ‘friendship’ towards him. ‘I know a group of men
who try to instil a sense of moderation in those with power.’

Thurloe glanced sharply at him. ‘It is a good theory. But, like all ideals, it will become corrupted in the hands of wicked
men.’

‘Clarke was a member of such a group,’ Chaloner pressed on. ‘So is Evett.’

Thurloe regarded him appraisingly. ‘You have been busy. Do you know who else is in it?’

‘Not everyone.’

‘A diplomatic answer. However,
I
have not attended a meeting of the Brotherhood since Cromwell died. It started with honourable intentions, but then men like
Downing and Ingoldsby enrolled, and it turned sour. Clarke and Evett joined after I ceased to play any real part in it.’

Chaloner nodded, but was not convinced. Downing had given the impression that Thurloe’s absence was temporary, although Downing
was no great adherent of the truth himself. ‘Downing thought you might recommend me for membership.’

‘Never,’ said Thurloe immediately. ‘It would be a mistake for both of us.
I
cannot claim to have ended my affiliation if I nominate new members. And fraternising with men like Ingoldsby and Downing
is a risk
you
do
not need to take. I forbid you to have anything to do with it, and if you try to enrol on your own, I shall oppose your election.
I do not want you involved with such a group.’

Chaloner regarded him appraisingly, surprised by the uncharacteristic passion. Did Thurloe really have his interests at heart,
or was there another reason for his vehemence? However, he suspected pressing the man for clarification would lead nowhere,
so he turned to another subject.

‘You sent Clarke to the Earl to do what, exactly, sir?’

‘To use as he saw fit. The last I heard, Clarke was looking into the theft of silver table knives from the White Hall kitchens,
which you would not think was terribly dangerous.’

‘That depends on the thief – it might be
very
dangerous if Clarendon has a penchant for royal cutlery. But last week, you said you thought Kelyng might have killed Clarke.’

Thurloe sighed. ‘It is possible – he knew Clarke was kin, and may have killed him in an attempt to hurt me. However, I am
dogged with the sense that
I
sent Clarke to his death. I would like to know the identity of his murderer, if for no other reason that the answer may salve
my troubled conscience.’

‘Do you know anything about Clarke that might help me catch his killer?’

Thurloe regarded him oddly. ‘Are you going to ignore the Earl’s wishes and look into Clarke’s death anyway?’

‘I thought that is what you wanted me to do.’

‘But not at the expense of you ruining your future – or risking your life. I do not want to lose another man to White Hall.’

‘I can look after myself, sir,’ said Chaloner, thinking of all the hazardous tasks he had undertaken on Thurloe’s behalf in
the past. ‘Tell me about Clarke.’

‘I cannot think of anything that might be of use to you. He was handsome, but aloof, he played the violin, and he worked at
being unmemorable – like all good intelligence agents.’

‘Could he have been dispatched by a jealous husband?’ Chaloner thought about how Clarke had flirted with Metje, who had responded
rather too readily to his charms.

‘Not in White Hall, Tom. They all bed whoever takes their fancy – even you must have heard
those
rumours. If every jealous husband took a knife to his rival, we would have no Court left.’

‘Was his body searched before it was dumped on the riverbank? Did his room contain anything in the way of clues?’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘At the time, I suspect the Lord Chancellor was more intent on concealing the murder than in solving it.
He has no experience in such matters.’

Chaloner’s cautious probing had not told him whether the Earl had shown Thurloe the cipher messages from Clarke’s pocket –
or perhaps Thurloe was unwilling to admit that he was the recipient of notes containing the phrase about praising God. He
tried one last time. ‘Do you have an agent whose codename is Seven?’

Thurloe was startled and wary. ‘No. Why?’

‘Clarke was alleged to have told a friend that he praised God for sending him
seven
pairs of boots, and I wondered if the word held any significance for you.’

Thurloe’s suspicion intensified. ‘One of the skills developed by a good spy is deciding which information to
discard and which to pursue. Your seven pairs of boots are definitely in the former category, and you will be wasting your
time if you follow them. Besides, I want to know who stabbed him, not what he was doing for Clarendon. Do you understand me?’

‘Not really, sir.’

Thurloe’s expression was cool. ‘I do not want you asking questions about the case Clarke was working on – these knives – because
the Earl may assume I sent you to investigate
him
. I do not want him to think that – it would be extremely dangerous for you and for me. So, no questions about Clarke’s business
at White Hall, if you please. I want only to know who killed him.’