A Conspiracy of Violence (2 page)

Cautiously, Chaloner eased down the lane, feeling the onset of the familiar stiffness in his left leg that always followed
vigorous exercise. Usually, the old war injury was no more than a nuisance – an occasional cramp when the weather turned damp
– but a furious run, like the one he had just made from Lincoln’s Inn, had set off the nagging ache he knew would plague him
for the rest of the day. He tried to ignore it, concentrating on his surroundings as he allowed the dagger from his sleeve
to slide into the palm of his hand for the second time that morning.

Out in the open, on the wide, bustling thoroughfares of roads like Holborn or the Strand, Chaloner was more than a match for
any common cut-throat – time served with Cromwell’s New Model Army before Thurloe had engaged him as a spy meant he knew how
to use the weapons he carried – but the cramped, sordid confines of the capital’s slums represented a different challenge.
He knew it was rash to follow criminals into a place where its inhabitants would think nothing of killing a stranger and dumping
his body in the river, but the simple truth was that he could not return to Thurloe and admit defeat – not if he wanted any
sort of career in espionage.

He edged along the alley. Nothing moved, except rats foraging among discarded offal from an unlicensed butcher’s shop and
a few rags swinging on a washing line
high above his head. The lane emptied into a larger street, and he hung back to assess it. To his right was a tiny square
dominated by a rust-and slime-dappled water pump; to his left was a dung cart loaded with barrels for collecting the urine
and faeces used by tanneries and gunpowder manufacturers. The cart was so wide that it filled the street completely, leaving
gaps of no more than the width of a hand between it and the walls to either side.

Chaloner suspected the dung collector had been paid or forced to leave his wagon in a position that would prevent pursuit.
The vehicle’s stench seared the back of his throat, and he did not relish the prospect of scrambling across its top – he knew
that as soon as he did, the driver would flick his whip and the whole thing would jolt forward. If he did not topple into
the brimming barrels of his own accord, someone would give him a helping hand, or stab or shoot at him when he was struggling
for balance.

He tensed when a window creaked above him, then stepped smartly under the overhanging façade of a towering, five-storied tenement.
Swill from a chamber-pot splattered to the ground, joining the refuse and ashes that formed the foetid carpet under his feet.
He edged forward, narrowing the gap between him and the cart until he was close enough to crouch down and peer underneath
it.

He saw several pairs of human legs, and there was a low murmur of conversation, although he could not hear what was being
said. He stood abruptly when an old woman with a donkey approached from the direction of the square. She released the low,
mournful cry that every Londoner knew meant there was fresh milk to be
purchased for children and invalids. Customers would answer the call with jugs, and the animal would be milked on the spot.
The woman was not alone in advertising her wares. From somewhere deeper inside the labyrinth came the rising yell of a fish-seller,
while the bass bellow of a tallow merchant offered the stinking fat that could be turned into cheap candles.

Chaloner considered his options. The robbers were confident now they were on home ground, lingering at the front of the wagon
to chat with the dung collector. And they had good reason to feel safe: even if Chaloner did manage to scale the cart and
lay hold of them, then what would he do? Their friends would never allow him to march them to the nearest parish constable,
and besides, constables were notoriously corrupt if the right coins appeared, and just as likely to slip a dagger between
Chaloner’s ribs and release the thieves. The sensible decision would be to return to Lincoln’s Inn and tell Thurloe that he
had done his best, but the culprits had been too far away by the time he had been ordered to give chase.

But he could scarcely apologise to Thurloe for failing to catch Charles-Stewart’s killers with one breath, and ask for a testimonial
with the next. If he wanted to convince the ex-Spymaster of his worth, then he had no choice but to do as he had been ordered.

‘Milk, mister?’ came a voice at Chaloner’s side. The old woman was moving towards him, hemming him in with her donkey. His
fingers tightened around his dagger as he scanned the street for signs of danger, aware that she might have been sent to distract
him while an attack was set up.

‘Not today.’ There was no one else in the street, so he turned his attention to the cart and the men to the front of it.

She eased closer. Her eyes were black and shiny, and gleamed in a face that was a mask of wrinkles. ‘You will not catch them
from here. Go down the alley by the pump, and turn left when you see the barber’s sign. Left again by the ditch will bring
you to a place where you can surprise them.’

Chaloner nodded his thanks, but did not imagine for a moment that she was being helpful. She was probably trying to send him
into a trap. ‘I will wait here.’

He crouched again, using the donkey as a shield from anyone who might be aiming a pistol at him. The milling legs behind the
cart had been reduced to just three pairs as onlookers lost interest. One wore boots that had been polished a deep, glossy
black. These, Chaloner knew, belonged to the shorter of the two villains – the one who had snatched the satchel. It was the
taller of the pair, who now paced restlessly, that had stabbed Charles-Stewart. The third man wore shoes that were thickly
crusted in excrement, and were unquestionably the dung collector’s.

Chaloner assessed the cart objectively, noting the sturdy planking around its edges. If he kept to one side and moved quickly
enough, he might be able to jump over it and surprise them. His best option would be to fight into a position where he could
hold his dagger to the throat of the taller one and ‘persuade’ him to return to Lincoln’s Inn, preferably carrying the satchel.
One killer and the return of stolen property might be enough to secure Thurloe’s good graces.

The old woman poked him with a bony finger. ‘They
will have a knife in you before your feet touch the ground on the other side.’

Chaloner glanced up at her, surprised she should find his intentions so transparent. ‘Is that so?’

Her face was bleak as she petted her donkey. ‘They killed my son – my Oliver – so I will shake the hand of any man who slits
their throats, but you will not do it by climbing across the cart. They will be expecting you.’

Chaloner did not think he looked like the sort of fellow who slit throats, but supposed his very presence in the Fleet Rookery
was enough to make folk assume the worst. His leather jerkin, breeches and riding boots were worn and unfashionable, but they
were of good quality and marked him as someone who had not always been poor. He was of average height and build, with brown
hair and grey eyes. He had a pleasant face, but not one that was in any way remarkable, and he had worked hard over the years
to make his appearance as unmemorable as possible. Outstanding features were a serious disadvantage for a man who made his
living as a spy.

‘Who will be expecting me?’ he asked, watching his quarry intently.

The old woman tutted her annoyance. ‘Snow and Storey. The men you are chasing.’

‘Are those their names? They did not bother with a formal introduction.’

She made a wheezing sound he assumed was a chuckle. ‘Snow wears good boots – he dyes them blacker every night. Storey has
yellow hair and is taller. Murdering bastards!’

Chaloner wished she would go away.

‘They work for Sir John Kelyng and his chamberlain,’ she went on. ‘They think that makes them better than
the rest of us, although most around here would say it makes them vermin.’

Chaloner had no idea who she was talking about. After a decade overseas, he was a virtual stranger in his own country, and
he knew he would have to conceal his ignorance of local politics when he spoke to Thurloe. He did not, however, need to hide
it from nosy old ladies in the Fleet Rookery.

‘Sir John Kelyng?’ he asked, his attention fixed on the feet behind the cart. ‘Who is he?’

The old woman regarded him in disbelief. ‘You do not know Kelyng?’

Chaloner turned to look at her. ‘Should I?’

She continued to gape at him. ‘He is one of the King’s new sergeants-at-law, and was in prison for most of the last ten years,
because he was so hearty a Royalist. Now he is out of the Tower, and is devoting himself to ferreting out traitors.’

‘What kind of traitors?’

‘Traitors to the King – men who prefer Cromwell’s lot. His chamberlain scours the gutters for scum like Snow and Storey, and
pays them to listen in taverns for anyone saying the wrong things.’

Chaloner was not surprised. Although the King had been restored to his throne with blaring trumpets and cheering crowds, his
ministers knew perfectly well that he would sit uneasily for a while yet. Spies would be hired to watch for any hint of rebellion,
and Kelyng was doubtless just one of many who had been ordered to hunt down potential troublemakers.

The old woman rambled on, giving examples of Kelyng’s disreputable doings. ‘Parson Vane was fined thirty shillings for saying
the old king deserved what he
got, and they cut off the butcher’s ear for agreeing with

him. Snow and Storey have no friends around here.’

Chaloner pointed to the strategically positioned cart. ‘But people are still prepared to help them.’

‘Potts was too scared to refuse. But while they can force a man to block a road, they cannot make us do
everything
they want. You got here unharmed, although you were watched from the moment you stepped off Holborn. So, take the lane by
the pump, and stick your dagger through their rotten gizzards. And when you do, whisper “Oliver Greene”. Then they will know
who sent you to kill them.’

Chaloner suspected it would be a bad idea to do as she suggested, and he was not for hire as an avenging angel anyway. But
his other options were limited, so he nodded his thanks and walked to the alley she had indicated, aware of her approval.

The lane was home to some of the most ramshackle buildings he had ever seen. There was not a vertical line in sight, and he
wondered whether she had directed him down it because it was in imminent danger of collapse. He began to run, dagger openly
drawn. A man started to come of out of a door, but backed inside hurriedly when he saw Chaloner and his glinting blade. Then
came the sound of a key being turned; in the Fleet Rookery it was always wiser to see and hear nothing.

A left turn took Chaloner into an alley so narrow that he had to turn sideways. It was a perfect place for an ambush, since
he could not protect himself in such a confined space. But he met no one, and emerged into a lane that was considerably wider
– large enough for a horse-drawn carriage to pass, although its wheels scraped against the houses on either side, producing
showers of
rotten splinters and earning yells of outrage from the owners. After another left turn, he saw the old woman was right: he
could now see his quarry clearly.

Snow and Storey had moved with the dung collector, Potts, to stand outside an alehouse. These had been declared illegal during
the Commonwealth, since they fermented sedition and disorder, but the one in the Fleet Rookery looked as though it had ignored
the prohibition. The benches outside were worn shiny from generations of rumps, while the taps and barrels in the adjacent
yard were in good working order. The three men were drinking, celebrating the escape. The two robbers looked hard, rough and
villainous, and exactly the kind of lout hired by ruthless officials to root out treachery among the poorer classes. Snow
still carried the satchel he had grabbed from Thurloe, although he had made no attempt to inspect its contents. Either he
knew better than to try, or he could not read.

Chaloner slid into the shadows of a doorway, and reviewed the situation. Storey wore a sword and Snow had a pistol. It was
the firearm that would be the problem: Chaloner was not afraid of being shot at – it was an old gun from the wars, of a type
that was notoriously unreliable – but the noise of its discharge would draw unwanted attention. The alehouse was busy, despite
the fact that it was not long past dawn, and at the first sounds of a skirmish, men would rush out to join in.

Potts climbed on to his wagon and scanned the lane Chaloner had recently vacated. ‘You lost him,’ he said, jumping down again.
‘He was a constable, you say? Which parish?’

‘Er … Whitechapel,’ replied Snow, swigging his beer.

‘You were thieving over there?’ asked Potts, eyeing the
pouch. It was battered and old, but still not something Snow would have owned.

Snow was indignant. ‘No, we were not!’

‘Why was he after you, then?’ asked the dung collector with cool logic.

Storey looked smug. ‘Because we are loyal to the Crown. Traitors – like Oliver Cromwell’s lickspittle son Richard – want to
kill us, so they can start a revolt and behead another King Charles. We stand in their way, and they will do anything to be
rid of us.’

‘The King recruited us special,’ bragged Snow. ‘He hates rebels – you only have to go to Westminster Hall to see that.’

‘I did go,’ said Potts. ‘I saw Oliver Cromwell’s head on a pole, and a few others, too. King-killers, they said. Henry Thurloe
was there – the old Spymaster.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Or did Thurloe get a post in the new government? It is difficult to keep
up with it all – not that it makes much difference to me. I still scrape dung, no matter who is in charge.’

‘
John
Thurloe,’ corrected Snow superiorly. ‘And there
is
a difference between the King and the Commonwealth. There were no alehouses under Cromwell, for a start.’

Potts looked dubious, indicating Chaloner’s assessment had been accurate: the Fleet tavern had ignored the edicts, and no
one had bothered – or dared – to stop it.