A Conspiracy of Violence (20 page)

Chaloner felt this was unreasonable. ‘But he may have been killed
because
of what he was doing at White Hall. It may not be possible to look at one without exploring the other.’

‘It will have to be,’ said Thurloe tartly. ‘A night of listening to gossiping servants may well tell you all you need to know.
Kelyng and Bennet are not subtle, and someone may have seen them loitering or asking questions. So, will you do as I ask,
or shall I recruit someone else to help me?’

Chaloner was tempted to tell him to find some other fool. If he found Barkstead’s treasure for the Earl, he would not need
Thurloe’s good opinion, and he was being given a task with conditions that might make a solution impossible. But he owed Thurloe
something for the past ten years, and he had been oddly touched by the ex-Spymaster’s shy expression of friendship.

‘It will depend on whether I can gain access to the right servants – whether I can talk to them without arousing Clarendon’s
suspicions.’

‘True,’ agreed Thurloe. ‘So be careful. Concentrate on Kelyng – he should not present much of a challenge to a man who survived
Downing for so many years. If he has stepped up his campaign against me, I would like to know, so I can take precautions.’
He went to a table and began to write. ‘I will tell Evett you have solved murders before. He is a soldier, not an investigator,
and will doubtless welcome any help that comes his way. But what
did
the Earl ask you to do, if not look into Clarke’s death?’

‘Hunt down some missing money,’ replied Chaloner vaguely.

Thurloe nodded, not looking up as he dipped his pen into the ink. ‘The new government is desperate for funds, and Clarendon
is always trying to find ways of raising more. I wish you luck – if you find him a few hundred, he will take you under his
wing for certain.’

Chaloner left Thurloe deeply uneasy. The ex-Spymaster had admitted to belonging to the Brotherhood, but only when the alternative
was a brazen lie. Was he really in the process of extricating himself, or was he still involved? And did it matter, given
that Downing claimed the group’s aims were not illegal or seditious anyway? Thurloe had also declined to admit any familiarity
with the words ‘seven’ and ‘praise God’, although Chaloner still believed the messages from Clarke and Hewson were intended
for him. Was he telling the truth, or was Chaloner being unreasonable, since Thurloe could hardly be expected to know the
meaning of messages he had never received?

No answers were forthcoming, no matter how many times he pondered the questions, so he walked to Will’s Coffee House and read
the pamphlet written by
Leybourn, which Downing had given him. He studied it closely, assessing it for the kind of stilted phrase or unusual reference
that might be indicative of secret orders to waiting members, but he could see nothing amiss. Perhaps it was just what it
seemed: a call for people to exercise tolerance, patience and understanding. He wished there was someone he could discuss
it with, but for the first time in years, he did not know whom he could trust. And that night Metje did not come to him.

Chaloner was early for his appointment with Captain Evett the next morning. When Evett had asked where they should meet, Chaloner
had suggested the Dolphin, on the grounds that it was near the Tower. It was also where members of the Brotherhood would meet
later that day, after the conclave at the Royal Foundation of St Katherine, and although he would not be joining their ranks,
Chaloner intended to engineer a meeting with some of its members. There were too many links between them and his three investigations
to be innocent, and he would be remiss to ignore them.

The Dolphin was one of London’s best taverns, patronised by clerks from the Navy Office, officers from the Tower and merchants
from nearby Fishmongers’ Hall. The atmosphere was one of genteel civility, and the inn boasted a freshly swept floor, polished
oak furniture and two fires burning in separate hearths. It smelled of sweet ale, pipe smoke and freshly cut logs. Chaloner
ordered, but then did not feel like eating, a dish of salted herrings and bread, paid for with a shilling he had found in
his spare breeches. His thoughts were on Metje, and he was sorry they had argued. He wondered what she would say if he asked
her to go to Buckinghamshire with him, so
he could abandon Clarendon
and
the awkward situation with Thurloe. He had the feeling she would not agree, and did not blame her. She thrived amid the colourful
bustle of London, with its theatres, pageants and fairs, and there was little in the country that would make her love it.

‘Are you going to eat that?’ asked Evett, sitting down in a flurry of damp cloak and cold air. ‘There was only pink pudding
for breakfast at White Hall today. Why have you lost your appetite? Worry over this lost treasure?’

‘I argued with my woman,’ said Chaloner, surprising himself by the confidence. He did not normally open his heart to virtual
strangers.

Evett was sympathetic. ‘They have a habit of provoking quarrels out of nothing. Does your wife know about her? Or was that
what the row was about?’

‘Metje is my wife,’ said Chaloner. He reflected. ‘Or she will be.’

‘You intend to marry?’ asked Evett. He looked disapproving. ‘I would not recommend that. They become different once you wed
them. It is better to leave them as mistresses – kept women are more loving and considerably less demanding. Of course, the
King would probably disagree, since Lady Castlemaine is
very
demanding.’

‘Are you speaking from personal experience?’

Evett nodded, cheeks bulging with fish. ‘With both wives. One manages my farm in Kent, while the other looks after my house
in Deptford.’

Chaloner did not know whether to be shocked or amused. Bigamy was a capital crime, and he was astonished to hear Evett so
blithely confessing to it. ‘Does Clarendon know about them?’

Evett shook his head. ‘He would not understand. I
was forced into both matches: the first declined to lie with me until she had been to the altar, and the second
did
lie with me, but a child appeared and her father put a gun to my head. They are lovely lasses, but I find myself lonely at
Court. Perhaps I should take a third, to tend me in White Hall. What do you think?’

‘Managing three wives would require a deviousness beyond my abilities.’

‘And you a spy these last ten years,’ said Evett with a grin. ‘So, I have skills you envy, do I? Will you recommend me to
Thurloe, then?’

‘I might. However, I understand you know him, so why not ask yourself ?’

Evett chuckled. ‘I am jesting. I have been Clarendon’s aide for years, and it would be folly to leave him now his fortunes
are finally on the rise. Of course, they will not continue that way if Buckingham has anything to do with it. He
was
the baboon at the masque, you know. I told you it was he who burst in on us, thinking himself suitably disguised.’

‘Thurloe is a good man,’ said Chaloner, trying to steer the conversation back in the direction he wanted it to go.

‘Is he?’ asked Evett, without much interest. ‘I see him when he visits Clarendon, but he tends to wait until I withdraw before
embarking on whatever it is they discuss.’

‘You do not meet on other occasions, perhaps out with friends?’

‘Thurloe has no friends – he is not a sociable man. Why do you ask?’

‘He sent you a letter.’ Chaloner handed Evett the note Thurloe had scribbled the previous day. It contained nothing other
than a polite suggestion that Chaloner’s
skills might be of use in locating Clarke’s killer, and ended with the familiarly scrawled
Jo: Thurloe
, a signature that made some recipients imagine the sender’s name to be Joseph. Naturally, Chaloner had read it, then repaired
the seal, but he had been unable to determine whether its cool professionalism suggested a prior acquaintance.

Evett scanned the few lines. ‘He thinks you might be able to help me with Clarke. Good! I am a soldier, not a parish constable
and I am not pleased about being ordered to solve murders.’

‘The Earl told me to leave the matter alone.’

‘He asked
me
to stop looking for treasure in the Tower, too, but I will give you a detailed tour of the places where we dug, if you help
me with Clarke. Agreed? Are you leaving that bread?’

Chaloner pushed it towards him.

‘So, your domestic dispute deprived you of your appetite, did it? You should recruit a couple of mistresses to take your mind
off it. Do you want me to introduce you to some willing ladies?’

Chaloner watched him eat. ‘You seem to have very tolerant views of these matters.’

Evett nodded. ‘There are far too many fanatics around these days, and they are making life uncomfortable for the rest of us
– like those miserable Puritan extremists who banned horse racing.’

‘Have you ever met other people who think your way?’ asked Chaloner casually.

Evett stopped chewing. ‘Why?’

‘Because I have. Well, I did not meet them, exactly, but I know what they think, and I know they gather occasionally to discuss
their ideas.’

‘Damn! Who told you? Rob Leybourn? He will land us all in trouble with his loose tongue.’

‘What kind of trouble do you anticipate?’

‘People are suspicious of secret societies, and always think the worst. But the Brotherhood really does have good principles.
I mean, what more can you ask than everyone tolerating the beliefs and opinions of everyone else? I saw Cromwell suppress
Royalists in the fifties, and I see Royalists doing the same to Roundheads now. If we are to have peace, then we need an end
to persecution.’

‘It sounds idealistic.’

‘What if it does? Everyone knows about the Court’s decadence – animal masques, pink puddings, money spent that is not there.
How long will it be before the people object, and we find ourselves with a ruling Parliament again? And then what? Am I to
be hanged, because I am Clarendon’s man? Are you? How many times can
you
change sides? I just want justice for everyone, no matter who is in power. The brothers are not men I normally associate
with – I dislike Ingoldsby, for example – but unpleasant company is a small price to pay for peace and harmony.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin. Evett did not seem the type to harbour such notions – he was a soldier, for a start, and they tended
to prefer war and
dis
harmony, when their skills could be put to use. But then he recalled his own distaste for strife after the wars, and supposed
the captain might feel the same.

Evett ate more bread. ‘And then there is Downing: he detests me
and
Clarendon, and the feeling is wholly reciprocated. I dislike Hewson, too, but Robinson sent me a message last night to say
he is dead. Hewson
claimed
to be moderate, but he still said some fairly radical things about religion.’

‘Do you know Sir John Kelyng?’

‘I assure you
he
is not a brother. He is exactly the kind of man we are trying to overturn.’

‘Is the Brotherhood open to anyone?’

Evett laughed. ‘No, or we would have lunatics like Kelyng clamouring to join. Newcomers must believe in moderation, and they
tend to be recommended by other brothers, who know their views.’

‘Who recommended Clarke?’

Evett did not seem surprised that Chaloner should know Clarke had been a member. ‘I did – to help me with Clarendon. Why?
Surely you do not think the brothers had anything to do with his murder? Lord! That would be awkward! But now we are colleagues,
and helping each other, I should tell you something important. Clarendon gives the impression he knows what he is doing, but
he is not as competent as he appears. Others have misread his abilities, and it has cost them their lives.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘That is a singularly disloyal thing for an aide to say.’

Evett grimaced unhappily. ‘I know, and it pains me to do it, but it cannot be helped. And anyway, he misuses me. I am a soldier,
but he sends me to chase killers and treasure. He says he cannot trust anyone else, but that does not make such base duties
any less distasteful.’

‘What would you rather be doing?’ asked Chaloner, surprised he should think an aide had a choice.

‘I want to be Lord High Admiral.’ Chaloner struggled to keep the incredulity from his face: it was a lofty ambition for a
mere soldier, and the post was currently held by the King’s brother. ‘I
know
I get seasick when we cross the Channel, but I love ships. However, that is for the
future, and we were talking about the present. I am Clarendon’s man, but that does not mean I am blind to his faults – or
that I am prepared to watch another spy walk blithely to his death.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Chaloner, bewildered. ‘That your Earl killed Clarke?’

There was a guarded expression in Evett’s eyes. ‘He did not hold the daggers himself, but it was his orders that led them
into the situations that saw them killed. He is liable for—’

Chaloner was acutely uncomfortable with the use of the plural. ‘
Them?
’

‘Thurloe’s men. The Earl ordered them to follow certain people – to see where they went and who they met. It sounded easy,
the kind of thing you spies do in your sleep. One lasted a month, but the others were dead within days – stabbed in the back
in the dead of night with no witnesses.’

‘Thurloe sent six men in total,’ said Chaloner uneasily. ‘Five, then Clarke. How many have died?’

‘All of them.’

Chaloner did not believe him. ‘The Earl sends Thurloe letters saying they are doing well.’

Evett shrugged. ‘Thurloe was furious when he learned about Clarke, and the Earl could not bring himself to admit that the
other five are gone, too.’

Chaloner’s voice became unsteady when he remembered the man who had shared his love of music. ‘Even Simon Lane?’

‘All are buried in unmarked graves at St Martin-inthe-Fields.’

‘Who killed them?’ demanded Chaloner, shocked by the carnage. ‘The men they were following?’