A Conspiracy of Violence (25 page)

‘Are they concealed within paintings or murals?’ asked Chaloner. As an intelligence-gathering agent, it was the
kind of thing that interested him, particularly if he was going to work at the palace.

‘Some are, while others are hidden behind statues or furniture. Here is one of the chambers used by Lady Castlemaine. She
is in it now.’ He swallowed, and his voice became unsteady. ‘Naked.’

Chaloner peered through another hole. He had heard a lot about Lady Castlemaine, and was keen to see her for himself. Loyally,
he thought she was nothing compared with Metje: her face was small and rather catlike, and it was not difficult to imagine
her being spiteful. However, even her harshest critics could not deny that her body was about as near to perfection as it
was possible to be, with perfectly proportioned limbs, exquisite curves and alabaster skin.

‘Metje is better,’ he declared, after a period of detailed study. ‘Rubens himself could not have made her more beautiful.’

Evett raised his eyebrows. ‘She must be a veritable Madonna. You must introduce us.’

‘You have enough women of your own.’

‘Two wives and someone special,’ acknowledged Evett. ‘I am in love again, thinking of extending my harem. But I was not going
to seduce Metje: I just wanted to see her. When will you marry?’

‘She will not have me until I secure a permanent post with Clarendon.’

‘Then unless she wants to be a widow, she should encourage you to look elsewhere. You seem a decent fellow, Heyden, and poor
Simon’s fate keeps preying on my mind – I do not want you to go the same way. Why not apply to the Treasury? They are always
looking for clerks.’

‘That would be safe,’ remarked Chaloner caustically. ‘Just ask Lee.’

Evett was suddenly more interested in what was happening on the other side of the hole ‘That is Buckingham with her,’ he whispered
disapprovingly. He squinted and angled his head to one side as she released a moan of delight and Buckingham sniggered. ‘What
are they doing?’

Chaloner pushed him gently, to make him move on, but Evett was intrigued by the curious positions the lovers had adopted,
and refused to budge. Chaloner shoved him harder, then glanced through the gap in alarm when Evett stumbled against the panelling
hard enough to make a substantial thud. The two people entwined on the bed either had not noticed or did not care, because
they showed no sign of interrupting their antics to investigate.

‘This is where Clarke died,’ said Evett, when they reached a hallway that was somewhat more public than the ones they had
just travelled. ‘He was found at dawn, and I was the one who had to take his body to the river – Clarendon thought it was
unwise to have rumours about murder in the royal household. All these chambers are used as offices by palace administrators
during the day.’

‘And at night?’

‘They are empty, as you can see. The clerks do not work after dark, because the light in this wing is poor, and it is too
expensive to provide them all with lamps.’

‘So, these offices are always empty after dusk? This corridor is deserted?’

‘Not necessarily. Some of the King’s celebrations are very wild, and his barons copulate everywhere – with any woman who possesses
the requisite body parts, usually. Because these rooms are relatively secluded, they
are occasionally used by those who exercise discretion in their trysts.’

‘Using a clerk’s office is being discreet, is it?’ Chaloner was amused.

Evett nodded with great seriousness. ‘Yes, when the rest of them use the public rooms. I like women, as you know, but even
I disapprove of the Court’s behaviour. The common people are beginning to mutter about it, and the King should be setting
a moral example, not engaging in orgies every night of the week – or at least, not orgies that everyone knows about.’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘The problem lies not in the Court’s decadence, but in the fact that it follows so hard on the heels of
Cromwell’s strictures. One was too repressive, and the other too free. I think it is the contrast that unsettles people.’

‘Moderation,’ said Evett with a grin. ‘We are there again. At every turn I am proven right.’

Chaloner turned his attention back to the hall. ‘So, in essence, anyone can come here? It is used mostly by servants and clerks,
but courtiers have access, too? Especially at night?’

‘Yes. The killer took quite a risk in choosing it for his crime.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin, thinking about the deserted tunnels he had just travelled, which would have been far better places
to commit a stealthy murder. ‘Perhaps you should consider the possibility that the culprit is someone who does not know White
Hall very well.’

Evett was unimpressed by this. ‘But Buckingham knows White Hall like the back of his hand, and so does Downing. Even Kelyng
and Bennet have a working knowledge of the place, because they come here to report
to the King. Your suggestion will take me away from my main suspects.’

Chaloner pointed to the floor. ‘Is that blood?’

Evett nodded. ‘The maids scrubbed and scrubbed, but it will not come out.’

Chaloner bent to examine the mark, which was huge and suggested Clarke had bled profusely. ‘A proficient assassin would never
have made such a mess, so perhaps he was stabbed by someone unused to killing – someone who does not know how to do it with
a minimum amount of spillage.’

Evett regarded him askance. ‘The things you say! But I suspect few courtiers have experience of actual slaughter, although
I imagine Buckingham has done it, and Kelyng and Bennet certainly have. What about Downing? Has he stabbed anyone in the past?’

‘I do not know. Was the knife left with Clarke’s body?’

Evett pulled a blade from his belt, making Chaloner step back instinctively. ‘Easy! I am no silent assassin – especially in
a half-public hallway like this one. I have taken to carrying this dagger around with me, in the hope that someone might recognise
it, but no one has, as yet.’

Chaloner was not surprised, since recognition might go hand in hand with an accusation of murder. He inspected the weapon.
It was a fine one, with a jewelled hilt. He thought it unlikely that a servant would have owned it, because it was far too
valuable to have been left behind. He said as much to Evett, who looked pleased.

‘Good. That means I can concentrate on my wealthier suspects – such as Buckingham.’

‘Do not allow your judgement to be clouded by dislike,’ warned Chaloner. ‘If you look for clues that point only
to him, you may miss evidence directing you towards the real culprit.’

Evett nodded, although Chaloner had the feeling the advice would be ignored, and pointed to the dagger. ‘What else can you
tell me about it?’

Chaloner turned it over in his hands. ‘It is small, which means it was probably concealed. The killer could have hidden it
in his hand, then turned and struck upwards. Like this.’

Evett did not enjoy playing the role of victim with a sharp blade slicing through the air towards him. He jumped away in alarm.
‘And how does knowing that help us?’

‘It suggests a sudden attack, which left Clarke no time to defend himself. It also indicates that he did not suspect the person
intended to harm him.’ Chaloner was thinking aloud. ‘He may have been lured – he followed the killer here, perhaps with the
promise of information or a tryst.’

‘Not a tryst,’ said Evett. ‘Clarke liked
women
, and would never have let himself be seduced by Buckingham, Downing or Kelyng’s fellows. So, one of them must have promised
information – perhaps about the missing knives from the kitchen.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Chaloner cautiously, thinking about the coded messages discovered in Clarke’s secret pocket. He had obviously
been investigating something other than the theft of silverware, and might well have gone to the hall in the hope of learning
something useful – perhaps about praising God or the Seven.

Evett sighed, then threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Questions and speculation! That is all there is with this case. I
hate
this kind of work! I wish I was someone else’s aide.’

Chaloner smiled ruefully. ‘And I have no idea how to find Barkstead’s treasure, so I suggest we both leave White Hall before
the Earl sees us and demands a progress report.’

Evett led the way out of the corridor, and Chaloner was uneasy to note it emerged in the wing where Clarendon had his rooms.
Almost immediately, the Lord Chancellor waddled out of his office, driving a crowd of petitioners before him like a flock
of geese. Chaloner tried to escape while the rabble took issue about their abrupt dismissal, but Clarendon spotted him and
cocked a chubby forefinger, beckoning agent and aide into his office with one hand, while he flapped away his clamouring
visitors with the other. Chaloner complied, wishing he had something more to tell his new employer than ‘questions and speculations’.

When he entered the Earl’s chamber, the first thing he saw was a peculiarly shaped object, crazed with cracks and knobbly
with glue: he had been right when he had predicted that repairing the crystal vase was impossible. He also noticed Clarendon’s
desk had been cleared, and sensitive documents no longer sat in full view. Of course, he thought grimly, with six of his seven
agents dead, there were probably very few secret reports coming to him.

‘Have you made a will, Heyden?’ asked the Earl, closing the door behind them.

Chaloner regarded him warily. ‘I do not own any property, sir.’

‘None at all? Thurloe told me you had a bass viol.’

‘Why do you want to know?’ Unease made the question more curt than Chaloner had intended.

‘A will would be helpful in the event of … well, you do not need me to tell you that your kind of work can be dangerous.
Talk to Thurloe. He should be able to draft something out for you.’

‘Is life at White Hall so perilous, then, My Lord?’ asked Chaloner, aware of Evett’s frantic signals, urging him to say nothing
that would reveal he had been told about the sad fate of Lane and the others.

The Lord Chancellor gave a patently false smile. ‘Not at all, except for poor Clarke, of course. All the others are in fine
fettle, and are very happy working for me.’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner coolly. ‘Because Simon Lane is a friend of mine.’

‘Was he?’ muttered Clarendon unhappily. ‘Damn!’ He cleared his throat and became businesslike. ‘Have you been looking for
my treasure today?’

The use of the possessive pronoun did not escape Chaloner’s attention, and he wondered whether the man planned to keep the
entire seven thousand pounds for himself. His anxiety deepened, knowing perfectly well that while Clarendon was unlikely to
be hanged for defrauding the King, the agent who abetted him would be tried by a different set of laws altogether.

‘He has not found it yet,’ said Evett, when Chaloner did not reply.

‘Well, keep looking,’ ordered the Earl. He seemed out of sorts, and Chaloner supposed the petitioners’ demands had annoyed
him, along with the reminder that six spies had died doing his bidding. ‘It will turn up. Lost objects always do.’

‘We have just come from the Tower,’ said Evett conversationally. ‘You asked me to show Heyden where we dug for the gold. We
met Robinson, and there was a lion on
the loose. It had escaped, and was looking for someone to eat. Robinson sent us out through the Traitors’ Gate, thinking
to keep us from its waiting maw, but it almost had us anyway. Someone had tied a rope across the steps that led to the water,
obviously intending to see us fall to its mercy.’

‘We do not know it was put there for us,’ said Chaloner reasonably. Indeed, he strongly suspected it was not, since no one
could have predicted they would leave the Tower that way.

Anger crossed Clarendon’s face. ‘Let me understand you correctly. A lion – presumably the mad one – was released into the
Tower grounds when you were in them? It was inside the Traitors’ Gate, and Robinson sent you in there with it?’

‘I do not think he did it deliberately, sir,’ said Evett, although he sounded uncertain.

‘Do you not?’ shouted the Earl, his temper breaking. ‘Do you not? Well I do! It was a deliberate strike against me! He tried
to murder my aide
and
my new spy – to make Thurloe angry with me for losing yet another one.’ He grimaced, annoyed with himself for the inadvertent
admission.

‘Robinson wanted
me
dead?’ asked Evett, aghast.

‘Of course he did,’ hissed the Earl. ‘Do you not agree, Heyden?’

‘I have no idea, sir,’ replied Chaloner, wanting to say that he did not think Robinson would waste his time on Evett. He was
a pleasant fellow, but hardly represented a threat. ‘We had no appointment to visit the Tower, so it would have been a very
last-minute attempt.’

But there had actually been plenty of time to organise it, given the number of hours they had spent there.
Robinson had been very determined that they should leave by the Traitors’ Gate, and he would also have known that they had
been disarmed before they had entered his castle. Then there was the rope: it had been pure luck they had not been injured
by it. And the reason for such an attack? Did Robinson want to find Barkstead’s treasure, and either keep it for himself or
donate it to the Brotherhood? Chaloner thought about Lee, described as a kinsman of one of Robinson’s friends. What was going
on?

‘Robinson saw an opportunity and he seized it,’ declared Clarendon angrily. ‘For two reasons. First, to weaken me by depriving
me of men. And second, because he wants to prevent further searches for the treasure. Go and fetch me some wine, Philip. I
am so angry that my heart is all a-flutter.’

Evett disappeared, and some of Clarendon’s rage seemed to go with him.

‘I thought Robinson had no interest in Barkstead’s money,’ said Chaloner. ‘He was never in line for a share of it.’

‘He will have a share if he finds it on his own. I may not be up to Thurloe’s standards, Heyden, but I have a few informants
in place, and I know for a fact that he went digging himself one night. And I can assure you
he
was not looking for mushrooms.’