A Conspiracy of Violence (26 page)

‘He will not find it, sir,’ said Chaloner, supposing the same people had also reported Evett’s excuse for his presence in
the Tower that day. ‘It is in none of the obvious places.’

The Earl pursed his lips. ‘Then you must look in the less obvious ones – before he does. Barkstead had a family. Talk to them
and ask where else he might have put it.’

‘His wife and son – a child of six – are in Holland, and he has no other relatives. Would you like me to travel to the United
Provinces and speak to—?’

‘No, I would not,’ snapped Clarendon. ‘Once you are there, you might decide not to come back – I know you are fond of the
place and that you keep a Dutch mistress. What about his friends?’

‘They were Parliamentarians, either dead, fled or in prison. Those who are incarcerated or in hiding will not betray his trust,
and those who are dead cannot.’

‘Those in gaol may reconsider their loyalties if we promise them their freedom,’ suggested the Earl. ‘You can visit them,
and see what they say.’

‘With respect, sir, they will not parley with me. I do not have the authority to make offers they would trust.’

‘I will go, then. I am the Lord Chancellor – they will believe me.’

‘I am not sure that is a good idea, either,’ said Chaloner, knowing any such approach would be treated with the suspicion
it deserved. ‘Trouble-makers like Kelyng would accuse you of treason before you had asked Robinson for the keys to their cells.’

Clarendon scowled, giving the impression that promises would have been made with no intention of honouring them. ‘He must
have had other friends.
Find them
. I want that money!’

Barkstead did have other friends, Chaloner thought, as the Lord Chancellor turned on his heel and stalked away. He had the
Brotherhood. Chaloner saw he would be spending the next few days interviewing its senior members, and hoped one would give
him a clue that might take him forward. And then there was Mother Pinchon. Perhaps there was a detail she had forgotten,
which skilled questioning might shake loose. He was planning his strategy when the Earl turned around.

Chaloner was startled by the transformation. Gone was the fussy little fellow who had almost stamped his feet in impotent
rage, and he was replaced by something far more unnerving, leaving Chaloner with the absolute conviction that here was a man
who would have what he wanted. For the first time, he understood how Clarendon had risen to become Lord Chancellor of England.

‘You had better not fail me,
Chaloner
,’ he said in a soft voice. He did not need to add threats. The tone of his voice spoke them all.

Night had fallen by the time Chaloner left White Hall, and lamps were set along some roads in compliance with the city fathers’
ordinances. But mostly, the highways were dark, and there was already a different kind of crowd emerging to slouch along them.
Chaloner was not worried about street ruffians. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and the other on the dagger at his
waist, and the weapons would be out without conscious thought at the first sign of danger. One man tried to bump into him
as he walked, probably to pick his pocket, but Chaloner side-stepped him and the fellow staggered into nothing. Linksmen with
pitch torches wanted him to pay them to light his way, while beggars in doorways snatched at him as he passed. He rummaged
for change, but his purse was empty. He was hungry himself and could not even find a farthing for a pie.

He had intended to go home, to resolve his differences with Metje, but first he stopped at St Martin-in-the-Fields, where
the vicar showed him five wooden crosses in the
churchyard. There was a sixth, too – a mound of earth that the minister said would soon be covered by a stone memorial. It
was being prepared at Thurloe’s expense, and would be ready the following week. Chaloner was used to losing colleagues, but
was unsettled by the graves of so many in such a small space, and was sorry that Simon Lane should be among them.

He took his leave of the priest, relieved to be away from the graveyard. Despite the fact that it adjoined the Strand, with
its bright shops and busy traffic, St Martin’s cemetery was a bleak place, and the diversion had depressed him. He knew it
was the wrong time to repair his rift with Metje, since they would almost certainly argue again if he was morose. So, since
Lincoln’s Inn was not far, he decided to speak to Thurloe about some of the facts he had learned. He wanted to ask the ex-Spymaster
whether he had indeed founded the Brotherhood, whether he knew anything about the Seven, and what Clarke and Hewson – and
possibly the five dead agents – might have been investigating on his behalf. Thurloe had not actually lied to him, but he
had not been wholly honest, either, and if Chaloner was to solve Clarke’s murder, then he needed the truth.

He walked to Lincoln’s Inn, keeping to the left side of Chancery Lane, which was better lit and less potholed than the right.
It was a cold evening, and he supposed it was clear, but the sky was masked by a pall of smoke from thousands of fires, which
blotted out any stars that might have been visible. The air stank of burning wood, overlain with a sharper tang that made
him wonder whether more snow was in the offing. For the second time in as many days, a memory surfaced of a childhood Christmas,
when the hall of his father’s manor was
bright gold with candlelight, and the rafters were adorned with holly and mistletoe. Pine cones on the fire, spiced wine
and sweet oranges added to the heady aroma of celebration. He remembered laughing at something his oldest brother had said,
something that still made him smile, and wondered whether he could share the joke with Metje without revealing too much about
his family. He was sure she would find it amusing, and was assailed with the realisation that he missed being able to talk
openly about people he loved.

He reached Lincoln’s Inn, and trudged towards Dial Court, shivering as the wind gusted hard and cold. Thurloe had seen him
coming through the window, and the door to his quarters was ajar. A fire blazed, as usual, and the room was full of the scent
of a good dinner – roasted meat, baked parsnips, boiled fowl, and a pear tart to follow – but the dishes on the table were
empty, and only a pile of gnawed bones remained.

‘I expect you have already eaten,’ said Thurloe, going to his customary seat at the hearth. ‘But join me in a glass of milk
with honey. I always find milk soothes the stomach and reduces night terrors.’

Chaloner accepted – he would have taken anything offered at that moment – and scalded his mouth when he tried to swallow it
too soon. Thurloe liked his milk boiling. He also liked it sweet enough to be sickly, so the resulting potion was more syrup
than drink. Chaloner set it by the hearth to cool, intending on finishing every last drop, no matter how vile it tasted. There
was no food at home, and Thurloe’s sugary potion was the only thing he was likely to get that day.

‘The Lord Chancellor told me I should make a will,’ he said, when Thurloe waited for him to state the purpose
of his visit. ‘He thought you might be able to help.’

Thurloe stared at him in surprise. ‘Why were you discussing such a topic?’

‘I imagine because Clarke is not the only agent to have met an early end in his service. The other five you sent are dead,
too, and he was advising me to take precautions against intestacy.’

The colour drained from Thurloe’s face. ‘What?’ ‘I have just seen their graves in St Martin’s churchyard, and their names
are in the parish register.’

Thurloe massaged his eyes with unsteady fingers. ‘Here is a detail the Earl neglected to mention when he asked for more men.
I would not have obliged, had I known. All five are dead?’

Chaloner nodded, and they sat in silence for a while, the only sound being the wind gusting outside and the fire popping in
the hearth.

‘I sent him about forty names,’ said Thurloe eventually. ‘Clerks and men skilled at administration. But only six spies, counting
Clarke.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I should take you away from him before he buries you, too. I knew there was an element
of risk – old intelligence officers working for a new regime – but I thought my people could look after themselves. What have
I done?’

‘It is not your fault, sir. Presumably, they wanted the opportunity you provided, and we all know the dangers of our work.’

‘Who killed them?’ demanded Thurloe, suddenly angry. ‘Kelyng?’

‘Possibly. All except Clarke were instructed to watch him or Downing.’

‘Downing is a sly villain, but I do not think he solves
problems with violence. He was here again today, talking about you. He said you eavesdropped on one of his meetings, and
left him no choice but to take you into his confidence.’

Chaloner grimaced at Downing’s untruthful version of events. ‘He claimed it was to protect himself and his colleagues – by
stopping me from asking questions that might alert Kelyng to the Brotherhood’s existence. But you never know with him.’

‘No, you do not. He has somehow learned that you operate under a false name, and is determined to discover your real identity.
He said he would give me fifty pounds if I told him.’

‘What did you say?’ Fifty pounds was a lot of money, and Chaloner found himself holding his breath for the answer.

‘I told him to discuss it with you, although I strongly advise against confiding in him. He will offer protection and friendship,
but you should accept neither. Perhaps his intentions are honourable – I think he really does want an end to civil strife
– but I cannot forget what he did to Barkstead, Okey and Corbet. He knows he made a serious error of judgement over that,
because now even the most ardent of Royalists thinks him a rogue. As regards you, he is probably afraid that the Earl has
asked you to catch him out in some way.’

‘Then why did he tell me about the Brotherhood? Surely, it would have been better to keep his clandestine dealings to himself
?’

‘The Brotherhood is not clandestine, Thomas. It is perfectly innocent – which is why he was keen for you to witness a gathering,
I imagine. And he is still eager for you to join its ranks, although I stand by my threat
to contest your election, should you ignore my advice and decide to accept a nomination. I told him the same thing today:
I do not want you involved.’

Chaloner was a little suspicious. ‘Why not? People keep telling me its aims are virtuous.’

‘For several reasons, the strongest being that Downing is in it, and the less time you spend with him, the better – you made
an enemy of him when you argued against his arrest of Barkstead, and I think he means you harm. Another reason is that membership
of the Brotherhood costs, and I doubt you have funds to squander in such a way, no matter how worthy the cause.’

That was certainly true, thought Chaloner ruefully, thinking about his empty larder. ‘You said you are no longer active, yet
it seems Downing still consults you about its affairs.’

Thurloe looked hard at him. ‘Because he hopes to entice me back. But I have not attended a meeting in three years – Kelyng
watches my every move, and I know exactly what
he
would make of me sitting in a private chamber with Downing, Ingoldsby and the others. He would assume we were plotting, and
would order our arrests without bothering to ask what we discuss. It is safer for everyone if I keep my distance. But what
have you learned about Clarke’s death? Perhaps he and the other five were murdered by the same hand.’

‘Evett showed me the place where he was killed. I have scant evidence, but I do not think he was dispatched by a professional
assassin. I think he was lured into a hallway, perhaps with the promise of information, and then stabbed. Evett thinks Buckingham
did it.’

‘Buckingham might hire someone to kill, but I doubt he would bloody his own hands. I appreciate his position:
I have ordered the occasional expedient death myself, but I could never slip my own knife between a man’s ribs.’

Chaloner nodded, not sure what to say to such a confidence, and an uncomfortable silence fell until Thurloe spoke again.

‘Where did you go today?’

Chaloner recalled his vow to say nothing about Barkstead’s gold. He considered inventing a tale that would place him well
away from the hunt for the treasure, but several members of the Brotherhood had seen him near the castle, and Robinson had
even discussed the matter with him. He decided to stay as close to the truth as possible.

‘I went with Evett to the Tower. He was happy to accept my help with Clarke’s murder – I do not think he has much stomach
for violent death, despite being a soldier.’

‘Clarendon told me he has never seen a gun fired in anger. He has great faith in the fellow, so he must have some wits, although
he has always seemed rather stupid to me.’

‘You know him well?’ asked Chaloner, recalling that the last time they had discussed Evett, Thurloe had been wary about admitting
an acquaintance with him.

‘Well enough to know I would not trust him near my wife. He has two of his own already, and no lady is safe from his amours.
I would watch Metje, if I were you, Tom. She is a pretty lady.’

‘They will never meet. I do not introduce friends to working colleagues.’

‘Very wise,’ said Thurloe. ‘So, tell me what you did at the Tower today.’

‘A lion had escaped, and Evett and I ended up inside the Traitors’ Gate with it.’

‘Not the mad one?’ asked Thurloe, shocked. ‘They should shoot the poor thing before it kills someone else. Of course, the
problem lies with the King: he does not want a royal menagerie with no lion, but they are expensive and the Court is short
of money. What else did you do?’

‘Then I went by river to White Hall, where—’

‘No prevarication, Thomas, I beg you,’ commanded Thurloe sharply. ‘Do not forget who I am and what I once did for a living
– or the fact that I know you well enough to see when you are lying. I ask you again: what did you do at the Tower?’

Thurloe’s blue eyes bored into him, and Chaloner saw it was time to make his choice. He had always known he could not manage
two powerful men who demanded his complete loyalty.