A Conspiracy of Violence (28 page)

‘My sister. She always uses that sequence when she visits me.’

Chaloner opened the door cautiously, dagger at the ready, and checked the corridor after Sarah had marched in. There was no
one else, but smears of mud on the polished floor indicated that someone had spent some time standing outside in one position.
When more dirt dropped from Sarah’s shoes as she flounced towards Thurloe, he assumed she had been crouching with her ear
pressed against the panels. He wondered whether they had spoken loudly enough for her to have heard them.

Sarah give no indication that she had been eavesdropping, and made for the hearth, tossing her gloves carelessly towards the
table. She wore a riding outfit, following the current fashion for masculine coat, doublet, wig and hat, and if it were not
for her trailing petticoats,
she might have been a man. It was a style favoured by the Queen, although the older members of Court grumbled that such attire
made it difficult to discern a person’s sex.

‘Are you alone?’ asked Thurloe, frowning. ‘You know I do not like you coming here in the dark.’

‘My maid rode most of the way with me – her nephew lives in Shoe Lane. And there are several plays tonight, so the streets
are busier than usual. Do you have any wine? I am parched. I have been in the Cockpit watching
Claracilla
. A tragicomedy by Killigrew,’ she added, rather condescendingly.

‘I trust you enjoyed it,’ said Thurloe, while Chaloner went to the wine jug. ‘Personally, I dislike the theatre – too many
people in too small a space.’

‘Quite. That makes them excellent venues for listening to idle chatter. Ask any of your spies.’

‘Indeed,’ said Thurloe, watching her sip the drink. ‘Tom, bring a chair and join us.’

‘He and I met near the Strand the day before yesterday,’ said Sarah, indicating Chaloner with a flick of her thumb. ‘I rescued
him from a beggarly pair, who were going to blow out his brains.’

‘Snow and Storey,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Kelyng is now minus a henchman.’

‘You killed one?’ asked Thurloe worriedly. ‘Are you sure that was wise, Tom? Kelyng will only recruit more, and there is a
wealth of louts to choose from. And, since they usually work in pairs, the survivor tends to yearn for revenge when his partner
dies violently.’

‘I should be going,’ said Chaloner, unwilling to be preached at when he could be working on the cipher he had recovered from
Lee. ‘I have a lot to do.’

He caught the spark of interest in Sarah’s eye, and wondered yet again what she had overheard. Was she expecting him to visit
Ingoldsby that night, and would she try to follow him again? If she did, he sincerely hoped she would not batter the fat knight
to death and leave Chaloner himself to take the blame.

‘Will you see my sister home first?’ asked Thurloe. He raised his hands when both parties began to object. ‘I do not care
how many people are abroad for the theatre, Sarah. You are precious to me, and I do not want to lose you to a robber who thinks
your life is worth his night in an alehouse.’

‘I can look after myself,’ said Sarah, although there was uncertainty in her voice.

‘You can protect Tom again, then,’ said Thurloe, unmoved. ‘But it is late and I want my bed. I dislike these cold, dark evenings.
The only place to be is tucked under the blankets with a book.’

‘But I have not said why I came to see you,’ said Sarah. She glanced significantly at Chaloner.

‘You can trust him,’ said Thurloe. ‘I have already told you that.’

‘You have also taught me to trust no one,’ she shot back, not unreasonably.

‘True, but we all need friends sometimes,’ said Thurloe. ‘If anything happens to me, I would like to think you two would turn
to each other, and—’

‘Stop!’ cried Sarah, troubled. ‘Nothing is going to happen to you, and I do not like you talking like this. It is unlike you
to be maudlin. If I want a friend,
you
are the one I shall visit.’

Thurloe raised his hands to quell the outburst. ‘Forgive me, my dear. I am tired, and the news about my poor
agents has been most distressing. What did you want to tell me?’

She glanced uneasily at Chaloner, but spoke anyway. ‘My husband is becoming increasingly agitated, and has it in his head
that Livesay has been passing secrets to his rivals.’

‘What secrets?’ asked Thurloe, bemused. ‘Secrets about his business?’

She shrugged, to indicate she did not know. ‘I keep telling him Livesay is either dead or in some remote country retreat,
but he will not believe me. Will you speak to him?’

‘I will visit tomorrow, if you think it will help. I shall recommend rest – a few days in bed can do wonders for a man. So
can a night.’ He looked pointedly towards the adjoining chamber, where his manservant had arrived to remove the warming pans.

She ignored the hint. ‘It is not easy to live with a man who seems to be losing his mind.’

Thurloe was alarmed. ‘Are you in danger? If so, then I shall arrange for you to move to Oxfordshire with my Ann and the children
immediately.’

She waved her hand. ‘He is not dangerous – at least, I do not think so. We have never been close, as you know, but he barely
exchanges a greeting with me these days, and spends hours gazing out of the window. He witnessed two robberies and a brawl
last night, and sees them as a sign that London is on the brink of revolution. I tell him it has always been that way, but
he will not listen.’

‘Perhaps you should both go to Oxfordshire,’ suggested Thurloe. ‘He clearly needs the peace of the country. And I need the
peace of my bed.’

‘Poor soul,’ said Sarah, going to kiss the top of his
head. ‘Sleep well, then, and tomorrow I shall tell you everything I overheard at the Cockpit. None of it is particularly
interesting, but I can give you a detailed account of Lady Castlemaine’s latest lover.’

‘Buckingham,’ said Chaloner. ‘Late this afternoon in White Hall. And she has a mole on her right thigh.’ Leaving them both
gaping, he walked to the door and held it open, indicating that Sarah should precede him outside.

‘You enjoyed that,’ said Sarah accusingly, as she and Chaloner walked to the Lincoln’s Inn stables to collect her horse. ‘I
had something interesting to tell him, and you pre-empted me.’

‘It was not important anyway – as you said yourself.’ He wondered why she was making such a fuss. ‘Everyone knows Buckingham
harbours a liking for Lady Castlemaine.’

She regarded him curiously. ‘The mole … did you see … I mean, how did you find out?’

‘Your brother trained me well. Just as he did you.’

She pouted. ‘I wish that were true. You know how to locate birthmarks on royal mistresses, while I can barely decode the simplest
cipher. I have begged him to teach me more, but he always has an excuse as to why he cannot.’

‘Spying is not a game. It can be dangerous.’

‘John has always been good to me, and I would like to return the favour. Bennet and his minions have been loitering near his
gate most of today, which is why I have only been able to visit now – I dared not come before.
Is there anything we can do to drive them away?’

‘Not without arousing their suspicions. You should not meddle – it may do more harm than good.’

‘You said you would help protect him, Thomas
Chaloner
. Are you reneging on your promise?’

He watched her lead her horse into the yard, horrified that she – a woman of whom he was intensely wary – should know his
real name. He wished Thurloe had kept the matter to himself:
he
might dote on his sister, but Chaloner had no reason to trust her. He was also puzzled. Thurloe had refused to confide in
Downing, with whom Chaloner had worked for five years, but had revealed the secret to Sarah, someone Chaloner had met only
twice – and one of those was when she was committing murder. Why would Thurloe be cautious with one person, but so rash with
another?

Sarah petted her restless pony, and Chaloner stepped forward to lift her into the saddle. She was surprisingly heavy, far
more so than Metje, although he sensed her bulk was more muscle than fat. The blow she had dealt Storey attested to the fact
that she was strong. He took the reins and started to lead the horse towards the gate, but she pulled them from him and made
a pretence at untangling them.

‘Tell me about
Claracilla
,’ he said, intending to learn a little more about her character while she kept him waiting. ‘I saw
The Parson’s Wedding
once, but it was a poor performance.’

She was surprised. ‘You are familiar with Killigrew’s work?’

Since a spy was obliged to cultivate a knowledge of all manner of subjects, he had acquired a grasp of the performing arts
that allowed him to converse about
them with at least a modicum of intelligence. ‘I met him in Holland once, when Downing invited him to dinner.’

She was impressed. ‘What was he like?’

He had been petty, foul-mouthed, sharp-tongued and dissolute. ‘A learned gentleman, but passionate in his temper.’

‘I heard he was a rake. Look, Thomas, you do not have to walk home with me. My brother is overly protective, and I shall be
perfectly safe on my own.’ She hesitated, then added in a softer tone, ‘But if it is not out of your way, I would not object
to your company.’

‘It is no trouble.’ He tried to take the bridle, but she jerked it from him a second time. He sighed. ‘At least, it is no
trouble if you allow me to do it tonight.’

She made a noise that sounded something like a sob, and he gazed up at her in surprise. When she spoke, her words emerged
a rush. ‘Snow is following me, and I am so frightened that I do not know what to do. That is what I came to tell John, but
I could not bring myself to do it. He looked so tired.’

‘He will not thank you for that – he will want to know. Go back and tell him.’

She shook her head firmly. ‘I cannot bother him with my problems. But I dare not go home, because then Snow will see where
I live.’

‘Did he follow you here?’

‘No, I lost him by climbing out of a window at the Cockpit. He had followed me
right inside
, and sat glowering at me all through the second half. I am not easily alarmed, but I do not like this.’

‘How did he find you in the first place?’

‘He probably loitered at Charing Cross until he spotted
me. You will always see the person you want if you wait there long enough.’

Snow had done much the same to catch Chaloner two days before. ‘How do you feel about lending me your hat?’

She regarded him uncertainly. ‘What for?’

‘So I can take your place. Your riding garb is masculine, and the streets are poorly lit. If I wear your hat and keep my head
down, I think we can fool him. I shall take your horse – and Snow – on a tour of the city, while you go home.’

‘But he means me harm. You will be putting yourself in danger.’

‘I doubt he will do anything too outrageous as long as there are people around. I will lead him away from you, then give him
the slip. It should not be difficult.’

‘What about my pony?’

‘I will stable him at the Golden Lion, and you can fetch him at your leisure.’

‘And what happens tomorrow? Will you take my place then, too?’

It was a reasonable question, and Chaloner suspected she would not be safe until she had either made some sort of arrangement
with the fellow or one of them was dead. ‘Stay indoors. If he does not know where you live, then he cannot harm you. He will
not linger on the Strand for ever – Kelyng will have other things for him to do.’

‘Why should you risk yourself on my account?’

‘You came to my rescue in the wigmaker’s shop,’ he replied, after wracking his brains for an answer. Why
was
he willing to help her? Because he disliked the notion of Snow stalking a woman? Because she was Thurloe’s sister and, for
all his suspicions and uncertainties, he still felt
a lingering affection for the man who had treated him well for a decade? Or because he wanted her to think kindly of him
now she knew his real name?

He lifted her off the horse and climbed into the saddle, keeping his elbows tucked in to make himself less bulky. Her wig
smelled faintly of a perfume that was sensual, and it carried her warmth.

‘Hoist up your petticoats, so they do not show,’ he instructed, as he started to ride down Chancery Lane. ‘Walk ahead of me
– not too far, or I will not be able to help you if he sees through our plan, but not so close that we look as though we are
together. And move like a man – do not mince.’

He smothered a laugh when she effected an exaggerated swagger. It made her appear drunk, and one fellow immediately sidled
up to her, evidently intent on taking advantage of an inebriated gentleman. Chaloner drew his dagger and the thief melted
away into the shadows, holding his hands in front of him to indicate he meant no harm.

It was not long before Chaloner spotted Snow; Sarah saw him at the same time, and tensed perceptibly. The robber was waiting
near the Maypole in the Strand, a towering pillar set up two years before to replace the one destroyed during the wars. He
was alert and watchful as he leaned against a wall, chewing a stick of dried meat. When he saw Sarah’s pony, he pushed himself
upright and stretched. A bulge near his waist indicated he carried a pistol. Chaloner scanned the dark street for an accomplice,
but Snow made no attempt to pass signals: the stalking of Sarah was personal, not duty, and he was alone.

‘Easy,’ called Chaloner softly, when he saw her falter, unwilling to walk past the man.

‘I cannot let you take the consequences for something I did,’ she replied unsteadily. ‘It is not fair. I should never have
agreed to it.’

‘It is too late now. Go home, before your hesitation puts us both in danger.’

Reluctantly, she entered the garden of her house, while Chaloner continued along the Strand. He glanced behind him when he
reached the corner, and saw Snow still watching. The ruse had worked. He rode towards the river, then eased the horse into
a trot. Snow sped up, and Chaloner took a sharp left, but found himself in an alley barely wide enough for the animal to pass.
The pony did not like the sensation of buildings hemming it in, and began to buck. Snow hauled a pistol from his belt and
took aim. Chaloner ducked, and the shot blew to pieces a swinging sign above his head. The sound was shockingly loud in the
confined space.

The horse bolted. It raced down the alley, and its hooves drew sparks when it reached the end and tried to make a hard right-hand
turn. Snow tugged a second weapon from his coat, not taking the time to reload the first. The pony thundered on, then reared
suddenly when its path was blocked by a stack of roofing tiles. Snow’s footsteps echoed behind, and he gave a brief shout
of satisfaction when he saw his quarry trapped. Chaloner tried to turn, intending to ride Snow down, but there was no room
for such a manoeuvre and the horse knew it. It started to gallop towards the tiles, and Chaloner braced himself for the impact.
Then he was airborne, wind whistling past his ears. A sharp click sounded when a hoof connected with the highest tile, and
then they were across. He grabbed the beast’s mane to keep his balance as it cavorted back towards the Strand, and Snow’s
second
shot was fired more in frustration than in any real hope of hitting its target.

Chaloner was grateful the landlord of the Golden Lion knew him, because it meant he did not demand advance payment for the
horse’s lodging. He lingered in the tavern, partly to warm himself by the fire before he went to his icy garret, and partly
to ensure Snow had not traced the tortuous route he had taken home. Nothing was amiss after an hour, and he left the inn with
some reluctance. He smiled when he saw Temperance returning from a late prayer-meeting at the chapel, although she looked
as though she had just spent an hour sitting next to a live cannon.

‘What did Hill rave about this time?’ he asked, watching her face light up when she saw him.

‘Turning the other cheek, although he is actually rather a vengeful man.’

‘Why does your father not hire someone more moderate?’

‘Hill was once attacked by brutal men who hated his religion, and my father feels a kinship with him because he suffered the
same treatment, as did my brother. He knows Hill is a danger to us, and spends a lot of time asking God to make him more temperate.’

Chaloner wondered whether the incident Hill had related to North was actually the time he had spent in the Buckingham stocks
for iconoclasm. ‘Then let us hope God hears him.’

She brushed aside his concerns. ‘Where is your hat? You should not be bareheaded on such a night – you will take a chill.’

Chaloner gave her a brief flash of Sarah’s headwear,
which he had shoved in his pocket after the escapade with Snow. ‘I was hot.’

‘That is not yours,’ she said immediately. ‘
That
belongs to a
woman.
’ Her voice fell to a horrified whisper, so the last words might equally well have been ‘the devil’.

‘I must have picked up the wrong one,’ he said, wondering how she came to be so well acquainted with his clothing – it was
dark, and he had only offered her a glimpse. ‘It happens all the time.’

‘Not to me,’ said Temperance. She regarded him uneasily. ‘Do you have a lady friend?’

‘Not one with whom I exchange clothes,’ replied Chaloner. He saw she was not amused. ‘It belongs to someone you know – Sarah
Dalton. She is happily married to someone else.’

‘Sarah?’ asked Temperance, startled. ‘
She
is not happily married! Her brother advised her not to take Dalton, but she ignored him and has regretted it ever since.
Poor Sarah. How do you know her?’

‘I am hoping to do some translating for her husband.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded relieved. ‘Will you come inside? I made knot biscuits today, and I do not think Preacher Hill finished them
all when he visited us earlier. He came to deal with the turkey.’

Chaloner accepted willingly, hoping she might provide other food, too, and that Metje might be there. He wanted her to visit
him that night, because it would be warmer in bed with two than one, and it was time their differences were forgotten. He
followed Temperance into the comfortable sitting room at the front of the house, where the Norths and their servants gathered
in the evenings. It was a pleasant chamber, dominated by its hearth and long oaken table. North sat at one end, reading under
a
lamp, while Faith sat at the other with a pile of darning. The servants ranged themselves in between: as in many Puritan
homes, masters and servants mingled, all equal in the eyes of the Lord.

The household was small, but Chaloner had always sensed it was a happy one. The two maids were practising their handwriting
under Metje’s watchful eye, while the men – named Henry and Giles – sharpened knives. There was a dish of dried fruit to assuage
any hunger pangs remaining after supper, and a posset bubbled over the fire, to be drunk before everyone retired to bed. Metje
glanced up, then turned her attention back to her students. Her coolness meant nothing, because she always ignored him when
they were in the presence of the Norths. Nevertheless, he pushed Sarah’s hat and wig further inside his pocket, not wanting
accusations of infidelity to add to their troubles.

‘Do not go in the kitchen, Miss Temperance,’ cried Henry in alarm, as the daughter of the house raised her hand to the latch.
‘The turkey is in there.’

‘We are lucky it is not in here,’ said North, standing to greet Chaloner. ‘It had designs on spending the night by the fire,
and I was hard-pressed to prevent it from doing so. Wretched beast!’

‘It is still alive?’ asked Chaloner. ‘I thought Hill was going to kill it with his Bible – or his pistol.’

‘The gun flashed in the pan, and the Bible only served to annoy it,’ replied Faith. She looked furious, and her small eyes
glittered. ‘It guessed what he intended to do and went for him. I will not shock you with details, Thomas, but suffice to
say it is a good thing he stands to preach his sermons.’