A Conspiracy of Violence (3 page)

‘But Thurloe’s head is not outside Westminster,’ said Storey, eager to show off his superior knowledge of powerful men. ‘Kelyng
said the man had collected so much dirty information about Royalists when he was Cromwell’s Spymaster, that no one dares move
against him now, lest he reveals something embarrassing.’

‘Kelyng told you that?’ asked Potts. He looked more uneasy than impressed. ‘Personally?’

‘Well, he told his chamberlain, but we were meant to hear,’ confided Snow. ‘He also said that Thurloe was offered a post in
the new government, but he rejected it, and sits at Lincoln’s Inn reading books about the law, hoping to find a legal way
to get rid of the King.’

‘Well, Thurloe
was
a lawyer once,’ Storey pointed out. ‘
He
says he refused the King’s offer because of poor health, but Kelyng says he is lying. Kelyng means to bring him low anyway.’

Chaloner frowned, wondering whether their gossip bore any relation to the truth. He had assumed the theft of the satchel was
simply that – two robbers opportunistically grabbing something that might be valuable – but now it seemed one of the King’s
officers had actually commissioned Snow and Storey to intercept Thurloe’s private post. Thurloe had acquired many enemies
during his years as Cromwell’s most trusted advisor, so it was no surprise to learn that some remained determined to see him
destroyed.

Potts’s face assumed a wily expression. ‘If that constable was Thurloe’s man, then you owe me another jug of ale. I might
have been killed helping you, and …’

In one sure, swift movement, Snow whipped a dagger from its sheath and had the man pressed against the wall with the blade
under his chin. Terrified, Potts struggled to stand on tiptoe, to relieve the sharp pressure against the soft skin of his
neck.

‘You might be killed yet – for a traitor,’ said Snow coldly. ‘Shall I tell Kelyng that your loyalty to the King costs? Do
you want to be hanged and quartered, like the regicides?’

‘The what?’ squeaked Potts in alarm. ‘I do not know them! I am not one of their number!’

Snow sighed his disdain at the fellow’s ignorance. ‘The regicides were the men who signed the old king’s death warrant – fifty-nine
of them. Three had a traitor’s death back in April, and unless you want to die like them, you will be satisfied with what
you have already been given.’

He released Potts, who backed away, hand to the oozing cut on his throat. Without another word, the dung-collector clambered
into his wagon and flicked his whip at the horse. The animal strained forward, then moved ahead, making the contents of its
barrels slosh over the rims and forcing Storey and Snow to scramble into the alehouse to avoid the yellow-brown cascade. Inside
the tavern, men huddled over their beer and pretended not to notice.

Storey and Snow ordered more ale, while Chaloner waited patiently. It was now obvious that his first priority was to learn
as much as he could about Kelyng and that arresting the robbers came second – he could always hunt them out later and see
them brought to justice. Eventually, the two men drained their flagons and left the alehouse, making obscene gestures when
the landlord suggested payment.

It was a dull day, with pewter-coloured clouds blocking out the sun and rendering the alleys even more dark and oppressive
than usual. The dimness helped Chaloner, though, allowing him to follow his quarry more easily. Stalking was a skill he had
honed to perfection, and neither man had any inkling that he was being pursued. He found a filthy blanket, crushed into the
muck of the street and full of vermin. He pulled it over his head,
stooping and exaggerating his limp as he did so. The hasty disguise was far from perfect, but it was sufficient to fool the
likes of Snow and Storey.

It was not long before they were out of the Fleet’s dark kingdom and back on Holborn, retracing the route along which they
had been chased. Chaloner ditched the blanket, and retrieved the hat he had tucked inside his jerkin. Once he had donned it,
and turned his black cloak inside out to display its tan-coloured lining, he was confident they would not recognise him should
they happen to glance around. The pair swaggered down Fetter Lane, past the house where Chaloner rented rooms and, for a moment,
he thought they might stop for yet more ale at the Golden Lion, a tavern popular with men who liked the fact that its landlord
never asked questions about their business.

He ducked into the tavern’s stable when he saw his neighbour, William North, striding towards him. He did not want to be waylaid
with polite conversation, and he certainly did not want to explain why he was shadowing criminals. North was a Puritan, and
his dark, plain clothes contrasted starkly with the flamboyant merchants around him who were dressed in the very latest fashions
– cassocks with wide cuffs, petticoat breeches with cascading ribbons and frills, ruffled shirt sleeves, and the curly wigs
popular at Court. He carried a Bible in one hand, but since he was also a moderately successful jeweller, there was a sheaf
of accounts in the other. Preoccupied with his own affairs, the Puritan did not so much as glance towards the stable as he
hurried past with his chattering colleagues.

Snow and Storey turned on to Fleet Street, then headed for the Strand, passing the Norman church of St Clement
Danes with its stocky tower of pale stone. The Strand was one of London’s major thoroughfares, with handsome mansions on
its southern side, and an unruly clutter of hovels and taverns lying to the north. Here, private carriages were more numerous
than handcarts, ferrying the wealthy to and from their businesses and homes. Sleek merchants peered out, their elegant wives
rocking next to them. Pickpockets slunk here and there, maimed soldiers from the wars begged for alms, and a band of drunken
seamen staggered noisily towards their ship, shadowed by hopeful prostitutes.

At the end of the Strand was a spacious avenue leading to the Palace of White Hall, the King’s London residence. This was
a sprawling mass of buildings that included not only accommodation for the monarch and his retinue, but tennis courts, a bowling
alley, gardens, a chapel, offices for his Ministers of State, and the Banqueting House – outside of which Charles I had been
beheaded some thirteen years before.

The Banqueting House held a further significance for Chaloner. Like many men who had backed the losing side and been forced
to abandon their property after the collapse of the Commonwealth, one of his uncles had converted land to coins and cached
them. The elder Chaloner had secreted his treasure under a flagstone in the Banqueting House’s main chamber. His reasoning
had been that the new regime would be too busy with its survival to think about prising up a good marble floor, and his hoard
would therefore be safe. On his deathbed, he had confided its location to his nephew, with the request that Chaloner retrieve
the money and present it to his sons when the current wave of persecution was spent. Uncomfortable and wary in the city where
he was
so much a stranger, Chaloner had kept his curiosity in check, and had not even gone to see whether he could identify the
right tile.

One peculiar characteristic of the Palace of White Hall was that the main road from the city to Westminster ran clean through
its centre. The avenue – the southern part of which was named King Street in deference to the fact that it cut the sovereign’s
lodgings in half – was always thick with carts, carriages, horses, livestock, soldiers, merchants, courtiers and clerks, and
the heaving throng made it even easier for Chaloner to follow the two robbers. The thunder of wheels, feet and hoofs on cobbles,
the babble of conversation, and the various bells, gongs and rattles used by traders were deafening. The cacophony almost
drowned out the ranting of the street preacher who stood on the stump of the old Charing Cross and the agitated yaps of a
dog tethered outside the Angel tavern.

White Hall was even busier than usual that day, because the Banqueting House was set to be used for a ceremony in which Charles
‘touched’ his subjects in the hope of curing them of the glandular disease known as the King’s Evil, or scrofula. He took
such duties seriously, and the occasions always attracted crowds.

Chaloner was not surprised that Snow and Storey were taking the stolen satchel to White Hall, since, as a man apparently devoted
to exposing the King’s enemies, Kelyng might well work or live near the buildings from which the affairs of state were run.
The two thieves did not enter the palace grounds, however. They stopped at a well outside, where they pretended to mingle
with servants from the nearby mansions.

The area around the conduit was crowded. Some folk
carried containers that were suspiciously small, indicating they were there only because it afforded an opportunity to exchange
gossip with the members of other rich households, while others pushed carts loaded with empty barrels. Chaloner had spent
a good deal of time at such places in the past, collecting information that was then converted into cipher and sent to Thurloe.
He eased into the throng, smiling at a young woman and engaging her in idle conversation. His naturally affable manner meant
people seldom objected to his friendly approaches, enabling him to blend into his surroundings without raising suspicion.
He made a show of listening to her lurid revelations about the wanton Lady Castlemaine – the King’s favourite mistress – but
most of his attention was on Storey and Snow. He could tell from their forced casualness that they were waiting for something
to happen.

Within moments, a man wearing a livery of mustard yellow approached. He was in his late forties, with a lined, dour face.
He carried himself erect, in the way of an old soldier, and there were two other details that rendered him distinctive: first,
upon his little finger, he wore an emerald ring that looked altogether too expensive to be owned by a servant, and second,
he was missing an eye.

He pushed his way towards the robbers, making no attempt to disguise the fact that they were his objective. Snow handed him
the satchel and received a purse in exchange, while Storey attempted to create a diversion by jostling a groom. The groom’s
tunic was emblazoned with the arms adopted by Sir Richard Ingoldsby, a man known even to an outsider like Chaloner. Ingoldsby,
a regicide, had convinced King Charles that he had not
meant
to add his signature to his father’s death warrant – Cromwell had grabbed his hand and shaped the letters against his will.
Contrary to all reason, the King had believed him, and even the most hardened of cynics were astonished to learn that not
only had Ingoldsby been forgiven his crime, but he was to be awarded a knighthood, too.

The groom whipped out a pistol, making bystanders scatter in alarm. Storey promptly fled, forcing Snow to race after him.
Chaloner watched them go, but made no attempt to follow. He knew their names and a tavern where they drank; they would still
pay for murdering the post-boy. But first, he needed to concentrate on the more immediate problem represented by Kelyng and
why he should want to intercept Thurloe’s private messages, so he turned back to the servant who had purchased the satchel.
The fellow crossed the street and made for the Royal Mews – once stables but now converted to homes for senior court officials
– and disappeared through a door that led to an ill-kept garden. Chaloner darted after him, and the man’s jaw dropped in astonishment
when the satchel was ripped from his hands.

‘You have no right to come in here,’ he began angrily, trying to grab it back. ‘You—’

Chaloner drew his dagger, making him jump away in alarm. ‘Who do you work for?’

The servant glanced behind him, although whether because he was looking for rescue or because he was afraid of being heard
answering, Chaloner could not be sure. ‘This is Sir John Kelyng’s house.’

‘Who is he?’

The man’s eyebrows shot up, but he answered anyway. ‘One of His Majesty’s lawyers, famous for his prosecution
of regicides and traitors.’ His hand started to edge towards his knife, but Chaloner saw the stealthy movement, and knocked
the weapon from his fingers.

‘Why does he pay ruffians to steal satchels?’

‘His affairs are none of your business,’ the servant replied irritably. ‘Now
give me that bag.’

Chaloner took a step forward, dagger at the ready. ‘He told me to collect a pouch from the fountain,’ replied the servant
with an impatient sigh, seeing in Chaloner’s determined expression that he had no choice but to reply. ‘He did not tell me
why, and I am not so reckless as to ask.’

‘I do not believe you.’

‘That is not my problem. Now, I have more important—’

Chaloner swung around when he heard the rustle of leaves behind him. A sharp hiss cut through the air, and instinct and training
were responsible for his abrupt dive off the moss-encrusted path. A moment later, the servant joined him on the ground, a
blade embedded in his chest and his single eye already beginning to glaze with encroaching death. Blood gushed from his mouth
in a way that indicated a lung had been pierced. He turned his head slightly, and looked at Chaloner.

‘Praise God’s one son,’ he whispered.

All Chaloner’s attention was on the trees where the knifeman still hid. He did not reply.

‘Praise God’s one son,’ said the man, a little louder. He coughed and tugged Chaloner’s cloak. The ring flashed green on his
finger. ‘It is dangerous for … seven. Remember …’

Chaloner glanced at him and saw desperation in his face. ‘Lie still. I will find help.’

The man revealed bloodstained teeth in a grimace that indicated he knew he was beyond earthly assistance. ‘Remember to … trust no one. Praise God’s one …’

‘Amen,’ muttered Chaloner mechanically, concentrating on the leaves that were beginning to tremble in a way that suggested
another attack was about to be launched. He looped the satchel around his shoulder, gripped his dagger and prepared to make
his move.

‘You do not … understand.’ Chaloner glanced at the servant a second time, and sensed he no longer knew what he was saying.
‘I am … John Hewson … of seven … Trust no one, and praise …’