A Conspiracy of Violence (30 page)

‘He is over here!’ he called to North. ‘In Ellis’s garden.’

Ellis was soon at his side, clad in a night-gown. ‘Where is the fire? Should we fetch buckets?’

‘Theft!’ screeched North, bobbing up and down on
the other side of the wall as he tried to see what was happening. ‘Murder. And … and treason!’

‘Treason?’ echoed Ellis, startled. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Where is he?’ demanded Faith, hoisting herself up the wall and peering across it with her reloaded gun. ‘Flush him out, and
I will shoot him dead.’

‘I cannot see anyone,’ said Ellis. ‘Are you sure he came this way? I do not think so, because—’

‘There!’ shouted Chaloner, pointing. ‘By the gooseberry bush.’

‘Well, go and get him, then,’ said Ellis, shoving him forward, while Faith took aim at the general area. ‘I do not want an
arsonist on my property, and
I
cannot go, because I am not wearing any shoes.’

‘Yes, by the Devil! Catch the sod!’ howled North.

Chaloner moved to the back of the garden and made a lot of noise in the fruit bushes. His leg was numb, it was freezing cold
and he was heartily sick of the whole business. It was not long before he returned to where North, Temperance, Faith and Ellis
waited expectantly. In the lane at the end of the garden, he could see torches flickering as people ran here and there, looking
for the fire.

‘I am sorry, sir,’ he said to North, who had found a crate to stand on. ‘He escaped.’

‘Damn!’ cried North, wringing his hands in agitation. ‘The scoundrel grabbed my nose, threatened me with his pistol and demanded
all my money! Did you hear the shot he fired?’

‘Horrible!’ exclaimed Ellis with a shudder. ‘
All
your money?’

‘We should pray for his soul,’ said Chaloner sanctimoniously. ‘Poor misguided sinner.’

North took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I suppose so, although it is difficult to imagine a creature like that in the Lord’s Plan.
But, unchristian though it may be, I am glad I gave him a good beating before he got away. That will make him think twice
before invading the homes of … Ouch! What was that?’

‘The turkey!’ exclaimed Temperance. When she next spoke, her voice was some distance away. ‘I let it out to drive off the
burglar.’

North promptly disappeared, doors slammed and there was a lot of agitated hollering. Then it was quiet again, except for North
bemoaning the fact that the gun had flashed in the pan when Faith had tried to shoot the rampaging turkey, and Faith complaining
that the thief had managed to duck away from the bullet that should have killed him. Shivering in the bitter night, Ellis
was not long in returning to his warm bed, leaving Chaloner to tell the people in the alley that there was no fire after all.
There were venomous mutters when he explained that the commotion had been caused by a prowler, and someone threw water at
him. When he returned, sodden, to his back door, he saw Metje standing on the crate North had abandoned. Even in the dark,
he could tell she was angry.

‘Where is the turkey?’ he asked, not liking to think of her at its mercy.

‘In the sitting room,’ she snapped, glancing behind her to ensure she was not overheard. ‘It is not so stupid as to stay out
here when there is frost in the air. It had a go at North, then made for the best room of the house, where the embers of a
good fire are glowing.’

‘Oh,’ he said tiredly.

‘What were you doing?’ she demanded furiously. ‘I
know
all that commotion was your fault.’

‘I was worried about you. You did not come.’

‘I did not want to come. I am angry with you – and you will not win my favour by hurting the man who pays my wages, either.
Are you limping again? What happened this time? Another fall from a cart?’ Her voice had a hard, callous ring that was unfamiliar.

‘North hit me with his club. I did not know he kept such a weapon in his house.’

‘I told you about it when you offered to waylay him by pretending to have the plague. I am going inside now, Thomas. Do not
lob any more bricks at my window; I do not want to see you.’ Her voice softened. ‘But perhaps I will come tomorrow, since
you have been to such pains to secure my attention.’

Chaloner fell asleep over his decoding, leg propped on a stool in front of him. He awoke cold and stiff to hear the bells
chime six o’clock. He returned to the cipher, and supposed he must have been overly exhausted the previous night, because
suddenly there was a pattern that made sense:

e

d

y

on

seven

s cache

raise God

r of London

th day of Decbr.

obert Lee, Clerk.

He gazed at it. Praise God – the phrase Hewson had muttered, the words on Clarendon’s desk, and the message Clarke had asked
the measurers of cloth to send his wife. He rubbed his leg. Seven what? The Seven? Seven thousand pounds – Barkstead’s cache?
Without more of the original document, he knew he had taken interpretation as far as he could. However, he could conclude
one thing: Lee’s paper contained more proof that all three of his investigations were inextricably linked.

Driven by hunger, Chaloner scoured his room for money, but all he found was a token. Tokens were issued by some taverns in
lieu of change, since small denomination coins were often in short supply, so he visited the Rose at Covent Garden, and exchanged
it for a pie that smelled rancid. He ate it anyway, and walked towards the Thames with the grenade in his pocket. The missile
was not something he intended to keep, not just because incendiary devices were inherently unstable, but because men could
be hanged for owning items that might be used to ferment rebellion.

A cat watched him hurl it into the river, so hard and far that its splash was inaudible. Then he stood on the Milford Stairs,
listening to the water gurgle around the piers, while the cat wound about his legs, purring. It was still early, so the Thames
was relatively empty of traffic. One craft rocked towards him, though, its oarsman driven on by a strident voice that made
Chaloner jump towards the shadows to avoid being seen. He watched Preacher Hill reach the quay just as a robust recitation
of Psalm Eighteen was completed. The boatman was breathless, and slumped on his seat as though he was drained of
strength, although this did not stop him from pushing off as soon as Hill had alighted.

‘Thank you, my son,’ boomed Hill. ‘The Lord be with you.’

‘Fuck off !’ came the reply. ‘And never set foot in my boat again, you fanatical bastard!’

Hill grinned, before shifting his Bible to its customary position under his arm. When he passed the cat, it arched its back
and spat at him. He stopped walking, then made a sudden lunge that saw the animal grabbed by the scruff of the neck. It yowled
and hissed, but was powerless to resist as Hill drew back his arm and prepared to lob it into the river.

‘Good morning, Preacher,’ said Chaloner, stepping from his hiding place and catching the man’s wrist. The cat dropped from
Hill’s fingers, and scampered away. ‘You were not thinking of sending one of God’s creatures to a watery grave, were you?’

Hill’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you doing here? You should be …’

‘Be what?’ asked Chaloner, immediately suspicious. ‘Be dead from the grenade someone tossed into my room last night? You seem
to like hurling things around.’

Hill raised his eyebrows. ‘Someone tried to blow you up? The Devil must have been watching over his own, then. Who threw it?
One of the apprentices from the tannery again?’

‘Again?’

‘I found a fireball in the chapel last night, although no attempt had been made to ignite the fuse – those stupid lads do
not know how such devices work. I took it home with me, and I shall throw it at
them
if they try anything untoward again.’

‘Temperance said your homily last night was about turning the other cheek.’

‘I am the Lord’s soldier, and we are sometimes obliged to meet violence in kind. But the reason I am surprised to see you
has nothing to do with explosives – North said he was going to ask you to kill the turkey, and I did not think you would survive
the experience.’

Chaloner was curious as to why Hill was crossing the Thames at such an odd hour. ‘Were you over in Southwark because its whores
are less likely to recognise you than London ones?’

Even in the pre-dawn light, he saw Hill’s face turn puce. ‘Do not make an enemy of me, Heyden.
I
am a friend of Gervaise Bennet, and I will set
him
after you if you make trouble for me.’

‘I am not afraid of Bennet.’

Hill was contemptuous as he turned to stalk away. ‘Then you are a fool.’

Chaloner watched him go, uneasy with the notion of Hill telling Bennet where he lived. He was not unduly worried for himself,
but what would happen if Metje was home when Bennet struck?

He had intended to visit Ingoldsby that morning, but when he reached the Temple Bar he began to feel sick. He returned to
his rooms, wondering whether the wretched illness that followed was a result of the Rose’s rotten pie or drinking so much
water the previous night. He was better by the evening, but did not go out, for fear of missing a visit from Metje. He lit
the lamp and played his viol, but she failed to appear, even when he bowed her favourite dance several times in a row.

Unable to sleep after dozing much of the day, he rose at two o’clock and went to the Puritans’ chapel, tucking
himself behind a water butt and in the mood for confronting louts with grenades. But nothing happened until six, when a lone
man approached. He was swathed in a cloak too large for him, and clearly did not want to be recognised. He reached the chapel,
then leapt away in alarm when he discovered the hiding place behind the barrel was already taken. His hand dropped to the
hilt of his sword, but when he saw Chaloner already armed, he turned and raced towards Fleet Street. Chaloner started to give
chase, but his bout of sickness had left him unsteady on his feet, and it was obvious he was not going to catch the fellow.
He gave up, and returned to his rooms, annoyed by his weakness, but supposing the fellow might think twice about causing mischief
another time.

Seven o’clock saw the beginning of another grey dawn, with the occasional speck of snow drifting down and a bitter, raw feel
to the air. The first cart laboured along Fetter Lane, its driver cracking his whip and yelling at his listless horse. A man
hollered at a woman for hurling swill from her window, and the altercation developed into a fist-fight when a bellman became
involved. A herd of sheep was being driven in a bleating ball to the slaughterhouses, and pigeons flapped and cooed on the
rooftops.

Chaloner remained determined to solve his various mysteries, and decided that day would yield some answers. He donned his
cloak, found the old horsehair wig, and left the house, aiming for the Fleet Rookery. It was a good time to begin his search
for Mother Pinchon, because the gangs that roamed the streets during the hours of darkness would be in their beds, and anyone
awake would be the more honest inhabitants, who might be inclined to talk to him.

He found Turnagain Lane, which was close to the alehouse where he had listened to Snow and Storey chatting to the dung collector.
The tavern was closed, its windows shielded by thick shutters, and was deserted except for a rat that was grooming itself.
He began to waylay passers-by. First, he spoke to a flower-seller, but she declined to converse once it became clear he had
no money. A butcher in a glistening apron offered to cut his throat, and a ballad-seller spat at him. Then he became aware
that three slovenly, dirty men were watching him from a distance. Word had spread that someone was asking questions, and he
sensed he would not be left alone for much longer.

‘Fresh milk?’ came a voice at his side. ‘Warm from the ass? Only a penny.’

Chaloner smiled at the old woman. ‘Good morning, Mother Greene.’

‘You seem to like danger,’ she said, regarding him thoughtfully. ‘This makes twice you have come to a place where you cannot
be sure of your welcome. Snow said you are Whitechapel’s parish constable, but you are too well dressed for that. Did you
know that Bennet has vowed to kill you?’

‘Has he?’ Chaloner recalled Kelyng ordering Bennet to forget about him. ‘Why?’

‘Something to do with St Thomas à Becket. Give us a penny.’

‘I wish I had one,’ said Chaloner ruefully, ‘because I would like some milk.’

She smiled toothlessly and took his arm. ‘Come with me. Do not look alarmed. No one will harm you, now you are in the company
of Mother Greene.’

The slouching figures in the shadows made no move
to intervene, and he surmised that she had earned herself a degree of respect on account of her age. She also had the look
of a witch about her, with her long nose and wrinkled face. She led the way down a street with particularly tall houses, and
opened the gate to a tiny garden. It was surprisingly clean, its stones still wet from a recent scouring. She headed for a
door and beckoned him to follow. Cautiously, he ducked under the lintel and found himself in a room full of the scent of dried
herbs. It contained a table that was scrubbed white, and there were shelves on which stood an array of pots and bottles. The
floor comprised red flagstones that were spotlessly clean, and there was a pot simmering over the embers of the hearth. It
was a pleasant chamber, and a welcoming one, and not at all what he would have expected.

‘Surprised?’ she asked, noting his reaction. ‘My old man left me something when he died. He was an actor – the best in London,
in his day.’

‘It is a lovely place,’ he said sincerely. ‘It smells of home.’

She grinned, pleased. ‘That is what my Oliver always said. What is wrong with your leg?’

He had not bothered to hide his limp that morning, hoping it would make him appear less threatening to potential informants.
‘I hurt it doing something stupid. I do not suppose you know where I might find Mother Pinchon? I need to ask her some questions.’