A Conspiracy of Violence (33 page)

‘I understand you belong to a certain Brotherhood,’ he began. ‘I have—’

‘I know of no Brotherhood,’ snapped Ingoldsby. He was beginning to look dangerous. ‘And if you accuse me of belonging to secret
sects, I shall complain to the King, and not even Clarendon will be able to protect you. So take
that
message to your Lord Chancellor!’

After he had been ejected by Ingoldsby, Chaloner went to Lee’s house, and watched two constables strip it of anything saleable,
then carry Lee’s body to the parish church. When they had gone, he knocked at the door of the next building, which was answered
by a man with a French accent. The fellow refused to answer questions until Chaloner addressed him in his own tongue, after
which the flood of information was difficult to stem.

‘Oh, there were odd happenings, all right. Several days ago – perhaps the night Lee died, since the corpse was not fresh when
it was found – he entertained a couple. I assumed they were a colleague and his wife from the Treasury. Lee welcomed them
like they were the King and Queen of France.’

‘Did either carry a crossbow?’

‘No,’ said the Frenchman. ‘I would have noticed that. Poor Lee. He had a young lady, too, and was destined for better things
in life, so it is a shame he was murdered.’

‘Do you know her name?’

The Frenchman shook his head. ‘But she lived on Mincing Lane.’

‘Fanny Robinson,’ mused Chaloner to himself. ‘The Lord Mayor’s daughter. Her home is in Mincing Lane, and she said her beau
was called Robert and that he was a Treasury clerk. No wonder Robinson did not object to the match: Lee was kin to Ingoldsby,
a fellow brother.’

He wanted time to consider what he had learned, so he walked to St Paul’s Cathedral, intending to sit at the base of one of
its ancient pillars and analyse the confusion of facts that ricocheted around his mind. He had just reached the churchyard,
where a lively market had established itself among its lichen-stained tombstones, when he saw Leybourn. The bookseller was
with his brother and the hulking Wade, and Chaloner watched them enter Don Pedro’s Spanish Eating House together.

Don Pedro’s was a place where the respectable classes could buy an affordable meal and eat it in decent company. Unlike the
male-dominated coffee houses, women were welcome, which meant the air was not quite so thick with smoke, and the decor was
less masculine. Located in Panier Alley, it was owned by Donald Peters, who was no more Spanish than Chaloner, but who liked
to maintain the illusion of overseas exoticism by affecting a foreign accent – when he remembered – interspersed with phrases
once learned from an Iberian papal legate. ‘Don Pedro’, as he styled himself, was a source of gossip and information, and
Chaloner suspected that a few hours spent listening to him would go a long way towards providing him with the knowledge every
other Londoner seemed to take for granted.

The rich scent of baking spilled across the street, enticing customers to sample Señora Nell’s pies, infamous for
powerful spices and robust pastry. However, it was not a place for men with no money, so Chaloner picked up a pebble and
tossed it at a window, not sufficiently hard to break it, but firmly enough to make a sharp crack that had everyone turning
towards the sound. When all eyes were looking in the opposite direction, Chaloner slipped through the door and headed for
the table next to Leybourn’s. The bookseller had just been served a beaker of wine and, as he passed, Chaloner stole it in
a sleight of hand that would have impressed the most skilful of pickpockets.

‘It was stone from the wheel of a carriage,’ announced Pedro in his peculiar London-Spanish. ‘
Mama Mia!
It happens all the time.’

‘Don Pedro,’ called Leybourn, when the fuss had died down. ‘What does a man have to do to order a drink? Eat one of your pies?’

‘Nell’s
empanadas
are the best in London,’ declared Pedro, offended. ‘My wife, she make them fresh, just like she did in España. Besides, I
already brought you wine – as soon as you come in.’

Leybourn gestured to the empty table. ‘Did it have wings, then?’

‘Señor Heyden,’ said Pedro, obligingly bringing Leybourn a replacement and recognising another patron at the same time. ‘When
did you arrive? I never seen you come, but we been busy today, so if I served you without saying
buenos dias,
I apologise. Where is your hair? Are you having it made into a
peluca?
It is a good idea, because us
hombres
never know when it might fall out or turn grey.’

He bustled away, and Leybourn turned around, as Chaloner knew he would. ‘Heyden,’ he said cautiously,
no doubt recalling his curt dismissal when they had met in the grocer’s shop. ‘May I introduce my friend, Thomas Wade? My
brother Robert I am sure you recall.’

Chaloner stood to return the large man’s bow. ‘Mr Wade.’

Wade read something in Chaloner’s bland greeting that was not there. He looked distinctly uncomfortable and began to gabble.
‘I see my name is familiar to you. Perhaps you heard it in connection with a small misunderstanding over a consignment of
fur. I did not realise she meant me to
kill
the poor beast, and she was angry when I sent only combings.’

‘An understandable error,’ said Chaloner, wondering what he was talking about.

‘For the masque,’ elaborated Wade. ‘My responsibilities at the Tower include overseeing the royal menagerie. A collection
of creatures has resided there since it was built, as I am sure you are aware.’

‘I have certainly seen the lion.’

‘
She
has seen it, too,’ said Wade resentfully. ‘And she demanded its fur. I sent her two sacks of hairs, thinking she wanted to
stuff cushions for His Majesty or some such thing, but it transpires that she wanted the
skin
for her disguise at the masque. She expected me to destroy Sonya!’

‘God forbid,’ said Chaloner. ‘Not Sonya?’

‘He means Lady Castlemaine,’ explained Leybourn, reading his bemusement. ‘Sonya is a lion, and Lady Castlemaine wanted its
fur – a “castle mane”, if you see her contorted pun.’

‘I thought only males had manes,’ said Chaloner. ‘Why would Sonya be at risk?’

‘There was a mistake when he was born,’ replied
Wade dolefully. ‘You will appreciate it is difficult to get near lion cubs when their mother is present.’

‘Will you join us for an apple dumpling, Heyden?’ asked Leybourn. His expression was arch. ‘I know you have an acute interest
in that particular fruit.’

Chaloner accepted, then listened to the banter between the brothers and Wade as he ate, making the occasional comment to encourage
them, but preferring to gain their measure than to speak himself. It was some time before Robert realised the discussion was
almost entirely one sided.

‘You are quiet,’ he said coolly. ‘Do you have nothing to say?’

‘I had an unpleasant experience this morning,’ replied Chaloner, taking a sip of wine. ‘I was near the Tower, when I saw a
body removed from a house. It had been shot with a crossbow.’

‘I thought you would be used to that sort of thing,’ said Leybourn, surprised.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Chaloner immediately.

Leybourn coloured. ‘I mean you coped well enough when Kelyng was on your heels. I would not have imagined
you
to be unsettled by the sight of a corpse, no matter what its manner of death.’

‘I dislike an excess of blood,’ said Chaloner. ‘And there was certainly an excess in this case. His name was Lee, and he worked
for the Treasury. He was kin to Ingoldsby and lived on Thames Street.’

‘God save us!’ breathed Wade, white-faced with shock. He started to stand, then sank down again when he realised there was
nothing he could do.

‘Did you know him?’ asked Chaloner innocently. ‘I am
sorry. I should have guessed that a Treasury man and the Tower’s commissioner might have been acquainted.’

‘I have not …’ Wade hesitated, then spoke more firmly. ‘I did not know him.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Then you seem oddly moved by a stranger’s death. Or are you like me, and have an aversion to spilled blood?’

‘I will spill some of yours if you do not leave him alone,’ growled Robert.

Chaloner leaned back in his chair. ‘I wonder if Lee advocated moderation, like the Brotherhood.’

‘Brotherhood?’ asked Wade. He turned paler still, while Robert’s jaw dropped.

‘You and Robert are members,’ said Chaloner to Wade. ‘I saw you both at Will’s Coffee House. I imagine an organisation like
that is always in need of funds.’

He knew he was coming dangerously close to letting Wade know the hunt was still on for Barkstead’s treasure, but could think
of no other way to broach the subject. Wade gnawed on his lower lip and his eyes darted around the room like those of a trapped
rat. He was clearly terrified.

‘What are you suggesting?’ demanded Robert, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. ‘That
we
shot this Lee for his money? If you spied on our meetings, then you will know most of our members are rich, and we do not
need paltry pickings from a Treasury clerk to help us.’

‘To help you what?’ asked Chaloner.

‘To help us in our objectives,’ snapped Robert. ‘To spread the word that the future lies in equanimity and tolerance. Who
are you? A spy for the King? One of Kelyng’s men?’

‘Not Kelyng,’ said Leybourn quietly. ‘I saw Bennet try to kill him.’

‘But he did not succeed, did he,’ snarled Robert. ‘Perhaps it was a ruse, to persuade you that he is a friend. I ought to
run him through.’

‘Stop,’ ordered Leybourn sharply, seeing his brother start to stand. ‘Sit down.’

‘Practise what you preach,’ suggested Chaloner mildly. ‘Equanimity and tolerance.’

It was the wrong thing to say, because Robert surged to his feet and hauled his sword from his belt. ‘Name the time and place,
and I will meet you there.’

‘No, Rob!’ cried Leybourn. ‘You do not know what you are doing.’

‘I know I am being insulted.’ Robert glowered at Chaloner. ‘Meet me Christmas Day at dawn in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. We shall
see then whether your sword is as sharp as your tongue.’

Because Robert’s voice was loud, every one of Don Pedro’s customers was listening as he and his brother began to quarrel –
Leybourn was urging him to retract the challenge, which served to fuel his temper all the more. Chaloner took the opportunity
to escape, disliking the attention Robert was drawing to himself. Craving peace and solitude, which would not be found in
the busy St Paul’s, he walked instead to his parish church – St Dunstan-in-the-West on Fleet Street. Its rector was Joseph
Thompson, who knew unscheduled visits from his congregation usually meant they wanted to escape the noisy flurry of London,
and he always left them alone when they pushed open the clanking door and breathed their relief at the echoing stillness within.
He nodded a friendly greeting to Chaloner, then turned his attention back to his registers.

Chaloner found a bench at the back, leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, wondering why Robert had responded to his
questions with such fury. It was scarcely the kind of behaviour one would expect from a man belonging to an organisation devoted
to restraint, and the encounter had left him unsettled. To take his mind off it, he considered what he knew about Lee. He
was sure the murder was significant, since Lee had been present during the search for Barkstead’s treasure
and
he had been killed while holding a document bearing the words seven and praise God. Had the message been intended for Thurloe,
as Chaloner believed Clarke’s and Hewson’s had been? But then who had stolen it from Lee’s corpse?

Next, he considered the way his three quite separate assignments were now inextricably linked. Thurloe wanted Clarke’s murder
solved, but had warned Chaloner against finding Barkstead’s treasure; the Lord Chancellor wanted Barkstead’s cache, but had
denied Chaloner permission to look into Clarke’s death; and both men were wary of Kelyng. It seemed Thurloe had been right
to advise Chaloner to abandon the search for the hoard, since the Ingoldsbys’ evidence put the butter firkins firmly in Holland
with Barkstead’s wife.

After a while, Chaloner left the quiet confines of the church, and a sharp nip in the air outside told him there would be
more snow that night. Although it was only two o’clock, it was a dark day, and here and there the street gleamed yellow from
lamps set in windows, while lanthorns – hollow horns containing candles – gleamed inside carriages, giving them a warm, cosy
look as they rumbled past. Street traders with packs and trays yelled hoarsely, their breath pluming white before them, and
everywhere folk were huddled inside their cloaks. Pigeons roosted in the skeletal oak tree in St Dunstan’s churchyard, fluffed
up to almost twice their size as the wind blew and the branches swayed.

Chaloner was about to head home, when he became aware of a commotion. It had already attracted spectators, and others were
stopping to join them, reminding him of a trick his uncle had often played. Old Chaloner had liked to stand in a public place
and point to the sky in an excited manner, asking people whether they could see ‘it’. They nearly always could, and he encouraged
them to witness all manner of marvels, some of which were then reported as fact in the daily news sheets. His most famous
prodigy – as such phenomena were called – had been a complete replay of the Battle of Naseby in cloud formations, and some
spectators had even claimed to have recognised the faces of known combatants.

However, it was no wry mischief that controlled the crowd that evening, but something far more invidious. Pulling his hood
over his wig, partly for warmth, but mostly for disguise, Chaloner eased his way through the onlookers until he could see.
There, at the centre of the group, was a bruised and bloodied man who begged pitifully for his life. Unfortunately for him,
his pleas were in Dutch, which did more to incense the crowd than secure their compassion. Standing over him was Sir John
Kelyng, while Bennet and Snow hovered to one side.

‘What is happening?’ Chaloner asked Joseph Thompson, who had also joined the throng, and was watching with nervous apprehension.

The rector grimaced. ‘John Kelyng has found himself another Hollander to torment.’

‘What do you mean by “another”? Does he dislike them, then?’