A Conspiracy of Violence (35 page)

‘Please do not shout,’ he said quietly. ‘I am not a traitor.’

She sniffed. ‘I had no idea you communicated in secret languages. But that should not surprise me, I suppose. What is your
name?’

He regarded her expressionlessly. ‘You know my name.’

‘Preacher Hill asked friends from all over Buckinghamshire about a
family called Heyden, with five brothers,
two sisters, and a father and mother who died during the wars. He says one does not exist.’

‘You have been investigating me?’ Chaloner was aghast, not liking the notion that Hill might now have enough information to
connect him with his real kin.

‘I
need
to know.’ She started to cry. ‘I am carrying a child, and its father is suddenly a stranger.’

Chaloner gaped at her, then a smile spread across his face. ‘You are pregnant?’

She would not let him touch her. ‘I do not know why you are so pleased. It will mean an end to your carefree existence. You
will
have
to find proper work now.’

Chaloner ignored her attempts to fend him off, and took her in his arms, cradling her to his chest, fiercely at first, then
gently when he thought about the precious life within. ‘It will mean a
change
to my carefree existence. This is wonderful news, Meg. How long have you … ?’

‘A while. And do not ask why I did not tell you before – you who has kept secrets from me for years. I am surprised you did
not notice, anyway.’

He inspected her critically. ‘You do not look any bigger. Are you sure … ?’

‘Of course,’ she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘I am a woman.’

‘You cannot refuse to marry me now. We will name our daughter after you. Meg.’

‘Meg what? Meg Heyden? Or shall we just say Meg de Haas, because then we can be sure it is right? Please tell me your name,
Tom. Your
real
name? I do not like this secrecy between us.’

‘I cannot. It has nothing to do with trust, and I
will
tell you, I promise. Just not now.’

‘Why not now?’

‘Because it is not safe – not for you or for my family. When the time is right, I shall take you to meet them, and then you
will see there is nothing sinister or unpleasant about them. Please trust me.’

‘I shall try,’ she said, although there was a deep unhappiness in her eyes. ‘For Meg’s sake.’

While Metje greeted the prospect of a child with mixed emotions, Chaloner did not. He was delighted, and found it difficult
to concentrate on anything else. It was Christmas Eve, and although some of the more strict Puritan families still ignored
the merry preparations that were taking place around them, it was generally a time for celebration and relaxation. Green boughs
appeared in the most unlikely of places, and people bedecked their churches with candles and wreaths. The scent of roasting
chestnuts, spiced wine and other seasonal favourites filled the air, and Chaloner wished he had money to buy some for Metje.
Feeling he should do something to mark the occasion, he took his much-read copy of Farnaby’s
Rhetoric
to Cripplegate, where Leybourn had his shop, as soon as it was light.

There were dozens of booksellers in London, but Chaloner knew why he was drawn to the one run by the Leybourns. When Robert
had first challenged him, he had regarded the duel as more nuisance than cause for concern, confident in his superior skills.
But Metje’s news had changed all that, and he found he did not want to meet Robert’s sword at dawn the following day. The
chances were that he would win, but supposing he did not? What would happen to Metje without a provider? Would North take
pity on an unwed mother and continue to employ her? Chaloner did not think so: it would suggest
his household condoned sin, and even if North and Temperance were moved to compassion, Faith would pressure them to reconsider.
Metje would be doomed to poverty.

Leybourn’s house smelled of paper, ink and the leather used to bind books after they were printed. It was an agreeable aroma,
and the shop was the kind of place Chaloner loved, with closely packed shelves and treasures at every turn. It was busy, because
several graves in St Giles without Cripplegate – the land had been sold for a new building – had been opened the hour before
dawn, and the public had been invited to watch. The exhumation over, folk gravitated towards the nearby shops to escape a
sudden downpour, and Chaloner saw a number of familiar faces, including Downing and the Daltons. He glanced out into the street,
wondering whether Snow was nearby, but could not see him anywhere.

Since Robert did not seem to be at work that morning, Chaloner decided it was safe to wait inside the shop until his brother
was free to talk. He had just taken down a copy of Boyle’s
New Experiments
with which to pass the time when Sarah sidled up to him.

‘Snow seems to have given up on me. I have not seen him since you so gallantly deceived him on my behalf. I told my brother
what you did, and he is very grateful.’

Chaloner was unmoved. ‘Did you tell anyone I was going to meet Ingoldsby yesterday?’

She seemed taken aback by the question. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You were listening outside Thurloe’s door as I confided my plan to see Ingoldsby. When I arrived at his house, someone was
waiting with a sword.’

She gazed at him coolly. ‘And you think it was my
fault? Kelyng and his minions have tried to kill you once already, so have you considered the possibility that
they
are responsible?’

‘Snow could never have ridden such a spirited horse, although I suppose Bennet might. But I do not think it was an opportunistic
attack: I think it was premeditated.’

‘But not by me. Besides, I could not hear what you and John were saying – I tried, but your voices were too low. Why would
I harm you, anyway? You rescued me on Wednesday, and John would be upset if you came to grief. He likes you very much.’

Given that Thurloe had deceived him and devised tests to probe his integrity, Chaloner suspected Thurloe’s affection was not
as deep as she seemed to think.

‘Perhaps John mentioned your plans to someone else – innocently,’ she went on when he did not reply. ‘He came to see my husband,
and several other men happened to be there – Downing, Lord Mayor Robinson, Samuel Pepys of the Navy Office, Thomas Wade, Sir
Thomas Clifford, Robert Leybourn. It was Leybourn who told us about the grave-opening and suggested we should come. Saturdays
are dull, so it was a welcome diversion.’

Chaloner regarded her in distaste. ‘Was it?’

‘Skeletons are fascinating, although I think most people came because they hoped the coffins might contain a few Parliamentarian
hoards. There was a definite surge forward as the lids came off – folk readying themselves to make a grab.’

Dalton reached them before Chaloner could turn the discussion back to Ingoldsby, waving his citrus-scented handkerchief. The
rings under his eyes were black as he shot Chaloner a bleak smile. ‘Come to see me next week,
Heyden. I have several documents ready for translation.’

He spoke in a whisper, and Chaloner understood why when he saw Downing not far away. The diplomat scowled as the Daltons left
the shop, and came to take Chaloner’s arm in a pinch that was firm enough to make the agent reach for his dagger.

‘Do not work for him,’ grated Downing, releasing Chaloner abruptly when he saw the weapon start to emerge. ‘He does not seem
entirely sane these days.’

‘I thought he was a member of the Brotherhood, and therefore beyond reproach.’

‘Do not be facetious. You think you can hide behind Thurloe’s skirts, but his star is fading fast and you may soon find yourself
alone.’

‘What do you mean?’ It sounded like a threat on Thurloe’s life.

‘Just what I say: without Thurloe, you are nothing. Have you secured employment yet?’

‘With Dalton,’ replied Chaloner, hoping to annoy him.

Downing’s eyes narrowed, and he changed the subject to disguise his irritation. ‘Has Thurloe asked you to look into anything
of late? I know you have spent time with him.’

Chaloner was surprised he should expect an answer to such a question. ‘We discuss pheasants.’

Downing regarded him in confusion. ‘Pheasants?’

‘He plans to build a volary in Lincoln’s Inn.’

Downing regarded him coldly. ‘There is a rumour that you spy for the Dutch – you speak their language, and I did not know
half of what you got up to in The Hague. I may have to speak in your defence one day, so do not rile me. Once you have earned
my dislike, you may never be rid of it.’

Chaloner was puzzled. ‘Why should I be the subject of rumours? No one here knows me.’

‘But you regularly visit Thurloe
and
the Earl of Clarendon,’ replied Downing. ‘And that interests all manner of folk. Remember: you do not have to have committed
a crime to be taken to the Tower.’

He turned and stalked away, leaving Chaloner wondering why Downing should care what he did. Was it simple jealousy – he did
not want a rival to have a Dutch translator? Or was he regretting his exposure of the Brotherhood, and had decided his unwilling
confidant represented too great a risk? Eventually, Chaloner was able to corner Leybourn. The bookseller greeted him warily.

‘Shall we talk about turkeys?’ asked Chaloner pleasantly. ‘You told Kelyng I own one.’

Leybourn nodded, but there was no sign of his customary grin. ‘It saved your life. He and Bennet were stealing more of my
books in the King’s name, and Bennet was making a strong case for dispatching a shorthaired, limping enemy. It was obvious
he referred to you. He had virtually convinced Kelyng of his point of view when I casually informed my brother about your
turkey. Kelyng likes birds, and when he overheard my idle chatter, he forbade Bennet to touch you.’

‘Why should you help me?’

Leybourn grimaced. ‘It was before you goaded Rob into a duel, or I would not have been so solicitous. But I have told you
why: you and I both despise Kelyng. Is that why you came? To question my motives in doing you a favour?’

Chaloner handed him the book, feeling a pang as it went. Leybourn took it and ran expert hands across the
binding. Then he opened it, and his eyes took on a distant expression as he assessed the fine quality of the work. ‘Are you
sure you want to part with this? I would not.’

Chaloner nodded, and they haggled for a while until a mutually acceptable price was reached. Chaloner experienced a lurching
sadness when he saw it set on Leybourn’s shelf, but the deed was done, and there was no point in fretting over it. It was
only a book, and Metje was more important.

‘Where is Robert today?’ he asked.

‘Practising his swordplay. He is being coached by Sir Richard Ingoldsby – not that he needs advice. He is already very good.’

Chaloner saw the bookseller was trying to unnerve him. ‘Perhaps I shall learn something, then.’

Leybourn sighed. ‘You went after Wade like the Spanish Inquisition, and you should apologise. I do not like the thought of
Bennet dancing on your grave.’

Chaloner gave a wry grin. ‘He would not dare, not while Kelyng frets about my turkey.’

‘Rob will kill you,’ warned Leybourn, brazening it out. ‘He fought in all three wars.’

‘So did I.’

‘Did you?’ asked Leybourn unhappily. ‘Christ! Look, Heyden, I will talk to him. I will say there was a misunderstanding. You
must put an end to this nonsense before someone is hurt.’

He turned at the sound of footsteps. ‘We shall resolve our differences tomorrow at dawn,’ said Robert coldly, hand on the
hilt of his sword. ‘It is too late for apologies.’

*   *   *

Chaloner spent an hour buying cloth and a selection of treats for Metje, arranging for them to be delivered to his rooms later
that day. Then he went in search of Mother Greene, and delivered the promised penny, along with a plum pudding that had her
cackling in delight. She spoke softly as he was about to leave.

‘Mother Pinchon is dead. They found her by the river.’

‘She drowned?’

‘That is what we were supposed to think, but there was no mistaking the rope mark on her neck. Young Joe Turner was flush
with money last night, and he would sell his grandmother for a jug of ale. Someone came to find Mother Pinchon, and we all
know
he
told them where to look.’

‘Will you take me to see him?’

‘People around here do not like folk who bring about the deaths of old women. Turner is dead.’

Chaloner swore under his breath. ‘Did
you
see Turner talking to strangers?’

‘He may have been greedy, but he was not stupid. He passed his information secretly to the killers, then spent his dirty money
in the alehouse near Turnagain Lane. No one
saw
anything.’

‘Then perhaps he was not responsible.’

She regarded him as though he were insane. ‘People around here get rich for two reasons: they have stolen something, or they
have been paid to break the law. Besides, Turner was ale-soaked enough that he got to bragging. He told the dung collector
– Potts – that he had been invited to a very nice house, and given cakes and wine. It was obvious what had happened.’

‘Did he say where this house was?’

‘Potts asked, but Turner could not remember – he was
too drunk. Then news came that Mother Pinchon was dead and he tried to slink away. He did not get far. Potts has a sly knife
on occasion.’

‘Damn! This means that we have no way to trace the real villain – the man who paid Turner for the information in the first
place. Did any of her neighbours see anything, hear a struggle?’

‘She went out and told no one where she was going. The next time anyone saw her was when she was on the banks of the Thames,
dead.’

Chaloner sighed. ‘Will you take me to Potts? Perhaps Turner said something before he died …’

‘Potts would never tell you anything. He mentioned something to me, but it is probably nothing.’

‘What?’

‘Turner kept saying the stranger smelled of oranges.’