A Conspiracy of Violence (41 page)

me anyway, just before he died.’

‘Dalton,’ said Thurloe heavily. ‘You were not the only one who saw what happened. Robinson did, too, although he will not
bring an accusation against another member of the Brotherhood.’

‘Even though it was a brother who was murdered?’

‘Dalton spun some tale about Wade selling the fraternity’s secrets, which Robinson seems to have accepted. Dalton will say
anything to protect himself, even defame the name of a dead man.’

‘He is not the only one to resort to desperate measures,’ said Chaloner accusingly. ‘You sent Hewson to spy on Kelyng, to
see how much
he
had learned about the Seven. But I cannot imagine you were overly distressed when you heard another potential risk had been
eliminated.’

Thurloe gazed at him in disbelief, then anger blazed in his eyes. ‘Hewson was my friend. I was
devastated
when I learned he was dead. We were coming close to knowing the extent of Kelyng’s knowledge about us, and another day would
have seen Hewson back to safety.’

Chaloner did not know whether to believe him. He returned the discussion to Dalton, thinking about what else he had learned.
‘Kelyng believes he has recruited Dalton to spy on you. I heard him talking about it to Bennet a couple of days ago, in the
grocer’s shop on the Strand. He said he has received information about you from Dalton—’

‘Information invented by me, using Dalton as a conduit. It was a carefully controlled leak, so Kelyng’s reaction would tell
us more about him, than he would learn about us. I was a spymaster, Thomas: I know how
to manage these things. Dalton passed Kelyng this information on my orders.’

Chaloner was becoming confused. ‘But Dalton tried to kill me, and not just with the lion at the Tower, either. The horseman
who attacked me at Ingoldsby’s house was his doing.’

‘I doubt it. And it was not Sarah, either, although she tells me you believe it was. It is a pity you two cannot be friends,
because you may need each other one day.’

‘I do not need her, and I do not need you, either.’ Chaloner started to leave. ‘You have lied to me from the moment I chased
your empty satchel. I cannot do this any more, Thurloe. I do not want to be in a position where I do not know who to trust.’

‘Trust no one,’ said Thurloe with a sad smile. ‘Then you will never be disappointed.’

‘That is what Hewson said before he started to mutter about praising God and the Seven.’

‘Did he?’ Thurloe sighed. ‘You refused to tell me his dying words, and I was afraid I would arouse your suspicions if I pressed
you too hard. I suspected then that you might be curious enough to probe further, although I did my best to dissuade you.
Please sit down, Tom. At least do me the courtesy of listening to my explanation.’

‘I do not want an explanation. You may use the opportunity to slip a knife between my ribs, since you just promised Dalton
you would “do what is necessary to silence” me.’

‘That is not what I meant,’ said Thurloe, sharp and indignant. ‘On the contrary, I have done all I can to protect you. I warned
you away from Barkstead’s cache, and asked you to investigate Clarke’s death instead. I blocked Downing’s attempt to enrol
you in the
Brotherhood. I even offered to pay your fare to Holland, to remove you from danger. You defied me at every turn – almost
as if you wanted to become more deeply involved.’

‘That was because I did not understand
why
you issued those orders,’ objected Chaloner. ‘And Clarke’s death
was
connected to Barkstead’s treasure, anyway.’

‘It most certainly was not,’ stated Thurloe firmly. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘I saw the documents Clarendon found on his body, and I know about the message he asked White Hall’s measurers of cloth to
give his wife. They were intended for you: they all mentioned the Seven, and reiterated the phrase ‘praise God’, which is
obviously code for something I have yet to uncover. If you tell me you did not know, I will not believe you,’ he added, when
Thurloe looked bemused.

‘I do not care what you believe. And how do
you
know what words Clarke passed to his wife via the measurers? The letter they wrote to her was closed with so much sealing
wax that it would have been impossible to open – not that I tried. There are some things that remain inviolate, and loving
words between spouses is one of them. I ordered Clarke to stay away from the Seven, and he promised me he would.’

‘Then it seems your agents seldom obey you.’

Thurloe rubbed his eyes. ‘Clarke was grateful when I recommended him to the Earl for employment, so I suppose I should not
be surprised to learn he tried to help me in return – disregarding my warnings in the process. He told
me
he was investigating cutlery stolen from the White Hall kitchens.’

Chaloner was rueful. ‘I wish the Earl had asked me
to investigate
that
, because it was easy to solve: the table knives are being pilfered by the cloth measurers, and melted down to make silver
transverse flutes for their musical ensemble. They showed me one of the instruments, and it was far too valuable an item to
cost what they claimed – or to have been purchased on a measurer’s salary.’

Thurloe’s expression was bleak. ‘But instead of looking into a simple theft, Clarke wasted his life in a misguided attempt
to learn about the Seven. I am heartily sorry he tried to intervene. His wife will miss him, as will I.’

‘Simon Lane’s wife will miss
her
husband, too,’ said Chaloner coldly.

‘She died a year ago,’ replied Thurloe. ‘Simon had no living kin, although that does not mean he is unmourned; I grieve for
him
and
the others who died in Clarendon’s service. Will you tell me what was in Clarke’s messages?’

Chaloner was inclined to refuse, because he was angry and it was a way he could annoy Thurloe, but suspected the man would
have the information one way or another, and it would be easier to tell him now and have done with the whole business.

‘They were in cipher, and they said to “praise God’s one son”. Those were the exact words Hewson whispered as he died, and
they were also on part of a document I found with Lee’s corpse. Will you tell me what they mean, or is this exchange of information
only to be one way?’

Thurloe frowned, puzzled. ‘Praise God’s one son? Do you mean Praisegod Swanson?’

‘Swanson?’ Chaloner was confused. ‘The man who told the King about the Seven?’

‘I suppose so. You know how we Puritans occasionally
baptise our children with intensely religious names, and Praisegod was an appellation that enjoyed a brief popularity – indeed,
one of London’s best-known fanatics is Praisegod Barbon, in and out of prison for his extreme political views. So, that was
the message Clarke and Hewson were trying to pass me – Praisegod Swanson?’

‘I do not understand. Why would they do that?’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘Because no one knows what happened to him after he collected his gold, and Hewson was afraid he might emerge
to betray us again. Perhaps he was warning me to be alert for him. I imagine Clarke, like you, had discovered the phrase,
but had not unravelled its meaning.’

‘What do
you
think happened to Swanson?’ asked Chaloner, not sure whether he really wanted to know. As Spymaster, Thurloe would have been
adept at making people disappear.

‘I assume he was afraid the King would be angry with him because he took the seven bars of gold but did not keep his side
of the bargain. He ran away and has not been seen since.’

‘But he
did
keep his side of the bargain. He wrote his letter, but you made sure it did not arrive. Which is not the same thing at all.’

‘True, but he could have sent a second missive, and he never did. He probably felt he had risked himself enough the first
time and, since he already had his gold, there was no need to do it again. But Swanson is no longer the problem. There is
another man trying to expose us.’

‘Who?’ asked Chaloner.

‘I am not sure, but I think he was responsible for blowing up Livesay’s ship, and I think he knows about
Dalton, Ingoldsby and me. Perhaps he stabbed Clarke, too. I sense he is moving in for the final kill, which is why Dalton
is so desperate to take defensive action. He does not understand that the best way to weather a storm is to rise with the
waves.’

‘Is it Kelyng?’

Thurloe raised his hands, palms upwards. ‘Possibly. Or Downing, who has spent rather more time with me of late than is warranted.
But I do not want you involved any further. You will leave the city today, and if I am still alive when you return, I shall
try to find you a post worthy of your talents. Here is gold. Take Metje with you.’

Chaloner stood. ‘I do not want your money.’

There was a sudden smashing sound as something hurtled through the window. Flames immediately started to lick across the floor.
Thurloe snatched up a rug to smother them, but Chaloner had seen other shadows moving in the garden below.

‘No!’ he shouted, wrestling Thurloe to the floor. At exactly the same time, there was a deafening roar and something struck
the panelling where Thurloe had been standing just an instant before.

Even after he was sure the flames had been doused in Thurloe’s room, Chaloner was reluctant to leave the shaken ex-Spymaster
to the care of the porters who came racing to his aid. There were more of them than usual; some lingered to put his chamber
to rights, while others began a search of the grounds, although Chaloner knew they were too late to catch anyone. Bennet had
fled long ago.

‘There are more outside,’ said Thurloe, shivering next to the fire. The broken window meant cold air was flooding into the
room, although Chaloner imagined shock was more responsible for Thurloe’s pallor and unsteady hands than the chill. He poured
wine, and watched him sip it.

‘More what? Armed porters?’

Thurloe nodded. ‘Clarendon recommended I employ extra when I confronted him over the deaths of my five spies. I misjudged
Kelyng: I thought he would prefer to see me arraigned in a court of law, but it seems he has finally realised I have too many
powerful friends – or too many nervous enemies – so has decided assassination is
the only way forward. This is the second attempt since yesterday.’

‘What happened the first time?’

‘A gift of dried fruits that reek of poison. They are on the table, if you do not believe me.’

‘It was Bennet who fired the musket at you,’ said Chaloner, going to inspect the offering. There was a dish filled with dried
plums, and the stench of the toxin added to them was enough to make his eyes water. ‘I recognised the bandages from his encounter
with Sonya. Kelyng has pushed him too far, and he has decided to usurp his master’s power in order to ingratiate himself with
Robinson – and claim Fanny.’

‘He will not do it by taking shots at me. Robinson is one of those who would rather I was alive.’

‘Bennet’s ambitions have taken him beyond reason. He is running amok.’

There was a commotion in the corridor outside, and Sarah burst in, Leybourn at her heels. She ran to her brother’s side and
put her hands on his shoulders, peering anxiously into his face, while Leybourn inspected the damage to the room.

‘Bennet threw a fireball through the window, knowing my natural instinct would be to quench the flames,’ explained Thurloe.
‘Then, when I was nicely framed against the light, a musket was fired. Had Tom’s wits been as slow as mine, I would be dead.’

Sarah hugged Thurloe, while Leybourn went to the window and scanned the grounds below. ‘The porters said Bennet brought ten
men with him, and they made no attempt to disguise themselves as they ran away.’

‘When I left you earlier today, Snow was hiding opposite your front gate, John,’ said Sarah in a small voice. ‘I
did not see him until it was too late, but he recognised me instantly. I galloped my horse away, but I think he knows who
I am now.’

Chaloner recalled Kelyng’s promise to protect her. It was worth nothing now Bennet had broken with him.

‘You must stay here, then,’ said Thurloe. ‘My chambers are surrounded by armed guards – who will doubtless be a good deal
more vigilant now they appreciate the threat is real.’

‘I will fetch some clothes and be back in an hour. Will you come with me, William?’ Sarah did not wait for Leybourn to reply
before turning to Chaloner. ‘Will you return my wig when you have a moment? I lost my spare when I escaped from Snow, and
now I have none. I left yours at the Golden Lion, and was rather surprised when you did not do the same with mine. Where is
it?’

‘Behind my bed,’ Chaloner admitted sheepishly.

She regarded him askance. ‘If you put it there to hide it from your woman, I advise you to move it at once. She will never
believe the truth if she finds another lady’s apparel stuffed in such a suspicious place.’

Chaloner changed the subject, wondering how she had arrived so quickly after the attack on Thurloe. ‘Did the porters send
you word about what happened this morning?’

She shook her head. ‘They sent a message to William, and I happened to be in his shop.’

‘Does he usually open his doors to customers so soon after dawn on Christmas Sunday, then?’

‘My business hours are none of your affair,’ said Leybourn coolly. ‘But she came to me because her husband is beginning to
frighten her. She was lucky to
catch me in: I had only just returned from an unpleasant

dawn assignation.’ His expression gave nothing away.

Thurloe regarded Sarah anxiously. ‘Why did you not mention this when you were here earlier?’

She winced. ‘Claim my husband is losing his wits when he is standing right beside me? You saw how he is – strangling old women
and ordering you to murder Thomas. He says he saw Livesay again this morning. I thought Livesay was dead.’

‘Dead or deep in hiding,’ said Thurloe. ‘Your husband is imagining things.’

‘Actually, I think I saw him, too,’ said Leybourn. He held up his hands when Thurloe eyed him a little accusingly. ‘I did
not tell you, because I was not sure. I thought I saw him standing outside Dalton’s house once, but decided I must have been
mistaken. Perhaps I was not.’

‘I think you were,’ replied Thurloe firmly. ‘Dalton would be the last man Livesay would approach. They often quarrelled and
each detested the other. He would come to me first.’

‘Perhaps that is why Dalton has become agitated,’ suggested Leybourn. ‘He
believes
Livesay has returned to make life difficult for him, regardless of whether or not it is true.’

‘Dalton always was the most nervous and least committed of the Seven,’ admitted Thurloe. ‘But it is irrelevant, because Livesay
– if he is alive – would not go to the trouble of concealing his identity, then risk exposure by playing games with an old
rival. He is not stupid.’

Chaloner started to move towards the door. There was nothing more he could do, and Thurloe was now among
friends. The ex-Spymaster rose unsteadily, and came to take his arm.

‘I appreciate what you did for me today, Tom. You had just refused funds to leave London, but I urge you to reconsider. I
do not think Dalton will harm you after my threat to expose him, but the man is not in his right mind, and you will be safer
away from the city.’

‘No, thank you, sir,’ replied Chaloner. ‘It is best we part company. We do not trust each other, and I will fare better with
Clarendon.’

‘You will not,’ warned Thurloe. ‘Not if you have committed yourself to finding Barkstead’s treasure. I asked Ingoldsby about
it, and he says it is in Holland with Barkstead’s wife. And do not even think about looking for Swanson’s gold.
That
will see you in a churchyard next to Clarke for certain. But what makes you think I do not trust you?’

‘Because no one lies to friends, and you have been dishonest with me from the start of this affair.’

‘That was for your own safety. I did the same to Clarke – although it did not stop him from dashing into an investigation
of his own, either. But please take my advice, because it
will
save your life: leave the city, and take Metje, Sarah and Will with you. I would be a lot happier if you all went away for
a few weeks.’

‘I cannot leave London,’ said Leybourn, startled by the suggestion. ‘What about my bookshop?’

‘And I will not go as long as you are in danger, John,’ said Sarah firmly. ‘You may need me.’

Thurloe closed his eyes. ‘I was once Secretary of State, with legions of men under my command. Now I cannot even persuade
my sister, a bookseller and a former spy to do as they are told. Very well, since none of you will
see sense, stay a few more days, but if there is even the slightest hostile move towards any of you, I want you gone. Is
that clear?’

Leybourn and Sarah nodded. Chaloner started to move towards the door again.

Thurloe gripped his hand. ‘Thank you again.’ ‘It was instinct, sir. You trained me well.’

Thurloe looked hurt. ‘Christmas greetings, Tom,’ he said softly.

Chaloner was almost in Chancery Lane before Sarah and Leybourn managed to catch up with him. He had heard them calling his
name, but had not shortened his stride. He had had enough of Thurloe and his devious associates, and wanted no more to do
with any of them. Sarah grabbed his arm and swung him around roughly.

‘You did not have to be unkind,’ she snapped, ignoring his irritation as he freed himself. ‘You know he is fond of you.’

‘I know nothing of the kind.’

‘You would, if you used your wits. You overheard what happened in his chamber this morning when my husband wanted to kill
you – John was ready to sacrifice himself to Kelyng to stop him. Does that count for nothing?’

Leybourn joined in. ‘He told us your real name, because Sarah and I have each other to turn to in times of crisis, but you
were alone and he wanted to rectify that. He thought that by telling us your true identity, you would see the depth of his
confidence in us. Think about it: he has kept your secret for a decade, and the fact that he has chosen to reveal it now –
and to us – is significant.’

Chaloner was not convinced. Sarah sighed heavily at his reluctance to see their point of view. ‘He is trying to protect you,
Thomas. Surely, you have worked out why by now? I thought you were supposed to be astute.’

‘I have worked out nothing at all,’ said Chaloner wearily.

‘The Seven,’ explained Leybourn patiently. ‘Think about them. Thurloe, the leader, trying to preserve the Commonwealth. Barkstead,
Hewson and Livesay, three men who believed so strongly in an English republic that they were willing to behead a king. Ingoldsby,
also a regicide, but who, like Thurloe, sees the futility of further plotting and just wants peace and stability …’

‘Dalton,’ said Chaloner, looking hard at Sarah. ‘Who is so eager to ensure the Seven’s secrets are kept that he murdered Wade
and Mother Pinchon.’

She gazed at her feet, chagrined. ‘Yes, he killed them. And do you know what else he did to save his skin? He told
me
and then William about the Seven and Praisegod Swanson, so John would think twice about going to Kelyng – lest John’s sister
and dear friend be implicated, too. And that is how
we
come to be involved – not because of John, but because of my loving husband.’

‘Praisegod Swanson,’ mused Chaloner. ‘No one seems to have heard from him since he wrote the letter Thurloe intercepted. Is
he dead, do you think? Did one of the Seven kill him?’

‘William has been trying to find out, although John does not know it,’ said Sarah. ‘He would not approve of William putting
himself in danger – like Clarke did.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘I think Praisegod is dead.’

‘What makes you say that?’ asked Leybourn. ‘I was
under the impression you had never heard of him before today.’

Chaloner began to sort through the chaos of facts he had gathered, beginning with Barkstead’s curious behaviour during his
last night in power. ‘Barkstead tried to send Thurloe a message via Mother Pinchon, not knowing she would be too frightened
to deliver it. He asked her to say his “godly golden goose” was buried in the Tower. She assumed, as he intended, that this
referred to the butter-firkin treasure, but of course it did not. Barkstead meant Praisegod.’

‘
Praisegod
is buried in the Tower?’ asked Leybourn, startled.

‘Evett unearthed bones and I found hair that Sergeant Picard said was young, like that of his grandson.’ Chaloner wondered
whether the guard had sold the grisly find to the wigmaker. ‘I suspect Praisegod was dismembered before he was buried, because
small pieces are easier to hide than a whole corpse, especially in a place where the earth is hard-packed and difficult to
excavate. Evett assumed, as I did, that the fragments were from prisoners who had died in captivity, but Kelyng has studied
the Tower’s records, and he said that particular cellar has never been used as a dungeon.’

‘Except by Barkstead,’ said Sarah. ‘You must have heard the stories about what he did down there.’

‘Not even by him. He sited the grave well, because the passages that make the cellar an unsuitable prison also allow rats
to come and go, and they have been destroying any evidence inadvertently exposed by Evett and his treasure hunters. Clarke
must have guessed this, because the message he sent to his wife via the White Hall cloth measurers said he would “praise God’s
one son … well
away from the shadows cast by the towers of evil”. Now I know exactly what he meant by his reference to towers of evil: London’s
Tower.’

‘How can you be sure the bones belonged to Praisegod?’ asked Sarah.

‘I cannot, but it is the obvious conclusion. Did you ever meet him?’

‘Once,’ replied Sarah. ‘My husband brought him home, about four years ago. He was a young fellow with chestnut-brown curls,
which may match the hair you found, and a pleasant, eager face. He sang religious songs for Cromwell. I suppose Barkstead
was making covert reference to Praisegod’s name when he used the word “godly”.’

‘Or perhaps he buried the ingots with Praisegod’s body,’ suggested Leybourn. ‘Perhaps
that
is what he meant by the word “golden”.’

‘There is no treasure in the cellar,’ said Chaloner. ‘Evett was very thorough.’

‘So, Barkstead killed Praisegod,’ mused Leybourn. ‘I suppose it makes sense. He would not bury a murdered corpse for anyone
else, and his message to Thurloe indicates he wanted someone to know a problem was settled.’

‘Will you dig again, Thomas?’ asked Sarah. ‘The Earl of Clarendon will be delighted if you find these ingots, although I imagine
he will be less thrilled if you also present him with Praisegod’s bones.’

‘I hope you do not plan to tell Clarendon any of this,’ said Leybourn unhappily. ‘Because you still do not have all the information
you need to make a rational decision. You know six members of the Seven, but you seem blissfully unaware of the last.’

‘That is not true,’ said Chaloner, as strands of information merged and the name of the seventh member finally became clear
to him. ‘You are right about Thurloe never revealing the identities of his spies lightly, but Ingoldsby and Dalton know about
me – I heard them when I listened outside his window today. I doubt Thurloe told them, but my uncle was very free with the
information, and—’