A Conspiracy of Violence (42 page)

‘My husband said you looked familiar when you first met last Friday,’ interrupted Sarah, recalling the exchange. ‘He knew
your uncle, and recognised some of him in you.’

‘He knew him, because my uncle was the last member of the Seven,’ said Chaloner.

‘Exactly,’ said Leybourn. ‘So
now
do you see why Thurloe has tried to keep you from becoming involved?’

A good many things became clear once Chaloner understood his uncle’s role in the affair, all of which Sarah reiterated with
a good deal of recrimination. Leybourn was more gentle, although even he seemed to think Chaloner a fool for not guessing
sooner.

‘Your uncle and Thurloe were close, and Thurloe promised to protect you when the Commonwealth collapsed,’ explained Leybourn.
‘Old Chaloner knew that if the identities of the Seven ever became public, then his whole family would fall under suspicion
– especially a nephew who worked for Thurloe’s intelligence service.’

‘You were with Downing in Holland, and when Downing changed sides, John assumed you would change with him and so be safe,’
Sarah went on. ‘But you did not: you shared enough information to keep Downing happy, but your real reports still came to
John.
Then Downing arrested Barkstead, and you found yourself back in London, needing employment. Recalling his promise to help,
John recommended you to Clarendon, assuming you would prove yourself and make your own way in the new order.’

‘It was also a good opportunity to ask a reliable man to look into Clarke’s murder.’ Leybourn took up the tale. ‘If Thurloe
had thought for an instant that Clarke had died investigating the Seven, he would
never
have asked you to look into the matter. Worse, Clarendon then ordered you to hunt for Barkstead’s treasure, and Thurloe knew
you were tenacious enough to uncover the truth.’

‘Obviously, he did not want that,’ said Sarah. ‘So he asked you to leave England or decline Clarendon’s commission. You refused
both, and now you know everything he tried to keep from you – for your own good. And before you claim he did all this because
he loved your uncle, not you, let me remind you of your letters to him. You wrote sympathetically, and he interpreted this
as a sign of friendship – he did not append personal paragraphs to the missives he sent to his other spies. He is not a naturally
affectionate man, but the sentiments he expressed to you were real. He assumed yours were, too.’

‘All right,’ said Chaloner, finally accepting Thurloe’s motives had been benevolent. ‘But what happens now? Where do we go
from here?’

‘You seem to have an understanding with Kelyng,’ said Sarah. ‘You can tell him to call off his brutes and leave John alone.’

‘That will not help. Bennet is no longer under Kelyng’s control.’

‘Well, we must do something,’ said Leybourn. ‘I refuse to sit back and wait for the next attack.’

‘I will be here,’ said Sarah. ‘I shall collect a few clothes and return with one of my husband’s pistols – then I can shoot
Snow, if he comes after me, and protect John at the same time.’

‘What will Dalton say when he learns you are leaving him?’ asked Chaloner curiously.

She shrugged. ‘We quarrelled violently when I learned he has taken to strangling old women and pushing clerks over castle
walls. I do not want him near me, and I do not care what he thinks.’

‘Will you go with her?’ asked Leybourn. ‘Or will you guard Thurloe while I do?’

‘I will stay here,’ said Chaloner, seeing Sarah about to object to his company. She was still annoyed with him, and he did
not want to listen to any more recriminations. His feelings were ambiguous about what he had been told: on the one hand, he
was angry that Thurloe had not taken him into his confidence, but on the other, he was ashamed that he had not handled the
matter with more grace. Thurloe had offered a friendly hand, and he had slapped it away.

Leybourn and Sarah left Lincoln’s Inn, and Chaloner locked the gate behind them. He glanced up at the sky. Clouds hung thickly
overheard, casting a dull, grey light over the city, and there was drizzle in the air. The gloomy weather did nothing to dampen
the spirits of the people, though, and bells rang all over London. In Chancery Lane, carriages and horses clattered as their
owners went to church, and folk greeted each other with cheerful calls; there was an atmosphere of celebration as citizens
prepared to enjoy a festival that had been deemed illegal not many years before.

Aware that another attack would be rendered easier by the fact that the streets were unusually busy, Chaloner ordered the
porters to vary their patrols and sent two men to hire dogs from the Golden Lion. Then he prowled the Inn’s gardens, looking
for weaknesses in their defences. Mixed among the scent of drenched grass and dripping trees was the acrid reek of smoke,
as fires were kindled across the city. Someone was roasting meat in the kitchens, so the smell of burning fat mixed with the
yeasty scent of proving bread. A scullion started to warble. It was a carol, although the words had been changed to make it
a coarse alehouse ballad, and the lad’s friends began to cheer. Chaloner smiled, recalling one of his brothers once chanting
the same song to a deaf elderly aunt, who had applauded politely and asked him to sing it again.

The clocks struck ten, and Chaloner began to be restless, keen to be away from Lincoln’s Inn, either to resume his search
for Praisegod’s gold or to spend time with Metje. It should not have taken long for Sarah to select a few clothes and return
to Thurloe. He wondered whether she and Leybourn had stopped to visit a church or to enjoy breakfast with friends. But then
he recalled their concern for Thurloe, and knew they would not have dallied as long as they believed he was in danger. Something
was wrong. He abandoned his post and went to Chamber XIII.

‘Thomas,’ said Thurloe guardedly. He was wearing his cloak. ‘You should be with Metje today.’

‘Where are you going?’ ‘Sarah and Will should have been back an hour ago. I am worried.’

‘I will find them, sir. You stay here.’

Thurloe reached for the sword he kept behind his chair. ‘I can manage, thank you.’

‘It is not safe. Bennet may be waiting.’

‘I will leave by the back gate. Stand aside, Thomas. You are in my way.’

Chaloner staggered as Thurloe thrust past him. He was not the only one who objected to Thurloe’s departure: the porters clamoured
at him to return to the place where he would be safe. The ex-Spymaster regarded them coolly and they fell silent, awed by
the sudden force of his personality. Then he strode into the garden, leaving them staring at each other helplessly.

‘Make sure no one enters his rooms,’ ordered Chaloner, thinking of bombs with long fuses, the rims of goblets dipped in poison
and myriad other modes of assassination. ‘I will go with him.’

Thurloe was walking briskly, so he was obliged to run to catch up. He followed him through a gate so cunningly masked by brambles
that it was invisible to anyone who did not know it was there. It was similarly concealed outside, emerging in a thicket of
hawthorns that clawed at hands and faces. Thurloe fought his way through them, then set off towards Fleet Street. Shouts and
cheers emanated from a nearby gaming house, suggesting some players thought it was still night.

‘That would not have been permitted under Cromwell,’ said Thurloe without breaking his stride. ‘This licentiousness and wild
liberty will bring the new government trouble for certain.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Chaloner. ‘Slow down. You are drawing attention to yourself.’

Thurloe complied, although not by much. ‘Go home, Thomas. This is not your concern.’

‘You should have told me,’ said Chaloner. ‘About my uncle and the Seven. Then I would not have assumed you were trying to
mislead me for sinister reasons.’

‘I did not want you to know,’ replied Thurloe tartly. ‘You had enough to worry about, what with Downing undermining your career
and Metje’s … wavering affections. Obviously, I was overly protective, although there was certainly no malice involved,
as you seem to assume.’

‘I know,’ said Chaloner. He corrected himself. ‘I know now. I am sorry I doubted you.’

Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘Then will you tell Clarendon that you have reliable witnesses who saw Barkstead’s butter firkins
arrive in Holland, and ask him to allot you another task?’

Chaloner frowned. ‘That witness was Ingoldsby, one of the Seven. Did you ask him to—?’

‘Stop it, Thomas,’ said Thurloe sharply. ‘No, I did not ask Ingoldsby to spin you a yarn. I know what he said to you, because
he told me you had been to see him. I am sure that what his wife told you was the truth. What is wrong with you? Do you not
trust me, even now?’

‘I am sorry.’ Chaloner frowned. ‘What do you mean by Metje’s “wavering affections”?’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘I met her at the Nonconformist chapel in Fetter Lane, and she seemed … seemed less fond of you than
you appear to be of her.’

Chaloner knew this was true, although he was surprised Thurloe should recognise it. ‘Her first husband died, and it has been
difficult for another man to take his place. But we will be married soon.’

Thurloe smiled wanly. ‘Then I hope you will be happy, although I think you should leave England. You have been saying for
weeks that there will be a war with the
Dutch, and you are right. She will not be safe here.’

‘When did you first guess Barkstead’s buried treasure was different from the treasure he sealed in his butter barrels?’

‘On Wednesday, when Robinson mentioned that you and Evett had been hunting for seven thousand pounds in the Tower. You will
appreciate that sum holds a particular significance for a member of the Seven, and I suspected immediately that it might not
be coin-filled kegs you found. I did not want
you
to be obliged to tell Clarendon that Barkstead’s cache might be a body.’

‘But you never received the message Barkstead sent to you via Mother Pinchon?’

‘No. But I did not need it to piece the facts together. I knew Barkstead had been on the trail of the man he believed had
betrayed us – who transpired to be Swanson – and I simply assessed the situation logically. I heard from Sergeant Picard at
the Tower that bones and hair were unearthed, and it did not take a genius to work out whose.’

‘Smoke,’ said Chaloner suddenly. ‘I smell smoke.’ ‘It is Christmas, and every house in London is preparing meals. Of course
you can smell smoke.’

‘This is from a different kind of fire,’ said Chaloner uneasily. ‘A big one.’

Thurloe glanced at him, then broke into a run. Chaloner sped after him, wincing when a cloaked pedestrian coming from the
opposite direction did not move quickly enough, and Thurloe crashed into him, making them both stagger. The man started to
curse, but then thought better of it and backed away. He carried something heavy, concealing it under his cloak in a way that
suggested he had just stolen it. That day was perfect for
crime, when people were at church or celebrating the festival with friends. The fellow kept his face hidden as Chaloner passed,
obviously unwilling to be seen.

‘Oh, no!’ whispered Thurloe, stopping abruptly. ‘Dear God, no!’

Smoke poured through the windows of Dalton’s grand home. A crowd had gathered, and there was an attempt to organise buckets
and water, although the house was well past rescue, and the main objective was to prevent the conflagration from spreading.
People were running, some converging on the site, and others racing in the opposite direction, lest the blaze run out of control
and put their own properties at risk. Chaloner took Thurloe’s arm and pulled him forward, still alert for Bennet. He saw that
although flames raged through the windows on the left side of the house, the right was as yet untouched. There was still a
chance that lives might be saved, if prompt action was taken.

‘Stay here,’ he instructed, shaking Thurloe’s shoulder to gain his attention. The ex-Spymaster’s expression was glazed. ‘Watch
yourself among the crowd. Bennet may be here.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘See if anyone is inside.’

Thurloe pulled himself together, and the appalled helplessness was replaced by resolve. Together, they dodged through the
hands that would have stopped them, and Thurloe hammered on the front door. Chaloner heard people yelling that he was wasting
his time – the fire had taken hold and nothing could be saved. He took aim and kicked the door. It did not budge, and he could
tell by the way it shuddered that it was barred from the inside.

‘The back,’ he shouted, shouldering his way through the onlookers a second time, aiming for the narrow passage that led to
the rear of the house. People were there, too, watching window frames become charred and blackened, and glass melt in the
heat.

There was a small garden behind the house, dug over to receive vegetables the following spring. It was surrounded by a wall
of shoulder height. Chaloner scaled it quickly, pausing to help Thurloe, who was out of practise. The back door was less robust
than the handsome affair at the front, and shattered under Chaloner’s first kick. Immediately, smoke poured out, driving him
back.

‘You watch for Bennet,’ gasped Thurloe, plucking at his sleeve. ‘I will go in.’

There was a butt in the garden, placed to collect rainwater. Ignoring Thurloe, Chaloner hauled off his new cassock, dunked
it, and wound the sodden garment around his head. He watched Thurloe do the same, then dropped to his hands and knees and
crawled inside the house, Thurloe behind him.

He moved quickly, aware that they did not have much time. He took a breath to shout Sarah’s name, but his lungs filled with
smoke, and the sound he made emerged as a croak. There was an almighty crash from somewhere ahead, indicating a ceiling or
a wall had fallen. His eyes smarted too much to open, and would have done him no good if he had, because there was nothing
to see but a dense whiteness. His outstretched fingers encountered a door, but wood and latch were searing hot, and he knew
better than to open it: anyone inside was long past help, and the sudden inrush of air from the corridor would produce a fireball
that would incinerate him on the spot. He moved on until he encountered a body. He forced his
eyes open a crack. It was Dalton. There was blood on his chest, and Chaloner could feel a knife still embedded in him.