A Conspiracy of Violence (43 page)

‘Where is Sarah?’ he asked, when he saw the man’s eyelids flutter.

‘Upstairs,’ whispered Dalton. There was another creaking groan as something else readied itself for collapse. The flames roared
louder still, and Dalton spoke again. ‘Live … I saved … her and …’

But Chaloner knew Dalton would not live. The wound had pierced a lung, and blood was frothing through his mouth. He also knew
that if he took the time to drag the vintner outside, he would never be able to fight his way back to help Sarah and Leybourn.
He ignored the desperate scrabbling of Dalton’s fingers and prepared to crawl on.

‘No!’ gasped Dalton, distraught. ‘Do not … leave …’

‘Take him out,’ Chaloner ordered Thurloe.

He did not wait to see whether Thurloe obeyed. He located the stairs, took a slow, careful breath through the waterlogged
cloth, then stood and ascended as fast as he could. The smoke was so thick he could not see his hand in front of his face,
and he was soon light-headed from lack of air. He dropped to his knees, and began to cough. He groped his way along the upper
hallway, trying to recall from the arrangement of windows outside how many rooms there might be. He decided there were two
– one on each side of the house – with a further two on the floor above.

An orange haze through the grey-white indicated the chamber to the left was already blazing, while the door to the right was
closed. He reached up to the latch. It was cool. He tried to open it, but his fingers were thick
and clumsy. Someone collided with him, knocking him to the ground. It was Thurloe, staggering and disoriented. He shoved
Chaloner out of the way, stepped back, and crashed into the door with his shoulder. The latch splintered, and the door flew
against the wall with a resounding crash that was, even so, barely audible above the deep thunder of flames.

The smoke was thinner inside the room. Thurloe gripped Chaloner’s shirt and hauled him in, while Chaloner slammed the door
behind them, hoping to exclude the fumes for a little longer. The room contained a bed and several large blanket chests, but
not Sarah or Leybourn. Chaloner sagged in defeat, knowing that if they were anywhere else, they were doomed. The desperate
journey had been for nothing, and he could tell by the growing warmth of the door against his back that he and Thurloe would
not be leaving the way they had entered. Even in those few moments, the fire had claimed the hall to the point where it was
impassable.

‘You should have helped Dalton,’ he said hoarsely to Thurloe, who was gasping at his side.

‘I tried, but a great gout of blood flew from his mouth – something ruptured when I moved him. What now? We cannot go back
the way we came.’

Chaloner assessed their situation through smarting eyes. Clothes and bedcovers had been dumped on the floor, as if someone
had been rummaging through the chests in a hurry – Sarah, making a rapid selection of clothes, so she could leave her husband
and go to her brother. But there was something odd. Surely, she would not have wasted time closing and latching them again,
especially when half their contents were strewn across the room? Chaloner staggered towards the first one, and
unfastened the lid. Leybourn’s white face gazed out at him. While Thurloe searched for Sarah, Chaloner tugged the gag from
the bookseller’s mouth and cut through the rope that bound his hands and feet.

Leybourn hauled himself upright. ‘Christ in heaven! Dalton was going to leave us here to burn!’

‘We might burn yet. The stairs have gone, and the only escape is through the window.’

‘Knotted covers,’ croaked Leybourn, lurching towards the bed. ‘In a rope.’

Thurloe had freed Sarah, who flung herself into his arms, sobbing her relief, although not for long. She was made of sterner
stuff and soon pulled herself together, wiping away the tears to leave smudges across her cheeks. She coughed. ‘The smoke
is getting thicker.’

‘It is unbreathable in the hallway,’ said Thurloe. He flung open the window, then staggered back as there was a sharp crack.
‘Bennet!’

‘Surely not!’ cried Sarah. She edged towards the window. ‘I can see a bandage around his head.’

‘It is me he wants,’ said Thurloe. ‘If I go first, he may leave the rest of you alone. And anyway, he cannot pop away at survivors
indefinitely. Someone will stop him.’

‘They will not,’ said Chaloner, who had seen the way the onlookers had scattered when Bennet had appeared with his gun. ‘They
are too frightened of him. Besides, it is not just you they want. Snow is waiting for Sarah, and Bennet hates me as well as
you.’

There was another roar, and the door began to smoulder. Then flames licked up it, and Chaloner saw the smoke in the bedchamber
drift towards the crack under the lintel. The fire was greedy for air, and it would
not be many moments before the fragile barrier disintegrated, and the room would be full of flames.

‘Hurry with your rope,’ he instructed Leybourn. He took a chair and used it to smash the window, glass and frame together.
Immediately, there was another crack, and a chunk of plaster was gouged from the ceiling.

Thurloe shoved him to one side. ‘Do you want them to hit you? What are you doing?’

‘Preparing for a clear shot. Give me your gun.’

‘Wait,’ shouted Sarah. She snatched up one of her discarded dresses. ‘You only have one chance, and you will certainly miss
if he is shooting at you at the same time. I will distract him.’

She waited until he nodded that he was ready, then hurled the dress out of the window. Bennet fired almost immediately. Simultaneously,
Chaloner aimed and pulled his own trigger. A second later, a bullet slapped into the wall, missing him by no more than the
width of a hand.

‘They must have several guns each,’ said Thurloe, ‘which is why they do not need to reload.’

‘Did you hit either of them?’ asked Leybourn, as he ripped and knotted blankets with hands that shook with fear.

Chaloner peered out of the window, then jumped back when two more shots sounded. One tore into the jagged remnants of the
window frame, while the other cracked into the wall outside. Meanwhile, the door was burning more brightly. ‘Unfortunately
not.’

‘We could just throw ourselves out,’ suggested Leybourn, tying one end of his rope to the bed. ‘We may survive the fall, assuming
Bennet does not shoot us as we drop.’

Chaloner took the dagger from his sleeve. He held it
by the blade, then stepped forward and hurled it to where he could see Snow leaning across the garden wall. It glinted as
it sped towards its target, and then was lost. He heard the sound of jeering. The flames were almost through the door. He
retrieved the knife from his boot and hurled it towards the laughter with all his might, more from frustration than any genuine
attempt to hit anyone. The taunting cries stopped abruptly.

‘You got one,’ said Thurloe. He coughed. ‘Snow, I think. Bennet is running away.’

‘Quickly,’ said Chaloner, grabbing Leybourn’s rope. ‘Sarah.’

She did not waste precious time arguing about priority, but scrambled on to the window sill, and clambered down the rope,
hand-over-hand, like a sailor. She released it and dropped the last few feet, to give the others more time. Leybourn was next,
slower and more clumsy.

‘Go!’ shouted Chaloner to Thurloe, before Leybourn was more than halfway down.

‘You first,’ said Thurloe. ‘Hurry.’

Chaloner began to climb. Then there was a low, ominous roar, and he knew the door had finally given way. He looked up, waiting
for Thurloe to appear. He did not.

‘No!’ cried Sarah. She reached for the rope, her face twisted into an agony of grief. ‘John!’

Chaloner hauled himself upwards, reaching the sill to see the room full of flames. Thurloe was lying on the floor. Raising
one hand to protect his face, Chaloner forced himself back inside the chamber and grabbed the inert body. He cursed his clumsy
hands as he knotted the blanket around Thurloe’s chest, then straddled the
sill, heaving the older man out of the window like a sack of grain.

It was an awkward way to move a person, and Thurloe was heavy. The knotted strips shot through his hands and he lost his grip.
Thurloe plummeted downwards, where his fall was broken by Leybourn. Chaloner glanced behind him, seeing nothing but a wall
of orange.

‘Jump!’ screamed Sarah.

Feeling his shirt begin to smoulder, Chaloner let himself drop.

As soon as Chaloner landed, Leybourn was on him, smothering the flames with his cloak. Sarah had already run for water, and
upended a pail over both of them, making them gasp in shock at the sudden chill. While Sarah made sure Chaloner was fully
doused, Leybourn went to Thurloe, assessing him for damage, then dragged him to the comparative safety of a nearby alley,
away from the inferno that had once been a fine house, and from men with guns. Chaloner, with Sarah clutching his shoulder
for support, limped after them.

Once he was sure they were well hidden, Chaloner donned his sodden cassock, relishing its coolness against his hot skin, and
left them to recover while he went in search of Bennet and Snow. The back of the house was deserted – none of the crowd had
lingered once the bully boys had arrived. He found Snow propped against a wall, a crude bandage around his leg. His face was
white, and too much blood seeped from the wound. Chaloner’s dagger lay on the ground next to him.

‘Where is Bennet?’ demanded the agent, leaning down to retrieve it.

‘Gone for help,’ said Snow, wincing as he tried to grab
the knife first and failed. ‘You clipped his shoulder when you shot at him, so I hope he does not faint along the way.’

‘Why did you set the fire?’

Snow shook his head. ‘That was not us. We were waiting for the woman to come out, and the place started to burn as we watched.
I saw a man leave through the front door, though, before it started.’

‘Who?’

Snow grinned mirthlessly. ‘Got any money?’

Chaloner rummaged for a shilling. ‘Who?’ he repeated.

Snow stretched out his hand
for the coin, but fell back when Chaloner declined to relinquish it before he had his information. ‘I did not recognise him
– his hat hid his face.’

‘Describe him, then. Was he tall? Fat? Thin?’

Snow screwed up his face and gripped his leg with both hands. His face turned from white to a sickly grey. ‘Christ, Heyden!
You did not have to hurl your dagger quite so hard! I think you have done for me. I told you, I did not see him properly.’

‘There was nothing unusual about him? No uneven gait or oddly coloured clothing?’

Snow was about to say no, when he reconsidered. ‘His coat was green – and tight, as if he had grown out of it.’

Chaloner knelt next to him and slipped the hilt of the man’s dagger through the bandage, twisting it tight enough to make
him shriek. ‘Hold this. It should stem the bleeding until Bennet comes back.’

Snow was beginning to be frightened. ‘What if he does not?’

‘I will fetch someone else – but only if you agree to
stop stalking Sarah Dalton. She did not kill Storey – I did. I hit him when you were stunned.’

Snow stifled a groan. ‘No one will help me, Heyden. We drove everyone off – or Bennet did.’

Chaloner dropped the shilling into his callused hand. ‘Then I will tell them you can pay.’

Snow coughed weakly. ‘That might do it. People will do anything for money.’

Chaloner was sure he was right. He walked to the front of the house, where a fascinated crowd was watching the houses on either
side of Dalton’s begin to smoulder, although soldiers under a competent-looking captain had arrived and were organising a
bucket chain. Chaloner told a bulky matron about Snow’s predicament – and his shilling – then limped back to where Leybourn
crouched over Thurloe. Sarah stood next to them, her face a mask of shock.

‘Is he all right?’ asked Chaloner, indicating the prone ex-Spymaster with a nod of his head.

‘Yes, he is,’ said Thurloe, opening his eyes. ‘Wet, sore and dishevelled, but nothing a few days by the fi … in bed will
not cure. And you? Did you hurt your leg when you jumped?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘It has been worse.’

Sarah raised a shaking hand to her head. ‘It was like a nightmare, being trapped inside that chest and smelling smoke. I do
not suppose you saw my husband, did you? Did he escape?’

Thurloe looked away. ‘He is dead.’

A loud explosion boomed from the house, raising a collective shriek from the onlookers. Sarah watched the black smoke that
billowed into the grey sky. ‘There goes the first of his gunpowder.’

Chaloner gaped at her. ‘His what?’

‘He always keeps two barrels in the house. He says you never know when it might come in useful. That was the first one blowing.
The second will not be far behind. How did he die? Was it the fire?’

‘He was stabbed,’ said Thurloe. ‘Who did it? Bennet?’

‘Bennet was never in the house,’ replied Leybourn. ‘I saw him and Snow lurking in the street outside when Sarah was packing
her clothes. They must have followed us – I am not very good at detecting that sort of thing. She should have taken Thomas
instead.’

Sarah drew a shuddering breath. ‘Thomas may have been able to prevent my husband from forcing me into a box and leaving me
to burn, too.’ She swallowed hard, and tried to steady her voice. ‘He said he could not afford to let me live. He also said
it was only a matter of time before Bennet finished
you
off, John, and he planned to strangle Thomas when he came to translate letters tomorrow.’

Thurloe frowned. ‘But if Bennet was outside, and Dalton ambushed you, then who killed Dalton?’

‘Someone he knew,’ said Leybourn. ‘Before the fire started – while Sarah was collecting her clothes and I was waiting on the
landing – there was a knock at the door. The servants were at church, so Dalton answered himself. I heard him wish someone
a good morning, and then everything went quiet. I do not think he would have addressed a stranger in that friendly way.’

‘Who was it?’ asked Thurloe. ‘Did you recognise the voice?’