A Conspiracy of Violence (44 page)

‘I did not hear it,’ replied Leybourn. ‘Perhaps it was Ingoldsby.’

‘Ingoldsby is trapped at Westminster Abbey with the
King all this morning,’ said Thurloe. ‘I know for a fact he was invited, and he dares not refuse. Ingoldsby is not the culprit.’

‘I heard voices in the room below my bedchamber,’ said Sarah. ‘But my husband was not
arguing
with this visitor: he was discussing business. I heard him mention his new trade agreement with the Dutch, and how wealthy
it will make him.’

‘It was Downing,’ said Chaloner quietly. ‘Snow told me he saw someone wearing a tight green coat emerging through the front
door before the fire started. Downing owns such a garment.’

‘Downing stabbed Dalton?’ asked Leybourn. ‘But why?’

‘He has always been jealous of my husband’s good relationship with the Dutch merchants,’ said Sarah. ‘But I did not think
he was envious enough to kill him over it.’

Clutching Leybourn’s arm for support, Thurloe staggered to his feet. It was the first time Chaloner had seen him less than
perfectly attired, with his crumpled clothes, matted hair and smoke-blackened face. ‘Then we shall have to ask him about it.’

Leybourn gaped at him. ‘
Ask
Downing whether he stabbed Dalton?’

‘I will not put it quite like that,’ said Thurloe dryly. ‘You can credit me with a little subtlety, Will – I was not appointed
spymaster for my habit of barging into delicate situations with bald questions. But it is cold here, and I do not want to
take a chill. Come to my chambers.’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘I want to see Metje.’

‘Yes,’ said Thurloe, regarding him oddly. ‘That is probably a good idea.’

Chaloner frowned, knowing there was more to the comment than he understood. Was Thurloe relieved to have him gone, so he could
be with real friends? Or was there something else? ‘I do not—’

‘We should not stay here,’ said Leybourn. ‘Bennet might come back, and while Thomas seems awash with demonic energy, I have
had enough. An afternoon with roasted chestnuts and a glass of spiced wine sounds more appealing than you can possibly imagine.’

Sarah agreed. ‘We will take a carriage, and hang the expense. It is Christmas, after all.’

Chaloner returned to his rooms, intending to rinse the stench of smoke from his hair and change his clothes, hoping Metje
would agree to spend a quiet hour with him. He was sore from his jump, his leg ached, and he wanted to lie down and talk about
their future – although, he admitted ruefully, just lying down would suffice. He climbed the stairs slowly, and was pleasantly
surprised to find her already there. She was standing in the window, which Ellis had ‘repaired’ with the cover from an old
book. She held the lamp in her hand and, when he opened the door, he was taken aback when she turned suddenly and hurled it
at him. He ducked instinctively, and it smashed against the wall.

‘What are these?’ she demanded, brandishing Sarah’s hat and wig.

He glanced at the bed, and saw she had been in the process of changing the linen. ‘They belong to Thurloe’s sister,’ he said,
one ear cocked for Ellis coming to investigate the noise. ‘Mrs Dalton.’

‘And what are they doing behind our bed?’

Several stories presented themselves to him as possible
explanations before he recalled that there was no need for prevarication, because she knew what he did for a living. ‘There
is a man in Kelyng’s retinue who wants to kill her, because she brained his partner. I helped her escape by donning her headwear.’
Even as he related the tale, he knew he would have been better off with a lie.

‘Then what about this?’ demanded Metje, tears starting in her eyes. She waved another wig, this one a luxurious brown affair,
which had arrived in a box bearing Monsieur Jervas’s mark. It was the same colour as the hair he had found in the Tower, and
he sincerely hoped it was not Praisegod’s.

‘Kelyng promised to send me one,’ said Chaloner. ‘I thought he was just talking.’

‘Kelyng,’ she said flatly. She did not believe him. ‘Kelyng bought you an expensive wig, and Mrs Dalton’s personal effects
are hidden behind our bed because you saved her life.’

‘The problem with the truth is that it is sometimes more difficult to believe than a lie.’

‘Your truths certainly are,’ she said tartly. ‘I thought we had reached an understanding, and that fibs were a thing of the
past. I would be better off with …’

‘With what?’

‘With Mr North and his family. They have decided to return to Ely at the end of the month. Temperance has asked me to go with
her, and I think I will.’

‘But you are expecting our child.’ He was appalled she should consider leaving him. ‘And North will know it in a few weeks.’

She rubbed her eyes. ‘I am so confused, I do not know what to do. People throw things at me in the street because I am Dutch.
Then I learn you are a spy – and a penniless
one, at that. And if there is a war, I shall be lynched, because you cannot buy the protection I need. My other … my
other …’

Chaloner stared at her, thinking about Thurloe’s veiled references over the last week – mention of ‘wavering affections’,
and advice to go to Holland or spend time with her. His stomach churned as he began to understand what the ex-Spymaster had
been trying to tell him. ‘Your other what? Lover?’

She stared at her feet. ‘I was frightened, Tom. And you were always out, going about strange business that you declined to
share with me. I needed to be with someone I could trust.’

Chaloner regarded her in dismay. ‘Who is it? North?’

‘Do not be ridiculous. But it does not matter anyway, because I went to see him today and he was with a woman – his wife.
He could not be trusted either, so now I have no one. Do not look accusingly at me, when you have not been faithful, either.
At least you can go to Mrs Dalton now.’

Chaloner went to stand by the hearth, his thoughts in turmoil. Had his secretive behaviour really driven Metje into the arms
of another man, or would she have gone anyway?

‘Someone is coming,’ he said, hearing footsteps. ‘Probably Ellis, wanting to know what broke just now. What do you want to
do? Hide under the bed? Or shall we let him see us together?’

There was a soft tap on the door.

‘I do not know,’ said Metje tearfully. She still held Sarah’s wig. ‘He—’

‘Mr Heyden?’ came Temperance’s voice. ‘Are you there?’ Chaloner went to let her in, while Metje stood next
to the window, hairpiece dangling from her fingers. Temperance was surprised to see her in a man’s bedchamber, alone and
with the door closed, but was too polite to comment on it.

‘Metje tells me you are going to live in Ely,’ said Chaloner, offering Temperance a chair.

Temperance winced as she sat. ‘I do not want to go. It is full of pirates, who sail through the Fens at full moon and abduct
young ladies for wicked purposes. And I will miss you.’

Chaloner was still too stunned by Metje’s revelation to offer any words of comfort. ‘What can I do for you, Temperance? I
will not kill the turkey, if that is why you came.’

‘The turkey is no longer with us. But I came to invite you to dine with us anyway.’

‘Thank you, but not today,’ he said, sorry when her eyes brimmed with tears.

‘Please,’ she said in a low, choked voice. ‘There will not be many more occasions, because father says we shall leave in a
matter of days. He thinks it is too dangerous here.’

‘You should accept, Tom,’ said Metje, not looking at him. ‘Mr North has always been good to you, and who knows, perhaps you
will be his neighbour in Ely.’

‘Will you?’ asked Temperance, hope bright in her eyes.

‘I doubt it,’ said Chaloner. He saw Temperance’s smile fade, and chided himself for being such a misery. How would he see
his daughter unless he travelled? ‘But anything is possible, I suppose.’

Chaloner flung off his smoke-soiled clothes, rinsed the stink of burning from his hair, and donned his Sunday
best, knowing it would be expected of him, although he was careful to temper his costume with his plainest collar. Also in
deference to the Norths, he left his sword behind, along with the dagger he wore in his belt. The one from his sleeve was
lost somewhere outside Dalton’s mansion, but the one he wore in his boot remained in place. He did not like the notion of
being totally defenceless.

Each time he considered Metje’s betrayal, a pang shot through his stomach, and he wondered how far his occupation was responsible
for the collapse of their relationship. Because they had spent two carefree years in Holland, he had not expected anything
to change when they moved, but of course it had. She had told him she was lonely and frightened, and he should have anticipated
she might seek solace from other quarters if he did nothing about it. She had not trusted him to look after her, and he had
given her no reason to think otherwise.

So what happened now? Could he forgive her? And what about the child? Was it his or the other man’s? He supposed he might
know the answer when it was born, if it possessed some feature identifiable as his own, but he would have to make a decision
sooner than that, and so would she. However, they were not compelled to make it that afternoon, and he supposed it would be
wise to let a few days pass first, so that neither would commit to hasty agreements they would later regret.

When one of the maids opened the door to his reluctant tap, he found the North household waiting for him. His dark blue doublet
and breeches were hardly gaudy, but even so he felt like a peacock in a flock of pigeons
as he approached the black-clad gathering. A single sprig of holly comprised their Christmas decorations – although some
effort had been made to celebrate the festival like Anglicans, an excess of merry-making was still anathema to Puritans –
but there was a spotlessly clean tablecloth and all the spoons and knives gleamed.

As usual, the room was bright and welcoming, which was more than could be said for the room’s occupants: North and Faith were
grim-faced and quiet, Temperance was distressed, and the servants – Metje among them – made no bones about the fact that they
wished they were somewhere else. Chaloner was relieved the gathering did not also include Preacher Hill.

‘You are still limping, Heyden,’ said North, standing to greet him with a forced smile. ‘Are you not recovered from your encounter
with our burglar?’

‘There was a fire this morning,’ said Chaloner, seeing no reason why he should not tell them what he had been doing. He was
tired of lies. ‘At the house of John Dalton, the vintner.’

‘What a thrilling life you lead,’ said Metje, regarding him coolly. ‘Each time we meet, you have been involved in some dramatic
incident or other.’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘London can be a dangerous place.’

‘It is indeed!’ declared North, rubbing his hands together. ‘Very dangerous. In fact, I feel we can no longer live here, and
plan to leave in a matter of days.’

Temperance regarded her parents with tearful defiance, and Chaloner sensed they might be about to face a rebellion from their
normally dutiful daughter. ‘Why so soon?’ he asked.

‘Robbers stalk our streets as bold as brass, and sin is
everywhere,’ replied North. ‘Did you hear Lord Mayor Robinson’s unwed daughter is with child? I cannot imagine how.’

‘It is very simple, sir,’ said Chaloner. ‘It happens when a man and a woman lie together.’

There was a startled silence. Then one of the maids stifled an embarrassed giggle, Temperance clasped a hand to her mouth
in shock, and Faith came to her feet with a carving knife in her hand.

‘Keep a decent tongue in your head,’ she said icily. ‘Or I shall chop it off. I should have known to expect that sort of quip
from a man who plays cards and reads Hobbes’s
Leviathan
.’

‘Would you care for some chicken, Heyden?’ asked North hastily, gesturing for his wife to sit again. She complied, although
reluctantly, and he noticed she did not relinquish the knife.

Chaloner was ashamed of himself. The Norths were good people, and he had no right to behave boorishly. It was hardly their
fault that he had endured such a wretched morning. He rubbed his eyes and coughed, feeling a residue of smoke scratching his
throat. ‘I am sorry. I am out of sorts today.’

‘The fire?’ asked Temperance sympathetically, while Faith and Metje exchanged the kind of glance that indicated they thought
he was making excuses.

Chaloner nodded, and coughed again. He could not expel the taste of burning from his mouth, and wished North would offer him
some wine, knowing it would ease the ache in his leg, too.

‘I trust no one was hurt,’ said Temperance, passing Chaloner an empty plate, ready for the roasted chicken her mother was
viciously hacking apart. It did not escape
his notice that Faith looked as though she wished she were dismembering their guest instead of a bird.

‘Dalton was – he died.’

North stared at him in horror, and Chaloner recalled that both were in the Brotherhood, so were comrades. He should not have
broken the news so bluntly.

‘Died?’ asked Faith, while her husband clasped his hands and chafed them, as if the news had chilled him. ‘How awful! Shall
we abandon this dreary feast and say a prayer for his soul?’

Everyone joined hands. Chaloner’s left was seized by Temperance, who gripped it warmly, while Metje slipped cold, hesitant
fingers into his right. Faith took a deep breath and launched into a lengthy intercession that seemed to go on for ever. Chaloner
shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position where his leg did not hurt. She stopped when he moved, and only resumed when
he was still again.

The ordeal might have gone on a good deal longer, but there was a knock on the door, and within a few moments, a visitor was
ushered in. It was Downing, resplendent in green coat and new hat. He grimaced when he saw Chaloner.

‘We were praying,’ said North. ‘Would you like to join us?’

‘No, I have just eaten,’ replied Downing obscurely. ‘I was passing, so I came to tell you that another brother has died in
flames. Poor John Dalton.’