A Conspiracy of Violence (45 page)

‘Yes,’ said North sadly. ‘Heyden was telling us about it. It was shocking news, and we have been asking God to look with mercy
on his soul.’

‘Then I shall leave you in peace,’ said Downing. He frowned at the savaged chicken. ‘I thought you said you had purchased
a turkey for today.’

‘We sent it to the poor,’ said North, with the air of a martyr.

‘Actually, it went of its own accord,’ contradicted Temperance, in a rare display of spirit.

‘You mean it escaped?’ asked Downing, raising his eyebrows and trying not to look amused.

‘It unlocked the kitchen door and walked out,’ replied Faith stiffly. ‘Preacher Hill saw it marching along Piccadilly, scattering
all in its path, at six o’clock this morning.’

‘It was heading towards Knightsbridge,’ elaborated Temperance wistfully. ‘And its taverns.’

‘On its own?’ Downing glanced at Chaloner. ‘Are you sure it did not have human help?’

‘I do not see how,’ said North. ‘Our locks are the best money can buy – unpickable, even by the most determined of thieves,
although I was alarmed to learn they were no match for that bird. I suspect it knew I had booked the London executioner for
eight this morning.’

‘I should go,’ said Chaloner, uncomfortable with the discussion. It was only a matter of time before accusations were levelled,
and the turkey had probably been expensive. He stood up.

‘Go where?’ asked Metje icily. ‘To offer Mrs Dalton your condolences?’

‘I will come with you,’ offered Temperance, making for the line of cloaks that hung on the wall. ‘Sarah is my friend, and
she might be in need of Christian comfort.’

‘Sit down, Temperance,’ snapped Faith. Temperance looked as though she might refuse, but returned to her seat when Faith stood
up with a fierce expression.

North saw his guests to the door. ‘We have enjoyed
your company, Heyden, although I imagine you would have preferred turkey to chicken.’

‘It does not matter, sir,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether the man was aware that he had only been provided with a plate,
and that prayers had started before there was any kind of dead bird on it.

‘I provided you with an escape route,’ said Downing, when North had closed the door behind them. ‘Although you should not
have accepted an invitation from Puritans in the first place. After ten years, I am glad to see the back of gloom and austerity.
Give me a merry monarch any day.’

‘Is he?’ asked Chaloner absently, his thoughts on the unreadable glance Metje had shot him as he had left. ‘Merry?’

‘Outwardly, although his father’s fate is never far from his mind. But you know this,
Chaloner
. You know all about regicide.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘Did Thurloe tell you—?’

‘You do not know who you can trust, do you?’ said Downing, taunting. ‘But I have been watching you – long before Preacher
Hill told me you were an impostor. I always did have an inkling that you were not who you claimed, although I am impressed
that you managed to deceive me for quite so many years. Who is your real master? Some Dutchman? I dislike traitors, Chaloner.’

‘I am not a traitor,’ said Chaloner tiredly, supposing that guilt or innocence would not matter now someone like Downing had
discovered his identity. He would be used like Barkstead had been – to ‘prove’ to the King that Downing was a loyal subject
who exposed dissenters.

Downing regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Then you should choose your friends with more care. I tried to help you – to warn you
against meddling where you are not welcome – but you insisted on ignoring my advice, and now you must pay the price. You have
only yourself to blame for your misfortunes.’

Chaloner raised his hands in a shrug. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about. However, while you dislike traitors, I dislike
murderers, and you killed Dalton. You went to his house and discussed his business with him. What did he do? Jibe you about
his superior contacts?’

Downing regarded him in disbelief. ‘What?’

‘You stabbed him and left him to burn.’ Downing had a sword and a dagger, and Chaloner wondered whether he would be able to
reach the knife in his boot if the diplomat turned violent.

‘You have a fertile imagination, Chaloner! I did visit Dalton today, but I assure you he was alive when I left. He was fiddling
with the gunpowder he keeps in his house, and I imagine
that
is what caused the fire. If he was stabbed, then it had nothing to do with me.’

He spoke with such conviction that Chaloner began to waver. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘You left through the front door.
You were seen by Kelyng’s men.’

‘Ha!’ said Downing. ‘There are your culprits. Bennet is dizzy with outrage, because Robinson’s daughter has refused him a
second time. If
he
was lurking near Dalton’s house, then
he
will be your culprit. And, yes, I left through the front door. I am not a servant, to slink through the back.’

But the front door had been barred, because Chaloner had failed to break it down, and that meant someone had secured it
after
Downing had left. Dalton could have
done it, but Chaloner did not think a man playing with gunpowder would have blocked a means of escape.

‘Live,’ he said, his thoughts tumbling ahead of him. ‘Dalton said “live” when we found him. I assumed he meant he did not
want to die – that we should save him because he told us where Sarah was, and he thought we owed him something – but that
was not it. I think he was saying Livesay – the man he claims to have seen recently, and who seems to have driven him into
such a panic.’

Downing shrugged. ‘It is possible that Livesay visited him after I left. I know the fellow is alive, because I had a letter
from him yesterday. It came as something of a surprise, since I have always believed North’s tale that he died in an explosion.’

‘Have you seen him?’

Downing pulled a letter from his pocket. ‘No, he communicated in writing. How do you think I know your real name at last?
Thurloe would have died before letting that slip.’

Chaloner was bewildered. ‘
Livesay
told you? But I have never met him. Why should he be party to such information?’ He wondered how well Livesay had known his
uncle.

Downing gave an enigmatic smile, which suggested he did not have an answer, either. ‘I know all manner of damaging facts now
– I know the identities of the men who formed an organisation called the Seven; I know Praisegod Swanson was murdered by Barkstead
in the Tower; and I know the brotherhood was established by Thurloe to conceal what the Seven were doing.’

Chaloner’s heart sank for his old patron, although he
fought to hide his unease from Downing. He tried to sound sceptical. ‘Livesay has been sentenced to a traitor’s death. Fear
of capture has led him to imagine all manner of conspiracies that do not exist.’

‘I have no reason to disbelieve him. I joined the Brotherhood because I support peace, and I am appalled to learn that my
honourable intentions might have seen me associated with treason. The same is true for the others who have nothing to do with
the Seven – North, Robinson and Leybourn, to name but a few. But thankfully, Livesay has seen the folly of his ways, and has
told me everything.’

If he had suspected that Downing was after him, then it was small wonder Dalton had been terrified, thought Chaloner. ‘What
else did Livesay tell you?’ he asked, still trying to sound dubious.

‘That the two surviving members of the Seven – Ingoldsby and Thurloe – will kill the King.’

Chaloner gaped at him, then laughed in genuine disbelief. ‘They will not!’

Downing raised his eyebrows. ‘You
would
say that. Perhaps you plan to help them, and take up your uncle’s mantle. Your family always were fervent Parliamentarians,
and I cannot believe I harboured one under my roof all those years.’

‘At the time, you were a fervent Parliamentarian yourself.’

Downing regarded him with dislike. ‘But I saw reason and changed sides. However,
you
hark back to a regime that no longer exists, and so do Thurloe and Ingoldsby. Why do you think Dalton died? He was playing
with gunpowder – no doubt making explosive devices with which to assassinate the King – and one must have ignited
and set the house ablaze. It was divine justice at work.’

‘Why would Livesay tell you all this?’ demanded Chaloner, still far from convinced.

‘Because he is attempting to buy his life. He offered the information in exchange for a pardon, and I accepted on the King’s
behalf. Of course, when he comes to collect his reward he will be in for a shock – I do not negotiate with traitors. When
he accuses me of false dealing, I shall point out that it is his duty to expose plots that harm the King, and that he should
not have sought recompense for what should have been freely given. Everyone will agree with me.’

‘As they did when you arrested Barkstead? That made you the most despised man in Britain.’

Downing’s expression was dangerous. ‘I did what was right with those damned regicides. But I have wasted enough time here.
I am going to give Livesay’s letter to Clarendon, and put an end to this treachery once and for all.’

‘You would betray your friends? Members of your Brotherhood? Again?’

‘I have no friends – it is safer that way. Besides, only a fool turns a blind eye to plots these days.’

In a smooth, sinuous movement, he unsheathed his dagger, just as Chaloner, seeing the blade, twisted to one side. Chaloner
staggered, then slumped to his knees, gripping Downing’s arm.

‘I am sorry,’ said Downing, trying to free his hand. People were beginning to stare. ‘But when I go to the Lord Chancellor,
there will be a frenzy of arrests and hangings. It is better you die now.’

‘Better for you,’ gasped Chaloner, slipping further towards the ground.

‘Better for you, too,’ said Downing, tugging away from him. Chaloner could tell from the earnestness in his voice that he
believed it. ‘You would not have thanked me for leaving you alive.’

When Chaloner finally crumpled, Downing sheathed his dagger and walked briskly away.

When Downing’s footsteps had receded, Chaloner climbed to his feet, ignoring the astonished stares of people who thought they
had just witnessed a murder. He brushed himself down and set off in pursuit, grateful but not surprised that Downing had not
bothered to check his victim was dead before leaving the scene of his crime. He had predicted the way the discussion would
end as soon as Downing had spoken his real name, and had been ready for an attack. He had let the blade pass harmlessly under
his arm, and grappling with Downing as he had slumped to the ground had been designed to ensure the man did not notice a lack
of resistance when he tugged his weapon from the ‘body’. It was another trick learned from Thurloe, and not the first time
he had used it to his advantage.

Downing strode along Fetter Lane, then turned into Fleet Street, his green coat billowing around him. The roads were full
of people in their best clothes, and entertainers were out in force, filling the streets with music of varying quality. A
dancing bear performed near the Maypole in the Strand, although it was obvious from its
odd gait that there was a man inside its skin. Chaloner followed Downing at a distance, taking care to remain hidden among
the jostling, bustling crowds.

But when Downing headed towards White Hall, Chaloner hung back uncertainly. Was the diplomat right? Would Thurloe and Ingoldsby
really try to kill the King? Thurloe had been devoted to Cromwell, and Ingoldsby had been the Lord Protector’s cousin, so
it was not an impossibility, but would they be so foolish? Chaloner realised that, even after all that had happened, he was
still not sure of Thurloe’s true mind, and cursed him for being such a complex man. He leaned down to rub his leg, trying
to reach a decision. Should he prevent Downing from going to the Earl? He could have a knife in Downing’s portly frame without
too much trouble, but then what? It might take several minutes to locate Livesay’s letter, during which time the murder would
be noticed – and there was no point in killing Downing if he could not retrieve the missive. Should he try to reason with
him, or delay him? Chaloner straightened slowly. Neither would work, because he had nothing with which to bargain.

But, if the accusations were true, should he be contemplating ways to prevent Downing from doing his duty anyway? Chaloner
had not approved of the execution of the first monarch, and he would certainly not condone the murder of a second. He hung
back, irresolute and unhappy, and aware that he had never experienced so many conflicting loyalties.

Downing marched towards the Banqueting House, which was busy that day, because the King had ordered another Touching Ceremony.
Crowds had gathered, not only to be blessed by royal hands, but to watch the
monarch at work among his people. Soldiers in buff cloaks and the Lord Mayor’s men in scarlet were plentiful, but their presence
was more ceremonial than protective, and Chaloner imagined any attack on Charles would throw them into a chaos of confusion.
It would be easy for determined men to kill him as he moved among his subjects.

The King had not yet arrived, although judging by the atmosphere of tense anticipation, the milling crowds would not have
long to wait. A number of barons were already there, clad in their finery, and presenting a stark contrast to the scrofula-stricken
hopefuls, most of whom wore the dull browns and greys of poverty. The grandest noble of all was Clarendon. His blue robe was
liberally adorned with gold ribbon, while a collar frothed with lace beneath his ample jowls. He wore a wig of pale yellow,
which sat oddly with his dark moustache and tiny beard. There was an ornamental ‘town sword’ at his side, which glittered
as he moved, and looked as though it would be next to useless in a fight. He carried a leather bag, which was old and scruffy
enough to look strangely out of place with the rest of his glorious attire.

He and the other courtiers huddled at the Banqueting House door, waiting to greet their monarch, and guards had been ordered
to keep everyone else out until the ceremony was due to begin. Chaloner tensed as Downing stalked towards the gathering, and
watched with a feeling of helplessness as the diplomat tapped the Lord Chancellor’s shoulder and whispered something in his
ear. Clarendon nodded assent to whatever he had been asked, and followed Downing inside.

Chaloner took the last of the money Kelyng had given
him, and tossed it towards the door. There was an immediate commotion, during which the crowd surged forward with a yell
of delight and the soldiers fought to keep the rabble away from the noblemen. While everyone was otherwise occupied, Chaloner
slipped into the Banqueting House porch, just in time to see the tip of the Earl’s cloak disappear through a door to his right.
He set off in pursuit, and found himself in the undercroft, a vaulted chamber that had been designed as a drinking den for
King James. Charles II used it for lotteries, although that day it had been designated a storeroom, and housed furniture stacked
to keep the main hall clear for the masques, balls and dances planned for the Christmas period.

Neither Downing nor the Earl bothered to check whether they were alone, and it was easy for Chaloner to step into the room
undetected, remaining out of sight behind a pile of benches. He did not know what he hoped to achieve by eavesdropping on
the Lord Chancellor and the diplomat, and was acutely aware that it would probably mean his death if he were caught.

‘… letter from Sir Michael Livesay,’ Downing was announcing in his loud, confident voice, ‘about seven men who plotted
against the King’s return. In exchange for his liberty, Livesay names then all: himself, Thurloe, Ingoldsby, Barkstead, Hewson,
Dalton and Chaloner. He also outlines details of a plan to hurl grenades at the King – perhaps when he comes for the Touching
Ceremony today.’

‘I see,’ said Clarendon. He sounded bored. ‘Another tale of a threat on His Majesty’s life. That will make five this week,
and every one has been a hoax.’

‘This is not, My Lord,’ said Downing stiffly. ‘It is perfectly genuine.’

Clarendon snatched the paper from his hand. ‘These assassins will be somewhat thin on the ground – Hewson, Barkstead, Chaloner
and Dalton are dead, and Livesay obviously will not take part, since he has given you advance information about it.’

‘Just Thurloe and Ingoldsby,’ agreed Downing. ‘Livesay says they intend to hurl their fireballs, then escape in the confusion.
If you want to catch them red-handed, he will tell me the place where they have stored their deadly weapons – a room they
rented together for that express purpose. Dalton
was
helping them – I saw him with gunpowder myself – but he met the end he deserved.’

Chaloner closed his eyes in mounting despair. Fireballs. Gunpowder
was
needed to make fireballs, and Sarah had said Dalton had kept two barrels in his house. Therefore, Downing must have been
telling the truth about the vintner making grenades. He reflected on what he knew of Dalton’s arsenal. Sarah had expected
a second explosion after the first, but it had not come. Was it because the other keg had been moved, perhaps to the ‘rented
room’? Chaloner recalled the man with whom Thurloe had collided on his way to the fire, who had something hidden under his
cloak. The ex-Spymaster had been so intent on his sister’s rescue that he had taken no notice, but the man had seen something
in Thurloe to check the torrent of abuse he had been about to hurl. At the time, Chaloner had assumed it was Thurloe’s grim
expression that had stopped the fellow, but now he reconsidered. Perhaps it was because he had recognised a colleague. The
man had been Ingoldsby’s height, and he had taken care to conceal his face.

‘Livesay does not say where these weapons are hidden,’ said the Earl, as he read the letter. ‘He obviously does not trust
you, because he is holding back.’

Downing glared at him. ‘With respect, My Lord, that is
not
the reason. He is just trying to secure himself the best possible bargain before he plays all his cards. It is blackmail,
in essence.’

Clarendon scanned the letter again. ‘This is a very malicious piece of writing. It does not smack of a man seeking to redeem
himself, but of vindictiveness and spite. I do not think Livesay composed it.’

Downing was startled, and so was Chaloner. ‘What are you saying?’ demanded Downing, affronted. ‘That I wrote it myself ?’

The Earl grimaced. ‘You
are
spiteful and vindictive, but that was not what I meant. A man cannot believe everything he reads, and I do not see why Livesay
should trust
you
to accommodate him. You arrested three of his fellow regicides, and consigned them to a dreadful death. I am simply not convinced
that Livesay would choose you as a means to help him.’

Downing was horrified. ‘But it is true, My Lord, and if you ignore my warning, the King will be in grave danger. Then it will
be
you
enduring a dreadful death – for treason.’

Clarendon’s eyes glittered. ‘Watch what you say – it is not wise to clamour treason against the King’s chief advisor. But
I shall keep this letter and consider its claims. You may leave.’

‘Leave?’ spluttered Downing. ‘Is that all you have to say? I risked a great deal to bring you this information. For all his
shorn powers, Thurloe still has claws, and I have just been obliged to stab his favourite spy.
My
life will be in danger if you allow him to remain free.’

Clarendon regarded him in distaste. ‘You killed a man?’ ‘On my way to see
you
. It is only a matter of time before Thurloe learns that Chaloner’s nephew and I left North’s house together, and within moments
one of us was dead. He will guess what happened, and I do not want him coming after
me
with one of his damned fireballs.’

‘You killed Thomas Chaloner?’ asked Clarendon, aghast. ‘Then you are in trouble indeed. He was working for me.’

‘He never left Thurloe,’ said Downing, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. ‘What did you ask him to do? I will wager
anything he did not succeed – not because he could not, but because it is in Thurloe’s interests to thwart everything the
King’s ministers do.’

The Earl waved the satchel, and there was no mistaking his fury. ‘You are wrong. I asked him to locate a missing seven thousand
pounds and, just moments ago, I received this.’ He groped inside the bag and produced a block of gleaming yellow metal. ‘It
is part of a hoard I ordered him to find, and Buckingham tells me it is worth a
thousand pounds
. Chaloner wrote to say he is hot on the trail of the other six, and now
you
have killed him?’

Downing gazed at the gold bar in horror. ‘My Lord! I did not know—’

‘You know
nothing
,’ snarled Clarendon, white-faced with rage. ‘You come with tales of treachery, but offer no evidence to back them up, and
now you kill a man who was about to provide the King with a fortune. And you call
me
a traitor? I should have your head for this!’

‘But Chaloner’s uncle was—’

‘His uncle’s crimes are not his own, and he has demonstrated his allegiance to the King with this gift. It represents a good
deal of money to a penniless spy, and he could have made off with it. But he chose to be honest. I
need
men like him and I do
not
need men like you. You are dismissed.’

Downing was livid. ‘I know a lot about this Court. Do not make an enemy of me.’

The Earl looked bored, and waved a hand to indicate Downing should go. There was no more to be said, so the diplomat turned
and stalked out, almost knocking Evett from his feet as he did so. The captain had obviously been waiting outside, listening.

Chaloner tried to assemble his tumbling thoughts, recognising the satchel as the one Kelyng had tried to steal from Thurloe.
But how had Thurloe come by a bar of gold? There could not be many such items in existence, and he could only assume – as
the Earl had done – that it was one of the seven that had been paid to Praisegod. Did this mean Thurloe had taken it after
Barkstead had killed Praisegod and buried his body in the Tower? But why would he send it to the Lord Chancellor? Chaloner
was so engrossed in trying to see sense that he almost did not notice what was happening in the undercroft, not registering
the fact that Evett had locked the door and drawn his sword.

‘That ingot, sir,’ he said, moving towards the Earl. ‘Where did Chaloner find it?’

‘He did not say,’ said Clarendon. ‘Damn that meddling Downing!’

‘He must have said something,’ said Evett, continuing his advance.

‘Just that he hoped to find the others. What are you—?’

‘That gold does not belong to you,’ said Evett, gripping his sword in readiness for a lunge. ‘It belongs to another man, and
I intend to take it to him. Stand still, or your end will be a painful one.’

Chaloner eliminated the chaos of questions from his mind, and concentrated on the situation that was unravelling in front
of him: the Lord Chancellor backed against the wall, his face a combination of alarm and disbelief, and Evett with a sword
in one hand, and a long knife in the other. Chaloner had a single dagger. He leaned down and removed it from his boot, then
stepped from behind the benches and took aim. Unfortunately, it flew from his hand at the same time that the Earl lashed out
with the satchel, and when Evett ducked away from the bag, the dagger embedded itself in the wall behind him. The captain
gaped in astonishment.

‘I thought you were dead!’ cried the Earl, equally startled. ‘Downing just said—’

‘Downing is a poor judge of corpses.’ Chaloner backed away, as Evett, seeing he carried no sword, prepared to make an end
of the threat he represented.

Clarendon bustled forward. ‘I do not know what game you two are playing, with drawn weapons and tales of false deaths, but
I do not like it. Have you lost your senses?’

Evett swung around so fast that the Earl jerked backwards and almost fell. ‘I have gained them, My Lord Chancellor!’ he spat.
‘I have been in your service for ten years, and what am I? An aide! A servant, dispatched to hunt murderers like a parish
constable. I thought my
future lay with you, but I was wrong. It is time I took matters into my own hands.’