A Conspiracy of Violence (47 page)

Chaloner rubbed his eyes reluctant to admit to Clarendon that he had no idea where the ingot had come from – and was equally
clueless regarding the location of the remaining six. But he had the feeling that he would be safer – for the moment, at least
– letting the Earl believe he was more knowledgeable than he was. ‘Yes, along with Praisegod himself. Praisegod dead was treasure
indeed to the Seven, whose lives he threatened.’

‘Will you be able to find the remaining gold? Your note said you might.’

‘I will try,’ replied Chaloner warily.

‘That is all I ask,’ said Clarendon. ‘However, if you fail, I promise not to hold it against you – you saved my life, and
you deserve some reward for your courage. What will you do now?’

‘Go to see Thurloe,’ said Chaloner, retrieving his dagger. ‘Try to think some sense into this mess, and work out who really
wants to kill the King.’

‘I know two men who will be innocent.’ Clarendon indicated the letter Downing had given him. ‘Thurloe and Ingoldsby would
never embark on such a stupid venture.’

‘You seem very sure.’

‘I am. Thurloe foiled God knows how many plots like this when he was Spymaster, and has more wits than to join one himself.
Meanwhile Ingoldsby has too strong a sense of self-preservation.’

‘The culprit is Livesay. He did not die in that explosion, and he is here, in London. He is Evett’s new master, and is behind
all this mayhem. The only question is: how do we recognise him?’

The Earl straightened his wig. ‘I will advise the King to remain indoors today, but I doubt he will listen. So, go to Thurloe
and tell him everything you know. He may see answers where you and I cannot. We shall foil these traitors’ plans yet.’

Chaloner limped out of White Hall, feeling every muscle burn from fatigue, but when he groped in his pouch for coins to pay
for a carriage, he found it empty – he had hurled the last of them away in order to gain access to
the Banqueting House. He started to walk towards Lincoln’s Inn, mentally sorting the mass of information he had acquired,
trying to understand what had happened.

First, his three separate investigations had converged: all were connected to the Seven and the gold Praisegod had been paid
for betraying them. Barkstead’s godly golden goose was Praisegod’s death; Clarke had been killed when he had seen the connection;
and Kelyng had been perfectly justified in intercepting Thurloe’s post, because his kin were indeed dangerous to the King
– although it was not brothers who represented the threat, but a sister.

Second, Praisegod had been murdered by Barkstead and buried in the Tower. Thurloe had had nothing to do with the killing,
or Barkstead would not have tried to send him the message via Mother Pinchon – he would have known already. Had the gold bars
been interred with Praisegod? They had not been with his fragmented remains when Evett had excavated the cellar. So when had
they been retrieved, and by whom? The obvious answer was that Thurloe had done it, which explained why he had been in a position
to send one to Clarendon. Chaloner did not dwell on the uncomfortable questions that conclusion raised.

Third, Sarah was Evett’s lover, and Livesay was the latest threat to the lives of the Seven. Chaloner supposed he should not
be surprised that Sarah should prefer a ‘handsome young soldier’ to her ageing, selfish husband. Evett must have introduced
her to his fellow brother, Livesay, and they had then killed Clarke on his behalf. But surely Livesay would not have attended
Brotherhood meetings at which Downing was present, given what the
diplomat had done to other regicides? Chaloner could only suppose he had been in disguise – but that in turn meant he would
have had to be a recently enrolled member. Most brothers had known each other for years, while some of the newer participants
– such as Clarke, Evett and Wade – were now dead. Those remaining were Robert Leybourn and North. Robert was too young to
be a regicide, so Chaloner turned his thoughts to the jeweller.

North had arrived in London shortly after the Restoration, and was sufficiently unnerved by the city’s violence to want to
leave it again. Were his chapel’s broken windows the sole reason for his pending departure? What if he was not moving to a
safer home, but fleeing the scene of a crime he was about to commit? Chaloner thought about what he knew of North. He had
been a soldier in the wars, and bad language bubbled to the surface when he was agitated; he kept a leaden club in his house,
which he did not hesitate to use on intruders; and he was, for the most part, a kindly, gentle man who was devoted to his
God. Could North and Livesay be one and the same?

Chaloner recalled how Thurloe had described the missing regicide – a Puritan in sober clothes with a plain face, dour features
and a moustache darkened with charcoal. A man aiming to change his appearance would dispense with the moustache, and North
was certainly both plain and dour. He was also a Nonconformist, prepared to risk physical abuse in order to adhere to his
religious convictions. His most notable feature was the burn on his face. Had he been telling the truth when he claimed he
had been the victim of an anti-sectarian mob, or had he earned his injury when his ship had exploded?
Chaloner remembered something else Thurloe had said – Livesay had rubbed his hands in a certain way: ‘he interlocks his fingers,
and makes a curious rubbing motion with his palms’. He had a sudden vivid recollection of North chafing his hands over the
news of Dalton’s death earlier that day.

He broke into a trot when he became more certain he was right: North was indeed Livesay. And Metje was with him. His breath
came in ragged gasps, and pain burned in his leg as he tried to run harder. He powered through the people in his way, thrusting
them aside and oblivious to the furious indignation that followed. One man stood his ground and looked as though he intended
to bring him down, but the sight of a dagger in Chaloner’s hand made him think again.

He turned into Fetter Lane, racing along it without thinking about what he would do when he arrived. His only thought was
to reach Metje. Then a foot shot out from the alley next to the Golden Lion, and he went flying head over heels to crash into
a water barrel. His senses reeled, and he was powerless to resist being hauled to his feet and pushed against the wall. When
his vision cleared, he found himself facing Kelyng.

‘I have a bone to pick with you,’ said Kelyng coldly. ‘It involves a certain turkey, which you claimed to own, but which transpires
to be no man’s bird – it has taken up residence in Knightsbridge, and defies all attempts to catch it. You lied to me, Heyden,
and I dislike liars.’

Chaloner struggled, but Kelyng was stronger than he looked. ‘I can explain,’ he said, trying in vain to break lose. ‘But not
now.’

‘Yes, you will explain,’ agreed Kelyng acidly. ‘In the Tower.’

‘No! There is a plot to kill the King. Fireballs.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Kelyng, bored. ‘Downing came with a similar yarn about an hour ago, but I no more believed him than I do
you. You are all trying to take advantage of me today, sending me on fools’ errands that will make me look stupid in front
of the King, because you know I have lost all my men to Bennet. But
you
will not succeed, because
you
are under arrest.’

‘Please!’ gasped Chaloner, trying to prevent himself from being dragged away. ‘I am telling the truth! Sir Michael Livesay
is plotting as we speak, and I think his plan will go into action at the Touching Ceremony.’

The grip slackened slightly. ‘Livesay?’

Chaloner nodded fervently. ‘He is one of the Seven. I have been looking into the affair, just as you asked. He is not dead,
as everyone believes, but alive and in the guise of a Puritan called North. If you are really loyal to the King, you must
help me.’

‘Must I now?’ said Kelyng icily. ‘And how do you propose I do that? I have no men, remember? Or are you suggesting you and
I should confront these villains single-handed?’

‘Thurloe,’ said Chaloner desperately, still trying to wriggle free. Was it wise to send Kelyng to Thurloe? Would Thurloe believe
him, and what if Sarah was there? ‘He has armed porters. Tell him about Livesay and North – say he has a barrel of gunpowder,
because I am almost certain it was he we saw near Dalton’s house after the fire started.’

‘You want me to secure help from Thurloe?’ asked Kelyng incredulously. ‘But we detest each other.’

‘North has a chicken,’ said Chaloner, grasping at straws. He did not add that it was a dead one, and had
already been roasted. ‘You do not want a hen in a house with explosives.’

Kelyng released his vice-like grip a little further. ‘A chicken?’

‘Martha,’ elaborated Chaloner wildly. ‘She is called Martha.’

Kelyng released him so abruptly he stumbled. ‘My first wife was called Martha. She died just after the Restoration. Go and
rescue this chicken, Heyden. I will gather reinforcements.’

‘You will go to Thurloe?’

Kelyng shrugged. ‘I might. Or I might see what Bennet is doing. He dislikes king-killers, too, and it could be a way to entice
him back into my fold. Or perhaps I will ask—’

Chaloner did not wait to hear. He tore away and staggered across the road to North’s house, uncaring that a cart was obliged
to swerve violently to avoid him. He thumped on the door, thinking nothing other than that he wanted Metje out. There was
no reply so he hammered again, battering with his fists in increasing agitation. Eventually, it was answered by Faith, who
raised her eyebrows in surprise when she recognised him. She held a pistol under her apron.

‘Thomas!’ she exclaimed. ‘When we heard such dreadful pounding, we thought the apprentices had come to hang us for being Nonconformists.
What is the matter?’

Chaloner shoved past her and darted into the sitting room, knowing that if he was wrong, he was going to have some explaining
to do. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.

The remnants of the Norths’ meagre Christmas meal had been cleared away, although the cloth was still in
place. In the centre of the table was a barrel, and the entire chamber reeked of gunpowder. There were wicks soaked in saltpetre,
fist-sized ceramic pots, a pan of thick oil and a heap of a white substance he took to be quicklime. North was busily assembling
grenades, while his manservant Giles mixed the compounds in a bowl. Metje sat between them, cutting lengths of twine, and
the second servant, Henry, packed the completed items into boxes that had been lined with straw. Two people were not involved
in the activities. One was Preacher Hill, who sat on a bench near the window with his Bible on his knees, and the other was
Temperance, red-eyed and regarding her parents with sullen defiance.

‘Our neighbour is here,’ announced Faith, pushing Chaloner so roughly that he fell into the table, drawing gasps of alarm
from the others. When he turned around, he saw she had drawn her gun and was pointing it at him. ‘However, there is no Christmas
dinner for you this time, Thomas Chaloner.’

There was nothing Chaloner could do to prevent Henry from confiscating his last dagger when he was searched, and there was
little he could have done with it anyway. Faith’s pistol was fixed unwaveringly on him, while North had grabbed his club and
wielded it menacingly. He saw he had been a fool to dash into such a situation unprepared, and should have known better. And
he doubted help was on its way: even if Kelyng did go to Thurloe, the ex-Spymaster would regard the tale with perfectly justifiable
suspicion. He had thrown away his life and Metje’s by behaving like a greenhorn.

‘Sit down,’ said North. He sounded firm, but his eyes were uneasy. ‘Next to Preacher Hill.’

‘I will kill you if you make trouble,’ said Faith, determined where her husband was uneasy. ‘I used this weapon to protect
my family during the wars, and I will not hesitate to do it again.’

‘You would shoot me?’ asked Chaloner, hoping his unfeigned shock would bring them to their senses. ‘I thought we were friends.’

‘He is right: he
is
our friend,’ said North quietly to his wife. ‘He has always been—’

‘He corrupted our daughter,’ said Faith, her voice dangerously low. ‘And he is dishonest, a liar.’

‘I do not believe he defiled Temperance,’ said North. ‘
She
says it was someone else.’

Faith raised an authoritative hand as Temperance started to speak. ‘I do not want to discuss it again. It is too horrible.’

Chaloner wondered what they were talking about. He glanced at Metje, who refused to look at him, so he addressed his remarks
to North. ‘Whatever you are doing, it is madness. The Earl of Clarendon knows there is a plot afoot, and—’

‘Of course he knows,’ snapped Faith. ‘
I
sent Downing the letter telling him a group of renegades intends to kill the King, and urged him to inform the appropriate
authorities. I
want
them to know. It is part of our plan.’

Chaloner gaped at her. ‘
You
are Livesay?’

She glowered, offended. ‘Do I look like a man? Now, sit next to Hill before I shoot you.’

‘No!’ cried Temperance, stepping between them. ‘You said if I went willingly to Ely, you would leave him alone. I will go,
but you have to keep your side of the bargain.’

Hill’s face was sweaty with fear. ‘You can let me go, too – I only came to see if there was any turkey to eat.
You can trust me not so say anything – far more than Thomas Chaloner here. I know
that
family. Regicides and Parliamentarians. No wonder he has been lying to you.’

‘Shut up!’ shouted Temperance, snatching Hill’s Bible and bringing it down sharply on his head. The blow did no damage, but
it startled him into silence.

Chaloner was bewildered. He sat next to the subdued preacher in a daze, most of his attention on Metje. ‘You could have run
away when they started this …’ He gestured vaguely, not sure how to describe what was happening.

Faith raised her eyebrows. ‘Why should she do that? It is
you
who has been deceiving her with your false identity and underhand activities.
We
have always been honest with her.’