A Conspiracy of Violence (9 page)

‘I have had a trying morning,’ said Thurloe, pouring himself more tonic. ‘First, Charles-Stewart. Then Downing foisting himself
on me, trying to make me attend meetings in which I have no interest and asking questions about you. And now Hewson. I thought
I had finished with murder and subterfuge when I was dismissed from power, but they seem to follow me around.’

‘You will never be finished with them, if you arrange for empty satchels to be delivered to you, sir,’ said Chaloner, rather
acidly. ‘Such activities smack of skulduggery.’

Thurloe grimaced. ‘Downing said you were insolent, and he was right. But let us return to Kelyng, before we both say things
we may later regret. Ever since the Restoration, he has vowed to destroy me – he accuses me of planning a revolt, with Richard
Cromwell as its figurehead.’

‘The King does not agree. If he did, you would be in the Tower.’

Thurloe nodded. ‘And the truth is I no longer have any interest in politics. Kelyng is wrong about me, and most people know
it, thank God. However, he keeps trying to catch me out.’

‘By intercepting your post?’

‘Yes, although I arranged alternative methods of receiving letters months ago, and lads with satchels are a ruse. However,
I confess I was surprised to learn he is brazen enough to order one snatched from my very hands.’

‘You were lucky his men did not kill you, too.’

‘He would not dare. The new government still needs my advice, and as long as I am useful, I am safe. He would not harm me
physically, and risk incurring the wrath of his king.’

‘But the men he hires are stupid – one might disobey him or knife the wrong man. Or he may try to damage you in other ways,
perhaps by putting forged documents in these pouches.’

‘He has done that already, but I was able to exchange them for some laundry bills. Kelyng is more nuisance than danger, although
I would be a fool to ignore his antics completely.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Chaloner had not worked for Thurloe without incurring some sense of obligation, and disliked
the notion of Kelyng trying to bring him down by underhand means.

Thurloe smiled, pleased. ‘Thank you, Tom. There are two things that would help enormously. First, I would like to be told
of any rumours concerning Kelyng or his men. They might allow me to stay a few steps ahead of the wretched fellow.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Chaloner supposed he had better start frequenting taverns and listening to more street gossip. ‘And the
second?’

Thurloe raised a finger. ‘Before we discuss that, we should assess your situation. You are eager to return to
your duties – preferably in Holland – but that is out of the question at the moment. Downing’s replacement will not hire
you, given what Downing wrote in his official report. However, that is not to say that we cannot take steps towards your eventual
reinstatement. The first stage is to have you noticed by the right men.’

‘Williamson?’

‘Williamson, yes. But I do not know him, so I will send you to the Lord Chancellor instead. Once established at White Hall,
you will have to work hard to prove your worth – and even then, you may never be trusted. But it is a chance, and I know you
will make the best of it.’ Thurloe studied the younger man thoughtfully. ‘Your young lady is Dutch, is she not? What is her
name?’

‘Metje de Haas,’ replied Chaloner, wondering whether the relationship would count against him; the Earl of Clarendon might
think his loyalties were divided. ‘Her mother was English,’ he added, although it occurred to him that the ex-Spymaster might
know more about Metje than he did. He and Metje seldom discussed families, because she did not like hers and he had been undercover
with a false name, so not in a position to say much about his own.

‘I imagine it was useful to have a Dutch citizen in tow when you went about your duties for me?’

‘I never involved her, sir. It was safer that way – for both of us.’

‘Very wise. How does she feel about being a foreigner in England?’

‘She likes being a companion to a jeweller’s daughter, but complains about the growing antipathy towards the Dutch in London.’

Thurloe nodded. ‘If we go to war with Holland, she
may find herself in considerable danger. But this is none of my affair.’ He cleared his throat and became businesslike. ‘So
far, I have sent only six intelligence agents to the Earl – five spies experienced at rooting out rebellions, and an investigator
by the name of Colonel John Clarke. None were passed to Williamson, unfortunately.’

‘I met Clarke once, when he visited The Hague.’ Chaloner had quarrelled with him. ‘He tried to seduce Metje. When she repelled
his advances, he turned his attentions to Downing’s wife.’

Thurloe pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘He promised he would mend his ways after that scandal involving Cromwell’s niece.
I am his kinsman, you see – his new wife Joan was married to my half-brother Isaac Ewer. Isaac died of fever in Ireland ten
years ago.’

Chaloner regarded him in surprise. Isaac Ewer was one of the better-known regicides, which meant Chaloner was not the only
one unlucky enough to own kin who had executed a monarch.

‘Clarke was a fine investigator, despite his fondness for other men’s wives,’ Thurloe went on. ‘But he was murdered last week.’

Chaloner hid his shock. ‘By the Lord Chancellor?’

Thurloe was startled by the suggestion. ‘Of course not by him! He is eager for good spies, and you do not demand the cream
of the crop and then kill them. He is as angry about this as I am.’

‘What about the other five?’ asked Chaloner uneasily, wondering what he was letting himself in for by going to White Hall.
‘Are they still alive?’

‘Alive and impressing the Earl with their diligence – he sent me a note praising them only this morning. You will be the seventh
man I recommend, although I am
uneasy about doing so, knowing what happened to Clarke.’

‘What did happen, exactly?’

‘He was stabbed in the belly, although White Hall did not want itself tarnished by the reek of murder, so Clarendon spirited
the body out of the palace and dumped it by the Thames. Everyone assumes Clarke was murdered by footpads, and very few know
what really happened.’

‘But the Earl told you?’

‘Yes, he did. He feels guilty that I sent him a man – a friend – who was then killed.’

‘A friend?’

Thurloe’s expression was cool. ‘I do have some, Thomas, despite rumours to the contrary. I was fond of Clarke, and when I
write to Clarendon, I may ask him to let
you
find his killer. You offered to help me, and this is the second thing you can do.’

‘Me?’ Chaloner was uncomfortable; it was a long way from reporting the movements of Dutch ships.

‘You have investigated murders before – Downing said you solved at least two when you were in The Hague. Be careful, though.
White Hall is a pit of vipers, no matter which government occupies it, and I shall be vexed if you take unnecessary risks.
And then, when you have discovered the identity of the killer, please come to me with the answer. Do not tackle Kelyng alone
– that might endanger both of us, especially if any animals are involved. He has a passionate liking for them.’

‘So you have already decided Kelyng is the guilty party.’

Thurloe gave a humourless smile. ‘It stands to reason he is involved: he knows Clarke and I were related, and
that I held him in brotherly esteem. Perhaps he stabbed him in the hope that I would become careless with grief, and let
slip with something incriminating. However, you must not let my opinion cloud your judgement – Kelyng is not my only enemy.
And Clarke’s death may have nothing to do with me, anyway. He may have been killed over whatever he was doing for Clarendon.’

‘I will do my best to find his murderer, sir.’

‘I know you will, Tom. But you cannot go to Clarendon dressed like a pauper, so buy yourself a decent cassock-coat and a new
wig.’ Thurloe passed him a heavy purse. ‘I would not ask you to do this if there was anyone else I could trust. Your uncle
would not approve of me shoving you into the lion’s mouth.’

Chaloner was not so sure. His uncle had done a good deal of shoving himself, and had made it perfectly clear that he considered
the youngest son of a younger brother to be a readily disposable asset. He had not enrolled his own boys in the wars that
had almost claimed his nephew’s life, and nor had he encouraged them to become intelligence agents in countries that would
shoot them if they were caught. ‘He would have understood.’

Thurloe gave a grim smile. ‘He was a practical man. I asked my other agents to send me reports on Kelyng, too, but Clarke
was the only one who did. I thought Simon Lane might oblige, but he obviously thinks it is too risky – that communicating
with me might be misconstrued.’

Lane was a smiling, cheerful man whose tuneful baritone had often accompanied Chaloner’s bass viol. ‘If I see him, I will
ask.’

‘No, he has made his choice, and it is the sensible one under the circumstances. You may feel the same way in
a week, although I hope you will not forget me entirely – that you will find time to visit.’

Chaloner wondered whether there might be truth in the whispers about Thurloe’s lack of friends after all. ‘If you like, sir.’

Thurloe regarded him appraisingly. ‘Go shopping, then – and throw that wig in the river at the earliest opportunity. It smells
of horse.’

The following day, Chaloner took Metje with him when he went to purchase clothes to impress the Lord Chancellor. However,
it was not long before he wished he had left her behind. Her idea of what was suitable did not match his own notion of buying
the first thing he saw, and the business dragged on far longer than he felt it should. By the time the garments were ordered,
he was tired, irritable and painfully aware that nearly all the money Thurloe had given him was gone. Since he was late with
the rent and there was not so much as a crust of bread in the larder, clothes seemed an outrageous extravagance.

‘You cannot meet the Lord Chancellor dressed in rags,’ argued Metje, speaking Dutch as she always did when they were alone.
‘He will not employ clerks for the Victualling Office who look poor enough to help themselves to the navy’s supplies.’

Chaloner had allowed himself to fall into an awkward situation with Metje. To her, he was Thomas Heyden, a diplomatic envoy.
This had worked perfectly well in Holland, when their relationship had been superficial,
but it was different in London, when he had come to realise that she was the woman he wanted to marry. He was not looking
forward to the time when he would be obliged to confess that he had misled her for the past three years, suspecting she would
be hurt and angry.

She knew he was struggling to find a new employer, and nagged him incessantly about his lack of success when
she
had experienced no such problems, so she was delighted when he mentioned the possibility of an interview at White Hall. Because
she had been so pleased to hear he had finally done something right, he had broken one of his own rules of secrecy by confiding
that the man he was to meet was the Earl of Clarendon. She saw the post would be a considerable improvement on part-time clerking
for the Puritans of Fetter Lane, and was determined to do all she could to ensure he created a good impression, waving aside
his concerns over paying the landlord.

‘I could move to cheaper accommodation, but then you would not be next door,’ he said, trying to think of ways to alleviate
the problem. ‘And you cannot walk across half of London to visit me at night.’

She agreed. ‘Nor can you come to me. My room is directly above Mr North’s bedchamber, and you have only to breathe on the
floorboards to make them creak. He would find us out in an instant, and I do not want to lose my position because he thinks
me a harlot. You must keep those rooms if you want to see me. And what about your viol? You play it most evenings now, because
the Norths like hearing it through their walls, but if you moved, your new neighbours might complain.’

‘I should cancel the order for the cassock,’ he said, looking back to the tailor’s shop.

She took his arm and pulled him on. ‘Consider it an investment, which will reap its own returns in time – and you
must
find work, Tom. You cannot live like a pauper for ever. Or would you rather I returned my new fancy apron, so we can purchase
cheese instead?’

He smiled. ‘I cannot imagine when you will wear it, when North forbids lace in his house. He told me the Devil’s underclothes
are made of lace, although he declined to explain how he comes to be party to such an intimate detail.’

‘He is a dear man,’ she said affectionately. ‘Did I tell you more of his chapel windows were smashed last night? He was so
upset that he is talking about leaving London again. I hope he does not, because what would become of us? Will you visit him
this afternoon? He was asking for you yesterday – something to do with whether the community can afford to replace the glass.’

‘People remember the time when it was Puritans defacing churches, and they want revenge. North should sell the building, and
hold his prayer-meetings in someone’s house instead.’

‘It is wicked that people cannot attend chapel without fanatics lobbing bricks,’ said Metje angrily. ‘I am not a good Puritan
– or I would not visit you night after night – but Mr North is. I shall always be grateful to him for employing me – a destitute
Hollander in a hostile foreign country – when no one else would give me the time of day.’

They walked to Fetter Lane, where she returned to her duties. Although North would have dismissed Metje instantly had he learned
she was carrying on with a man, he was not a strict taskmaster and afforded her a good deal of freedom. He seldom questioned
her when she
announced she was ‘going out’, and her life as a paid companion for Temperance was absurdly easy.

When Chaloner was sure Metje was safely home – it was a Saturday and apprentices were drunkenly demanding of passers-by whether
they were true Englishmen – he went to find North. The Nonconformist chapel was an unassuming building halfway along Fetter
Lane, a short distance from North’s house and the rather less grand affair next door in which Chaloner rented an attic. Despite
its modest appearance, it attracted much ill will, mostly from Anglican clerics who had been deposed by Puritans during the
Commonwealth, and by apprentices who enjoyed lobbing rocks. Occasionally, larger missiles were launched, and there had been
threats of arson.

The door was barred, so Chaloner knocked. North answered, and his dour expression cracked into a smile when he recognised
his accounts clerk. North was not an attractive man, and his plain clothes did little to improve his austere appearance. He
had dark, oily hair, a low forehead and his stern face was rendered even more forbidding by a burn that darkened his chin
and the lower half of one cheek.

He waved Chaloner inside the chapel, which comprised a single room with white walls and uncomfortable benches. It was dominated
by the large pulpit in which the Puritan incumbent, Preacher Hill, stood to rant of a Sunday morning. Hill ranted at the daily
dawn meetings, too, when his flock came to pray before they went about their earthly business, and he ranted in the afternoons
when the hardy few appeared for additional devotions. In fact, he ranted whenever he had an audience, no matter how small,
and Chaloner had once caught him holding forth to a frightened baby.

‘I tried to catch you yesterday,’ said North, ushering Chaloner towards the small gathering that sat near the pulpit. These
were the chapel’s ‘council’ – those with the time and inclination to argue about funds, building repairs and which psalms
to sing. ‘Were you looking for work again?’

‘Will you leave us if you are successful?’ demanded a large woman who wore a massive shoulder-width brimmed hat and voluminous
black skirts. Faith North was clearly annoyed that her community might lose the man who acted as their treasurer. ‘We were
in a dreadful mess before you came along, and I do not want to go through
that
again. I have better things to do than juggle money, and we cannot let Temperance do it, not after the chaos she created
last time.’

Temperance blushed and stared at her shoes. ‘I told you I was hopeless at book-keeping, but you insisted I do it anyway. It
was not entirely my fault things went wrong.’

‘I thought it would do you good,’ sniffed Faith. ‘Make you a better wife when the time comes.’

‘No harm was done,’ said North, laying a sympathetic hand on his daughter’s broad shoulder. ‘Heyden untangled the muddle,
and we are making a profit now – enough to maintain our chapel, buy food for the poor and pay Preacher Hill.’

‘The Lord,’ boomed Hill, making several people jump. The preacher wore drab, slightly seedy clothes, and his pinched face
was entirely devoid of humour. His small eyes glinted when he spoke of his love of God and his hate of blasphemers, two subjects
that merited identical facial expressions, and a large mouth accommodated his shockingly powerful voice. ‘The
Lord
allowed us to make this profit. Heyden had nothing to do with it.’

Faith sighed wearily. ‘So you tell us every week, Preacher. But it is cold in here, and I want to go home, so we should turn
our attention back to the business in hand. You can tell us about the Lord’s fiscal omnipotence later, when we are in front
of a fire with a hot posset in our hands.’

North indicated Chaloner was to sit next to him. ‘Two more windows were smashed last night, and we have been discussing whether
or not to replace them.’

‘You have sufficient funds in the—’ began Chaloner.

‘We should not,’ stated Hill with great finality. ‘The Lord broke them for a reason, and we must bow to His will. We shall
spend the money on Bibles for the poor – to keep them warm this winter.’

‘The Lord broke them?’ asked Chaloner. ‘I thought it was apprentices.’ He did not point out that if Bibles were offered to
the needy with the addendum that they were to provide warmth, then they were likely to end up on the fire.

‘Be quiet,’ ordered Hill indignantly. ‘Only true believers are allowed to speak here.’

‘Hush, Preacher,’ said North reprovingly. ‘Heyden has given us several good ideas – such as putting wire in the windows to
repel fireballs – and we do not want him to resign because you insult his religious convictions. God works through unusual
instruments, and he may well be one of them.’

‘Very unusual,’ agreed Hill, eyeing Chaloner coolly. ‘But if he were to accept the Truth, and follow the Way of the Light,
then I might—’

‘Windows,’ prompted Temperance. ‘I do not see why
we should suffer when we have the money to rectify the problem, and, despite what Preacher Hill says, I do not think God
wants us to be miserable. I have never known a more bitter winter – snow already, and frosts that threaten to freeze the great
Thames itself.’

‘The
Lord
will freeze the Thames,’ proclaimed Hill dogmatically. ‘Not frost.’

‘These acts of violence worry me,’ said North, twisting around to look at the holes in the glass. ‘As you know, our only son
was killed three years ago – the victim of bigoted ruffians – and I cannot bear the thought of losing anyone else in such
a way. We have not been in London long, but already people have turned against us. Perhaps we should return to Ely …’

‘Your son is with God,’ said Hill, softening his voice to indicate sympathy. ‘In Heaven.’

‘We know that,’ said Temperance, while her father struggled to control the grief that always bubbled up when he spoke of his
boy. She took his hand and squeezed it comfortingly, then glared at Hill. ‘But we still miss him.’

‘Glass,’ said Faith in a voice thick with emotion. ‘We should be talking about glass.’

The discussion ranged back and forth while Chaloner wondered why decent people like the Norths had anything to do with Hill.
The preacher was the kind of man who had caused so much strife with his inflexible opinions during the Commonwealth, and associating
with him was dangerous at a time when even moderate Puritans were regarded with suspicion and dislike. It was cold in the
chapel, and Chaloner tucked his hands inside his jerkin when Hill started to hold forth. He wished the man would shut up,
so he could go home and sit by the fire, but then remembered he only had one log and, with
no money to buy more, was obliged to save it until Metje arrived later.

When Hill’s diatribe blossomed into a tirade against debauchery – which coincidentally included a selfish hankering for new
glass – Chaloner stopped listening and considered his own circumstances. He was earning a pittance from an unpopular sect
and was prevented by Downing’s malice from doing the work he did best. It was frustrating to see relations with Holland disintegrating
so rapidly, when he knew he was better qualified to arrest the slide towards war than the men who had been hired to replace
him. He had seen Dutch merchants pelted with mud that morning, and Metje had been upset when one of the local rakers – street
cleaners – had asked whether she bathed in butter, like all Netherlanders. He itched to be involved again – either in Holland
or monitoring known Dutch spies in England – and hoped with all his heart that his interview at White Hall would be a success.

‘… and I am not sure Heyden would agree with
that
,’ he heard North say.

‘Yes,’ he said, jolting out of his reverie and seeing expectant faces waiting for an answer. ‘I do agree.’

‘Thomas!’ cried Faith in disgust. ‘I thought you were a sensible man! Now we shall all spend the most miserable winter imaginable
– and it is
your fault
.’

Hill was smug. ‘The Lord made him agree with me. He
does
work through unusual instruments.’

Temperance, Faith and North were cool with Chaloner when the meeting ended, and he saw they felt he had let them down. They
walked home in silence, the Norths marching arm-in-arm in front, and Hill and Chaloner
behind. But Temperance was not the type to bear grudges, and it was not long before she dropped back to join him.

‘Have you slaughtered your turkey yet?’ he asked, before Hill could spout more religion.

‘It is still at the game shop,’ she replied. ‘Eating enough grain to feed London, apparently.’

‘It
is
a big bird,’ said North, overhearing. ‘But not, perhaps, God’s loveliest creation.’

‘All God’s creations are lovely – it says so in the Bible,’ bellowed Hill. He reconsidered before anyone could take issue.
‘However, turkeys
are
conspicuous by their absence in the Good Book.’

‘What do you think, Thomas?’ asked Temperance. Chaloner could see mischief glinting in her eyes, although her face was the
picture of innocence. ‘Does God love turkeys as much as doves?’

‘Be careful how you answer that,’ advised Faith, glancing significantly in Hill’s direction. ‘You could find yourself in deep
water.’

‘Not as deep as the poor turkey,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Will you really eat it at Christmas?’

Faith nodded grimly. ‘The game dealer claims he has fulfilled his end of the bargain – to supply a bird – and says turning
it into dinner is our business. So, I shall kill it when it is delivered today.’

‘The Lord guide your hand and protect you from evil,’ intoned Hill. He took a deep breath and his voice became alarmingly
loud. ‘The Lord leads the righteous, but the wicked He will cast—’