A Conspiracy of Violence

Chapter 9

After he had been ejected by Ingoldsby, Chaloner went to Lee’s house, and watched two constables strip it of anything saleable, then carry Lee’s body to the parish church. When they had gone, he knocked at the door of the next building, which was answered by a man with a French accent. The fellow refused to answer questions until Chaloner addressed him in his own tongue, after which the flood of information was difficult to stem.

‘Oh, there were odd happenings, all right. Several days ago – perhaps the night Lee died, since the corpse was not fresh when it was found – he entertained a couple. I assumed they were a colleague and his wife from the Treasury. Lee welcomed them like they were the King and Queen of France.’

‘Did either carry a crossbow?’

‘No,’ said the Frenchman. ‘I would have noticed that. Poor Lee. He had a young lady, too, and was destined for better things in life, so it is a shame he was murdered.’

‘Do you know her name?’

The Frenchman shook his head. ‘But she lived on Mincing Lane.’

‘Fanny Robinson,’ mused Chaloner to himself. ‘The Lord Mayor’s daughter. Her home is in Mincing Lane, and she said her beau was called Robert and that he was a Treasury clerk. No wonder Robinson did not object to the match: Lee was kin to Ingoldsby, a fellow brother.’

He wanted time to consider what he had learned, so he walked to St Paul’s Cathedral, intending to sit at the base of one of its ancient pillars and analyse the confusion of facts that ricocheted around his mind. He had just reached the churchyard, where a lively market had established itself among its lichen-stained tombstones, when he saw Leybourn. The bookseller was with his brother and the hulking Wade, and Chaloner watched them enter Don Pedro’s Spanish Eating House together.

Don Pedro’s was a place where the respectable classes could buy an affordable meal and eat it in decent company. Unlike the male-dominated coffee houses, women were welcome, which meant the air was not quite so thick with smoke, and the decor was less masculine. Located in Panier Alley, it was owned by Donald Peters, who was no more Spanish than Chaloner, but who liked to maintain the illusion of overseas exoticism by affecting a foreign accent – when he remembered – interspersed with phrases once learned from an Iberian papal legate. ‘Don Pedro’, as he styled himself, was a source of gossip and information, and Chaloner suspected that a few hours spent listening to him would go a long way towards providing him with the knowledge every other Londoner seemed to take for granted.

The rich scent of baking spilled across the street, enticing customers to sample Señora Nell’s pies, infamous for powerful spices and robust pastry. However, it was not a place for men with no money, so Chaloner picked up a pebble and tossed it at a window, not sufficiently hard to break it, but firmly enough to make a sharp crack that had everyone turning towards the sound. When all eyes were looking in the opposite direction, Chaloner slipped through the door and headed for the table next to Leybourn’s. The bookseller had just been served a beaker of wine and, as he passed, Chaloner stole it in a sleight of hand that would have impressed the most skilful of pickpockets.

‘It was stone from the wheel of a carriage,’ announced Pedro in his peculiar London-Spanish. ‘Mama Mia! It happens all the time.’

‘Don Pedro,’ called Leybourn, when the fuss had died down. ‘What does a man have to do to order a drink? Eat one of your pies?’

‘Nell’s empanadas are the best in London,’ declared Pedro, offended. ‘My wife, she make them fresh, just like she did in España. Besides, I already brought you wine – as soon as you come in.’

Leybourn gestured to the empty table. ‘Did it have wings, then?’

‘Señor Heyden,’ said Pedro, obligingly bringing Leybourn a replacement and recognising another patron at the same time. ‘When did you arrive? I never seen you come, but we been busy today, so if I served you without saying buenos dias, I apologise. Where is your hair? Are you having it made into a peluca? It is a good idea, because us hombres never know when it might fall out or turn grey.’

He bustled away, and Leybourn turned around, as Chaloner knew he would. ‘Heyden,’ he said cautiously, no doubt recalling his curt dismissal when they had met in the grocer’s shop. ‘May I introduce my friend, Thomas Wade? My brother Robert I am sure you recall.’

Chaloner stood to return the large man’s bow. ‘Mr Wade.’

Wade read something in Chaloner’s bland greeting that was not there. He looked distinctly uncomfortable and began to gabble. ‘I see my name is familiar to you. Perhaps you heard it in connection with a small misunderstanding over a consignment of fur. I did not realise she meant me to kill the poor beast, and she was angry when I sent only combings.’

‘An understandable error,’ said Chaloner, wondering what he was talking about.

‘For the masque,’ elaborated Wade. ‘My responsibilities at the Tower include overseeing the royal menagerie. A collection of creatures has resided there since it was built, as I am sure you are aware.’

‘I have certainly seen the lion.’

‘She has seen it, too,’ said Wade resentfully. ‘And she demanded its fur. I sent her two sacks of hairs, thinking she wanted to stuff cushions for His Majesty or some such thing, but it transpires that she wanted the skin for her disguise at the masque. She expected me to destroy Sonya!’

‘God forbid,’ said Chaloner. ‘Not Sonya?’

‘He means Lady Castlemaine,’ explained Leybourn, reading his bemusement. ‘Sonya is a lion, and Lady Castlemaine wanted its fur – a “castle mane”, if you see her contorted pun.’

‘I thought only males had manes,’ said Chaloner. ‘Why would Sonya be at risk?’

‘There was a mistake when he was born,’ replied Wade dolefully. ‘You will appreciate it is difficult to get near lion cubs when their mother is present.’

‘Will you join us for an apple dumpling, Heyden?’ asked Leybourn. His expression was arch. ‘I know you have an acute interest in that particular fruit.’

Chaloner accepted, then listened to the banter between the brothers and Wade as he ate, making the occasional comment to encourage them, but preferring to gain their measure than to speak himself. It was some time before Robert realised the discussion was almost entirely one sided.

‘You are quiet,’ he said coolly. ‘Do you have nothing to say?’

‘I had an unpleasant experience this morning,’ replied Chaloner, taking a sip of wine. ‘I was near the Tower, when I saw a body removed from a house. It had been shot with a crossbow.’

‘I thought you would be used to that sort of thing,’ said Leybourn, surprised.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Chaloner immediately.

Leybourn coloured. ‘I mean you coped well enough when Kelyng was on your heels. I would not have imagined you to be unsettled by the sight of a corpse, no matter what its manner of death.’

‘I dislike an excess of blood,’ said Chaloner. ‘And there was certainly an excess in this case. His name was Lee, and he worked for the Treasury. He was kin to Ingoldsby and lived on Thames Street.’

‘God save us!’ breathed Wade, white-faced with shock. He started to stand, then sank down again when he realised there was nothing he could do.

‘Did you know him?’ asked Chaloner innocently. ‘I am sorry. I should have guessed that a Treasury man and the Tower’s commissioner might have been acquainted.’

‘I have not …’ Wade hesitated, then spoke more firmly. ‘I did not know him.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Then you seem oddly moved by a stranger’s death. Or are you like me, and have an aversion to spilled blood?’

‘I will spill some of yours if you do not leave him alone,’ growled Robert.

Chaloner leaned back in his chair. ‘I wonder if Lee advocated moderation, like the Brotherhood.’

‘Brotherhood?’ asked Wade. He turned paler still, while Robert’s jaw dropped.

‘You and Robert are members,’ said Chaloner to Wade. ‘I saw you both at Will’s Coffee House. I imagine an organisation like that is always in need of funds.’

He knew he was coming dangerously close to letting Wade know the hunt was still on for Barkstead’s treasure, but could think of no other way to broach the subject. Wade gnawed on his lower lip and his eyes darted around the room like those of a trapped rat. He was clearly terrified.

‘What are you suggesting?’ demanded Robert, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. ‘That we shot this Lee for his money? If you spied on our meetings, then you will know most of our members are rich, and we do not need paltry pickings from a Treasury clerk to help us.’

‘To help you what?’ asked Chaloner.

‘To help us in our objectives,’ snapped Robert. ‘To spread the word that the future lies in equanimity and tolerance. Who are you? A spy for the King? One of Kelyng’s men?’

‘Not Kelyng,’ said Leybourn quietly. ‘I saw Bennet try to kill him.’

‘But he did not succeed, did he,’ snarled Robert. ‘Perhaps it was a ruse, to persuade you that he is a friend. I ought to run him through.’

‘Stop,’ ordered Leybourn sharply, seeing his brother start to stand. ‘Sit down.’

‘Practise what you preach,’ suggested Chaloner mildly. ‘Equanimity and tolerance.’

It was the wrong thing to say, because Robert surged to his feet and hauled his sword from his belt. ‘Name the time and place, and I will meet you there.’

‘No, Rob!’ cried Leybourn. ‘You do not know what you are doing.’

‘I know I am being insulted.’ Robert glowered at Chaloner. ‘Meet me Christmas Day at dawn in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. We shall see then whether your sword is as sharp as your tongue.’

Because Robert’s voice was loud, every one of Don Pedro’s customers was listening as he and his brother began to quarrel – Leybourn was urging him to retract the challenge, which served to fuel his temper all the more. Chaloner took the opportunity to escape, disliking the attention Robert was drawing to himself. Craving peace and solitude, which would not be found in the busy St Paul’s, he walked instead to his parish church – St Dunstan-in-the-West on Fleet Street. Its rector was Joseph Thompson, who knew unscheduled visits from his congregation usually meant they wanted to escape the noisy flurry of London, and he always left them alone when they pushed open the clanking door and breathed their relief at the echoing stillness within. He nodded a friendly greeting to Chaloner, then turned his attention back to his registers.

Chaloner found a bench at the back, leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, wondering why Robert had responded to his questions with such fury. It was scarcely the kind of behaviour one would expect from a man belonging to an organisation devoted to restraint, and the encounter had left him unsettled. To take his mind off it, he considered what he knew about Lee. He was sure the murder was significant, since Lee had been present during the search for Barkstead’s treasure and he had been killed while holding a document bearing the words seven and praise God. Had the message been intended for Thurloe, as Chaloner believed Clarke’s and Hewson’s had been? But then who had stolen it from Lee’s corpse?

Next, he considered the way his three quite separate assignments were now inextricably linked. Thurloe wanted Clarke’s murder solved, but had warned Chaloner against finding Barkstead’s treasure; the Lord Chancellor wanted Barkstead’s cache, but had denied Chaloner permission to look into Clarke’s death; and both men were wary of Kelyng. It seemed Thurloe had been right to advise Chaloner to abandon the search for the hoard, since the Ingoldsbys’ evidence put the butter firkins firmly in Holland with Barkstead’s wife.

After a while, Chaloner left the quiet confines of the church, and a sharp nip in the air outside told him there would be more snow that night. Although it was only two o’clock, it was a dark day, and here and there the street gleamed yellow from lamps set in windows, while lanthorns – hollow horns containing candles – gleamed inside carriages, giving them a warm, cosy look as they rumbled past. Street traders with packs and trays yelled hoarsely, their breath pluming white before them, and everywhere folk were huddled inside their cloaks. Pigeons roosted in the skeletal oak tree in St Dunstan’s churchyard, fluffed up to almost twice their size as the wind blew and the branches swayed.

Chaloner was about to head home, when he became aware of a commotion. It had already attracted spectators, and others were stopping to join them, reminding him of a trick his uncle had often played. Old Chaloner had liked to stand in a public place and point to the sky in an excited manner, asking people whether they could see ‘it’. They nearly always could, and he encouraged them to witness all manner of marvels, some of which were then reported as fact in the daily news sheets. His most famous prodigy – as such phenomena were called – had been a complete replay of the Battle of Naseby in cloud formations, and some spectators had even claimed to have recognised the faces of known combatants.

However, it was no wry mischief that controlled the crowd that evening, but something far more invidious. Pulling his hood over his wig, partly for warmth, but mostly for disguise, Chaloner eased his way through the onlookers until he could see. There, at the centre of the group, was a bruised and bloodied man who begged pitifully for his life. Unfortunately for him, his pleas were in Dutch, which did more to incense the crowd than secure their compassion. Standing over him was Sir John Kelyng, while Bennet and Snow hovered to one side.

‘What is happening?’ Chaloner asked Joseph Thompson, who had also joined the throng, and was watching with nervous apprehension.

The rector grimaced. ‘John Kelyng has found himself another Hollander to torment.’

‘What do you mean by “another”? Does he dislike them, then?’

Thompson regarded him in disbelief. ‘You must have seen him doing this before – and if not, then you definitely heard my sermon reviling this kind of behaviour last week.’ He sighed when Chaloner looked blank. ‘Sometimes, I wonder why I bother. I might just as well preach to the pigeons.’

‘Why has he taken against the Dutch?’

Thompson raised his eyebrows. ‘How can you live in London and not know that? He is driven by a deep loyalty to the King, and it leads him to see plots and rebellions in the most unlikely of quarters. These last few months have seen him moving against the Dutch, because Mr Thurloe – whom he detests – once employed Dutch-based agents to spy on His Majesty when he was in exile.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, thinking he and Metje would hang together if Kelyng ever found out about their relationship.

‘He will have that poor Hollander transported, I imagine,’ said Thompson unhappily. ‘And his property confiscated and given to the King. John Kelyng and I have known each other for years – since we were students together at Trinity Hall – and I have tried time and time again to make him see that this kind of activity is unjust. But he just smiles and says we must agree to differ, since neither of us is willing to accept the other’s point of view.’

‘So, there is nothing you can do to stop this man from being persecuted?’ asked Chaloner. ‘We are not at war with the Dutch yet.’

‘I stop it?’ asked Thompson uncomfortably. ‘One does not simply march up to John and start issuing orders – at least, not while that loutish Bennet is listening. I would end up sitting next to the Dutchman on a boat to Jamaica.’

Chaloner watched as the petrified Netherlander was invited to accompany Snow to the Tower. Most of the spectators followed, jeering at the man’s naked fright, so it was not long before Kelyng and Bennet were alone. No one, it seemed, wanted to linger near them, given their penchant for random accusations. Seizing the opportunity for some impromptu eavesdropping, Chaloner nodded a farewell to Thompson and went to lurk behind a black carriage that was obviously Kelyng’s personal transport. He knelt and pretended to fiddle with the buckle on his boot. The windows of the vehicle were open, and it was absurdly easy to hear and even see what was happening on the other side, making Chaloner think once again that Kelyng and his retinue were sadly incompetent.

The Reverend Thompson stood thoughtfully for a moment, then approached Kelyng. Chaloner supposed he had seen a moral challenge in their discussion: he had preached against tyranny and then had done nothing to prevent it outside his own church. He hoped it would not lead to the man’s arrest.

‘I must protest, John,’ the rector said reproachfully. ‘That poor fellow was only buying dried meat.’

‘He was victualling himself for a long journey,’ argued Bennet, before Kelyng could speak. ‘I have been following him. He plans to leave England and return to Holland.’

‘Is that a crime?’ asked Thompson. ‘If I were Dutch, I would want to go home, too.’

‘You must have read what the broadsheets say about Netherlanders,’ said Bennet. ‘They are cheese-worms, who do nothing but eat fat and bathe in butter.’

‘No man of breeding and intelligence believes those scurrilous rags,’ said Thompson, treating Bennet to a look of utter contempt. ‘Let the fellow go, for pity’s sake. He is not worth your time.’

‘We decide who–’ began Bennet, angry by the slur on his ancestry and wits.

Kelyng cut across him, waving him to silence in a way that made him seethe with indignation. ‘You are probably right, Joseph – the cheese-worm will almost certainly prove to be inconsequential. And I doubt he owns anything worth confiscating, not if he was buying dried meat. It means he cannot afford butter, which all Hollanders prefer.’

‘That is true enough,’ said Bennet, turning his back on the rector in an attempt to cut him out of the discussion. ‘So, we shall have him sent to Jamaica, and then we can concentrate on finding the woman who murdered Storey–’

‘You will leave her alone,’ snapped Kelyng. ‘I could scarce believe my ears when Snow confessed to shooting at her when she was on a horse. I will not have my people putting animals at risk. And that goes for you, too. And I absolutely forbid you to kill Thurloe’s shorn-haired agent.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Bennet, scowling. ‘He made a fool of me, and–’

‘You made a fool of yourself. Thomas from Becket and Guy of Fawkes, indeed! I should never have appointed a chamberlain who is lacking a university education.’

‘I went to university,’ said Bennet in a strangled voice. He looked as though he was only just in control of himself, and his teeth were clamped so tightly together his jaw muscles bulged. ‘Oxford.’

‘Three days at Balliol before being expelled for knowing no Latin,’ sneered Kelyng. ‘That does not count. But you will not kill the lame spy: I have questions to ask him, and I cannot trust you to do it, because he will outwit you again.’

‘Then I will kill him when you have finished,’ declared Bennet tightly.

‘No, you will not,’ said Kelyng testily. ‘And I have explained why at least three times already: I was in Leybourn’s bookshop the other day, and I heard him mention a short-haired, limping friend who owns a turkey. It is almost certainly the same man, so you are not to touch him. What would happen to the poor creature if you dispatched its owner? A large game bird would hardly be safe with Mrs Kelyng, given that Christmas is so close. So, you are to bring him to me alive. Is that clear?’

Bennet’s face flushed with a deep, dangerous rage, and Chaloner was certain the order would be ignored – if a body was dumped in the Thames, Kelyng would never know he had been disobeyed. Bennet nodded to his master and strode away, holding himself rigidly and barely able to contain his temper.

‘You should watch him, John,’ advised Thompson, staring after Bennet in rank disapproval. ‘He does not like being insulted, and he is vicious, irrational and stupid.’

‘That is precisely why I hired him,’ said Kelyng. ‘He makes people take me seriously. But you are right: he is becoming increasingly difficult to control, although I would be more concerned if his intelligence matched his ruthlessness. But do not worry about the Dutchman: I fully intend to release the fellow. The real point of that exercise was to warn foreign spies that their days here are numbered, and to encourage people to be vigilant against outsiders. I have more important fish to fry.’

‘Do you mean Thurloe?’ asked Thompson. ‘I do not think he–’

‘He has powerful friends,’ interrupted Kelyng, off in a world of his own. ‘Even the Lord Chancellor wants him untouched, “lest we blunder into difficulties with the Dutch and need his advice”. But Clarendon is suspicious of him, even so, because I intercepted a report from a spy that described a clandestine meeting between him and Downing. Clarendon’s code for Downing is “Cerberus” and his name for Thurloe is “Jo” – which is how Thurloe signs his name – so it was not difficult for me to grasp its meaning. The report said they chat in church.’

‘I know,’ said Thompson dryly. ‘It is hard to concentrate on my sacred duties when they jabber all through the service. But has it occurred to you that the agent might have been reporting on Downing, not Thurloe? Downing did change sides in a rather spectacular manner, and the government would be rash to accept such ready turncoats without some degree of surveillance.’

Kelyng gazed at him in surprise, then shook his head. ‘It was Thurloe this spy was watching. I copied down the report, and sent the original to Clarendon, so he would not know it had been intercepted. I have a talent for this sort of activity.’

‘I can tell, by the way you keep your secrets,’ said Thompson gravely. ‘Would you mind if I accompany you to the Tower, to make sure this Dutchman is set free?’

‘Not at all,’ said Kelyng pleasantly. ‘I shall enjoy your company. Do you remember the time when we rescued those ducks from the Trinity Hall kitchens? Those were the days, Joseph!’

Chaloner watched them leave, then started to walk in the opposite direction, to where his cold rooms awaited him. He took great care not to limp.

Snow clicked against the window all evening, and the wind whined through the pane that had been broken by the grenade. Chaloner had no firewood and no money to buy any, but he refused to let Metje ‘borrow’ some from North. She was vexed when he elected to spend a night in discomfort when a minor theft would have alleviated the problem, but she was angry with him anyway, and he suspected she would have disapproved of whatever he had decided. He watched her slip out of her skirts – the voluminous undergarments stayed defiantly in place – and dive under the bedcovers, muttering venomously about the fact that they were damp as well as icy.

‘What do you want me to do, Meg?’ he asked tiredly, not sure how to appease her. ‘I understand your worries and will do all I can to protect you.’

‘How? You cannot afford to hire a guard. Besides, you have been odd ever since we came to England, and we no longer understand each other. I feel as though I do not know you any more.’

He was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Just that – your family has no farm in Buckinghamshire, and I know nothing about them.’

Chaloner was determined no one would, either – at least, not until the wave of hatred against regicides had eased. He rubbed his eyes, wondering whether he should stay away from her for a while.

‘You have no answer,’ she said sadly. ‘Tell me the name of the village where you were born then, or the location of your father’s manor. Just tell me something about you that is true.’

He was bemused. ‘Most of what you know is true.’

‘And there is a lie for a start.’ She turned her back on him. ‘Douse the lamp before you sleep.’

‘Can we discuss–?’

‘You cannot speak without lying, and I do not want untruths.’

‘I may die soon,’ he said, thinking about Robert Leybourn, who would probably be sharpening his sword as they spoke. He knew it sounded melodramatic, especially given that he had not told her about the bookseller’s challenge, but he did not care. ‘I do not want to–’

‘All right,’ she said, sitting up and eyeing him coldly. ‘If you are to die, then we had better talk. Ever since we settled in London, you have been mysterious. You go out at odd times, but you have no regular employment. What are you doing?’

‘Trying to earn the trust of men who may employ me in the future.’ He wondered why his lifestyle should so suddenly perplex her, since he had kept irregular hours ever since she had known him.

‘Once, when I was out with Faith, I saw you go inside Lincoln’s Inn. Why?’

‘I was visiting a friend.’

She lay back down. ‘Vague answers that tell me nothing. I do not want to talk to you, Thomas. I am tired of half truths.’

Chaloner lay awake for a long time, listening to the snow, and when he slept, it was fitfully. Once he dreamed about the Tower, with its great thick walls and dank cellars, and fancied he could hear the screams of prisoners. He came awake with a start, only to hear the mournful cry of the bellman outside, bawling that it was one o’clock and exhorting all to bank their fires and douse their candles.

He slept again, but woke just after four to find himself freezing cold and Metje with all the covers. He tried to retrieve some, but her fingers tightened around them and he did not want to wake her. He dressed, wondering when he had last known such a bitter night, then lit the lamp and sat at the table. It was quiet, and a good time to write to Clarendon about Barkstead’s cache, and to Thurloe about Clarke. Such messages would have been a waste of time in daylight, when there were more useful things to do, but it was a good way to pass the hours of darkness. When he had finished, he surveyed the notes critically, thinking them pitifully inadequate.

Using cipher without conscious thought, he reported to Thurloe that he had asked Evett to show more White Hall employees the weapon used to murder Clarke. He also mentioned that Kelyng remained determined to bring Thurloe down and was suspicious of his acquaintance with Downing. He added that Lane’s missives to Clarendon had been intercepted, and entirely the wrong conclusion drawn. This was worrying, because if Kelyng could misinterpret one letter, then he could do the same with others, and it was often difficult to correct such misunderstandings once accusations had been levelled.

To Clarendon, he hinted that Barkstead’s treasure might have been taken abroad, intending to break the bad news by degrees. He described the interview with ‘an unnamed witness’ who had seen the butter firkins in Holland, and said he planned to speak to others who would confirm or rebut the story. He did not include Thurloe’s theory that Barkstead might have left a legacy of a different kind in London, because his thoughts were full of what his dissolute uncle might have done: left a trail to a hoard that comprised a gloating message or a pot of farthings. Barkstead had not struck Chaloner as a practical joker, but the possibility was in the back of his mind nonetheless.

‘What are you doing?’ Chaloner turned around to see Metje sitting up and looking at him.

‘Writing letters to men I hope will employ me.’

‘Such as Dalton? Show me what you said to him.’

He regarded her uneasily. ‘Why?’

‘So I know you are telling the truth.’

Chaloner was beginning to be annoyed with her, and resented the implication that she could not believe a word he said. He flung them across, and waited for the next round of accusations.

She studied the one to Thurloe for a long time. ‘I cannot read this.’

‘It is cipher – a kind of shorthand.’

‘Why would you write in cipher?’ She gazed at him with wide eyes. ‘You are a spy, selling your country’s secrets. That is why you were in Holland. Downing did not know half of what you did – I could see it in his eyes. You are a traitor!’

‘Please do not shout,’ he said quietly. ‘I am not a traitor.’

She sniffed. ‘I had no idea you communicated in secret languages. But that should not surprise me, I suppose. What is your name?’

He regarded her expressionlessly. ‘You know my name.’

‘Preacher Hill asked friends from all over Buckinghamshire about a family called Heyden, with five brothers, two sisters, and a father and mother who died during the wars. He says one does not exist.’

‘You have been investigating me?’ Chaloner was aghast, not liking the notion that Hill might now have enough information to connect him with his real kin.

‘I need to know.’ She started to cry. ‘I am carrying a child, and its father is suddenly a stranger.’

Chaloner gaped at her, then a smile spread across his face. ‘You are pregnant?’

She would not let him touch her. ‘I do not know why you are so pleased. It will mean an end to your carefree existence. You will have to find proper work now.’

Chaloner ignored her attempts to fend him off, and took her in his arms, cradling her to his chest, fiercely at first, then gently when he thought about the precious life within. ‘It will mean a change to my carefree existence. This is wonderful news, Meg. How long have you …?’

‘A while. And do not ask why I did not tell you before – you who has kept secrets from me for years. I am surprised you did not notice, anyway.’

He inspected her critically. ‘You do not look any bigger. Are you sure …?’

‘Of course,’ she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘I am a woman.’

‘You cannot refuse to marry me now. We will name our daughter after you. Meg.’

‘Meg what? Meg Heyden? Or shall we just say Meg de Haas, because then we can be sure it is right? Please tell me your name, Tom. Your real name? I do not like this secrecy between us.’

‘I cannot. It has nothing to do with trust, and I will tell you, I promise. Just not now.’

‘Why not now?’

‘Because it is not safe – not for you or for my family. When the time is right, I shall take you to meet them, and then you will see there is nothing sinister or unpleasant about them. Please trust me.’

‘I shall try,’ she said, although there was a deep unhappiness in her eyes. ‘For Meg’s sake.’

While Metje greeted the prospect of a child with mixed emotions, Chaloner did not. He was delighted, and found it difficult to concentrate on anything else. It was Christmas Eve, and although some of the more strict Puritan families still ignored the merry preparations that were taking place around them, it was generally a time for celebration and relaxation. Green boughs appeared in the most unlikely of places, and people bedecked their churches with candles and wreaths. The scent of roasting chestnuts, spiced wine and other seasonal favourites filled the air, and Chaloner wished he had money to buy some for Metje. Feeling he should do something to mark the occasion, he took his much-read copy of Farnaby’s Rhetoric to Cripplegate, where Leybourn had his shop, as soon as it was light.

There were dozens of booksellers in London, but Chaloner knew why he was drawn to the one run by the Leybourns. When Robert had first challenged him, he had regarded the duel as more nuisance than cause for concern, confident in his superior skills. But Metje’s news had changed all that, and he found he did not want to meet Robert’s sword at dawn the following day. The chances were that he would win, but supposing he did not? What would happen to Metje without a provider? Would North take pity on an unwed mother and continue to employ her? Chaloner did not think so: it would suggest his household condoned sin, and even if North and Temperance were moved to compassion, Faith would pressure them to reconsider. Metje would be doomed to poverty.

Leybourn’s house smelled of paper, ink and the leather used to bind books after they were printed. It was an agreeable aroma, and the shop was the kind of place Chaloner loved, with closely packed shelves and treasures at every turn. It was busy, because several graves in St Giles without Cripplegate – the land had been sold for a new building – had been opened the hour before dawn, and the public had been invited to watch. The exhumation over, folk gravitated towards the nearby shops to escape a sudden downpour, and Chaloner saw a number of familiar faces, including Downing and the Daltons. He glanced out into the street, wondering whether Snow was nearby, but could not see him anywhere.

Since Robert did not seem to be at work that morning, Chaloner decided it was safe to wait inside the shop until his brother was free to talk. He had just taken down a copy of Boyle’s New Experiments with which to pass the time when Sarah sidled up to him.

‘Snow seems to have given up on me. I have not seen him since you so gallantly deceived him on my behalf. I told my brother what you did, and he is very grateful.’

Chaloner was unmoved. ‘Did you tell anyone I was going to meet Ingoldsby yesterday?’

She seemed taken aback by the question. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You were listening outside Thurloe’s door as I confided my plan to see Ingoldsby. When I arrived at his house, someone was waiting with a sword.’

She gazed at him coolly. ‘And you think it was my fault? Kelyng and his minions have tried to kill you once already, so have you considered the possibility that they are responsible?’

‘Snow could never have ridden such a spirited horse, although I suppose Bennet might. But I do not think it was an opportunistic attack: I think it was premeditated.’

‘But not by me. Besides, I could not hear what you and John were saying – I tried, but your voices were too low. Why would I harm you, anyway? You rescued me on Wednesday, and John would be upset if you came to grief. He likes you very much.’

Given that Thurloe had deceived him and devised tests to probe his integrity, Chaloner suspected Thurloe’s affection was not as deep as she seemed to think.

‘Perhaps John mentioned your plans to someone else – innocently,’ she went on when he did not reply. ‘He came to see my husband, and several other men happened to be there – Downing, Lord Mayor Robinson, Samuel Pepys of the Navy Office, Thomas Wade, Sir Thomas Clifford, Robert Leybourn. It was Leybourn who told us about the grave-opening and suggested we should come. Saturdays are dull, so it was a welcome diversion.’

Chaloner regarded her in distaste. ‘Was it?’

‘Skeletons are fascinating, although I think most people came because they hoped the coffins might contain a few Parliamentarian hoards. There was a definite surge forward as the lids came off – folk readying themselves to make a grab.’

Dalton reached them before Chaloner could turn the discussion back to Ingoldsby, waving his citrus-scented handkerchief. The rings under his eyes were black as he shot Chaloner a bleak smile. ‘Come to see me next week, Heyden. I have several documents ready for translation.’

He spoke in a whisper, and Chaloner understood why when he saw Downing not far away. The diplomat scowled as the Daltons left the shop, and came to take Chaloner’s arm in a pinch that was firm enough to make the agent reach for his dagger.

‘Do not work for him,’ grated Downing, releasing Chaloner abruptly when he saw the weapon start to emerge. ‘He does not seem entirely sane these days.’

‘I thought he was a member of the Brotherhood, and therefore beyond reproach.’

‘Do not be facetious. You think you can hide behind Thurloe’s skirts, but his star is fading fast and you may soon find yourself alone.’

‘What do you mean?’ It sounded like a threat on Thurloe’s life.

‘Just what I say: without Thurloe, you are nothing. Have you secured employment yet?’

‘With Dalton,’ replied Chaloner, hoping to annoy him.

Downing’s eyes narrowed, and he changed the subject to disguise his irritation. ‘Has Thurloe asked you to look into anything of late? I know you have spent time with him.’

Chaloner was surprised he should expect an answer to such a question. ‘We discuss pheasants.’

Downing regarded him in confusion. ‘Pheasants?’

‘He plans to build a volary in Lincoln’s Inn.’

Downing regarded him coldly. ‘There is a rumour that you spy for the Dutch – you speak their language, and I did not know half of what you got up to in The Hague. I may have to speak in your defence one day, so do not rile me. Once you have earned my dislike, you may never be rid of it.’

Chaloner was puzzled. ‘Why should I be the subject of rumours? No one here knows me.’

‘But you regularly visit Thurloe and the Earl of Clarendon,’ replied Downing. ‘And that interests all manner of folk. Remember: you do not have to have committed a crime to be taken to the Tower.’

He turned and stalked away, leaving Chaloner wondering why Downing should care what he did. Was it simple jealousy – he did not want a rival to have a Dutch translator? Or was he regretting his exposure of the Brotherhood, and had decided his unwilling confidant represented too great a risk? Eventually, Chaloner was able to corner Leybourn. The bookseller greeted him warily.

‘Shall we talk about turkeys?’ asked Chaloner pleasantly. ‘You told Kelyng I own one.’

Leybourn nodded, but there was no sign of his customary grin. ‘It saved your life. He and Bennet were stealing more of my books in the King’s name, and Bennet was making a strong case for dispatching a shorthaired, limping enemy. It was obvious he referred to you. He had virtually convinced Kelyng of his point of view when I casually informed my brother about your turkey. Kelyng likes birds, and when he overheard my idle chatter, he forbade Bennet to touch you.’

‘Why should you help me?’

Leybourn grimaced. ‘It was before you goaded Rob into a duel, or I would not have been so solicitous. But I have told you why: you and I both despise Kelyng. Is that why you came? To question my motives in doing you a favour?’

Chaloner handed him the book, feeling a pang as it went. Leybourn took it and ran expert hands across the binding. Then he opened it, and his eyes took on a distant expression as he assessed the fine quality of the work. ‘Are you sure you want to part with this? I would not.’

Chaloner nodded, and they haggled for a while until a mutually acceptable price was reached. Chaloner experienced a lurching sadness when he saw it set on Leybourn’s shelf, but the deed was done, and there was no point in fretting over it. It was only a book, and Metje was more important.

‘Where is Robert today?’ he asked.

‘Practising his swordplay. He is being coached by Sir Richard Ingoldsby – not that he needs advice. He is already very good.’

Chaloner saw the bookseller was trying to unnerve him. ‘Perhaps I shall learn something, then.’

Leybourn sighed. ‘You went after Wade like the Spanish Inquisition, and you should apologise. I do not like the thought of Bennet dancing on your grave.’

Chaloner gave a wry grin. ‘He would not dare, not while Kelyng frets about my turkey.’

‘Rob will kill you,’ warned Leybourn, brazening it out. ‘He fought in all three wars.’

‘So did I.’

‘Did you?’ asked Leybourn unhappily. ‘Christ! Look, Heyden, I will talk to him. I will say there was a misunderstanding. You must put an end to this nonsense before someone is hurt.’

He turned at the sound of footsteps. ‘We shall resolve our differences tomorrow at dawn,’ said Robert coldly, hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘It is too late for apologies.’

Chaloner spent an hour buying cloth and a selection of treats for Metje, arranging for them to be delivered to his rooms later that day. Then he went in search of Mother Greene, and delivered the promised penny, along with a plum pudding that had her cackling in delight. She spoke softly as he was about to leave.

‘Mother Pinchon is dead. They found her by the river.’

‘She drowned?’

‘That is what we were supposed to think, but there was no mistaking the rope mark on her neck. Young Joe Turner was flush with money last night, and he would sell his grandmother for a jug of ale. Someone came to find Mother Pinchon, and we all know he told them where to look.’

‘Will you take me to see him?’

‘People around here do not like folk who bring about the deaths of old women. Turner is dead.’

Chaloner swore under his breath. ‘Did you see Turner talking to strangers?’

‘He may have been greedy, but he was not stupid. He passed his information secretly to the killers, then spent his dirty money in the alehouse near Turnagain Lane. No one saw anything.’

‘Then perhaps he was not responsible.’

She regarded him as though he were insane. ‘People around here get rich for two reasons: they have stolen something, or they have been paid to break the law. Besides, Turner was ale-soaked enough that he got to bragging. He told the dung collector – Potts – that he had been invited to a very nice house, and given cakes and wine. It was obvious what had happened.’

‘Did he say where this house was?’

‘Potts asked, but Turner could not remember – he was too drunk. Then news came that Mother Pinchon was dead and he tried to slink away. He did not get far. Potts has a sly knife on occasion.’

‘Damn! This means that we have no way to trace the real villain – the man who paid Turner for the information in the first place. Did any of her neighbours see anything, hear a struggle?’

‘She went out and told no one where she was going. The next time anyone saw her was when she was on the banks of the Thames, dead.’

Chaloner sighed. ‘Will you take me to Potts? Perhaps Turner said something before he died …’

‘Potts would never tell you anything. He mentioned something to me, but it is probably nothing.’

‘What?’

‘Turner kept saying the stranger smelled of oranges.’

Chaloner had agreed to meet Evett in the Dolphin mid morning, to discuss their respective cases. He was early, but did not mind waiting, instinctively occupying one of the tables at the rear of the tavern where he could keep his back to the wall. He had done no more than order a jug of ale, when the door opened and Bennet and Snow entered. They were swathed in thick cloaks, and evidently thought themselves well disguised. It was clear from their behaviour that they had been following him, and he realised he had been so engrossed in trying to determine why Dalton had killed Pinchon, that he had let his guard down. It was the sort of carelessness that could prove fatal, and he suspected he had been limping, too, although at least his short hair was covered by his hood. He was furious with himself.

Bennet leaned nonchalantly against a wall, hat pulled low over his eyes, while Snow pretended to be with someone else. Chaloner read the anti-Dutch broadsheets that someone had thoughtfully left on each table, while he waited to see what they would do. Bennet tried to effect an air of casual disinterest, but could not prevent himself from looking at Chaloner from time to time, while Snow’s fingers often twitched around the hilt of his dagger. They made no effort to leave.

Chaloner stood, knowing the only way to be rid of their annoying presence was by losing them in the maze of alleys surrounding Thames Street. It was true they could kill him more easily outside than in a crowded tavern, but he did not want them with him for the rest of the day. He exited through the rear door, Snow following him. Predictably, Bennet ducked out of the front with the clear intention of cutting him off. Chaloner emerged into a narrow lane, with Snow behind and Bennet approaching from his left. He turned right and started to run, then stopped dead when another man stepped in front of him and levelled a pistol. He had not anticipated a third participant, and was trapped.

But although he could not turn right, left or re-enter the tavern, all was not lost. There were doors leading to yards, and walls that could be scaled. He raised his hands in surrender, then raced for the nearest gate when the man lowered his pistol. It was locked, and part of it disintegrated when the gun was fired at close range, sending splinters in all directions. The noise was deafening, and Chaloner heard Bennet ordering the fellow to desist. Chaloner jumped for the wall, and was almost over it when Snow grabbed his foot. For the second time that week, he found himself the subject of a tug of war.

Snow was not North, however, and he and his brawny helpers soon had Chaloner off the wall and wrestled to the ground, despite him using every tactic in his arsenal of tricks to evade them. Snow leapt back with a bloody nose, the third man shrieked over a broken finger and Bennet swore at a kick that caught him on the shin. Chaloner might have escaped had they been alone, but others were pouring into the alley, and he was hopelessly outnumbered. Eventually, seeing further struggles would only serve to tire him, he abandoned the fight. He was hauled to his feet and his hands secured behind him, although not before another tussle that resulted in the rope being far looser than it should have been. Bennet indicated he was to precede them down the lane.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Just walk. Kelyng has questions for you, although I would sooner slip a dagger between your ribs and leave you for the dogs. Now move, unless you want to be dragged.’

With the odds so heavily stacked against him, Chaloner had no choice but to comply. He began to walk in the direction Bennet indicated, while the men surrounded him closely.

‘Left,’ ordered Bennet, when they reached a junction. ‘Come on, Heyden – yes, we know your name. My friend Preacher Hill was delighted to chat to me, especially when he learned it would see you incarcerated. Hurry up. I do not have all day.’

Chaloner faltered when he saw the road led to the Tower. ‘In there?’

‘It has nice, quiet cellars, where you and Kelyng can converse undisturbed,’ said Bennet with an unpleasant leer.

Chaloner did not like the prospect of ‘conversing’ with Kelyng in the Tower. He wrenched his hands free, then jerked backwards, bowling over two of the men behind him, and managing to fell Snow with a punch to the jaw. Almost immediately, a gun went off, and people scattered in alarm. Chaloner saw a woman drop to the ground, while a companion stood over her and began to shriek.

He started to run, lashing out with his fists when the men snatched at him, but then there was a sharp pain in the side of his head and he felt himself fall. Dizzy and disorientated, he was hauled to his feet and bundled towards the barbican, vaguely aware of horrified people converging on the prostrate woman. None of Kelyng’s men joined them: they did not care who they had killed.

Bennet’s mocking voice was a buzz in his ears as they passed through the first of the portals. A gate slammed behind them, and then they were near the menagerie with its growling, snuffling occupants. Chaloner’s legs were rubbery, and he was only just regaining control of them when they reached one of the buildings opposite the White Tower. A door revealed a flight of steps, and he was sure it would lead to some dimly lit dungeon full of implements used to extract secrets from hapless prisoners. He resisted Bennet’s shoves long enough to look at the sky before he descended, certain it was the last time he would see it. Heart thumping, he steeled himself for what was about to happen.

He was disconcerted when the stairs emptied into a comfortable office with rugs on the floor and paintings on the walls. Cushions had been placed on benches, and the room was dominated by a massive table, on which stood a cage containing a glum pigeon with a bandaged wing. A lamp hung from the ceiling, and braziers in sconces on the walls rendered the room bright and warm. Kelyng was sitting in a chair with a cat on his knee and a dog at his feet. He glanced up in surprise when Chaloner was shoved into the middle of his domain, followed by Bennet and the rest of his entourage.

‘Stop!’ he cried, when more tried to crowd inside. ‘You are frightening the bird. And what have you done to Thurloe’s spy? I told you I wanted him unharmed.’

‘He resisted arrest,’ said Bennet, forcing Chaloner into a chair. ‘He grabbed a gun and shot an innocent bystander.’

‘And how did he do that, if he was in your custody?’ demanded Kelyng. ‘Either you were supremely inept, or you are lying. Mind the dog, man!’ The last comment was aimed at Snow, who was trying to prevent the mongrel from cocking its leg against his black boots. Kelyng clapped his hands. ‘Everyone out! It should not take a dozen fellows to bring me a guest. Be off with you.’

He stood, set the cat gently on his chair and went to the table, where he poured a goblet of wine and offered it to Chaloner. The agent dashed it from his hand in what he imagined would be his last act of physical defiance. Bennet jumped forward with a raised fist, but Kelyng quickly interposed himself between them.

‘Why do the people who visit me here always display such poor manners?’ he asked irritably.

‘Probably because they do not like the way you extend your invitations,’ replied Chaloner tartly.

Kelyng sighed. ‘And if Bennet had phrased the question nicely, would you have come then?’

Chaloner certainly would not. ‘It depends what you wanted to talk about.’

‘There are several subjects I would like to air,’ said Kelyng, watching his men shuffle back up the stairs until only Snow and Bennet remained. ‘I understand you own a turkey?’

Chaloner nodded, unsure of the man and the discussion. ‘A great big one.’

Kelyng’s expression softened. ‘I know little about turkeys. What are they like, as companions?’

Chaloner was aware of Bennet’s blazing hatred, while Snow was itching to say something. ‘They have a tendency to hog the fire of an evening,’ he hedged, not sure how to reply.

Kelyng smiled indulgently. ‘Show me a beast that does not, Mr Heyden. I am sorry violence was used to bring you here, but you should not have resisted.’

‘He knows where I can find the woman what did for Storey,’ blurted Snow, no longer able to contain himself. He cracked his knuckles. ‘Let me ask him sir, and then you can–’

‘You may leave us, Snow,’ said Kelyng sharply, watching the cat jump into Chaloner’s lap. ‘You, too, Bennet. Wait outside.’

‘I do not think that is a very good idea,’ said Bennet immediately. ‘He is far from pleased about the way he was brought here, and–’

‘Go!’ ordered Kelyng icily. ‘I can look after myself. And anyway, a cat would not sit with a fellow contemplating rough behaviour, which is why she never comes to you. Go away.’

Bennet was seething as he obeyed, while Snow’s voice echoed on the stairway, asking him whether Kelyng could be trusted to ask after the woman who had killed his accomplice. Bennet muttered something inaudible, and Snow fell silent.

‘I know where Sarah Dalton lives,’ said Kelyng, when they had gone. ‘But I have no desire to see women killed, not even Thurloe’s kin, so I shall make sure Snow never touches her.’

‘He came close the other night. You may not be able to stop him.’

‘I have informed Bennet that I will dismiss him if anything happens to Mrs Dalton. He is inordinately dimwitted, but he usually does as he is told. I will pour you more wine, if you promise not to hurl it at me again. We can talk like civilised men, I hope?’

Chaloner accepted the proffered cup, worrying about what would happen to Metje and their baby when he was not there to care for them. He wondered whether Thurloe could be trusted to help, or whether the information Kelyng extracted would be used to harm him, too. He was not deceived by the lawyer’s friendly manner, suspecting he would not remain kindly once he saw his prisoner would never cooperate with him.

‘What did you want to talk about?’

‘Thurloe. Once I had your name, it was easy to find out about you. I spoke to George Downing, and he said you worked for Thurloe in Holland, and that you continue to visit him in Lincoln’s Inn, as a friend. I would like to know whether he asked you to spy on me.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether Kelyng really expected him to answer such a question honestly.

‘He does not like me,’ explained Kelyng. ‘And the feeling is wholly reciprocated. I vowed to rid England of traitors, and anyone who once expressed loyalty to Cromwell is fair game. I repeat: did Thurloe order you to spy on me?’

‘I am sorry if I offend you, sir, but I had never heard of you before last Friday,’ replied Chaloner honestly.

Kelyng pursed his lips. ‘That is what I thought. He is an odd man, and I do not understand him at all. I am trying to destroy him, but he barely acknowledges I exist.’

‘This is a pleasant office,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject to hide his confusion. Surely, Kelyng would not believe answers given under such circumstances? He glanced at the man’s wolfish features, and was suddenly struck with the knowledge that his single-mindedness was his greatest weakness – he was so determined to carry out his mission that he was incapable of objectivity, and only saw what he wanted to see. No wonder Thurloe had been able to outwit him. Kelyng might have a reputation for violence, because of Bennet’s brutal antics, but he was not an artful man.

Kelyng nodded, looking around. ‘It is rather nice. Robinson’s original plan was to house me in the crypt where Barkstead buried his treasure – a nasty, damp place – but the King intervened on my behalf. There are tales that Barkstead incarcerated prisoners there, but I know for a fact that he did not.’

‘Really? How?’

‘I studied the Tower’s records when I first arrived here. That cellar has never housed prisoners, because it connects to the vaults of adjoining buildings, and felons thus have a tendency to escape. This chamber is much cosier, and I am extremely happy here. Have you ever heard of the Seven?’

‘The seven what?’ asked Chaloner, bracing himself for the real purpose of the interview.

‘Just the Seven. They are a group of men who formed an alliance during the Commonwealth, and their intention was to prevent the return of King Charles to the English throne.’

‘Then they were not very effective.’

Kelyng rubbed his chin. ‘True. Few people know about them, because they are a secret society – not like the Brotherhood, which is about as secret as the existence of White Hall. Most of its members gossip about their nasty objectives to anyone who asks, and they meet quite openly.’

‘The Brotherhood’s “nasty objectives” are promoting moderation and tolerance.’

‘Quite,’ said Kelyng grimly. ‘I abhor moderation and tolerance. I am a man of strong opinions, and I am ready for a society that is extreme and intolerant. I do not want to live in a world where any sinner can do as he pleases. I want one with guidelines, where every man knows his place and what will happen if he transgresses. I want traitors like Thurloe punished for supporting Cromwell, and I want to establish an effective undercover police force, which will infiltrate every aspect of society and keep a watchful eye on its people.’

‘It sounds idyllic.’

‘It will work,’ argued Kelyng. ‘We are an unruly species, and we need strong laws to govern us, not foppish, indulgent liberalism. But I did not bring you here to discuss my philosophical ideals.’

‘You were telling me about the Seven,’ prompted Chaloner, aware that he was eliciting more information from Kelyng, than Kelyng was from him. Was this some subtle interrogation technique, or was the man simply unused to extracting confessions? Chaloner had no idea, but he had seldom felt less comfortable than he did in Kelyng’s windowless domain.

Kelyng nodded. ‘The Seven did not succeed – obviously – but I have dedicated the last six months of my life to exposing their identities and the details of their wicked plot.’

‘Who are they?’

Kelyng grimaced. ‘You do not know? Damn! I was hoping you might give me a name or two.’

‘If they were operative during Cromwell’s reign, then the chances are that some will be dead by now, from natural causes.’

‘You are doubtless right, although that would be very annoying. I shall not give up, though, not until I have unveiled every last one of them. Are you sure you cannot give me a clue? I will buy you a new wig – a good one, like mine, which has real hair.’

‘I wish I could help, because a new wig would be very welcome.’

‘Well, you know where to come, should you learn anything in the future. However, I know the identities of three of the Seven: one was Barkstead.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Why do you think that?’

‘Because Downing read his papers when he arrested him. He showed some to me, and they proved Barkstead’s membership of the Seven without a shadow of doubt. Unfortunately, he was executed before I could ask him about his six colleagues. The second is Sir Michael Livesay.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Chaloner, while thinking it was no surprise the man had disappeared if Kelyng’s claim was true.

‘Another regicide. There is a rumour that he was killed in an exploding ship, but I do not believe it. The last time I fell for a tale in which a man was blown to pieces, the fellow appeared alive and well eighteen months later with a fortune in molasses. I am not certain Livesay is a member of the Seven, but it makes good sense.’

‘Who else?’ Chaloner knew what was coming next.

‘I have strong suspicions about Thurloe.’

‘Then you would be wrong. Thurloe would never join a group with those sorts of aims. Barkstead and Livesay were different: they were regicides, and had a lot to lose if the King was restored. But Thurloe is not a man to throw in his lot with extremists.’

‘He is a member of the Brotherhood.’

‘Was a member,’ corrected Chaloner, hoping Kelyng did not know he had founded it. He wondered why he persisted in defending a man who had been far from honest with him. ‘He has not been to a meeting in ages, and has lost all interest in politics. He just wants to be left alone, to live quietly. Surely, that is not too much to ask?’

‘It is for him,’ said Kelyng. ‘He will never have peace, and you can tell him so from me.’

Chaloner stood, not relinquishing the cat. Kelyng would never resort to rough tactics while he held the animal. ‘Very well. I will tell him when–’

‘In a moment,’ said Kelyng, waving him back down. ‘So, you have never heard of the Seven and their attempts to keep the King from his throne? Do you know anyone called Swanson?’

Chaloner made a pretence at considering the question, trying to remember what Robinson had said about a man called Swanning or Swanson. Eventually, he shook his head. ‘Who is he?’

‘The man who first became aware of the Seven. He sent word to the King, who told him he should have a gold bar for every name he provided. Incidentally, the King informs me that the offer still stands, although it is a minor incentive in my campaign – I do not persecute for money, but because I enjoy it.’

‘Naturally. How much is a bar of gold worth?’

Kelyng shrugged, as if he did not care. ‘These would be valued at nine hundred and ninety-seven pounds, seventeen shillings and fourpence-ha’penny each, as a very rough guide.’

‘Almost a thousand pounds. So, the total reward would be seven thousand pounds?’

‘Minus the odd fourteen pounds, eighteen shillings and fourpence ha’penny. It is definitely a prize worth having. Indeed, men acting for the King and the Earl of Sandwich dug up half the Tower looking for seven thousand pounds recently, although they did not find it, more is the pity.’

Chaloner wondered whether Kelyng really had not made the connection between the two near-identical sums, or whether he was playing some sophisticated mental game. ‘Why is it a pity?’

Kelyng gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Even to ask such a question is treason! No man loyal to the King could hope he would miss a share of this treasure. It belonged to Barkstead, and it would have been a glorious irony to see his money in Charles’s pocket. I know what you are thinking.’

‘Do you?’ Chaloner sincerely hoped he did not. No man liked being considered a blithering idiot.

Kelyng nodded earnestly. ‘You think the seven bars of gold and Barkstead’s cache are one and the same, but you only need to apply a little logic to see they are not. The King paid Swanson for giving him the identities of the Seven, so there is no way Barkstead could have got his hands on that gold, because he was one of the men named.’

‘Swanson told the King their identities?’ Chaloner had been under the impression – from Robinson – that the arrangement had been made, but the information had never been delivered. ‘If His Majesty knows, then perhaps you could ask him about it, and save yourself some trouble.’

‘The message went astray in transit – I expect Thurloe intercepted it, as he intercepted so much else. So, the King never received the letter, although he was sufficiently confident of Swanson’s success to have paid him in advance.’

‘Who is Swanson? A courtier?’

‘Someone close to Cromwell. But I have not been able to ascertain whether Swanson was his real name or an alias. He is a hero, of course, for exposing the Seven.’

‘So it could be Thurloe,’ said Chaloner, to confuse him. Thurloe would never have betrayed Cromwell. ‘He was close to the Lord Protector.’

It was obviously something that had never occurred to Kelyng. His jaw dropped. ‘I hardly think … I cannot … But of course, it might! Lord, that would put me in an awkward position! I have vowed to destroy Thurloe, but I can hardly do that, if he was the man who foiled the Seven.’

‘You had a servant called Jones,’ said Chaloner, after several silent moments had passed.

‘Actually, his name was John Hewson,’ said Kelyng, dragging himself away from his thoughts. ‘You chased him into my garden, and he was killed. He had infiltrated my household, which was a stupid thing to do, given my views on regicide: he placed his head in the lion’s mouth, so to speak.’

‘Did you know he was a regicide when you employed him?’

Kelyng looked annoyed. ‘Of course not, or I would have had him executed. I found out when we took his body to the church and someone recognised it. I felt like an ass, I can tell you, especially since the missing eye was something of a giveaway. He told me he lost it fighting for the King, but he actually lost it crushing rebels in Ireland. I had to order Snow to burn the body, lest it was traced to me. But Hewson was a curious fellow. He kept asking whether people knew how to praise God. I think he was addled – the terror of being hunted drew him towards me in a perverse kind of way.’

Chaloner did not think so. Hewson had not seemed addled, and he suspected the man had known exactly what he had been doing. The more he thought about the facts, the more clear it became that Hewson was one of the Seven, and he had taken a post with Kelyng to assess how serious the threat was against its surviving members. It explained his message about the danger ‘for Seven’ with his dying breath, while ‘praise God’ was obviously some sort of code known only to him and his six colleagues. But Chaloner had reasoned that Hewson’s messages were intended for Thurloe. Did that mean Thurloe was a member of the Seven after all?

He smiled at Kelyng. ‘So, Hewson applied to you for employment, and you accepted him. You sent him to collect the satchel stolen by Snow and Storey, and Bennet stabbed him …’

‘Bennet said you did it, but it was his knife embedded in Hewson’s chest, and I can usually tell when he is lying. He was aiming for you, but missed, and did not want to admit to his ineptitude. It was a wretched nuisance, because I would have liked to ask Hewson what he thought he was doing, pretending to be a servant – and whether he knew anything about any of his fellow regicides. There are still a number of those unaccounted for, you know. Did he say anything to you before he died? I thought I heard him talking.’

‘Just religious exhortations.’

‘He was deranged,’ said Kelyng sadly. He cleared his throat. ‘Now, I cannot believe that a man of your obvious intelligence will refuse to hazard a guess at the Seven’s remaining members – other than Barkstead, Livesay and Thurloe. Share your thoughts with me, and you will be home with your turkey in an hour.’

Chaloner ruffled the cat’s fur, supposing the time for pleasant conversation was drawing to a close, and Kelyng was girding himself up to use rougher methods of persuasion.

‘Thurloe is not one of the Seven. But there are two other men who might bear investigation.’

Kelyng’s face lit up. ‘I knew a man close to the ex-Spymaster would be able to help me.’

‘This has nothing to do with Thurloe,’ said Chaloner doggedly, hoping Kelyng could not read his uncertainty. ‘And you will be wasting your time if you try to connect him with it. The men you should investigate are Hewson–’

‘But he is dead!’ cried Kelyng, disappointed.

Chaloner nodded. Kelyng could not hurt a corpse, which was why he had decided to share that particular suspicion. ‘And there is another possibility, but he will kill me if he finds out, and I–’

‘He will never know,’ promised Kelyng. ‘I swear on my soul, he will never know.’

Chaloner could tell he meant it. He had dealt with sly politicians and slippery diplomats aplenty, but this was the first time he had ever been obliged to treat with a zealot, and he was finding it a challenge.

‘Sir George Downing.’ This was pure malice on Chaloner’s part, although a man as devious and corrupt as Downing would suffer few ill effects from anything Kelyng might do. Still, it might inconvenience him, and that would be satisfaction in itself.

A slow smile spread across Kelyng’s face. ‘Downing. Of course! It makes perfect sense – a man once devoted to the Commonwealth, who changed sides when he saw his evil plotting could not keep Charles from his rightful place. A deceitful, cunning fellow, who only goes to church on Sundays – and talks through most of the service anyway. Thank you, Heyden. You have been very helpful.’

‘You are welcome.’

‘Downing,’ grinned Kelyng, delighted with the information. ‘I should have worked this out for myself, although one can never go wrong in seeking the help of a fellow liked by cats. Here is a silver crown for your cleverness. And a new wig will be sent to you as soon as I can have one made.’