A Conspiracy of Violence

Chapter 10

Chaloner was bemused when Kelyng drew the interview to a close and indicated that he was free to leave. He climbed the stairs cautiously, expecting Bennet to be lurking in the darkness with a dagger, but he reached the yard without incident and gazed up at the sky he had not expected to see again. As he did so, he saw Robinson and Dalton hurrying towards him. Dalton looked him up and down, before dabbing a clammy brow with his scented handkerchief. His hand shook, and Chaloner thought he looked as though he might be sick.

‘We heard Bennet had arrested you,’ said Robinson, rather accusingly. ‘How did you escape?’

‘Kelyng let me go. Why? What is the matter?’

‘One of the guards told Thurloe you had been detained, and he rushed to my house and ordered me to secure your immediate release,’ said Dalton. ‘Robinson and I have a certain influence over Kelyng, because we all attend St Clement Danes, and he wants to be elected churchwarden.’

‘Was Thurloe afraid I might reveal his secrets, then?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Actually, he was concerned about your well-being,’ said Dalton. ‘He would have come himself, but that might have made matters worse, so we sent him home. He will be relieved to see you safe.’

‘It is extremely distasteful having Kelyng in my Tower,’ said Robinson, before Chaloner could reply. ‘But the King wants him here, so that is that. I gave him the worst room I could get away with, but he simply redecorated it and seems determined to stay. What did he want with you?’

‘He asked about that story you told me a few days ago – the Seven.’

Robinson raised his eyebrows. ‘Why should he think you know anything about that?’

The sudden pallor of Dalton’s face had not escaped Chaloner’s attention. ‘He thought I might have heard rumours about its membership, so I made up a few names to confuse him. I told him yours. I hope you do not mind.’

‘Mine?’ asked Robinson, laughing. ‘Good! That will give the nosy little ferret something on which to waste his time, because he will find no treachery in my past. But, I see you are in no danger, so I shall return to my poor daughter. She has had some shocking news, and is prostrate with grief.’

‘You do not mean my name as well, do you?’ asked Dalton in a horrified whisper when Robinson had gone. ‘You told Kelyng I was one of the Seven?’

‘What can it matter, if you are innocent?’

‘But I am not innocent!’ said Dalton in the same strangled voice. ‘I am one of the Seven, and so is Thurloe. How could you chatter to Kelyng about matters you do not understand?’

Chaloner was sorry to learn he had been right. ‘Thurloe plotted to prevent Charles’s return?’

‘It was not in our interests to see the monarchy restored – not in our nation’s interests. And we were right. Look at the mess we are in: the King and his blood-sucking courtiers squander money we do not have, and the men who run the country should not have control of a barnyard.’

Chaloner was deeply disappointed in his old patron. ‘I thought Thurloe had more sense than to embroil himself in that sort of thing. It is treason.’

‘It would be treason now, but it was patriotic then. Cromwell was in charge, and we were fighting to keep the Commonwealth in place. Our actions were designed to support that government, and make it stable and secure.’ Dalton’s voice cracked. ‘You have killed me, Heyden.’

‘I did give Kelyng some names,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘But yours was not one of them, and neither was Thurloe’s. I told him to look at Hewson and Downing.’

‘Truly?’ Dalton dared to look relieved. ‘Thank God! Downing has nothing to do with the Seven. Hewson did, but he is beyond Kelyng’s spiteful vengeance. So, Kelyng does not suspect me at all?’

‘He suspects Barkstead, Livesay and Thurloe – and has now added Downing and Hewson to his list. Three of these are dead–’

‘Livesay is not dead,’ interrupted Dalton. ‘I do not know why everyone insists he is. I saw him. He was in disguise, having created a new existence for himself, but I recognised him nonetheless.’

‘What kind of disguise?’ Chaloner did not know whether to believe him.

‘He was dressed as a Nonconformist minister – all shabby black clothes and well-thumbed Bible – but he was wringing his hands in that odd way he has. He looked right at me and smiled. Why would anyone do that, if he were not Livesay?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘Nonconformists probably smile at everyone these days, in the hope that it will make people less inclined to harm them. The community near me is always being attacked.’

‘I am afraid Livesay has told … There is a secret, which he may have let slip to our enemies …’

‘What secret?’ asked Chaloner, watching him struggle with his emotions.

‘I will never reveal it,’ whispered Dalton. ‘But he may have done – to men who would see us hanged. Perhaps it was Livesay’s ghost I saw, come to haunt me, because of the wicked thing …’

‘You mean your murder of Mother Pinchon?’ asked Chaloner bluntly.

Dalton regarded him in horror. ‘How do you know that was me?’

‘Why did you kill her? She was no threat. She knew nothing about the Seven – only about some treasure Barkstead told her he was going to hide, but that he never did.’

Dalton was ashen. ‘She told Wade where to find seven thousand pounds. How long do you think it will be before Kelyng realises that Barkstead’s moveable wealth was worth almost twice that, and the sum Pinchon was urging Wade to locate has another significance?’

‘Barkstead’s godly golden goose,’ mused Chaloner. ‘Did he mean the seven bars of gold paid to Swanson, one for each of the Seven?’

Dalton nodded miserably. ‘I imagine so. Before she died, Pinchon told me how Barkstead had ordered her to take the message to Thurloe, but she was too frightened. The godly golden goose must have been his discreet way of referring to the blood money.’

‘How did Barkstead come to have it?’

‘I do not know he did have it – only that he was trying to pass a message to Thurloe about it.’

‘Then who is Swanson?’

Dalton shook his head. ‘I do not know the answer to that, either, although I can tell you he never passed the Seven’s names to the King, or I would not be standing here now.’

‘You, Thurloe, Barkstead, Livesay and Hewson,’ said Chaloner. ‘Who are the remaining two?’

‘You know too much already,’ said Dalton, edging away. ‘Downing was right: you are overly inquisitive. Stop prying into affairs that are none of your concern before you land us all in trouble.’

He turned and stalked towards the Lieutenant’s Lodgings. Chaloner watched him go, and wondered yet again whether it had been Dalton who had tried to kill him outside Ingoldsby’s house. If so, then there were two possible motives. The obvious one was that Dalton wanted to prevent him from drawing attention to the Seven with his questions. But another was that Dalton had not wanted him to talk to Ingoldsby. Was Ingoldsby one of the Seven? He was a regicide, after all, regardless of his current affiliations. Or was Ingoldsby actually Swanson, and had kept his own neck from the noose by offering to betray the Seven to the King?

There were far too many loose ends trailing in Chaloner’s head, and he desperately needed to sit somewhere quiet and consider them all. He looked around him, and his gaze fell on the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. The Tower was no place to linger, but he did not feel safe anywhere any more.

He opened the door and approached the chapel’s altar, staring at the ornate cross and its golden candlesticks without really seeing them. He placed his hands together and dropped to his knees when the door clanked and Snow walked in. The lout faltered when he saw what his quarry was doing, and withdrew for a muttered conversation with someone else. Then he returned to sit on a bench near the back, obviously under orders to keep watch. Chaloner saw no reason to allow Snow to distract him from his deliberations, especially since the man seemed loath to make a hostile move while his target was in a church. He ignored the shuffling, bored presence behind him, and began to think about what he had learned.

First, the treasure that Barkstead – with Mother Pinchon’s help – had packed into butter firkins had been worth thirteen thousand pounds, not seven. Seven thousand pounds was the sum promised to Swanson for unveiling the Seven, of which Barkstead was one. Chaloner thought about the message Barkstead had asked Pinchon to deliver to Thurloe, and the more he considered the ‘godly golden goose’, the more he became certain that it referred to the bars, and that the butter-firkin wealth had never been part of the story.

Second, there had been a traitor in Cromwell’s court. The man had called himself Swanson, but Kelyng believed – and Chaloner concurred – that it was probably a false identity. Spymaster Thurloe’s monitoring of letters entering and leaving England had been thorough, and it was unlikely the traitor would have risked using his own name – unless Swanson was Thurloe himself, of course. Robinson claimed to have seen ‘Swanson’ once – ‘a young fellow with the voice of an angel’ – but Thurloe had tended to use spies as messengers, and was unlikely to have visited the King himself with an offer to expose his fellow plotters. Simon Lane had sung, so perhaps it was he who Robinson had seen. And then what? Thurloe had accepted the gold, but declined to reveal the names? Kelyng, Dalton and Robinson were all certain the King had never been told the identities of the Seven.

Third, Hewson was a member of the Seven. He had been a regicide, like Barkstead, so it was certainly in his interests to see the King kept from the throne – as soon as Charles had been reinstated, Hewson had been condemned to death at a trial during his absence. He would have been terrified, and desperate to know what Kelyng had discovered about the Seven, so he had devised a plan to find out. He had been killed accidentally by Bennet, but had confided his real name to the man dispatched by Thurloe to retrieve a stolen satchel.

But how could Hewson have known that Chaloner was Thurloe’s man? Chaloner reflected, and saw the answer was obvious. Hewson would have guessed that Snow and Storey had been followed, and that it was an agent of Thurloe’s who grabbed the bag before it could be passed to Kelyng. But why had Hewson been taking the bag to Kelyng in the first place? The answer to that was obvious, too: Hewson had known there was nothing in it that could harm Thurloe. But that had another implication in its turn: it meant Hewson knew enough about Thurloe’s operations to make such an assumption, which led Chaloner to suspect that Thurloe had been aware of what Hewson was doing, too.

Chaloner thought about what had happened in Kelyng’s garden. The regicide had been confident and self-assured once the initial shock of being challenged had receded, and had known exactly what he was doing when he had whispered his last words. He had spoken his name, so Thurloe would know what had happened to him – a wise decision, since Kelyng had then burned the corpse to prevent identification – and ‘praise God’s one son’ had been another message. The more Chaloner pondered the phrase, the more certain he became that Thurloe knew what it meant. Should he ask him, or would that be dangerous?

Lastly, he considered the Seven. Barkstead and Hewson were dead, Livesay missing, and Thurloe and Dalton trying to stay one step ahead of Kelyng, although Dalton was crumbling under the strain. He thought about Lee’s parchment, and the ends of the words that had included reference to ‘seven’ and ‘praise God’. He smiled as something else became clear. The first few lines were the ends of names. He pulled the paper from his pocket and supplied the blanks:

e = Thurloe

d = Barkstead

y = Livesay

on = Hewson or Dalton

So, who were the last two? There had been a dozen executions since Charles’s coronation, so perhaps they were already dead, and Kelyng’s hunt was in vain. And perhaps ‘Swanson’ was sitting with his gold, enjoying the benefits of his betrayal. Did Thurloe have that sort of money? Chaloner supposed that if he did, he would be careful how he spent it. He was far too clever to make such an elementary mistake. And why had he sent Dalton to rescue Chaloner from Kelyng? Was it affection, as Dalton claimed? Chaloner did not think so. Thurloe had denied knowing about the Seven, and had virtually ordered Chaloner not to investigate Barkstead’s hoard. It had been self-preservation that had prompted Thurloe to arrange his old agent’s release, afraid he might have learned enough to be a liability. It was disappointing, but Chaloner supposed he should not be surprised that an ex-Spymaster still involved himself in plots and intrigues, despite his claims to the contrary.

There were no more answers, and the only thing of which Chaloner was certain was that he felt more vulnerable in London than he had ever done in Holland, an English spy in an enemy country. He stood and walked outside, watching Snow snap awake as he undid the door.

For some time, he had been aware of yells coming from the bailey, but since the open space was used for military drills, he had thought little of it. The hollering had faded, and there was now nothing but silence. It was deserted, too, without a person in sight. Chaloner started to walk across it, aiming for the gate. He was passing the White Tower when he heard an urgent shout. Wade was racing along the top of a nearby wall, gesticulating frantically, and when Chaloner followed the direction of his jabbing finger, he saw a pale brown shadow. Sonya was on the loose again.

Since the lion was between him and the barbican, Chaloner set off towards the Traitors’ Gate again, feeling uncomfortably exposed in the middle of such a large expanse of ground. He glanced behind him and saw he was not alone: Bennet was also out, sword drawn. Snow joined his colleague, and bellowed to catch the lion’s attention. Bennet then ran a few steps in Chaloner’s direction, urging Sonya to follow. Chaloner was puzzled, wondering what they intended to do.

‘Stop!’ yelled Wade in a hoarse scream. ‘Do not attract his attention. He has not been fed.’

Snow ignored him and broke into a sprint, while the lion trotted after him with its ears pricked, indicating it was interested. Meanwhile, Bennet circled behind it, shouting and slapping his sword on his boot. Gradually, both men and the lion came closer to Chaloner, who was walking steadily towards the gate, fighting the impulse to run. He glanced behind him and saw the lion veer to one side, but Bennet immediately drove it back on its original course. Chaloner tried to move faster.

Meanwhile, Wade was still atop the wall. He bent across it, exhorting them to leave Sonya’s capture to the keeper, who knew what he was doing. It had not occurred to him that Bennet and Snow were deliberately driving the beast towards a victim. When they failed to acknowledge him, he leaned out farther. Suddenly his legs flew up behind him and he cartwheeled to the ground. He landed so close to Chaloner that one of his flailing hands clipped the agent’s shoulder. When Chaloner glanced up at the wall-walk, he caught a glimpse of someone running away. Keeping a wary eye on the lion, he crouched next to Wade, although he could see there was nothing he could do: it had been a long drop and Wade had fallen awkwardly. Wade muttered something, then lay still.

‘God’s blood!’ exclaimed Snow, gazing upwards. ‘Did you see that? It was– Hey! Watch it!’

Sonya had swiped at him, and its claws were caught in his coat. The lion struggled to free itself, and Snow staggered away. Bennet raced forward and poked the animal with his sword, forcing Sonya away from Snow and towards Chaloner again. His face wore a triumphant grin.

‘This is not wise,’ called Chaloner. They were now in an elongated enclosure, with the Bloody Tower at one end, and Bennet, Snow and the lion at the other. Chaloner was in the middle. The gate through which he had escaped with Evett was blocked with a portcullis, presumably to confine Sonya to the bailey. ‘It is just as likely to attack you as me.’

‘But we have swords,’ Bennet pointed out. ‘And we know how to handle Sonya.’

‘Kelyng will not be pleased,’ warned Chaloner. ‘First, he has asked me to investigate something for him; and second, I do not think he would approve of you maltreating an animal.’

‘Kelyng is no longer important,’ said Bennet tautly. ‘He hunts the King’s enemies, but wants them tried in a court of law, when it is better to kill them. He has lost his way, but I have not. Besides, this beast escapes all the time, and it is unfortunate you will be savaged before it can be recaptured.’

‘We are abandoning Kelyng to follow our own path,’ added Snow, lest Chaloner had not understood. ‘Me and the men want a strong leader – and besides, Mr Bennet said he would pay us double.’

‘Do you think Fanny will accept you if you make a name for yourself in rebel-hunting?’ asked Chaloner in distaste. ‘I doubt she will change her mind, no matter how many “traitors” you murder.’

Bennet shrugged. ‘She will have to marry someone, and there are not many who will take her now she carries a dead man’s child.’

‘Lee’s?’ asked Chaloner. Several facts snapped together in his mind. ‘Did you shoot Lee – to eliminate a rival? That will not make her love you. Robinson said she is grief-stricken.’

‘She is not in a position to be choosy. It will not be long before I prove myself Kelyng’s superior in every way, and Robinson will be only too grateful to have me as his son-in-law.’

‘When you killed Lee, who was with him?’

Bennet shrugged. ‘A couple. My argument was not with them, so I let them live.’

Chaloner saw he had been wrong: Lee’s death had nothing to do with Barkstead’s treasure, but his meeting with the ‘couple’ had, as attested by the fact that he had been holding a document containing a list of the Seven. Were they Ingoldsby and his wife? But why would they run away and leave their kinsman’s body to be discovered by someone else? Robinson and Fanny? But Chaloner recalled Fanny’s eager happiness as she waited for her lover to pay her a birthday visit: she would not have done that had she known he was dead. Dalton and Sarah? That certainly held all manner of possibilities, since Dalton’s own name was on the list snatched from Lee’s dead hand.

‘Who killed Storey?’ asked Snow, waving his sword when Sonya moved towards Wade’s body. ‘If you tell me her name, I will …’ He trailed off. There was really very little he could offer, since Bennet clearly had no intention of sparing his victim.

‘I do not think Kelyng will be easy to depose,’ said Chaloner, taking several steps away while Sonya was preoccupied. ‘It has nothing to do with personality or suitability, but with resources: he is wealthier than you.’

Bennet made a lunge that frightened Sonya away from Wade and back towards the agent. ‘He will have an accident when he goes to feed your bird. And your pet will fall foul of a blade, too. Fanny likes turkey meat, and it will be a good way to begin courting her again.’

Sonya gave a low growl. Its tale swished this way and that, and its eyes held a wild, opaque look. When its head gave a curious twitch, Chaloner saw it was definitely one of its bad days. He backed away until he reached the portcullis, then began to ascend the metal-studded framework. Snow poked the lion with his sword. It trotted forward and made a half-hearted swipe at Chaloner that missed, then padded off in the opposite direction. Bennet yelled and banged his dagger against the wall. Alarmed by the noise, Sonya veered back towards the gate. Chaloner continued to climb, but the portcullis was not high enough to keep him out of claw range. Bennet struck Sonya with the flat of his sword. The lion roared its outrage, and turned in a tight circle.

‘In a moment, it will lose what vestiges of reason it has left,’ said Bennet, his face split in a savage smile. ‘And you will be ripped from the gate and torn limb from limb. It happened to one of His Majesty’s measurers of cloth only yesterday.’

‘If you tell us the name of the wench, I will call the beast to heel,’ offered Snow unconvincingly.

Chaloner began to tire of the game. ‘This has gone far enough. Stop, before you are hurt.’

‘Sonya would not dare touch us,’ said Snow, although he shot the animal an uneasy glance.

‘It is exactly the kind of inept scheme I would expect from men who have never heard of St Thomas à Becket,’ Chaloner went on, disgusted with them both. ‘Back off, while you can.’

‘It is all right,’ said Snow sympathetically, when Bennet’s jaw dropped in astonishment at the insult. ‘I do not know this so-called saint, either.’

Bennet’s expression was dangerous. He jabbed Sonya. ‘Don’t you dare accuse me of stupidity.’

The lion’s tail was twitching faster. It stood on its hind legs and swiped, catching a claw in Chaloner’s boot and almost dragging him down. He saw yellow teeth, chipped and broken, and recalled its heavy body when it had jumped on him before. He jerked his foot away, and Bennet darted forward to jab the hapless beast again. Sonya dropped to all fours and snapped round to face him.

‘Do not run,’ advised Chaloner, knowing what would happen if he did. He saw men converge at the far end of the enclosure. ‘The keeper is coming. Back away, before it is too late.’

‘Hey!’ shouted Bennet, as the sword was knocked from his hand by a powerful paw.

‘Stand still,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘And do not make–’

Bennet took three rapid steps backwards before turning to flee. Sonya tensed, and then its huge body hurtled through the air to land in the middle of Bennet’s back, sending him crashing to the ground.

‘–any sudden moves,’ finished Chaloner, looking away.

That evening, Metje escaped early from her duties by claiming she did not feel safe with the turkey roaming the house, and asked permission to spend the night with a friend. North had refused at first, on the grounds that it was already dark, but then Chaloner had arrived – invited by Temperance to taste her new batch of knot biscuits – and Metje had asked him to escort her.

‘This is decent of you, Heyden,’ said North gratefully. ‘I cannot countenance a woman going out alone at this time of night, but I have been uneasy every since that villain attacked me with his gun, and I do not want to be out there myself. He may recognise me and try it again.’

‘Can I come?’ asked Temperance eagerly. ‘I do not like the turkey, either.’

‘Next time,’ replied Metje gently. ‘It would be unfair for us both to arrive at my friend’s home unannounced.’

Temperance’s face fell, but she managed a smile. ‘Please arrange it, then. I am bored with spending every evening at home or at chapel.’

‘Child!’ admonished North. ‘Think about what you say. Your poor brother would be saddened to hear you speak so. What else would you be doing on a winter evening?’

‘The theatre would be nice,’ replied Temperance wistfully. ‘Or, if those are too full of sin, then a night of music, or perhaps a visit to Mr Heyden’s rooms to play cards.’

‘Play cards?’ echoed Faith, shocked. She gazed at Chaloner as though he had put the idea into her daughter’s head. ‘But that would entail gambling!’

‘I do not own any cards,’ said Chaloner, not wanting to be considered a source of vice. He tried to think of something innocuous to offer as an alternative. ‘But I will read Hobbes’s Leviathan to you.’

A wary silence greeted his offer. ‘Do you have nothing else?’ asked North eventually. ‘I have seen that book, and it is awfully thick. We will be listening to you for months, and it is dull stuff.’

‘Seditious, too,’ said Faith accusingly. ‘You are trying to corrupt us.’

‘We should be on our way or Mrs Partridge will be abed before I arrive,’ said Metje, after Chaloner had suggested several safe alternatives that included Gratian’s Decretum (in Latin) and a collection of erudite essays entitled Sophistic Recollections. ‘We should let Temperance select one of these fascinating epistles, since she was the one who suggested the diversion. Chose well, though, dear. An evening is a long time in winter, and we shall rely on you to see us all pleasantly entertained.

Temperance was perturbed. ‘Lord! Perhaps I will ask Preacher Hill to lend us something instead. He has some books in his room.’

‘Religious ones,’ said Chaloner dismissively, before it occurred to him that the Puritans would probably prefer them to philosophy or legal texts.

‘His room?’ pounced Faith, eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know?’

‘He told me about them,’ said Metje quickly, earning a grateful smile from Temperance. ‘Where is the turkey? Is it safe to leave through the front door?’

‘It is in the kitchen eating nuts,’ replied North resentfully. ‘We shall have nothing left soon.’

Once away from the North house, when he was sure Temperance was not watching from her window, Chaloner grabbed Metje’s hand and pulled her up the stairs to his room, wanting to give her the gifts he had purchased. She was delighted, and they ate some of them sitting on the floor in front of the fire. Then, since he still had Kelyng’s silver crown, she declared Temperance’s musings had put her in the mood for a play, so he took her to see The Villain by Thomas Porter at the Duke’s House in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He fell asleep during the second act, although she was captivated until the closing curtain. After, they returned to his rooms, and he played Dutch folksongs on his viol.

Metje seemed happier than she had been in days, and confided that her ill temper had arisen from the fact that she had not known whether he would be pleased or angry with the news of the baby. He stroked her hair while she told him how the turkey had stood defiantly in the sitting room that morning, daring anyone to lay a hand on it while it gobbled its way though a bowl of chestnuts. North had responded by going to buy a chicken – a dead one – so they would at least have something to eat in the event of a postponed execution.

‘He thinks you might be persuaded to dispatch it,’ she said with a giggle. ‘When I asked him why, he said he thought you might like to redeem yourself after losing his burglar the other night.’

‘I am not killing it,’ said Chaloner sleepily. ‘He can do it himself, if he wants to eat it that badly.’

‘If you will not oblige, he says he will hire the Tower’s executioner. Sir John Robinson said that man will kill anything for a shilling. Mr North will devour a roasted bird tomorrow, regardless of whether or not you accede to his request.’

‘Poor turkey,’ said Chaloner.

‘You are sorry for a turkey? Is it because you spent time with Kelyng, and his fondness for dumb creatures rubbed off on you? Tell me the tale again – from the beginning.’

‘Not tonight,’ said Chaloner, aware of what happened when an untrue story was told more than once: inconsistencies crept in, and he did not want her to catch him in even the smallest of lies.

‘It is a bad idea to keep a menagerie in a castle. The King should send the animals back to where they came from – especially the lions. Those tiny cages are cruel.’

He regarded her in surprise. ‘You have seen them?’

She nodded. ‘One Saturday, when you were off on some mysterious jaunt, and the Norths were at chapel. Will Bennet die, do you think – like that poor man Wade, who fell from the wall?’

‘No, although his days as chamberlain are over. Kelyng was furious when he learned what had happened. He is fond of Sonya – probably recognises a kindred spirit in its damaged mind.’

She twisted around to look at him. ‘It was not Kelyng who invited you to the Tower, was it? I would not like to think you were so desperate for work you that would take Bennet’s place.’

He shuddered, genuinely appalled. ‘God forbid! When I meet people like Kelyng, I understand why gentler souls have taken a stand against his brand of militancy.’

‘What are you talking about?’

He shrugged, and wished he had not mentioned it. ‘There is a certain society that preaches against fanaticism. But let’s not talk about religion tonight. It is Christmas.’

‘But Christmas is …’ She saw he was laughing at her, and slapped him on the knee before settling again. ‘So, you bought me a brush for my hair. Do you think it a tangled mane, then? I always imagined you considered it rather beautiful, like a painting by Rubens.’

He smiled, thinking about what Sarah Dalton had thought of the old Dutch Master. ‘You are not fat enough to be one of his subjects.’

‘It is nice in here with you tonight, Tom – quiet, safe and warm. I wish it could last.’

‘It will,’ he said. ‘We have the rest of our lives together.’

‘Yes,’ she said, but her voice was wistful and held no conviction. ‘I suppose we do.’

On Christmas morning, Chaloner rose hours before dawn and scrambled over the wall to the back door of North’s house, hoping there would be no repetition of the furore that had ensued the last time he had done it. He fiddled with the lock, working quickly and silently in the darkness. When the door was open, the turkey marched past him, its head held high, as though it had business of its own planned for that day. Then he returned to his rooms before Metje realised he had been gone.

He insisted on walking with her to the chapel, claiming he did not care if North saw them. He pointed out that it was only a question of time before she could no longer conceal what was happening to her, while she maintained she would rather inform North herself than be seen stalking brazenly out of his neighbour’s bedchamber. Chaloner felt his spirits soar, making plans and thinking about the pleasant changes the future would bring.

‘Marry me today,’ he said, taking her hands and stepping inside the chapel’s dark porch. ‘We can ride to Buckingham tomorrow, and Meg can be born on my family’s manor.’

She smiled, although there was a sadness that should not have been there. He understood her unease: she was past thirty, and the two boys from her previous marriage had died in infancy. ‘I thought you wanted to be a London clerk.’

Chaloner thought about his unsettling interview with Kelyng, Bennet driving lions at him, Snow blasting away with pistols, horsemen with swords and Robert Leybourn challenging him to duels, and realised he no longer wanted the life of a spy. Suddenly, nothing seemed as important as Metje and the spark of life inside her. Thurloe and Clarendon would not miss him, and he certainly would not miss them. In fact, ever since he had chased after Thurloe’s empty satchel, events had spiralled out of his control, and he no longer wanted any part of them.

‘My brother will give us a few fields,’ he said. ‘And I can teach.’

‘But I do not want to be a farmer’s wife, thinking about chickens and pickled apples. I want to shop in busy markets, see plays and watch the King go riding. I would suffocate in the country.’

‘Then I will ask Dalton if he can find me something more permanent.’

‘You said you had already spoken to him,’ she pounced accusingly.

‘I mean I will ask again,’ he prevaricated.

She looked hard at him, then relented. ‘Meanwhile, I can earn a little more before Mr North realises he has harboured a harlot all these months. And then I will marry you.’

‘Chaloner,’ he said suddenly. ‘My name is Thomas Chaloner. My uncle was a regicide, and I worked as an intelligence officer under Spymaster Thurloe. That is what I was doing in Holland – gathering potentially damaging information about your country.’

She gazed at him. ‘So I was right when I accused you of underhand activities? You really are a spy?’

Chaloner pressed on with his confession, wanting to finish now he had started. ‘I sent weekly reports to Thurloe, telling him all I had learned about the movements of Dutch ships, militia and arms. Although I worked for Downing, Thurloe was my real master. He secured me a post with the Lord Chancellor on Monday, although I am not sure how long I can keep it. These are the reasons I go out at odd hours, and why I have never been able to tell you what I do.’

She continued to stare. ‘Is it dangerous?’

He shrugged, then nodded. ‘My family sided with Cromwell during the wars, and my regicide uncle was passionate about the cause, so most Royalists would be extremely suspicious of a Chaloner once employed by Thurloe. One day, there will have been enough bloodletting, but now there are still too many people who would like to punish me for what my uncle did.’

She sighed. ‘Is that all? I thought it was something terrible – you had another wife or were an escaped felon. But you are just a spy and the nephew of a king-killer?’

He wondered whether she was being facetious. ‘You do not mind?’

‘I mind you not trusting me sooner. But I must go, and we shall talk about this later. Kiss me, then go to see Dalton – or demand more work from Thurloe.’

‘I cannot work for Thurloe. It is unreasonable for him to assign me an investigation and then only give me half the facts. It might see me killed, and I want to see Meg born.’

She regarded him soberly. ‘If Thurloe offers you the best opportunity, you should take it. If it proves to be risky, then you will just have to be careful.’

He was startled. ‘That is rather callous advice.’

‘I shall be making sacrifices, too – such as giving up a life I love. Faith believes a wife’s place is in her own home, and will never condone me leaving mine to sit with Temperance.’

To Chaloner, such considerations paled into insignificance when he considered what they would gain. He kissed her with a wild, happy passion that left her breathless, then laughed as he released her, grateful to have shed his burden at last and pleasantly surprised she was not angry about it. He would not have been so sanguine, had she announced that she had been spying on his country.

The door clanked, and Metje flew away from him. North stood there, Faith and Temperance behind him. Temperance beamed at Chaloner, and did not seem to think there was anything odd in him being in a dark porch at such an hour. Faith did, though, and Chaloner watched her face crease with concern when it occurred to her that he might have been lying in wait for her daughter.

‘God’s blessings, Thomas,’ she said in a voice that was far from benedictory. ‘You are up early.’

Chaloner was tempted to announce that he was on his way to fight a duel in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and that, assuming he survived, he and Metje would marry. He also experienced a strong desire to describe how he intended to tell Thurloe to find another fool to investigate Clarke’s death, but that he still planned to locate some treasure for the Lord Chancellor, in the hope that it would eventually see him sent to The Hague. Holland would be a safer place for his new family, and Metje would not spend her life in fear of an attack by people who detested Dutch Puritans. But he was not in the habit of acting on reckless whims, and settled for nodding agreement.

‘Why are you here?’ demanded Faith suspiciously. ‘To see Temperance?’

‘Are you?’ asked Temperance, eyes shining with pleasure.

Before he could think of a reply that would mollify one and not hurt the other, the door clanked a second time, and Preacher Hill entered, resplendent in a large white collar and a new hat.

‘God’s greetings,’ he boomed. ‘Killed the turkey yet? They need a lot of roasting, so if you plan to eat it today, it should be in the oven already. I am something of an expert on turkey meat, and–’

‘Well?’ demanded Faith, cutting across him and glaring at Chaloner.

‘Mr Heyden has been very kind,’ said Metje, stepping forward to smile at Faith. ‘He was worried about me walking from Mrs Partridge’s house in the dark this morning, and came to accompany me. Then he refused to leave until you arrived, and he knew I was safe from bomb-throwers and window-breakers.’

North nodded his thanks, then pointed upwards. ‘Another pane was smashed last night, and it is only a matter of time before a person is hurt. It is good of you to be solicitous, Heyden.’

‘It is a pity you were not as determined with that burglar,’ remarked Faith unpleasantly. ‘You should have dragged him back to face the justice of my gun.’

‘He is so brave with the ladies, but a rank coward with felons,’ sneered Hill. ‘He has designs on their virtue, no doubt. Gentle Puritan women are considered fair game these days, among his kind.’

‘His kind?’ asked Faith in alarm. She clenched her fists, and Chaloner took a step away from her.

‘Catholics,’ said Hill in a low, vicious whisper that hissed around the chapel.

‘I thought you were Anglican,’ said North, regarding Chaloner uneasily. ‘Perhaps you should join us for our morning service, and we shall pray for your release from the tyranny of Rome.’

‘He has an appointment with his Anglican priest,’ said Metje. ‘He is going to ring the bells.’

North wrung his hands unhappily. ‘Bells are Roman fripperies. But we must be about our business, or the congregation will arrive and we shall be all confusion. Good day, Heyden.’

Chaloner left, disconcerted by Faith’s simmering hostility, and took a series of shortcuts to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Despite the fact that he was slowly losing the favour of the family that paid him a regular income, there was a spring in his step and he sang to himself. His daughter would be born in the summer, when the sun shone and the days were hot and sultry, and each year they would celebrate her birth with a feast under a shady tree.

Lincoln’s Inn Fields comprised a substantial expanse of land, some laid down to agriculture, but most left wild or as grazing for cattle. It was the haunt of robbers during the hours of darkness, and was used by turbulent men to gain satisfaction at daybreak. Thurloe once wrote in a letter to Chaloner that he often heard firearms discharged or the clang of steel as the first tendrils of dawn appeared.

Chaloner reached the place where Robert Leybourn had suggested they meet, and set himself to wait – dawn was still some way off. The trees were winter-bare and dusted with frost, and although the snow had not settled on the streets, it had done better on the grass, and lay in gauzy sheets. It made the ground slippery, and Chaloner knew he would have to watch his footing when he fought. Eventually, he saw a shadow moving towards him, so he stepped into deeper shadows. It was William Leybourn, looking terrified. When Chaloner emerged from his hiding place, the bookseller jumped in alarm.

‘Where is your brother?’ asked Chaloner, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, and ready to react immediately if Leybourn informed him he was taking his sibling’s place.

Leybourn gave a sheepish grin. ‘I slipped a dose of something in his wine last night, and he is now sleeping so soundly that his wife is alarmed. But better the sleep of Lethe than the sleep of death, which is what he would be doing if he crossed blades with you.’

‘You said he was a good swordsman. He may have won.’

‘He would not, and you know it. He has a hot temper and regrets challenging you, but he is not a coward. He was determined to see the matter through. But his boy is not yet a year old, and I refuse to see him grow up without a father, not over such a petty quarrel.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner, thinking of his own circumstances. ‘That would be a pity.’

Leybourn swallowed uneasily, and took a deep breath. ‘Are you going to insist honour is satisfied with me, or can we agree to forget the matter like civilised men?’

‘That depends. Will you answer some questions?’

‘What sort of questions?’

‘About the Brotherhood, mostly.’

Leybourn seemed relieved, and Chaloner wondered what sort of interrogation he had anticipated. ‘All right. We will talk about the Brotherhood, and then I want this spat forgotten – no resurrecting it if Rob annoys you in the future. The Brotherhood then. Ask away.’

‘How long has Robert been a participant?’

Leybourn thought carefully. ‘For about a year.’

‘How many members are there?’

‘Thirteen or fourteen. There were others, but it was founded many years ago, and some of the originals have died – natural deaths, before you jump to the wrong conclusions.’

‘What is its purpose?’ Chaloner did not point out that Barkstead’s death was hardly natural, and neither were Hewson’s, Clarke’s or Wade’s.

‘To promote moderation and tolerance – nothing sinister. But you know that already.’

‘Then why the secrecy?’

‘Because some of its most powerful members – men like Downing and Robinson – maintain it will have a greater impact if it keeps out of the public view. People are more likely to resist an openly vocal group, than a string of individuals all saying the same thing. Or so they say.’

‘Name the other members.’

‘Lord, Heyden! You certainly expect your pound of flesh! You must never tell Rob what I did today – he may forgive me for drugging him, but revealing the confidences of his friends is another matter entirely.’ He saw Chaloner’s cool expression. ‘All right, names. I have mentioned Downing and Robinson, and you know about my brother. Dear Thomas Wade is also a member, while two men named Livesay and Hewson are dead.’

‘They were regicides,’ said Chaloner, not mentioning that Wade should also be counted among the late members. ‘Dangerous characters with whom to form an alliance. Who else?’

‘A Puritan called North, who thinks the world would be a better place if everyone prayed more. A stupid soldier called Evett, who wants to rule the navy. Ingoldsby, on the other hand, owns a deadly deviousness – like Downing – and is Cromwell’s cousin, so not to be trusted. Then there is a vintner called Dalton, who has a pretty wife – Sarah.’

‘Is she a member?’

‘Do not be ridiculous – she is a woman. And those are all I know. I am not a member myself, do not forget. Just the brother of one.’

‘You do not believe in moderation and tolerance?’

‘Of course. But I do not think it will be achieved by throwing in my lot with regicides, greedy merchants, devious diplomats and brainless soldiers.’

‘What about Thurloe? You did not mention him.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Leybourn, as if he did not matter. ‘And John Thurloe.’

‘I think I will demand to see your brother. You reneged on your side of the bargain by lying.’

‘I have not,’ said Leybourn indignantly. ‘I just forgot to mention someone. You cannot kill Rob over a slip of my mind.’

‘Thurloe is a man of considerable presence, worth all these others put together. He is not easily overlooked, as I am sure you know only too well.’

‘I do not know what you mean.’

‘Come on, Leybourn. I know you are his spy, just as you know I am.’

The bookseller looked as though he would argue, but saw the harsh expression on Chaloner’s face and thought better of it. ‘How did you guess?’ he asked in a voice full of resignation.

‘You made several mistakes. First, I claimed to be distressed when I saw Lee’s murdered body, and you said I should be used to it. You should not have known anything about what I had experienced in the past, so it was obvious someone had told you: Thurloe.’

‘That is not true!’ declared Leybourn. ‘You have no evidence to–’

‘Second, London is a large city, and before last Friday, we were strangers. But, over the past few days, we have met in the street, in shops, and I even spotted you watching my room from the chamber Thurloe rents in the Golden Lion. And did you enjoy the play last night?’

‘It was dire,’ said Leybourn, capitulating with poor grace. ‘I credited you with more taste.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Metje said it was the best thing she had ever seen, so one of you is wrong. Perhaps we should ask Thurloe to decide. He might even give us an honest answer for once.’

‘Please do not tell him you smoked me out,’ said Leybourn sulkily. ‘You obviously care nothing for his good opinion, but I do. For some unaccountable reason, he likes you, Chaloner. Why do you think I was told to follow you? Because he was concerned for you after your encounter with Kelyng.’

‘I suppose he told you my real name, too? He has been rather free with it of late. But never mind him, tell me about the day we met. Your appearance outside Kelyng’s house was no accident.’

‘I was posted there, because Thurloe had anticipated the satchel would be stolen – he had agents in place all across the city, since he did not know which of his enemies would be responsible. I saw Snow and Storey arrive, and then I watched you follow Hewson inside Kelyng’s garden. At the time, I had no way of knowing whether you had been sent by Thurloe or were one of his foes. I manoeuvred my way towards you, and … well, we became friends.’

‘Friends?’ Chaloner did not think so.

‘Colleagues, then. Why do you think I told Kelyng you owned a turkey? I was protecting a fellow spy. And I still have the book you sold me. I will not sell it – I will keep it until you can pay me back, no matter how long it takes. A man should never part with books, and I could see you did not like doing it.’

Chaloner relented slightly. It was a generous offer. ‘You asked a lot of questions that first day.’

Leybourn’s grin was rueful. ‘And you answered none of them properly. But what happens now? Shall we work together, to find out what Kelyng plans for Thurloe?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘I intend to break with him today, and concentrate on persuading the government to send me to Holland with my family. I want no more to do with Thurloe and his lies.’

‘You will upset him if you phrase your resignation like that,’ said Leybourn unhappily. ‘He has always been more fond of you than the rest of us – perhaps because of your uncle.’

‘My uncle,’ said Chaloner bitterly. ‘Will I never be free of the man?’

It was still early – there was not the slightest gleam of silver in the sky – and Chaloner did not feel inclined to hammer on Lincoln’s Inn’s gate until one of the porters woke to let him inside. The foundation was surrounded by a high wall, but this was no obstacle to a man who had made a career out of finding ways inside places that wanted to exclude him. He selected a spot where the bricks were old and crumbling, and was over it in no time at all. He was surprised to find armed men prowling the grounds, but put their presence down to an increased concern about burglars – crime rates always rose when villains knew there was a good chance their victims would be out at church, and Christmas Day was an important religious festival. But it was not difficult to evade the guards in the darkness, and he reached Dial Court unchallenged.

He was about to walk up the stairs and knock at Chamber XIII, when he saw a shadow cross Thurloe’s sitting room window – a shape too bulky to be the ex-Spymaster. Chaloner hesitated, then went to stand under it, listening intently. A rumble of voices told him Thurloe had more than one visitor. Curious, he began to climb the wall outside, using cracks in the masonry to pull himself upwards. It was not long before he had ascended high enough to look in.

The usual fire was burning in the hearth, but Thurloe was not in his favourite chair. Sarah sat in it, eyes on a book that lay open on her knees. Thurloe was at the table, a man on either side of him, and all three heads were bent in earnest conversation. Chaloner took a firm grip on the sill and eased into a position where he could see them better. On Thurloe’s right was Ingoldsby, his jowls quivering as he devoured nuts from a bowl. Opposite was Dalton, pale and nervous.

Chaloner took his dagger and inserted it in the window frame, jiggling it until he had eased it open. He jerked out of sight when Sarah glanced up, then pushed it open a little wider when she turned her attention back to her reading.

‘So, we are agreed,’ Thurloe was saying. ‘You do nothing, and I will resolve the matter.’

‘No, we are not agreed!’ said Dalton in a furious whisper. ‘I do not agree.’

Thurloe made a placatory gesture to indicate the vintner was to calm himself. ‘If you become any more agitated, you will not need Tom Chaloner to give you away – you will do it yourself.’

Ingoldsby tossed almonds into his mouth. ‘You are worrying over nothing, Dalton. Kelyng is too stupid to reason sense into the mass of disparate facts he has unearthed, and you have already murdered that poor old woman – to cover tracks that did not exist.’

‘You should not have done that,’ said Thurloe, and Chaloner knew from the way his eyes bored into Dalton that he was angry about it. ‘It was totally unnecessary.’

‘It was totally stupid, too,’ said Ingoldsby, scoffing more nuts. ‘It was the needless murder of Pinchon that led Chaloner to draw the conclusions he did. Thurloe is right: we should leave this to him – he knows what he is doing, and you most certainly do not.’

‘I will not rest easy until Chaloner is dead,’ protested Dalton. ‘I should have put a knife in him at the Tower, but Robinson was watching. I knew I could not trust Bennet to see him quietly dispatched.’

Thurloe was livid. ‘Are you saying it was your idea to let the lion out? God’s grace, man! It might have savaged anyone. What were you thinking of?’

Dalton was unrepentant. ‘Bennet told me at a Royal Foundation conclave at St Paul’s on Thursday how he had almost killed Chaloner when he let the lion loose before – he had tied ropes across stairs and all sorts – so I asked him to try it again. I was in a panic, and did not think Wade would end up falling to his death. I am sorry. What more can I say?’

‘You are sorry?’ echoed Thurloe, appalled. ‘I–’

‘The Royal Foundation?’ interrupted Ingoldsby, cutting across him in horror. ‘Are you telling me Bennet is a member of the Royal Foundation? Ye gods! I thought it was an organisation that enrolled respectable men. We sit in company with the Queen, for Christ’s sake. I shall resign if he has been elected.’

Dalton grimaced. ‘His coins are silver, just like yours, and he was desperate to join us. But never mind him – I am more concerned with Chaloner. We are in danger as long as he lives. He tricked me into exposing my membership of the Seven, but he already knew about Thurloe’s.’

Thurloe rubbed his eyes. ‘Time is passing, and you should be on your way. Do as I say, Dalton, or I will go to Kelyng and tell him everything myself. You know me well enough to appreciate that this is not an idle threat.’

Ingoldsby reached across the table and grabbed Dalton by the lace at his throat. ‘And since that would harm me as well as you, I strongly recommend you do as he says. Do I make myself clear?’

Dalton nodded resentfully.

Ingoldsby released him and lowered his voice, indicating Sarah with a jerk of his thumb. ‘And next time, do not bring her with you. There should be three of us who know about this business, but thanks to you there are four. It was wholly unnecessary to confide in her.’

‘I beg to differ,’ said Dalton coldly. ‘Thurloe cares nothing for us, but he loves his sister. He will think twice about betraying us if he thinks she might come to harm, too.’

Thurloe’s face wore an expressionless mask that Chaloner thought made him look more dangerous than he had ever seen him. Had he been in Dalton’s position, he would have been seriously worried. Ingoldsby stood, took the last of the nuts and stalked towards the door. Before he opened it, he turned and spoke in a voice that carried enough menace to make Chaloner shiver.

‘None of this can be proven, and if you two keep your heads, we will come through it unscathed. But be warned: if you break and try to implicate me, I will fight with all I have. I will destroy you, your families and everything you hold dear, so think twice before your resolve weakens.’

A few moments later, Chaloner saw him stride across the courtyard and shout to the porters to let him out. Meanwhile, Dalton snatched his hat from a hook on the wall, and jammed it on his head in a way that suggested he was livid. Sarah set down her book and swung her cloak around her shoulders, while Chaloner recalled guiltily that her hat and wig were still stuffed behind the bed in his room.

Dalton turned to Thurloe. ‘I did the right thing by killing Mother Pinchon. I made everything safer.’

‘You did immeasurable damage,’ countered Thurloe coldly. ‘It was a bad decision and you precipitated a chain of events that brought two people I love into grave danger. I shall never forgive you for it, and I meant what I said just now: if you make any more mistakes, I will go to Kelyng. Leave Chaloner to me. I will do what is necessary to silence him.’

Dalton left without another word. Sarah kissed her brother’s cheek before she followed, and then Thurloe was alone. When he went to wash his face in the bowl of water that stood near the fire, Chaloner used the noise of splashing to cover the sound of the window opening further still. Then, when Thurloe’s face was buried in the linen he used for drying, he climbed inside.

‘You do not need to send armed horsemen after me this time,’ he said. ‘I have come to you.’

Thurloe jumped in alarm, then relaxed when he recognised the intruder. ‘Close the window, Tom. There is no need for us to freeze to death.’

Chaloner obliged, and Thurloe went to his usual place by the hearth. Chaloner remained standing, although he edged closer to the fire. It had been cold outside, and he was chilled through.

‘I tried,’ said Thurloe wearily. ‘I tried so very hard. Damn Dalton and his stupidity! I thought I could trust him, but fear has unhinged the fellow, and he threatens to destroy us all – including two people who should be nowhere near this mess – you and Sarah. I could kill him for it.’

‘The Seven,’ said Chaloner. ‘You, Dalton, the four regicides – Hewson, Barkstead, Livesay and Ingoldsby – and one other. Barkstead’s seven thousand pounds – his godly golden goose – was the money Swanson earned for revealing your identities. Swanson sent his letter, but the information never reached the King. Kelyng thinks you intercepted it at the General Letter Office.’

Thurloe nodded, and closed his eyes. ‘The duties of Postmaster General fell to me during the Protectorate – obviously, they sat well with my role as Spymaster – and it was my job to prevent such intelligence reaching our enemies. The gold had already been paid, but I was able to prevent the letter from reaching the wrong hands – just.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Chaloner. ‘Why would you become involved in such a thing?’

‘Because I was trying to preserve the Commonwealth. It was what I believed in. I did everything in my power to see it continue after the Protector’s death, but once Richard Cromwell had abdicated and Charles was invited home, I saw it was a lost cause and gave it up. The Seven operated only during the Commonwealth: we have done nothing since the King returned, and nor will we.’

‘That is not surprising,’ said Chaloner harshly. ‘At least three of you are dead.’

Thurloe did not acknowledge the comment. ‘All I want is to live quietly – there will be no more plotting from me. I believe Ingoldsby and Dalton feel the same.’

‘You used the Brotherhood as a shield,’ said Chaloner, thinking about what he had reasoned. ‘The Seven was a sub-group within it, so you could meet without arousing suspicion. Other men joined later – Downing, Robert Leybourn, North, Evett and Wade – and their open ways concealed the fact that there was something other than moderation and tolerance in the offing. But you have not been to recent meetings because there is no longer any need to maintain the pretence: the Seven are defunct.’

Thurloe inclined his head. ‘It worked well: one secret organisation within another.’

‘All your loose ends are tied,’ said Chaloner. ‘Mother Pinchon is dead, so she will not be telling anyone else about Barkstead’s message. Her contact, Wade, is also dead. Do you know who killed him – who pushed him to his death as he was trying to warn Bennet about the lion? I glimpsed him on the wall-walk, but Wade told me anyway, just before he died.’

‘Dalton,’ said Thurloe heavily. ‘You were not the only one who saw what happened. Robinson did, too, although he will not bring an accusation against another member of the Brotherhood.’

‘Even though it was a brother who was murdered?’

‘Dalton spun some tale about Wade selling the fraternity’s secrets, which Robinson seems to have accepted. Dalton will say anything to protect himself, even defame the name of a dead man.’

‘He is not the only one to resort to desperate measures,’ said Chaloner accusingly. ‘You sent Hewson to spy on Kelyng, to see how much he had learned about the Seven. But I cannot imagine you were overly distressed when you heard another potential risk had been eliminated.’

Thurloe gazed at him in disbelief, then anger blazed in his eyes. ‘Hewson was my friend. I was devastated when I learned he was dead. We were coming close to knowing the extent of Kelyng’s knowledge about us, and another day would have seen Hewson back to safety.’

Chaloner did not know whether to believe him. He returned the discussion to Dalton, thinking about what else he had learned. ‘Kelyng believes he has recruited Dalton to spy on you. I heard him talking about it to Bennet a couple of days ago, in the grocer’s shop on the Strand. He said he has received information about you from Dalton–’

‘Information invented by me, using Dalton as a conduit. It was a carefully controlled leak, so Kelyng’s reaction would tell us more about him, than he would learn about us. I was a spymaster, Thomas: I know how to manage these things. Dalton passed Kelyng this information on my orders.’

Chaloner was becoming confused. ‘But Dalton tried to kill me, and not just with the lion at the Tower, either. The horseman who attacked me at Ingoldsby’s house was his doing.’

‘I doubt it. And it was not Sarah, either, although she tells me you believe it was. It is a pity you two cannot be friends, because you may need each other one day.’

‘I do not need her, and I do not need you, either.’ Chaloner started to leave. ‘You have lied to me from the moment I chased your empty satchel. I cannot do this any more, Thurloe. I do not want to be in a position where I do not know who to trust.’

‘Trust no one,’ said Thurloe with a sad smile. ‘Then you will never be disappointed.’

‘That is what Hewson said before he started to mutter about praising God and the Seven.’

‘Did he?’ Thurloe sighed. ‘You refused to tell me his dying words, and I was afraid I would arouse your suspicions if I pressed you too hard. I suspected then that you might be curious enough to probe further, although I did my best to dissuade you. Please sit down, Tom. At least do me the courtesy of listening to my explanation.’

‘I do not want an explanation. You may use the opportunity to slip a knife between my ribs, since you just promised Dalton you would “do what is necessary to silence” me.’

‘That is not what I meant,’ said Thurloe, sharp and indignant. ‘On the contrary, I have done all I can to protect you. I warned you away from Barkstead’s cache, and asked you to investigate Clarke’s death instead. I blocked Downing’s attempt to enrol you in the Brotherhood. I even offered to pay your fare to Holland, to remove you from danger. You defied me at every turn – almost as if you wanted to become more deeply involved.’

‘That was because I did not understand why you issued those orders,’ objected Chaloner. ‘And Clarke’s death was connected to Barkstead’s treasure, anyway.’

‘It most certainly was not,’ stated Thurloe firmly. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘I saw the documents Clarendon found on his body, and I know about the message he asked White Hall’s measurers of cloth to give his wife. They were intended for you: they all mentioned the Seven, and reiterated the phrase ‘praise God’, which is obviously code for something I have yet to uncover. If you tell me you did not know, I will not believe you,’ he added, when Thurloe looked bemused.

‘I do not care what you believe. And how do you know what words Clarke passed to his wife via the measurers? The letter they wrote to her was closed with so much sealing wax that it would have been impossible to open – not that I tried. There are some things that remain inviolate, and loving words between spouses is one of them. I ordered Clarke to stay away from the Seven, and he promised me he would.’

‘Then it seems your agents seldom obey you.’

Thurloe rubbed his eyes. ‘Clarke was grateful when I recommended him to the Earl for employment, so I suppose I should not be surprised to learn he tried to help me in return – disregarding my warnings in the process. He told me he was investigating cutlery stolen from the White Hall kitchens.’

Chaloner was rueful. ‘I wish the Earl had asked me to investigate that, because it was easy to solve: the table knives are being pilfered by the cloth measurers, and melted down to make silver transverse flutes for their musical ensemble. They showed me one of the instruments, and it was far too valuable an item to cost what they claimed – or to have been purchased on a measurer’s salary.’

Thurloe’s expression was bleak. ‘But instead of looking into a simple theft, Clarke wasted his life in a misguided attempt to learn about the Seven. I am heartily sorry he tried to intervene. His wife will miss him, as will I.’

‘Simon Lane’s wife will miss her husband, too,’ said Chaloner coldly.

‘She died a year ago,’ replied Thurloe. ‘Simon had no living kin, although that does not mean he is unmourned; I grieve for him and the others who died in Clarendon’s service. Will you tell me what was in Clarke’s messages?’

Chaloner was inclined to refuse, because he was angry and it was a way he could annoy Thurloe, but suspected the man would have the information one way or another, and it would be easier to tell him now and have done with the whole business.

‘They were in cipher, and they said to “praise God’s one son”. Those were the exact words Hewson whispered as he died, and they were also on part of a document I found with Lee’s corpse. Will you tell me what they mean, or is this exchange of information only to be one way?’

Thurloe frowned, puzzled. ‘Praise God’s one son? Do you mean Praisegod Swanson?’

‘Swanson?’ Chaloner was confused. ‘The man who told the King about the Seven?’

‘I suppose so. You know how we Puritans occasionally baptise our children with intensely religious names, and Praisegod was an appellation that enjoyed a brief popularity – indeed, one of London’s best-known fanatics is Praisegod Barbon, in and out of prison for his extreme political views. So, that was the message Clarke and Hewson were trying to pass me – Praisegod Swanson?’

‘I do not understand. Why would they do that?’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘Because no one knows what happened to him after he collected his gold, and Hewson was afraid he might emerge to betray us again. Perhaps he was warning me to be alert for him. I imagine Clarke, like you, had discovered the phrase, but had not unravelled its meaning.’

‘What do you think happened to Swanson?’ asked Chaloner, not sure whether he really wanted to know. As Spymaster, Thurloe would have been adept at making people disappear.

‘I assume he was afraid the King would be angry with him because he took the seven bars of gold but did not keep his side of the bargain. He ran away and has not been seen since.’

‘But he did keep his side of the bargain. He wrote his letter, but you made sure it did not arrive. Which is not the same thing at all.’

‘True, but he could have sent a second missive, and he never did. He probably felt he had risked himself enough the first time and, since he already had his gold, there was no need to do it again. But Swanson is no longer the problem. There is another man trying to expose us.’

‘Who?’ asked Chaloner.

‘I am not sure, but I think he was responsible for blowing up Livesay’s ship, and I think he knows about Dalton, Ingoldsby and me. Perhaps he stabbed Clarke, too. I sense he is moving in for the final kill, which is why Dalton is so desperate to take defensive action. He does not understand that the best way to weather a storm is to rise with the waves.’

‘Is it Kelyng?’

Thurloe raised his hands, palms upwards. ‘Possibly. Or Downing, who has spent rather more time with me of late than is warranted. But I do not want you involved any further. You will leave the city today, and if I am still alive when you return, I shall try to find you a post worthy of your talents. Here is gold. Take Metje with you.’

Chaloner stood. ‘I do not want your money.’

There was a sudden smashing sound as something hurtled through the window. Flames immediately started to lick across the floor. Thurloe snatched up a rug to smother them, but Chaloner had seen other shadows moving in the garden below.

‘No!’ he shouted, wrestling Thurloe to the floor. At exactly the same time, there was a deafening roar and something struck the panelling where Thurloe had been standing just an instant before.