A Conspiracy of Violence

Chapter 11

Even after he was sure the flames had been doused in Thurloe’s room, Chaloner was reluctant to leave the shaken ex-Spymaster to the care of the porters who came racing to his aid. There were more of them than usual; some lingered to put his chamber to rights, while others began a search of the grounds, although Chaloner knew they were too late to catch anyone. Bennet had fled long ago.

‘There are more outside,’ said Thurloe, shivering next to the fire. The broken window meant cold air was flooding into the room, although Chaloner imagined shock was more responsible for Thurloe’s pallor and unsteady hands than the chill. He poured wine, and watched him sip it.

‘More what? Armed porters?’

Thurloe nodded. ‘Clarendon recommended I employ extra when I confronted him over the deaths of my five spies. I misjudged Kelyng: I thought he would prefer to see me arraigned in a court of law, but it seems he has finally realised I have too many powerful friends – or too many nervous enemies – so has decided assassination is the only way forward. This is the second attempt since yesterday.’

‘What happened the first time?’

‘A gift of dried fruits that reek of poison. They are on the table, if you do not believe me.’

‘It was Bennet who fired the musket at you,’ said Chaloner, going to inspect the offering. There was a dish filled with dried plums, and the stench of the toxin added to them was enough to make his eyes water. ‘I recognised the bandages from his encounter with Sonya. Kelyng has pushed him too far, and he has decided to usurp his master’s power in order to ingratiate himself with Robinson – and claim Fanny.’

‘He will not do it by taking shots at me. Robinson is one of those who would rather I was alive.’

‘Bennet’s ambitions have taken him beyond reason. He is running amok.’

There was a commotion in the corridor outside, and Sarah burst in, Leybourn at her heels. She ran to her brother’s side and put her hands on his shoulders, peering anxiously into his face, while Leybourn inspected the damage to the room.

‘Bennet threw a fireball through the window, knowing my natural instinct would be to quench the flames,’ explained Thurloe. ‘Then, when I was nicely framed against the light, a musket was fired. Had Tom’s wits been as slow as mine, I would be dead.’

Sarah hugged Thurloe, while Leybourn went to the window and scanned the grounds below. ‘The porters said Bennet brought ten men with him, and they made no attempt to disguise themselves as they ran away.’

‘When I left you earlier today, Snow was hiding opposite your front gate, John,’ said Sarah in a small voice. ‘I did not see him until it was too late, but he recognised me instantly. I galloped my horse away, but I think he knows who I am now.’

Chaloner recalled Kelyng’s promise to protect her. It was worth nothing now Bennet had broken with him.

‘You must stay here, then,’ said Thurloe. ‘My chambers are surrounded by armed guards – who will doubtless be a good deal more vigilant now they appreciate the threat is real.’

‘I will fetch some clothes and be back in an hour. Will you come with me, William?’ Sarah did not wait for Leybourn to reply before turning to Chaloner. ‘Will you return my wig when you have a moment? I lost my spare when I escaped from Snow, and now I have none. I left yours at the Golden Lion, and was rather surprised when you did not do the same with mine. Where is it?’

‘Behind my bed,’ Chaloner admitted sheepishly.

She regarded him askance. ‘If you put it there to hide it from your woman, I advise you to move it at once. She will never believe the truth if she finds another lady’s apparel stuffed in such a suspicious place.’

Chaloner changed the subject, wondering how she had arrived so quickly after the attack on Thurloe. ‘Did the porters send you word about what happened this morning?’

She shook her head. ‘They sent a message to William, and I happened to be in his shop.’

‘Does he usually open his doors to customers so soon after dawn on Christmas Sunday, then?’

‘My business hours are none of your affair,’ said Leybourn coolly. ‘But she came to me because her husband is beginning to frighten her. She was lucky to catch me in: I had only just returned from an unpleasant dawn assignation.’ His expression gave nothing away.

Thurloe regarded Sarah anxiously. ‘Why did you not mention this when you were here earlier?’

She winced. ‘Claim my husband is losing his wits when he is standing right beside me? You saw how he is – strangling old women and ordering you to murder Thomas. He says he saw Livesay again this morning. I thought Livesay was dead.’

‘Dead or deep in hiding,’ said Thurloe. ‘Your husband is imagining things.’

‘Actually, I think I saw him, too,’ said Leybourn. He held up his hands when Thurloe eyed him a little accusingly. ‘I did not tell you, because I was not sure. I thought I saw him standing outside Dalton’s house once, but decided I must have been mistaken. Perhaps I was not.’

‘I think you were,’ replied Thurloe firmly. ‘Dalton would be the last man Livesay would approach. They often quarrelled and each detested the other. He would come to me first.’

‘Perhaps that is why Dalton has become agitated,’ suggested Leybourn. ‘He believes Livesay has returned to make life difficult for him, regardless of whether or not it is true.’

‘Dalton always was the most nervous and least committed of the Seven,’ admitted Thurloe. ‘But it is irrelevant, because Livesay – if he is alive – would not go to the trouble of concealing his identity, then risk exposure by playing games with an old rival. He is not stupid.’

Chaloner started to move towards the door. There was nothing more he could do, and Thurloe was now among friends. The ex-Spymaster rose unsteadily, and came to take his arm.

‘I appreciate what you did for me today, Tom. You had just refused funds to leave London, but I urge you to reconsider. I do not think Dalton will harm you after my threat to expose him, but the man is not in his right mind, and you will be safer away from the city.’

‘No, thank you, sir,’ replied Chaloner. ‘It is best we part company. We do not trust each other, and I will fare better with Clarendon.’

‘You will not,’ warned Thurloe. ‘Not if you have committed yourself to finding Barkstead’s treasure. I asked Ingoldsby about it, and he says it is in Holland with Barkstead’s wife. And do not even think about looking for Swanson’s gold. That will see you in a churchyard next to Clarke for certain. But what makes you think I do not trust you?’

‘Because no one lies to friends, and you have been dishonest with me from the start of this affair.’

‘That was for your own safety. I did the same to Clarke – although it did not stop him from dashing into an investigation of his own, either. But please take my advice, because it will save your life: leave the city, and take Metje, Sarah and Will with you. I would be a lot happier if you all went away for a few weeks.’

‘I cannot leave London,’ said Leybourn, startled by the suggestion. ‘What about my bookshop?’

‘And I will not go as long as you are in danger, John,’ said Sarah firmly. ‘You may need me.’

Thurloe closed his eyes. ‘I was once Secretary of State, with legions of men under my command. Now I cannot even persuade my sister, a bookseller and a former spy to do as they are told. Very well, since none of you will see sense, stay a few more days, but if there is even the slightest hostile move towards any of you, I want you gone. Is that clear?’

Leybourn and Sarah nodded. Chaloner started to move towards the door again.

Thurloe gripped his hand. ‘Thank you again.’

‘It was instinct, sir. You trained me well.’

Thurloe looked hurt. ‘Christmas greetings, Tom,’ he said softly.

Chaloner was almost in Chancery Lane before Sarah and Leybourn managed to catch up with him. He had heard them calling his name, but had not shortened his stride. He had had enough of Thurloe and his devious associates, and wanted no more to do with any of them. Sarah grabbed his arm and swung him around roughly.

‘You did not have to be unkind,’ she snapped, ignoring his irritation as he freed himself. ‘You know he is fond of you.’

‘I know nothing of the kind.’

‘You would, if you used your wits. You overheard what happened in his chamber this morning when my husband wanted to kill you – John was ready to sacrifice himself to Kelyng to stop him. Does that count for nothing?’

Leybourn joined in. ‘He told us your real name, because Sarah and I have each other to turn to in times of crisis, but you were alone and he wanted to rectify that. He thought that by telling us your true identity, you would see the depth of his confidence in us. Think about it: he has kept your secret for a decade, and the fact that he has chosen to reveal it now – and to us – is significant.’

Chaloner was not convinced. Sarah sighed heavily at his reluctance to see their point of view. ‘He is trying to protect you, Thomas. Surely, you have worked out why by now? I thought you were supposed to be astute.’

‘I have worked out nothing at all,’ said Chaloner wearily.

‘The Seven,’ explained Leybourn patiently. ‘Think about them. Thurloe, the leader, trying to preserve the Commonwealth. Barkstead, Hewson and Livesay, three men who believed so strongly in an English republic that they were willing to behead a king. Ingoldsby, also a regicide, but who, like Thurloe, sees the futility of further plotting and just wants peace and stability …’

‘Dalton,’ said Chaloner, looking hard at Sarah. ‘Who is so eager to ensure the Seven’s secrets are kept that he murdered Wade and Mother Pinchon.’

She gazed at her feet, chagrined. ‘Yes, he killed them. And do you know what else he did to save his skin? He told me and then William about the Seven and Praisegod Swanson, so John would think twice about going to Kelyng – lest John’s sister and dear friend be implicated, too. And that is how we come to be involved – not because of John, but because of my loving husband.’

‘Praisegod Swanson,’ mused Chaloner. ‘No one seems to have heard from him since he wrote the letter Thurloe intercepted. Is he dead, do you think? Did one of the Seven kill him?’

‘William has been trying to find out, although John does not know it,’ said Sarah. ‘He would not approve of William putting himself in danger – like Clarke did.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘I think Praisegod is dead.’

‘What makes you say that?’ asked Leybourn. ‘I was under the impression you had never heard of him before today.’

Chaloner began to sort through the chaos of facts he had gathered, beginning with Barkstead’s curious behaviour during his last night in power. ‘Barkstead tried to send Thurloe a message via Mother Pinchon, not knowing she would be too frightened to deliver it. He asked her to say his “godly golden goose” was buried in the Tower. She assumed, as he intended, that this referred to the butter-firkin treasure, but of course it did not. Barkstead meant Praisegod.’

‘Praisegod is buried in the Tower?’ asked Leybourn, startled.

‘Evett unearthed bones and I found hair that Sergeant Picard said was young, like that of his grandson.’ Chaloner wondered whether the guard had sold the grisly find to the wigmaker. ‘I suspect Praisegod was dismembered before he was buried, because small pieces are easier to hide than a whole corpse, especially in a place where the earth is hard-packed and difficult to excavate. Evett assumed, as I did, that the fragments were from prisoners who had died in captivity, but Kelyng has studied the Tower’s records, and he said that particular cellar has never been used as a dungeon.’

‘Except by Barkstead,’ said Sarah. ‘You must have heard the stories about what he did down there.’

‘Not even by him. He sited the grave well, because the passages that make the cellar an unsuitable prison also allow rats to come and go, and they have been destroying any evidence inadvertently exposed by Evett and his treasure hunters. Clarke must have guessed this, because the message he sent to his wife via the White Hall cloth measurers said he would “praise God’s one son … well away from the shadows cast by the towers of evil”. Now I know exactly what he meant by his reference to towers of evil: London’s Tower.’

‘How can you be sure the bones belonged to Praisegod?’ asked Sarah.

‘I cannot, but it is the obvious conclusion. Did you ever meet him?’

‘Once,’ replied Sarah. ‘My husband brought him home, about four years ago. He was a young fellow with chestnut-brown curls, which may match the hair you found, and a pleasant, eager face. He sang religious songs for Cromwell. I suppose Barkstead was making covert reference to Praisegod’s name when he used the word “godly”.’

‘Or perhaps he buried the ingots with Praisegod’s body,’ suggested Leybourn. ‘Perhaps that is what he meant by the word “golden”.’

‘There is no treasure in the cellar,’ said Chaloner. ‘Evett was very thorough.’

‘So, Barkstead killed Praisegod,’ mused Leybourn. ‘I suppose it makes sense. He would not bury a murdered corpse for anyone else, and his message to Thurloe indicates he wanted someone to know a problem was settled.’

‘Will you dig again, Thomas?’ asked Sarah. ‘The Earl of Clarendon will be delighted if you find these ingots, although I imagine he will be less thrilled if you also present him with Praisegod’s bones.’

‘I hope you do not plan to tell Clarendon any of this,’ said Leybourn unhappily. ‘Because you still do not have all the information you need to make a rational decision. You know six members of the Seven, but you seem blissfully unaware of the last.’

‘That is not true,’ said Chaloner, as strands of information merged and the name of the seventh member finally became clear to him. ‘You are right about Thurloe never revealing the identities of his spies lightly, but Ingoldsby and Dalton know about me – I heard them when I listened outside his window today. I doubt Thurloe told them, but my uncle was very free with the information, and–’

‘My husband said you looked familiar when you first met last Friday,’ interrupted Sarah, recalling the exchange. ‘He knew your uncle, and recognised some of him in you.’

‘He knew him, because my uncle was the last member of the Seven,’ said Chaloner.

‘Exactly,’ said Leybourn. ‘So now do you see why Thurloe has tried to keep you from becoming involved?’

A good many things became clear once Chaloner understood his uncle’s role in the affair, all of which Sarah reiterated with a good deal of recrimination. Leybourn was more gentle, although even he seemed to think Chaloner a fool for not guessing sooner.

‘Your uncle and Thurloe were close, and Thurloe promised to protect you when the Commonwealth collapsed,’ explained Leybourn. ‘Old Chaloner knew that if the identities of the Seven ever became public, then his whole family would fall under suspicion – especially a nephew who worked for Thurloe’s intelligence service.’

‘You were with Downing in Holland, and when Downing changed sides, John assumed you would change with him and so be safe,’ Sarah went on. ‘But you did not: you shared enough information to keep Downing happy, but your real reports still came to John. Then Downing arrested Barkstead, and you found yourself back in London, needing employment. Recalling his promise to help, John recommended you to Clarendon, assuming you would prove yourself and make your own way in the new order.’

‘It was also a good opportunity to ask a reliable man to look into Clarke’s murder.’ Leybourn took up the tale. ‘If Thurloe had thought for an instant that Clarke had died investigating the Seven, he would never have asked you to look into the matter. Worse, Clarendon then ordered you to hunt for Barkstead’s treasure, and Thurloe knew you were tenacious enough to uncover the truth.’

‘Obviously, he did not want that,’ said Sarah. ‘So he asked you to leave England or decline Clarendon’s commission. You refused both, and now you know everything he tried to keep from you – for your own good. And before you claim he did all this because he loved your uncle, not you, let me remind you of your letters to him. You wrote sympathetically, and he interpreted this as a sign of friendship – he did not append personal paragraphs to the missives he sent to his other spies. He is not a naturally affectionate man, but the sentiments he expressed to you were real. He assumed yours were, too.’

‘All right,’ said Chaloner, finally accepting Thurloe’s motives had been benevolent. ‘But what happens now? Where do we go from here?’

‘You seem to have an understanding with Kelyng,’ said Sarah. ‘You can tell him to call off his brutes and leave John alone.’

‘That will not help. Bennet is no longer under Kelyng’s control.’

‘Well, we must do something,’ said Leybourn. ‘I refuse to sit back and wait for the next attack.’

‘I will be here,’ said Sarah. ‘I shall collect a few clothes and return with one of my husband’s pistols – then I can shoot Snow, if he comes after me, and protect John at the same time.’

‘What will Dalton say when he learns you are leaving him?’ asked Chaloner curiously.

She shrugged. ‘We quarrelled violently when I learned he has taken to strangling old women and pushing clerks over castle walls. I do not want him near me, and I do not care what he thinks.’

‘Will you go with her?’ asked Leybourn. ‘Or will you guard Thurloe while I do?’

‘I will stay here,’ said Chaloner, seeing Sarah about to object to his company. She was still annoyed with him, and he did not want to listen to any more recriminations. His feelings were ambiguous about what he had been told: on the one hand, he was angry that Thurloe had not taken him into his confidence, but on the other, he was ashamed that he had not handled the matter with more grace. Thurloe had offered a friendly hand, and he had slapped it away.

Leybourn and Sarah left Lincoln’s Inn, and Chaloner locked the gate behind them. He glanced up at the sky. Clouds hung thickly overheard, casting a dull, grey light over the city, and there was drizzle in the air. The gloomy weather did nothing to dampen the spirits of the people, though, and bells rang all over London. In Chancery Lane, carriages and horses clattered as their owners went to church, and folk greeted each other with cheerful calls; there was an atmosphere of celebration as citizens prepared to enjoy a festival that had been deemed illegal not many years before.

Aware that another attack would be rendered easier by the fact that the streets were unusually busy, Chaloner ordered the porters to vary their patrols and sent two men to hire dogs from the Golden Lion. Then he prowled the Inn’s gardens, looking for weaknesses in their defences. Mixed among the scent of drenched grass and dripping trees was the acrid reek of smoke, as fires were kindled across the city. Someone was roasting meat in the kitchens, so the smell of burning fat mixed with the yeasty scent of proving bread. A scullion started to warble. It was a carol, although the words had been changed to make it a coarse alehouse ballad, and the lad’s friends began to cheer. Chaloner smiled, recalling one of his brothers once chanting the same song to a deaf elderly aunt, who had applauded politely and asked him to sing it again.

The clocks struck ten, and Chaloner began to be restless, keen to be away from Lincoln’s Inn, either to resume his search for Praisegod’s gold or to spend time with Metje. It should not have taken long for Sarah to select a few clothes and return to Thurloe. He wondered whether she and Leybourn had stopped to visit a church or to enjoy breakfast with friends. But then he recalled their concern for Thurloe, and knew they would not have dallied as long as they believed he was in danger. Something was wrong. He abandoned his post and went to Chamber XIII.

‘Thomas,’ said Thurloe guardedly. He was wearing his cloak. ‘You should be with Metje today.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Sarah and Will should have been back an hour ago. I am worried.’

‘I will find them, sir. You stay here.’

Thurloe reached for the sword he kept behind his chair. ‘I can manage, thank you.’

‘It is not safe. Bennet may be waiting.’

‘I will leave by the back gate. Stand aside, Thomas. You are in my way.’

Chaloner staggered as Thurloe thrust past him. He was not the only one who objected to Thurloe’s departure: the porters clamoured at him to return to the place where he would be safe. The ex-Spymaster regarded them coolly and they fell silent, awed by the sudden force of his personality. Then he strode into the garden, leaving them staring at each other helplessly.

‘Make sure no one enters his rooms,’ ordered Chaloner, thinking of bombs with long fuses, the rims of goblets dipped in poison and myriad other modes of assassination. ‘I will go with him.’

Thurloe was walking briskly, so he was obliged to run to catch up. He followed him through a gate so cunningly masked by brambles that it was invisible to anyone who did not know it was there. It was similarly concealed outside, emerging in a thicket of hawthorns that clawed at hands and faces. Thurloe fought his way through them, then set off towards Fleet Street. Shouts and cheers emanated from a nearby gaming house, suggesting some players thought it was still night.

‘That would not have been permitted under Cromwell,’ said Thurloe without breaking his stride. ‘This licentiousness and wild liberty will bring the new government trouble for certain.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Chaloner. ‘Slow down. You are drawing attention to yourself.’

Thurloe complied, although not by much. ‘Go home, Thomas. This is not your concern.’

‘You should have told me,’ said Chaloner. ‘About my uncle and the Seven. Then I would not have assumed you were trying to mislead me for sinister reasons.’

‘I did not want you to know,’ replied Thurloe tartly. ‘You had enough to worry about, what with Downing undermining your career and Metje’s … wavering affections. Obviously, I was overly protective, although there was certainly no malice involved, as you seem to assume.’

‘I know,’ said Chaloner. He corrected himself. ‘I know now. I am sorry I doubted you.’

Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘Then will you tell Clarendon that you have reliable witnesses who saw Barkstead’s butter firkins arrive in Holland, and ask him to allot you another task?’

Chaloner frowned. ‘That witness was Ingoldsby, one of the Seven. Did you ask him to–?’

‘Stop it, Thomas,’ said Thurloe sharply. ‘No, I did not ask Ingoldsby to spin you a yarn. I know what he said to you, because he told me you had been to see him. I am sure that what his wife told you was the truth. What is wrong with you? Do you not trust me, even now?’

‘I am sorry.’ Chaloner frowned. ‘What do you mean by Metje’s “wavering affections”?’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘I met her at the Nonconformist chapel in Fetter Lane, and she seemed … seemed less fond of you than you appear to be of her.’

Chaloner knew this was true, although he was surprised Thurloe should recognise it. ‘Her first husband died, and it has been difficult for another man to take his place. But we will be married soon.’

Thurloe smiled wanly. ‘Then I hope you will be happy, although I think you should leave England. You have been saying for weeks that there will be a war with the Dutch, and you are right. She will not be safe here.’

‘When did you first guess Barkstead’s buried treasure was different from the treasure he sealed in his butter barrels?’

‘On Wednesday, when Robinson mentioned that you and Evett had been hunting for seven thousand pounds in the Tower. You will appreciate that sum holds a particular significance for a member of the Seven, and I suspected immediately that it might not be coin-filled kegs you found. I did not want you to be obliged to tell Clarendon that Barkstead’s cache might be a body.’

‘But you never received the message Barkstead sent to you via Mother Pinchon?’

‘No. But I did not need it to piece the facts together. I knew Barkstead had been on the trail of the man he believed had betrayed us – who transpired to be Swanson – and I simply assessed the situation logically. I heard from Sergeant Picard at the Tower that bones and hair were unearthed, and it did not take a genius to work out whose.’

‘Smoke,’ said Chaloner suddenly. ‘I smell smoke.’

‘It is Christmas, and every house in London is preparing meals. Of course you can smell smoke.’

‘This is from a different kind of fire,’ said Chaloner uneasily. ‘A big one.’

Thurloe glanced at him, then broke into a run. Chaloner sped after him, wincing when a cloaked pedestrian coming from the opposite direction did not move quickly enough, and Thurloe crashed into him, making them both stagger. The man started to curse, but then thought better of it and backed away. He carried something heavy, concealing it under his cloak in a way that suggested he had just stolen it. That day was perfect for crime, when people were at church or celebrating the festival with friends. The fellow kept his face hidden as Chaloner passed, obviously unwilling to be seen.

‘Oh, no!’ whispered Thurloe, stopping abruptly. ‘Dear God, no!’

Smoke poured through the windows of Dalton’s grand home. A crowd had gathered, and there was an attempt to organise buckets and water, although the house was well past rescue, and the main objective was to prevent the conflagration from spreading. People were running, some converging on the site, and others racing in the opposite direction, lest the blaze run out of control and put their own properties at risk. Chaloner took Thurloe’s arm and pulled him forward, still alert for Bennet. He saw that although flames raged through the windows on the left side of the house, the right was as yet untouched. There was still a chance that lives might be saved, if prompt action was taken.

‘Stay here,’ he instructed, shaking Thurloe’s shoulder to gain his attention. The ex-Spymaster’s expression was glazed. ‘Watch yourself among the crowd. Bennet may be here.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘See if anyone is inside.’

Thurloe pulled himself together, and the appalled helplessness was replaced by resolve. Together, they dodged through the hands that would have stopped them, and Thurloe hammered on the front door. Chaloner heard people yelling that he was wasting his time – the fire had taken hold and nothing could be saved. He took aim and kicked the door. It did not budge, and he could tell by the way it shuddered that it was barred from the inside.

‘The back,’ he shouted, shouldering his way through the onlookers a second time, aiming for the narrow passage that led to the rear of the house. People were there, too, watching window frames become charred and blackened, and glass melt in the heat.

There was a small garden behind the house, dug over to receive vegetables the following spring. It was surrounded by a wall of shoulder height. Chaloner scaled it quickly, pausing to help Thurloe, who was out of practise. The back door was less robust than the handsome affair at the front, and shattered under Chaloner’s first kick. Immediately, smoke poured out, driving him back.

‘You watch for Bennet,’ gasped Thurloe, plucking at his sleeve. ‘I will go in.’

There was a butt in the garden, placed to collect rainwater. Ignoring Thurloe, Chaloner hauled off his new cassock, dunked it, and wound the sodden garment around his head. He watched Thurloe do the same, then dropped to his hands and knees and crawled inside the house, Thurloe behind him.

He moved quickly, aware that they did not have much time. He took a breath to shout Sarah’s name, but his lungs filled with smoke, and the sound he made emerged as a croak. There was an almighty crash from somewhere ahead, indicating a ceiling or a wall had fallen. His eyes smarted too much to open, and would have done him no good if he had, because there was nothing to see but a dense whiteness. His outstretched fingers encountered a door, but wood and latch were searing hot, and he knew better than to open it: anyone inside was long past help, and the sudden inrush of air from the corridor would produce a fireball that would incinerate him on the spot. He moved on until he encountered a body. He forced his eyes open a crack. It was Dalton. There was blood on his chest, and Chaloner could feel a knife still embedded in him.

‘Where is Sarah?’ he asked, when he saw the man’s eyelids flutter.

‘Upstairs,’ whispered Dalton. There was another creaking groan as something else readied itself for collapse. The flames roared louder still, and Dalton spoke again. ‘Live … I saved … her and …’

But Chaloner knew Dalton would not live. The wound had pierced a lung, and blood was frothing through his mouth. He also knew that if he took the time to drag the vintner outside, he would never be able to fight his way back to help Sarah and Leybourn. He ignored the desperate scrabbling of Dalton’s fingers and prepared to crawl on.

‘No!’ gasped Dalton, distraught. ‘Do not … leave …’

‘Take him out,’ Chaloner ordered Thurloe.

He did not wait to see whether Thurloe obeyed. He located the stairs, took a slow, careful breath through the waterlogged cloth, then stood and ascended as fast as he could. The smoke was so thick he could not see his hand in front of his face, and he was soon light-headed from lack of air. He dropped to his knees, and began to cough. He groped his way along the upper hallway, trying to recall from the arrangement of windows outside how many rooms there might be. He decided there were two – one on each side of the house – with a further two on the floor above.

An orange haze through the grey-white indicated the chamber to the left was already blazing, while the door to the right was closed. He reached up to the latch. It was cool. He tried to open it, but his fingers were thick and clumsy. Someone collided with him, knocking him to the ground. It was Thurloe, staggering and disoriented. He shoved Chaloner out of the way, stepped back, and crashed into the door with his shoulder. The latch splintered, and the door flew against the wall with a resounding crash that was, even so, barely audible above the deep thunder of flames.

The smoke was thinner inside the room. Thurloe gripped Chaloner’s shirt and hauled him in, while Chaloner slammed the door behind them, hoping to exclude the fumes for a little longer. The room contained a bed and several large blanket chests, but not Sarah or Leybourn. Chaloner sagged in defeat, knowing that if they were anywhere else, they were doomed. The desperate journey had been for nothing, and he could tell by the growing warmth of the door against his back that he and Thurloe would not be leaving the way they had entered. Even in those few moments, the fire had claimed the hall to the point where it was impassable.

‘You should have helped Dalton,’ he said hoarsely to Thurloe, who was gasping at his side.

‘I tried, but a great gout of blood flew from his mouth – something ruptured when I moved him. What now? We cannot go back the way we came.’

Chaloner assessed their situation through smarting eyes. Clothes and bedcovers had been dumped on the floor, as if someone had been rummaging through the chests in a hurry – Sarah, making a rapid selection of clothes, so she could leave her husband and go to her brother. But there was something odd. Surely, she would not have wasted time closing and latching them again, especially when half their contents were strewn across the room? Chaloner staggered towards the first one, and unfastened the lid. Leybourn’s white face gazed out at him. While Thurloe searched for Sarah, Chaloner tugged the gag from the bookseller’s mouth and cut through the rope that bound his hands and feet.

Leybourn hauled himself upright. ‘Christ in heaven! Dalton was going to leave us here to burn!’

‘We might burn yet. The stairs have gone, and the only escape is through the window.’

‘Knotted covers,’ croaked Leybourn, lurching towards the bed. ‘In a rope.’

Thurloe had freed Sarah, who flung herself into his arms, sobbing her relief, although not for long. She was made of sterner stuff and soon pulled herself together, wiping away the tears to leave smudges across her cheeks. She coughed. ‘The smoke is getting thicker.’

‘It is unbreathable in the hallway,’ said Thurloe. He flung open the window, then staggered back as there was a sharp crack. ‘Bennet!’

‘Surely not!’ cried Sarah. She edged towards the window. ‘I can see a bandage around his head.’

‘It is me he wants,’ said Thurloe. ‘If I go first, he may leave the rest of you alone. And anyway, he cannot pop away at survivors indefinitely. Someone will stop him.’

‘They will not,’ said Chaloner, who had seen the way the onlookers had scattered when Bennet had appeared with his gun. ‘They are too frightened of him. Besides, it is not just you they want. Snow is waiting for Sarah, and Bennet hates me as well as you.’

There was another roar, and the door began to smoulder. Then flames licked up it, and Chaloner saw the smoke in the bedchamber drift towards the crack under the lintel. The fire was greedy for air, and it would not be many moments before the fragile barrier disintegrated, and the room would be full of flames.

‘Hurry with your rope,’ he instructed Leybourn. He took a chair and used it to smash the window, glass and frame together. Immediately, there was another crack, and a chunk of plaster was gouged from the ceiling.

Thurloe shoved him to one side. ‘Do you want them to hit you? What are you doing?’

‘Preparing for a clear shot. Give me your gun.’

‘Wait,’ shouted Sarah. She snatched up one of her discarded dresses. ‘You only have one chance, and you will certainly miss if he is shooting at you at the same time. I will distract him.’

She waited until he nodded that he was ready, then hurled the dress out of the window. Bennet fired almost immediately. Simultaneously, Chaloner aimed and pulled his own trigger. A second later, a bullet slapped into the wall, missing him by no more than the width of a hand.

‘They must have several guns each,’ said Thurloe, ‘which is why they do not need to reload.’

‘Did you hit either of them?’ asked Leybourn, as he ripped and knotted blankets with hands that shook with fear.

Chaloner peered out of the window, then jumped back when two more shots sounded. One tore into the jagged remnants of the window frame, while the other cracked into the wall outside. Meanwhile, the door was burning more brightly. ‘Unfortunately not.’

‘We could just throw ourselves out,’ suggested Leybourn, tying one end of his rope to the bed. ‘We may survive the fall, assuming Bennet does not shoot us as we drop.’

Chaloner took the dagger from his sleeve. He held it by the blade, then stepped forward and hurled it to where he could see Snow leaning across the garden wall. It glinted as it sped towards its target, and then was lost. He heard the sound of jeering. The flames were almost through the door. He retrieved the knife from his boot and hurled it towards the laughter with all his might, more from frustration than any genuine attempt to hit anyone. The taunting cries stopped abruptly.

‘You got one,’ said Thurloe. He coughed. ‘Snow, I think. Bennet is running away.’

‘Quickly,’ said Chaloner, grabbing Leybourn’s rope. ‘Sarah.’

She did not waste precious time arguing about priority, but scrambled on to the window sill, and clambered down the rope, hand-over-hand, like a sailor. She released it and dropped the last few feet, to give the others more time. Leybourn was next, slower and more clumsy.

‘Go!’ shouted Chaloner to Thurloe, before Leybourn was more than halfway down.

‘You first,’ said Thurloe. ‘Hurry.’

Chaloner began to climb. Then there was a low, ominous roar, and he knew the door had finally given way. He looked up, waiting for Thurloe to appear. He did not.

‘No!’ cried Sarah. She reached for the rope, her face twisted into an agony of grief. ‘John!’

Chaloner hauled himself upwards, reaching the sill to see the room full of flames. Thurloe was lying on the floor. Raising one hand to protect his face, Chaloner forced himself back inside the chamber and grabbed the inert body. He cursed his clumsy hands as he knotted the blanket around Thurloe’s chest, then straddled the sill, heaving the older man out of the window like a sack of grain.

It was an awkward way to move a person, and Thurloe was heavy. The knotted strips shot through his hands and he lost his grip. Thurloe plummeted downwards, where his fall was broken by Leybourn. Chaloner glanced behind him, seeing nothing but a wall of orange.

‘Jump!’ screamed Sarah.

Feeling his shirt begin to smoulder, Chaloner let himself drop.

As soon as Chaloner landed, Leybourn was on him, smothering the flames with his cloak. Sarah had already run for water, and upended a pail over both of them, making them gasp in shock at the sudden chill. While Sarah made sure Chaloner was fully doused, Leybourn went to Thurloe, assessing him for damage, then dragged him to the comparative safety of a nearby alley, away from the inferno that had once been a fine house, and from men with guns. Chaloner, with Sarah clutching his shoulder for support, limped after them.

Once he was sure they were well hidden, Chaloner donned his sodden cassock, relishing its coolness against his hot skin, and left them to recover while he went in search of Bennet and Snow. The back of the house was deserted – none of the crowd had lingered once the bully boys had arrived. He found Snow propped against a wall, a crude bandage around his leg. His face was white, and too much blood seeped from the wound. Chaloner’s dagger lay on the ground next to him.

‘Where is Bennet?’ demanded the agent, leaning down to retrieve it.

‘Gone for help,’ said Snow, wincing as he tried to grab the knife first and failed. ‘You clipped his shoulder when you shot at him, so I hope he does not faint along the way.’

‘Why did you set the fire?’

Snow shook his head. ‘That was not us. We were waiting for the woman to come out, and the place started to burn as we watched. I saw a man leave through the front door, though, before it started.’

‘Who?’

Snow grinned mirthlessly. ‘Got any money?’

Chaloner rummaged for a shilling. ‘Who?’ he repeated.

Snow stretched out his hand for the coin, but fell back when Chaloner declined to relinquish it before he had his information. ‘I did not recognise him – his hat hid his face.’

‘Describe him, then. Was he tall? Fat? Thin?’

Snow screwed up his face and gripped his leg with both hands. His face turned from white to a sickly grey. ‘Christ, Heyden! You did not have to hurl your dagger quite so hard! I think you have done for me. I told you, I did not see him properly.’

‘There was nothing unusual about him? No uneven gait or oddly coloured clothing?’

Snow was about to say no, when he reconsidered. ‘His coat was green – and tight, as if he had grown out of it.’

Chaloner knelt next to him and slipped the hilt of the man’s dagger through the bandage, twisting it tight enough to make him shriek. ‘Hold this. It should stem the bleeding until Bennet comes back.’

Snow was beginning to be frightened. ‘What if he does not?’

‘I will fetch someone else – but only if you agree to stop stalking Sarah Dalton. She did not kill Storey – I did. I hit him when you were stunned.’

Snow stifled a groan. ‘No one will help me, Heyden. We drove everyone off – or Bennet did.’

Chaloner dropped the shilling into his callused hand. ‘Then I will tell them you can pay.’

Snow coughed weakly. ‘That might do it. People will do anything for money.’

Chaloner was sure he was right. He walked to the front of the house, where a fascinated crowd was watching the houses on either side of Dalton’s begin to smoulder, although soldiers under a competent-looking captain had arrived and were organising a bucket chain. Chaloner told a bulky matron about Snow’s predicament – and his shilling – then limped back to where Leybourn crouched over Thurloe. Sarah stood next to them, her face a mask of shock.

‘Is he all right?’ asked Chaloner, indicating the prone ex-Spymaster with a nod of his head.

‘Yes, he is,’ said Thurloe, opening his eyes. ‘Wet, sore and dishevelled, but nothing a few days by the fi … in bed will not cure. And you? Did you hurt your leg when you jumped?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘It has been worse.’

Sarah raised a shaking hand to her head. ‘It was like a nightmare, being trapped inside that chest and smelling smoke. I do not suppose you saw my husband, did you? Did he escape?’

Thurloe looked away. ‘He is dead.’

A loud explosion boomed from the house, raising a collective shriek from the onlookers. Sarah watched the black smoke that billowed into the grey sky. ‘There goes the first of his gunpowder.’

Chaloner gaped at her. ‘His what?’

‘He always keeps two barrels in the house. He says you never know when it might come in useful. That was the first one blowing. The second will not be far behind. How did he die? Was it the fire?’

‘He was stabbed,’ said Thurloe. ‘Who did it? Bennet?’

‘Bennet was never in the house,’ replied Leybourn. ‘I saw him and Snow lurking in the street outside when Sarah was packing her clothes. They must have followed us – I am not very good at detecting that sort of thing. She should have taken Thomas instead.’

Sarah drew a shuddering breath. ‘Thomas may have been able to prevent my husband from forcing me into a box and leaving me to burn, too.’ She swallowed hard, and tried to steady her voice. ‘He said he could not afford to let me live. He also said it was only a matter of time before Bennet finished you off, John, and he planned to strangle Thomas when he came to translate letters tomorrow.’

Thurloe frowned. ‘But if Bennet was outside, and Dalton ambushed you, then who killed Dalton?’

‘Someone he knew,’ said Leybourn. ‘Before the fire started – while Sarah was collecting her clothes and I was waiting on the landing – there was a knock at the door. The servants were at church, so Dalton answered himself. I heard him wish someone a good morning, and then everything went quiet. I do not think he would have addressed a stranger in that friendly way.’

‘Who was it?’ asked Thurloe. ‘Did you recognise the voice?’

‘I did not hear it,’ replied Leybourn. ‘Perhaps it was Ingoldsby.’

‘Ingoldsby is trapped at Westminster Abbey with the King all this morning,’ said Thurloe. ‘I know for a fact he was invited, and he dares not refuse. Ingoldsby is not the culprit.’

‘I heard voices in the room below my bedchamber,’ said Sarah. ‘But my husband was not arguing with this visitor: he was discussing business. I heard him mention his new trade agreement with the Dutch, and how wealthy it will make him.’

‘It was Downing,’ said Chaloner quietly. ‘Snow told me he saw someone wearing a tight green coat emerging through the front door before the fire started. Downing owns such a garment.’

‘Downing stabbed Dalton?’ asked Leybourn. ‘But why?’

‘He has always been jealous of my husband’s good relationship with the Dutch merchants,’ said Sarah. ‘But I did not think he was envious enough to kill him over it.’

Clutching Leybourn’s arm for support, Thurloe staggered to his feet. It was the first time Chaloner had seen him less than perfectly attired, with his crumpled clothes, matted hair and smoke-blackened face. ‘Then we shall have to ask him about it.’

Leybourn gaped at him. ‘Ask Downing whether he stabbed Dalton?’

‘I will not put it quite like that,’ said Thurloe dryly. ‘You can credit me with a little subtlety, Will – I was not appointed spymaster for my habit of barging into delicate situations with bald questions. But it is cold here, and I do not want to take a chill. Come to my chambers.’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘I want to see Metje.’

‘Yes,’ said Thurloe, regarding him oddly. ‘That is probably a good idea.’

Chaloner frowned, knowing there was more to the comment than he understood. Was Thurloe relieved to have him gone, so he could be with real friends? Or was there something else? ‘I do not–’

‘We should not stay here,’ said Leybourn. ‘Bennet might come back, and while Thomas seems awash with demonic energy, I have had enough. An afternoon with roasted chestnuts and a glass of spiced wine sounds more appealing than you can possibly imagine.’

Sarah agreed. ‘We will take a carriage, and hang the expense. It is Christmas, after all.’

Chaloner returned to his rooms, intending to rinse the stench of smoke from his hair and change his clothes, hoping Metje would agree to spend a quiet hour with him. He was sore from his jump, his leg ached, and he wanted to lie down and talk about their future – although, he admitted ruefully, just lying down would suffice. He climbed the stairs slowly, and was pleasantly surprised to find her already there. She was standing in the window, which Ellis had ‘repaired’ with the cover from an old book. She held the lamp in her hand and, when he opened the door, he was taken aback when she turned suddenly and hurled it at him. He ducked instinctively, and it smashed against the wall.

‘What are these?’ she demanded, brandishing Sarah’s hat and wig.

He glanced at the bed, and saw she had been in the process of changing the linen. ‘They belong to Thurloe’s sister,’ he said, one ear cocked for Ellis coming to investigate the noise. ‘Mrs Dalton.’

‘And what are they doing behind our bed?’

Several stories presented themselves to him as possible explanations before he recalled that there was no need for prevarication, because she knew what he did for a living. ‘There is a man in Kelyng’s retinue who wants to kill her, because she brained his partner. I helped her escape by donning her headwear.’ Even as he related the tale, he knew he would have been better off with a lie.

‘Then what about this?’ demanded Metje, tears starting in her eyes. She waved another wig, this one a luxurious brown affair, which had arrived in a box bearing Monsieur Jervas’s mark. It was the same colour as the hair he had found in the Tower, and he sincerely hoped it was not Praisegod’s.

‘Kelyng promised to send me one,’ said Chaloner. ‘I thought he was just talking.’

‘Kelyng,’ she said flatly. She did not believe him. ‘Kelyng bought you an expensive wig, and Mrs Dalton’s personal effects are hidden behind our bed because you saved her life.’

‘The problem with the truth is that it is sometimes more difficult to believe than a lie.’

‘Your truths certainly are,’ she said tartly. ‘I thought we had reached an understanding, and that fibs were a thing of the past. I would be better off with …’

‘With what?’

‘With Mr North and his family. They have decided to return to Ely at the end of the month. Temperance has asked me to go with her, and I think I will.’

‘But you are expecting our child.’ He was appalled she should consider leaving him. ‘And North will know it in a few weeks.’

She rubbed her eyes. ‘I am so confused, I do not know what to do. People throw things at me in the street because I am Dutch. Then I learn you are a spy – and a penniless one, at that. And if there is a war, I shall be lynched, because you cannot buy the protection I need. My other … my other …’

Chaloner stared at her, thinking about Thurloe’s veiled references over the last week – mention of ‘wavering affections’, and advice to go to Holland or spend time with her. His stomach churned as he began to understand what the ex-Spymaster had been trying to tell him. ‘Your other what? Lover?’

She stared at her feet. ‘I was frightened, Tom. And you were always out, going about strange business that you declined to share with me. I needed to be with someone I could trust.’

Chaloner regarded her in dismay. ‘Who is it? North?’

‘Do not be ridiculous. But it does not matter anyway, because I went to see him today and he was with a woman – his wife. He could not be trusted either, so now I have no one. Do not look accusingly at me, when you have not been faithful, either. At least you can go to Mrs Dalton now.’

Chaloner went to stand by the hearth, his thoughts in turmoil. Had his secretive behaviour really driven Metje into the arms of another man, or would she have gone anyway?

‘Someone is coming,’ he said, hearing footsteps. ‘Probably Ellis, wanting to know what broke just now. What do you want to do? Hide under the bed? Or shall we let him see us together?’

There was a soft tap on the door.

‘I do not know,’ said Metje tearfully. She still held Sarah’s wig. ‘He–’

‘Mr Heyden?’ came Temperance’s voice. ‘Are you there?’ Chaloner went to let her in, while Metje stood next to the window, hairpiece dangling from her fingers. Temperance was surprised to see her in a man’s bedchamber, alone and with the door closed, but was too polite to comment on it.

‘Metje tells me you are going to live in Ely,’ said Chaloner, offering Temperance a chair.

Temperance winced as she sat. ‘I do not want to go. It is full of pirates, who sail through the Fens at full moon and abduct young ladies for wicked purposes. And I will miss you.’

Chaloner was still too stunned by Metje’s revelation to offer any words of comfort. ‘What can I do for you, Temperance? I will not kill the turkey, if that is why you came.’

‘The turkey is no longer with us. But I came to invite you to dine with us anyway.’

‘Thank you, but not today,’ he said, sorry when her eyes brimmed with tears.

‘Please,’ she said in a low, choked voice. ‘There will not be many more occasions, because father says we shall leave in a matter of days. He thinks it is too dangerous here.’

‘You should accept, Tom,’ said Metje, not looking at him. ‘Mr North has always been good to you, and who knows, perhaps you will be his neighbour in Ely.’

‘Will you?’ asked Temperance, hope bright in her eyes.

‘I doubt it,’ said Chaloner. He saw Temperance’s smile fade, and chided himself for being such a misery. How would he see his daughter unless he travelled? ‘But anything is possible, I suppose.’

Chaloner flung off his smoke-soiled clothes, rinsed the stink of burning from his hair, and donned his Sunday best, knowing it would be expected of him, although he was careful to temper his costume with his plainest collar. Also in deference to the Norths, he left his sword behind, along with the dagger he wore in his belt. The one from his sleeve was lost somewhere outside Dalton’s mansion, but the one he wore in his boot remained in place. He did not like the notion of being totally defenceless.

Each time he considered Metje’s betrayal, a pang shot through his stomach, and he wondered how far his occupation was responsible for the collapse of their relationship. Because they had spent two carefree years in Holland, he had not expected anything to change when they moved, but of course it had. She had told him she was lonely and frightened, and he should have anticipated she might seek solace from other quarters if he did nothing about it. She had not trusted him to look after her, and he had given her no reason to think otherwise.

So what happened now? Could he forgive her? And what about the child? Was it his or the other man’s? He supposed he might know the answer when it was born, if it possessed some feature identifiable as his own, but he would have to make a decision sooner than that, and so would she. However, they were not compelled to make it that afternoon, and he supposed it would be wise to let a few days pass first, so that neither would commit to hasty agreements they would later regret.

When one of the maids opened the door to his reluctant tap, he found the North household waiting for him. His dark blue doublet and breeches were hardly gaudy, but even so he felt like a peacock in a flock of pigeons as he approached the black-clad gathering. A single sprig of holly comprised their Christmas decorations – although some effort had been made to celebrate the festival like Anglicans, an excess of merry-making was still anathema to Puritans – but there was a spotlessly clean tablecloth and all the spoons and knives gleamed.

As usual, the room was bright and welcoming, which was more than could be said for the room’s occupants: North and Faith were grim-faced and quiet, Temperance was distressed, and the servants – Metje among them – made no bones about the fact that they wished they were somewhere else. Chaloner was relieved the gathering did not also include Preacher Hill.

‘You are still limping, Heyden,’ said North, standing to greet him with a forced smile. ‘Are you not recovered from your encounter with our burglar?’

‘There was a fire this morning,’ said Chaloner, seeing no reason why he should not tell them what he had been doing. He was tired of lies. ‘At the house of John Dalton, the vintner.’

‘What a thrilling life you lead,’ said Metje, regarding him coolly. ‘Each time we meet, you have been involved in some dramatic incident or other.’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘London can be a dangerous place.’

‘It is indeed!’ declared North, rubbing his hands together. ‘Very dangerous. In fact, I feel we can no longer live here, and plan to leave in a matter of days.’

Temperance regarded her parents with tearful defiance, and Chaloner sensed they might be about to face a rebellion from their normally dutiful daughter. ‘Why so soon?’ he asked.

‘Robbers stalk our streets as bold as brass, and sin is everywhere,’ replied North. ‘Did you hear Lord Mayor Robinson’s unwed daughter is with child? I cannot imagine how.’

‘It is very simple, sir,’ said Chaloner. ‘It happens when a man and a woman lie together.’

There was a startled silence. Then one of the maids stifled an embarrassed giggle, Temperance clasped a hand to her mouth in shock, and Faith came to her feet with a carving knife in her hand.

‘Keep a decent tongue in your head,’ she said icily. ‘Or I shall chop it off. I should have known to expect that sort of quip from a man who plays cards and reads Hobbes’s Leviathan.’

‘Would you care for some chicken, Heyden?’ asked North hastily, gesturing for his wife to sit again. She complied, although reluctantly, and he noticed she did not relinquish the knife.

Chaloner was ashamed of himself. The Norths were good people, and he had no right to behave boorishly. It was hardly their fault that he had endured such a wretched morning. He rubbed his eyes and coughed, feeling a residue of smoke scratching his throat. ‘I am sorry. I am out of sorts today.’

‘The fire?’ asked Temperance sympathetically, while Faith and Metje exchanged the kind of glance that indicated they thought he was making excuses.

Chaloner nodded, and coughed again. He could not expel the taste of burning from his mouth, and wished North would offer him some wine, knowing it would ease the ache in his leg, too.

‘I trust no one was hurt,’ said Temperance, passing Chaloner an empty plate, ready for the roasted chicken her mother was viciously hacking apart. It did not escape his notice that Faith looked as though she wished she were dismembering their guest instead of a bird.

‘Dalton was – he died.’

North stared at him in horror, and Chaloner recalled that both were in the Brotherhood, so were comrades. He should not have broken the news so bluntly.

‘Died?’ asked Faith, while her husband clasped his hands and chafed them, as if the news had chilled him. ‘How awful! Shall we abandon this dreary feast and say a prayer for his soul?’

Everyone joined hands. Chaloner’s left was seized by Temperance, who gripped it warmly, while Metje slipped cold, hesitant fingers into his right. Faith took a deep breath and launched into a lengthy intercession that seemed to go on for ever. Chaloner shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position where his leg did not hurt. She stopped when he moved, and only resumed when he was still again.

The ordeal might have gone on a good deal longer, but there was a knock on the door, and within a few moments, a visitor was ushered in. It was Downing, resplendent in green coat and new hat. He grimaced when he saw Chaloner.

‘We were praying,’ said North. ‘Would you like to join us?’

‘No, I have just eaten,’ replied Downing obscurely. ‘I was passing, so I came to tell you that another brother has died in flames. Poor John Dalton.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Downing regarded him in disbelief. ‘What?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Have you seen him?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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