A Conspiracy of Violence

Chapter 12

When Downing’s footsteps had receded, Chaloner climbed to his feet, ignoring the astonished stares of people who thought they had just witnessed a murder. He brushed himself down and set off in pursuit, grateful but not surprised that Downing had not bothered to check his victim was dead before leaving the scene of his crime. He had predicted the way the discussion would end as soon as Downing had spoken his real name, and had been ready for an attack. He had let the blade pass harmlessly under his arm, and grappling with Downing as he had slumped to the ground had been designed to ensure the man did not notice a lack of resistance when he tugged his weapon from the ‘body’. It was another trick learned from Thurloe, and not the first time he had used it to his advantage.

Downing strode along Fetter Lane, then turned into Fleet Street, his green coat billowing around him. The roads were full of people in their best clothes, and entertainers were out in force, filling the streets with music of varying quality. A dancing bear performed near the Maypole in the Strand, although it was obvious from its odd gait that there was a man inside its skin. Chaloner followed Downing at a distance, taking care to remain hidden among the jostling, bustling crowds.

But when Downing headed towards White Hall, Chaloner hung back uncertainly. Was the diplomat right? Would Thurloe and Ingoldsby really try to kill the King? Thurloe had been devoted to Cromwell, and Ingoldsby had been the Lord Protector’s cousin, so it was not an impossibility, but would they be so foolish? Chaloner realised that, even after all that had happened, he was still not sure of Thurloe’s true mind, and cursed him for being such a complex man. He leaned down to rub his leg, trying to reach a decision. Should he prevent Downing from going to the Earl? He could have a knife in Downing’s portly frame without too much trouble, but then what? It might take several minutes to locate Livesay’s letter, during which time the murder would be noticed – and there was no point in killing Downing if he could not retrieve the missive. Should he try to reason with him, or delay him? Chaloner straightened slowly. Neither would work, because he had nothing with which to bargain.

But, if the accusations were true, should he be contemplating ways to prevent Downing from doing his duty anyway? Chaloner had not approved of the execution of the first monarch, and he would certainly not condone the murder of a second. He hung back, irresolute and unhappy, and aware that he had never experienced so many conflicting loyalties.

Downing marched towards the Banqueting House, which was busy that day, because the King had ordered another Touching Ceremony. Crowds had gathered, not only to be blessed by royal hands, but to watch the monarch at work among his people. Soldiers in buff cloaks and the Lord Mayor’s men in scarlet were plentiful, but their presence was more ceremonial than protective, and Chaloner imagined any attack on Charles would throw them into a chaos of confusion. It would be easy for determined men to kill him as he moved among his subjects.

The King had not yet arrived, although judging by the atmosphere of tense anticipation, the milling crowds would not have long to wait. A number of barons were already there, clad in their finery, and presenting a stark contrast to the scrofula-stricken hopefuls, most of whom wore the dull browns and greys of poverty. The grandest noble of all was Clarendon. His blue robe was liberally adorned with gold ribbon, while a collar frothed with lace beneath his ample jowls. He wore a wig of pale yellow, which sat oddly with his dark moustache and tiny beard. There was an ornamental ‘town sword’ at his side, which glittered as he moved, and looked as though it would be next to useless in a fight. He carried a leather bag, which was old and scruffy enough to look strangely out of place with the rest of his glorious attire.

He and the other courtiers huddled at the Banqueting House door, waiting to greet their monarch, and guards had been ordered to keep everyone else out until the ceremony was due to begin. Chaloner tensed as Downing stalked towards the gathering, and watched with a feeling of helplessness as the diplomat tapped the Lord Chancellor’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Clarendon nodded assent to whatever he had been asked, and followed Downing inside.

Chaloner took the last of the money Kelyng had given him, and tossed it towards the door. There was an immediate commotion, during which the crowd surged forward with a yell of delight and the soldiers fought to keep the rabble away from the noblemen. While everyone was otherwise occupied, Chaloner slipped into the Banqueting House porch, just in time to see the tip of the Earl’s cloak disappear through a door to his right. He set off in pursuit, and found himself in the undercroft, a vaulted chamber that had been designed as a drinking den for King James. Charles II used it for lotteries, although that day it had been designated a storeroom, and housed furniture stacked to keep the main hall clear for the masques, balls and dances planned for the Christmas period.

Neither Downing nor the Earl bothered to check whether they were alone, and it was easy for Chaloner to step into the room undetected, remaining out of sight behind a pile of benches. He did not know what he hoped to achieve by eavesdropping on the Lord Chancellor and the diplomat, and was acutely aware that it would probably mean his death if he were caught.

‘… letter from Sir Michael Livesay,’ Downing was announcing in his loud, confident voice, ‘about seven men who plotted against the King’s return. In exchange for his liberty, Livesay names then all: himself, Thurloe, Ingoldsby, Barkstead, Hewson, Dalton and Chaloner. He also outlines details of a plan to hurl grenades at the King – perhaps when he comes for the Touching Ceremony today.’

‘I see,’ said Clarendon. He sounded bored. ‘Another tale of a threat on His Majesty’s life. That will make five this week, and every one has been a hoax.’

‘This is not, My Lord,’ said Downing stiffly. ‘It is perfectly genuine.’

Clarendon snatched the paper from his hand. ‘These assassins will be somewhat thin on the ground – Hewson, Barkstead, Chaloner and Dalton are dead, and Livesay obviously will not take part, since he has given you advance information about it.’

‘Just Thurloe and Ingoldsby,’ agreed Downing. ‘Livesay says they intend to hurl their fireballs, then escape in the confusion. If you want to catch them red-handed, he will tell me the place where they have stored their deadly weapons – a room they rented together for that express purpose. Dalton was helping them – I saw him with gunpowder myself – but he met the end he deserved.’

Chaloner closed his eyes in mounting despair. Fireballs. Gunpowder was needed to make fireballs, and Sarah had said Dalton had kept two barrels in his house. Therefore, Downing must have been telling the truth about the vintner making grenades. He reflected on what he knew of Dalton’s arsenal. Sarah had expected a second explosion after the first, but it had not come. Was it because the other keg had been moved, perhaps to the ‘rented room’? Chaloner recalled the man with whom Thurloe had collided on his way to the fire, who had something hidden under his cloak. The ex-Spymaster had been so intent on his sister’s rescue that he had taken no notice, but the man had seen something in Thurloe to check the torrent of abuse he had been about to hurl. At the time, Chaloner had assumed it was Thurloe’s grim expression that had stopped the fellow, but now he reconsidered. Perhaps it was because he had recognised a colleague. The man had been Ingoldsby’s height, and he had taken care to conceal his face.

‘Livesay does not say where these weapons are hidden,’ said the Earl, as he read the letter. ‘He obviously does not trust you, because he is holding back.’

Downing glared at him. ‘With respect, My Lord, that is not the reason. He is just trying to secure himself the best possible bargain before he plays all his cards. It is blackmail, in essence.’

Clarendon scanned the letter again. ‘This is a very malicious piece of writing. It does not smack of a man seeking to redeem himself, but of vindictiveness and spite. I do not think Livesay composed it.’

Downing was startled, and so was Chaloner. ‘What are you saying?’ demanded Downing, affronted. ‘That I wrote it myself?’

The Earl grimaced. ‘You are spiteful and vindictive, but that was not what I meant. A man cannot believe everything he reads, and I do not see why Livesay should trust you to accommodate him. You arrested three of his fellow regicides, and consigned them to a dreadful death. I am simply not convinced that Livesay would choose you as a means to help him.’

Downing was horrified. ‘But it is true, My Lord, and if you ignore my warning, the King will be in grave danger. Then it will be you enduring a dreadful death – for treason.’

Clarendon’s eyes glittered. ‘Watch what you say – it is not wise to clamour treason against the King’s chief advisor. But I shall keep this letter and consider its claims. You may leave.’

‘Leave?’ spluttered Downing. ‘Is that all you have to say? I risked a great deal to bring you this information. For all his shorn powers, Thurloe still has claws, and I have just been obliged to stab his favourite spy. My life will be in danger if you allow him to remain free.’

Clarendon regarded him in distaste. ‘You killed a man?’

‘On my way to see you. It is only a matter of time before Thurloe learns that Chaloner’s nephew and I left North’s house together, and within moments one of us was dead. He will guess what happened, and I do not want him coming after me with one of his damned fireballs.’

‘You killed Thomas Chaloner?’ asked Clarendon, aghast. ‘Then you are in trouble indeed. He was working for me.’

‘He never left Thurloe,’ said Downing, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. ‘What did you ask him to do? I will wager anything he did not succeed – not because he could not, but because it is in Thurloe’s interests to thwart everything the King’s ministers do.’

The Earl waved the satchel, and there was no mistaking his fury. ‘You are wrong. I asked him to locate a missing seven thousand pounds and, just moments ago, I received this.’ He groped inside the bag and produced a block of gleaming yellow metal. ‘It is part of a hoard I ordered him to find, and Buckingham tells me it is worth a thousand pounds. Chaloner wrote to say he is hot on the trail of the other six, and now you have killed him?’

Downing gazed at the gold bar in horror. ‘My Lord! I did not know–’

‘You know nothing,’ snarled Clarendon, white-faced with rage. ‘You come with tales of treachery, but offer no evidence to back them up, and now you kill a man who was about to provide the King with a fortune. And you call me a traitor? I should have your head for this!’

‘But Chaloner’s uncle was–’

‘His uncle’s crimes are not his own, and he has demonstrated his allegiance to the King with this gift. It represents a good deal of money to a penniless spy, and he could have made off with it. But he chose to be honest. I need men like him and I do not need men like you. You are dismissed.’

Downing was livid. ‘I know a lot about this Court. Do not make an enemy of me.’

The Earl looked bored, and waved a hand to indicate Downing should go. There was no more to be said, so the diplomat turned and stalked out, almost knocking Evett from his feet as he did so. The captain had obviously been waiting outside, listening.

Chaloner tried to assemble his tumbling thoughts, recognising the satchel as the one Kelyng had tried to steal from Thurloe. But how had Thurloe come by a bar of gold? There could not be many such items in existence, and he could only assume – as the Earl had done – that it was one of the seven that had been paid to Praisegod. Did this mean Thurloe had taken it after Barkstead had killed Praisegod and buried his body in the Tower? But why would he send it to the Lord Chancellor? Chaloner was so engrossed in trying to see sense that he almost did not notice what was happening in the undercroft, not registering the fact that Evett had locked the door and drawn his sword.

‘That ingot, sir,’ he said, moving towards the Earl. ‘Where did Chaloner find it?’

‘He did not say,’ said Clarendon. ‘Damn that meddling Downing!’

‘He must have said something,’ said Evett, continuing his advance.

‘Just that he hoped to find the others. What are you–?’

‘That gold does not belong to you,’ said Evett, gripping his sword in readiness for a lunge. ‘It belongs to another man, and I intend to take it to him. Stand still, or your end will be a painful one.’

Chaloner eliminated the chaos of questions from his mind, and concentrated on the situation that was unravelling in front of him: the Lord Chancellor backed against the wall, his face a combination of alarm and disbelief, and Evett with a sword in one hand, and a long knife in the other. Chaloner had a single dagger. He leaned down and removed it from his boot, then stepped from behind the benches and took aim. Unfortunately, it flew from his hand at the same time that the Earl lashed out with the satchel, and when Evett ducked away from the bag, the dagger embedded itself in the wall behind him. The captain gaped in astonishment.

‘I thought you were dead!’ cried the Earl, equally startled. ‘Downing just said–’

‘Downing is a poor judge of corpses.’ Chaloner backed away, as Evett, seeing he carried no sword, prepared to make an end of the threat he represented.

Clarendon bustled forward. ‘I do not know what game you two are playing, with drawn weapons and tales of false deaths, but I do not like it. Have you lost your senses?’

Evett swung around so fast that the Earl jerked backwards and almost fell. ‘I have gained them, My Lord Chancellor!’ he spat. ‘I have been in your service for ten years, and what am I? An aide! A servant, dispatched to hunt murderers like a parish constable. I thought my future lay with you, but I was wrong. It is time I took matters into my own hands.’

‘Who has been filling your mind with this nonsense, Philip?’ demanded Clarendon impatiently. ‘Sheath your sword, and let us talk. What do you want? A larger salary? A different title?’

Evett’s eyes glittered. ‘Even now you do not understand. I want to be Lord High Admiral.’

‘Do you?’ asked the Earl, amazed. ‘I thought you were jesting! I often claim that I would like to be Archbishop of Canterbury – to sort out the Church – but I do not actually mean it.’

‘Well, I do,’ said Evett, while Chaloner assessed his chances of reaching the door before the captain speared him. They were slim. ‘But it does not matter what you think. I have met a man who appreciates my talents, and who will help me to greater things. Ironically, I met him through the Brotherhood – the organisation you made me join when you tried to turn me from soldier to spy.’

‘The Brotherhood?’ asked Clarendon, bewildered. ‘It corrupted you?’

‘It opened my eyes,’ corrected Evett.

‘Enough!’ snapped the Earl, his confusion giving way to anger at last. ‘Put down that weapon immediately, before someone is hurt.’

‘Someone will be hurt, all right,’ muttered Evett. ‘But it will not be me.’

‘It might,’ said Chaloner, taking several steps away as Evett advanced on him. The captain was wisely concentrating on the opponent he considered the more dangerous. ‘There are two of us.’

‘An old man and an unarmed spy,’ sneered Evett. ‘Against a soldier.’

‘A soldier who has never seen a battle,’ countered Chaloner, trying to undermine his confidence. ‘And one who is frightened of the pheasants in Hyde Park with their “nasty, slashing beaks”.’

‘You are the coward,’ snarled Evett. ‘I sensed, the day we met, that you would be a nuisance, so I tried to entice you down an alley where my soldiers were waiting. But you were afraid of the dark and refused to follow.’

‘Paying others to do your dirty work?’ asked Chaloner, disgusted. Several facts came together in his mind. ‘I suppose you tried that tactic on me, because it had worked on poor Clarke?’

He darted behind the benches, wincing as the sword gouged chunks from them as Evett made a series of determined slashes. He grabbed a pole that was used for opening windows, and jabbed back. Evett’s attack faltered at the sight of a weapon.

‘You killed Clarke, Philip?’ asked Clarendon, shocked. ‘But I asked you to investigate his death!’

‘And he was no doubt relieved, despite his claims to the contrary,’ said Chaloner, ‘I should have known why a straightforward enquiry was progressing so slowly. For example, he “forgot” to show the murder weapon to the measurers of cloth – probably because he thought they might recognise it as his own. I assumed it was simple incompetence, but it was something far worse.’

‘I did not kill Clarke,’ said Evett, licking dry lips. ‘I liked him. I even introduced him to the Brotherhood, and backed his election as a member.’

‘To gain his trust,’ countered Chaloner, gripping the pole like a stave. ‘You probably befriended Simon Lane and the others, too, to lull them into a false sense of security. You tried it with me – you claimed Simon was your cousin, but it was a lie; Thurloe told me Simon had no kin following the death of his wife last year. And you kindly “warned” me about the deaths of my predecessors, urging me to take care. It almost worked – I was beginning to like you.’

‘None of this is true,’ said Evett uneasily. ‘Why would I kill six men?’

‘You tried to ride me down outside Ingoldsby’s house, too,’ said Chaloner. ‘As a palace captain, you have access to good horses, and I had asked you for directions, so you knew where I was going. And you certainly tried to thwart my investigation into the treasure – you deliberately aroused the suspicions of Pepys, Robinson and Downing with stupid comments and odd behaviour, and you made up that ridiculous story about mushrooms when you showed me around the Tower. You did it to hamper me – to have me dismissed.’

Evett sneered. ‘You cannot prove any of this.’

Chaloner ducked away from the sword. Evett was right, but he continued with his analysis anyway. ‘Only the murderer would know Lane and the others were “stabbed in the back in the depths of the night with no witnesses”, to quote your own words. If there were no witnesses, then how did you know they died at night? But I do not think you killed Clarke – at least, not alone – because you would not have chosen that public passageway. Your accomplice knew no better, though, because she was a stranger to the back corridors of White Hall.’

‘She?’ asked the Earl, appalled. ‘Please do not tell me it was Lady Castlemaine!’

‘I mean Evett’s new woman,’ said Chaloner. ‘The one he professes to love. You have to be impressed, My Lord, because she comes in addition to his two wives.’

‘Two wives?’ echoed the Earl, while Evett lunged at Chaloner and swore furiously when he was rewarded with a crack across the shoulders with the pole. ‘Philip!’

Chaloner found he could marshal sense into some of the mysteries, now he knew Evett’s role in them. ‘Clarke was killed because he was unofficially investigating Barkstead’s affairs and you decided he was coming too close to the truth. You were right: he had already prepared messages for Thurloe, mentioning connections between the death of Praisegod Swanson and the Seven and he probably knew about the seven gold bars.’

‘So? What does Barkstead’s nasty business have to do with me?’

‘You want the treasure yourself – presumably for this new master of yours.’ Chaloner blocked a wild and undisciplined swipe. ‘You pretended to help me, but only so you would know how the investigation was proceeding. It was also you and your lady who were with Lee when he was shot.’

‘The three of us were drinking wine together,’ admitted Evett cautiously. ‘We did not kill Lee, though. I was shocked when that crossbow bolt came through the window.’

‘That was Bennet, dispatching a rival for Fanny Robinson’s affections,’ explained Chaloner to Clarendon. He turned back to Evett. ‘But it was you who snatched the document from Lee’s corpse.’

Evett shrugged. ‘It does not matter what you think, since you will not live to tell anyone. But, yes, it was I who took the paper. Lee had learned the names of the Seven from his kinsman, Ingoldsby, and wrote them in a code only I would be able to read. I said he would hang for treason if he did not do it. He told me what happened to Praisegod, too.’

‘What did happen to him?’ asked the Earl, shocked by the magnitude of the betrayal. He looked at the gold bar in his hand, and finally understood. ‘Seven thousand pounds – seven bars of gold …’

‘Poor Praisegod,’ said Evett. ‘It was his hair you found in the cellar, Heyden – you got his scalp and I unearthed his bones. Barkstead murdered and buried him. There is often truth to rumour, and you heard Sergeant Picard saying Barkstead’s victims were down there. Praisegod was one of them. I wonder whether there will be similar rumours when I bury you two under White Hall?’

Evett took his sword in both hands and made a concerted effort to drive Chaloner away from the shelter of the benches. He lunged hard and in a direction Chaloner did not anticipate, making the agent lose his balance. When Chaloner tried to parry the next blow, he did so clumsily, and the pole broke in two. The captain moved forward with a grin, taking advantage of the fact that Chaloner had lost his longer reach. When Chaloner met the next slashing swipe, the remnants of the stick fragmented in his hand. He stumbled awkwardly, and pain jolted through his weak leg. The Earl drew his little town sword and swished it ineffectually, to draw his attention away from the fallen spy, but Chaloner could tell by the way he held it that he would be cut down in moments, even by a poor fighter like Evett.

‘You disgust me,’ said the Earl, backing away when the captain turned on him. ‘Lord High Admiral, indeed! I would not appoint you master of a barge.’

Evett turned on him, blazing fury, while Chaloner crawled towards the broken pole. ‘Leave him alone,’ he shouted, struggling to his feet. He jabbed Evett with the pole. ‘Fight me instead.’

‘Here!’ shouted the Earl, flinging him the sword, and clearly relieved to pass the challenge to a more experienced brawler.

Chaloner lobbed the stick at the furious captain, and snatched up the weapon. When Evett saw they were more evenly matched, he became cautious again. Chaloner blocked a tentative prod, then went on an offensive of his own, although the slender town sword was no match for Evett’s heavy blade. Evett soon knew it, and his confidence returned.

‘When I have killed you, the King will die,’ he said gloatingly. ‘You heard what Downing said. My friends are making fireballs even now, and England will have new masters – ones who will not squander public money on masques in which barons pretend to be animals.’

‘You mean fanatics?’ asked Chaloner. ‘I thought you disapproved of extremism.’

‘Not all Puritans are fanatics. Some are reasonable men, who just want a return to decency.’

Chaloner was inclined to tell him that such people would almost certainly be opposed to bigamy, and that his new world order might not be all he hoped for. ‘Who?’

‘Not Buckingham?’ asked the Earl. ‘You hate him – or was that just a ruse to mislead me?’

‘He will be the first to go,’ said Evett coldly.

‘Downing will stop you,’ warned the Lord Chancellor, although he did not sound convinced.

Evett laughed, then swung so hard that Chaloner’s blade snapped in two. ‘Downing will change sides again, and the next time I see him, he will be a Puritan, claiming he has always been an honest man of simple tastes.’ His voice was mincingly mocking, and a fair imitation of the slippery diplomat.

‘Your friends?’ asked Chaloner. The game was up: his leg and broken sword meant he could not win. ‘You mean Ingoldsby?’ Even now, he could not bring himself to name Thurloe among traitors.

‘You will never know,’ said Evett jeeringly. ‘You will die wondering, and–’

‘The Brotherhood,’ said the Earl suddenly. ‘You said you met him in the Brotherhood. You must mean Ingoldsby. It cannot be Downing, because he brought me that letter. Wade and Hewson are dead …’

Chaloner was backed against the stacks of benches, and there was nowhere else to go. ‘Livesay,’ he said quietly. ‘He is playing a double game.’

‘Shut up,’ snarled Evett, gripping his sword in both hands and preparing to strike.

Chaloner braced himself, resting his hand against the seats for support. Then his fingers brushed something soft: a dead rat. He grabbed it and held as he might a live one, so Evett could see its nose and whiskers. ‘Does your terror of wild creatures extend to these, Evett?’

Evett’s gaze slid towards the rodent, and he released a yelp of disgust when Chaloner hurled it at him. It caught on his tunic, and while he scrabbled to brush it off, Chaloner pushed forward, seizing his wrist and forcing him to drop the sword. The captain fell, dragging Chaloner with him, and then they were on the floor, rolling and grappling like tavern brawlers. Chaloner was aware of the Lord Chancellor, dancing this way and that with the broken hilt clasped in his chubby fingers.

‘No!’ he gasped, seeing what the Earl intended to do. ‘We need him alive.’

But Evett went limp anyway, and when Chaloner struggled away from the inert form he saw a spreading pool of gore. He heaved the captain on to his back and tried to staunch the flow of blood, but it was no use. The wound was too deep, and it was not many moments before the feeble heartbeat fluttered to nothing. Chaloner staggered to a bench and sat, rubbing his knee. He looked hard at the Earl.

‘It was him or you,’ said Clarendon defensively. ‘And you might find the rest of the gold.’

‘But he knew the identity of the man who intends to kill the King,’ Chaloner pointed out, wondering exactly where the Earl’s priorities lay. But there was no point in recriminations, and what was done was done.

Clarendon sat next to him. ‘I knew Philip lacked the skills required for the kind of work you do, but I decided to give him a chance anyway, and asked him to infiltrate the Brotherhood. I thought he was strong, but he was weak and corruptible. I suppose I bear the responsibility for his death.’

‘Well, you did put a sword through his back, My Lord,’ said Chaloner, tartly insolent. He rubbed his temples, feeling exhaustion wash over him. ‘You may have trusted him, but I was beginning to trust her. I even risked my life on her account.’

‘Who?’ asked the Earl, raising a shaking hand to adjust his wig. ‘Evett’s lady?’

‘Sarah Dalton. Perhaps that is why her husband tried to kill her – not to eliminate loose ends, as she claimed, but for infidelity. She told me on two separate occasions that she owned a liking for handsome young soldiers. I suppose she meant Evett.’

The Earl pursed his lips. ‘It is possible. She does visit White Hall on occasion, and Evett did flirt with her when the King exhibited his paintings last week. He has always been fond of women, and, with the benefit of hindsight, I suspect he had wives in France and Holland, too.’

Chaloner stood, feeling his leg protest against his weight. He needed to confront Sarah and demand the names of her accomplices before a plot swung into motion that might see the death of a second King Charles. What would Thurloe say when he learned his sister had been having an affair with Clarendon’s aide and helped murder his agents? Or would he already know, because Sarah’s actions were part of a greater, more sinister plan?

‘Thurloe is not a traitor,’ he said aloud, although he was aware his voice carried scant conviction.

‘I know,’ said Clarendon. ‘I would not have asked his advice all these months if I thought he were. But tell me about this gold. The bar you sent me is definitely one of the ones paid to Praisegod Swanson in return for the identities of the Seven. I assume that is the nature of Barkstead’s cache?’

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

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

‘I will try,’ replied Chaloner warily.

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

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

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

‘You seem very sure.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The grip slackened slightly. ‘Livesay?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You will go to Thurloe?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chaloner gaped at her. ‘You are Livesay?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It was you who told them my name?’ asked Chaloner, regarding Metje in horror, scarcely believing she could do such a thing, regardless of what else had passed between them.

North cleared his throat uncomfortably when Metje declined to answer. ‘A few days ago, Downing told me he had entrusted the Brotherhood’s secrets to you. Naturally, I asked why you should be the recipient of such confidences, and he said you had been Thurloe’s man for the past ten years. Thurloe! A traitor to the King!’

‘But it does not mean Thomas is also a traitor,’ objected Temperance. ‘Lots of men worked for the old government – it does not make them rebels.’

‘Hush, child,’ said North gently. ‘You do not know what you are talking about.’

‘I have known for some time that you seduce Metje on a nightly basis,’ said Faith coldly to Chaloner. ‘But I overlooked the matter, because we are fond of her. In return, though, I suggested she look more closely at the man on whom she bestows her favours. I advised her to question the odd hours you keep, the mysterious people you meet and the tales you tell her about your kin.’

‘When I did as she said, I learned our life together was a tissue of lies,’ said Metje, finally looking at Chaloner. ‘It was a shocking blow to learn the man I slept with was a spy.’

It had been a shocking blow for Chaloner to learn he was not her only lover, but he did not think this would be a good time to mention it. He spoke Dutch, in the hope of appealing to some ember of affection for him. ‘You cannot stay with these people, Meg. Leave now, while you still can.’

‘Speak English,’ said North sharply. ‘It is rude to gibber in a foreign language.’

Metje was pale, and Chaloner suspected she continued to speak her native tongue without realising she was doing so. ‘You deceived me for years, Tom, so do not look at me as though this is my fault.’

‘But the child–’ Chaloner saw the way Faith’s finger tightened on the trigger, and kept to English.

‘There is no child. I wanted to know the truth about you, and Faith said a pregnancy would make you relent – which it did. But you must understand why I lied to you. I was frightened and confused, and needed to know which of you to marry – who would be safer. I seldom make good choices where men are concerned. My father always said one would bring me to a bad end, and he was almost right. You were a spy, and Philip was married already.’

‘Philip?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether he would wake up and find the whole thing was a dreadful nightmare. ‘Surely, you cannot mean Captain Evett? I thought his new love was Sarah Dalton.’

‘Sarah?’ asked Temperance, struggling to follow the bilingual discussion. ‘She would never entertain a man like Philip Evett. She likes soldiers, but not silly, weak ones like him.’

‘Mr North belongs to a Brotherhood,’ Metje went on, still in Dutch. ‘He introduced me to Philip, and we became … I thought he was the answer to my prayers – wealthy, strong, able to protect me.’

Chaloner’s thoughts were in chaos. Hill had edged towards him and was sitting too close; he tried to elbow the man away as he attempted to distil sense into what Metje was telling him. ‘Then you were the woman with Evett when he visited Lee. I suppose you are the reason he speaks Dutch – after a fashion – too. He said he learned in exile, but he was lying. Christ, Metje! What have you done?’

‘Do not listen to him,’ ordered Faith. ‘He is a seducer, and you should believe nothing he says. Look what he did to Temperance.’

Chaloner glanced at Temperance, but could see nothing amiss. ‘Is it the coin tricks I showed her?’ he asked, confused. ‘I assure you they were nothing–’

Faith’s face was a mask of barely controlled fury. ‘We learned today that she is with child, and I have seen the way you look at her. You are lucky she pleaded for your life, or I would have blown your head from your shoulders the moment you knocked at our door.’

Hill immediately began to pray in an unsteady voice, while Temperance stared at her feet, cheeks burning with shame. Chaloner, looked from one to the other in disbelief. ‘You are … with Hill?’

‘It was him!’ shouted Hill, jabbing both forefingers in Chaloner’s direction, abruptly abandoning his devotions. ‘Not me. I would never lie with lonely members of my flock in chapel after prayers.’

Temperance began to sob, and Chaloner wondered whether the man had been obliged to drug her or make her insensible with strong wine first.

‘Since she could not have you …’ said Metje softly, leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken.

Chaloner tugged his thoughts back to Metje and her other lover. ‘I almost caught you with Evett – twice. The first time was when he and his men tried to entice me down an alley. And the second time was when he came half-dressed to the door when I called on him unexpectedly. I should have known you would not walk all the way to White Hall to buy a poultice for North’s nose. You waved the apothecary’s receipt …’

She winced. ‘It was a shopping list. Please do not talk about this any more.’

‘Evett gave you a lamp,’ said Chaloner, as more facts became clear in his mind. ‘Do you know why? So it would illuminate my room and make it easier for him to kill me with his grenade.’

There were other clues, too. He recalled singing her praises to Evett, comparing her to a painting by Rubens, and she had cited the compliment back to him when he had given her presents – Evett had reported the conversation. Then there was her vivid account of the masque: Evett had taken her to watch it through the holes in the corridors – and it was the night she had arrived cold and unusually late in Chaloner’s rooms. She had also taken to speaking English instead of Dutch when she was half asleep, and she had visited the Tower menagerie, suggesting Evett swallowed his distaste for its furred inhabitants and escorted her there.

‘Philip is a gentle man,’ she said quietly. ‘The apprentices threw the bomb – they lobbed one at the chapel too, although it did not ignite.’

‘That is what you were supposed to think.’ Chaloner felt sick as he watched her work with deft fingers. She had made such devices before. Hill pressed something into his side, making him wince. He tried to move away, but there was nowhere to go. He reverted to Dutch. ‘I do not know what these people think they are doing, but it will end in disaster. Leave them, while you can.’

North stepped forward, club raised. ‘I told you to speak English. Do you want to die?’

‘Father!’ cried Temperance, jumping towards him. ‘You promised!’

Hill jabbed again, urgently and hard enough to hurt. When Chaloner put his hand to the spot, he felt metal. The preacher was trying to pass him his gun. He took the weapon and held it behind his back, although he barely registered what he was doing. There was a lurching sensation in his stomach when he considered the implications of Metje’s relationship with Evett.

‘But this means you killed Clarke! I said the killer was unfamiliar with White Hall and its customs, and I was right. You lured him to that corridor and killed him.’

‘You do not need to answer, Metje,’ said North, wielding the cudgel menacingly.

‘It does not matter,’ said Metje. She looked Chaloner in the eyes. ‘Yes, I killed Clarke. Mr North needed to know what he had learned about the Seven, but he refused to tell me. We were lucky: the Earl assigned Philip to investigate his death, and you were told to look for Barkstead’s treasure. We were able to provide Mr North with details of both cases.’

‘I am weary of talk,’ said Faith. She came to loom over Chaloner. Hill cringed away, but she ignored him. ‘We shall have silence now, if you please.’

‘Do not speak, Tom,’ said Metje softly in Dutch. ‘She wants you dead because of Temperance’s condition, and you should not give her an excuse.’

‘What do you intend to do?’ asked Chaloner, unwilling to sit still while they manufactured the devices that would hurl his country into another maelstrom of civil war.

‘I warned you,’ said Faith, taking aim.

‘Stop,’ ordered a stern voice from the doorway. It was Thurloe, with Leybourn behind him, and both carried firearms. ‘Your nasty games are over, madam.’

Faith moved faster than anyone would have expected of such a thickset woman, and screwed the barrel of her gun against Chaloner’s temple before he could stop her. She forced him so firmly against the wall that the hand with Hill’s pistol was trapped uselessly behind him.

‘Put it down, Thurloe,’ she said calmly. ‘Or I will blow away your agent’s head.’

‘Do not do it, sir,’ warned Chaloner. ‘They intend to kill the King.’

‘We do not,’ said Faith, leaning even more heavily against him, to squash him to silence.

‘You do,’ said Chaloner in a gasp. ‘Evett said–’

‘Evett is not party to all our secrets – not because he is disloyal, but because he is apt to make stupidly careless remarks, as he seems to have done to you, since you are here challenging us. However, our real plan is to leave these grenades in a place associated with Thurloe and Ingoldsby, and Downing will see to it that they hang. Downing believed my letter purporting to be from Livesay, just as he did my missive in March, which told him where Barkstead might be found on a certain night in Holland. Now, put down the weapon, Thurloe.’

‘No!’ shouted Chaloner in despair, when Thurloe placed his gun on the floor and Leybourn followed suit. North hurried forward to collect them, and Temperance’s sobs became louder and more distraught. ‘Now they will kill you, too.’

Thurloe did not reply, and Faith’s eyes glittered. ‘It is not pleasant, is it, Thurloe? To see those you love in danger? Remember that when you face the King’s mercy at Tyburn.’

A shadow appeared at the window. ‘Kelyng is outside with Thurloe’s porters,’ said Chaloner, glancing at it. ‘Put down the gun, Faith.’

North looked alarmed, but Faith was made of sterner stuff. ‘Kelyng? Helping the man he hates above all others? Do not be ridiculous!’

Chaloner glanced at Thurloe and was shocked to see defeat. ‘Kelyng came to you–’

‘We thought he was trying to trick us,’ explained Leybourn in a voice filled with self-disgust. ‘So we locked him in a cupboard and came to investigate on our own.’

‘Sit down,’ said Faith, abruptly releasing Chaloner and waving her pistol at Thurloe. Chaloner flexed his fingers and leaned forward, hoping he would be fast enough to put his own weapon to good use – and that it was loaded. Faith was the most dangerous person in the room, so she would be the first to die. ‘All of you in a row. No, not you, Temperance.’

Defiantly, Temperance sat next to Chaloner. ‘I do not know what you are doing, but I want no part of it.’

Faith hauled her daughter to her feet, then held her across her own chest in an awkward hug. Chaloner cursed silently. He could not be sure of hitting Faith when Temperance was pinned in front of her.

‘You will understand in time, child,’ said North kindly, keeping Thurloe’s gun for himself and passing Leybourn’s to Henry. ‘Our revenge is a holy, just thing.’

Chaloner frowned in confusion. ‘Revenge for what, Livesay?’

Thurloe glanced at Chaloner as he sat. ‘He is not Livesay, Tom. There is a fleeting likeness in their shape and manner of dress, but that is all.’

Faith laughed harshly. ‘Livesay is dead, burned in the ship he thought would carry him to safety, although I have borrowed his name to write notes to men like Downing and Dalton. We might never have learned about any of this, were it not for Livesay. He turned to religion in his guilt and confessed everything to his preacher.’

‘Not me,’ said Hill in a squeak. ‘I know nothing about any of this.’

‘Another minister,’ said North. ‘He was an old friend, and he wrote to me about it – in exchange for a donation to his favourite charitable concern, of course. Even men of God have their price.’

Chaloner looked at the burn on North’s face. ‘Did you ignite Livesay’s ship?’ He thought about what he had heard, and answered his own question. ‘Yes, of course you did. You said someone had put gunpowder in the ship’s forward hold. How would you have known such a detail, unless you had placed it there yourself? You have an affinity for explosions – there are grenades here, and you set Dalton’s house alight. I saw you running away with his gunpowder under your cloak. Snow did not see you, but that is because you used the back door – barring the front one first, to make sure no one would be able to go in and extinguish the fire. You wanted Dalton’s body burned, to conceal the fact that he had been stabbed. I suppose Hewson’s corpse gave you that idea?’

Faith pulled an unpleasant face. ‘I could have saved myself the bother. Dalton would have killed himself anyway, had we waited. He was preparing a firebomb to kill his wife, and was so agitated that he was all fingers and thumbs – not a good way to be with explosives. But, like Livesay before him, he told us a lot about the Seven before I dispatched him to Hell.’

‘I suppose that is why Metje – and Evett – kept encouraging me to work for Dalton in preference to the Earl,’ said Chaloner bitterly. ‘They claimed he offered better prospects, but in reality they wanted me to provide them – to provide you – with details of his activities. Likewise, Metje urged me to work for Thurloe when she learned I had been his spy, even though I told her it was dangerous and I wanted to see our daughter … But why did you always insist that Livesay was dead?’

But he did not need North to answer. The truth was that impersonating a man almost everyone else thought was dead had been a good way to send Dalton mad.

‘No more questions,’ snapped Faith. ‘Thurloe’s unexpected appearance means we need to review our plans. I cannot think with all this chatter, so sit quietly, or I will shoot you.’

‘When Praisegod Swanson sent the–’ began Chaloner. Faith jammed the barrel into his temple and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp click. The gun had misfired. Temperance screamed and tried to struggle free. Chaloner started to draw his pistol, but could not be sure of shooting Faith while Temperance flailed. Then he saw the shadow in the window again – a silhouette with a bandaged head. It was Bennet, and he was busily winding a crossbow, clearly intending to shoot someone inside the room. When the man glanced up and glared directly at him, Chaloner had the feeling he would be Bennet’s first victim.

‘You do not mention Praisegod,’ snarled Faith, white-lipped with fury. ‘His name is too good to be on the tongue of a Chaloner.’

‘My God,’ breathed Thurloe, gazing at North. ‘I thought you seemed familiar, and now I see it. You are Praisegod’s father! And his mother and sister – Temperance, with Praisegod’s chestnut hair. That is why Livesay’s minister told you what the man had confessed. He was telling you what had happened to your son!’

‘All this is for Praisegod,’ said North softly, gesturing around him. ‘We changed our names and came to London for him. He was a child – an innocent child. He went to the Protector’s court to sing, because he had such a sweet voice. Someone betrayed the Seven, and Barkstead killed Praisegod for it. But Praisegod was not the traitor.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Chaloner. He glanced at the window. Bennet was still arming his weapon, pausing occasionally to glower. Chaloner considered pointing him out to the others, but hesitated, wondering whether he could turn the malignant presence to his advantage.

‘Because he was not interested in politics,’ shouted Faith, tears starting in her eyes. ‘He sang. He liked music. That was his life. Music.’

‘Then why did Barkstead believe him guilty?’

‘Ask Thurloe.’

Thurloe shook his head. ‘I was preoccupied with a Dutch crisis at the time, and only heard later that Barkstead had uncovered the man who told the King about the Seven. Barkstead said he had found seven gold bars in Praisegod’s room, and a few days later I intercepted a letter signed by Praisegod, listing our names. I had no reason to disbelieve Barkstead’s conclusion – but I only learned this week that Barkstead had actually killed him.’

Faith closed her eyes. ‘Barkstead was wrong!’ She hugged her daughter tighter still, and Chaloner saw Temperance struggling to breathe under the force of the embrace.

Leybourn appealed to the servants. ‘And you are content with this? You are willing to risk hanging to avenge an ancient murder?’

‘It is not ancient,’ said Faith bitterly, taking a gun from Henry and indicating he could resume his work on the grenades. ‘And if God does not strike his killers, then I shall be His instrument.’

‘Let Tom and Will go,’ said Thurloe quietly. ‘Any crime committed here is mine, not theirs.’

‘You are beginning to understand,’ said Faith with a smile that was chillingly malicious.

Bennet took aim and Chaloner ducked behind Hill. He saw Bennet’s lips move in a curse. But something was wrong anyway, and the chamberlain shook the weapon before beginning the process of rewinding, his face a mask of fury.

‘Two of your friends will die today for what you did,’ Faith continued, addressing Thurloe. ‘You should not have embroiled them in your business, just as we should not have sent Praisegod to the wolves of Court.’

‘We should finish this, Faith,’ said North quietly. ‘Time is running out.’

Faith directed her gun at Leybourn. ‘We will lock Thurloe in the cellar until Downing has done his work with “Livesay’s” letter. Chaloner and the bookseller can die now – we do not want them in our way, and we will tell everyone that Livesay killed them, before he disappeared never to be seen or heard of again.’

‘But Thurloe will tell his accusers what really happened,’ blurted Leybourn, ducking away from her. ‘And he still has powerful friends. Someone will believe him.’

‘No one will speak for a man accused of high treason,’ said Faith, squinting at him down the barrel. ‘It would be suicide. And it will be too late for you, anyway. Stop fidgeting or I may miss.’

Leybourn jumped into the centre of the room and dropped to his knees. ‘Allow me to say a prayer first. You are Puritans – you will not deny a doomed man a word with God.’

Faith’s gun tracked his movements, but North stepped forward and pushed her hand to one side.

‘We are not Barkstead,’ he said softly. ‘Let him have his say with the Almighty.’

Irritably, Faith pulled her arm away from her husband, and fixed the cowering bookseller in her sights a second time. Meanwhile, Bennet had finished arming his crossbow, and took aim at the man who had made a fool of him over his list of Thurloe’s ‘brothers’. Temperance began to struggle furiously, but the arm that held her was like a vice, and she was powerless to do anything to prevent her mother’s finger from tightening on the trigger as she prepared to dispatch Leybourn.

‘Bennet!’ shouted Hill suddenly, as he caught sight of the figure in the window. ‘My old friend!’

Instinctively, North turned, and Thurloe launched himself at his back. Faith yelled a warning and tried to fling Temperance away from her. Chaloner brought up his own gun and fired at Bennet, but not before the chamberlain had released one of his deadly bolts. It sliced through the window and punched into Hill’s Bible. The preacher dropped it with a shriek of terror. Bennet disappeared, although whether he had been shot or had gone to reload, Chaloner could not tell. Meanwhile, Thurloe and North were entwined in a deadly embrace, and Faith had rid herself of the squirming Temperance. She aimed her pistol at Chaloner, but the shot went wide when Thurloe inadvertently stumbled into her.

When Faith turned on the ex-Spymaster with blazing eyes, Chaloner grabbed the tablecloth and hauled with all his might. Fireballs, oil and powder spilled everywhere. Henry released a cry of alarm and leapt away, while Faith hurled herself at Chaloner, clawing his face and flailing with her fists as she vented her rage. Leybourn was on his feet, laying about him with a chair, and everywhere was chaos. Metje had a dagger, although Chaloner was not sure whom she intended to stab. Temperance was trying to haul her mother away from him, while Hill lay on the floor with his hands over his head. Then Henry collided with a lamp, knocking it from its moorings and sending it crashing on to its side. Fuel spilled, and flames followed.

‘Douse it! Douse it!’ cried North in alarm, abandoning his skirmish with Thurloe. ‘Quickly, or we are all lost. The gunpowder!’

‘Metje!’ shouted Chaloner. He pushed Faith away from him. ‘Come with me.’

‘I do not want–’ She backed away.

‘Just come,’ he yelled, watching the flames creep towards the first of the fireballs, despite North’s attempts to smother them with aprons, cushions and bare hands. ‘Do not die in here.’

The door crashed open, and Sarah stood there, a number of the Lincoln’s Inn porters ranged behind her. She was breathless and her hair was awry. Kelyng stood next to her, sword in his hand.

‘Where is the chicken?’ he demanded, eyes darting around the room. ‘Martha?’

Sarah shoved him back into the hallway. ‘Fetch water,’ she ordered, taking in the situation at once. ‘Organise the men, or the entire street might be lost. Hurry!’

Her voice carried such authority that Kelyng obeyed without another word. Chaloner glimpsed a flicker of movement at the window. It was Bennet, and he had reloaded. When he spotted Sarah, his eyes gleamed with evil delight. Chaloner grabbed one of the spent guns and lobbed it as hard as he could. It cartwheeled through the glass and struck the chamberlain’s head. Chaloner saw him drop away with a howl before Faith fastened her hands around his own neck and began to squeeze. She was as strong as any of the men he had ever fought, and he felt himself losing ground.

The first of the grenades popped with a deafening crack. One of the maids screamed, blood pouring from her throat. Sarah dealt Faith a hefty thump with a serving bowl, and the older woman fell away, dazed, allowing Chaloner to struggle away and breathe again. Henry picked up another fireball and hurled it at Thurloe, putting all his frustration and fury into the throw. It missed the ex-Spymaster and cracked into the wall behind him, setting the panelling alight. Time was running out. Chaloner seized Temperance’s wrist and shoved her towards the door.

‘Take her out!’ he yelled to Hill, who was making his own bid for freedom on hands and knees. The preacher obeyed with what seemed like agonising slowness. ‘Hurry!’

He looked around for Metje, and saw her on the far side of the room.

‘The barrel will go up soon,’ shouted North, flailing desperately with his cloak. ‘It–’

Another fireball ignited, and Metje’s hair erupted in an orange blaze.

‘No!’ yelled Chaloner. He started to move towards her, but someone gripped his ankle. It was Faith again, and he wasted valuable moments trying to extricate himself from her clawing hands.

‘Everyone run!’ shouted North. He collided with Chaloner, breaking Faith’s hold, but knocking the spy to the floor. ‘Everyone outside!’

Chaloner struggled towards Metje, but another grenade exploded killing North and throwing his body into him. Henry, burning like a torch was rushing around in a shrieking frenzy, setting furniture alight. Flames began to lick across the keg of gunpowder. Chaloner tried to stand, but his movements were uncoordinated, and North’s shattered corpse lay heavily across him. By now, the barrel was well and truly ablaze, and Metje was motionless as flames engulfed her.

Someone seized Chaloner’s arm and tugged him towards the door. Other hands helped, and then he was outside in the cool, clean air. Yet another grenade ignited, and this time he could feel its blast vibrate through the ground. Then he was staggering across the street and tumbling behind the shelter of a dung cart. He tried to stand, but someone held him fast.

‘Easy, Tom.’ It was Thurloe. ‘Stay down.’

‘The gunpowder,’ said Chaloner hoarsely. ‘Metje.’

‘It is too late,’ said Sarah gently. ‘Too late for her.’

Thurloe put an arm around his shoulders and shielded him as the first of several large explosions ripped towards them.