A Conspiracy of Violence

Epilogue

It was several days before Chaloner felt like going home. He stayed with Leybourn at Cripplegate, trying to take his mind off Metje by reading. The Lord Chancellor sent two messages, both asking whether he had recovered the remaining six bars of gold, and Chaloner furnished him with curt replies saying he had not. Temperance visited once, and her white face and red-rimmed eyes moved him to pity. A sheepish Hill had arranged for her to lodge with a sympathetic Puritan widow until lawyers had decided what should happen to North’s estate – Downing claimed it should be forfeit to the Crown, while Thurloe was firmly asserting that it should be devolved on his surviving daughter.

Eventually, Chaloner decided he had imposed on Leybourn’s hospitality long enough, and left early one afternoon to return to his rooms. Leybourn offered to accompany him, and they walked through streets that were full of people, all talking about the grand audience of the Russian ambassador in the Banqueting House, which had taken place that day.

North’s once-fine home was a mass of blackened timbers. The fire had been fierce but brief, and although the building would have to be demolished, it had not damaged the neighbouring houses – or at least, not damaged them to the point where the authorities deemed them uninhabitable. There were new and alarming cracks in Ellis’s walls, and Chaloner was sure the roof was sagging in a way it had not done before. Ellis waved a dismissive hand, and declared it was natural subsidence – his tenants had nothing to worry about. And there was certainly no reason to reduce the rent.

Chaloner climbed to the top floor and unlocked his door. He was glad Leybourn was with him, because even the stairs evoked sharp memories of Metje, and the bookseller’s aimless chatter was a welcome diversion. He stopped abruptly when he saw what stood on the floor by the bed. Leybourn pushed past him, and went to inspect the two boxes.

‘Grenades,’ he said, startled. ‘I assume they do not belong to you? We were lucky the fire did not spread to this house, because there are enough of them here to eliminate half of London.’

Chaloner pointed to the side of the box, and started to laugh. ‘That is one of the least subtle things I have ever seen! Did they really expect that to work?’

Leybourn read the offending label aloud. ‘To be delivered to Thomas Chaloner of Fetter Lane, on behalf of Mr John Thurloe and Sir Richard Ingoldsby. So, this is what they were doing. They claimed they were going to leave weapons in a place where the last two members of the Seven would be hopelessly implicated, and where better than with Thurloe’s spy? You laugh, but we are fortunate Kelyng did not find them. He would have seen nothing staged about this.’

‘What shall we do? If we dispose of them legally, Kelyng may leap to the wrong conclusion. He may have saved us by extinguishing the fire, but he wasted no time after in telling us that he intends to resume his persecution. You should not have locked him in that cupboard and incurred more of his wrath. He is still angry about it, even though Sarah believed his story and let him out as soon as you had left Lincoln’s Inn and included him in her rescue plan. Damned fanatic!’

Leybourn was thoughtful. ‘We shall do what North – I cannot call him Swanson – intended.’

‘Use them to have Thurloe and Ingoldsby accused of high treason? That is not a good idea, Will. Think of something else.’

Leybourn was impatient. ‘You just said that Kelyng still intends to hunt Thurloe, and I want him to stop. We shall send these infernal devices to him, with a message from Thurloe saying he has uncovered another devilish plot to kill the King, and these are the proof.’

‘But there was never a plot to kill the King. All North and Faith wanted was to have Thurloe and Ingoldsby executed for it.’

‘I know,’ said Leybourn with a weary sigh. ‘You are very dim-witted this morning, Tom. You should not have abstained from dinner last night – turkey meat is good for the brain. But, as I was saying, we shall send these to Kelyng, with details of a regicidal plot that Thurloe has uncovered. Its ringleader was the last surviving member of the Seven: William North.’

Chaloner nodded, finally understanding. ‘I will forge some documents to “prove” it. We shall invent a new Seven for Kelyng, leaving off Thurloe, Ingoldsby and my uncle.’

‘We shall include Downing, though,’ said Leybourn, eyes gleaming with the prospect of revenge. ‘That will teach him to try to stab you.’

‘We cannot. Kelyng might learn he is innocent, which may lead him to question the rest of the list. We need him to accept it without reservation, and consider the case closed.’

‘Who, then?’

‘They all must be dead, so he cannot ask them questions. I suggest Barkstead, Hewson, Dalton, North and Faith. And Praisegod, who then betrayed them and was killed for his treachery.’

‘That is only six.’

‘And Philip Evett,’ added Chaloner with bitter satisfaction.

‘North said Praisegod was innocent.’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘He was a much-loved son. But Kelyng does not have the wits to probe too deeply, and all we are doing is drawing him away from Thurloe. He will read the documents, accept he is too late to bring the Seven to justice, and move on to persecute some other hapless soul.’

‘But hopefully less vigorously, now his army of felons is disbanded and Bennet is dead of a broken skull. Can you make your false letters look as though they were written three years ago?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘The result will be a lot more convincing than this ridiculous label.’

‘Good,’ said Leybourn. He went to sit at the table, shivering as he looked around him. ‘It is damned cold in here. No wonder you did not want to come back. Have you no logs for the fire?’

Chaloner offered him a cup of the wine he had bought to share with Metje. He needed a drink. ‘We could throw a couple of fireballs in the hearth. That would warm it up.’

Leybourn smiled, then became serious. ‘Are you ready to talk about what happened? There are details I still do not understand.’

Chaloner sipped his wine. ‘It started with the Seven – men who believed England’s future lay in a republic, and who were prepared to go to any lengths to prevent a Restoration. But when it became clear that the Commonwealth was irretrievably lost, they disbanded. However, Praisegod Swanson found out about them, and tried to tell the King. Barkstead killed him and buried him in the Tower.’

Leybourn took up the tale. ‘Praisegod’s father learned some of what had happened from Livesay, but not all of it. He and Faith then killed Livesay, sending him out on a ship loaded with explosives, and decided to have their revenge on the rest of the Seven, too. They returned to London with new identities, and he joined the Brotherhood.’

‘But there was little else they could do for a long time. Then Mother Pinchon appeared, and rumours began to circulate about seven thousand pounds in the Tower. Faith and North knew exactly what that meant. One of the secrets they learned from Livesay must have been that Dalton was a member of the Seven, so North started pretending to be Livesay, hoping to frighten him into exposing the others, while at the same time claiming Livesay was dead. Dalton panicked, and killed Pinchon and Wade. Then he tried to kill you and Sarah, and it would only have been a matter of time before he turned on Ingoldsby and Thurloe. But North and Faith wanted that honour for themselves.’

‘They were ready to use anyone to fulfil their objectives – Evett, Metje, you. You told Metje things you should have kept to yourself, so she and Evett were able to monitor your various investigations – partly thanks to Thurloe, who innocently encouraged you and Evett to join forces.’

Chaloner poured more wine. His hands were shaking. ‘I thought Sarah was Evett’s lover. It never occurred to me that Metje would fall for him – an empty-headed coward who was frightened of pheasants. Christ, Will! What does that say about me?’

‘That you need to develop an endearing terror of birds.’ Leybourn clapped a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘It says she was a foreigner in a country about to go to war, and that your duties prevented you from giving her what she needed. Do you think the Earl will send you to Holland now? We need good men to be ready as relations disintegrate.’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘I do not want to go – there is too much of Metje there. But, to return to the Seven, North only killed Dalton and Livesay. My uncle died of natural causes, Barkstead was executed, Bennet killed Hewson by mistake in Kelyng’s garden, and Ingoldsby and Thurloe are still alive.’

‘North should have gone to Kelyng with his information. He would have seen “justice” done. Thank God he decided to take matters into his own hands, or Thurloe might have joined Barkstead.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘I suppose we could say Thurloe owes his life to the single-mindedness of fanatics.’

Chaloner did not stay long in Fetter Lane, although his reluctance to remain had little to do with Metje and a lot to do with the fact that the room was so cold. He parted from Leybourn and went to visit Thurloe, where there was sure to be a good fire and perhaps mulled wine. The ex-Spymaster greeted him affectionately, and poured him something hot and brown. It tasted better than it looked, although he did not notice a perceptible ‘strengthening of the inner fibres’ when he had finished it.

He told Thurloe what he and Leybourn intended to do with the grenades, a plan that was met with wry approval. Thurloe offered to help with the documentation, pointing out that he had some experience of forgery himself, and that he could pen some very convincing lies. Then he talked about the deaths of his two children – the event that had turned Chaloner from spy to friend in his mind. Eventually, he stood and stretched.

‘Walk with me, Tom. I need some fresh air.’

They strolled west, then turned towards White Hall. The Russian ambassador and his fabulous retinue had long since gone to the King’s private apartments, and the Banqueting House was deserted. Thurloe gave Chaloner a detailed description of the splendour he had witnessed that day, with every courtier in his finest clothes and the King so swathed in gold that he might have been an angel. He pointed to where the ambassador had prostrated himself on the ground after he had delivered his ruler’s letters, much to the consternation of onlookers, who were not quite sure how to respond to such an odd expression of homage. Eventually, Thurloe’s perambulations led to the flagstone under which Chaloner’s uncle had left his silver. He stopped, looked directly at it, then turned to Chaloner with raised eyebrows.

‘You know?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘He said he would never tell anyone else.’

Thurloe smiled. ‘He said the same to me, but that would have been stupid. Such a secret needs two people, in case one dies. I suppose he confided in you after he fled to Holland?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘On his deathbed. He asked me to make sure it went to his children – my cousins.’

Thurloe poked about with his dagger, and Chaloner was surprised at how easily the stone yielded. Below it was a recess, where, lying neatly side by side, were six bars of gold. He gazed at them in shock.

‘I sent one to Clarendon,’ said Thurloe. ‘I felt your cousins could spare you that, given the trouble their father has caused you.’

‘Gold bars?’ asked Chaloner numbly. ‘He told me his cache comprised five hundred silver pieces in a leather bag.’

‘He lied – obviously, or you would have seen the connection much sooner. He told me he had buried a psalter of great antiquity, given to him by his grandfather. He deceived us both.’

‘But this means …’ Chaloner faltered.

‘It means it was your uncle who killed Praisegod, not Barkstead. And it was your uncle who betrayed the Seven and was paid for his treachery. Barkstead – who almost certainly did not know what had really happened – helped him hide Praisegod’s body, then tried to send me that message through Mother Pinchon.’

‘North said his son was innocent.’

‘He was right. Praisegod was a scapegoat, chosen at random, because he was young, dispensable and unable to defend himself – and your uncle sacrificed him to make Barkstead think the traitor was dead, so he would stop hunting for him. I knew nothing about Barkstead and the “godly golden goose” – this callous murder – until you told me about it on Christmas morning, but Dalton did, which accounts for his growing unease.’

‘So, when did you work out that my uncle was the villain in all this?’ asked Chaloner uncomfortably.

‘After the fire at Dalton’s house. I suddenly understood that guilty knowledge of an ancient murder was the cause of the man’s instability. But I needed proof, and suspected this was where I might find it. Then, since the flagstone was up, I decided to send Clarendon a gift, in the hope that it would secure you a permanent place with the new government’s intelligence service. I have been an ass: I should have made sense of all this ages ago.’

‘Did I tell you my uncle came to me for help when he arrived in Holland?’ Chaloner felt like a fool, too. ‘I gave him everything I had, which is why I have been so impecunious since arriving in London. I squandered it all to aid and abet a murderer.’

‘We cannot choose our kin, Tom. I understand he died a few weeks later. Perhaps shame hastened his end, or perhaps guilt drove him to a surfeit of wine. He always was a drunkard.’

‘Despite this, you still …’ Chaloner was not quite sure how to say what he meant.

‘Extend the hand of friendship towards you? It was hardly your fault he turned rotten, and you wrote me those kind letters – something he would never have done. You are a different man.’

‘What shall we do?’ asked Chaloner, looking at the gold in its earthen sarcophagus. ‘I shall never give that to my cousins. It is tainted, and they will not want it.’

Thurloe replaced the stone when he heard a party of courtiers approaching. ‘We shall think of something. But for now, I suggest we do nothing.’

‘You mean just leave it there?’

Thurloe smiled. ‘Why not? It has been quite safe for the last three years.’