A Conspiracy of Violence

Chapter 4

Chaloner had experienced misgivings about the Earl of Clarendon from the moment he had set eyes on the fellow. He was superficially pleasant, but there was a stubborn inflexibility in him that suggested he would make a dangerous master. Chaloner had trusted Thurloe implicitly, confident that his role as intelligence agent in the various countries to which he had been assigned would never be revealed, and that his reports would either be destroyed as soon as their contents had been absorbed, or filed in such a way that they could never be traced to their sender. The Earl, on the other hand, left his spies’ missives lying on his desk, and Clarke’s death might well have been a result of his carelessness.

‘This missing gold,’ Chaloner said cautiously. ‘Does it belong to the Crown?’

‘Yes and no,’ replied the Earl cagily. ‘You can tell him how we came to hear about it, Philip. You have been more deeply involved with it than I, and know more of the details.’

‘It started on the thirtieth day of October,’ began Evett obligingly. ‘A man named Thomas Wade of Axe Yard came to us with a tale. He said an elderly woman by the name of Mother Pinchon had approached him the previous night, and said she knew the whereabouts of a great hoard of treasure – and for a hundred pounds, she would tell him how to get it.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner, already suspicious. ‘If seven thousand pounds were hidden, why would she settle for a hundred? Why not dig it up for herself, and keep it all?’

‘Because the treasure is buried inside the Tower,’ explained Clarendon. ‘We do not allow women to start excavating there whenever they please! It is full of rebel prisoners for one thing, and for another, it is always wise to restrict access into such places. No one goes in or out without an escort, so this woman could never have reached the hoard without official help. Besides, a hundred pounds is a fortune to a servant, and I imagine she thinks she has secured herself an excellent bargain.’

‘How did she know about the gold in the first place?’ asked Chaloner sceptically.

‘She was in the service of Sir John Barkstead,’ replied Evett. ‘Do you remember who Barkstead was?’

‘He fled abroad after the collapse of the Commonwealth,’ replied Chaloner, becoming even more uneasy. ‘And he was one of the men Downing brought home to be executed last March.’

‘Yes, he was a regicide,’ said the Earl, looking at Chaloner as if to remind him of the secret they shared. ‘And as such, he did well for himself during the Protectorate. One of the posts he held was Lieutenant of the Tower.’

Evett took up the tale. ‘And that means he had access to all parts of the castle. Mother Pinchon says that the night before he was ousted, he and she packed this seven thousand pounds – all his moveable money – into butter firkins.’

Chaloner nodded, thinking about his uncle’s hoard. It was not only Parliamentarians who had hidden what they could, and there were tales of Royalists returning to the country they had abandoned after the wars and setting out with spades. Some had found their caches undisturbed, but many had not, and accusations were rife.

‘When they had finished, and all the containers were sealed, Barkstead told her where he planned to bury them,’ said Evett.

‘Why?’ demanded Chaloner. ‘If he hid his money, he obviously thought he would have an opportunity to collect it in the future. Why would he share such a secret with a servant?’

‘Good,’ said the Earl, nodding vigorously. ‘Your questions show an enquiring mind. But the answer is simple: he was fond of this woman. He said that if he could not retrieve it himself, then she should have it instead. She waited eight months to the day from his execution, then approached Wade.’

‘Who is Wade?’

‘The Tower’s victualling commissioner,’ said the Earl. ‘He was the perfect fellow for this woman to see – not so mighty as to refuse her an interview, but well enough connected to ensure her request was acted upon. So, she told Wade her tale, and Wade came to us. I mentioned it to the King–’

‘Who happened to be entertaining the Earl of Sandwich,’ interrupted Evett. He sounded disapproving. ‘His Majesty and Sandwich were deep in their cups, and they reached an agreement I am sure the King regretted the following day.’

‘That Wade should have two thousand pounds as a finder’s fee; Sandwich should have two thousand because he is a good fellow; and the King should have the remaining three,’ explained the Earl. ‘It was a simple division. Philip went to the Tower with Wade the very next day.’

‘Did you find it?’ asked Chaloner, intrigued despite his reservations.

‘Obviously, they were obliged to visit Sir John Robinson first,’ said the Earl. ‘Do you know Robinson? Thurloe tells me your knowledge of city’s officials is sadly lacking.’

‘The Lord Mayor of London,’ replied Chaloner, rather defiantly.

‘He is also Lieutenant of the Tower,’ added Captain Evett. ‘He took over Barkstead’s old post.’

‘We needed his agreement to dig up the cellars, you see,’ explained the Earl. ‘Once we had it, the captain, Wade and Sandwich’s clerk … what is his name, Philip? A fat-cheeked, obsequious little fellow, who says one thing and thinks another. You can see the truth in his calculating eyes.’

‘Samuel Pepys, sir.’

‘Yes, Pepys,’ said the Earl, nodding. ‘Sandwich commissioned Pepys to represent his interests. Meanwhile, Philip stood for the King, and Wade was there for himself and Mother Pinchon.’

‘Wade had clear directions from Pinchon, so he knew exactly where to look,’ Evett went on. ‘He located the arch she described with no trouble, and we dug all afternoon. But we found nothing.’

‘Mother Pinchon was not with you?’ asked Chaloner, surprised. ‘Surely, it would have been best for her to point out where the hoard lies, rather than rely on her spoken instructions?’

‘They were very good instructions,’ said Evett defensively. ‘And we had every expectation of finding the treasure that day. But we did not.’

‘So, next you asked Pinchon to come to the Tower, and say exactly where–’ surmised Chaloner.

‘She refused,’ interrupted Evett. ‘She had served a regicide for twenty years, and Wade could not persuade her to set foot in the Tower again. Since she comes to Wade, and he does not know where she lives, her expertise was unavailable to us.’

‘It was very disappointing when they were unsuccessful the first day,’ said the Earl. ‘But, undaunted, they returned the following morning to try again.’

‘Because it was such a huge sum, we felt we should not give up too soon, so we excavated half the cellar,’ said Evett. ‘By this time, I confess I was beginning to be sceptical. We arranged a third dig for the following week, but were unlucky again. Then Wade suggested we try near the old Coldharbour Gate, since it has an arch that vaguely matched Pinchon’s description, but we still found nothing.’

‘Not even an empty butter firkin?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Nothing. Pepys thinks Barkstead lied to Pinchon – told her about the treasure and her chances of getting it, so she would continue to serve him after he no longer had the free cash to pay her.’

‘You knew Barkstead,’ said the Earl to Chaloner. ‘Would he have done such a thing?’

Chaloner considered his brief acquaintance with Barkstead. They had met once before his arrest, and there had been several long discussions when he was in Downing’s custody. ‘He was ruthless and devoted to the republic, but I do not think he would have misled a faithful retainer so callously.’

Clarendon shot Evett a triumphant glance. ‘There! I concur, because I think Barkstead was telling the truth, too. So, since seven thousand pounds is a lot of money, I want you to find it, Heyden.’

‘You want me to dig again?’

‘I doubt that would do much good. If Philip says the gold is not in the Tower, then it is not there. It is somewhere else, and you must discover where.’

Chaloner did not like the sound of this assignment. ‘How?’

‘That is for you to decide. Philip will answer questions, but you are free to undertake the task as you see fit. All I ask is that you keep me informed. And there is one other thing: I do not want you to tell Wade or Pepys what you are doing.’

‘But I might have to ask them about–’

‘No!’ declared the Earl emphatically. ‘If you find this money on your own, then Sandwich and Wade have no claim on it. The King can have his three thousand, and I shall use the rest to … to replace those religious statues smashed by Puritans during the Interregnum.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether it was wise to involve himself in a plot that would defraud a powerful noble like the Earl of Sandwich – and what would happen if the King learned he had been granted less of the money than his Lord Chancellor?

‘You must not tell Thurloe, either. Did he ask you to report the outcome of this interview?’

‘No, sir.’ Thurloe had asked for information about Clarke and Kelyng, which was not the same thing at all.

The Earl regarded him closely. ‘I do not believe you.’

‘But it is true, sir. He no longer dabbles in politics.’

Clarendon sighed. ‘Then he is a wise man who knows when it is time to leave the stage. But you will not tell him about Barkstead’s treasure. The only people who know what I have asked you to do are in this room – and Philip and I will not break our silence.’

‘Neither will I, sir.’

‘Good,’ said Clarendon, rubbing his hands. ‘All is settled, then.’

Once away from the grandeur of White Hall, Chaloner hauled off his new wig and scrubbed at his hair, glad to be rid of something that was hot, itchy and uncomfortable. He wanted to consider the implications of his allotted task, and reflect on the man who had assigned it to him, so began to walk to his favourite coffee house, thinking about the Lord Chancellor as he went. On first acquaintance, Clarendon came across as genial and slightly absurd. However, he had taken the precaution of investigating the spy recommended by Thurloe, and had learned something very few men knew, which suggested some degree of competence. Had he discovered a secret about Clarke, too, who had then been killed because he was deemed unsuitable? Would Chaloner also be found stabbed in a White Hall corridor – because he had failed to locate the gold, because he had located it but the Earl wanted no witnesses, or because the Earl did not want the nephew of a regicide in his employ?

Tucked away near Covent Garden was Will’s Coffee House. It was a large, noisy establishment, patronised by officials who worked at White Hall and merchants whose premises were on the Strand. Like most coffee houses – and more were being built each year – Will’s was the exclusive domain of men, and was consequently a hearty, smoky place. Chaloner liked the pungent scent of tobacco as it mingled with the acrid odour of burning wood in the hearth, and there was something pleasantly heady about the exotic aroma of coffee beans. Will’s was also a good place to go, because its owner allowed his customers to buy pots of coffee on credit.

Chaloner was about to open the door when he sensed something amiss. It was nothing tangible, more of a tingling at the back of his neck, but he had not survived ten years by ignoring such warnings, and had learned to trust his instincts. He moved away from the door, and when a handsome coach decorated with the Duke of Buckingham’s crest collided with a brewer’s cart, he capitalised on the chaos to slip into a wigmaker’s shop. From a shadowy corner near the window, he had a good view of the road, but was invisible to anyone looking in. Moments later, the door clanked to admit a woman, while outside, two men peered through the glass, making a pretence at examining the displayed merchandise.

‘Mr Heyden,’ said the wigmaker, a Frenchman named Jervas. His expression was one of agitated consternation, which intensified when he saw curls dangling from Chaloner’s pocket. ‘Are you dissatisfied with the piece I sold you Saturday? Or have you come to demand your own hair back? If so, then it is too late – I have promised it to another client, and he has been in for fittings.’

The door opened and the two loiterers strolled inside. They were Snow with his jet-black boots, and fair-headed Storey. Chaloner glanced through the window, and saw the stout, menacing presence of Gervaise Bennet across the street, distorted to monstrous dimensions by imperfections in the glass. He shot an apologetic smile at the wigmaker and addressed him in his native tongue, confident the two louts would not be able to understand him.

‘I am eluding creditors, Monsieur. Tend your other customers and ignore me.’

Jervas tapped the side of his nose in manly camaraderie, and moved away to speak to the woman, a tall, elegant lady who carried a fan and whose expensive dress had more ruffles and frills than Lady Castlemaine’s boudoir. With a jolt of unease, Chaloner recognised Sarah Dalton. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye in a way that made him sure her presence there was no coincidence. Surely she could not be working with Bennet and Kelyng?

Meanwhile, Snow and Storey sauntered to the rear of the shop, where they began to try on the more expensive hairpieces. The way to the door was clear, but Bennet was standing with his hand inside his coat, and Chaloner saw through their plan in an instant – he was not about to be herded out of the building and into the sights of Bennet’s pistol. The dagger in his sleeve dropped into the palm of his hand, and he moved silently to where Storey was sniggering at the sight of Snow in an elaborate auburn affair that reached his waist.

‘I recommend the black wigs today, Snow,’ he said, speaking in a low voice, so the man almost jumped out of his skin. He had not expected Chaloner to approach him. ‘The red ones have lice.’

‘I do not need a wig,’ said Storey, fingering his oily yellow locks with pride. He glanced at his friend’s dour expression, and collected himself, belatedly pretending to be surprised that Chaloner should address him. ‘Who are you? We have not met before.’

‘Why are you following me?’ asked Chaloner, in the same low voice. He did not want to attract Sarah Dalton towards a situation that might end in violence, no matter whose side she was on.

‘Bennet hired us to ask you a few questions, then kill you,’ replied Snow, seeing there was no point in continuing the charade: they had been exposed and that was that. ‘He paid us two shillings.’

Chaloner was taken aback by the bald confession. ‘Why does he want me dead?’

‘Kelyng probably told him to arrange it,’ replied Storey. ‘But we never asked why.’

‘You commit murder for them, and they do not bother to tell you the reason?’ Chaloner asked, making his voice drip contempt. ‘They must think very little of you.’

‘It is because you killed One-Eyed Jones,’ snapped Storey, nettled. ‘They want revenge.’

‘But they want questions answered first, you say? What do they want to know?’

Storey smiled, revealing a set of unexpectedly white teeth. ‘That is more like it. Cooperation. They want the names of John Thurloe’s six brothers.’

Chaloner was taken aback at the bizarre nature of the enquiry. ‘What for?’

Storey’s grin vanished. ‘How should I know? They just want names and the places where they might be found. If you tell us, I will kill you quickly – you will not feel a thing.’

Chaloner was surprised Kelyng should need anyone to furnish him with such information – Thurloe was fond of his family, and their identities were no secret. ‘Well, there is Thomas, who lives in Becket,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘Then there is another John, this one from Gaunt, and there is Guy from Fawkes. Would you like me to continue?’ He waited for the inevitable eruption of anger.

Storey shot him an apologetic grin, while Snow counted off the names on his fingers. ‘We cannot remember all that, and it would not do to get it wrong. Would you mind writing it down?’

Bemused, Chaloner went to where Jervas kept his pens and ink, and began to scribe. He was aware of Sarah watching him curiously. ‘This is a very strange thing to be asking.’

Storey agreed with a sigh. ‘There is no fathoming the likes of Kelyng and Bennet. Still, they do what they must to rid London of traitors, and it is not for us to question their tactics.’

‘How did you find me?’

‘Bennet saw you coming out of White Hall,’ said Storey, prepared to be helpful in his turn. ‘We have been watching the area, although we had little to go on – a lame man with short hair.’

Chaloner was furious at himself for making two elementary mistakes: removing his wig and forgetting to disguise his limp. They combined to make him easily identifiable, and the area around the Royal Mews was sufficiently busy that Bennet had obviously predicted it would not be long before his quarry appeared. Just because Chaloner had put the incident in Kelyng’s garden to the back of his mind did not mean Kelyng had done so, too.

‘How do you know I killed Jones?’ he asked.

Snow indicated he should continue writing, so he added William the Conqueror and Francis Bacon. ‘You stabbed him with Bennet’s dagger, and we were paid to get rid of the body.’

‘Get rid of the body?’ echoed Chaloner, finishing the list with Julius Caesar and handing it to Snow. ‘Why would Kelyng feel the need to do that, if Jones was killed by an intruder? The only reason for hiding a corpse is so no one learns what really happened to it. What did you do? Drop it in the river?’

‘We are a bit more clever than that,’ said Storey smugly. We–’

‘We followed orders,’ interrupted Snow sharply, throwing his companion an ugly glance. ‘But we do not have time for more talking. Say your prayers.’

He drew a pistol, but dropped it with a yelp when Chaloner struck his wrist with the hilt of his dagger. A short lead pipe appeared in Storey’s hands, and he brought it down in a savage arc that would have meant instant death had it met its target. But it was a predictable move, and Chaloner had no trouble in stepping out of its way. The weapon smashed one of the wigmaker’s model heads, sending shards and dust across the shop and the hair cartwheeling towards the window. Jervas came dashing towards them with a wail of horror, Sarah at his heels.

‘That cost four pounds!’ Jervas cried. ‘And the hair came from the prettiest whore in Southwark! You must pay for the damage. You–’

His tirade ceased abruptly when Storey turned on him, pipe clutched in both hands. He raised it high in the air, and then began to bring it down as hard as he could. Chaloner shoved him, so he stumbled into Snow, and the blow went wide. Both robbers crashed to the floor amid a cascade of heads and hairpieces. Snow gave a muted yelp when a particularly heavy model struck his temple; he tried to stand, but fell back amid the chaos. Chaloner started to kick the pistol out of reach, but Storey grabbed his leg while he was off balance, and then there were three men on the ground. Suddenly, the gun was in Storey’s hands, and he was pointing it at Chaloner’s chest.

Chaloner sensed Sarah was nearby, but did not realise she had joined the affray until the lead pipe landed sharply on the top of Storey’s skull. The thief collapsed as if poleaxed, and the gun skittered from his nerveless fingers as he hit the floor. Chaloner scrambled to his feet and snatched the bar away from her when she looked as though she might use it a second time. Her grip was powerful, and she was not easy to disarm. At first, he thought she was inflamed with the kind of bloodlust he had seen on the battlefield, when it was difficult to stop men from fighting, but then he saw the stricken expression on her face. Hastily, he seized her arm, afraid she might faint.

‘He was going to kill you,’ she whispered, her eyes huge with shock. ‘Shoot you.’

‘He would not have succeeded,’ he said, escorting her to a bench. He showed her the weapon, and when she did not understand what it was telling her, added, ‘It is not primed.’

She looked as though she might be sick, so he set the hollow cranium of one of the broken models in her lap, not wanting Jervas to have even more of a mess in his shop. The wigmaker sank down next to her, appalled by the violence in his domain.

‘I did not know,’ said Sarah unsteadily. ‘I saw the evil expression on his face …’

‘His determination did not match his skill,’ said Chaloner, speaking calmly to reassure her. ‘That pair is incompetent, and should not be allowed out without supervision.’

Jervas disagreed, and poked Storey’s leg with his foot, as he might prod something unpleasant. ‘He was not incompetent. He would have killed me, had you not pushed him over. And I am an innocent bystander – you are the one with debts.’

Sarah swallowed hard. ‘What shall we do? If you let them live, they may try to harm you again.’

‘But if I dispatch them, their master may send others who are better. It is safer to let them live to fight another day – although I suspect it is too late for Storey. I think the blow crushed his skull.’

‘You mean he is dead?’ breathed Jervas, aghast. He crossed himself in an automatic but imprudent demonstration of his native Catholicism. ‘God help us! Bodies in my shop, my wigs destroyed! I wish you had not chosen my premises in which to hide from these creditors, Mr Heyden.’

So did Chaloner, who was sorry for the trouble he had caused. ‘Do you have a back door?’

Wordlessly, Jervas pointed, and watched as Chaloner hauled first Snow and then Storey into the alley outside, laying them side by side in the sticky mud. When he had finished, Chaloner rested his hand on the pulse in Snow’s neck. It was strong and regular, and the fellow stirred in a way that suggested he would soon be awake. Storey did not, however, and although he was breathing, his face was waxen beneath his crushed pate. Chaloner suspected he would never regain his senses.

‘Oliver Greene,’ he said loudly, remembering the old woman with the donkey. ‘And young Charles-Stewart, too.’

‘What are you doing?’ asked Sarah, watching him collect Snow’s hat and Storey’s cudgel. She had not moved from the bench, although she was no longer so pale. Jervas understood, though, and was busy with a brush, sweeping evidence of the fight under the counter. ‘A third man is waiting across the street, and he looks horribly like Gervaise Bennet. You should not be lingering here. I thought you planned to escape through the back door, not trot back and forth with bodies.’

‘We cannot leave these men with Jervas. It is not his fault I hid with him, and he should not have to bear the consequences when Snow wakes up.’

‘Will you pay for his damaged wigs as well?’ she asked unsteadily.

‘I wish I could, but I do not think threepence will cover them.’

She placed several gold coins in the startled wigmaker’s hand, and, quelling his effusive gratitude, walked outside to stand with Chaloner in the alley. She was no longer trembling, although he noticed she declined to look at the two crumpled forms, one of which was beginning to groan as he came to.

‘Were you following me?’ Chaloner asked her.

‘Not exactly. I – along with half of London – went to see the King’s paintings today. I imagine that is why you are wearing your best clothes, too. When I spotted you leaving White Hall, I decided to see where you went.’

Chaloner was nonplussed. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because of something John said – that if ever I am in trouble, I should turn to you. I love my brother, and trust his opinion on most things, but I like to make up my own mind about who will be a friend in times of crisis.’

‘Your brother? Thurloe is your brother?’

She regarded him askance. ‘I know some of his spies consider him an exulted being – an aloof, iron man with no kith or kin – but he told me you regularly asked after his family in your letters.’

‘He never mentioned a sister to me, or a brother-in-law called Dalton.’

She seemed surprised. ‘Did he not? How odd. I married a decade ago – John advised against the match, but it was hard to refuse a wealthy vintner with six houses and a personal carriage. I have since repented my greed, and wish I had waited for a handsome soldier, but one learns by one’s mistakes.’

‘Why did you not tell me this on Friday?’

‘It was none of your business. I only left John’s sitting room to talk to you because I thought I might learn something that would help him in his struggle against Kelyng.’

Chaloner was beginning to dislike Sarah Dalton. ‘And did you?’

‘Not really. You were too careful. What are you going to do next? Kill Bennet? He is probably the leader of this unpleasant threesome.’

‘I thought I would stroll over and thrust my dagger into his chest. No one will notice.’ He saw her nod agreement, and experienced a flash of irritation. ‘Of course not! I have just explained why it is better to leave them alone.’

‘Do not yell at me when I have just saved your life.’

‘The gun was not loaded, if you recall.’

‘But I did not know that when I raced to your rescue. It still counts.’

He suspected there was no point in arguing. ‘All right,’ he said tiredly. ‘Thank you.’

She seemed satisfied with his capitulation. ‘Will you escort me home, or do you plan to leave me standing in this filthy lane until that man wakes up and strips me of my virtue?’

‘I doubt they would dare,’ muttered Chaloner unchivalrously.

The Dalton house on the Strand was a grand affair of yellow brick. It was set back from the street, separated from it by a strip of garden that had been planted with blocks of herbs. Lavender, mint, lemon balm and rosemary stood to attention within their designated enclosures, although their sweet aroma did little to mask the pungent stench from the urine barrel that was waiting to be emptied. Judging by its overflowing state, the collectors were late.

Inside, the scent of freshly baked pies filled the hall, which was a pleasant place lit by coloured-glass windows on either side of the door. Servants hurried to take Sarah’s hat and cloak, and she indicated with an imperious gesture that Chaloner was to follow her along a corridor. Chaloner was about to say he had other business when a door opened, and Dalton came out on a waft of oranges. There was also something less pleasant, a hint of burning, which made Chaloner wonder whether he had been destroying documents.

‘Where have you been?’ he demanded of his wife. ‘I have been looking for you.’

Since Chaloner had last seen him, Dalton had undergone a transformation. He looked pale and troubled, and there were rings around his eyes that suggested he slept badly.

‘To see the King’s paintings,’ replied Sarah coolly, clearly annoyed by the tone of his voice. ‘I told you at breakfast. Had you forgotten?’

Dalton rubbed his face and relented. ‘I wondered whether you had gone to visit your brother.’

‘I am worried about him. Did he tell you Kelyng tried to steal his post again? That man will not leave him alone.’

‘Sweet God!’ breathed Dalton, appalled. ‘Why does Kelyng not concentrate on men who mean the King harm now, rather than ones who took Cromwell’s side during the Protectorate? It makes no sense to me.’ He shook his head, and changed the subject. ‘Did you like His Majesty’s paintings?’

‘Not much,’ replied Sarah. ‘There were too many naked fat women in them – like on the Banqueting House’s dismal ceiling.’

‘Rubens,’ said Chaloner, surprised. ‘Most people admire his use of colour and light.’

She waved a dismissive hand, and turned back to her husband. ‘Do you remember Heyden, dear? He visited John sporting a horsehair periwig on Friday, and now he wears none.’

‘Wigs are a sore trial; I would just as soon go bareheaded.’ To prove it, Dalton whipped off his own, revealing a few grey wisps on a balding pate. He looked twenty years older, and Chaloner was treated to a stronger waft of burning. The merchant had definitely been wearing his hairpiece when he had been near a fire.

‘Put it back on, dear,’ said Sarah, taking it from him and jamming it firmly on his head. It was not quite straight, although he did not seem to care. ‘Or you will take a chill.’

‘Have you come about employment, Heyden?’ Dalton asked. ‘I recall inviting you, although my mind is full of other problems at the moment. Business,’ he added hastily, as if he were afraid Chaloner might think his concerns ranged along other lines. ‘All about business – and a clerk with a knowledge of Dutch would be a great asset, although Downing tells me you are dishonest.’

‘He is a fine one to talk!’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘A more disreputable snake does not exist.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Dalton. ‘Which is why I usually ignore his opinions. Thurloe speaks highly of you, though, and that is a fine compliment. He approves of very few men.’

‘There are not many who deserve his approbation,’ said Sarah dourly. ‘Kelyng, Downing, Bennet, the Duke of Buckingham. None are men I would choose for decent company.’

‘I do not need you yet, Heyden,’ said Dalton, ignoring her. ‘But come next Monday, and I shall have some documents ready for translation. And now I should leave you, or I will be late.’

‘Late for what?’ asked Sarah.

‘Downing summoned me to an urgent meeting,’ said Dalton unhappily. ‘I do not want to go, but I cannot plead illness, because he has seen me up and about this morning.’

‘You need not do everything he says,’ said Sarah. ‘John resists his charms, and so could you.’

‘But your brother has nothing to lose,’ said Dalton. ‘He was Secretary of State and now he is a lawyer – you cannot sink much lower than that. But I have a great deal of money tied up in this city, and cannot afford to aggravate important men without good reason. Still, I am loath to go, after what happened this morning. I shall see you for dinner, Sarah. Good day, Heyden.’

‘What happened this morning?’ asked Chaloner, when he had gone.

‘Over the past few weeks, he has been spotting old friends who are dead,’ replied Sarah unsympathetically. ‘These “turns”, as he calls them, are probably induced by worry over his new Dutch contract. If it is successful, it will bring him great wealth – not that he needs more. Will you accept his offer and translate for him?’

‘Probably.’ It sounded dull, but would be a good deal safer than working for the Lord Chancellor. Also, there was the fact that Metje had encouraged him to accept anything offered by Dalton, and he did not want to disappoint her.

Sarah regarded him thoughtfully. ‘My brother never – never – discusses his spies with me, but he often talks about you and says I can trust you. I think he is more concerned about Kelyng’s machinations than he is willing to admit, and is making the kind of preparations that suggest he considers himself to be in mortal danger. He wants his friends to know each other.’

‘I am not his friend,’ said Chaloner, startled. ‘Just someone he hired.’

‘You underestimate the affection he holds for you – you do not write to a man every week for ten years and not come to feel something for him. If John is in danger from Kelyng, will you help him?’

Chaloner was surprised by the appeal, and imagined Thurloe would be horrified if he knew what his sister was doing, dignified and private man that he was. He nodded, although he suspected he would not be of much use, given that London and its people were such a mystery to him. ‘If I can.’

‘Thank you,’ she said softly.

As soon as he had escaped from Dalton’s house, Chaloner retraced his steps along the Strand, and was amazed to see Bennet still standing opposite the wigmaker’s shop. He estimated his skirmish with Snow and Storey had occurred nigh on an hour ago, and was astonished the chamberlain had not guessed something was amiss and gone to investigate. Chaloner certainly would have done, since the only reason for Snow and Storey not to have appeared with bloodstained hands was because they had become victims themselves. As he had nothing particularly pressing to do, he took up station near the New Exchange, with its double galleries of booths and stalls, and waited to see what would happen.

Bennet was becoming impatient. He stamped his feet and blew on his fingers, indicating he had been standing still too long, and his hand strayed frequently to the bulge under his cassock where his pistol lay. Once or twice, he seemed about to brave the traffic and go to see what had happened, but he was indecisive, and ended up doing nothing. Eventually, Chaloner glimpsed a pair of very black boots making their way towards him. It was Snow, swaying unsteadily and with his hand to his head.

Chaloner was some distance away, but did not need to hear what was being said to understand the gist of the conversation. Snow approached obsequiously, adopting a submissive posture, like a weak dog in a pack of hounds; Bennet swelled at the sight of such brazen subservience. Snow said something, and Bennet’s every gesture expressed his anger. Snow cringed, as if he was afraid of being struck. Then he handed over the piece of paper containing the names of Thurloe’s ‘brothers’, and Chaloner braced himself for fireworks. But Bennet only pocketed the note, indicating with a nod that Snow was dismissed. The felon lurched away, while Bennet continued to wait.

Eventually, Bennet was joined by another man. It was Kelyng, who seemed surprised to see his henchman leaning against a wall in a bustling part of the Strand. Chaloner watched Bennet pass him the paper, then laughed when Kelyng went rigid with rage. Spitting his fury, Kelyng ripped the note into tiny shreds and began to scream abuse that was audible even at a distance, most of it centred around the fact that Bennet was so stupid that it was not surprising the Lord Mayor’s daughter had refused him. Wanting to hear what transpired when Kelyng’s temper was spent and his voice dropped to a more moderate level, Chaloner edged closer.

He was fortunate: Kelyng hauled his chamberlain towards the ramshackle premises of a grocer – an ancient, rickety affair jutting into the street in a way that had recently been deemed illegal because it interfered with the free flow of traffic. Chaloner eased towards them, making his way past rough shelves that displayed maggoty cabbages and tough turnips, eventually taking up station behind a teetering pyramid of apples. Kelyng shoved Bennet into a corner and continued to rail, while the grocer slunk to the opposite end of his domain and pretended not to notice. He studiously ignored Chaloner, too, clearly thinking that those who eavesdropped on Kelyng and Bennet did so at their own peril.

Bennet did not take kindly to being manhandled, even by the man who paid his wages. He freed his arm with a glower, but Kelyng was too interested in giving vent to his own spleen to notice the dangerous expression on his chamberlain’s face.

‘… a disaster,’ he was snapping. ‘Thurloe probably knows by now.’

‘He already knows you intend to bring him low,’ replied Bennet tightly. ‘This latest incident with the limping agent will not surprise him.’

‘But I do not want him on his guard,’ snarled Kelyng. ‘It will make my task all the more difficult.’

‘The damage was already done,’ argued Bennet. ‘The agent will already have told him what happened in your garden. What occurred today makes no difference one way or the other.’

‘But why did you try to kill the spy?’ demanded Kelyng furiously. ‘His death will serve no useful purpose, and might even prompt Thurloe to take some sort of revenge against us. I do not want hired assassins after me when I am trying to cleanse London of traitors.’

‘I was trying to disarm a loose cannon – to rid us of a man who might cause problems later.’

Kelyng switched to another topic, pacing restlessly in the narrow space and sounding as though he was talking more to himself than to his henchman. ‘I wanted the letter in that satchel. I needed it to build my case, and we came so very close to getting our hands on it. Damn that spy!’

‘What was in it?’ asked Bennet, sounding as though he did not much care. ‘A missive from one of Thurloe’s foreign agents?’

Kelyng made a face, to indicate he thought Bennet a fool for asking. ‘All those are forwarded straight to Williamson these days. I cannot find any fault with Thurloe’s conduct there – unfortunately. But I have reason to believe this latest satchel contained something pertaining to his brothers.’

Bennet was nonplussed. ‘You mean his half-brother, Isaac Ewer, whose widow married Clarke?’

‘No, stupid,’ snapped Kelyng. Chaloner saw the chamberlain bristle, and suspected Kelyng would soon have a problem: Bennet disliked the way he was being treated, and was fast reaching the point where he would rebel. ‘Ewer has been dead for years. I mean his other brothers – and we are not talking about St Thomas à Becket, Julius Caesar or Guy Fawkes, either. Fool!’

‘His other Ewer kin are nothing,’ said Bennet, rigid with barely controlled anger. ‘I looked into them myself: they are poor farmers with no interest in politics.’

‘That is why I wanted that satchel!’ Kelyng snarled. ‘I know the Ewers are irrelevant, but Thurloe has six other brothers, and I believe the contents of that pouch would have told me their names. The limping agent might know, too, but you let him escape. I told you to arrest him, but instead you take matters into your own hands – interviewing him yourself, then trying to kill him. You are an idiot.’

Bennet gritted his teeth. ‘I will kill him for you.’

Kelyng sighed in exasperation. ‘I do not want him dead: I want him in custody. However, I doubt he knows much. He is a hireling, like you, and obviously not trusted with important secrets.’

There was a tic at the corner of Bennet’s mouth. ‘With respect, sir, he made a fool of you–’

‘He made a fool of you,’ shouted Kelyng. ‘And watch where you are putting your great clumsy feet, man! You almost trod on that dog.’

‘A dog! I do apologise,’ breathed Bennet almost inaudibly. He glowered at the mutt, and for a moment, Chaloner thought he might strike the back of Kelyng’s head when he bent to pet it.

Kelyng seemed oblivious to the fury that was boiling in his accomplice as he swept the animal into his arms. ‘Thurloe is so close with his secrets that even Dalton cannot worm them out of him.’

‘Dalton?’ asked Bennet. His temper was under control, but Chaloner thought he looked more dangerous for it.

‘His sister’s husband. He is doing his best, but Thurloe trusts no one, and the documents Dalton manages to steal for me have been next to useless – defunct property deeds and letters to physicians.’

A funeral procession rolled past outside. The cart carrying the coffin clattered on the cobblestones, and the two women at the front leaned on each other and wailed in a way that suggested they would never overcome their grief. They wore veils and black flowing cloaks, and Chaloner had seen them before: professional mourners, employed to put on a good show when the next-of-kin felt they were not up to the task. Others followed more sedately, talking among themselves in the way of people who have not seen each other for a long time. Their good-humoured chatter and the women’s howls drowned out the discussion between Kelyng and Bennet, and Chaloner was obliged to wait until the cortège had passed, hoping he did not miss anything important.

He thought about what he had learned so far. Thurloe trusted his sister, but he had said nothing about her husband. Did that mean he knew Dalton was betraying him? Thurloe was astute, and might well have recognised his kinsman’s treachery. Or was he blissfully unaware, and would be shocked when he found out? The procession finished eventually, and Chaloner was able to hear again.

‘… that Thurloe should walk free when he served Cromwell.’ Kelyng spat the last name, which frightened the dog into scampering away. ‘It is because of Thurloe that the Commonwealth lasted as long as it did. Without him, one of our rebellions would have succeeded, and we would have had the King back on his throne years ago.’

‘I know.’ Bennet’s bored tone suggested he was used to this kind of rant.

‘I will not rest until he is in his grave – him and all the evil minions who helped him, no matter who they are or what they did.’

‘So you have said before. Many times.’

‘So, there are six to go,’ concluded Kelyng. ‘I think–’

‘Is that Tom Heyden?’ came a voice from the other side of the apples. Chaloner winced when he recognised William Leybourn, the inquisitive bookseller. ‘That is a handsome cassock. Can I assume you dressed up to see the paintings?’

His voice was loud, and Chaloner glanced towards Kelyng and Bennet, to see whether they had heard his name brayed so cheerfully. Fortunately, they were more interested in their own discussion, Bennet listening intently to what his master had to say. Chaloner wished he could hear, too, but that was not possible with the bookseller clamouring about which picture was the most valuable.

‘I am busy, Leybourn,’ he interrupted tersely. ‘Perhaps we could discuss this later.’

‘You are inspecting apples,’ said Leybourn, startled. ‘How is that so pressing?’

Chaloner itched to shove him away, but did not want to create a scene. ‘Another time.’

Leybourn was offended. ‘Very well. I apologise for breaking into your reverie on fruit, and I shall certainly think twice about approaching you in the future.’

‘Good,’ breathed Chaloner under his breath. But by the time Leybourn had gone, Bennet and Kelyng had left the grocer’s and were climbing into a carriage that bore them away. His eavesdropping was over.

Deep in thought, Chaloner retraced his steps to Will’s Coffee House, only to find the building mostly empty. It was well past the time when men gravitated towards such places for their midday meals, and only the stragglers were left.

The establishment was managed by a man named William Urwin, who played the violin to his patrons and recited mediocre verses of his own composition. He was also the proud owner of a collection of ‘curiosities’, which included the mummified body of an ape, a German clock with chimes, and a psalter said to have belonged to the Venerable Bede.

The coffee house’s lower floor also served as a barber shop, where patrons could be shaved and, if necessary, be bled and have teeth drawn. The upper level was more conventional, and comprised a large room full of tables where men could dine with companions, and small booths around the edges if they craved solitude. The upstairs was devoid of customers that day, most preferring the diminishing company of the lower chamber, but Chaloner opted for a booth anyway. He drew the curtain to repel anyone who might want to talk, and sat stirring the thick, murky brew in front of him. He continued to stir and to think, until the coffee grew cold and the venison pastry on the plate at his side congealed in its viscous gravy.

Until that March, his life had been straightforward – the wars, his studies at Cambridge, a brief spell as a clerk in Lincoln’s Inn, and then duties overseas. He had only ever served one master – Downing did not count, because Chaloner had worked independently of him, and the diplomat had rarely given him orders – and suddenly he was faced with the prospect of juggling between two men who would be demanding of his loyalties: the Earl of Clarendon and Thurloe. The count could be raised to four, if North and Dalton were to be included. He found himself uncertain as to what to do.

He knew he stood at an important crossroads, and that any decision he made would dictate the rest of his life. He had four choices. He could take the sensible option, which was to return to Buckinghamshire and live quietly. The Chaloner estates at Steeple Claydon were large, if not wealthy, and there would be a corner for him somewhere, although he was loath to inflict himself on his siblings at a time when it was difficult for former Parliamentarians to make ends meet. He supposed he could earn a living by teaching at the local school, or perhaps even enrol in his old College at Cambridge and take a higher degree, although neither prospect filled him with enthusiasm.

The second possibility was to return to the United Provinces. He had friends there, and it would not be difficult to secure a post as a clerk. But administration without the additional thrill provided by spying would be tedious, and there was also the fact that discord was rumbling between the two nations. As part of a diplomatic or ambassadorial mission, he would have an excuse for being there, but it would be dangerous to go alone. He suspected it would not be many months before Englishmen in Holland would be in an untenable position, and it was one thing to be executed as a spy when he was guilty, but another altogether to be shot when he was innocent.

His third choice was to accept the challenge thrown down by the Lord Chancellor. However, he sensed with every fibre of his being that the Earl would not make a good master. His agents would not be safe, and Chaloner would probably spend a good deal of time looking over his shoulder, not sure who to trust – especially if Thurloe wanted him to investigate murders and spy on Royalist fanatics at the same time.

And finally, he could decline the Earl’s commission and continue to work for North, his income occasionally boosted by translating for Dalton. But he could not survive long on such meagre earnings, and Metje would never marry him.

He stirred the cold beverage, wondering what Thurloe would say about him being forbidden to explore Clarke’s death. The ex-Spymaster was sure to ask what he had been ordered to do instead, and Chaloner had promised not to mention the missing gold. He intended to keep his word, not out of loyalty to the Lord Chancellor, but because the Earl might have ordered his silence to see how far he could be trusted. Or was Thurloe doing the testing, to assess whether Chaloner’s allegiance would be with his old master or the new one? He rubbed his eyes. There were no answers, and it was one of few times in his life when he was wracked with indecision.

He had been allotted three independent tasks: unveil Clarke’s killer, monitor Kelyng and find some buried treasure. Any investigation involved talking to people and listening to speculation and rumour, and he supposed it was not impossible to research all three cases simultaneously without overstepping the boundaries he had been set. He had juggled a good deal of complex information in the past, and the prospect of carrying out three enquiries at the same time did not daunt him.

He considered what he knew, beginning with Clarke. Perhaps most pertinent were the two messages found in his clothing, written in the kind of code that indicated they had been intended for Thurloe. One had contained the phrase ‘praise God’s one son’ and the other had mentioned the number seven. Both had been written in the same hand as the note on Clarendon’s desk that had declared PRAISE GOD’S ONE SON in lemon juice or onion juice – which became visible only when heated, and was a well-known device for sending secret information.

Had Clarke penned them all, or had he taken them from someone else? Chaloner was inclined to believe they were Clarke’s, and Clarke had died before he could pass them to their intended recipient. Praising Jesus was also the message breathed by the dying Hewson – or was it Jones? Clarendon claimed he could not decode the cipher, although that was irrelevant, since the presence of the onion- or lemon-juice message indicated the Earl had some knowledge of the odd phrase, and possibly even knew what it meant. Did Thurloe know, too? And was Clarke’s death a result of his dabbling with the information they contained, or something to do with the thefts from the White Hall kitchens?

Secondly, he thought about Kelyng. He had learned two things. First, Dalton was passing him Thurloe’s secrets, and second, what Kelyng hoped to learn by intercepting Thurloe’s post was the identity of his brothers. What brothers? Thurloe’s only male blood kin were the Ewers, whom Kelyng had dismissed as of no consequence. Chaloner wondered whether it was significant that Kelyng had mentioned six brothers – which made seven when Thurloe was included. And the number seven had been muttered by Hewson as he had died and was included in one of Clarke’s ciphered notes. It suggested a connection between Kelyng and the messages Hewson and Clarke had been trying to pass.

And lastly, there was the treasure. If Chaloner was not permitted to speak to anyone connected with the case, it was not going to be an easy nut to crack. But he had faced worse odds in the past, and he enjoyed a challenge. He made his choice: he would remain in London and see what might be done about locating Barkstead’s gold, and he would try to watch Kelyng and make enquiries after Clarke’s killer. It would keep him busy, but he was no stranger to hard work.

A sudden clamour of voices broke into his thoughts. He had been aware of people entering the room, but had taken no notice, concealed as he was inside his booth. Now he lifted a corner of the curtain to look at them, puzzled by the abrupt outburst.

Seven people sat around the largest table, five of whom he recognised. At one end was a man he had last seen drifting on the Thames: the Lord Mayor and Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir John Robinson. Opposite Robinson were four other familiar faces. First, there was Dalton, wafting his orange-scented linen with a trembling hand. Second, there was Chaloner’s Puritan employer, North, a stricken expression on his face. Third, there was Robert Leybourn, the bookseller’s sardonic brother. And finally, there was Downing, sitting with his arms folded and his eyes flicking around the room as though he were looking for something. Chaloner supposed this was the ‘urgent meeting’ Dalton had mentioned to his wife. He closed the curtain to the merest slit, and prepared to do what came naturally to him: sit quietly and listen.

‘I do not believe it!’ one man cried, his voice rising above the others by sheer dint of its volume. He reminded Chaloner of a pig, with jowls that wobbled over his collar and fingers so fat they were elongated triangles. ‘You must be mistaken.’

‘There is no mistake,’ replied Robinson soberly. ‘I saw the body myself. So did Dalton.’

‘I chanced to meet Robinson when he was going to view the corpse, so I went with him,’ explained Dalton. ‘It was as well I did, given that it took both of us to make the identification. Recognising a man who has been consumed by flames is not easy.’

So, thought Chaloner, that explained the stench of burning on Dalton. It also accounted for why he had seemed troubled: inspecting a charred corpse was enough to put anyone off his stride.

‘Gentlemen!’ Downing snapped, when there was another flurry of raised voices. ‘This is not Parliament, so do not behave like a rabble, I beg you. All your questions will be heard, and we will answer as best we can. One at a time, please. North?’

‘You said the body had been burned beyond recognition, so how can you be sure it was him?’ asked North in a hushed voice that had Chaloner straining to hear.

‘I tried to do it from the shape of his teeth,’ said Robinson, a detail that made North and several others wince. ‘But Dalton searched the body for jewellery.’

‘You saw his ring?’ asked North in the same low whisper. His face was ashen, and his neighbour poured him coffee and urged him to drink it. ‘The one with the emerald?’

Dalton nodded unhappily. ‘On his little finger. There was an ancient mangling of the skull, too, and you will recall that he lost an eye at the storming of Kilkenny.’

Chaloner frowned. The man Bennet had knifed had worn a green ring and was missing an eye – but he had certainly not been near a fire.

‘Poor devil,’ said Robinson. ‘We must stick together now, and allow nothing to break the bonds of our Brotherhood.’

‘Our Brotherhood,’ said North softly. ‘Sometimes, it is the only thing that makes sense in this cruel, wicked city. I am grateful I joined you when I came here from Ely after the Restoration.’

‘We are all of the same mind,’ said Robinson kindly. ‘But we should never give voice to thoughts that may be deemed seditious – it is not safe, not even here, when we are alone.’

There was a general murmur of agreement. ‘I shall miss him,’ said the pig-faced man soberly. ‘He was generous with his donations to our cause.’

‘God rest his soul,’ whispered North. ‘Poor John Hewson.’

Chaloner gazed at the gathering, his thoughts rolling in confusion. He doubted there were two one-eyed, beringed men by the name of John Hewson, but how had the fellow come to be burned? And the gathering at Will’s Coffee House comprised wealthy, influential citizens, so why should a servant be mourned in such company? He thought about what had happened in Kelyng’s garden. Hewson must have been told to collect the satchel from Snow and Storey, or he would not have known they had it, and the fact that he took it to Kelyng’s house suggested he was following Kelyng’s orders. Kelyng had referred to him as Jones, indicating he had probably inveigled employment under false pretences. He was really Hewson, member of some mysterious Brotherhood.

Then he had been killed by Bennet, and Bennet had told Kelyng that Chaloner was responsible for the mishap, although Hewson’s friends were now saying he had been incinerated. Why had Bennet killed Hewson? Was he just a poor marksman, or had he taken the opportunity to dispatch Hewson for reasons he was unwilling to share with his master? And then what? Had Snow and Storey been instructed to burn the body in an attempt to disguise what had really happened? They had not done it very well, if they had left a ring and other identifying features for his friends to see.

Chaloner recalled what Hewson had muttered as he lay dying. He had recommended trusting no one and he had spoken his own name. Why? Because he had wanted someone to know what had happened to him, perhaps because he guessed what might be done to his corpse? And what about the rest – the mumbling about God’s son? The more Chaloner thought about the odd phrase, the more certain he became that it had nothing to do with religion.

He studied Hewson’s colleagues. Most seemed genuinely upset by the news of his death, although Downing was already putting the incident behind him, looking to the future. North was the most grief-stricken, but Chaloner knew him to be a kindly man, often moved by the sufferings of others. Dalton, on the other hand, was the most disturbed – a reaction quite different from North’s gentle compassion.

‘Will this damage us?’ asked a hulking man with thick, blunt features. His posture was hunched, as though he was uncomfortable with his size and sought to conceal it. ‘Hurt our cause?’

‘I do not see how, Thomas,’ replied Downing. ‘Do you?’

The man cringed under the attention that swivelled towards him. ‘I am only a clerk, and not in a position to answer such a question.’

‘Has there been any more news about that business in the Tower?’ asked the pig suddenly. He looked irritable when Thomas did not understand him. ‘Barkstead’s gold, man!’

Everyone looked interested in the answer, and there was disappointment all around when Thomas muttered that there had not. Chaloner’s first instinct was to assume the Brotherhood’s interest in the matter was sinister, but then realised that the affair was probably common knowledge. The Tower’s many inhabitants were bound to have gossiped about Evett’s activities with spades and hired diggers.

‘Damn!’ said Downing. ‘But it will appear sooner or later, and our cause will benefit eventually. Barkstead was one of us – a brother – and it is only right that his treasure should come our way.’

‘It is what he would have wanted,’ agreed Robert Leybourn.

‘How would you know?’ demanded the pig immediately. ‘You never met him – he fled from England long before you were admitted to our ranks.’

Robert glowered. ‘You all tell me he was committed to our cause, so it seemed a logical conclusion to draw. Am I wrong about him, then?’

‘No,’ said Robinson shortly. ‘He was a dedicated brother. But we are not here to discuss him and his mythical hoard. I am more interested in Hewson.’

Chaloner watched uneasily. Could he be witnessing the start of yet another rebellion? There had been so many since Cromwell’s death that people had lost count of them, and there always seemed to be some group of fanatics who believed the government should be in its own hands. If the Brotherhood was plotting treachery, then its members were taking a serious risk by discussing it in a public coffee house; they had not even searched the room first, to make sure it was empty.

‘So, what about Hewson?’ asked North. ‘Did he fall in the fire by accident?’

‘I doubt it,’ replied the Lord Mayor. ‘But corpses cannot speak, and I suspect we shall never know what really happened to the poor man. Ingoldsby, do you have a question?’ He turned to the pig.

Ingoldsby! thought Chaloner. Cromwell’s cousin, and the regicide who had managed not only to persuade the King to forgive his role in his father’s execution, but knight him into the bargain. He regarded the pig with interest, having heard so much about him, and none of it good.

‘Yes,’ said Ingoldsby. ‘Who wanted Hewson dead?’

‘Dozens of people,’ replied Downing, startled by the question. ‘Do you want me to list them all? He was responsible for putting down a riot, here in London, that left twenty dead. He ousted innocent Anglican priests from their churches and denounced them as agents of the Antichrist. He fought for Cromwell during the wars and killed God knows how many Cavaliers. Shall I continue?’

‘We should say a prayer,’ said North quietly, raising his hands. ‘For his soul.’

Chaloner eased back inside his booth. He suspected it would not go well for him if they discovered the room was not as private as they thought, so he sat still, waiting for the meeting to finish.

‘Three,’ whispered Thomas, when North had uttered his final amen. No one took any notice of him. ‘Three!’ he said more loudly.

There was an awkward silence. ‘Possibly three,’ corrected Robinson. ‘We do not know for sure.’

‘First Barkstead, and now Hewson,’ elaborated Ingoldsby. ‘And we have not heard from Livesay in months, so he must be dead, too. Thomas is right: that makes three of us gone.’

‘I am not so sure about Livesay,’ said Dalton unhappily. ‘I think I … We do not know he is dead.’

‘He is,’ said North, uncharacteristically firm. ‘I have already told you what I heard about him.’

‘What?’ asked Ingoldsby unpleasantly. ‘There have been so many rumours about the fellow that I cannot recall the one that came from you.’

North bristled, but replied politely enough. ‘That Livesay boarded a ship for France, but there was an explosion. All aboard were either blown up or drowned. It must have been a dreadful way to die.’ He touched the burn on his face, as if recalling his own experiences with fire. Downing placed a comforting hand on his arm, and North shot him a wan, grateful smile.

Dalton was unconvinced. ‘It may not have been Livesay who was on the boat. Perhaps he has gone into hiding instead.’

‘Thurloe never comes here any more,’ said Thomas fearfully, after a slight pause during which the seven men considered Dalton’s suggestion. ‘What should we infer from that?’

‘Nothing,’ said Ingoldsby firmly, ‘other than that he is busy.’

‘We are all busy,’ said Downing spitefully. ‘But we found the time to come.’

‘The only ones missing today are Livesay, Thurloe and those two silly soldiers who attend meetings only when it suits them,’ said Ingoldsby, reaching across the table to claim a pastry. His next words were muffled as he rammed it whole into his mouth. ‘We should never have opened our doors to military men. They are shallow beings, interested only in polishing their swords and seducing other men’s wives.’

‘Livesay cannot come,’ said North softly, in a world of his own. ‘He is dead, poor soul.’

‘I think we are in danger,’ said Dalton unsteadily. ‘We agreed to disband the Brotherhood until times were more settled, but we still meet regularly, and–’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Robert Leybourn dismissively. ‘Livesay – and even Hewson – might have died of natural causes. People do, you know.’

‘Someone is killing them – us,’ insisted Dalton.

‘Not so,’ said Robinson reasonably. ‘Barkstead was executed, Hewson died in a fire, and Livesay was blown up or drowned. You cannot assume a single hand at work here.’

‘I know who killed Barkstead,’ said Ingoldsby, shooting Downing a look of dark dislike. There was an embarrassed silence around the table.

‘Not me,’ said Downing indignantly. ‘How was I to know what would happen when I invited him to come to England? It was his choice to come back – I did not force him.’

Chaloner felt like standing up and denouncing him as a liar. He had heard some bald untruths in his time, but few as brazen as that one. He clenched his hands into fists, and tried to remember when he had last felt such a strong desire to punch someone. He was certain it had been Downing, back in March. The diplomat was speaking again, and Chaloner forced himself to listen.

‘But to return to the matter in hand, I agree with Robinson: we cannot assume Livesay and Hewson were murdered.’

‘I shall assume what I like,’ said Ingoldsby coldly. ‘Only a fool would ignore the dangers, and even meeting you is fraught with risk.’

‘This meeting is not illegal,’ objected Downing. ‘We are respectable men with common interests. Why should we not gather in a coffee house? Our Brotherhood is nothing of which to be ashamed.’

‘Then why did we not remain downstairs?’ demanded Dalton. ‘Instead, you dragged us up here, bawling to Master Urwin that we crave privacy. We seem unable to act normally, and we do things that arouse suspicion even when there is no need. And sometimes I feel as though I am being watched.’

‘Me, too,’ said North quietly. ‘I helped a man who slipped on ice the other morning, and I had the distinct sense of eyes in the darkness of his stairs. I am sure someone was spying on me.’

‘Kelyng!’ breathed Ingoldsby. ‘God help us, if he is on our trail.’

‘Pull yourselves together,’ said Downing sharply. ‘I repeat: we are doing nothing wrong.’

‘Are you sure we are alone in here?’ asked North, glancing around him. ‘Only I have the uncomfortable feeling that I am being watched again – right now.’

‘I checked,’ lied Downing. ‘You can see the place is deserted.’

‘The curtains on all the booths are drawn,’ said North. ‘Did you peer behind them?’

Damn, thought Chaloner.

‘No one is going to be in here with the curtains pulled,’ objected Downing with exaggerated weariness. ‘Get a hold of yourself, man, or you will have us all a pack of nervous wrecks.’

‘I will look,’ offered Robert Leybourn, making purposefully for the first of the alcoves.

‘And what will you do if you find someone?’ asked Downing scathingly. ‘Batter out his brains with a book? Sit down, man, and stop making a fuss.’

‘There is no need for book bashing,’ said Ingoldsby, drawing his sword. ‘I will take care of any unwanted ears.’

Chaloner heard Robert tear back the first in the row of curtains. His booth would be next.