A Conspiracy of Violence

Chapter 5

‘There,’ said Downing, when Robert Leybourn had completed his search. ‘What did I tell you? But we should part company, before we give each other nightmares. I wish you good day, gentlemen. Robinson and I apologise for bringing you to hear such sorry news.’ He ushered his colleagues out until he was the only one left, then waited several moments before speaking. ‘Heyden? I know you are in here. I arrived early for this meeting, and I saw you go up the stairs. Since you did not come down again, you must still be here.’

Chaloner made no reply.

Downing sighed. ‘You always were slippery – Thurloe chose well when he appointed you to look after Britain’s interests abroad. We need to talk, so come out, will you? You heard Dalton: it was I who insisted we meet in this chamber. I did so because I wanted you to hear what was said. I would not have done that if I intended to harm you, would I? You have nothing to fear from me.’

Chaloner did not move.

‘Think!’ said Downing, exasperated. ‘Who persuaded Robert Leybourn that the mouse droppings next to your pastry were a sign that no one had been in that booth for hours, even though I know it is a ruse you have used before? I suppose they were on the floor and you shoved them on the table, just as you did in Delft, when you were almost caught eavesdropping on the French ambassador.’

When Chaloner still did not appear, Downing grew angry.

‘I have just taken a great personal risk, so do not make me use my sword. Come on, Heyden. Out!’

Chaloner heard the scrape of metal on leather as Downing drew his sword, followed by hollow tapping sounds as the diplomat began to jab beneath tables. He crawled away from the bench in his booth, aware that concealing himself under it had been an act of desperation, and one that would have seen him unable to defend himself had his ploy with the droppings not worked. Using elbows and knees, he slithered the entire length of the curtained alcoves, and was brushing himself down when Downing glanced up from his prodding. A dagger was cradled in the palm of Chaloner’s hand, and Downing did not know it, but he would be dead the moment he made a hostile move.

‘God’s blood!’ Downing swore, jumping in alarm at his sudden appearance. ‘How did you manage that?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘I have some experience of escaping from tight corners, as you know.’

Downing sheathed his sword and sat at the table, indicating Chaloner was to join him. Chaloner stayed where he was, and the diplomat leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes.

‘I do not blame you for being cautious, after what you have just heard. You probably do not know what to think: Thurloe belongs to a Brotherhood, some members of which are murdered or missing.’

‘So do you, Sir George.’

‘Yes, but I am in the process of extricating myself.’

‘So is Thurloe, if he declines to attend meetings.’ His unspoken addendum was that Thurloe had removed himself a good deal further than had Downing, who was still active.

Downing smiled wryly. ‘If you were half as loyal to me as you are to him, you and I would have made a formidable team. However, I am not so naïve as to imagine our five years together resulted in any liking for me. I employed you as a favour to Thurloe, but you have never been anything but his man.’

‘It was not a favour: you were paid. And, after Cromwell died, you began to pass the information I collected not only to Thurloe, but to his enemies as well.’

Downing shrugged. ‘Those were uncertain times, and no one can blame me for hedging my bets. But we are not here to discuss me. I assume Thurloe told you about our Brotherhood?’

‘What he and I discuss is none of your affair, Sir George.’

Downing regarded him silently for a while. ‘I could reveal your past spying activities to men who would see you executed, Heyden. But I am not a vindictive man, whatever you might think. I suspect Thurloe has mentioned our organisation to you, but I would like to give you my version, too, so you have a balanced view.’

‘Why?’

‘Self-preservation. You intend to work for Dalton, and it is only a matter of time before a spy of your calibre learns the secret of the Brotherhood from him – he is panicky, unreliable and indiscreet. Kelyng is watching us closely, and I do not want you investigating Dalton’s frightened behaviour and inadvertently exposing the rest of us. I told Thurloe he should stop you from going to Dalton, but he said that would only arouse your suspicions. However, I will not sit back while you put me in danger.’

‘Then tell me what you think I should know.’

Downing poured himself some coffee; it was cold and he winced as he swallowed it. ‘The Brotherhood was established after the execution of the old king, thirteen years ago. Its remit was to limit the actions of fanatics on both sides – Parliamentarians and Royalists. Its founders were men of vision, who saw that extremes would bring nothing but damage and long-term hatred.’

Chaloner did not believe him. ‘Barkstead was a member, and you do not get much more extreme than signing a monarch’s death warrant. Ingoldsby also put his name to the deed – and while the King may believe that Cromwell seized his hand and wrote his name, he is the only man who does.’

Downing laughed. ‘The notion of a fellow like him standing meekly while Cousin Cromwell makes his signature is hilarious. However, the King thinks Ingoldsby is telling the truth, so I can only doff my hat in admiration for his gall. If I had half his talent, I would be King of England myself.’

Reluctantly, Chaloner returned the smile. ‘It was an impressive feat of perfidy.’

‘It saved his life, though. However, he and Barkstead saw first-hand the chaos that arises from fanaticism, and they joined the Brotherhood in the hope of securing more moderate solutions to political problems in the future. They were not the only regicides to enrol: John Hewson, whose charred corpse was found yesterday, was one, and so is Sir Michael Livesay – the member who has not been seen for so long.’

Chaloner was sceptical. ‘Hewson and Livesay have been living in London? But any regicide with even a remote sense of his own safety would have escaped abroad years ago. They would be executed if they were caught here.’

‘Hewson went to the United Provinces for a while, but was homesick, so came back to live the quiet life of a shoemaker – which was his trade before he rose to power under the Commonwealth. Livesay also returned, although he has not been seen for some time now, and I fear North may be right about his death. With men like Kelyng around, no one is safe.’

‘You think Kelyng killed Livesay?’ Chaloner realised he knew something Downing probably did not: that Hewson had died in Kelyng’s garden.

‘It is possible. Kelyng knows the Brotherhood exists, and his hatred of us ranges along two fronts: our desire for moderation, and the fact that our membership includes regicides – men he has vowed to destroy. He is a zealot, and exactly the kind of fellow we oppose.’

Chaloner wondered whether Downing was in his right wits. ‘Your association with this group is dangerous. Can you not see what will happen, if Kelyng learns you keep company with regicides?’

‘But he will not – not unless you tell him. Barkstead and Hewson are dead; Ingoldsby will say nothing, because he is in the same pickle as me; and Livesay is God knows where. The remaining brothers no more want the connection known than I do, so will maintain a discreet silence.’

‘Livesay’s disappearance must be worrying. He could be sitting in the Tower as we speak, spilling his secrets to anyone who will listen.’

Downing shook his head. ‘He would never betray the Brotherhood.’

‘Why not? You are.’

‘But only to you, and you are too fond of Thurloe to tell anyone else about our little fraternity. I did not keep you under my roof for five years without learning something about you. I am safer confiding in you than in treating you as an enemy.’

Chaloner wondered why so many people assumed his relationship to Thurloe was one of devotion. Also, Thurloe had not mentioned membership of any kind of organisation, secret or otherwise, and Downing was wrong to think Chaloner was his confidant. He recalled the flicker of emotion in the ex-Spymaster’s eyes when he had learned about Hewson’s death. It had been the perfect opportunity to admit to knowing the man, but he had chosen not to take it.

‘Tell me about the Brotherhood’s cause,’ he said, wondering whether it was wise to ask for more information when common sense told him it would be safer to walk away. But he was an intelligence officer, and asking questions about matters that were none of his concern was a difficult habit to break.

Downing spread his hands. ‘We want a government that stands for political and religious tolerance, where men are free to voice opinions without fear of reprisal. Is that such a wicked thing?’

‘It depends what you do to make it happen.’

‘We reason with influential people. For example, Ingoldsby and I soothe angry voices at Court; North and Dalton encourage moderation among merchants and aldermen; Robinson, Livesay and Hewson speak to the army; Robert Leybourn prints pamphlets urging patience. I have one here, if you would like to read it.’

Chaloner shoved it inside his jerkin. ‘And Thurloe? He is in no position to preach to anyone.’

‘He has influence over men still loyal to Cromwell. And I know he is doing his part, because there is not a radical among the people he has recommended for employment in the new government.’

‘Does the Brotherhood have a motto – some phrase you use to identify each other?’

‘Why would we need that?’ asked Downing. ‘We know each other – well, mostly. The membership has changed over the years, and the newer brothers may not have met the older ones.’

‘How many of you are there?’

‘Thirteen now. There were others, but some died or moved on before I was invited to join, and I do not know their names. I can tell you the current members, if you like. We have nothing to hide.’

Chaloner thought of the unease evident at the meeting. ‘Your colleagues would not agree.’

‘They are afraid of being accused of conspiracy, which is exactly why the Brotherhood was founded – so that one day, no one need fear because he meets like-minded men for innocent purposes.’

‘There were seven people at the meeting today,’ said Chaloner. ‘You, Ingoldsby, North, Dalton, Robert Leybourn and Robinson I know. Who was the large man?’

‘You mean Thomas Wade? He is the Tower’s victualling commissioner.’ Chaloner’s thoughts immediately became a scrambled mess again: it was Wade who had gone with Evett to recover Barkstead’s treasure. ‘Robinson recruited him to help soothe the loud-voiced army types that gather in the castle.’

Chaloner was careful to conceal his confusion. ‘In addition to those seven, there are Thurloe, Hewson, Livesay and Barkstead. Thurloe stayed away, and the others are dead or missing. That makes eleven. Who are the remaining two?’

‘A pair of military nonentities named Clarke and Evett. Philip Evett is the Lord Chancellor’s aide, although he invariably forgets to attend our meetings. His task is to influence the Earl, and he is doing quite well, despite his innate stupidity: Clarendon spoke out against vengeance when the King first returned to the throne, and he continues to do so now. But I have answered enough questions, and you must excuse me – I have a funeral to arrange.’

‘Just one more,’ said Chaloner. ‘Who is Clarke, precisely?’

‘Colonel John Clarke. He fought bravely in the wars, and was kin to Thurloe.’

‘Was?’

‘He was recently stabbed by robbers. However, the others do not know – I decided not to tell them when I saw their reaction to the news about Hewson. There is no point in frightening them further.’

‘How do you know he was killed by robbers?’

‘Because his body was stripped naked and left by the river. I ordered my servants to listen in taverns for thieves bragging about the crime, and when I catch them, I shall have them hanged.’

Chaloner studied him carefully, trying to decide whether Downing actually believed the story he was telling. The diplomat was apt to draw conclusions before he had all the facts, and it would not be the first time he had made an error of judgement. But Downing was also clever and sly, and who knew what was really in his mind?

‘I do not understand why you have told me all this,’ he said eventually. ‘It puts you at risk.’

Downing pulled a disagreeable face. ‘Not as much as keeping quiet would have done. Kelyng has eyes everywhere, although he is less adept at analysing intelligence than at gathering it, thank God. It is safer that you know the truth.’

‘Did you tell Thurloe you intended to confide in me?’

‘I only made up my mind when I was waiting for the others and saw you walk up the stairs here. You can tell him what I have done. Who knows, perhaps he will ask you to join us. If he does, then come to the Dolphin tavern by Tower Lane at midday the day after tomorrow. The annual conclave of the Royal Foundation of St Katherine is to be held then, and most of the brothers are benefactors – the Queen is the hospital’s patron, you see, so it allows us to flaunt our generosity in the right quarters. There is no point in supporting worthy causes if there is no benefit to the giver, I always say.’

‘This meeting of selfless donors takes place in an inn?’ asked Chaloner dubiously. It did not sound very likely, even though the Dolphin was one of the more respectable establishments in the city.

Downing pursed his lips. ‘Of course not. The conclave takes place in St Katherine’s chapel, but the Queen always provides a dinner afterwards, as an expression of her gratitude. Obviously, none of us want to eat hospital food, so we suggested the Dolphin as an alternative. But if Thurloe does want you to become a brother, come on Wednesday, and I will tell the others he has nominated you as his representative. That will kill two birds with one stone: palliate his annoying refusal to come to our gatherings and eliminate the danger of you interfering from outside. It is an ideal solution.’

‘Ideal for you, perhaps,’ muttered Chaloner.

It was five in the morning, and Chaloner lay in bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. Metje had arrived unusually late – well after two o’clock – and had shocked him from sleep with her bustling arrival and insistence that he light a fire. The flames were devouring the last of the logs, snapping occasionally and making her shift in her dreams. Sleep had eluded Chaloner after her invasion, especially since she could not be deterred from warming her cold feet on his bare skin, so he turned his thoughts to the people he had met since chasing Snow and Storey to Kelyng’s house, bemused that so many of them belonged to the Brotherhood – or were dedicated to destroying it. Was someone playing an elaborate game with him, where everything led back to the same men? He sorted them into three categories in his mind, headed by those who seemed to be the main players.

Thurloe, whose sister Sarah was being pressed on Chaloner as a woman he could trust, and whose brother-in-law Dalton was apparently in the process of betraying him. The stolen satchel had led Chaloner to meet the inquisitive Leybourn brothers, and to witness the death of the regicide Hewson. Thurloe had asked Chaloner to investigate the murder of his kinsman Clarke, whose coded messages had contained the same phrases Hewson had muttered about praising God and the number seven. The use of cipher suggested Clarke had intended the messages for Thurloe, which led Chaloner to wonder whether Hewson’s desperate last words had also been meant for Thurloe’s ears.

The Earl of Clarendon: while not a member of the Brotherhood – or at least, not on Downing’s list – the Lord Chancellor had links to several members of the group. There was Evett, his aide, who was to help Chaloner find Barkstead’s missing treasure. Another member of the digging party was Wade, while Robinson was Lieutenant of the Tower, where the treasure was alleged to be buried. Clarke had died in Clarendon’s service, and Clarendon would also know Downing and Ingoldsby from Court.

Downing, who casually betrayed the Brotherhood to a man he detested. Through Downing, Chaloner had met Barkstead, along with the two other regicides who were later executed with him. Why would Downing do such a thing to a member of his own secret fraternity? And why had he arrested Barkstead, but not Hewson and Livesay, who had also been deemed guilty of king-killing by the courts? Had Livesay gone into hiding, because he was afraid of Downing, or was he dead, as North claimed? And what did Ingoldsby think of Downing’s ambiguous attitude to the men who had signed the King’s death warrant?

‘You are snoring,’ murmured Metje, her voice thick and drowsy. She spoke English, which was rare, particularly when she was not properly awake.

‘I am not asleep,’ he replied in Dutch, wondering whether his agitation had somehow transferred itself to her.

She opened her eyes. ‘Lord! I thought I was in bed with a German!’

He smiled and extended his arm. She snuggled into it, sighing her contentment, while he turned his thoughts to William Leybourn, trying to decide whether the encounter in the grocer’s shop had been contrived – that Leybourn had deliberately prevented him from eavesdropping on Kelyng. But a good many people had been out that morning, because of the King’s paintings, so a chance meeting was not impossible. And what about Kelyng? He had made an enigmatic reference about ‘six to go’. Was he referring to the Brotherhood, but did not know there were thirteen members? Or was it something to do with seven, minus one – Thurloe’s ‘brothers’?

‘Only five days to Christmas,’ murmured Metje. ‘The Court plans another masque. Did you know there was one last night? Everyone went as a wild animal, and when I was shopping yesterday, I heard there were so many lion costumes in the offing that White Hall was predicted to look like a Roman circus. I miss parties and balls, Tom. Mr North’s idea of a wild evening is Milton’s poetry and a cup of hot milk. I would love to attend a masque, like we did in Holland.’

‘I saw a baboon when I was with the Earl, and he seemed rather debauched to me. I do not think you would approve of the Court’s revelries.’

‘You have been awake most of the night,’ she said, propping herself up on her elbows. He could just make out her face in the fading firelight. ‘I could tell by the way you were breathing. What is worrying you? The work the Earl offered? You should not take it – accept Dalton instead.’

Chaloner was not so sure, given that the vintner belonged to a secret organisation that included regicides and was busily passing secrets to Kelyng about Thurloe.

‘What exactly did the Earl offer?’ she asked when he made no reply. ‘You did not say.’

Chaloner disliked lying to her, but could hardly tell her the truth. ‘Supplies clerk.’

‘But you seem apprehensive. Why? You have a good head for figures. You found hundreds of mistakes in Downing’s accounts, and you are not afraid of hard work.’

‘You said yesterday that I was lazy.’

She slapped his arm, to make him see she was entitled to say something unkind and then change her mind. ‘I do not want you to work for that Earl, Tom. He is sly – he ordered his own daughter to sleep with the Duke of York and get his child, so the man would be forced to marry her. And, until the King produces a son of his own, the Duke is heir to the throne. Clarendon will be father to a queen!’

Chaloner disagreed with her interpretation of events. ‘Clarendon was furious about the pregnancy, because he had a political marriage in mind for the Duke – one that would strengthen England’s ties with Spain or France. He was ready to have her beheaded for treason.’

‘What kind of man threatens to execute his own daughter? I repeat: I do not like him. There are other things you could do – teach, for example, or go back to your family in Buckingham. I know you have brothers and sisters, but you never talk about them. Have they banished you? Are you in disgrace for some childish misdeed that means you can never return?’

‘Of course not!’ There were times when he found Metje irritating, and one of them was when she drew bizarre conclusions from half-understood facts. When she did, he was grateful she knew nothing about his work for Thurloe. ‘I spent several months at my family’s estate after you and I returned from Holland. We are very fond of each other.’

She pulled away from him. ‘You did not ask me to go with you.’

Chaloner sensed they were about to launch into one of their periodic arguments, in which she would accuse him of not caring about her feelings, and he would struggle to understand what he had done wrong. ‘You said you could not ask for time away so soon after securing your new post.’

She regarded him rather coldly. ‘Did you know Preacher Hill comes from Buckingham? He dined with the Norths last night, and when I mentioned in passing that you and he came from the same county – just to make conversation – he said he had never heard of a family called Heyden.’

Chaloner’s heart sank when he heard the catch in her voice. He had hurt her and was sorry. However, she had never shown any interest in his family before – she had parted on bad terms with her own, and tended to shy away from discussions about anyone else’s.

‘It is a big shire, Meg,’ he said gently. ‘And my family’s farm is very small. Hill cannot possibly know everyone in the region.’

‘He comes from Buckingham,’ she said unhappily. ‘You said you hail from a village close to Buckingham. He knows all the local gentry, and it was vile to be told your family does not exist.’

He wondered what Hill would have to say about a clan of dedicated Parliamentarians called Chaloner, one of whom had been a regicide. If Hill came from Buckingham, he would certainly have heard of them. ‘I am sure he and I will unearth some mutual acquaintance if we chat for a while. I do not think this is anything to become upset about.’

She glared at him. ‘I have shared your bed these last three years – abandoned my own country to be with you – but you reward me with lies.’

‘If you gave up your country for me, then why will you not become my wife?’

She began to cry. ‘Marriage is not as important as trust and love, and I have neither from you.’

Chaloner was astonished by the route the discussion had taken. ‘That is simply not true.’

‘I do not know what to believe about you.’ She shoved him away with considerable force. ‘I do not want to talk any more. Time is passing, and if I am not kneeling in the chapel before Mr North arrives, I might be without a master, as well as without a lover I can trust.’

Long before the first glimmer of dawn touched the grey city, Chaloner had washed, shaved, dressed and was ready to begin his investigation for Clarendon. Metje readied herself for chapel in silence, repelling his attempts to pacify her, and ignoring him even when he lit the lamp – a vast piece of equipment that would not have looked out of place in St Paul’s Cathedral. A nagging guilt made him defensive, and he began to feel annoyed with her for doubting him, although the rational part of his mind told him that she had a perfectly good reason for doing so.

She was so upset that she stormed out of the house and stalked towards the chapel without making sure the coast was clear of Norths, displaying a reckless abandon she had never shown before. Fortunately, the jeweller was still at his private devotions; Chaloner could see his silhouette at an upstairs window, Bible open in front of him. He trotted after her, aware that she was walking very fast for so small a woman, another indication of her anger. They had not gone far when Chaloner felt a pricking at the back of his neck that told him he was being watched. Fearing that it might be North – he did not think Metje would ever forgive him if their argument cost her her job – he spun around, and saw someone standing in a doorway, cloaked and wearing a hat that shadowed his face.

Chaloner’s immediate assumption was that it was one of Kelyng’s rabble, but the watcher made no hostile move, and when Chaloner took a step towards him, he turned and hurried away. Chaloner watched him go, knowing from his gait that he was not Bennet or Snow. He began to walk after Metje again, then spun around when a stone clipped his shoulder.

The man was standing in the middle of Fetter Lane, and Chaloner was forced to duck when he lobbed another missile. He made a run at the fellow, who promptly fled down the alley by the Rolls House. His first instinct was to set off in pursuit, but he skidded to a halt at the lane’s dark entrance and thought better of it. He could detect movement in the shadows, and was not so foolish as to let himself be lured to a place where he could be set upon. He abandoned the chase, and made his way back to Metje, preferring to make sure she was safe than hare after men who threw stones. He walked quickly, suspecting Kelyng’s men were responsible for the ‘attack’: it was the kind of half-baked scheme they might devise. Metje was fumbling with the chapel’s lock as he approached and he heard her talking to someone, but when he reached her, she was alone.

‘Was someone here?’ he asked. The street appeared to be deserted.

‘A beggar,’ she replied frostily. ‘The poor devil ran away when he saw you coming, and I do not blame him. Why have you drawn your sword? You are asking for trouble, wandering around looking as though you are itching for a fight.’

He sheathed it only when he was sure they were alone. ‘North is coming. You had better hurry.’

She glanced up the road, then shot inside the chapel when she saw he was right, rushing to light the lamps and set the place ready before her employer arrived. She was lucky, because the Puritan was searching his person for something as he walked. He stopped abruptly and returned to his house, emerging a short while later with a sheaf of paper – the monthly accounts that were to be presented to the community that day. Faith and Temperance were with him. Faith was tugging gloves over her meaty hands, while Temperance appeared to be daydreaming.

Chaloner hid behind a water butt until they had entered the building, and was about to leave when he saw Hill marching from the opposite direction, Bible under his arm. He pretended to be fastening the buckle on his boot, but knew from Hill’s sharp, suspicious expression that the ruse had not worked. The preacher was wondering what he was doing lurking behind barrels in the dark.

‘Our clerk from Buckingham,’ he said unpleasantly. ‘God does not like liars, Heyden.’

‘I hail from Buckinghamshire,’ replied Chaloner coolly. He went on the offensive. ‘But there was no respectable family called Hill that I ever heard of – no teacher in the local school, either.’

Hill was incensed. ‘How dare you question my antecedents.’

‘I recall an iconoclast called Hill, though – in the stocks for daubing paint on those religious statues the churchwardens deemed exempt from destruction. He raved all through his trial, then recanted pitifully and was never seen again.’

Hill regarded him with dislike. ‘It seems we should both turn a blind eye to each other’s pasts. However, this is the only agreement I shall ever make with you. If I catch you doing anything to harm my flock, I will denounce you without hesitation.’

‘You are the one putting them at risk. It is unwise to draw attention to them with defiant speeches.’

‘I speak when the Lord inspires me,’ said Hill indignantly. ‘North invited me to dinner last night, but the hand of friendship was extended only because he wanted me to curb my tongue – and you put him up to it. Well, it will not work. When I preach, I am God’s vessel, ignited by the power of–’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Chaloner, knowing he was wasting his time, but persisting anyway. ‘But it would be better if you were to ignite a little more quietly. You can see from here that more chapel windows were broken last night. It is because the patrons of the Golden Lion are tired of hearing your braying voice when they come for a drink.’

‘Ale is the Devil’s brew,’ snapped Hill. ‘It is my sacred duty to disturb those seduced by it.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, seeing the situation was hopeless.

‘Preacher Hill,’ said Temperance, coming outside to see what was happening. Faith was behind her. ‘And Thomas, too. Do not stand in the cold, brothers. Come inside.’

‘It is no warmer, because there are holes where there should be glass,’ added Faith, shooting them both a resentful glare. ‘But it is out of the wind.’

‘Wind is created by the Lord,’ declared Hill loud enough to startle two passing horses. ‘And so is inclement weather. It is profane to attempt to ameliorate it.’

‘You do spout some rubbish, Preacher,’ said Faith. ‘But perhaps a decent breakfast will unscramble your wits, so please dine with us after the service. I bought a ham yesterday.’

‘Fine food is how the Devil corrupts the weak,’ boomed Hill. ‘But I shall partake of a little ham, just to demonstrate to you lowly sinners how I accept temptation, then rise above it. However, I shall not come if Heyden is invited, too – or if you tell me I cannot extol the Lord.’

‘Are you coming to breakfast, Thomas?’ asked Temperance eagerly, her happy tone attracting the immediate attention of her mother. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

‘I have an appointment at nine o’clock, and I doubt Hill will have finished extolling by then.’

‘He might,’ whispered Temperance with a mischievous smile, ‘if he knows there is food waiting.’

‘Has your turkey arrived yet?’ asked Hill of Faith. ‘I am partial to turkey meat, as well as ham.’

‘It has arrived, all right,’ said Faith grimly. ‘And it has taken up residence in the kitchen, since it decided the yard was not to its liking. That is why we have ham today – it can be eaten cold, and no one will be obliged to encroach what is now the bird’s domain.’

‘I shall deal with it,’ announced Hill. ‘Once it hears the word of the Lord, it will become compliant, like Isaac did with Abraham. And then I shall crush its skull with my Bible. No turkey defies God.’

Chaloner regarded him uncertainly. ‘You plan to brain it with a book?’

‘With the Bible,’ corrected Hill. ‘It is very heavy, and should do the trick nicely.’

‘That is horrible,’ said Chaloner. ‘It probably will not work, and is sure to make a mess. Besides, I doubt you will tame it with scripture. I have met it, and it is not a God-fearing bird.’

Everyone jumped away in alarm when Hill hauled a pistol from under his cloak. ‘If it resists, then the Lord has other means of destroying His enemies.’

Chaloner started to laugh after the preacher had strutted inside the chapel. He was surprised to find Temperance smiling, too.

‘Is he quite sane, do you think?’ she asked, watching Hill reach the pulpit and begin to leaf through the Good Book for a suitably rabid text. Two sections were particularly well thumbed, and Chaloner suspected they were the violently radical books of Daniel and Revelation.

‘Not really. If you have any influence over your parents, you should tell them to muzzle the man. He is doing your community no good with his controversial opinions.’

‘I know,’ said Temperance. ‘But unfortunately, they never listen to me. If they did, there would not be a turkey usurping our kitchen.’

After Temperance had gone, Chaloner lingered a while, unsettled by his argument with Metje, by the man who had tried to entice him into the alley, and by Preacher Hill’s antics. When other members of the congregation began to arrive and Hill girded himself up for his morning tirade, Chaloner left to walk to Lincoln’s Inn. Dawn was late in coming, because of the thick grey clouds that slouched above the city, and it was bitterly cold. A scything wind whipped old leaves and rubbish into corners, and cut through clothes. A pack of stray dogs snarled and worried over something in the middle of the road. They scattered when a coach clattered towards them, and Chaloner saw they had been devouring one of their own. The vehicle’s wheel hit the corpse and lurched hard to one side, making the passenger curse at the driver. Chaloner glimpsed the angry face within, and was sure it was the Duke of Buckingham, travelling home after a night of debauchery with his mistresses.

It was early enough that the Lincoln’s Inn porter was still asleep, and it was some time before he could be roused. Once inside, Chaloner went directly to Dial Court – it was still too dark for Thurloe to be walking in the gardens – and knocked softly on the door to Chamber XIII. Inside, the piles of completed correspondence on the table indicated the ex-Spymaster had been awake and working for some time. Over his day clothes, he wore a silk dressing gown and a soft white skullcap. A fire roared furiously and the window shutters were firmly closed, so Chaloner thought the room stifling to the point of discomfort. Thurloe beckoned him in and locked the door.

‘The Earl of Clarendon sent me a packet of this newfangled stuff called tea yesterday. Would you like some? It is all the rage at Court, and said to be an excellent tonic – much better than coffee, which makes the heart race in those with frail constitutions.’

‘I do not have a frail constitution, sir,’ said Chaloner, supposing the Portuguese ambassador had declined to accept a package that had already been tasted, so Clarendon had foisted it on Thurloe instead.

Thurloe looked him up and down. ‘No, I suppose you do not. But tell me what happened at White Hall. I was astonished Clarendon waited until Monday to summon you – had it been me, I would have had you there the day I received the note. Did he ask you to look into Clarke’s death, as I suggested he should?’

‘He ordered me not to interfere, because he plans to investigate personally.’ Chaloner watched Thurloe carefully as he added, ‘With his aide, Captain Evett.’

‘Evett,’ mused Thurloe thoughtfully, pouring himself some tea. ‘I know the name.’

Chaloner’s thoughts raced: Thurloe was familiar with more than Evett’s name, if they were both members of the Brotherhood. He had planned to describe how he had eavesdropped on the meeting, and to warn Thurloe that Downing was revealing its secrets, but now he reconsidered. Was it wise to bring up a matter Thurloe might want to keep to himself? He had also intended to tell Thurloe about the messages in Clarke’s clothes, but hesitated about that, too, although he was not sure why.

Thurloe leaned back in his chair, tea in hand, and stared at Chaloner. ‘Did Clarendon tell you why he wants to look into Clarke’s murder himself? It is most irregular.’

‘He said it was an important matter, so should not be delegated to a man he does not know. He feels guilty about what happened, and is determined to provide you with answers.’

‘Pride,’ said Thurloe with disapproval. ‘The undoing of many a good man. But perhaps Evett will accept your help – I shall write to him before you leave, and you can deliver the message yourself. I would send one to Clarendon, too, but I cannot think of a tactful way to suggest he should leave such business to men who know what they are doing.’

‘How well did you know Clarke, sir?’ asked Chaloner, trying another way to see whether Thurloe was willing to acknowledge the Brotherhood. ‘He was kin, but that does not mean you were close.’

‘True. I was fond of him, but I did not know him as well as I know you.’ He sipped the tea and shuddered. ‘Nasty!’

Chaloner was nonplussed. Although they had sent each other hundreds of letters he would not have considered Thurloe an intimate by any stretch of the imagination. Thurloe read his bemusement, and elaborated uncomfortably.

‘You wrote kind words to me after the deaths of my two children.’

Chaloner was none the wiser. ‘That was years ago, sir.’

Thurloe nodded awkwardly. ‘But most of my correspondents did not acknowledge the tragedy, so I was naturally drawn to those who did. Clarke was one of those whose letters were purely professional, with none of the kindly, personal addenda you always included. He was not a friend, not like you.’

This time Chaloner was unable to conceal his astonishment. He had not imagined for a moment that his casually penned postscripts had been taken so seriously. He thought about Thurloe recommending him to Sarah in the event of a crisis – and Sarah’s claim that Thurloe was fond of him – and began to wonder whether this dignified, proper man had indeed taken the letters to be genuine expressions of affection.

Thurloe became brusque, obviously embarrassed. ‘Forgive me, Tom; I am maudlin today. It must be this horrible tea. You were asking about Clarke. He was a soldier who believed in moderation, and was of the opinion that the best future for our country lies in tolerance and forgiveness.’

‘Moderation,’ mused Chaloner. He decided to test the extent of Thurloe’s ‘friendship’ towards him. ‘I know a group of men who try to instil a sense of moderation in those with power.’

Thurloe glanced sharply at him. ‘It is a good theory. But, like all ideals, it will become corrupted in the hands of wicked men.’

‘Clarke was a member of such a group,’ Chaloner pressed on. ‘So is Evett.’

Thurloe regarded him appraisingly. ‘You have been busy. Do you know who else is in it?’

‘Not everyone.’

‘A diplomatic answer. However, I have not attended a meeting of the Brotherhood since Cromwell died. It started with honourable intentions, but then men like Downing and Ingoldsby enrolled, and it turned sour. Clarke and Evett joined after I ceased to play any real part in it.’

Chaloner nodded, but was not convinced. Downing had given the impression that Thurloe’s absence was temporary, although Downing was no great adherent of the truth himself. ‘Downing thought you might recommend me for membership.’

‘Never,’ said Thurloe immediately. ‘It would be a mistake for both of us. I cannot claim to have ended my affiliation if I nominate new members. And fraternising with men like Ingoldsby and Downing is a risk you do not need to take. I forbid you to have anything to do with it, and if you try to enrol on your own, I shall oppose your election. I do not want you involved with such a group.’

Chaloner regarded him appraisingly, surprised by the uncharacteristic passion. Did Thurloe really have his interests at heart, or was there another reason for his vehemence? However, he suspected pressing the man for clarification would lead nowhere, so he turned to another subject.

‘You sent Clarke to the Earl to do what, exactly, sir?’

‘To use as he saw fit. The last I heard, Clarke was looking into the theft of silver table knives from the White Hall kitchens, which you would not think was terribly dangerous.’

‘That depends on the thief – it might be very dangerous if Clarendon has a penchant for royal cutlery. But last week, you said you thought Kelyng might have killed Clarke.’

Thurloe sighed. ‘It is possible – he knew Clarke was kin, and may have killed him in an attempt to hurt me. However, I am dogged with the sense that I sent Clarke to his death. I would like to know the identity of his murderer, if for no other reason that the answer may salve my troubled conscience.’

‘Do you know anything about Clarke that might help me catch his killer?’

Thurloe regarded him oddly. ‘Are you going to ignore the Earl’s wishes and look into Clarke’s death anyway?’

‘I thought that is what you wanted me to do.’

‘But not at the expense of you ruining your future – or risking your life. I do not want to lose another man to White Hall.’

‘I can look after myself, sir,’ said Chaloner, thinking of all the hazardous tasks he had undertaken on Thurloe’s behalf in the past. ‘Tell me about Clarke.’

‘I cannot think of anything that might be of use to you. He was handsome, but aloof, he played the violin, and he worked at being unmemorable – like all good intelligence agents.’

‘Could he have been dispatched by a jealous husband?’ Chaloner thought about how Clarke had flirted with Metje, who had responded rather too readily to his charms.

‘Not in White Hall, Tom. They all bed whoever takes their fancy – even you must have heard those rumours. If every jealous husband took a knife to his rival, we would have no Court left.’

‘Was his body searched before it was dumped on the riverbank? Did his room contain anything in the way of clues?’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘At the time, I suspect the Lord Chancellor was more intent on concealing the murder than in solving it. He has no experience in such matters.’

Chaloner’s cautious probing had not told him whether the Earl had shown Thurloe the cipher messages from Clarke’s pocket – or perhaps Thurloe was unwilling to admit that he was the recipient of notes containing the phrase about praising God. He tried one last time. ‘Do you have an agent whose codename is Seven?’

Thurloe was startled and wary. ‘No. Why?’

‘Clarke was alleged to have told a friend that he praised God for sending him seven pairs of boots, and I wondered if the word held any significance for you.’

Thurloe’s suspicion intensified. ‘One of the skills developed by a good spy is deciding which information to discard and which to pursue. Your seven pairs of boots are definitely in the former category, and you will be wasting your time if you follow them. Besides, I want to know who stabbed him, not what he was doing for Clarendon. Do you understand me?’

‘Not really, sir.’

Thurloe’s expression was cool. ‘I do not want you asking questions about the case Clarke was working on – these knives – because the Earl may assume I sent you to investigate him. I do not want him to think that – it would be extremely dangerous for you and for me. So, no questions about Clarke’s business at White Hall, if you please. I want only to know who killed him.’

Chaloner felt this was unreasonable. ‘But he may have been killed because of what he was doing at White Hall. It may not be possible to look at one without exploring the other.’

‘It will have to be,’ said Thurloe tartly. ‘A night of listening to gossiping servants may well tell you all you need to know. Kelyng and Bennet are not subtle, and someone may have seen them loitering or asking questions. So, will you do as I ask, or shall I recruit someone else to help me?’

Chaloner was tempted to tell him to find some other fool. If he found Barkstead’s treasure for the Earl, he would not need Thurloe’s good opinion, and he was being given a task with conditions that might make a solution impossible. But he owed Thurloe something for the past ten years, and he had been oddly touched by the ex-Spymaster’s shy expression of friendship.

‘It will depend on whether I can gain access to the right servants – whether I can talk to them without arousing Clarendon’s suspicions.’

‘True,’ agreed Thurloe. ‘So be careful. Concentrate on Kelyng – he should not present much of a challenge to a man who survived Downing for so many years. If he has stepped up his campaign against me, I would like to know, so I can take precautions.’ He went to a table and began to write. ‘I will tell Evett you have solved murders before. He is a soldier, not an investigator, and will doubtless welcome any help that comes his way. But what did the Earl ask you to do, if not look into Clarke’s death?’

‘Hunt down some missing money,’ replied Chaloner vaguely.

Thurloe nodded, not looking up as he dipped his pen into the ink. ‘The new government is desperate for funds, and Clarendon is always trying to find ways of raising more. I wish you luck – if you find him a few hundred, he will take you under his wing for certain.’

Chaloner left Thurloe deeply uneasy. The ex-Spymaster had admitted to belonging to the Brotherhood, but only when the alternative was a brazen lie. Was he really in the process of extricating himself, or was he still involved? And did it matter, given that Downing claimed the group’s aims were not illegal or seditious anyway? Thurloe had also declined to admit any familiarity with the words ‘seven’ and ‘praise God’, although Chaloner still believed the messages from Clarke and Hewson were intended for him. Was he telling the truth, or was Chaloner being unreasonable, since Thurloe could hardly be expected to know the meaning of messages he had never received?

No answers were forthcoming, no matter how many times he pondered the questions, so he walked to Will’s Coffee House and read the pamphlet written by Leybourn, which Downing had given him. He studied it closely, assessing it for the kind of stilted phrase or unusual reference that might be indicative of secret orders to waiting members, but he could see nothing amiss. Perhaps it was just what it seemed: a call for people to exercise tolerance, patience and understanding. He wished there was someone he could discuss it with, but for the first time in years, he did not know whom he could trust. And that night Metje did not come to him.

Chaloner was early for his appointment with Captain Evett the next morning. When Evett had asked where they should meet, Chaloner had suggested the Dolphin, on the grounds that it was near the Tower. It was also where members of the Brotherhood would meet later that day, after the conclave at the Royal Foundation of St Katherine, and although he would not be joining their ranks, Chaloner intended to engineer a meeting with some of its members. There were too many links between them and his three investigations to be innocent, and he would be remiss to ignore them.

The Dolphin was one of London’s best taverns, patronised by clerks from the Navy Office, officers from the Tower and merchants from nearby Fishmongers’ Hall. The atmosphere was one of genteel civility, and the inn boasted a freshly swept floor, polished oak furniture and two fires burning in separate hearths. It smelled of sweet ale, pipe smoke and freshly cut logs. Chaloner ordered, but then did not feel like eating, a dish of salted herrings and bread, paid for with a shilling he had found in his spare breeches. His thoughts were on Metje, and he was sorry they had argued. He wondered what she would say if he asked her to go to Buckinghamshire with him, so he could abandon Clarendon and the awkward situation with Thurloe. He had the feeling she would not agree, and did not blame her. She thrived amid the colourful bustle of London, with its theatres, pageants and fairs, and there was little in the country that would make her love it.

‘Are you going to eat that?’ asked Evett, sitting down in a flurry of damp cloak and cold air. ‘There was only pink pudding for breakfast at White Hall today. Why have you lost your appetite? Worry over this lost treasure?’

‘I argued with my woman,’ said Chaloner, surprising himself by the confidence. He did not normally open his heart to virtual strangers.

Evett was sympathetic. ‘They have a habit of provoking quarrels out of nothing. Does your wife know about her? Or was that what the row was about?’

‘Metje is my wife,’ said Chaloner. He reflected. ‘Or she will be.’

‘You intend to marry?’ asked Evett. He looked disapproving. ‘I would not recommend that. They become different once you wed them. It is better to leave them as mistresses – kept women are more loving and considerably less demanding. Of course, the King would probably disagree, since Lady Castlemaine is very demanding.’

‘Are you speaking from personal experience?’

Evett nodded, cheeks bulging with fish. ‘With both wives. One manages my farm in Kent, while the other looks after my house in Deptford.’

Chaloner did not know whether to be shocked or amused. Bigamy was a capital crime, and he was astonished to hear Evett so blithely confessing to it. ‘Does Clarendon know about them?’

Evett shook his head. ‘He would not understand. I was forced into both matches: the first declined to lie with me until she had been to the altar, and the second did lie with me, but a child appeared and her father put a gun to my head. They are lovely lasses, but I find myself lonely at Court. Perhaps I should take a third, to tend me in White Hall. What do you think?’

‘Managing three wives would require a deviousness beyond my abilities.’

‘And you a spy these last ten years,’ said Evett with a grin. ‘So, I have skills you envy, do I? Will you recommend me to Thurloe, then?’

‘I might. However, I understand you know him, so why not ask yourself?’

Evett chuckled. ‘I am jesting. I have been Clarendon’s aide for years, and it would be folly to leave him now his fortunes are finally on the rise. Of course, they will not continue that way if Buckingham has anything to do with it. He was the baboon at the masque, you know. I told you it was he who burst in on us, thinking himself suitably disguised.’

‘Thurloe is a good man,’ said Chaloner, trying to steer the conversation back in the direction he wanted it to go.

‘Is he?’ asked Evett, without much interest. ‘I see him when he visits Clarendon, but he tends to wait until I withdraw before embarking on whatever it is they discuss.’

‘You do not meet on other occasions, perhaps out with friends?’

‘Thurloe has no friends – he is not a sociable man. Why do you ask?’

‘He sent you a letter.’ Chaloner handed Evett the note Thurloe had scribbled the previous day. It contained nothing other than a polite suggestion that Chaloner’s skills might be of use in locating Clarke’s killer, and ended with the familiarly scrawled Jo: Thurloe, a signature that made some recipients imagine the sender’s name to be Joseph. Naturally, Chaloner had read it, then repaired the seal, but he had been unable to determine whether its cool professionalism suggested a prior acquaintance.

Evett scanned the few lines. ‘He thinks you might be able to help me with Clarke. Good! I am a soldier, not a parish constable and I am not pleased about being ordered to solve murders.’

‘The Earl told me to leave the matter alone.’

‘He asked me to stop looking for treasure in the Tower, too, but I will give you a detailed tour of the places where we dug, if you help me with Clarke. Agreed? Are you leaving that bread?’

Chaloner pushed it towards him.

‘So, your domestic dispute deprived you of your appetite, did it? You should recruit a couple of mistresses to take your mind off it. Do you want me to introduce you to some willing ladies?’

Chaloner watched him eat. ‘You seem to have very tolerant views of these matters.’

Evett nodded. ‘There are far too many fanatics around these days, and they are making life uncomfortable for the rest of us – like those miserable Puritan extremists who banned horse racing.’

‘Have you ever met other people who think your way?’ asked Chaloner casually.

Evett stopped chewing. ‘Why?’

‘Because I have. Well, I did not meet them, exactly, but I know what they think, and I know they gather occasionally to discuss their ideas.’

‘Damn! Who told you? Rob Leybourn? He will land us all in trouble with his loose tongue.’

‘What kind of trouble do you anticipate?’

‘People are suspicious of secret societies, and always think the worst. But the Brotherhood really does have good principles. I mean, what more can you ask than everyone tolerating the beliefs and opinions of everyone else? I saw Cromwell suppress Royalists in the fifties, and I see Royalists doing the same to Roundheads now. If we are to have peace, then we need an end to persecution.’

‘It sounds idealistic.’

‘What if it does? Everyone knows about the Court’s decadence – animal masques, pink puddings, money spent that is not there. How long will it be before the people object, and we find ourselves with a ruling Parliament again? And then what? Am I to be hanged, because I am Clarendon’s man? Are you? How many times can you change sides? I just want justice for everyone, no matter who is in power. The brothers are not men I normally associate with – I dislike Ingoldsby, for example – but unpleasant company is a small price to pay for peace and harmony.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin. Evett did not seem the type to harbour such notions – he was a soldier, for a start, and they tended to prefer war and disharmony, when their skills could be put to use. But then he recalled his own distaste for strife after the wars, and supposed the captain might feel the same.

Evett ate more bread. ‘And then there is Downing: he detests me and Clarendon, and the feeling is wholly reciprocated. I dislike Hewson, too, but Robinson sent me a message last night to say he is dead. Hewson claimed to be moderate, but he still said some fairly radical things about religion.’

‘Do you know Sir John Kelyng?’

‘I assure you he is not a brother. He is exactly the kind of man we are trying to overturn.’

‘Is the Brotherhood open to anyone?’

Evett laughed. ‘No, or we would have lunatics like Kelyng clamouring to join. Newcomers must believe in moderation, and they tend to be recommended by other brothers, who know their views.’

‘Who recommended Clarke?’

Evett did not seem surprised that Chaloner should know Clarke had been a member. ‘I did – to help me with Clarendon. Why? Surely you do not think the brothers had anything to do with his murder? Lord! That would be awkward! But now we are colleagues, and helping each other, I should tell you something important. Clarendon gives the impression he knows what he is doing, but he is not as competent as he appears. Others have misread his abilities, and it has cost them their lives.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘That is a singularly disloyal thing for an aide to say.’

Evett grimaced unhappily. ‘I know, and it pains me to do it, but it cannot be helped. And anyway, he misuses me. I am a soldier, but he sends me to chase killers and treasure. He says he cannot trust anyone else, but that does not make such base duties any less distasteful.’

‘What would you rather be doing?’ asked Chaloner, surprised he should think an aide had a choice.

‘I want to be Lord High Admiral.’ Chaloner struggled to keep the incredulity from his face: it was a lofty ambition for a mere soldier, and the post was currently held by the King’s brother. ‘I know I get seasick when we cross the Channel, but I love ships. However, that is for the future, and we were talking about the present. I am Clarendon’s man, but that does not mean I am blind to his faults – or that I am prepared to watch another spy walk blithely to his death.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Chaloner, bewildered. ‘That your Earl killed Clarke?’

There was a guarded expression in Evett’s eyes. ‘He did not hold the daggers himself, but it was his orders that led them into the situations that saw them killed. He is liable for–’

Chaloner was acutely uncomfortable with the use of the plural. ‘Them? ’

‘Thurloe’s men. The Earl ordered them to follow certain people – to see where they went and who they met. It sounded easy, the kind of thing you spies do in your sleep. One lasted a month, but the others were dead within days – stabbed in the back in the dead of night with no witnesses.’

‘Thurloe sent six men in total,’ said Chaloner uneasily. ‘Five, then Clarke. How many have died?’

‘All of them.’

Chaloner did not believe him. ‘The Earl sends Thurloe letters saying they are doing well.’

Evett shrugged. ‘Thurloe was furious when he learned about Clarke, and the Earl could not bring himself to admit that the other five are gone, too.’

Chaloner’s voice became unsteady when he remembered the man who had shared his love of music. ‘Even Simon Lane?’

‘All are buried in unmarked graves at St Martin-in-the-Fields.’

‘Who killed them?’ demanded Chaloner, shocked by the carnage. ‘The men they were following?’

‘Possibly. I cannot imagine they were pleased to have spies dogging their every move.’

‘That assumes they knew they were being watched, but Simon was excellent at covert surveillance. No target would have known he was there.’

‘Then perhaps someone told them – or they found out another way,’ said Evett. ‘I am certain someone invades the Earl’s offices at night. I try hiding there, to see if I can catch someone in the act, but I never do. I am just not very good at that sort of thing – they must know I am there.’

Chaloner was angry. ‘Clarendon has an unfortunate habit of leaving confidential papers strewn across his desk. I saw Lane’s reports, and so could anyone else who happened to look.’

‘Quite. Do you still think me disloyal for expressing my doubts about his competence to you? Or are you just grateful to have been forewarned?’ Evett’s expression was cool.

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. A post under the Earl was sounding increasingly unappealing. ‘Was Clarke ordered to shadow these men, too? I thought he was investigating a theft.’

‘He was looking into the King’s missing table knives. Clarendon thinks servants made off with them, but I suspect Buckingham – I think he pays a silversmith to melt them down.’

‘Was Buckingham one of the people these agents were told to watch?’

‘No – Clarendon is wary of tackling men who are too powerful, although it is obvious that they are where the real threat lies. But I do not want to discuss this any more, Heyden. I told you about the risk, because we are supposed to be helping each other, but I dislike being interrogated.’

Chaloner did not care what he disliked. ‘Who were they following, if not Buckingham?’

Evett looked annoyed, but answered anyway. ‘Kelyng, because fanatical loyalty is just as dangerous as fanatical opposition and he needs to be monitored. And Cerberus … I mean Downing, because he is a turncoat.’

Something clicked in Chaloner’s mind. Lane’s report had said:

It had been about Downing, and Lane had used a codename for him known only to the Earl – or would have been, if the Earl had not been so free with it.

‘Who is Jo?’ he asked.

Evett shrugged, startled by the abrupt question. ‘It is short for Joseph, I suppose. Why?’

‘Or it could be an abbreviation of John,’ mused Chaloner, running ahead with his analysis without stopping to explain. He thought about the way Thurloe signed his name – Jo: Thurloe. Or perhaps it referred to another member of the Brotherhood: John Dalton, John Barkstead, John Hewson or John Robinson. Or perhaps even John Clarke. ‘Of course, there is always the possibility that it might mean nothing – that Simon sent the report just to show he was doing some work.’

‘Simon’s missives were never very helpful actually,’ said Evett, trying to conceal his confusion. ‘He told us things we already knew – such as that Downing and Thurloe meet. Well, of course they do: one has been asked to provide summaries of foreign policy and the other was a diplomat.’

Was that the answer? Lane was astute, and may have known the Earl was a poor master, so had sent reports that contained nothing contentious – although it had not saved his life.

‘You must feel uneasy,’ said Chaloner to Evett. ‘Downing is a leading member of your Brotherhood, and your Earl was hiring spies to follow him – spies who are now dead.’

‘That is coincidence.’ Evett hesitated uncomfortably. ‘Well, perhaps Downing did object to being followed, but he could not have dispatched five men without being caught. Kelyng might, though.’

Chaloner did not think so, given the ineptitude he had witnessed so far. ‘Who watches them now?’

‘No one – we do not have anyone. The Earl has given you other duties, because he knows he needs to be more careful with you than he was with your predecessors – Thurloe’s letter of recommendation went on at some length about how fond he is of you.’

‘I do not understand why you have told me all this. You do not know me – I could go to the Earl and repeat everything you have said.’

‘Well, please do not,’ said Evett coolly. ‘I am tired of sly murders, and I am tired of attending hasty funerals in St Martin-in-the-Fields. You seem a decent man – an old soldier, like me. Besides, Simon Lane was my cousin, and I miss him sorely.’