A Conspiracy of Violence (18 page)

‘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 Buckingham
shire
,’ 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—’