A Conspiracy of Violence (24 page)

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Chaloner. It sounded like the kind of story told in Royalist homes at Christmas – a brave
young Cavalier, valiantly taking on sinister Parliamentarian politicians.

‘It was not a secret,’ said Robinson. ‘It probably should have been, given the delicate nature of Swanning’s mission, but
you cannot keep much quiet in courts.’

‘What happened to Swanning?’ asked Chaloner.

Robinson shoved his red wig to the back of his head and scratched his shaven pate. ‘Swanning: that does not sound right –
his name was not Swanning. But as to what happened, I am not sure. He just disappeared and I never saw him again. I wonder
if he did reveal the names of the Seven. I suppose he must have done, because Charles is on the throne.’

‘Or they discovered they were not as influential as they thought, and their machinations came to nothing,’ suggested Chaloner.

‘But this tale goes to prove the point I was trying to make earlier,’ said Robinson. ‘Men are always betraying each other
– they cannot help themselves. Do not perch too comfortably on Clarendon’s shoulders, Evett. Great men have farther to fall.’

After a short silence, Evett and Robinson began to discuss the disgraceful state of the navy – not paid for
two years, and still expected to defend England against her enemies. Chaloner joined Fanny at the window, wishing Evett would
put an end to the discussion, so they could leave.

‘An ugly man,’ said Fanny, looking disparagingly at the loitering Bennet. ‘And a stupid one. I told him I was not interested
in his advances – that my heart is tied to another – but he refused to believe me.’

‘It could have been worse,’ said Chaloner. ‘Kelyng might have made the offer. At least Bennet is not old enough to be your
grandfather.’

She regarded him earnestly. ‘Bennet is the nastiest, most vicious man in the city. I only hope he has not done anything to
frighten my Robert away from me. I would not put it past him.’

‘Is your Robert intelligent?’

Her eyes gleamed with misty adoration. ‘The cleverest fellow in London. My father believes so strongly in his prospects at
the Treasury, that he is willing to let us wed now, while he is still poor.’

‘Then he has nothing to worry about from Bennet.’

She smiled, and was about to add something else, when a soldier arrived, bearing the news that a lion from the menagerie had
eluded its keeper and was on the loose. Robinson grabbed his sword, and the interview came to an abrupt end.

‘Go that way,’ he ordered, pushing Evett towards a narrow passage between two buildings. ‘I do not want you savaged. The Earl
will be vexed if he loses his aide. Mind the steps – they are slippery.’

Before Chaloner could say he wanted to collect his weapons first, he had been shunted down the passage to
emerge in a yard dominated by towering walls. Evett headed for the nearest gate at a run.

‘What is the hurry?’ asked Chaloner, trying to keep up with him.

Evett regarded him as though he were insane. ‘Lions, man! Do you not know how dangerous they can be? And the one in the Tower
is particularly fierce, because close confinement has sent it insane.’

‘Robinson should give it the run of Barkstead’s cellar then. There are enough rats down there to keep it happy for years.’

‘It wants human prey,’ said Evett, glancing around him in a way that suggested growing panic. ‘I am uneasy, Heyden. We have
no swords, and it is too quiet here.’

‘We should go back to the main gate,’ said Chaloner, skidding to a standstill. He did not like the notion of moving deeper
inside the Tower, although he was not unduly worried about the lion. The ones he had seen in captivity had been pathetic,
mangy beasts, with rotten teeth and broken claws.

Evett grabbed his arm. ‘No, come this way.’

Reluctantly, Chaloner followed him through a series of doors, then down some unlit steps. Water slopped on stone, swishing
softly in the darkness, and he supposed they were near the Thames.

‘Traitors’ Gate,’ said Evett, indicating a low, river-filled vault dominated by a pair of iron-barred doors. They stood open.
‘We can take a boat from here.’

Chaloner shuddered. He had passed Traitors’ Gate often enough, although he had never had cause to go through it. He knew only
a handful of prisoners had ever made the one-way journey through its dismal portals, and its reputation was wildly exaggerated,
but he felt
uncomfortable nonetheless. He glanced around, taking in the dripping roof, slick steps and slime-coated walls. A boat was
tied to a pier, oars ready. And then he saw something else: a pair of gleaming eyes.

‘I think the lion is in here,’ he said.

‘Stop it,’ ordered Evett sharply. ‘I am uneasy enough, without you trying to unnerve me.’

‘I am serious. It is looking right at us.’

Evett’s jaw dropped in horror as the animal began to move. ‘Oh, God! What shall we do?’

‘We keep calm for a start,’ said Chaloner curtly. He watched the beast settle on its haunches and peer at them. It was now
close enough to pounce. ‘Do you have a dagger?’

‘Of course not. I left it at the gate, as we were told.’

Chaloner leaned down and removed the knife from his boot. He handed it to Evett, while he kept the one from his sleeve.

Evett gaped at him. ‘You were ordered to disarm.’

‘Then we are lucky I declined. Please do not twitch – you are attracting its attention.’

‘They will never look for it in here,’ said Evett shakily. The weapon slipped from his trembling fingers and he bent to retrieve
it, while the lion looked on with interested eyes. ‘Cats do not like water. It will kill us long before they search this part
of the Tower. Sweet Jesus, Heyden, it is standing up!’

‘I thought you were a soldier.’ Chaloner was unimpressed. ‘Pull yourself together.’

‘I
am
a soldier, but I have not been trained to fight slathering beasts.’

‘Think of it as Cromwell, then,’ suggested Chaloner. The lion was not a particularly fierce specimen, and
Evett was armed with a blade. ‘Or Buckingham.’

Suddenly, Evett elbowed him out of the way and made a dash for the boat. He did not get far before he lost his footing, and
went bouncing down the stairs, wailing as he went. The lion and Chaloner watched his antics in astonishment.

‘Robinson told you to mind your footing.’

When Evett seemed incapable of standing, Chaloner walked carefully towards him and took his elbow. As he did so, he noticed
a rope had been placed across the third stair. He inspected it curiously. It had been rubbed with slime from the walls, so
was virtually invisible to anyone using the steps. It was a potentially lethal hazard, and Evett was fortunate he had not
cracked his skull. Chaloner wondered who had put it there, and supposed it was someone’s idea of a practical joke, albeit
a very dangerous one.

As soon as he was upright, Evett lurched for the boat and tried to push it away from the pier. With silent grace, the lion
sprang from its perch and made its way towards them. Evett tore wildly at the knot that moored the little craft, but his fingers
were clumsy with terror. The lion swayed towards Chaloner, then pounced, while Evett’s shriek of fright echoed shockingly
in the damp chamber.

The sudden weight of a fully grown lion was too much for Chaloner’s fragile balance on the slick steps, and he went down hard.
The dagger flew from his hand. He gripped the creature’s throat, fingers disappearing into thick, oily fur as he sought to
keep its teeth away from his neck. It batted him with its paw, and he noticed its claws were sheathed. He shoved it, and it
backed away obediently.

‘It is tame,’ he said, beginning to laugh as he stood
up. ‘The poor creature probably escaped to stretch its legs. Those cages are very small.’

Evett was unconvinced. He grabbed Chaloner’s knife and hurled it at the lion. The weapon clattered harmlessly against the
wall.

‘No!’ snapped Chaloner, interposing himself between them. ‘You will hurt it.’

‘Then help me with this,’ pleaded Evett, scrabbling desperately at the painter. ‘I do not trust it.’

Chaloner staggered when the lion placed its paws on his shoulders again. It stank of old meat and urine, and he wondered whether
the scent would cling to him, so Metje would notice it that night. If she did, he wondered how he would explain it – and whether
she would believe him if he told her the truth. He unravelled the knot that tethered the boat, struggling to keep the lion
away from the cowering Evett, then jumped into the craft and propelled it out on to the river. The cat watched, tail swishing
behind it. Someone shouted when they emerged, and Chaloner saw soldiers on the wall above, pointing weapons. He supposed,
from their hostile stance, that they assumed a pair of prisoners were making a bid for freedom, and was obliged to nudge Evett
with his foot, to make him say something to stop them from being shot at.

Evett tried to stand, but his legs would not support him, so he identified himself sitting. Robinson appeared, and ordered
his men to stand down. He raised a hand in farewell as they floated away, and Chaloner heard wheedling calls emanating from
the gate – the keeper was trying to seduce his charge back into his tender care. Evett made a sudden lurch and was sick over
the side. Chaloner looked away as he rowed to the nearest jetty,
intending to see the boat returned to its rightful owners as soon as possible. He did not want to be accused of stealing
Crown property.

‘You must think me a fool,’ said Evett in a low voice, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Chaloner nodded. ‘A coward, too. I would not like to go into battle with you.’

‘Well, that is honest,’ said Evett, attempting a smile. It emerged as a grimace. ‘I have had a deep fear of wild animals ever
since I saw a bear chew the head from its owner as a child. I do not like … and a lion …’ He trailed off with a shudder.

‘I cannot imagine you encounter them very often.’

‘More than you might think. The King is stocking the royal parks with all manner of dangerous creatures – vicious, bronze-coloured
birds with long tails and nasty, slashing beaks.’

‘Pheasants?’

‘And in White Hall, there are dogs
everywhere
.’

‘Dogs are not dangerous creatures,’ Chaloner pointed out.

‘The King’s are: massive things with dripping teeth. I hate them all. Why do you think I want to be Lord High Admiral? Because
you do not get rampaging animals on ships.’

‘Well, we are away from it now,’ said Chaloner, thinking him deranged. ‘Who is Lee?’

‘What?’ Evett blinked stupidly at the abrupt change of subject.

‘When I was talking to Fanny, I saw a report you had written for Robinson about your previous searches for the treasures.
It was on the window sill, waiting to be filed. It mentioned a Mr Lee, as well as Wade and Pepys.’

‘Lee is just a clerk. Robinson suggested we involve him, because he is quick at counting money and we were anticipating barrels
of the stuff.’

‘Why did you not mention him before?’

Evett shrugged. ‘Why would I? I did not mention all the soldiers who wielded spades for us, either. None is relevant to the
enquiry, and there is no point in me wasting your time.’

Chaloner was not so sure. ‘According to your report, Lee lives near the Tower – Thames Street. I suggest we visit him. We
cannot talk to Pepys and Wade, but no one has warned us away from Lee.’

‘Now?’ asked Evett. ‘It must be almost three o’clock. It will be dark in an hour or so.’

‘Now,’ said Chaloner, easing the boat into the dock near Tower Wharf. A man in royal livery was waiting to collect it, although
he said he would wait until the lion was in its cage before rowing back.

‘But it is tame,’ said Chaloner, puzzled.

The man tapped his temple. ‘Its wits are stewed. Sometimes it is as gentle as a kitten, but other times it is vicious. Even
its keeper cannot predict which it will be.’

Chaloner led Evett along Thames Street until they located the clerk’s house. It was a tumbledown affair, leaning precariously
between two equally unsteady neighbours, and no one answered their knocks. Evett, regaining his composure, suggested that
Lee was probably at work, since it was a Wednesday, and would have no reason to be home. Chaloner stared at the windows.

‘No,’ said Evett, guessing what was in his mind. ‘I will not break in. It is illegal.’

‘We should not do it at the front,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘Too public.’

He made his way to the rear of the property, only to find it unlocked. He inspected the door carefully, then stood back to
assess the rest of the building. A window was broken, and he could see someone sitting on a chair in the chamber within. He
pointed out the shattered pane to Evett.

‘So?’ asked the aide. ‘Glass is expensive to replace, and Lee will not earn a huge salary at the Treasury. We should go
there
and talk to him, since it appears to be important to you.’

Chaloner opened the door, standing well back as he did so. He knew what he was about to find. The familiar odour of death
was not overpowering, because the weather was cold, but it was strong enough to tell him that Lee had been past caring about
broken windows for several days.

‘Is that him?’ he asked, pointing to the figure that sat at the table. ‘Is that Lee?’

For the second time that day, Evett retched while Chaloner looked in the opposite direction. Then the captain hovered in the
doorway, offering to ‘keep watch’ while Chaloner searched the house, although there was no longer any danger – whoever had
murdered Lee had been gone for days. Chaloner left the unhappy aide outside and stood next to the body, hands on hips as he
looked around.

The little room was the home of a man who lived frugally, either from choice or necessity. There was a table, a chair and
a bench, while pots and pans, all scrupulously clean, sat on shelves above the fireplace. A set of stairs, so steep and narrow
that most people would have deemed them a ladder, led to an attic. Chaloner climbed them, but the loft was bare except for
a bed with neatly folded covers. He poked the floorboards and knocked on the plaster walls, but there was nothing to find.

He returned to the lower chamber and completed a similar search, aware of Evett chatting to a water-seller outside. He knelt
in the hearth and peered up the chimney, jumping back when his probing released an avalanche
of soot. Then he turned his attention to the table. Three cups stood on it, and when he lifted one and sniffed its contents,
he detected the distinctive aroma of wine. Lee had been enjoying a drink with two companions when he had died. However, there
was nothing to suggest they had shared his fate. Had one of them killed him? Chaloner tapped a forefinger on his chin, looking
from Lee to the broken window and back again.

Then he assessed the body, noting its relaxed posture, with one hand resting on the table and the other folded in its lap,
and was sure death had come as a surprise. But what about Lee’s companions? Had they expected it? Or had the attack been startling
for them, too? Chaloner looked more closely at Lee’s hands, and saw something caught between his fingers. He removed it carefully,
but the house was no place to study such a find, so he put it in his pocket to examine later.

When he had finished, he rejoined Evett. The water-seller had gone and Evett was full of questions, but Chaloner motioned
him to silence as he led the way to Botolph’s Wharf, where they hired a boat to carry them to White Hall. The sun had managed
to burst through the clouds during the afternoon, and was setting in a blaze of orange. The boatman began to row with clean,
strong stokes, hurrying to deliver them before dusk, and they sat in the stern, so they could talk without being overheard.

‘Do you know Latin or French?’ asked Chaloner in a low voice. ‘It would be safer.’

‘French would not,’ Evett pointed out. ‘He would think we were Catholic spies. I speak Dutch, though. I learned when I was
in exile with Clarendon, but I do not suppose you—’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner, pleased to use the tongue he knew best. ‘Who would want to kill Lee?’

‘You cannot assume his death had anything to do with Barkstead’s treasure,’ said Evett, pronouncing each word carefully. He
was not comfortable with the language. ‘It was a burglary. There are slums all around here, and that water-seller just told
me thefts occur every night.’

‘Lee’s house was not burgled. When we first arrived, I saw five pounds in coins on the downstairs window sill, and a thief
would have had that, if nothing else.’

‘Then the villain was disturbed,’ argued Evett. ‘He killed Lee, but heard someone coming. No man wants to be caught in a house
with a corpse, so he fled before he could profit from his crime.’

‘That is possible, but when the body went undiscovered, the robber would have returned to finish what he had started. Also,
I have never met a thief who would abandon that much silver when it was sitting in full view, no matter how pressed for time
– not even a thief who lives in the splendour of White Hall.’ He stared hard at Evett, to let him see he knew what the man
had done.

Evett had the grace to blush. ‘I took the money for Clarendon – to make sure the constables did not steal it. I spotted it
when you were upstairs.’

But Chaloner was not interested in Evett’s colourful ethics. ‘How well did you know Lee?’

‘We met on four occasions – the four times I went to dig in the Tower. Robinson told me he was a good man, and he seemed honest
enough. He worked in the Treasury, counting money.’

‘How did Robinson know him? Surely a Lord Mayor does not mingle with clerks?’

‘Lee was the kinsman of some friend. You will have to ask Robinson.’

Chaloner was annoyed with Evett. ‘Is there anything else about this treasure that may have slipped your mind? You are supposed
to be helping me, and neglecting to mention one of the men involved in the initial search is not the way to go about it.’

Evett considered carefully, taking no offence at the accusatory nature of the comment – or perhaps his Dutch was not good
enough to allow him to detect it. ‘No, there is nothing, and I really do not think Lee’s death has anything to do with the
treasure. I saw nearly all the soldiers who did the actual spadework today. Why should Lee, who is insignificant, be killed,
and the rest of us left alive?’

‘We saw Pepys this morning, but what about Wade? Are you sure he is living?’

‘He and I exchanged words when you were in the cellar. He came to ask what you were doing.’

‘What did you tell him?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘That I had lost a ring and sent servants to look for it. Do not worry. I can dissemble when necessary. Did you learn anything
when you searched Lee’s house?’

‘No,’ lied Chaloner. ‘Why? What did you expect me to find?’

‘
I
did not expect you to find anything, as I told you to start with.
I
think it was a botched robbery. How did he die?’

‘Shot with a crossbow,’ replied Chaloner. ‘I imagine a gun was not used, because the killer did not want to make a noise.
There was no evidence of a fight, and there were empty cups on the table. I think he was drinking wine with guests when it
happened.’

‘And one shot him?’ Evett was incredulous. ‘Crossbows are large weapons, and I do not see even a gentle clerk like Lee sipping
claret while his killer wound and aimed one at him. You do not need to be a spy to deduce that!’

‘No one in the house killed him. You remember the broken window? Someone stood outside and shot him, smashing the glass in
the process. His drinking companions may have known what was going to happen, or it may have been as big a shock to them as
it must have been to Lee. However, if the former is true, then they must be cool customers. I would not sit next to someone
about to be assassinated – not unless I had absolute faith in the marksman, and probably not even then.’

Evett was thoughtful. ‘So who is this furtive killer? I can tell you think it was someone who believed Lee had information
about the treasure.’

‘Actually, I do not think that. Dispatching Lee would not help the killer find the hoard, because obviously the information
would die with him. So, perhaps the intention was not to
learn
the location of the gold, but to prevent Lee from telling anyone else about it.’

Evett stared at him. ‘That is convoluted reasoning.’

‘Yes, perhaps it is.’ Chaloner leaned back in the boat and tipped his hat over his eyes, not wanting to talk any more. Evett
was a pleasant enough fellow, but he was not very bright – or perhaps he was just not at his best after dealing with lions
and corpses – and seemed incapable of making insightful suggestions. Chaloner thought about the item he had retrieved from
Lee: the scrap of paper. He had no firm evidence, but he believed Lee had been holding a document when he had died. Afterwards,
someone – although whether a companion or the killer
was impossible to say – had snatched it from him, but in the hurry it had torn, leaving a fragment behind. The writing was
tiny, and it was in cipher. He would try to decode it that evening, before Metje came.

‘I do not think we should tell the Earl any of this,’ said Evett, somewhat out of the blue.

Chaloner was surprised. ‘Why not? And speak Dutch, especially when you are talking about Clarendon. He may not be the only
one with spies paid to listen to idle chatter.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Evett. ‘And you wonder why I joined the Brotherhood! Are you content to have agents listening to your every
word, and never daring to say what you think?’

‘I am used to it. And you had better inure yourself, too, if you want to be of use to the Earl.’

‘I joined the Brotherhood for him, you know,’ said Evett resentfully. ‘I believe in its aims, of course, but all they do is
talk. They never
act
, because they are too busy arguing with each other.’

‘Did he ask you to enrol, or did you do it of your own volition?’

‘The former. Downing let slip something about it once, and Clarendon sent me to find out more. I stalked Downing for a few
days, and eventually the fraternity met. I told Clarendon it was all perfectly innocent, but he asked Downing whether I could
join anyway. Did you know Thurloe founded it?’

Chaloner only just managed to keep the surprise from his face. ‘Did he?’

‘He seems a decent man. It is a pity he spent the last ten years working for the other side.’

And which side was that? wondered Chaloner. He
changed the subject. ‘Why should we not tell the Earl about Lee?’

‘Because he may order me to look into that death, too, and I have my hands full with Clarke. I do not want to spend weeks
probing Lee’s personal affairs, only to learn I was right all along, and that he was killed by a burglar. I
hate
that kind of work.’ He hesitated, and a crafty expression stole across his face. ‘If you agree to say nothing about Lee,
I will tell you something about the treasure that Clarendon ordered me to keep to myself.’

‘Very well.’

‘Can I trust you?’

‘You can trust me not to mention Lee to anyone else. What is this secret?’

‘Mother Pinchon. Clarendon ordered me to watch Wade’s house after that first night of digging, and I saw a crone come to visit
him – probably to claim her hundred pounds. When she left, I followed her to the Fleet Rookery, but she ducked down one of
those wretched alleys and I lost her. I do wish the Earl would not give me such missions. I hope to God he will pass such
tasks to you from now on, and let me learn about the navy instead.’

‘So, Pinchon does exist,’ mused Chaloner. ‘I thought Wade had made her up – that Barkstead had told
him
the location of the hoard, and he invented someone to take the blame if things went wrong.’

‘What a suspicious mind you have,’ said Evett in distaste. ‘She exists, and she probably lives near Turnagain Lane, since
that is where I lost her. I would have asked the locals, but they were not of a mind to chat, and I was lucky to escape with
my life.’

‘Why did Clarendon order you to keep the Pinchon episode quiet?’

‘He does not want you to think us incompetent. Will you try to find her?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Tonight.’

‘Do you mind if I decline to come with you? I did not enjoy it much the last time I went.’

‘Not at all.’ Chaloner leaned back in the seat again, and closed his eyes, thinking about the cipher from Lee, and wondering
whether he would be able to unravel the code. If he could, then he would have two leads to follow: Mother Pinchon and whatever
he learned from the document. Or was he being overly optimistic? He had assumed Lee’s death was connected to the treasure,
but perhaps Evett was right and it was not. He did not dwell too long on the matter. Answers would come soon enough.

Chaloner and Evett did not speak again until the boatman pulled into the pier near White Hall and let them off. It was a long
journey, but the tide was with them, so they were able to pass under the London Bridge without disembarking to meet the boat
on the other side – the starlings that formed the bridge’s feet funnelled the water into treacherous rapids when the river
was in full spate. Once the sun had set, the city assumed shades of grey and brown. Red roof tiles showed their dusting of
black soot, and the once-pristine washes on the bank-side houses became the colour of old pewter. Buildings clawed towards
the darkening sky in a confusion of chimneys, gables and garrets, their uneven lines punctuated by the taller, stronger masses
of churches. Rising above it all, like a stately galleon on a turbulent sea, was the mighty bulk of St Paul’s with its myriad
buttresses and pinnacles.

The city rang with sound, even on the Thames.
Hundreds of craft still plied their trade, some carrying passengers, who shouted greetings to each other, and some ferrying
the goods that were needed to keep the metropolis grinding on – grain from Lincolnshire, wool from Suffolk, coal from the
north. A quay was being repaired, and the rattle of hammers and saws, along with the urgent yells of a foreman keen to squeeze
the very last moment of light from the dying day, drifted across the water. Boats were being unloaded by winches that creaked
and groaned, and people were everywhere, buying, selling, walking, working, picking pockets, shopping, scavenging.

Chaloner was hungry, and wanted to eat something before he inspected the place where Clarke’s body had been found, but Evett
was keen to press on, claiming that since Chaloner had managed to deduce so much from the place where Lee had died, then he
could now do the same for Clarke. He strode under the Holbein Gate, and opened an inconspicuous door that led to a dank passage
and then the servants’ quarters. He led the way along several unlit corridors that he said were only ever used by the below-stairs
staff, and Chaloner was astonished to see spyholes cut into the wood, affording views of the sumptuous chambers on the other
side. He pointed them out to Evett.

‘We did not put them there,’ said the captain defensively. ‘This wing is said to have been built by the eighth King Henry,
who was fond of that sort of thing. So was Queen Elizabeth, who also spent money here. Clarendon constantly orders them blocked,
but people keep poking them open again.’