A Conspiracy of Violence (36 page)

Chaloner had agreed to meet Evett in the Dolphin mid morning, to discuss their respective cases. He was early, but did not
mind waiting, instinctively occupying one of the tables at the rear of the tavern where he could keep his back to the wall.
He had done no more than order a jug of ale, when the door opened and Bennet and Snow entered. They were swathed in thick
cloaks, and evidently thought themselves well disguised. It was clear from their behaviour that they had been following him,
and he realised he had been so engrossed in trying to determine why Dalton had killed Pinchon, that he had let his guard down.
It was the sort of carelessness that could prove fatal, and he suspected he had been limping, too, although at least his short
hair was covered by his hood. He was furious with himself.

Bennet leaned nonchalantly against a wall, hat pulled
low over his eyes, while Snow pretended to be with someone else. Chaloner read the anti-Dutch broadsheets that someone had
thoughtfully left on each table, while he waited to see what they would do. Bennet tried to effect an air of casual disinterest,
but could not prevent himself from looking at Chaloner from time to time, while Snow’s fingers often twitched around the hilt
of his dagger. They made no effort to leave.

Chaloner stood, knowing the only way to be rid of their annoying presence was by losing them in the maze of alleys surrounding
Thames Street. It was true they could kill him more easily outside than in a crowded tavern, but he did not want them with
him for the rest of the day. He exited through the rear door, Snow following him. Predictably, Bennet ducked out of the front
with the clear intention of cutting him off. Chaloner emerged into a narrow lane, with Snow behind and Bennet approaching
from his left. He turned right and started to run, then stopped dead when another man stepped in front of him and levelled
a pistol. He had not anticipated a third participant, and was trapped.

But although he could not turn right, left or re-enter the tavern, all was not lost. There were doors leading to yards, and
walls that could be scaled. He raised his hands in surrender, then raced for the nearest gate when the man lowered his pistol.
It was locked, and part of it disintegrated when the gun was fired at close range, sending splinters in all directions. The
noise was deafening, and Chaloner heard Bennet ordering the fellow to desist. Chaloner jumped for the wall, and was almost
over it when Snow grabbed his foot. For the second time that week, he found himself the subject of a tug of war.

Snow was not North, however, and he and his brawny helpers soon had Chaloner off the wall and wrestled to the ground, despite
him using every tactic in his arsenal of tricks to evade them. Snow leapt back with a bloody nose, the third man shrieked
over a broken finger and Bennet swore at a kick that caught him on the shin. Chaloner might have escaped had they been alone,
but others were pouring into the alley, and he was hopelessly outnumbered. Eventually, seeing further struggles would only
serve to tire him, he abandoned the fight. He was hauled to his feet and his hands secured behind him, although not before
another tussle that resulted in the rope being far looser than it should have been. Bennet indicated he was to precede them
down the lane.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Just walk. Kelyng has questions for you, although I would sooner slip a dagger between your ribs and leave you for the dogs.
Now move, unless you want to be dragged.’

With the odds so heavily stacked against him, Chaloner had no choice but to comply. He began to walk in the direction Bennet
indicated, while the men surrounded him closely.

‘Left,’ ordered Bennet, when they reached a junction. ‘Come on, Heyden – yes, we know your name. My friend Preacher Hill was
delighted to chat to me, especially when he learned it would see you incarcerated. Hurry up. I do not have all day.’

Chaloner faltered when he saw the road led to the Tower. ‘In there?’

‘It has nice, quiet cellars, where you and Kelyng can converse undisturbed,’ said Bennet with an unpleasant leer.

Chaloner did not like the prospect of ‘conversing’ with Kelyng in the Tower. He wrenched his hands free, then jerked backwards,
bowling over two of the men behind him, and managing to fell Snow with a punch to the jaw. Almost immediately, a gun went
off, and people scattered in alarm. Chaloner saw a woman drop to the ground, while a companion stood over her and began to
shriek.

He started to run, lashing out with his fists when the men snatched at him, but then there was a sharp pain in the side of
his head and he felt himself fall. Dizzy and disorientated, he was hauled to his feet and bundled towards the barbican, vaguely
aware of horrified people converging on the prostrate woman. None of Kelyng’s men joined them: they did not care who they
had killed.

Bennet’s mocking voice was a buzz in his ears as they passed through the first of the portals. A gate slammed behind them,
and then they were near the menagerie with its growling, snuffling occupants. Chaloner’s legs were rubbery, and he was only
just regaining control of them when they reached one of the buildings opposite the White Tower. A door revealed a flight of
steps, and he was sure it would lead to some dimly lit dungeon full of implements used to extract secrets from hapless prisoners.
He resisted Bennet’s shoves long enough to look at the sky before he descended, certain it was the last time he would see
it. Heart thumping, he steeled himself for what was about to happen.

He was disconcerted when the stairs emptied into a comfortable office with rugs on the floor and paintings on the walls. Cushions
had been placed on benches, and the room was dominated by a massive table, on which
stood a cage containing a glum pigeon with a bandaged wing. A lamp hung from the ceiling, and braziers in sconces on the
walls rendered the room bright and warm. Kelyng was sitting in a chair with a cat on his knee and a dog at his feet. He glanced
up in surprise when Chaloner was shoved into the middle of his domain, followed by Bennet and the rest of his entourage.

‘Stop!’ he cried, when more tried to crowd inside. ‘You are frightening the bird. And what have you done to Thurloe’s spy?
I told you I wanted him unharmed.’

‘He resisted arrest,’ said Bennet, forcing Chaloner into a chair. ‘He grabbed a gun and shot an innocent bystander.’

‘And how did he do that, if he was in your custody?’ demanded Kelyng. ‘Either you were supremely inept, or you are lying.
Mind the dog, man!’ The last comment was aimed at Snow, who was trying to prevent the mongrel from cocking its leg against
his black boots. Kelyng clapped his hands. ‘Everyone out! It should not take a dozen fellows to bring me a guest. Be off with
you.’

He stood, set the cat gently on his chair and went to the table, where he poured a goblet of wine and offered it to Chaloner.
The agent dashed it from his hand in what he imagined would be his last act of physical defiance. Bennet jumped forward with
a raised fist, but Kelyng quickly interposed himself between them.

‘Why do the people who visit me here always display such poor manners?’ he asked irritably.

‘Probably because they do not like the way you extend your invitations,’ replied Chaloner tartly.

Kelyng sighed. ‘And if Bennet had phrased the question nicely, would you have come then?’

Chaloner certainly would not. ‘It depends what you wanted to talk about.’

‘There are several subjects I would like to air,’ said Kelyng, watching his men shuffle back up the stairs until only Snow
and Bennet remained. ‘I understand you own a turkey?’

Chaloner nodded, unsure of the man and the discussion. ‘A great big one.’

Kelyng’s expression softened. ‘I know little about turkeys. What are they like, as companions?’

Chaloner was aware of Bennet’s blazing hatred, while Snow was itching to say something. ‘They have a tendency to hog the fire
of an evening,’ he hedged, not sure how to reply.

Kelyng smiled indulgently. ‘Show me a beast that does not, Mr Heyden. I am sorry violence was used to bring you here, but
you should not have resisted.’

‘He knows where I can find the woman what did for Storey,’ blurted Snow, no longer able to contain himself. He cracked his
knuckles. ‘Let me ask him sir, and then you can—’

‘You may leave us, Snow,’ said Kelyng sharply, watching the cat jump into Chaloner’s lap. ‘You, too, Bennet. Wait outside.’

‘I do not think that is a very good idea,’ said Bennet immediately. ‘He is far from pleased about the way he was brought here,
and—’

‘Go!’ ordered Kelyng icily. ‘I can look after myself. And anyway, a cat would not sit with a fellow contemplating rough behaviour,
which is why she never comes to you. Go away.’

Bennet was seething as he obeyed, while Snow’s voice echoed on the stairway, asking him whether Kelyng could
be trusted to ask after the woman who had killed his accomplice. Bennet muttered something inaudible, and Snow fell silent.

‘I know where Sarah Dalton lives,’ said Kelyng, when they had gone. ‘But I have no desire to see women killed, not even Thurloe’s
kin, so I shall make sure Snow never touches her.’

‘He came close the other night. You may not be able to stop him.’

‘I have informed Bennet that I will dismiss
him
if anything happens to Mrs Dalton. He is inordinately dimwitted, but he usually does as he is told. I will pour you more
wine, if you promise not to hurl it at me again. We can talk like civilised men, I hope?’

Chaloner accepted the proffered cup, worrying about what would happen to Metje and their baby when he was not there to care
for them. He wondered whether Thurloe could be trusted to help, or whether the information Kelyng extracted would be used
to harm him, too. He was not deceived by the lawyer’s friendly manner, suspecting he would not remain kindly once he saw his
prisoner would never cooperate with him.

‘What did you want to talk about?’

‘Thurloe. Once I had your name, it was easy to find out about you. I spoke to George Downing, and he said you worked for Thurloe
in Holland, and that you continue to visit him in Lincoln’s Inn, as a friend. I would like to know whether he asked you to
spy on me.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether Kelyng really expected him to answer such a question honestly.

‘He does not like me,’ explained Kelyng. ‘And the
feeling is wholly reciprocated. I vowed to rid England of traitors, and anyone who once expressed loyalty to Cromwell is
fair game. I repeat: did Thurloe order you to spy on me?’

‘I am sorry if I offend you, sir, but I had never heard of you before last Friday,’ replied Chaloner honestly.

Kelyng pursed his lips. ‘That is what I thought. He is an odd man, and I do not understand him at all. I am trying to destroy
him, but he barely acknowledges I exist.’

‘This is a pleasant office,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject to hide his confusion. Surely, Kelyng would not believe answers
given under such circumstances? He glanced at the man’s wolfish features, and was suddenly struck with the knowledge that
his single-mindedness was his greatest weakness – he was so determined to carry out his mission that he was incapable of objectivity,
and only saw what he wanted to see. No wonder Thurloe had been able to outwit him. Kelyng might have a reputation for violence,
because of Bennet’s brutal antics, but he was not an artful man.

Kelyng nodded, looking around. ‘It is rather nice. Robinson’s original plan was to house me in the crypt where Barkstead buried
his treasure – a nasty, damp place – but the King intervened on my behalf. There are tales that Barkstead incarcerated prisoners
there, but I know for a fact that he did not.’

‘Really? How?’

‘I studied the Tower’s records when I first arrived here. That cellar has never housed prisoners, because it connects to the
vaults of adjoining buildings, and felons thus have a tendency to escape. This chamber is much cosier, and I am extremely
happy here. Have you ever heard of the Seven?’

‘The seven what?’ asked Chaloner, bracing himself for the real purpose of the interview.

‘Just the Seven. They are a group of men who formed an alliance during the Commonwealth, and their intention was to prevent
the return of King Charles to the English throne.’

‘Then they were not very effective.’

Kelyng rubbed his chin. ‘True. Few people know about them, because they are a secret society – not like the Brotherhood, which
is about as secret as the existence of White Hall. Most of
its
members gossip about their nasty objectives to anyone who asks, and they meet quite openly.’

‘The Brotherhood’s “nasty objectives” are promoting moderation and tolerance.’

‘Quite,’ said Kelyng grimly. ‘I abhor moderation and tolerance. I am a man of strong opinions, and I am ready for a society
that is extreme and
in
tolerant. I do not want to live in a world where any sinner can do as he pleases. I want one with guidelines, where every
man knows his place and what will happen if he transgresses. I want traitors like Thurloe punished for supporting Cromwell,
and I want to establish an effective undercover police force, which will infiltrate every aspect of society and keep a watchful
eye on its people.’

‘It sounds idyllic.’

‘It will work,’ argued Kelyng. ‘We are an unruly species, and we need strong laws to govern us, not foppish, indulgent liberalism.
But I did not bring you here to discuss my philosophical ideals.’

‘You were telling me about the Seven,’ prompted Chaloner, aware that he was eliciting more information from Kelyng, than Kelyng
was from him. Was this some
subtle interrogation technique, or was the man simply unused to extracting confessions? Chaloner had no idea, but he had
seldom felt less comfortable than he did in Kelyng’s windowless domain.

Kelyng nodded. ‘The Seven did not succeed – obviously – but I have dedicated the last six months of my life to exposing their
identities
and
the details of their wicked plot.’