A Conspiracy of Violence (29 page)

Chaloner turned to the menservants, indicating the
arsenal of blades in front of them. ‘What about you two? Surely you are not both afraid of a bird?’

‘It is not a bird,’ replied Henry coolly. ‘It is a turkey.’

‘And
I
do not kill God’s creations, either,’ added North, before Chaloner could challenge him. ‘I only
eat
them. Besides, I do not mind admitting that the thing has me terrified. It is a demon.’

‘I have never had trouble killing things before,’ said Faith. ‘But I did not like the feel of its neck when I grabbed it.
It was like holding a snake, and I could not maintain my grip long enough to cut its throat. It was not like dispatching a
person, which I was obliged to do several times during the wars.’

‘Where are the knot biscuits?’ asked Temperance, while Chaloner regarded Faith uneasily. She had related some of her war experiences
before, and he was under the impression that she had endured a bloodier time of it than he had – and he had been in several
major battles.

‘The bird had them,’ replied Faith, looking angrier still. ‘What a waste of good butter!’

‘The kitchen is now out of bounds for the night,’ said North to Chaloner. ‘The turkey will forage in the yard in daylight,
but it moves indoors when dusk falls, and no Christian soul can stop it.’

Chaloner wondered whether the bird’s near starvation had rendered it unusually aggressive, or whether it was common for turkeys
to take over a house if they were not executed immediately. He struggled not to laugh at the situation. Faith detected his
amusement, and became cool with him.

‘Have you eaten tonight? If not, do have some raisins.’

‘I am not hungry,’ lied Chaloner. She had made the offer from spite, knowing he hated raisins with a passion.
‘But I should leave. It is very late and I still have some work to do.’

‘Paid work?’ asked Metje, rather eagerly.

‘He means to practise his music,’ said North with a fond smile. ‘But choose something more cheerful than the sad piece you
played yesterday, Heyden. It was so mournful, it made Metje cry.’

‘Did it?’ asked Chaloner, startled.

‘It reminded me of home,’ said Metje uncomfortably. She stood up. ‘Do not let us keep you, Thomas. I will see you to the door.’

‘You do not have to go,’ said Temperance. ‘Sit next to me and show me those coin tricks again.’

‘Coin tricks?’ echoed Faith. She looked uneasily from her daughter to Chaloner, making him wonder what she thought they had
entailed. ‘What sort of coin tricks?’

‘Nothing too debauched. And now he needs to work,’ said Metje, elbowing him towards the door. He did not want to go: it was
warm and comfortable in the Norths’ house, and the prospect of a cold, lonely garret was not an enticing one. But he bowed
to the Norths, aware of Faith regarding Temperance in motherly dismay, and followed Metje into the corridor, closing the door
behind him. A murmur of conversation began, and he could hear someone stoking up the fire.

‘I was in no hurry to leave,’ he said, watching her unbar the front door and feeling his stomach growl emptily. ‘There was
no need to force me out.’

‘You should not waste time fooling around with Temperance when you could be earning money for the rent,’ she said sharply.
‘Go to your translating. I lit the lamp for you.’

‘Did you really cry last night?’

‘It was such a gloomy tune,’ she replied, looking away. ‘And I keep thinking about what will happen if our countries go to
war. Everything is so horribly uncertain.’

‘I am sorry, Meg.’ He tried to touch her, but she pulled away from him.

‘Go to your translating, or Faith will think you are seducing her servants, as well as her daughter.’

Chaloner did not like leaving Metje when she was ridden with anxieties, and was angry with himself, feeling he was letting
her down by failing to provide her with the security she craved. A feeling of inadequacy washed over him as he climbed the
stairs to his rooms, and he decided he
would
locate Barkstead’s treasure, even if it meant a journey to Holland. Clarendon would then pass him to Williamson, who was
said to be intelligent, so would see the wisdom of using experienced men to help avert a crisis with the Dutch.
And
he would learn who killed Clarke and watch Kelyng for Thurloe, since two sources of income would surely allay Metje’s fears.

‘Heyden,’ came a soft voice from the stairwell. ‘Is that you?’

Stifling a sigh of annoyance, Chaloner retraced his steps. ‘Did I disturb you, Mr Ellis?’

The landlord shook his grey head. ‘I wanted to make sure you were not a whore. I like your lamp, by the way. I might accept
that in lieu of rent, should you find yourself unable to pay this week.’

‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner, hoping it would not be necessary. Metje would be furious.

He walked back up the stairs, wondering whether he could petition Clarendon for an advance on his pay. It
was not something he liked to ask; no man wanted to be a beggar. However, he was not so engrossed in his worries that he
did not realise something was amiss in his room when he started to unlock it. The hall outside was always draughty, but when
he put his fingers to the bottom of the door, there was a veritable gale whistling under it. There was also no flicker of
light from the lamp Metje said she had lit. Had Ellis turned it off ? Standing well back, Chaloner opened the door slowly,
then waited a moment before entering, alert for any indication that someone was inside.

But the room was empty, and the icy draught was the result of a smashed window. Shards of glass were strewn across the floor,
and the lamp had blown out. He walked to the broken pane and looked into the street below, aware that someone might be lurking
there to see what would happen when he returned and found the mess – someone with a gun. But nothing moved, and Fetter Lane
appeared to be deserted, so he secured the shutters and set about rekindling the lamp. Then he searched for the missile that
had caused the damage. What he found astonished him.

He had expected a stone, lobbed by the people who attacked the Nonconformist chapel – either because they had confused his
house with North’s, or because he was known to be in the Puritans’ employ. However, it was no rock that lay amid the chaos
of glass and splintered wood, but a black object that emitted the distinctive aroma of gunpowder. Someone had thrown a grenade.
He studied it where it lay, turning it with the tip of his sword, and trying to determine why it had not exploded. He saw
it was the creation of an amateur, who did not understand that the vessel holding the
inflammable chemicals needed to break in order for its contents to ignite, and too sturdy a container had been used.

So, who had thrown it? Clarke’s killer, because he intended the murder to remain unsolved? Someone who did not want Barkstead’s
treasure located? Kelyng, because Chaloner was Thurloe’s man, or Bennet, because Chaloner had made a fool of him? Or had someone
intended to strike a blow at the Puritans – or worse, at Metje, because she was Dutch?

He dropped Sarah’s hat and wig on the table, but then shoved them behind the bed, not wanting Metje to question him about
them, as Temperance had done. In an attempt to take his mind off his empty stomach, he drank a lot of water, then sat at the
table and stared at the scrap of paper he had retrieved from Lee. It was less than the length of his ring finger and only
half as wide; the whole document had clearly never been very large. He assessed the kind of writing materials used, holding
it to the lamp to see whether heat might reveal secret marks – some spies still used lemon or onion juice. But there was nothing
visible, and the paper was the cheap kind favoured by everyone. Assuming the original document was rectangular, Chaloner had
the bottom right-hand corner of it.

The cipher comprised not only letters, but numbers and symbols, too – a system of substitution devised many years before Thurloe’s
rise and fall. The order of the characters was fixed, but only the sender and recipient knew which letter corresponded to
another, and although it was usually possible to break the code, it was a time-consuming process. It was especially troublesome
when only fragments of words were available. But Chaloner
was keen for answers, and was prepared to work all night if necessary. He found an old broadsheet with a blank back page
and began.

He laboured until the church bells chimed one o’clock, when his eyes burned from fatigue and a headache gnawed at his temples.
He sat back and rubbed his back, wondering what had happened to Metje. He returned to his task a little longer, then began
to worry. She often missed one evening with him, but it was rare for her to forgo two in a row. Had the Norths become suspicious
at last, and locked her in? Or had she fallen foul of whoever had lobbed the bomb as she had left North’s house to join him?

He tiptoed down the stairs and let himself out through the back door, wincing at the sharp chill of the night. Carefully,
he scaled the wall that separated his house from North’s, landing lightly on the other side. North’s bedchamber was in darkness,
but there was a glimmer of light in Metje’s. He groped on the ground for a suitable piece of mud – not so small that it would
not fly, but not so large that it would make too much noise. He found what he was looking for and took aim.

The clod struck the glass exactly where he had intended, making a soft but distinct tap. He waited, expecting her to answer.
She did not, so he crouched a second time and hunted for something larger, supposing she was asleep and had not heard what
was a very small sound. His second shot hit the window frame, making a sharp snap. The light wavered, as if someone was on
the move, but the window still did not open. Becoming impatient, he selected a third missile, which he hurled with rather
more vigour than was wise. The crack was startling in the still night air, and Metje was not the only one
who heard it. North’s shutters flew open, and he peered into the darkness.

‘Cats,’ Chaloner heard Faith murmur sleepily. ‘That big orange thing from two doors up.’

‘It was not a cat.’ As North leaned out, the night-cap fell from his head and dropped to the ground below. ‘Curses!’ Chaloner
smiled, certain only a Puritan would use such an expletive.

North’s head disappeared, and moments later, came the sound of a key turned in a latch. Chaloner padded to the end of the
garden and crouched behind a holly bush, while North retrieved his hat and began to prowl, holding a lamp above his head.
He carried a cudgel in his other hand, clearly determined to flush out intruders. Chaloner sighed. It was very late and he
was tired: he did not want to be chased by an irate neighbour who thought he was a thief. He was tempted to stand up and announce
himself, adding that he was also the man who intended to marry his daughter’s companion, but consideration for Metje made
him prudent. He edged to one side as North drew closer.

‘Come out,’ North shouted. His voice was unsteady. ‘I am armed and in no mood for felons.’

Chaloner doubted the threat would strike fear into the hearts of many criminals. North moved closer, obviously intending to
be thorough, and Chaloner saw he would be caught if he stayed where he was. Keeping low, he crept towards the rear gate. Then
he trod on a shell.

‘Ha!’ shouted North, darting towards the sound. ‘You treacherous son of a whore! I shall thrash you to a pulp, and hand you
over for hanging. Bastard!’

Chaloner ran, learning that even Puritans could employ salty language when sufficiently roused. He doubted North
could best him in a fight, even with his club, but did not want to explain why he was hiding in the man’s garden, and flight
seemed the best option for everyone concerned. He headed for the gate, North hot on his heels. It was barred, so Chaloner
hauled himself up the wall.

‘Theft!’ screamed North. ‘Murder!’

Chaloner reached the top of the wall at the same time that North reached him. The merchant swung with his cosh, hitting the
bricks and sending shards flying in all directions. Chaloner pulled his leg out of the way as North aimed again, careful to
keep his face in shadow: it would be acutely awkward to be recognised now. Then North abandoned cudgel and lamp, and seized
Chaloner’s foot.

‘Fire!’ he howled with increasing fury. ‘Arson!’

Lights started to gleam in neighbouring houses, and Chaloner saw shadows in the lane along which he had intended to escape.
He was beginning to be annoyed with North. Claims of blazes in a tinderbox like London were taken seriously, and he might
be lynched if he ran into the alley now – mobs tended to act first and think later once words like ‘arson’ and ‘fire’ were
in the air. He struggled, trying to free himself without hurting the man.

‘I let our turkey out,’ shouted Temperance, stumbling up the dark garden towards them. Faith was behind her, priming a pistol.
‘Unhand my father, you vile man, or it will peck you to pieces.’

When she added her brawn to North’s, Chaloner felt himself begin to slide towards them. He gripped the wall and resisted hard,
hoping Faith would not join the tug of war, because the situation had gone too far to be explained away innocently. Much as
he was loath to harm North, he realised he would have to use force if
he were to escape, so he reached down and pulled the man’s nose. The Puritan shrieked, releasing Chaloner’s leg as both hands
flew to his face. But Temperance was furious, and with an impressive display of strength, she hauled Chaloner off the wall
and into the garden. He landed flat on his back with a crash that drove the breath from his body.

‘Wicked man! You hurt my father!’ cried Temperance, hurling herself on top of Chaloner to prevent him from standing. Faith
hurried forward and took aim with her pistol.

‘No!’ yelled North, shoving Faith away as her finger tightened on the trigger. ‘You might hit Temperance. Leave him to me.’
He snatched up his cudgel and advanced with genuine menace.

Chaloner shoved Temperance away from him, and scrambled upright, aware of raised voices from the lane. North lashed out with
his club, hard enough to make him lose his own balance and stumble into his daughter. The tip caught Chaloner’s knee, and
if he had not fallen at that precise moment, Faith’s shot would have killed him. He staggered to his feet a second time, and
limped to the wall of his own house, scaling it awkwardly while North and Temperance wallowed on the ground and Faith reloaded.
But by now, lights were burning in Ellis’s chambers, and Chaloner knew he would not be able to reach his rooms unseen. Thinking
fast, he flung open the rear door of his landlord’s home and began to shout.