A Conspiracy of Violence (34 page)

Thompson regarded him in disbelief. ‘You must have seen him doing this before – and if not, then you definitely heard my sermon
reviling this kind of behaviour last week.’ He sighed when Chaloner looked blank. ‘Sometimes, I wonder why I bother. I might
just as well preach to the pigeons.’

‘Why has he taken against the Dutch?’

Thompson raised his eyebrows. ‘How can you live in London and not know that? He is driven by a deep loyalty to the King, and
it leads him to see plots and rebellions in the most unlikely of quarters. These last few months have seen him moving against
the Dutch, because Mr Thurloe – whom he detests – once employed Dutch-based agents to spy on His Majesty when he was in exile.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, thinking he and Metje would hang together if Kelyng ever found out about their relationship.

‘He will have that poor Hollander transported, I imagine,’ said Thompson unhappily. ‘And his property confiscated and given
to the King. John Kelyng and I have known each other for years – since we were students together at Trinity Hall – and I have
tried time and time again to make him see that this kind of activity is unjust. But he just smiles and says we must agree
to differ, since neither of us is willing to accept the other’s point of view.’

‘So, there is nothing you can do to stop this man from being persecuted?’ asked Chaloner. ‘We are not at war with the Dutch
yet.’

‘
I
stop it?’ asked Thompson uncomfortably. ‘One does
not simply march up to John and start issuing orders – at least, not while that loutish Bennet is listening. I would end
up sitting next to the Dutchman on a boat to Jamaica.’

Chaloner watched as the petrified Netherlander was invited to accompany Snow to the Tower. Most of the spectators followed,
jeering at the man’s naked fright, so it was not long before Kelyng and Bennet were alone. No one, it seemed, wanted to linger
near them, given their penchant for random accusations. Seizing the opportunity for some impromptu eavesdropping, Chaloner
nodded a farewell to Thompson and went to lurk behind a black carriage that was obviously Kelyng’s personal transport. He
knelt and pretended to fiddle with the buckle on his boot. The windows of the vehicle were open, and it was absurdly easy
to hear and even see what was happening on the other side, making Chaloner think once again that Kelyng and his retinue were
sadly incompetent.

The Reverend Thompson stood thoughtfully for a moment, then approached Kelyng. Chaloner supposed he had seen a moral challenge
in their discussion: he had preached against tyranny and then had done nothing to prevent it outside his own church. He hoped
it would not lead to the man’s arrest.

‘I must protest, John,’ the rector said reproachfully. ‘That poor fellow was only buying dried meat.’

‘He was victualling himself for a long journey,’ argued Bennet, before Kelyng could speak. ‘I have been following him. He
plans to leave England and return to Holland.’

‘Is that a crime?’ asked Thompson. ‘If I were Dutch, I would want to go home, too.’

‘You must have read what the broadsheets say about
Netherlanders,’ said Bennet. ‘They are cheese-worms, who do nothing but eat fat and bathe in butter.’

‘No man of breeding and intelligence believes those scurrilous rags,’ said Thompson, treating Bennet to a look of utter contempt.
‘Let the fellow go, for pity’s sake. He is not worth your time.’

‘
We
decide who—’ began Bennet, angry by the slur on his ancestry and wits.

Kelyng cut across him, waving him to silence in a way that made him seethe with indignation. ‘You are probably right, Joseph
– the cheese-worm will almost certainly prove to be inconsequential. And I doubt he owns anything worth confiscating, not
if he was buying dried meat. It means he cannot afford butter, which all Hollanders prefer.’

‘That is true enough,’ said Bennet, turning his back on the rector in an attempt to cut him out of the discussion. ‘So, we
shall have him sent to Jamaica, and then we can concentrate on finding the woman who murdered Storey—’

‘You will leave her alone,’ snapped Kelyng. ‘I could scarce believe my ears when Snow confessed to shooting at her when she
was on a horse. I will
not
have my people putting animals at risk. And that goes for you, too. And I absolutely forbid you to kill Thurloe’s shorn-haired
agent.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Bennet, scowling. ‘He made a fool of me, and—’

‘You made a fool of yourself. Thomas from Becket and Guy of Fawkes, indeed! I should never have appointed a chamberlain who
is lacking a university education.’

‘I went to university,’ said Bennet in a strangled voice. He looked as though he was only just in control of himself,
and his teeth were clamped so tightly together his jaw muscles bulged. ‘Oxford.’

‘Three days at Balliol before being expelled for knowing no Latin,’ sneered Kelyng. ‘That does not count. But you will
not
kill the lame spy: I have questions to ask him, and I cannot trust you to do it, because he will outwit you again.’

‘Then I will kill him when you have finished,’ declared Bennet tightly.

‘No, you will not,’ said Kelyng testily. ‘And I have explained why at least three times already: I was in Leybourn’s bookshop
the other day, and I heard him mention a short-haired, limping friend who owns a turkey. It is almost certainly the same man,
so you are not to touch him. What would happen to the poor creature if you dispatched its owner? A large game bird would hardly
be safe with Mrs Kelyng, given that Christmas is so close. So, you are to bring him to me alive. Is that clear?’

Bennet’s face flushed with a deep, dangerous rage, and Chaloner was certain the order would be ignored – if a body was dumped
in the Thames, Kelyng would never know he had been disobeyed. Bennet nodded to his master and strode away, holding himself
rigidly and barely able to contain his temper.

‘You should watch him, John,’ advised Thompson, staring after Bennet in rank disapproval. ‘He does not like being insulted,
and he is vicious, irrational and stupid.’

‘That is precisely why I hired him,’ said Kelyng. ‘He makes people take me seriously. But you are right: he is becoming increasingly
difficult to control, although I would be more concerned if his intelligence matched his ruthlessness. But do not worry about
the Dutchman: I
fully intend to release the fellow. The real point of that exercise was to warn foreign spies that their days here are numbered,
and to encourage people to be vigilant against outsiders. I have more important fish to fry.’

‘Do you mean Thurloe?’ asked Thompson. ‘I do not think he—’

‘He has powerful friends,’ interrupted Kelyng, off in a world of his own. ‘Even the Lord Chancellor wants him untouched, “lest
we blunder into difficulties with the Dutch and need his advice”. But Clarendon is suspicious of him, even so, because I intercepted
a report from a spy that described a clandestine meeting between him and Downing. Clarendon’s code for Downing is “Cerberus”
and his name for Thurloe is “Jo” – which is how Thurloe signs his name – so it was not difficult for me to grasp its meaning.
The report said they chat in church.’

‘I know,’ said Thompson dryly. ‘It is hard to concentrate on my sacred duties when they jabber all through the service. But
has it occurred to you that the agent might have been reporting on Downing, not Thurloe? Downing did change sides in a rather
spectacular manner, and the government would be rash to accept such ready turncoats without some degree of surveillance.’

Kelyng gazed at him in surprise, then shook his head. ‘It was Thurloe this spy was watching. I copied down the report, and
sent the original to Clarendon, so he would not know it had been intercepted. I have a talent for this sort of activity.’

‘I can tell, by the way you keep your secrets,’ said Thompson gravely. ‘Would you mind if I accompany you to the Tower, to
make sure this Dutchman is set free?’

‘Not at all,’ said Kelyng pleasantly. ‘I shall enjoy your
company. Do you remember the time when we rescued those ducks from the Trinity Hall kitchens? Those were the days, Joseph!’

Chaloner watched them leave, then started to walk in the opposite direction, to where his cold rooms awaited him. He took
great care not to limp.

Snow clicked against the window all evening, and the wind whined through the pane that had been broken by the grenade. Chaloner
had no firewood and no money to buy any, but he refused to let Metje ‘borrow’ some from North. She was vexed when he elected
to spend a night in discomfort when a minor theft would have alleviated the problem, but she was angry with him anyway, and
he suspected she would have disapproved of whatever he had decided. He watched her slip out of her skirts – the voluminous
undergarments stayed defiantly in place – and dive under the bedcovers, muttering venomously about the fact that they were
damp as well as icy.

‘What do you want me to do, Meg?’ he asked tiredly, not sure how to appease her. ‘I understand your worries and will do all
I can to protect you.’

‘How? You cannot afford to hire a guard. Besides, you have been odd ever since we came to England, and we no longer understand
each other. I feel as though I do not know you any more.’

He was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Just that – your family has no farm in Buckinghamshire, and I know nothing about them.’

Chaloner was determined no one would, either – at least, not until the wave of hatred against regicides had eased. He rubbed
his eyes, wondering whether he should stay away from her for a while.

‘You have no answer,’ she said sadly. ‘Tell me the name of the village where you were born then, or the location of your father’s
manor. Just tell me
something
about you that is true.’

He was bemused. ‘Most of what you know is true.’

‘And there is a lie for a start.’ She turned her back on him. ‘Douse the lamp before you sleep.’

‘Can we discuss—?’ ‘You cannot speak without lying, and I do not want untruths.’

‘I may die soon,’ he said, thinking about Robert Leybourn, who would probably be sharpening his sword as they spoke. He knew
it sounded melodramatic, especially given that he had not told her about the bookseller’s challenge, but he did not care.
‘I do not want to—’

‘All right,’ she said, sitting up and eyeing him coldly. ‘If you are to die, then we had better talk. Ever since we settled
in London, you have been mysterious. You go out at odd times, but you have no regular employment. What are you doing?’

‘Trying to earn the trust of men who may employ me in the future.’ He wondered why his lifestyle should so suddenly perplex
her, since he had kept irregular hours ever since she had known him.

‘Once, when I was out with Faith, I saw you go inside Lincoln’s Inn. Why?’

‘I was visiting a friend.’

She lay back down. ‘Vague answers that tell me nothing. I do not want to talk to you, Thomas. I am tired of half truths.’

Chaloner lay awake for a long time, listening to the snow, and when he slept, it was fitfully. Once he dreamed
about the Tower, with its great thick walls and dank cellars, and fancied he could hear the screams of prisoners. He came
awake with a start, only to hear the mournful cry of the bellman outside, bawling that it was one o’clock and exhorting all
to bank their fires and douse their candles.

He slept again, but woke just after four to find himself freezing cold and Metje with all the covers. He tried to retrieve
some, but her fingers tightened around them and he did not want to wake her. He dressed, wondering when he had last known
such a bitter night, then lit the lamp and sat at the table. It was quiet, and a good time to write to Clarendon about Barkstead’s
cache, and to Thurloe about Clarke. Such messages would have been a waste of time in daylight, when there were more useful
things to do, but it was a good way to pass the hours of darkness. When he had finished, he surveyed the notes critically,
thinking them pitifully inadequate.

Using cipher without conscious thought, he reported to Thurloe that he had asked Evett to show more White Hall employees the
weapon used to murder Clarke. He also mentioned that Kelyng remained determined to bring Thurloe down and was suspicious of
his acquaintance with Downing. He added that Lane’s missives to Clarendon had been intercepted, and entirely the wrong conclusion
drawn. This was worrying, because if Kelyng could misinterpret one letter, then he could do the same with others, and it was
often difficult to correct such misunderstandings once accusations had been levelled.

To Clarendon, he hinted that Barkstead’s treasure might have been taken abroad, intending to break the bad news by degrees.
He described the interview with ‘an unnamed witness’ who had seen the butter firkins in Holland, and
said he planned to speak to others who would confirm or rebut the story. He did not include Thurloe’s theory that Barkstead
might have left a legacy of a different kind in London, because his thoughts were full of what his dissolute uncle might have
done: left a trail to a hoard that comprised a gloating message or a pot of farthings. Barkstead had not struck Chaloner as
a practical joker, but the possibility was in the back of his mind nonetheless.

‘What are you doing?’ Chaloner turned around to see Metje sitting up and looking at him.

‘Writing letters to men I hope will employ me.’

‘Such as Dalton? Show me what you said to him.’

He regarded her uneasily. ‘Why?’

‘So I know you are telling the truth.’

Chaloner was beginning to be annoyed with her, and resented the implication that she could not believe a word he said. He
flung them across, and waited for the next round of accusations.

She studied the one to Thurloe for a long time. ‘I cannot read this.’

‘It is cipher – a kind of shorthand.’

‘Why would you write in cipher?’ She gazed at him with wide eyes. ‘You are a spy, selling your country’s secrets.
That
is why you were in Holland. Downing did not know half of what you did – I could see it in his eyes. You are a traitor!’