A Conspiracy of Violence (10 page)

‘I had never seen one before,’ interrupted Chaloner quickly. ‘A turkey, I mean. Not alive, at least. I did not know they grew
to such a great size.’

‘I think our game dealer procured us an exceptionally
grotesque one,’ said Faith, thus beginning a debate with Hill as to whether any of God’s creatures should be so described.
Chaloner took North’s arm and drew him away.

‘It is dangerous for you when Hill rants in the street. Your religion is no longer popular, and it is unwise to draw attention
to yourselves. So far, the smashed windows have been confined to the chapel, but it will not be long before they turn on your
home. I do not want to see you hurt.’

North sighed. ‘God will protect us.’

Chaloner was tempted to point out that God had not protected North’s son from vengeful fanatics, but it was too raw a subject
to use for scoring points. ‘The new Bill of Uniformity has expelled men like Hill from the Anglican Church, and it will not
be long before other laws are passed that will make your religion illegal altogether. You
must
keep a low profile.’

‘I will speak to Hill again,’ promised North, although he did not look enthused by the prospect.

When they reached North’s door, Metje was emptying slops into the street, but Chaloner did not return the secret smile she
shot in his direction. He was worried, afraid that Hill’s intemperance might bring trouble on North, which would draw attention
to the fact that not only was he a Puritan, but that one of his household was Dutch. And then broken windows might be the
least of their troubles.

‘Not in front of
our
house, dear,’ said Faith, when she saw what her employee was doing. ‘Walk across the street and dump it outside the Golden
Lion instead. They will never notice.’

Metje screwed up her face in the endearing way she
had when she had made a mistake. ‘I am sorry,’ she said in her melodic English. ‘I keep forgetting swill always goes outside
the tavern.’

‘It does not matter,’ whispered Temperance. A delicious smell of smoked pork and new bread emanated from the house as she
opened the door. ‘The maids do it all the time – just make sure no one is looking.’ She shot Metje, then Chaloner, a conspiratorial
grin before going inside.

Metje reverted to Dutch. ‘I
was
right,’ she said when they were alone, referring to a topic they had debated at length the previous night. ‘She
does
have a hankering for you.’

Chaloner thought she could not be more wrong. ‘I am neither rich nor Puritan enough to catch her eye. Will you come later?’
It was not just a selfish desire to lie with her that prompted the question: he did not want her to spend the night in North’s
house.

‘Yes, but do not fall asleep before I arrive, like you did yesterday. And do not fall out of any carriages, either.’

She shot him an arch glance as she went inside, to let him know she had not been entirely convinced by the tale he had invented
to explain his sore leg. She knew he had an old war injury, but she also knew it plagued him only when he had been doing something
unusually taxing. It was becoming increasingly difficult to deceive her, and he sensed yet again that it would not be long
before he was forced to admit he had been living a lie for the past three years. He saw her inside the house, then climbed
the stairs to his attic next door – quietly, so as not to attract the attention of the landlord.

He was halfway up the second flight when Daniel Ellis appeared on the landing. Ellis was a short man with
straight silver hair that fell in a gleaming sheet around his shoulders. His dark eyes were beady, and he had an annoying
habit of entering his tenants’ rooms when they were out. Naturally, Chaloner had assumed he was a spy, paid to send information
to the government about his lodgers, but the traps and devices he set to catch Ellis out quickly proved he was just a man
who liked to indulge in superfluous – and usually inconvenient – ‘home improvements’.

‘Mr Heyden,’ Ellis said, clasping his hands in front of him. ‘A small matter of the rent.’

Chaloner passed him two crowns, everything left from Thurloe’s advance with the exception of a shilling and a few pennies.
‘I will pay the rest next week,’ he promised, reading the disapproval on the man’s face.

Ellis was sceptical. ‘You have said that before. Do you have
any
hope of employment, or should I offer your quarters to Mr Hibbert instead?
He
would never be late with payments, and nor would he waste hours scraping away on a tuneless viol.’

‘The Victualling Office,’ replied Chaloner, repeating the lie he had told Metje. The department that issued supplies to the
navy was a large building near the Tower, and its officials were numerous and relatively transient, which meant it would be
difficult for anyone to check up on him.

Ellis was pleased. ‘Good. Did you hear a whore last night, by the way? I swear I heard one laughing, although there was no
trace of her when I went to investigate. Occasionally, the front door has been left open by mistake, and they have found their
way inside.’

‘I heard no whores,’ replied Chaloner, making his way up the stairs and supposing he would have to warn Metje
to keep her voice down – again. It was not easy, when one of the best aspects of their relationship was the fact that they
made each other laugh.

Playing the viola de gamba, or bass viol, usually relaxed Chaloner, because it forced him to push all else from his mind.
That night, however, music did little to quell his growing unease for the safety of the North family, or his concern that
Metje was finally beginning to want to know more about him than he was able to share. His leg hurt, too, a residual throb
from the dash to the Fleet Rookery. Even so, he was still asleep long before Metje arrived. After they had talked for a while
by the flickering light of the fire, she went to bed, but he found himself wide awake. He lay next to her, listening to the
clocks chime the hour until, unable to lie still any longer, he went to sit in the window. The bells struck five, then six
o’clock, and he drew the blanket more closely around his shoulders as pellets of snow clicked against the glass. It was bitterly
cold.

‘Come back, Tom,’ called Metje drowsily. ‘It is freezing in here without you.’

‘You should leave soon, or North will be at his morning prayers before you.’

She stirred reluctantly, and he reflected that she had changed little since they had first met. She had been a respectable
widow of thirty, with black curls that were the envy of women half her age, and dark eyes in an elfin face. As governess to
Downing’s hopelessly stupid daughter, she had been miserable and lonely, and Chaloner’s first encounters with her had been
in the kitchens during the depths of night – she warming wine in the hope that it would bring sleep, and he returning
from nocturnal forays on Thurloe’s behalf. He had been wary at first – being caught keeping odd hours by a Dutch citizen
was not a good idea – but she had accepted his explanation that he was smuggling spices for Downing, and it had never occurred
to her that it might not be true. Unwittingly, Downing had supported the lie by summoning Chaloner to furtive meetings, in
which they discussed the reports they would send to Thurloe.

Gradually, the late-night discussions became more intimate, and she had amazed him with her increasingly imaginative ideas
for visiting his room night after night without being seen. Downing, still hopeful of seducing her himself, would have dismissed
her had they been caught, and the fact that they had carried on undetected for so long was a miracle of subterfuge. Then Downing
had returned to England, and Metje had been dismissed when she had declined to sleep her way into his good books. As a Netherlander
in London, her prospects had been bleak, and she had been fortunate North and his family did not share the current antipathy
towards all things foreign.

‘It will be light soon,’ said Chaloner, watching her fall asleep again. ‘Do not grimace at me, when you are the one who seems
to enjoy this ridiculous charade.’

‘I do not enjoy it,’ she countered drowsily. ‘It is just convenient. And we have no choice, anyway. You cannot support me
– you can barely feed yourself.’

Chaloner was unhappy with the situation, and had been since she had first suggested it. ‘I did not mind deceiving Downing,
but I dislike doing the same thing to North. He deserves better from both of us. And while we have managed to mislead the
poor man so far, we cannot do it for ever.’

‘Why not? He thinks I am a pious woman, who likes rising early to prepare the chapel for morning service. He even gave me
a key to his front door, so I can go out without disturbing him, and he trusts me to the point where he has never checked
whether I really do leave my room at dawn – or whether I abandon it a good deal sooner. My solution to keeping you
and
my job is working brilliantly, so do not look for problems where there are none.’

‘He will catch us one day,’ warned Chaloner.

‘Why should he? We have fooled him since spring.’

‘I was away all summer.’

‘For the last couple of months, then. You have been here since October, trying to find work – which you had better do soon,
or you will starve. The only thing in your cupboard is a cabbage long past its best.’

Chaloner saw there was no point in arguing, so let the matter lie. He gazed out of the window, to where people were emerging
from the Golden Lion. Some kind of meeting – obviously an illicit one, judging by the furtive way the attendees were leaving
– had just ended, and he wondered whether they had gathered for politics or religion. The tavern’s landlord was known for
turning a blind eye to his patrons’ business and, for a small fee, he would also act as an unofficial post office for those
who craved anonymity. It was a service Chaloner used for all his correspondence – although, he realised with a pang of alarm,
he would not be able to do it for much longer, because he did not have the funds to pay for it.

Metje took a deep breath, then slid from under the covers, dashing across the floor to where her clothes lay in an untidy
pile. Chaloner watched her for a moment, then turned his attention back to the street. Fetter Lane
was reasonably affluent, and most householders obeyed the aldermen’s edict that lights were to be kept burning in ground-floor
windows during the hours of darkness. It meant parts of the street were very well illuminated, something a spy always liked
around his home. Additional lights flickered in most houses, where servants were up setting fires for their masters and starting
their daily round of chores. The cobbles, swept the previous day for the first time in a month, were carpeted in snow, although
it was a thin dusting that would melt once trampled by feet, hoofs and wheels.

Chaloner opened the window and leaned out to inspect the North property, eliciting an angry howl from Metje about the icy
blast of air.

‘Speak English,’ he suggested mildly. ‘If North hears Dutch being screeched in my room, he will wonder what you are doing
here.’

She winced at what could have been a serious blunder. ‘Is he awake?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Reading his Bible. It is slippery outside. Do you want me to come with you?’

‘And risk the leg you damaged falling out of that carriage?’ She grabbed her skirts and wriggled into them, jumping up and
down in an attempt to stay warm at the same time. ‘Besides, he will wonder how I come to have an escort at such an hour. What
would I say?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘Tell him I have asked you to be my wife.’

She sighed. ‘And how will we live? They will not keep me once I am wed, because Faith believes a wife’s place is in her own
home.’

He smiled, a little sadly. They had this conversation at least once a week, and her answer was always the
same. ‘I hope the Earl of Clarendon sends for me soon. I do not want to wait weeks for a summons, and Ellis is demanding
the rent.’

‘You should visit that other man you mentioned – the merchant who smells of oranges …’

‘John Dalton.’

‘Dalton, yes. Government posts are too much at the whim of personalities, and you should consider other options.’

Chaloner did not think he would fare much better with Dalton. Dutch merchants invariably spoke English or French, and he did
not imagine there would be a vast amount of work for a translator. He said as much, but Metje disagreed.

‘If there is a choice between Clarendon and Dalton, you should accept Dalton. You will find it is more secure in the long
term, and I would give a great deal to feel secure.’

‘You are uneasy?’

She regarded him in disbelief. ‘Have you not been listening to me these last few months? You
know
I am uneasy. I am a Dutch citizen living in a country with which we may soon be at war, and my lover is unemployed. If there
is a conflict, I will need protection, and
you
will not be able to afford it. Perhaps you should ask Downing to take you back. He likes you.’

Chaloner was startled, both by the suggestion and the assertion. ‘He detests me.’

She pulled a face. ‘He does
now
, thanks to what you said to him in March when he arrested those regicides. But you managed to conceal your dislike before
then, and he paid you well. Since he dismissed you, you never buy wood for the fire, I cannot remember the last time
there was decent food in the larder, your clothes are wearing out. You could rent cheaper rooms …’

‘We discussed this before. I would never see you if I move – unless you hide me in your attic.’

‘But then Temperance would know – she watches you like a hawk. I
will
win our wager about her infatuation, Tom, just you wait and see.’ She swayed towards him, a pert, elegant figure, even in
prim chapel-going garb, and came to perch on his knee. ‘But she cannot have you, not while I am here.’

He rubbed the soft skin of her neck, then glanced out of the window again. ‘Lord, Meg! North is leaving his house early. He
will arrive at the chapel before you.’