A Conspiracy of Violence (37 page)

‘Who are they?’

Kelyng grimaced. ‘You do not know? Damn! I was hoping you might give me a name or two.’

‘If they were operative during Cromwell’s reign, then the chances are that some will be dead by now, from natural causes.’

‘You are doubtless right, although that would be very annoying. I shall not give up, though, not until I have unveiled every
last one of them. Are you sure you cannot give me a clue? I will buy you a new wig – a good one, like mine, which has real
hair.’

‘I wish I could help, because a new wig would be very welcome.’

‘Well, you know where to come, should you learn anything in the future. However, I know the identities of three of the Seven:
one was Barkstead.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Why do you think that?’

‘Because Downing read his papers when he arrested him. He showed some to me, and they proved Barkstead’s membership of the
Seven without a shadow of doubt. Unfortunately, he was executed before I could ask him about his six colleagues. The second
is Sir Michael Livesay.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Chaloner, while thinking it was no surprise the man had disappeared if Kelyng’s claim was true.

‘Another regicide. There is a rumour that he was killed in an exploding ship, but I do not believe it. The last time I fell
for a tale in which a man was blown to pieces, the fellow appeared alive and well eighteen months later with a fortune in
molasses. I am not
certain
Livesay is a member of the Seven, but it makes good sense.’

‘Who else?’ Chaloner knew what was coming next.

‘I have strong suspicions about Thurloe.’

‘Then you would be wrong. Thurloe would never join a group with those sorts of aims. Barkstead and Livesay were different:
they were regicides, and had a lot to lose if the King was restored. But Thurloe is not a man to throw in his lot with extremists.’

‘He is a member of the Brotherhood.’

‘
Was
a member,’ corrected Chaloner, hoping Kelyng did not know he had founded it. He wondered why he persisted in defending a
man who had been far from honest with him. ‘He has not been to a meeting in ages, and has lost all interest in politics. He
just wants to be left alone, to live quietly. Surely, that is not too much to ask?’

‘It is for him,’ said Kelyng. ‘He will never have peace, and you can tell him so from me.’

Chaloner stood, not relinquishing the cat. Kelyng would never resort to rough tactics while he held the animal. ‘Very well.
I will tell him when—’

‘In a moment,’ said Kelyng, waving him back down. ‘So, you have never heard of the Seven and their attempts to keep the King
from his throne? Do you know anyone called Swanson?’

Chaloner made a pretence at considering the question, trying to remember what Robinson had said about a man called Swanning
or Swanson. Eventually, he shook his head. ‘Who is he?’

‘The man who first became aware of the Seven. He sent word to the King, who told him he should have a gold bar for every name
he provided. Incidentally, the King informs me that the offer still stands, although it is a minor incentive in my campaign
– I do not persecute for money, but because I enjoy it.’

‘Naturally. How much is a bar of gold worth?’

Kelyng shrugged, as if he did not care. ‘These would be valued at nine hundred and ninety-seven pounds, seventeen shillings
and fourpence-ha’penny each, as a very rough guide.’

‘Almost a thousand pounds. So, the total reward would be seven thousand pounds?’

‘Minus the odd fourteen pounds, eighteen shillings and fourpence ha’penny. It is definitely a prize worth having. Indeed,
men acting for the King and the Earl of Sandwich dug up half the Tower looking for seven thousand pounds recently, although
they did not find it, more is the pity.’

Chaloner wondered whether Kelyng really had not made the connection between the two near-identical sums, or whether he was
playing some sophisticated mental game. ‘Why is it a pity?’

Kelyng gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Even to ask such a question is treason! No man loyal to the King could hope he would
miss a share of this treasure. It belonged to Barkstead, and it would have been a glorious irony to see
his
money in Charles’s pocket. I know what you are thinking.’

‘Do you?’ Chaloner sincerely hoped he did not. No man liked being considered a blithering idiot.

Kelyng nodded earnestly. ‘You think the seven bars of gold and Barkstead’s cache are one and the same, but
you only need to apply a little logic to see they are not. The King paid Swanson for giving him the identities of the Seven,
so there is no way Barkstead could have got his hands on
that
gold, because
he
was one of the men named.’

‘Swanson told the King their identities?’ Chaloner had been under the impression – from Robinson – that the arrangement had
been made, but the information had never been delivered. ‘If His Majesty knows, then perhaps you could ask him about it, and
save yourself some trouble.’

‘The message went astray in transit – I expect Thurloe intercepted it, as he intercepted so much else. So, the King never
received the letter, although he was sufficiently confident of Swanson’s success to have paid him in advance.’

‘Who is Swanson? A courtier?’

‘Someone close to Cromwell. But I have not been able to ascertain whether Swanson was his real name or an alias. He is a hero,
of course, for exposing the Seven.’

‘So it could be Thurloe,’ said Chaloner, to confuse him. Thurloe would never have betrayed Cromwell. ‘He was close to the
Lord Protector.’

It was obviously something that had never occurred to Kelyng. His jaw dropped. ‘I hardly think … I cannot … But of
course, it might! Lord, that would put me in an awkward position! I have vowed to destroy Thurloe, but I can hardly do that,
if he was the man who foiled the Seven.’

‘You had a servant called Jones,’ said Chaloner, after several silent moments had passed.

‘Actually, his name was John Hewson,’ said Kelyng, dragging himself away from his thoughts. ‘You chased
him into my garden, and he was killed. He had infiltrated my household, which was a stupid thing to do, given my views on
regicide: he placed his head in the lion’s mouth, so to speak.’

‘Did you know he was a regicide when you employed him?’

Kelyng looked annoyed. ‘Of course not, or I would have had him executed. I found out when we took his body to the church and
someone recognised it. I felt like an ass, I can tell you, especially since the missing eye was something of a giveaway. He
told me he lost it fighting for the King, but he actually lost it crushing rebels in Ireland. I had to order Snow to burn
the body, lest it was traced to me. But Hewson was a curious fellow. He kept asking whether people knew how to praise God.
I think he was addled – the terror of being hunted drew him towards me in a perverse kind of way.’

Chaloner did not think so. Hewson had not seemed addled, and he suspected the man had known exactly what he had been doing.
The more he thought about the facts, the more clear it became that Hewson was one of the Seven, and he had taken a post with
Kelyng to assess how serious the threat was against its surviving members. It explained his message about the danger ‘for
Seven’ with his dying breath, while ‘praise God’ was obviously some sort of code known only to him and his six colleagues.
But Chaloner had reasoned that Hewson’s messages were intended for Thurloe. Did that mean Thurloe was a member of the Seven
after all?

He smiled at Kelyng. ‘So, Hewson applied to you for employment, and you accepted him. You sent him to collect the satchel
stolen by Snow and Storey, and Bennet stabbed him …’

‘Bennet said you did it, but it was
his
knife embedded in Hewson’s chest, and I can usually tell when he is lying. He was aiming for you, but missed, and did not
want to admit to his ineptitude. It was a wretched nuisance, because I would have liked to ask Hewson what he thought he was
doing, pretending to be a servant – and whether he knew anything about any of his fellow regicides. There are still a number
of those unaccounted for, you know. Did he say anything to you before he died? I thought I heard him talking.’

‘Just religious exhortations.’

‘He
was
deranged,’ said Kelyng sadly. He cleared his throat. ‘Now, I cannot believe that a man of your obvious intelligence will
refuse to hazard a guess at the Seven’s remaining members – other than Barkstead, Livesay and Thurloe. Share your thoughts
with me, and you will be home with your turkey in an hour.’

Chaloner ruffled the cat’s fur, supposing the time for pleasant conversation was drawing to a close, and Kelyng was girding
himself up to use rougher methods of persuasion.

‘Thurloe is not one of the Seven. But there are two other men who might bear investigation.’

Kelyng’s face lit up. ‘I
knew
a man close to the ex-Spymaster would be able to help me.’

‘This has
nothing
to do with Thurloe,’ said Chaloner doggedly, hoping Kelyng could not read his uncertainty. ‘And you will be wasting your
time if you try to connect him with it. The men you should investigate are Hewson—’

‘But he is dead!’ cried Kelyng, disappointed.

Chaloner nodded. Kelyng could not hurt a corpse, which was why he had decided to share that particular
suspicion. ‘And there is another possibility, but he will kill me if he finds out, and I—’

‘He will never know,’ promised Kelyng. ‘I swear on my soul, he will never know.’

Chaloner could tell he meant it. He had dealt with sly politicians and slippery diplomats aplenty, but this was the first
time he had ever been obliged to treat with a zealot, and he was finding it a challenge.

‘Sir George Downing.’ This was pure malice on Chaloner’s part, although a man as devious and corrupt as Downing would suffer
few ill effects from anything Kelyng might do. Still, it might inconvenience him, and that would be satisfaction in itself.

A slow smile spread across Kelyng’s face. ‘Downing. Of course! It makes perfect sense – a man once devoted to the Commonwealth,
who changed sides when he saw his evil plotting could not keep Charles from his rightful place. A deceitful, cunning fellow,
who only goes to church on Sundays – and talks through most of the service anyway. Thank you, Heyden. You have been very helpful.’

‘You are welcome.’

‘Downing,’ grinned Kelyng, delighted with the information. ‘I should have worked this out for myself, although one can never
go wrong in seeking the help of a fellow liked by cats. Here is a silver crown for your cleverness. And a new wig will be
sent to you as soon as I can have one made.’

Chaloner was bemused when Kelyng drew the interview to a close and indicated that he was free to leave. He climbed the stairs
cautiously, expecting Bennet to be lurking in the darkness with a dagger, but he reached the yard without incident and gazed
up at the sky he had not expected to see again. As he did so, he saw Robinson and Dalton hurrying towards him. Dalton looked
him up and down, before dabbing a clammy brow with his scented handkerchief. His hand shook, and Chaloner thought he looked
as though he might be sick.

‘We heard Bennet had arrested you,’ said Robinson, rather accusingly. ‘How did you escape?’

‘Kelyng let me go. Why? What is the matter?’

‘One of the guards told Thurloe you had been detained, and he rushed to my house and ordered me to secure your immediate release,’
said Dalton. ‘Robinson and I have a certain influence over Kelyng, because we all attend St Clement Danes, and he wants to
be elected churchwarden.’

‘Was Thurloe afraid I might reveal his secrets, then?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Actually, he was concerned about your well-being,’ said Dalton. ‘He would have come himself, but that might have made matters
worse, so we sent him home. He will be relieved to see you safe.’

‘It is extremely distasteful having Kelyng in my Tower,’ said Robinson, before Chaloner could reply. ‘But the King wants him
here, so that is that. I gave him the worst room I could get away with, but he simply redecorated it and seems determined
to stay. What did he want with you?’

‘He asked about that story you told me a few days ago – the Seven.’

Robinson raised his eyebrows. ‘Why should he think you know anything about that?’

The sudden pallor of Dalton’s face had not escaped Chaloner’s attention. ‘He thought I might have heard rumours about its
membership, so I made up a few names to confuse him. I told him yours. I hope you do not mind.’

‘Mine?’ asked Robinson, laughing. ‘Good! That will give the nosy little ferret something on which to waste his time, because
he will find no treachery in
my
past. But, I see you are in no danger, so I shall return to my poor daughter. She has had some shocking news, and is prostrate
with grief.’

‘You do not mean my name as well, do you?’ asked Dalton in a horrified whisper when Robinson had gone. ‘You told Kelyng
I
was one of the Seven?’

‘What can it matter, if you are innocent?’

‘But I am
not
innocent!’ said Dalton in the same strangled voice. ‘I
am
one of the Seven, and so is Thurloe. How
could
you chatter to Kelyng about matters you do not understand?’

Chaloner was sorry to learn he had been right. ‘Thurloe plotted to prevent Charles’s return?’

‘It was not in our interests to see the monarchy restored – not in our nation’s interests. And we were right. Look at the
mess we are in: the King and his blood-sucking courtiers squander money we do not have, and the men who run the country should
not have control of a barnyard.’

Chaloner was deeply disappointed in his old patron. ‘I thought Thurloe had more sense than to embroil himself in that sort
of thing. It is treason.’

‘It would be treason
now
, but it was patriotic
then
. Cromwell was in charge, and we were fighting to keep the Commonwealth in place. Our actions were designed to support
that
government, and make it stable and secure.’ Dalton’s voice cracked. ‘You have killed me, Heyden.’

‘I did give Kelyng some names,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘But yours was not one of them, and neither was Thurloe’s. I told him
to look at Hewson and Downing.’

‘Truly?’ Dalton dared to look relieved. ‘Thank God! Downing has nothing to do with the Seven. Hewson did, but he is beyond
Kelyng’s spiteful vengeance. So, Kelyng does not suspect me at all?’

‘He suspects Barkstead, Livesay and Thurloe – and has now added Downing and Hewson to his list. Three of these are dead—’

‘Livesay
is not
dead,’ interrupted Dalton. ‘I do not know why everyone insists he is. I
saw
him. He was in disguise, having created a new existence for himself, but I recognised him nonetheless.’

‘What kind of disguise?’ Chaloner did not know whether to believe him.

‘He was dressed as a Nonconformist minister – all
shabby black clothes and well-thumbed Bible – but he was wringing his hands in that odd way he has. He looked right at me
and smiled. Why would anyone do that, if he were not Livesay?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘Nonconformists probably smile at everyone these days, in the hope that it will make people less inclined
to harm them. The community near me is always being attacked.’

‘I am afraid Livesay has told … There is a secret, which he may have let slip to our enemies …’

‘What secret?’ asked Chaloner, watching him struggle with his emotions.

‘
I
will never reveal it,’ whispered Dalton. ‘But
he
may have done – to men who would see us hanged. Perhaps it was Livesay’s ghost I saw, come to haunt me, because of the wicked
thing …’

‘You mean your murder of Mother Pinchon?’ asked Chaloner bluntly.

Dalton regarded him in horror. ‘How do you know that was me?’

‘Why did you kill her? She was no threat. She knew nothing about the Seven – only about some treasure Barkstead told her he
was going to hide, but that he never did.’

Dalton was ashen. ‘She told Wade where to find seven thousand pounds. How long do you think it will be before Kelyng realises
that Barkstead’s moveable wealth was worth almost twice that, and the sum Pinchon was urging Wade to locate has another significance?’

‘Barkstead’s godly golden goose,’ mused Chaloner. ‘Did he mean the seven bars of gold paid to Swanson, one for each of the
Seven?’

Dalton nodded miserably. ‘I imagine so. Before she
died, Pinchon told me how Barkstead had ordered her to take the message to Thurloe, but she was too frightened. The godly
golden goose must have been his discreet way of referring to the blood money.’

‘How did Barkstead come to have it?’

‘I do not know he
did
have it – only that he was trying to pass a message to Thurloe about it.’

‘Then who is Swanson?’

Dalton shook his head. ‘I do not know the answer to that, either, although I can tell you he never passed the Seven’s names
to the King, or I would not be standing here now.’

‘You, Thurloe, Barkstead, Livesay and Hewson,’ said Chaloner. ‘Who are the remaining two?’

‘You know too much already,’ said Dalton, edging away. ‘Downing was right: you are overly inquisitive. Stop prying into affairs
that are none of your concern before you land us all in trouble.’

He turned and stalked towards the Lieutenant’s Lodgings. Chaloner watched him go, and wondered yet again whether it had been
Dalton who had tried to kill him outside Ingoldsby’s house. If so, then there were two possible motives. The obvious one was
that Dalton wanted to prevent him from drawing attention to the Seven with his questions. But another was that Dalton had
not wanted him to talk to Ingoldsby. Was Ingoldsby one of the Seven? He
was
a regicide, after all, regardless of his current affiliations. Or was Ingoldsby actually Swanson, and had kept his own neck
from the noose by offering to betray the Seven to the King?

There were far too many loose ends trailing in Chaloner’s head, and he desperately needed to sit somewhere quiet and consider
them all. He looked around
him, and his gaze fell on the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. The Tower was no place to linger, but he did not feel safe anywhere
any more.

He opened the door and approached the chapel’s altar, staring at the ornate cross and its golden candlesticks without really
seeing them. He placed his hands together and dropped to his knees when the door clanked and Snow walked in. The lout faltered
when he saw what his quarry was doing, and withdrew for a muttered conversation with someone else. Then he returned to sit
on a bench near the back, obviously under orders to keep watch. Chaloner saw no reason to allow Snow to distract him from
his deliberations, especially since the man seemed loath to make a hostile move while his target was in a church. He ignored
the shuffling, bored presence behind him, and began to think about what he had learned.

First, the treasure that Barkstead – with Mother Pinchon’s help – had packed into butter firkins had been worth thirteen thousand
pounds, not seven. Seven thousand pounds was the sum promised to Swanson for unveiling the Seven, of which Barkstead was one.
Chaloner thought about the message Barkstead had asked Pinchon to deliver to Thurloe, and the more he considered the ‘godly
golden goose’, the more he became certain that it referred to the bars, and that the butter-firkin wealth had never been part
of the story.

Second, there had been a traitor in Cromwell’s court. The man had called himself Swanson, but Kelyng believed – and Chaloner
concurred – that it was probably a false identity. Spymaster Thurloe’s monitoring of letters entering and leaving England
had been thorough,
and it was unlikely the traitor would have risked using his own name – unless Swanson was Thurloe himself, of course. Robinson
claimed to have seen ‘Swanson’ once – ‘a young fellow with the voice of an angel’ – but Thurloe had tended to use spies as
messengers, and was unlikely to have visited the King himself with an offer to expose his fellow plotters. Simon Lane had
sung, so perhaps it was he who Robinson had seen. And then what? Thurloe had accepted the gold, but declined to reveal the
names? Kelyng, Dalton and Robinson were all certain the King had never been told the identities of the Seven.

Third, Hewson was a member of the Seven. He had been a regicide, like Barkstead, so it was certainly in his interests to see
the King kept from the throne – as soon as Charles had been reinstated, Hewson had been condemned to death at a trial during
his absence. He would have been terrified, and desperate to know what Kelyng had discovered about the Seven, so he had devised
a plan to find out. He had been killed accidentally by Bennet, but had confided his real name to the man dispatched by Thurloe
to retrieve a stolen satchel.

But how could Hewson have known that Chaloner was Thurloe’s man? Chaloner reflected, and saw the answer was obvious. Hewson
would have guessed that Snow and Storey had been followed, and that it was an agent of Thurloe’s who grabbed the bag before
it could be passed to Kelyng. But why had Hewson been taking the bag to Kelyng in the first place? The answer to that was
obvious, too: Hewson had known there was nothing in it that could harm Thurloe. But that had another implication in its turn:
it meant Hewson knew enough about Thurloe’s operations to make such an assumption, which
led Chaloner to suspect that Thurloe had been aware of what Hewson was doing, too.

Chaloner thought about what had happened in Kelyng’s garden. The regicide had been confident and self-assured once the initial
shock of being challenged had receded, and had known exactly what he was doing when he had whispered his last words. He had
spoken his name, so Thurloe would know what had happened to him – a wise decision, since Kelyng had then burned the corpse
to prevent identification – and ‘praise God’s one son’ had been another message. The more Chaloner pondered the phrase, the
more certain he became that Thurloe knew what it meant. Should he ask him, or would that be dangerous?

Lastly, he considered the Seven. Barkstead and Hewson were dead, Livesay missing, and Thurloe and Dalton trying to stay one
step ahead of Kelyng, although Dalton was crumbling under the strain. He thought about Lee’s parchment, and the ends of the
words that had included reference to ‘seven’ and ‘praise God’. He smiled as something else became clear. The first few lines
were the ends of names. He pulled the paper from his pocket and supplied the blanks:

e
= Thurlo
e

d
= Barkstea
d

y
= Livesa
y

on
= Hews
on
or Dalt
on

So, who were the last two? There had been a dozen executions since Charles’s coronation, so perhaps they were already dead,
and Kelyng’s hunt was in vain. And perhaps ‘Swanson’ was sitting with his gold, enjoying the
benefits of his betrayal. Did Thurloe have that sort of money? Chaloner supposed that if he did, he would be careful how
he spent it. He was far too clever to make such an elementary mistake. And why had he sent Dalton to rescue Chaloner from
Kelyng? Was it affection, as Dalton claimed? Chaloner did not think so. Thurloe had denied knowing about the Seven, and had
virtually ordered Chaloner not to investigate Barkstead’s hoard. It had been self-preservation that had prompted Thurloe to
arrange his old agent’s release, afraid he might have learned enough to be a liability. It was disappointing, but Chaloner
supposed he should not be surprised that an ex-Spymaster still involved himself in plots and intrigues, despite his claims
to the contrary.

There were no more answers, and the only thing of which Chaloner was certain was that he felt more vulnerable in London than
he had ever done in Holland, an English spy in an enemy country. He stood and walked outside, watching Snow snap awake as
he undid the door.

For some time, he had been aware of yells coming from the bailey, but since the open space was used for military drills, he
had thought little of it. The hollering had faded, and there was now nothing but silence. It was deserted, too, without a
person in sight. Chaloner started to walk across it, aiming for the gate. He was passing the White Tower when he heard an
urgent shout. Wade was racing along the top of a nearby wall, gesticulating frantically, and when Chaloner followed the direction
of his jabbing finger, he saw a pale brown shadow. Sonya was on the loose again.

Since the lion was between him and the barbican, Chaloner set off towards the Traitors’ Gate again, feeling uncomfortably
exposed in the middle of such a large
expanse of ground. He glanced behind him and saw he was not alone: Bennet was also out, sword drawn. Snow joined his colleague,
and bellowed to catch the lion’s attention. Bennet then ran a few steps in Chaloner’s direction, urging Sonya to follow. Chaloner
was puzzled, wondering what they intended to do.