A Conspiracy of Violence (49 page)

‘You do not mention Praisegod,’ snarled Faith, white-lipped with fury. ‘His name is too good to be on the tongue of a Chaloner.’

‘My God,’ breathed Thurloe, gazing at North. ‘I thought you seemed familiar, and now I see it. You are Praisegod’s father!
And his mother and sister – Temperance, with Praisegod’s chestnut hair. That is why Livesay’s minister told you what the man
had confessed. He was telling you what had happened to your son!’

‘All this is for Praisegod,’ said North softly, gesturing around him. ‘We changed our names and came to London for him. He
was a child – an innocent child. He went to the Protector’s court to sing, because he had such a sweet voice. Someone betrayed
the Seven, and Barkstead killed Praisegod for it. But Praisegod was not the traitor.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Chaloner. He glanced at the window. Bennet was still arming his weapon, pausing occasionally to glower.
Chaloner considered pointing him out to the others, but hesitated, wondering whether he could turn the malignant presence
to his advantage.

‘Because he was not interested in politics,’ shouted Faith, tears starting in her eyes. ‘He
sang
. He liked music. That was his life. Music.’

‘Then why did Barkstead believe him guilty?’

‘Ask Thurloe.’

Thurloe shook his head. ‘I was preoccupied with a Dutch crisis at the time, and only heard later that Barkstead had uncovered
the man who told the King about the Seven. Barkstead said he had found seven gold bars in Praisegod’s room, and a few days
later I intercepted a letter signed by Praisegod, listing our names. I had no reason to disbelieve Barkstead’s conclusion
– but I only learned this week that Barkstead had actually killed him.’

Faith closed her eyes. ‘Barkstead was wrong!’ She hugged her daughter tighter still, and Chaloner saw Temperance struggling
to breathe under the force of the embrace.

Leybourn appealed to the servants. ‘And you are content with this? You are willing to risk hanging to avenge an ancient murder?’

‘It is not ancient,’ said Faith bitterly, taking a gun from Henry and indicating he could resume his work on the grenades.
‘And if God does not strike his killers, then I shall be His instrument.’

‘Let Tom and Will go,’ said Thurloe quietly. ‘Any crime committed here is mine, not theirs.’

‘You are beginning to understand,’ said Faith with a smile that was chillingly malicious.

Bennet took aim and Chaloner ducked behind Hill. He saw Bennet’s lips move in a curse. But something was wrong anyway, and
the chamberlain shook the weapon before beginning the process of rewinding, his face a mask of fury.

‘Two of your friends will die today for what
you
did,’ Faith continued, addressing Thurloe. ‘You should not have embroiled them in your business, just as we should
not have sent Praisegod to the wolves of Court.’

‘We should finish this, Faith,’ said North quietly. ‘Time is running out.’

Faith directed her gun at Leybourn. ‘We will lock Thurloe in the cellar until Downing has done his work with “Livesay’s” letter.
Chaloner and the bookseller can die now – we do not want them in our way, and we will tell everyone that Livesay killed them,
before he disappeared never to be seen or heard of again.’

‘But Thurloe will tell his accusers what really happened,’ blurted Leybourn, ducking away from her. ‘And he still has powerful
friends. Someone will believe him.’

‘No one will speak for a man accused of high treason,’ said Faith, squinting at him down the barrel. ‘It would be suicide.
And it will be too late for you, anyway. Stop fidgeting or I may miss.’

Leybourn jumped into the centre of the room and dropped to his knees. ‘Allow me to say a prayer first. You are Puritans –
you will not deny a doomed man a word with God.’

Faith’s gun tracked his movements, but North stepped forward and pushed her hand to one side.

‘We are not Barkstead,’ he said softly. ‘Let him have his say with the Almighty.’

Irritably, Faith pulled her arm away from her husband, and fixed the cowering bookseller in her sights a second time. Meanwhile,
Bennet had finished arming his crossbow, and took aim at the man who had made a fool of him over his list of Thurloe’s ‘brothers’.
Temperance began to struggle furiously, but the arm that held her was like a vice, and she was powerless to do anything to
prevent her mother’s finger from tightening on the trigger as she prepared to dispatch Leybourn.

‘Bennet!’ shouted Hill suddenly, as he caught sight of the figure in the window. ‘My old friend!’

Instinctively, North turned, and Thurloe launched himself at his back. Faith yelled a warning and tried to fling Temperance
away from her. Chaloner brought up his own gun and fired at Bennet, but not before the chamberlain had released one of his
deadly bolts. It sliced through the window and punched into Hill’s Bible. The preacher dropped it with a shriek of terror.
Bennet disappeared, although whether he had been shot or had gone to reload, Chaloner could not tell. Meanwhile, Thurloe and
North were entwined in a deadly embrace, and Faith had rid herself of the squirming Temperance. She aimed her pistol at Chaloner,
but the shot went wide when Thurloe inadvertently stumbled into her.

When Faith turned on the ex-Spymaster with blazing eyes, Chaloner grabbed the tablecloth and hauled with all his might. Fireballs,
oil and powder spilled everywhere. Henry released a cry of alarm and leapt away, while Faith hurled herself at Chaloner, clawing
his face and flailing with her fists as she vented her rage. Leybourn was on his feet, laying about him with a chair, and
everywhere was chaos. Metje had a dagger, although Chaloner was not sure whom she intended to stab. Temperance was trying
to haul her mother away from him, while Hill lay on the floor with his hands over his head. Then Henry collided with a lamp,
knocking it from its moorings and sending it crashing on to its side. Fuel spilled, and flames followed.

‘Douse it! Douse it!’ cried North in alarm, abandoning his skirmish with Thurloe. ‘Quickly, or we are all lost. The gunpowder!’

‘Metje!’ shouted Chaloner. He pushed Faith away from him. ‘Come with me.’

‘I do not want—’ She backed away.

‘Just come,’ he yelled, watching the flames creep towards the first of the fireballs, despite North’s attempts to smother
them with aprons, cushions and bare hands. ‘Do not die in here.’

The door crashed open, and Sarah stood there, a number of the Lincoln’s Inn porters ranged behind her. She was breathless
and her hair was awry. Kelyng stood next to her, sword in his hand.

‘Where is the chicken?’ he demanded, eyes darting around the room. ‘Martha?’

Sarah shoved him back into the hallway. ‘Fetch water,’ she ordered, taking in the situation at once. ‘Organise the men, or
the entire street might be lost. Hurry!’

Her voice carried such authority that Kelyng obeyed without another word. Chaloner glimpsed a flicker of movement at the window.
It was Bennet, and he had reloaded. When he spotted Sarah, his eyes gleamed with evil delight. Chaloner grabbed one of the
spent guns and lobbed it as hard as he could. It cartwheeled through the glass and struck the chamberlain’s head. Chaloner
saw him drop away with a howl before Faith fastened her hands around his own neck and began to squeeze. She was as strong
as any of the men he had ever fought, and he felt himself losing ground.

The first of the grenades popped with a deafening crack. One of the maids screamed, blood pouring from her throat. Sarah dealt
Faith a hefty thump with a serving bowl, and the older woman fell away, dazed, allowing Chaloner to struggle away and breathe
again. Henry picked up another fireball and hurled it at Thurloe, putting all his frustration and fury into the throw. It
missed the ex-Spymaster and cracked into the wall behind him,
setting the panelling alight. Time was running out. Chaloner seized Temperance’s wrist and shoved her towards the door.

‘Take her out!’ he yelled to Hill, who was making his own bid for freedom on hands and knees. The preacher obeyed with what
seemed like agonising slowness. ‘Hurry!’

He looked around for Metje, and saw her on the far side of the room.

‘The barrel will go up soon,’ shouted North, flailing desperately with his cloak. ‘It—’

Another fireball ignited, and Metje’s hair erupted in an orange blaze.

‘No!’ yelled Chaloner. He started to move towards her, but someone gripped his ankle. It was Faith again, and he wasted valuable
moments trying to extricate himself from her clawing hands.

‘Everyone run!’ shouted North. He collided with Chaloner, breaking Faith’s hold, but knocking the spy to the floor. ‘Everyone
outside!’

Chaloner struggled towards Metje, but another grenade exploded killing North and throwing his body into him. Henry, burning
like a torch was rushing around in a shrieking frenzy, setting furniture alight. Flames began to lick across the keg of gunpowder.
Chaloner tried to stand, but his movements were uncoordinated, and North’s shattered corpse lay heavily across him. By now,
the barrel was well and truly ablaze, and Metje was motionless as flames engulfed her.

Someone seized Chaloner’s arm and tugged him towards the door. Other hands helped, and then he was outside in the cool, clean
air. Yet another grenade ignited, and this time he could feel its blast vibrate through the ground. Then he was staggering
across the street and
tumbling behind the shelter of a dung cart. He tried to stand, but someone held him fast.

‘Easy, Tom.’ It was Thurloe. ‘Stay down.’

‘The gunpowder,’ said Chaloner hoarsely. ‘Metje.’

‘It is too late,’ said Sarah gently. ‘Too late for her.’

Thurloe put an arm around his shoulders and shielded him as the first of several large explosions ripped towards them.

It was several days before Chaloner felt like going home. He stayed with Leybourn at Cripplegate, trying to take his mind
off Metje by reading. The Lord Chancellor sent two messages, both asking whether he had recovered the remaining six bars of
gold, and Chaloner furnished him with curt replies saying he had not. Temperance visited once, and her white face and red-rimmed
eyes moved him to pity. A sheepish Hill had arranged for her to lodge with a sympathetic Puritan widow until lawyers had decided
what should happen to North’s estate – Downing claimed it should be forfeit to the Crown, while Thurloe was firmly asserting
that it should be devolved on his surviving daughter.

Eventually, Chaloner decided he had imposed on Leybourn’s hospitality long enough, and left early one afternoon to return
to his rooms. Leybourn offered to accompany him, and they walked through streets that were full of people, all talking about
the grand audience of the Russian ambassador in the Banqueting House, which had taken place that day.

North’s once-fine home was a mass of blackened
timbers. The fire had been fierce but brief, and although the building would have to be demolished, it had not damaged the
neighbouring houses – or at least, not damaged them to the point where the authorities deemed them uninhabitable. There were
new and alarming cracks in Ellis’s walls, and Chaloner was sure the roof was sagging in a way it had not done before. Ellis
waved a dismissive hand, and declared it was natural subsidence – his tenants had nothing to worry about. And there was certainly
no reason to reduce the rent.

Chaloner climbed to the top floor and unlocked his door. He was glad Leybourn was with him, because even the stairs evoked
sharp memories of Metje, and the bookseller’s aimless chatter was a welcome diversion. He stopped abruptly when he saw what
stood on the floor by the bed. Leybourn pushed past him, and went to inspect the two boxes.

‘Grenades,’ he said, startled. ‘I assume they do not belong to you? We were lucky the fire did not spread to this house, because
there are enough of them here to eliminate half of London.’

Chaloner pointed to the side of the box, and started to laugh. ‘That is one of the least subtle things I have ever seen! Did
they really expect that to work?’

Leybourn read the offending label aloud. ‘
To be delivered to Thomas Chaloner of Fetter Lane, on behalf of Mr John Thurloe and Sir Richard Ingoldsby
. So, this is what they were doing. They claimed they were going to leave weapons in a place where the last two members of
the Seven would be hopelessly implicated, and where better than with Thurloe’s spy? You laugh, but we are fortunate Kelyng
did not find them. He would have seen nothing staged about this.’

‘What shall we do? If we dispose of them legally, Kelyng may leap to the wrong conclusion. He may have saved us by extinguishing
the fire, but he wasted no time after in telling us that he intends to resume his persecution. You should not have locked
him in that cupboard and incurred more of his wrath. He is still angry about it, even though Sarah believed his story and
let him out as soon as you had left Lincoln’s Inn and included him in her rescue plan. Damned fanatic!’

Leybourn was thoughtful. ‘We shall do what North – I cannot call him Swanson – intended.’

‘Use them to have Thurloe and Ingoldsby accused of high treason? That is not a good idea, Will. Think of something else.’

Leybourn was impatient. ‘You just said that Kelyng still intends to hunt Thurloe, and I want him to stop. We shall send these
infernal devices to
him
, with a message from Thurloe saying he has uncovered another devilish plot to kill the King, and these are the proof.’

‘But there was never a plot to kill the King. All North and Faith wanted was to have Thurloe and Ingoldsby executed for it.’

‘I know,’ said Leybourn with a weary sigh. ‘You are very dim-witted this morning, Tom. You should not have abstained from
dinner last night – turkey meat is good for the brain. But, as I was saying, we shall send these to Kelyng, with details of
a regicidal plot that Thurloe has uncovered. Its ringleader was the last surviving member of the Seven: William North.’

Chaloner nodded, finally understanding. ‘I will forge some documents to “prove” it. We shall invent a new Seven for Kelyng,
leaving off Thurloe, Ingoldsby and my uncle.’

‘We shall include Downing, though,’ said Leybourn, eyes gleaming with the prospect of revenge. ‘That will teach him to try
to stab you.’

‘We cannot. Kelyng might learn he is innocent, which may lead him to question the rest of the list. We need him to accept
it without reservation, and consider the case closed.’

‘Who, then?’

‘They all must be dead, so he cannot ask them questions. I suggest Barkstead, Hewson, Dalton, North and Faith. And Praisegod,
who then betrayed them and was killed for his treachery.’

‘That is only six.’

‘And Philip Evett,’ added Chaloner with bitter satisfaction.

‘North said Praisegod was innocent.’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘He was a much-loved son. But Kelyng does not have the wits to probe too deeply, and all we are doing is
drawing him away from Thurloe. He will read the documents, accept he is too late to bring the Seven to justice, and move on
to persecute some other hapless soul.’

‘But hopefully less vigorously, now his army of felons is disbanded and Bennet is dead of a broken skull. Can you make your
false letters look as though they were written three years ago?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘The result will be a lot more convincing than this ridiculous label.’

‘Good,’ said Leybourn. He went to sit at the table, shivering as he looked around him. ‘It is damned cold in here. No wonder
you did not want to come back. Have you no logs for the fire?’

Chaloner offered him a cup of the wine he had bought
to share with Metje. He needed a drink. ‘We could throw a couple of fireballs in the hearth. That would warm it up.’

Leybourn smiled, then became serious. ‘Are you ready to talk about what happened? There are details I still do not understand.’

Chaloner sipped his wine. ‘It started with the Seven – men who believed England’s future lay in a republic, and who were prepared
to go to any lengths to prevent a Restoration. But when it became clear that the Commonwealth was irretrievably lost, they
disbanded. However, Praisegod Swanson found out about them, and tried to tell the King. Barkstead killed him and buried him
in the Tower.’

Leybourn took up the tale. ‘Praisegod’s father learned
some
of what had happened from Livesay, but not all of it. He and Faith then killed Livesay, sending him out on a ship loaded
with explosives, and decided to have their revenge on the rest of the Seven, too. They returned to London with new identities,
and he joined the Brotherhood.’

‘But there was little else they could do for a long time. Then Mother Pinchon appeared, and rumours began to circulate about
seven thousand pounds in the Tower. Faith and North knew exactly what that meant. One of the secrets they learned from Livesay
must have been that Dalton was a member of the Seven, so North started pretending to be Livesay, hoping to frighten him into
exposing the others, while at the same time claiming Livesay was dead. Dalton panicked, and killed Pinchon and Wade. Then
he tried to kill you and Sarah, and it would only have been a matter of time before he turned on Ingoldsby and Thurloe. But
North and Faith wanted that honour for themselves.’

‘They were ready to use anyone to fulfil their objectives – Evett, Metje, you. You told Metje things you should have kept
to yourself, so she and Evett were able to monitor your various investigations – partly thanks to Thurloe, who innocently
encouraged you and Evett to join forces.’

Chaloner poured more wine. His hands were shaking. ‘I thought Sarah was Evett’s lover. It never occurred to me that Metje
would fall for him – an empty-headed coward who was frightened of pheasants. Christ, Will! What does that say about me?’

‘That you need to develop an endearing terror of birds.’ Leybourn clapped a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘It says she
was a foreigner in a country about to go to war, and that your duties prevented you from giving her what she needed. Do you
think the Earl will send you to Holland now? We need good men to be ready as relations disintegrate.’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘I do not want to go – there is too much of Metje there. But, to return to the Seven, North only
killed Dalton and Livesay. My uncle died of natural causes, Barkstead was executed, Bennet killed Hewson by mistake in Kelyng’s
garden, and Ingoldsby and Thurloe are still alive.’

‘North should have gone to Kelyng with his information.
He
would have seen “justice” done. Thank God he decided to take matters into his own hands, or Thurloe might have joined Barkstead.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘I suppose we could say Thurloe owes his life to the single-mindedness of fanatics.’

Chaloner did not stay long in Fetter Lane, although his reluctance to remain had little to do with Metje and a lot
to do with the fact that the room was so cold. He parted from Leybourn and went to visit Thurloe, where there was sure to
be a good fire and perhaps mulled wine. The ex-Spymaster greeted him affectionately, and poured him something hot and brown.
It tasted better than it looked, although he did not notice a perceptible ‘strengthening of the inner fibres’ when he had
finished it.

He told Thurloe what he and Leybourn intended to do with the grenades, a plan that was met with wry approval. Thurloe offered
to help with the documentation, pointing out that he had some experience of forgery himself, and that he could pen some very
convincing lies. Then he talked about the deaths of his two children – the event that had turned Chaloner from spy to friend
in his mind. Eventually, he stood and stretched.

‘Walk with me, Tom. I need some fresh air.’

They strolled west, then turned towards White Hall. The Russian ambassador and his fabulous retinue had long since gone to
the King’s private apartments, and the Banqueting House was deserted. Thurloe gave Chaloner a detailed description of the
splendour he had witnessed that day, with every courtier in his finest clothes and the King so swathed in gold that he might
have been an angel. He pointed to where the ambassador had prostrated himself on the ground after he had delivered his ruler’s
letters, much to the consternation of onlookers, who were not quite sure how to respond to such an odd expression of homage.
Eventually, Thurloe’s perambulations led to the flagstone under which Chaloner’s uncle had left his silver. He stopped, looked
directly at it, then turned to Chaloner with raised eyebrows.

‘You know?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘He said he would never tell anyone else.’

Thurloe smiled. ‘He said the same to me, but that would have been stupid. Such a secret needs two people, in case one dies.
I suppose he confided in you after he fled to Holland?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘On his deathbed. He asked me to make sure it went to his children – my cousins.’

Thurloe poked about with his dagger, and Chaloner was surprised at how easily the stone yielded. Below it was a recess, where,
lying neatly side by side, were six bars of gold. He gazed at them in shock.

‘I sent one to Clarendon,’ said Thurloe. ‘I felt your cousins could spare you that, given the trouble their father has caused
you.’

‘Gold bars?’ asked Chaloner numbly. ‘He told me his cache comprised five hundred silver pieces in a leather bag.’

‘He lied – obviously, or you would have seen the connection much sooner. He told
me
he had buried a psalter of great antiquity, given to him by his grandfather. He deceived us both.’

‘But this means …’ Chaloner faltered.

‘It means it was your uncle who killed Praisegod, not Barkstead. And it was your uncle who betrayed the Seven and was paid
for his treachery. Barkstead – who almost certainly did not know what had really happened – helped him hide Praisegod’s body,
then tried to send me that message through Mother Pinchon.’

‘North said his son was innocent.’

‘He was right. Praisegod was a scapegoat, chosen at random, because he was young, dispensable and unable to defend himself
– and your uncle sacrificed him to make Barkstead think the traitor was dead, so he would stop hunting for him.
I
knew nothing about Barkstead
and the “godly golden goose” – this callous murder – until you told me about it on Christmas morning, but Dalton did, which
accounts for his growing unease.’

‘So, when did you work out that my uncle was the villain in all this?’ asked Chaloner uncomfortably.

‘After the fire at Dalton’s house. I suddenly understood that guilty knowledge of an ancient murder was the cause of the man’s
instability. But I needed proof, and suspected this was where I might find it. Then, since the flagstone was up, I decided
to send Clarendon a gift, in the hope that it would secure you a permanent place with the new government’s intelligence service.
I have been an ass: I should have made sense of all this ages ago.’

‘Did I tell you my uncle came to me for help when he arrived in Holland?’ Chaloner felt like a fool, too. ‘I gave him everything
I had, which is why I have been so impecunious since arriving in London. I squandered it all to aid and abet a murderer.’

‘We cannot choose our kin, Tom. I understand he died a few weeks later. Perhaps shame hastened his end, or perhaps guilt drove
him to a surfeit of wine. He always was a drunkard.’

‘Despite this, you still …’ Chaloner was not quite sure how to say what he meant.

‘Extend the hand of friendship towards you? It was hardly your fault he turned rotten, and you wrote me those kind letters
– something he would never have done. You are a different man.’

‘What shall we do?’ asked Chaloner, looking at the gold in its earthen sarcophagus. ‘I shall never give
that
to my cousins. It is tainted, and they will not want it.’