A Conspiracy of Violence (5 page)

Chaloner’s thoughts turned to the servant who lay dead in Kelyng’s garden, who had said his name was Hewson, contrary to what
his employer seemed to believe. He tried again to decide whether Bennet had killed Hewson deliberately, or whether he had
simply missed his intended target. He did not have enough information to say one way or the other, but Hewson, along with
poor Charles-Stewart, made two dead that morning, and it was barely nine o’clock.

‘I should go,’ he said, breaking into Robert’s scathing tirade against Downing. He knew he should return to Thurloe as soon
as possible, and not waste time listening to the gossip of a pair of booksellers, gratifying though it might be: having spent
five years working with Downing, Chaloner doubted any Londoner could loathe the man as much as he did.

Leybourn caught his arm. ‘You are leaving? Without
telling us how you came to be chased from Kelyng’s house by the man himself ? And you have not told us your name.’

‘Thomas Heyden,’ replied Chaloner, giving his usual alias. Thurloe had chosen the name because it was neither resoundingly
English nor resoundingly foreign. ‘I am a clerk.’

The last statement rankled, because it happened to be true. In the absence of other work, he managed the accounts for Fetter
Lane’s Nonconformist chapel, although it took only a few hours each week and the pay barely covered the rent. Puritans, so
numerous and powerful during the Commonwealth, were becoming an ever-dwindling minority as people shifted back to traditional
Anglicanism, and few sensible folk had anything to do with them. If Chaloner had not been so desperate, he would not have
done, either, and leaving the Puritans’ employ was yet another reason why he hoped Thurloe would help him.

‘What kind of clerk?’ asked Leybourn.

Chaloner was not about to admit to a link with an unpopular sect. ‘A household clerk.’

‘Whose household?’ pressed Leybourn. He tapped his chin with a long forefinger. ‘Not Downing’s? You said you have been in
Holland, and he is recently returned from there.’

‘Then he predicted the collapse of the Commonwealth and became a Royalist,’ elaborated Robert. ‘However, no one likes a turncoat,
not even one who turns to the King.’

He spat, leaving Chaloner wondering whether he had been cornered by a pair of rebels. Or were they Cavaliers, hired to ferret
out potential traitors by encouraging
seditious talk? He listened to their dialogue uneasily, heartily wishing he had a better understanding of affairs in his
native country.

‘And in order to prove himself, he did that unspeakably nasty thing which shocked Dutchmen and Englishmen alike,’ added Leybourn.
Chaloner kept his expression neutral: Downing’s controversial action the previous March was certainly not something he was
prepared to discuss with strangers. ‘It meant he and his household were obliged to leave The Hague rather abruptly. Are we
right, Heyden? Is Downing your master?’

After a moment’s reflection, Chaloner opted for honesty again: he did not want to be reported as a suspicious character by
declining to answer, and Leybourn was too astute for brazen lies.

‘I worked for Downing,’ he admitted, watching the bookseller’s triumphant grin that he had been right. ‘But he did not need
a Dutch-speaking clerk in London, so I was released.’

‘Consider yourself fortunate. No decent man should align himself with such a villain.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner fervently. ‘He should not.’

‘You do not like him?’ asked Robert keenly.

Since very few people liked Downing, especially once they had met him, Chaloner had no qualms about voicing his real opinion
of the man. ‘I do not. He dismissed me without testimonials, because he said I was untrustworthy.’

‘Why did he think that?’ asked Leybourn curiously.

Chaloner shrugged. ‘Well, I did carry on with his daughter’s governess for a couple of years.’

‘Did you wed her?’ asked Robert, brazenly prying now. ‘Or were you just trying to annoy a man who prides
himself on being able to seduce any wench who takes his fancy?’

‘She still comes to me most nights,’ replied Chaloner evasively.

‘She will not take you, because you are poor,’ surmised Leybourn with his annoying intuitiveness. He nodded at Chaloner’s
head. ‘At a time when men are proud to display flowing locks, yours are short. You have good, thick hair, the kind a wigmaker
might purchase from a man in urgent need of funds.’

‘I usually wear a periwig,’ said Chaloner, wondering how the man was able to draw so many accurate conclusions. It was disconcerting,
and he did not like it. He pulled the headpiece, which the wigmaker had provided as part of the bargain, from his pocket.
He hated it: it smelled of the horse whose tail had provided the raw materials, and had a tendency to slip to one side. ‘But
I was hot.’

‘Where do you live?’ asked Leybourn. ‘If it is near Cripplegate, we can share a carriage.’

‘
I
would rather walk,’ said Robert, beginning to move away. ‘The last time I treated myself to a carriage, the driver went to
the Fleet Rookery and abandoned me there. I lost my purse and most of my clothes to villains who crept out of the shadows
with staves and knives.’

‘I will go by water,’ said Chaloner, watching him disappear into the crowd.

‘Then I will come with you,’ said Leybourn, in the kind of voice that suggested objections would be futile. ‘I fancy a jaunt
on the river. How far will you be going?’

Chaloner regarded him coolly. Was he employed by the new government to watch men who had once been in Thurloe’s pay? Or was
he hired by Kelyng or Downing,
and his tirades against them were a ruse to gain the confidence of dissenters? Or was he just a nosy bookseller, and Chaloner
had been an agent for so long that he was apt to be wary of everyone? He studied the thin, eager features as they walked,
and all his experience failed him: he could not tell whether Leybourn was friend or foe.

The quickest way to the nearest pier – the Westminster Stairs – was through the Holbein Gate, a sturdy but shabby edifice
that straddled King Street and was a major obstacle for carts. Drivers regularly clamoured for it to be demolished, but the
King stubbornly resisted any attempts to reduce the size of his palace. The gate boasted several stately chambers, and their
current occupant, Chaloner learned from Leybourn, was Lady Castlemaine. Chaloner suspected that most of the stories about
the King’s favourite mistress were wildly exaggerated. When he had visited his boyhood home in Buckinghamshire that summer,
his brothers had told him she regularly amassed gambling debts of a hundred thousand pounds, and his sisters thought she was
a secret drinker. Now Leybourn was claiming she was pregnant with another of the King’s brats, although her meek husband declared
it was his own.

‘It is not, of course,’ declared Leybourn, negotiating his way along King Street. For a major thoroughfare, it was wretchedly
narrow. Vehicles were nearly always at a standstill, and the congestion sometimes had to be sorted out by armed soldiers.
The squeal of metal wheels on cobbles was amplified by the towering buildings on either side and, combined with the yells
of traders and the racket of cattle being driven to the slaughterhouses, Chaloner could barely hear Leybourn bawling in his
ear. ‘I doubt Lord Castlemaine has been within a mile of his
wedding bed for years. That honour is reserved for those with the funds to buy her expensive gifts.’

They reached the mighty façade of Westminster Hall, where a small crowd lingered around the place where the heads and limbs
of traitors were displayed. Chaloner looked away, not wanting to see the decaying remnants of men he had met in life. Leybourn
led the way to a damp wooden pier that boasted a jostling flotilla of waiting boats. Immediately, another clamour assailed
their ears, as rivermen vied for their custom, offering improbably low prices that would be inflated with hidden extras at
the end of the journey. Leybourn seemed to enjoy the barter, and eventually selected a villainous-looking fellow with no teeth.
Chaloner followed them down the slick green steps and into a bobbing craft.

He scanned the pier as he scrambled into the bow, alert for any indication that he might have been followed. He did not think
Kelyng could have caught up with him, since he had rushed off in the opposite direction, but Bennet might have managed. However,
there was nothing amiss, and he began to relax, grateful to rest his aching leg. Leybourn and the boatman continued to haggle
as they moved away from the jetty and eased into the powerful current that carried them north and then east, towards Temple
Stairs where Chaloner intended to disembark. He had no idea what Leybourn would do, since Cripplegate was a good way from
the river.

Then he heard running footsteps. It was Bennet. The chamberlain seized a riverman by the shoulder, pointed at Chaloner’s craft,
and silver flashed. The message was clear: more would be given if the fellow caught up. The boatman grabbed his oars, clearly
intending to have whatever had been offered. Chaloner watched, aware that a
vessel containing three people could not possibly outrun one carrying two, the driver of which was already hauling as though
his life depended on it. It was gaining, while Chaloner’s man was enjoying a niggardly debate with Leybourn about the cost
of oysters. With nowhere to run, and no means to escape, Chaloner was trapped like a fish in a barrel.

Bennet knelt in his boat, bracing himself against the rocking motion, and took a pistol from under his cloak. If his riverman
thought this irregular, he made no comment, and only continued to haul on his oars for all he was worth. Chaloner’s own man
faltered when he saw the weapon.

‘Pull,’ Chaloner ordered, scrambling forward and grabbing an oar. The boatman obeyed with mute terror, and they began to ease
ahead. Then Chaloner saw Bennet extend his arm and squint along the barrel. Even the most dire of marksmen could not miss
at such close range, and he braced himself for the impact.

But Leybourn hauled something from his doublet. ‘Fireball!’ he yelled, hurling it at the other craft. It landed with a thud
that was audible even at a distance. Bennet’s oarsman gave a shriek of horror and dived overboard. Bennet tried to maintain
his balance in the savagely bucking craft, but soon disappeared with an almighty splash. Chaloner’s man cheered wildly, and
stood to make obscene gestures at the bobbing heads that surfaced a moment later. Leybourn sat with a satisfied smile
stamped across his thin features.

‘What was it really?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Tobacco,’ replied the bookseller. ‘A customer gave it to me in exchange for one of my pamphlets. I am sorry to see the Thames
have it, but it cannot be helped.’

‘It is a waste,’ agreed the boatman. He elbowed Chaloner away, wanting the craft back under his own control. ‘This will affect
the fare, gentlemen. Me being threatened with firearms costs extra.’

‘And you being you rescued from gun-toting lunatics does not come cheap, either,’ retorted Leybourn tartly. ‘I charge for
that sort of service, so I advise you to stick to our original agreement or you may find yourself in debt at the end of the
journey.’

‘He was trying to kill your friend,’ objected the boatman. ‘
You
endangered
me
, by making me carry you when Gervaise Bennet was after your blood. If you got on
his
wrong side, then you had no business asking me to take you upriver. I might have been killed.’

‘You are mistaken,’ said Leybourn smoothly. He pointed forward, to where another boat was in disarray, oars in the water as
it rotated hopelessly out of control. A large, heavily paunched man in a red wig, and a pretty, fattish girl carrying a long-handled
parasol were shrieking their alarm while their boatman paddled ineffectually with his hands. ‘Bennet was aiming at them. It
was my quick thinking that saved the day, but
they
were the ones he was trying to shoot.’

‘I doubt it,’ said the boatman, inspecting the stricken craft as they passed. ‘The passengers are Sir John Robinson and his
daughter Fanny. Bennet would never risk harming Fanny.’

‘But he does not feel as benevolent towards her father,’
argued Leybourn. ‘He might well want to put a ball in Robinson’s heart.’

The names meant nothing to Chaloner. ‘Who are they?’

‘Robinson is Lord Mayor of London,’ replied the boatman, regarding him askance. ‘Every decent soul knows that. He is a powerful
and wealthy merchant, with fingers in every pie worth eating.’

‘Robinson is also Lieutenant of the Tower,’ added Leybourn helpfully. ‘Bennet wanted to marry his daughter, but his offer
was declined in no uncertain terms.’

‘Bennet is a chamberlain,’ said Chaloner, surprised. ‘Yet he set his sights on the Lord Mayor’s daughter? I would have thought
he was aiming somewhat above his station.’

The boatman nodded, relishing an opportunity to give his opinion. ‘So it was no surprise when he was turned down.’

‘No surprise to most folk,’ corrected Leybourn. ‘It came as a great shock to Bennet himself, however. Rumour has it that he
dressed himself in his finest clothes and arrived bearing a bribe of forty silver spoons. Apparently, he was stunned when
Robinson told him to leave.’

‘I heard it was Fanny who told him where to go,’ said the boatman, laughing. ‘Robinson took a fancy to the spoons, and was
seriously considering the offer.’

Leybourn waved a hand to indicate detail was unimportant. ‘It is common knowledge that Bennet had decided to wed Fanny, so
it was deeply mortifying for him to be publicly rejected.’

‘Why did he think he had a chance?’ pressed Chaloner.
He had guessed, from Bennet’s clothes and demeanour, that he considered himself something special, and his attitude to Kelyng
had verged on the insolent. But even with delusions of grandeur, it was still a massive leap from hired servant to the son-in-law
of an influential merchant.

‘Ambition and an inflated notion of his own worth,’ replied Leybourn. ‘And he was rejected for two reasons. First, because
he is just what he appears: a bully in fancy clothes. And second, he is in the pay of Kelyng, and no one wants anything to
do with
him
.’

‘Why not?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Because he is a fanatic, and thus a man without reason. Although he is said to be fond of cats.’

‘It was men with violent opinions who got the last king beheaded,’ stated the boatman, giving voice to an inflexible view
of his own, ‘
and
who got that traitor Cromwell on the throne—’

‘Cromwell was never king,’ said Chaloner pedantically. ‘The crown was offered, but he refused.’

‘Only because he knew he could never keep it,’ said Leybourn acidly. ‘I suspect he was sorely tempted by the thought of King
Oliver.’

‘Did you see him dug up?’ asked the boatman conversationally, as he rowed. ‘When I learned he was going to be prised from
his tomb, I went to watch. I saw his corpse plucked out and taken to Tyburn for hanging.’

‘I was busy,’ said Leybourn distastefully. ‘But Kelyng was there, laughing his delight. Inflicting justice on Roundheads –
dead or alive – is the sort of thing he enjoys very much.’

Chaloner winced. He was not particularly squeamish, but very little would have induced him to witness such
a spectacle. To him, the Royalists’ treatment of Cromwell’s body had smacked of a spoiled child stamping its foot because
it had been deprived of its revenge, and he recalled the revulsion of the Dutch when the story had reached Holland. He did
not know how Englishmen dared accuse Netherlanders of debauched and grotesque behaviour when they hacked up old corpses to
provide the public with an afternoon of entertainment. He could not imagine what a black day it must have been for Thurloe,
to see the remains of his friend so barbarously treated.

When the craft bumped against the seaweed-draped Temple Stairs, Leybourn dropped some coins in the boatman’s hand – enough
to earn him a pleased grin – and clambered inelegantly to dry land. He waved away Chaloner’s offer to pay half.

‘Who
are
you?’ asked Chaloner, as he and the bookseller walked along the narrow lane that divided the Middle Temple from Inner Temple.
London’s four ‘Inns of Court’ – Lincoln’s, Gray’s, Middle Temple and Inner Temple – were all solid, semi-fortified foundations
that stood aloof from the teeming metropolis that surrounded them, and within their towering walls stood peaceful courtyards,
manicured gardens and gracious halls. But the public alley that ran between Inner and Middle temples, and provided access
to the river from Fleet Street, was a foetid tunnel with a gate at either end, and a world apart from the rarified domains
it transected. ‘You are no mere peddler of books.’

Leybourn was indignant. ‘No, I am not! Robert and I print and sell books to earn an honest crust, but I am actually a surveyor
and a mathematician of some repute. Have you never heard of me? I have written a number
of erudite pamphlets and treatises. You can come to see them in my shop if you do not believe me.’

Chaloner remained unconvinced. ‘Who do you work for? The King?’

‘I work for no man!’ protested Leybourn. His expression became spiteful. ‘It is a good deal safer that way, if you are anything
to go by. First Kelyng was after you, then Bennet. What have you done to make such dangerous enemies?’

‘It must have been a case of mistaken identity.’

‘Really,’ said Leybourn flatly. ‘Well, do not underestimate them. They may be bumbling fools, but they are dangerous ones.
Kelyng is so ardently Royalist that he sees conspiracies everywhere, and if he thinks you are an enemy of the King, he will
not rest until you are dead. And Bennet is vengeful, mean and ambitious. You would be wise to stay out their way.’

‘So would you. It was your tobacco that brought about Bennet’s ducking. But thank you for the ride.’ They were nearing the
end of the lane. ‘If there is anything I can do in return …’

‘A generous offer,’ said Leybourn sullenly, ‘from a man who declines to tell me where he lives. I will never find you again,
even if I do have a favour to ask.’

‘You can leave a message for me at the Golden Lion on Fetter Lane.’

‘I might, then,’ said Leybourn. He forced a smile. ‘I have enjoyed meeting you, Heyden. It is not every day I am obliged to
rescue someone from waving pistols.’

‘And it is not every day I owe my life to a well-lobbed ball of tobacco,’ said Chaloner with a pleasant smile, passing through
the gate at the end of the lane and
emerging into Fleet Street. ‘Good morning, Mr Leybourn – and thank you.’

Once through the gate, Chaloner limped towards St Dunstan-in-the-West, unwilling to visit Thurloe until he was sure he was
not being followed. Fleet Street was perfect for tailing someone, because it was chaotic and busy, and the huddle of illegal
stalls along each side provided ample opportunity for disguise and concealment. Leybourn was adequate – he kept his distance
and exchanged his wide-brimmed hat for a skullcap – but nowhere near good enough to fool Chaloner. Smiling, because he had
suspected from the start that the encounter had been engineered, Chaloner ambled past the church, then ducked behind a carriage,
using it as a shield to mask his entry into the game shop at the end of Fetter Lane.

Bright pheasants, pearl-feathered pigeons and dull-eyed rabbits swung from the rafters, while the limp bodies of deer were
draped in the window, like curtains. The room smelled of the sawdust scattered on the floor and the cloying scent of old death:
some of the corpses had been hung rather too long. Chaloner pretended to be inspecting a hare as he waited to see what would
happen outside.

Within moments, Leybourn appeared, looking this way and that in mounting annoyance when he realised he had lost his quarry.
Chaloner was puzzled. Who was he? The man had certainly saved him: Bennet could not have missed at such close range, and it
had only ever been a faint hope that he could have been out-rowed. But why had Leybourn risked himself ? Had Thurloe set a
spy to watch a spy? But how could Thurloe have known
Chaloner would end up near White Hall when he was dispatched to follow the two robbers?

After a while, Leybourn gave up the chase and walked back the way he had come. Chaloner waited a moment, then made for the
door. Escape, however, was not to be so easy. Blocking the exit was the largest bird he had ever seen and, unlike the other
feathered occupants of the shop, this one was alive and looked dangerous. It fluffed up its green-brown feathers, and the
bare skin on its neck flushed with bad temper.

‘Do not move,’ came a hoarse whisper from the back of the shop. ‘If you do, it will have you.’

‘Thomas!’ cried another voice, this one familiar. At first, Chaloner could see no one, but then he spotted his neighbour’s
daughter, Temperance, crouching atop a cupboard and clutching her drab Puritan skirts decorously around her knees. He liked
the nineteen-year-old, who was as tall and almost as bulky as he, but who had a kind face and gentle hazel eyes. He often
thought that if her father had allowed her more social contact, then they might have been friends.

‘What are you doing there?’ he asked. It was unlike the demure Temperance to climb furniture.

‘I am trapped,’ she replied, although he could hear laughter in her voice. She thought her predicament amusing, unlike the
raw terror of the first person who had spoken. ‘That bird snaps at me every time I try to reach the door. Be careful. It is
very vicious.’

‘Is it a turkey?’ asked Chaloner. He had read about turkeys, and had even eaten some at a feast given by Downing in The Hague
once, but he had never seen one alive.

‘It was supposed to have been delivered dead,’ came
the whisper. Chaloner looked around the shop, but still could not locate the speaker. ‘I am a
game
dealer.
Game
means someone is supposed to have shot it. How am I supposed to cope with living goods?’

Chaloner jumped back as the bird lunged at him, beak open in an angry gape and wattles bobbling menacingly. ‘It will be dead
soon enough if it does that again.’

‘Really?’ asked the voice eagerly. ‘You would be doing me a great service if you were to dispatch it. My regular patrons are
too frightened to visit, and the damned thing is ruining me. It has been here almost a week now, and you and Miss North are
the first customers I have seen since Tuesday. Look out! Here it comes again!’

Chaloner took a piece of bread from his pocket – left from the meagre breakfast he had eaten while waiting to see Thurloe
– and tossed it towards the bird, hoping to stall its relentless advance. The ugly head dropped towards the offering, then
began to peck, flinging the bread this way and that as it broke it into manageable pieces.

‘It is just hungry,’ said Chaloner, watching it with pity. ‘Do you have any seed?’

‘I am not usually required to feed my merchandise, but I suppose I can make an exception,’ replied the voice. ‘Look in the
cupboard behind you. There should be some barley.’

Chaloner eased towards the chest while the bird was occupied, and found the sack of grain. He scrambled away in alarm when
a thick neck suddenly thrust under his arm in an attempt to reach the food. The bird was a fast and silent mover. There followed
a brief tussle, in which the turkey tried to grab the bag and Chaloner resisted. When the bird’s neck was stretched to full
length,
the snapping beak was uncomfortably close to his face, and the furious cackling at close quarters was unsettling.