A Conspiracy of Violence (6 page)

‘Do not antagonise it!’ cried Temperance, frightened for him. ‘Let it have what it wants.’

‘Turkeys will slay a fellow without a moment’s hesitation,’ yelped the voice at the same time. ‘In New England, they are feared
by man and beast alike.’

With difficulty, Chaloner managed to extricate a fistful of grain, and the bird’s head followed his hand to the floor, gobbling
greedily. He edged around it while it was feeding, and began to lay a trail. ‘Where do you want it?’

‘I want it dead,’ said the voice. ‘Use your dagger to cut its throat while its mind is on the barley.’

Chaloner studied the featherless neck without enthusiasm. He had never enjoyed killing, and suspected any assault on the turkey’s
life would end with them both being hurt, since he had no idea how to slaughter something of its ilk. Besides, there was something
about the bird’s bristling defiance that appealed to him. ‘I will entice it out of your shop, but you can dispatch it yourself.’

‘I cannot!’ cried the voice in horror. ‘Not a great, dangerous brute like that!’

‘It can stay in here, then,’ said Chaloner, watching it eat. It was clearly starving, and the barley was probably the first
food it had seen in days. It was no surprise the creature was in such a foul mood.

The disembodied voice released a resigned sigh. ‘Then lead it into the yard. But for God’s sake make sure the gate is closed
first. I do not want it to get into Fleet Street – I will be fined.’ ‘You are limping,’ said Temperance, watching

Chaloner entice the bird towards the back door. ‘Did it bite you?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly. That was something he would have to remember to disguise when he met Thurloe: the ex-Spymaster
could not be expected to recommend anyone in a poor physical condition. ‘There is grain in my boot.’

‘Then get it out,’ advised the voice. ‘Or that greedy bird will chew through your foot to get at it.’

It was not long before the turkey was installed in a tiny garden with the rest of the barley and a bowl of water. A thickset,
lugubrious man with a black beard emerged from under a bench to watch it through the window, while Chaloner helped Temperance
down from her perch.

‘Thank you,’ she said gratefully. ‘I was beginning to think I might be there all day. I knew it was a mistake to order one
of those things for Christmas, but mother insisted. They dine on turkey in New England, you see, and she wanted to show kinship
for our distant Puritan brethren.’

‘If she wants to eat like them, then she is going to have to behead it herself,’ said the shopkeeper shakily. ‘You can tell
her it is in the yard, waiting.’

The turkey incident had taken some time, but Chaloner was not entirely convinced Leybourn had really gone. He walked across
the road to Praisegod Barbon’s leather factory, and pretended to inspect the jumble of displayed merchandise. Barbon, only
recently released from the Tower for anti-Royalist ranting, nodded a startled welcome to a rare customer, but Chaloner declined
to engage in conversation, and lingered near the door while he waited to see whether the bookseller would reappear. It was
the first opportunity he had had to draw breath
since chasing Snow and Storey out of Lincoln’s Inn, and he used the time to think carefully about the theft of the satchel
and the stabbing of the post-boy.

Most of Thurloe’s spies were now unemployed, and Chaloner would not be the only one wanting to be hired by the new government.
Was the entire incident a test, to see who was the most efficient, and whose name should go forward? Chaloner would not put
such a trick past the wily Thurloe. The question was, would returning the satchel with news that its theft had been ordered
by Kelyng be sufficient, or would Thurloe expect robbers in tow, too?

Bells chimed, telling him it was noon, and that he had been gone more than four hours – too long. He donned the hated wig,
and to ensure he was not being followed, took a tortuous route through the Clare Market to Lincoln’s Inn. The market, recently
established by the Earl of Clare, was a chaotic jumble of stalls, alleys, sheds and runnels. Chaloner held his sleeve over
his nose when he passed the shambles, wincing at the rank, choking stench that emanated from the butchers’ and fishmongers’
shops. He emerged near the new theatre built for the Duke’s Company in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, although all the ornate plasterwork
in the world could not disguise the fact that it had enjoyed a previous life as a tennis court. Checking for the last time
that he was alone, he cut across the Fields to Chancery Lane.

The gate to Lincoln’s Inn was answered by the same porter who had admitted him that morning. The man raised his eyebrows questioningly,
and Chaloner brandished the satchel, feigning a buoyancy he did not feel. The porter grinned and waved him inside, letting
him make his own way to Thurloe’s apartments. Chaloner
crossed a neat square that was bound by accommodation wings to the north, west and east, and the chapel to the south. It
was dominated by one of the ugliest sundials he had ever seen. He weaved through knots of black-gowned students, then climbed
a set of creaking stairs in the building that abutted on to the western end of the chapel, before knocking on the door to
Chamber XIII.

Thurloe’s suite comprised rooms on two levels, all boasting oak panelling and a comforting, homely odour of wax and wood smoke.
On the lower floor were a bedchamber and sitting room, both with dark furniture that rendered them gloomy and sombre. Shelves
lined the walls, bowing under the weight of books. Most were legal texts, purchased when Thurloe had decided to eschew politics
and turn to the law again. Chaloner glanced at the spines, and wondered whether any had been bought from William Leybourn
of Monkwell Street, Cripplegate. The upper floor comprised a garret for his manservant – an elusive, unobtrusive fellow whom
Chaloner suspected was dumb – and a pantry where his meals were prepared.

When Chaloner entered the sitting room, he saw a fire blazing in the hearth and Thurloe sitting so close to it that there
was a smell of singed cloth. That morning he had visitors, which was unusual: he was almost always alone, and there were rumours
that his fall from grace had left him with no friends. One of the three guests Chaloner knew well, although it was not someone
he would have chosen to meet. Ten years older than Chaloner, Sir George Downing was a florid man, whose expensive green coat
failed to disguise the fact that he was growing fat. He was confident, aggressive, and cared
for no one’s opinion – unless he thought the acquaintance might be useful, in which case he was greasily obsequious. Given
that he had betrayed Thurloe by changing sides before the Protectorate had fully disintegrated, Chaloner was surprised to
see the fellow in the ex-Spymaster’s home.

The second man Chaloner did not know. He was in his fifties, and wore an eccentric arrangement of waistcoats and doublets.
All were well made, suggesting he was wealthy. When he raised his handkerchief to dab his lips, the scent of oranges wafted
across the room. The hand holding the napkin was unsteady, and Chaloner was under the impression that the knock at the door
had startled him. He was accompanied by a lady who wore a dress that fell in sumptuous pleats, and with short, straight sleeves
that ended in a series of elaborate ruffs. It was a style made popular by those wanting to emulate the sensuous Lady Castlemaine,
and Chaloner knew the neckline would be indecently low. In this case, however, the suggestive plunge was concealed by a gorget
– a decorous cape-like collar – fastened with a jewelled clasp. She was considerably younger than her husband, and her lively
blue eyes and aristocratic posture suggested the gorget would be whipped off as soon as she was away from the company of prim
men.

‘Thomas,’ said Thurloe, as Chaloner entered. ‘You were gone so long I thought you had decided not to come back. What happened?
Are you limping?’

‘No, sir,’ replied Chaloner, aware that Downing was regarding him with open disdain. He glanced down and realised his clothes
were dishevelled and stained, and was annoyed the man should see him looking quite so disrepu-table.
He did not want him to have the satisfaction of knowing his refusal to provide a reference had reduced a former ‘employee’
to near destitution.

‘You cannot hide it for ever,’ said Downing spitefully. ‘Being lame cannot make it easy to find profitable work. No one hires
cripples, when there are whole men to be had.’

Before Chaloner could think of a suitable reply – the ones that sprung immediately to mind were far too vulgar to be uttered
in Thurloe’s genteel presence – the ex-Spymaster went to a jug on the table, gesturing towards the hearth as he did so. ‘Sit,
while I pour you a tonic, Tom. My physician recommended this potion of strengthening herbs, and it does help of a morning.
Take that stool.’

Chaloner declined, knowing perfectly well that he would struggle to rise once he was down, and when Thurloe gave one of his
small, secret smiles he inwardly cursed his stiff knee – the seat had been offered to test his fitness, and Chaloner’s refusal
had told the clever lawyer exactly what he had wanted to know. Thurloe handed him something brown in a silver goblet, which
he accepted cautiously: as a man often in poor health, Thurloe tended to swallow a good many draughts that promised vitality
and well-being. Most tasted foul and all were probably worthless.

‘Have we met before?’ asked the stranger, studying him. ‘There is something familiar about you.’

‘Your paths have never crossed,’ replied Thurloe with considerable conviction. He held out his hand for the satchel. ‘Did
you buy my cinnamon, Tom? It is difficult to come by these days, and there is nothing like spice in hot milk on a cold winter’s
evening.’

‘You have gone from diplomatic envoy to housemaid, have you, Heyden?’ asked Downing with a sneer. ‘Could you not find a better
use for your talents after we parted company? You must have fallen on very hard times if that wig is anything to go by.’

‘That is hardly his fault,’ said Thurloe sharply. ‘Clerks flocked to London in their thousands after the Restoration, and
there is little hope for a man without proper testimonials, as you know very well – just as you also know that one from
me
would do him scant good, either. No household professing to be Royalist would employ a man recommended by a former Parliamentarian
minister.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped he was mistaken.

Downing waved a plump hand, to indicate he did not consider Chaloner’s predicament important. ‘I dismissed nearly all my retainers
last spring, because I want everyone to know that
I
only hire Cavaliers. Obviously, that description does not apply to the men who were pressed on me by
you
, John. We are friends, but I am sure you appreciate my point.’ He shot Thurloe a meaningful glance.

Thurloe grimaced, and it was clear to Chaloner that he did not consider Downing a friend, and nor was he happy about the indiscreet
references to matters of intelligence.

‘You dismissed anyone you suspected of remaining loyal to Cromwell, Sir George?’ asked the woman, regarding the diplomat with
some amusement. ‘How can you be sure you eliminated the right ones?’

‘By ridding myself of the lot, except for some maids, women who …’ Downing flapped his hand expansively.

‘Come to your bedchamber when your wife is away?’ suggested Chaloner.

‘Whom I know to be firm Royalists,’ finished Downing with a scowl.

‘Why did you decline to write their testimonials?’ the woman asked. ‘Because you do not want other wealthy households to harbour
deadly Roundheads under their roofs?’

‘I gave them all testimonials, except Heyden here,’ replied Downing curtly, not liking the tone of her voice. He glowered
at her, while Chaloner recalled how he had thought Thurloe overly cautious five years before, when he had insisted that Downing
should not know his real name. Now he was greatly relieved by it. In fact, Thurloe was the only man in London who did know
and, given the rabid Parliamentarian convictions of one of his uncles – the most widely known and outspoken member of his
family – Chaloner hoped to keep it that way.

‘And what did poor Heyden do to incur your displeasure?’ asked the woman with arched eyebrows. ‘Provide an alternative bed
for these Royalist lasses?’

‘Sarah!’ exclaimed Thurloe, shocked. As a devout Puritan, although by no means a fanatic, lewd jests were anathema to him.
‘Please!’

‘I do not like his handwriting,’ replied Downing stiffly, although a shifty expression in his eyes indicated she was near
the truth. ‘And he made two mistakes with my accounts – minor ones, it is true, but a clerk must strive for accuracy.’ He
glanced at Thurloe, passing the message that if errors were made in this, then could Chaloner’s espionage reports be trusted?

‘Two small errors in the five years he served you is hardly serious,’ said Thurloe reproachfully. ‘And his other skills must
have been of value to you – his fluency in Spanish, French and Dutch, for example.’

‘Dutch?’ asked the stranger with a sudden eagerness. ‘How well can you speak Dutch?’

‘Like a native, so they said,’ replied Downing before Chaloner could answer for himself. ‘He jabbered incessantly in the filthy
tongue when he was in Holland, and I dislike servants having discussions I cannot understand. You never know what they might
be saying about you.’

‘
I
do business with the Dutch,’ said the man. He raised his handkerchief to his lips again. ‘It is rare to find an Englishman
who knows their language. Perhaps I might have a place for you, Heyden. Visit my house on the Strand next week. Thurloe will
tell you how to find it.’

‘Once or twice, there was uproarious laughter,’ Downing went on darkly, shooting the fellow a glance full of comradely warning.
‘I am certain he was cracking jokes at my expense – making sport of me in the knowledge that I had no choice but to sit there
and grin like a half-wit. Think very carefully before you make any decisions, my friend.’