A Conspiracy Of Violence

Book 1: Adventures of Thomas Chaloner

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Susanna Gregory, author of the Matthew Bartholomew series of medieval mysteries, has created another compelling fictional detective set in Restoration London.

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The first adventure in the Thomas Chaloner series.

The dour days of Cromwell are over.

Charles II is well established at White Hall Palace, his mistress at hand in rooms over the Holbein bridge, the heads of some of the regicides on public display. London seethes with new energy, freed from the strictures of the Protectorate, but many of its inhabitants have lost their livelihoods. One is Thomas Chaloner, a reluctant spy for the feared Secretary of State, John Thurloe, and now returned from Holland in desperate need of employment. His erstwhile boss, knowing he has many enemies at court, recommends Thomas to Lord Clarendon, but in return demands that Thomas keep him informed of any plot against him. But what Thomas discovers is that Thurloe had sent another ex-employee to White Hall and he is dead, supposedly murdered by footpads near the Thames. Chaloner volunteers to investigate his killing: instead he is dispatched to the Tower to unearth the gold buried by the last Governor. He discovers not treasure, but evidence that greed and self-interest are uppermost in men's minds whoever is in power, and that his life has no value to either side.

'Pungent with historical detail' (Irish Times)

'A richly imagined world of colourful medieval society and irresistible monkish sleuthing' (Good Book Guide)

'Corpses a-plenty, exciting action sequences and a satisfying ending' (Mystery People)

Release date: December 2, 2010

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 512

Sample

London, December 1662

Sleet pattered wetly on the dung-coated cobbles outside Lincoln’s Inn, and the biting wind had long-since blown out the lamp
that swung above the gate. The night was so dark that it was difficult even to make out the craggy outlines of the chimneys and turrets that topped the ancient walls, and the sturdy gate was no more than a looming mass of black.

Thomas Chaloner eased farther inside the doorway of the Rolls Chapel, invisible in his black cloak and the blacker shadows.
It was bitterly cold, and his hands and feet were numb from standing still so long, but he was used to that kind of discomfort.
Observing the movements of others while remaining unseen was how he made his living, because Chaloner was a government spy. Or rather, he had been a government spy. He had been dismissed in March, and his situation was fast becoming desperate – he owed rent to his landlord, there was no food in the larder and even his best clothes were beginning to look hopelessly tatty. And that was why he was lurking outside Lincoln’s Inn on an icy December morning, waiting for dawn and the interview that might be his salvation.

The man he wanted to see was named John Thurloe. Thurloe had been Oliver Cromwell’s Secretary of State and Spymaster General
during the Commonwealth, and when that regime had collapsed following Cromwell’s death, Thurloe had fallen with it, and had
lost his position of power – although fortunately for Chaloner, he had retained a modicum of influence over his successors.
The restored King Charles II immediately appointed good Royalists to form his new government, but they had scant idea how
to run a country, and Thurloe’s advice and guidance had proved invaluable, although few of the newcomers were prepared to
admit it.

A group of leatherworkers slouched past, heading for the factory on Fleet Street, although none noticed the silent, motionless
figure in the doorway. The factory was owned by a political fanatic called Praisegod Barbon, whose name had been adopted for
one of Cromwell’s more rabid parliaments, and so its goods were unpopular in Royalist London – no one wanted to be accused
of supporting adherents of the old regime. Consequently, Barbon’s men were shabbily dressed and resentful about their change
of fortune. Chaloner sympathised with their plight, and wondered how many others were consigned to poverty because of circumstances beyond their control. He watched them pass, then turned his attention back to Lincoln’s Inn, wishing dawn would come, so he could abandon his chilly vigil and go to meet Thurloe in his warm chambers.

Chaloner was not usually given to hovering outside the homes of former employers, but he was uneasy about the interview, aware that its outcome would effect the rest of his life. While he waited, he recalled how, when the republic had first started to shake itself to pieces, he had been in Holland, assigned to a diplomat named Sir George Downing. Downing had hedged his bets – offering his services to the flustered ministers of the old regime, as well as to the exiled King –
until he was sure which side would emerge victorious. He had kept Chaloner on his staff for two years after the Restoration,
because Chaloner’s reports on the Dutch navy were useful to any British government and Downing was more than happy to take credit for them. But in March, Downing had left The Hague and returned to England, where he and Chaloner had quarrelled violently. In a fury, he had dismissed the spy in a way that had made it difficult for him to find other work. Now, after months of futile applications, Chaloner saw his only hope was to ask Thurloe to intervene, and see whether he knew any government officials who might require an experienced pair of ears and eyes.

The significance of the meeting meant he had been unable to sleep, and he knew the time would pass more quickly if he was doing something – even if it were only standing uselessly outside Lincoln’s Inn. Also, he did not want his restlessness to communicate itself to his woman, who was sure to question him about it if it did – and he did not want Metje to know what he was doing until he was sure he had some good news. She was becoming irritated with his unsuccessful attempts to find work in the city, and he did not want to admit yet another failure if his interview with Thurloe failed to bear fruit.

Time ticked past slowly. The bells in St Clement Danes chimed five o’clock then six, and the city began to stir. Smoke scented the damp air as fires were kindled, and lights started to gleam along Chancery Lane. Chaloner waited until a smudge of lighter blue appeared in the eastern sky, then crossed the road to Lincoln’s Inn’s stocky gatehouse. Lincoln’s Inn was one of four foundations with the right to license lawyers, and had been built in an age when strong doors and high walls were a prerequisite for survival.

A porter answered his knock eventually, rubbing his eyes in a way that indicated he had been asleep. He was not used to visitors
calling so early, and was more interested in his breakfast than in conducting guests to the chambers of residents. He waved Chaloner inside, then set about laying the fire in his lodge. It was too bitter a morning to be long without some warmth.

‘Where are you going?’ he called when Chaloner set off in the direction of Chamber XIII. ‘I thought you were here to see Mr
Thurloe.’

‘Does he no longer live in Dial Court?’

The porter smiled fondly. ‘He lives there – he loves those rooms, although they are too dark and gloomy for my taste. But Mr Thurloe walks in the gardens at dawn every day. Everyone knows that, and you have been here before – I never forget a face.’

Chaloner was impressed. ‘It has been months since my last visit.’

The guard grinned, pleased with himself. ‘I have a good memory, which is just as well, since we have to be careful who we
let in – assassination is always a risk for men like Mr Thurloe. Even though it has been nearly three years since the King came home, and everyone knows Mr Thurloe means him no harm, there are still those who want Mr Thurloe dead. But if you want to see him now, it will have to be in the orchard. Go past the chapel, then turn right at the library.’

Chaloner followed his directions, passing the rectangular chapel with its peculiar open undercroft, and the ornate library with its diamond-patterned brickwork. The garden, a pleasant tangle of old fruit trees, overgrown bushes and long grass, lay to their north. The sleet had abated, although the trees still released showers of droplets each time they swayed in the breeze. The air smelled of wet vegetation, sodden soil and the richer aroma of the compost heaps lined up under the library’s windows. Chaloner tried not to shiver when the wind cut through his cloak, afraid Thurloe would interpret it as a sign of nervousness.

The man who was often credited with running Cromwell’s government single-handedly could be seen walking along a path still strewn with old leaves from the previous autumn. He was slightly built, with medium-brown hair that fell to his shoulders. His blue eyes were often soulful, which led people to imagine him gentle or timid. He was neither, and there was a core of steel in Thurloe that had shocked more than one would-be traitor. But although he was ruthless and determined, Chaloner had never known him to be cruel or vindictive – not during his seven years as Secretary of State and Spymaster, or in the unsettled period since the collapse of the Commonwealth. As Chaloner approached, he coughed softly, to let the ex-Spymaster know he was coming.

‘Thomas,’ said Thurloe, relaxing the hand that had been reaching for his sword. ‘You are early.’

‘You said dawn, sir,’ replied Chaloner, glancing up at the sky. The east was definitely lighter than the pitch black of the west.

Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘I suppose distant glimmerings might be considered dawn by some, although not by most. You have been away from England too long, and have adopted foreign notions.’

‘I assumed you would be busy once it was light enough to read.’

Thurloe smiled. ‘Well, let us stroll in the darkness together, then. I do not like these gloomy winter mornings, and your
company will not be unwelcome. What can I do for you?’

‘Do you have a gun, sir?’ asked Chaloner, as they began to walk. He gestured to the walls. ‘It would not be difficult to scale those, and a sword is no protection against a pistol.’

‘Is that why you came?’ asked Thurloe. He sounded amused. ‘To ask after my personal safety?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner sheepishly. ‘I came to ask whether you might write me a testimonial, so I can apply for employment with the new government. As you know, Downing dismissed me in March, and …’ He hesitated, not sure how to describe the awkwardness of his situation without saying anything rude about Downing. For all he knew, Downing and Thurloe were still friends.

‘And he has never liked you, and declines to recommend you to his successor,’ finished Thurloe baldly. ‘Worse, he has put it about White Hall that you should never be hired again.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Chaloner uncomfortably.

‘And his malign influence stretches even further than that,’ Thurloe went on. ‘By declining to write you a reference, he is
effectively ensuring you will never work for any respectable organisation again. Potential employers will want to know what you have been doing all your adult life, and your choice is either to admit an association with Downing, who will then say unpleasant things about you, or confess to being a spy, which is likely to see you killed.’

Chaloner nodded unhappily. ‘But although I worked under him, you were my real master – not just for the past five years in Holland, but in France, Portugal and Denmark before that – and so you are just as qualified to give an account of my skills as he is. In fact, you are more so, because I shared some of my intelligence with him, but not all – anything particularly important was sent to you without his knowledge.’

‘I would never tell him that, if I were you. He would think you considered him untrustworthy.’

‘I did – and I was right,’ said Chaloner, seeing there was no way to explain his situation without denigrating Downing – and
if he and Thurloe were still friends, then that was unfortunate but unavoidable. ‘He was sending information to the exiled King while professing loyalty to you, some of which served to weaken the Commonwealth and hasten its demise.’

‘Hush, Thomas! It is not wise to make such comments, not even to me – especially since I happen to know you were no dedicated
Parliamentarian yourself. Your loyalty lies with your country, not with its shifting governments, which is as it should be.
But we should not waste time discussing Downing. What did you—?’ He dropped his hand to his sword a second time when he became aware of someone moving through the trees.

‘A messenger, sir,’ said Chaloner. The dagger he kept hidden in the sleeve of his tunic had dropped into his hand several moments earlier, when he had heard a twig snap underfoot. ‘From the General Letter Office. I recognise his livery.’

‘It is young Charles-Stewart,’ said Thurloe in relief, beckoning the boy forward. ‘Named after the King we executed thirteen years ago – not that I had any hand in that business, I hasten to add. However, you and I worked for the men who did, which makes us both suspect.’

The boy approached Thurloe with a friendly grin that suggested he had delivered letters to Lincoln’s Inn before, and handed him a satchel. While Thurloe asked after the lad’s ailing mother, Chaloner tactfully withdrew. He was replacing the dagger in its hiding place when there was a blur of movement and Charles-Stewart dropped to his knees. Thurloe stumbled backwards with a cry, and Chaloner saw two figures running towards the wall. One carried the satchel. Chaloner was racing towards them almost before his mind had registered what was happening.

‘Help the boy!’ Thurloe yelled, reaching towards him as he flew past. Chaloner staggered, and almost lost his footing in the
sleet-plastered grass when he tried to avoid colliding with the frantic ex-Spymaster. ‘Do something! Hurry!’

Cursing under his breath, Chaloner skidded to a halt and knelt by the lad’s side, watching the two men scale the wall with half his attention, while the rest told him there was nothing he could do for Charles-Stewart. The knife had entered the lad’s chest and death would have been virtually instant.

‘I am sorry,’ he said to the distraught Thurloe. ‘He is dead.’

Thurloe’s face turned from appalled to dangerous as he hauled Chaloner to his feet and shoved him towards the wall. ‘Then
catch those villains,’ he snarled. ‘Catch them – at all costs!’

Chaloner ran as hard as he could, but was nowhere near fast enough to gain the ground he had lost while stopping to tend the
messenger. The two robbers had turned right along the wide avenue called Holborn, and were almost to the bridge, where he knew they would disappear into the chaotic maze of alleys that crowded the banks of the Fleet River. He forced himself on. Then the shorter of the pair collided with a cart, and his accomplice screamed abuse at him until he could regain his feet. Chaloner began to catch up, but was still too far away to capitalise on the mishap. When he saw they would reach the labyrinth of slums unchecked, the taller of the two turned to give Chaloner a triumphant, jeering salute before ducking down a lane. Chaloner tore towards the entrance, but when he reached it, feet skating across the treacherous, dung-slick cobbles, he found it empty.

The alley was not for the faint-hearted. It lay close to the Fleet, which meant it reeked not only of sewage, but of the odorous fumes released by nearby tanneries, soap-boilers and slaughterhouses. Over the years, tenements had clawed their way upwards
to accommodate the increasing demand for housing, and, with each new floor, they inched closer to the buildings opposite,
so the sky was now no more than a slender grey ribbon high above. At street level the passage was a thin, dark tunnel, too
narrow for carts, and the ground underfoot was soft with old rubbish, squelching and sticky from the night of rain. More lanes radiated off it – dismal, stinking fissures that never saw sunlight. The cluster of hovels known as the Fleet Rookery was the domain of beggars, thieves, ruffians and harlots, living half a dozen or more to one chamber, and only the foolish or unwary ventured into it.

Cautiously, Chaloner eased down the lane, feeling the onset of the familiar stiffness in his left leg that always followed vigorous exercise. Usually, the old war injury was no more than a nuisance – an occasional cramp when the weather turned damp – but a furious run, like the one he had just made from Lincoln’s Inn, had set off the nagging ache he knew would plague him for the rest of the day. He tried to ignore it, concentrating on his surroundings as he allowed the dagger from his sleeve to slide into the palm of his hand for the second time that morning.

Out in the open, on the wide, bustling thoroughfares of roads like Holborn or the Strand, Chaloner was more than a match for
any common cut-throat – time served with Cromwell’s New Model Army before Thurloe had engaged him as a spy meant he knew how to use the weapons he carried – but the cramped, sordid confines of the capital’s slums represented a different challenge.
He knew it was rash to follow criminals into a place where its inhabitants would think nothing of killing a stranger and dumping
his body in the river, but the simple truth was that he could not return to Thurloe and admit defeat – not if he wanted any sort of career in espionage.

He edged along the alley. Nothing moved, except rats foraging among discarded offal from an unlicensed butcher’s shop and
a few rags swinging on a washing line high above his head. The lane emptied into a larger street, and he hung back to assess it. To his right was a tiny square dominated by a rust-and slime-dappled water pump; to his left was a dung cart loaded with barrels for collecting the urine and faeces used by tanneries and gunpowder manufacturers. The cart was so wide that it filled the street completely, leaving gaps of no more than the width of a hand between it and the walls to either side.

Chaloner suspected the dung collector had been paid or forced to leave his wagon in a position that would prevent pursuit. The vehicle’s stench seared the back of his throat, and he did not relish the prospect of scrambling across its top – he knew
that as soon as he did, the driver would flick his whip and the whole thing would jolt forward. If he did not topple into the brimming barrels of his own accord, someone would give him a helping hand, or stab or shoot at him when he was struggling for balance.

He tensed when a window creaked above him, then stepped smartly under the overhanging façade of a towering, five-storied tenement. Swill from a chamber-pot splattered to the ground, joining the refuse and ashes that formed the foetid carpet under his feet. He edged forward, narrowing the gap between him and the cart until he was close enough to crouch down and peer underneath it.

He saw several pairs of human legs, and there was a low murmur of conversation, although he could not hear what was being
said. He stood abruptly when an old woman with a donkey approached from the direction of the square. She released the low, mournful cry that every Londoner knew meant there was fresh milk to be purchased for children and invalids. Customers would answer the call with jugs, and the animal would be milked on the spot. The woman was not alone in advertising her wares. From somewhere deeper inside the labyrinth came the rising yell of a fish-seller, while the bass bellow of a tallow merchant offered the stinking fat that could be turned into cheap candles.

Chaloner considered his options. The robbers were confident now they were on home ground, lingering at the front of the wagon
to chat with the dung collector. And they had good reason to feel safe: even if Chaloner did manage to scale the cart and lay hold of them, then what would he do? Their friends would never allow him to march them to the nearest parish constable, and besides, constables were notoriously corrupt if the right coins appeared, and just as likely to slip a dagger between Chaloner’s ribs and release the thieves. The sensible decision would be to return to Lincoln’s Inn and tell Thurloe that he had done his best, but the culprits had been too far away by the time he had been ordered to give chase.

But he could scarcely apologise to Thurloe for failing to catch Charles-Stewart’s killers with one breath, and ask for a testimonial
with the next. If he wanted to convince the ex-Spymaster of his worth, then he had no choice but to do as he had been ordered.

‘Milk, mister?’ came a voice at Chaloner’s side. The old woman was moving towards him, hemming him in with her donkey. His
fingers tightened around his dagger as he scanned the street for signs of danger, aware that she might have been sent to distract
him while an attack was set up.

‘Not today.’ There was no one else in the street, so he turned his attention to the cart and the men to the front of it.

She eased closer. Her eyes were black and shiny, and gleamed in a face that was a mask of wrinkles. ‘You will not catch them
from here. Go down the alley by the pump, and turn left when you see the barber’s sign. Left again by the ditch will bring you to a place where you can surprise them.’

Chaloner nodded his thanks, but did not imagine for a moment that she was being helpful. She was probably trying to send him
into a trap. ‘I will wait here.’

He crouched again, using the donkey as a shield from anyone who might be aiming a pistol at him. The milling legs behind the
cart had been reduced to just three pairs as onlookers lost interest. One wore boots that had been polished a deep, glossy black. These, Chaloner knew, belonged to the shorter of the two villains – the one who had snatched the satchel. It was the taller of the pair, who now paced restlessly, that had stabbed Charles-Stewart. The third man wore shoes that were thickly crusted in excrement, and were unquestionably the dung collectors.

Chaloner assessed the cart objectively, noting the sturdy planking around its edges. If he kept to one side and moved quickly
enough, he might be able to jump over it and surprise them. His best option would be to fight into a position where he could hold his dagger to the throat of the taller one and ‘persuade’ him to return to Lincoln’s Inn, preferably carrying the satchel. One killer and the return of stolen property might be enough to secure Thurloe’s good graces.

The old woman poked him with a bony finger. ‘They will have a knife in you before your feet touch the ground on the other side.’

Chaloner glanced up at her, surprised she should find his intentions so transparent. ‘Is that so?’

Her face was bleak as she petted her donkey. ‘They killed my son – my Oliver – so I will shake the hand of any man who slits
their throats, but you will not do it by climbing across the cart. They will be expecting you.’

Chaloner did not think he looked like the sort of fellow who slit throats, but supposed his very presence in the Fleet Rookery
was enough to make folk assume the worst. His leather jerkin, breeches and riding boots were worn and unfashionable, but they
were of good quality and marked him as someone who had not always been poor. He was of average height and build, with brown
hair and grey eyes. He had a pleasant face, but not one that was in any way remarkable, and he had worked hard over the years
to make his appearance as unmemorable as possible. Outstanding features were a serious disadvantage for a man who made his
living as a spy.

‘Who will be expecting me?’ he asked, watching his quarry intently.

The old woman tutted her annoyance. ‘Snow and Storey. The men you are chasing.’

‘Are those their names? They did not bother with a formal introduction.’

She made a wheezing sound he assumed was a chuckle. ‘Snow wears good boots – he dyes them blacker every night. Storey has
yellow hair and is taller. Murdering bastards!’

Chaloner wished she would go away.

‘They work for Sir John Kelyng and his chamberlain,’ she went on. ‘They think that makes them better than the rest of us, although most around here would say it makes them vermin.’

Chaloner had no idea who she was talking about. After a decade overseas, he was a virtual stranger in his own country, and
he knew he would have to conceal his ignorance of local politics when he spoke to Thurloe. He did not, however, need to hide
it from nosy old ladies in the Fleet Rookery.

‘Sir John Kelyng?’ he asked, his attention fixed on the feet behind the cart. ‘Who is he?’

The old woman regarded him in disbelief. ‘You do not know Kelyng?’

Chaloner turned to look at her. ‘Should I?’

She continued to gape at him. ‘He is one of the King’s new sergeants-at-law, and was in prison for most of the last ten years,
because he was so hearty a Royalist. Now he is out of the Tower, and is devoting himself to ferreting out traitors.’

‘What kind of traitors?’

‘Traitors to the King – men who prefer Cromwell’s lot. His chamberlain scours the gutters for scum like Snow and Storey, and
pays them to listen in taverns for anyone saying the wrong things.’

Chaloner was not surprised. Although the King had been restored to his throne with blaring trumpets and cheering crowds, his
ministers knew perfectly well that he would sit uneasily for a while yet. Spies would be hired to watch for any hint of rebellion,
and Kelyng was doubtless just one of many who had been ordered to hunt down potential troublemakers.

The old woman rambled on, giving examples of Kelyng’s disreputable doings. ‘Parson Vane was fined thirty shillings for saying the old king deserved what he got, and they cut off the butcher’s ear for agreeing with him. Snow and Storey have no friends around here.’

Chaloner pointed to the strategically positioned cart. ‘But people are still prepared to help them.’

‘Potts was too scared to refuse. But while they can force a man to block a road, they cannot make us do everything they want. You got here unharmed, although you were watched from the moment you stepped off Holborn. So, take the lane by
the pump, and stick your dagger through their rotten gizzards. And when you do, whisper “Oliver Greene”. Then they will know
who sent you to kill them.’

Chaloner suspected it would be a bad idea to do as she suggested, and he was not for hire as an avenging angel anyway. But
his other options were limited, so he nodded his thanks and walked to the alley she had indicated, aware of her approval.

The lane was home to some of the most ramshackle buildings he had ever seen. There was not a vertical line in sight, and he
wondered whether she had directed him down it because it was in imminent danger of collapse. He began to run, dagger openly
drawn. A man started to come of out of a door, but backed inside hurriedly when he saw Chaloner and his glinting blade. Then
came the sound of a key being turned; in the Fleet Rookery it was always wiser to see and hear nothing.

A left turn took Chaloner into an alley so narrow that he had to turn sideways. It was a perfect place for an ambush, since
he could not protect himself in such a confined space. But he met no one, and emerged into a lane that was considerably wider
– large enough for a horse-drawn carriage to pass, although its wheels scraped against the houses on either side, producing
showers of rotten splinters and earning yells of outrage from the owners. After another left turn, he saw the old woman was right: he could now see his quarry clearly.

Snow and Storey had moved with the dung collector, Potts, to stand outside an alehouse. These had been declared illegal during
the Commonwealth, since they fermented sedition and disorder, but the one in the Fleet Rookery looked as though it had ignored
the prohibition. The benches outside were worn shiny from generations of rumps, while the taps and barrels in the adjacent
yard were in good working order. The three men were drinking, celebrating the escape. The two robbers looked hard, rough and
villainous, and exactly the kind of lout hired by ruthless officials to root out treachery among the poorer classes. Snow
still carried the satchel he had grabbed from Thurloe, although he had made no attempt to inspect its contents. Either he
knew better than to try, or he could not read.

Chaloner slid into the shadows of a doorway, and reviewed the situation. Storey wore a sword and Snow had a pistol. It was
the firearm that would be the problem: Chaloner was not afraid of being shot at – it was an old gun from the wars, of a type
that was notoriously unreliable – but the noise of its discharge would draw unwanted attention. The alehouse was busy, despite
the fact that it was not long past dawn, and at the first sounds of a skirmish, men would rush out to join in.

Potts climbed on to his wagon and scanned the lane Chaloner had recently vacated. ‘You lost him,’ he said, jumping down again.
‘He was a constable, you say? Which parish?’

‘Er … Wh