‘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.’