Evett laughed, then swung so hard that Chaloner’s blade snapped in two. ‘Downing will change sides again, and the next time I see him, he will be a Puritan, claiming he has always been an honest man of simple tastes.’ His voice was mincingly mocking, and a fair imitation of the slippery diplomat.
‘Your friends?’ asked Chaloner. The game was up: his leg and broken sword meant he could not win. ‘You mean Ingoldsby?’ Even now, he could not bring himself to name Thurloe among traitors.
‘You will never know,’ said Evett jeeringly. ‘You will die wondering, and–’
‘The Brotherhood,’ said the Earl suddenly. ‘You said you met him in the Brotherhood. You must mean Ingoldsby. It cannot be Downing, because he brought me that letter. Wade and Hewson are dead …’
Chaloner was backed against the stacks of benches, and there was nowhere else to go. ‘Livesay,’ he said quietly. ‘He is playing a double game.’
‘Shut up,’ snarled Evett, gripping his sword in both hands and preparing to strike.
Chaloner braced himself, resting his hand against the seats for support. Then his fingers brushed something soft: a dead rat. He grabbed it and held as he might a live one, so Evett could see its nose and whiskers. ‘Does your terror of wild creatures extend to these, Evett?’
Evett’s gaze slid towards the rodent, and he released a yelp of disgust when Chaloner hurled it at him. It caught on his tunic, and while he scrabbled to brush it off, Chaloner pushed forward, seizing his wrist and forcing him to drop the sword. The captain fell, dragging Chaloner with him, and then they were on the floor, rolling and grappling like tavern brawlers. Chaloner was aware of the Lord Chancellor, dancing this way and that with the broken hilt clasped in his chubby fingers.
‘No!’ he gasped, seeing what the Earl intended to do. ‘We need him alive.’
But Evett went limp anyway, and when Chaloner struggled away from the inert form he saw a spreading pool of gore. He heaved the captain on to his back and tried to staunch the flow of blood, but it was no use. The wound was too deep, and it was not many moments before the feeble heartbeat fluttered to nothing. Chaloner staggered to a bench and sat, rubbing his knee. He looked hard at the Earl.
‘It was him or you,’ said Clarendon defensively. ‘And you might find the rest of the gold.’
‘But he knew the identity of the man who intends to kill the King,’ Chaloner pointed out, wondering exactly where the Earl’s priorities lay. But there was no point in recriminations, and what was done was done.
Clarendon sat next to him. ‘I knew Philip lacked the skills required for the kind of work you do, but I decided to give him a chance anyway, and asked him to infiltrate the Brotherhood. I thought he was strong, but he was weak and corruptible. I suppose I bear the responsibility for his death.’
‘Well, you did put a sword through his back, My Lord,’ said Chaloner, tartly insolent. He rubbed his temples, feeling exhaustion wash over him. ‘You may have trusted him, but I was beginning to trust her. I even risked my life on her account.’
‘Who?’ asked the Earl, raising a shaking hand to adjust his wig. ‘Evett’s lady?’
‘Sarah Dalton. Perhaps that is why her husband tried to kill her – not to eliminate loose ends, as she claimed, but for infidelity. She told me on two separate occasions that she owned a liking for handsome young soldiers. I suppose she meant Evett.’
The Earl pursed his lips. ‘It is possible. She does visit White Hall on occasion, and Evett did flirt with her when the King exhibited his paintings last week. He has always been fond of women, and, with the benefit of hindsight, I suspect he had wives in France and Holland, too.’
Chaloner stood, feeling his leg protest against his weight. He needed to confront Sarah and demand the names of her accomplices before a plot swung into motion that might see the death of a second King Charles. What would Thurloe say when he learned his sister had been having an affair with Clarendon’s aide and helped murder his agents? Or would he already know, because Sarah’s actions were part of a greater, more sinister plan?
‘Thurloe is not a traitor,’ he said aloud, although he was aware his voice carried scant conviction.
‘I know,’ said Clarendon. ‘I would not have asked his advice all these months if I thought he were. But tell me about this gold. The bar you sent me is definitely one of the ones paid to Praisegod Swanson in return for the identities of the Seven. I assume that is the nature of Barkstead’s cache?’
Chaloner rubbed his eyes reluctant to admit to Clarendon that he had no idea where the ingot had come from – and was equally clueless regarding the location of the remaining six. But he had the feeling that he would be safer – for the moment, at least – letting the Earl believe he was more knowledgeable than he was. ‘Yes, along with Praisegod himself. Praisegod dead was treasure indeed to the Seven, whose lives he threatened.’
‘Will you be able to find the remaining gold? Your note said you might.’
‘I will try,’ replied Chaloner warily.
‘That is all I ask,’ said Clarendon. ‘However, if you fail, I promise not to hold it against you – you saved my life, and you deserve some reward for your courage. What will you do now?’
‘Go to see Thurloe,’ said Chaloner, retrieving his dagger. ‘Try to think some sense into this mess, and work out who really wants to kill the King.’
‘I know two men who will be innocent.’ Clarendon indicated the letter Downing had given him. ‘Thurloe and Ingoldsby would never embark on such a stupid venture.’
‘You seem very sure.’
‘I am. Thurloe foiled God knows how many plots like this when he was Spymaster, and has more wits than to join one himself. Meanwhile Ingoldsby has too strong a sense of self-preservation.’
‘The culprit is Livesay. He did not die in that explosion, and he is here, in London. He is Evett’s new master, and is behind all this mayhem. The only question is: how do we recognise him?’
The Earl straightened his wig. ‘I will advise the King to remain indoors today, but I doubt he will listen. So, go to Thurloe and tell him everything you know. He may see answers where you and I cannot. We shall foil these traitors’ plans yet.’
Chaloner limped out of White Hall, feeling every muscle burn from fatigue, but when he groped in his pouch for coins to pay for a carriage, he found it empty – he had hurled the last of them away in order to gain access to the Banqueting House. He started to walk towards Lincoln’s Inn, mentally sorting the mass of information he had acquired, trying to understand what had happened.
First, his three separate investigations had converged: all were connected to the Seven and the gold Praisegod had been paid for betraying them. Barkstead’s godly golden goose was Praisegod’s death; Clarke had been killed when he had seen the connection; and Kelyng had been perfectly justified in intercepting Thurloe’s post, because his kin were indeed dangerous to the King – although it was not brothers who represented the threat, but a sister.
Second, Praisegod had been murdered by Barkstead and buried in the Tower. Thurloe had had nothing to do with the killing, or Barkstead would not have tried to send him the message via Mother Pinchon – he would have known already. Had the gold bars been interred with Praisegod? They had not been with his fragmented remains when Evett had excavated the cellar. So when had they been retrieved, and by whom? The obvious answer was that Thurloe had done it, which explained why he had been in a position to send one to Clarendon. Chaloner did not dwell on the uncomfortable questions that conclusion raised.
Third, Sarah was Evett’s lover, and Livesay was the latest threat to the lives of the Seven. Chaloner supposed he should not be surprised that Sarah should prefer a ‘handsome young soldier’ to her ageing, selfish husband. Evett must have introduced her to his fellow brother, Livesay, and they had then killed Clarke on his behalf. But surely Livesay would not have attended Brotherhood meetings at which Downing was present, given what the diplomat had done to other regicides? Chaloner could only suppose he had been in disguise – but that in turn meant he would have had to be a recently enrolled member. Most brothers had known each other for years, while some of the newer participants – such as Clarke, Evett and Wade – were now dead. Those remaining were Robert Leybourn and North. Robert was too young to be a regicide, so Chaloner turned his thoughts to the jeweller.