Susanna GREGORY - A Conspiracy of Violence

London, December 1662

Sleet pattered wetly on the dung-coated cobbles outside Lincolns 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 Lincolns 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 Cromwells Secretary of State and Spymaster General during the Commonwealth, and when that regime had collapsed following Cromwells 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 Thurloes 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 Cromwells 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, Barbons 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 Lincolns 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 Chaloners 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 Lincolns 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 oclock 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 Lincolns Inns stocky gatehouse. Lincolns 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 librarys 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 Cromwells 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.