A Conspiracy of Violence Read Online Free PDF Page A

robbers, making no attempt to disguise the fact that they were his objective. Snow handed him
     the satchel and received a purse in exchange, while Storey attempted to create a diversion by jostling a groom. The groom’s
     tunic was emblazoned with the arms adopted by Sir Richard Ingoldsby, a man known even to an outsider like Chaloner. Ingoldsby,
     a regicide, had convinced King Charles that he had not
meant
to add his signature to his father’s death warrant – Cromwell had grabbed his hand and shaped the letters against his will.
     Contrary to all reason, the King had believed him, and even the most hardened of cynics were astonished to learn that not
     only had Ingoldsby been forgiven his crime, but he was to be awarded a knighthood, too.
    The groom whipped out a pistol, making bystanders scatter in alarm. Storey promptly fled, forcing Snow to race after him.
     Chaloner watched them go, but made no attempt to follow. He knew their names and a tavern where they drank; they would still
     pay for murdering the post-boy. But first, he needed to concentrate on the more immediate problem represented by Kelyng and
     why he should want to intercept Thurloe’s private messages, so he turned back to the servant who had purchased the satchel.
     The fellow crossed the street and made for the Royal Mews – once stables but now converted to homes for senior court officials
     – and disappeared through a door that led to an ill-kept garden. Chaloner darted after him, and the man’s jaw dropped in astonishment
     when the satchel was ripped from his hands.
    ‘You have no right to come in here,’ he began angrily, trying to grab it back. ‘You—’
    Chaloner drew his dagger, making him jump away in alarm. ‘Who do you work for?’
    The servant glanced behind him, although whether because he was looking for rescue or because he was afraid of being heard
     answering, Chaloner could not be sure. ‘This is Sir John Kelyng’s house.’
    ‘Who is he?’
    The man’s eyebrows shot up, but he answered anyway. ‘One of His Majesty’s lawyers, famous for his prosecutionof regicides and traitors.’ His hand started to edge towards his knife, but Chaloner saw the stealthy movement, and knocked
     the weapon from his fingers.
    ‘Why does he pay ruffians to steal satchels?’
    ‘His affairs are none of your business,’ the servant replied irritably. ‘Now
     give me that bag.’
    Chaloner took a step forward, dagger at the ready. ‘He told me to collect a pouch from the fountain,’ replied the servant
     with an impatient sigh, seeing in Chaloner’s determined expression that he had no choice but to reply. ‘He did not tell me
     why, and I am not so reckless as to ask.’
    ‘I do not believe you.’
    ‘That is not my problem. Now, I have more important—’
    Chaloner swung around when he heard the rustle of leaves behind him. A sharp hiss cut through the air, and instinct and training
     were responsible for his abrupt dive off the moss-encrusted path. A moment later, the servant joined him on the ground, a
     blade embedded in his chest and his single eye already beginning to glaze with encroaching death. Blood gushed from his mouth
     in a way that indicated a lung had been pierced. He turned his head slightly, and looked at Chaloner.
    ‘Praise God’s one son,’ he whispered.
    All Chaloner’s attention was on the trees where the knifeman still hid. He did not reply.
    ‘Praise God’s one son,’ said the man, a little louder. He coughed and tugged Chaloner’s cloak. The ring flashed green on his
     finger. ‘It is dangerous for … seven. Remember …’
    Chaloner glanced at him and saw desperation in his face. ‘Lie still. I will find help.’
    The man revealed bloodstained teeth in a grimace that indicated he knew he was beyond earthly assistance. ‘Remember to … trust no one. Praise God’s one …’
    ‘Amen,’ muttered Chaloner mechanically, concentrating on the leaves that were beginning to tremble in a way that