‘What is happening?’ Chaloner asked Joseph Thompson, who had also joined the throng, and was watching with nervous apprehension.
The rector grimaced. ‘John Kelyng has found himself another Hollander to torment.’
‘What do you mean by “another”? Does he dislike them, then?’
Thompson regarded him in disbelief. ‘You must have seen him doing this before – and if not, then you definitely heard my sermon reviling this kind of behaviour last week.’ He sighed when Chaloner looked blank. ‘Sometimes, I wonder why I bother. I might just as well preach to the pigeons.’
‘Why has he taken against the Dutch?’
Thompson raised his eyebrows. ‘How can you live in London and not know that? He is driven by a deep loyalty to the King, and it leads him to see plots and rebellions in the most unlikely of quarters. These last few months have seen him moving against the Dutch, because Mr Thurloe – whom he detests – once employed Dutch-based agents to spy on His Majesty when he was in exile.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, thinking he and Metje would hang together if Kelyng ever found out about their relationship.
‘He will have that poor Hollander transported, I imagine,’ said Thompson unhappily. ‘And his property confiscated and given to the King. John Kelyng and I have known each other for years – since we were students together at Trinity Hall – and I have tried time and time again to make him see that this kind of activity is unjust. But he just smiles and says we must agree to differ, since neither of us is willing to accept the other’s point of view.’
‘So, there is nothing you can do to stop this man from being persecuted?’ asked Chaloner. ‘We are not at war with the Dutch yet.’
‘I stop it?’ asked Thompson uncomfortably. ‘One does not simply march up to John and start issuing orders – at least, not while that loutish Bennet is listening. I would end up sitting next to the Dutchman on a boat to Jamaica.’
Chaloner watched as the petrified Netherlander was invited to accompany Snow to the Tower. Most of the spectators followed, jeering at the man’s naked fright, so it was not long before Kelyng and Bennet were alone. No one, it seemed, wanted to linger near them, given their penchant for random accusations. Seizing the opportunity for some impromptu eavesdropping, Chaloner nodded a farewell to Thompson and went to lurk behind a black carriage that was obviously Kelyng’s personal transport. He knelt and pretended to fiddle with the buckle on his boot. The windows of the vehicle were open, and it was absurdly easy to hear and even see what was happening on the other side, making Chaloner think once again that Kelyng and his retinue were sadly incompetent.
The Reverend Thompson stood thoughtfully for a moment, then approached Kelyng. Chaloner supposed he had seen a moral challenge in their discussion: he had preached against tyranny and then had done nothing to prevent it outside his own church. He hoped it would not lead to the man’s arrest.
‘I must protest, John,’ the rector said reproachfully. ‘That poor fellow was only buying dried meat.’
‘He was victualling himself for a long journey,’ argued Bennet, before Kelyng could speak. ‘I have been following him. He plans to leave England and return to Holland.’
‘Is that a crime?’ asked Thompson. ‘If I were Dutch, I would want to go home, too.’
‘You must have read what the broadsheets say about Netherlanders,’ said Bennet. ‘They are cheese-worms, who do nothing but eat fat and bathe in butter.’
‘No man of breeding and intelligence believes those scurrilous rags,’ said Thompson, treating Bennet to a look of utter contempt. ‘Let the fellow go, for pity’s sake. He is not worth your time.’
‘We decide who–’ began Bennet, angry by the slur on his ancestry and wits.
Kelyng cut across him, waving him to silence in a way that made him seethe with indignation. ‘You are probably right, Joseph – the cheese-worm will almost certainly prove to be inconsequential. And I doubt he owns anything worth confiscating, not if he was buying dried meat. It means he cannot afford butter, which all Hollanders prefer.’
‘That is true enough,’ said Bennet, turning his back on the rector in an attempt to cut him out of the discussion. ‘So, we shall have him sent to Jamaica, and then we can concentrate on finding the woman who murdered Storey–’
‘You will leave her alone,’ snapped Kelyng. ‘I could scarce believe my ears when Snow confessed to shooting at her when she was on a horse. I will not have my people putting animals at risk. And that goes for you, too. And I absolutely forbid you to kill Thurloe’s shorn-haired agent.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Bennet, scowling. ‘He made a fool of me, and–’
‘You made a fool of yourself. Thomas from Becket and Guy of Fawkes, indeed! I should never have appointed a chamberlain who is lacking a university education.’
‘I went to university,’ said Bennet in a strangled voice. He looked as though he was only just in control of himself, and his teeth were clamped so tightly together his jaw muscles bulged. ‘Oxford.’
‘Three days at Balliol before being expelled for knowing no Latin,’ sneered Kelyng. ‘That does not count. But you will not kill the lame spy: I have questions to ask him, and I cannot trust you to do it, because he will outwit you again.’
‘Then I will kill him when you have finished,’ declared Bennet tightly.
‘No, you will not,’ said Kelyng testily. ‘And I have explained why at least three times already: I was in Leybourn’s bookshop the other day, and I heard him mention a short-haired, limping friend who owns a turkey. It is almost certainly the same man, so you are not to touch him. What would happen to the poor creature if you dispatched its owner? A large game bird would hardly be safe with Mrs Kelyng, given that Christmas is so close. So, you are to bring him to me alive. Is that clear?’
Bennet’s face flushed with a deep, dangerous rage, and Chaloner was certain the order would be ignored – if a body was dumped in the Thames, Kelyng would never know he had been disobeyed. Bennet nodded to his master and strode away, holding himself rigidly and barely able to contain his temper.
‘You should watch him, John,’ advised Thompson, staring after Bennet in rank disapproval. ‘He does not like being insulted, and he is vicious, irrational and stupid.’
‘That is precisely why I hired him,’ said Kelyng. ‘He makes people take me seriously. But you are right: he is becoming increasingly difficult to control, although I would be more concerned if his intelligence matched his ruthlessness. But do not worry about the Dutchman: I fully intend to release the fellow. The real point of that exercise was to warn foreign spies that their days here are numbered, and to encourage people to be vigilant against outsiders. I have more important fish to fry.’
‘Do you mean Thurloe?’ asked Thompson. ‘I do not think he–’
‘He has powerful friends,’ interrupted Kelyng, off in a world of his own. ‘Even the Lord Chancellor wants him untouched, “lest we blunder into difficulties with the Dutch and need his advice”. But Clarendon is suspicious of him, even so, because I intercepted a report from a spy that described a clandestine meeting between him and Downing. Clarendon’s code for Downing is “Cerberus” and his name for Thurloe is “Jo” – which is how Thurloe signs his name – so it was not difficult for me to grasp its meaning. The report said they chat in church.’
‘I know,’ said Thompson dryly. ‘It is hard to concentrate on my sacred duties when they jabber all through the service. But has it occurred to you that the agent might have been reporting on Downing, not Thurloe? Downing did change sides in a rather spectacular manner, and the government would be rash to accept such ready turncoats without some degree of surveillance.’