‘Where are we going?’
‘Just walk. Kelyng has questions for you, although I would sooner slip a dagger between your ribs and leave you for the dogs. Now move, unless you want to be dragged.’
With the odds so heavily stacked against him, Chaloner had no choice but to comply. He began to walk in the direction Bennet indicated, while the men surrounded him closely.
‘Left,’ ordered Bennet, when they reached a junction. ‘Come on, Heyden – yes, we know your name. My friend Preacher Hill was delighted to chat to me, especially when he learned it would see you incarcerated. Hurry up. I do not have all day.’
Chaloner faltered when he saw the road led to the Tower. ‘In there?’
‘It has nice, quiet cellars, where you and Kelyng can converse undisturbed,’ said Bennet with an unpleasant leer.
Chaloner did not like the prospect of ‘conversing’ with Kelyng in the Tower. He wrenched his hands free, then jerked backwards, bowling over two of the men behind him, and managing to fell Snow with a punch to the jaw. Almost immediately, a gun went off, and people scattered in alarm. Chaloner saw a woman drop to the ground, while a companion stood over her and began to shriek.
He started to run, lashing out with his fists when the men snatched at him, but then there was a sharp pain in the side of his head and he felt himself fall. Dizzy and disorientated, he was hauled to his feet and bundled towards the barbican, vaguely aware of horrified people converging on the prostrate woman. None of Kelyng’s men joined them: they did not care who they had killed.
Bennet’s mocking voice was a buzz in his ears as they passed through the first of the portals. A gate slammed behind them, and then they were near the menagerie with its growling, snuffling occupants. Chaloner’s legs were rubbery, and he was only just regaining control of them when they reached one of the buildings opposite the White Tower. A door revealed a flight of steps, and he was sure it would lead to some dimly lit dungeon full of implements used to extract secrets from hapless prisoners. He resisted Bennet’s shoves long enough to look at the sky before he descended, certain it was the last time he would see it. Heart thumping, he steeled himself for what was about to happen.
He was disconcerted when the stairs emptied into a comfortable office with rugs on the floor and paintings on the walls. Cushions had been placed on benches, and the room was dominated by a massive table, on which stood a cage containing a glum pigeon with a bandaged wing. A lamp hung from the ceiling, and braziers in sconces on the walls rendered the room bright and warm. Kelyng was sitting in a chair with a cat on his knee and a dog at his feet. He glanced up in surprise when Chaloner was shoved into the middle of his domain, followed by Bennet and the rest of his entourage.
‘Stop!’ he cried, when more tried to crowd inside. ‘You are frightening the bird. And what have you done to Thurloe’s spy? I told you I wanted him unharmed.’
‘He resisted arrest,’ said Bennet, forcing Chaloner into a chair. ‘He grabbed a gun and shot an innocent bystander.’
‘And how did he do that, if he was in your custody?’ demanded Kelyng. ‘Either you were supremely inept, or you are lying. Mind the dog, man!’ The last comment was aimed at Snow, who was trying to prevent the mongrel from cocking its leg against his black boots. Kelyng clapped his hands. ‘Everyone out! It should not take a dozen fellows to bring me a guest. Be off with you.’
He stood, set the cat gently on his chair and went to the table, where he poured a goblet of wine and offered it to Chaloner. The agent dashed it from his hand in what he imagined would be his last act of physical defiance. Bennet jumped forward with a raised fist, but Kelyng quickly interposed himself between them.
‘Why do the people who visit me here always display such poor manners?’ he asked irritably.
‘Probably because they do not like the way you extend your invitations,’ replied Chaloner tartly.
Kelyng sighed. ‘And if Bennet had phrased the question nicely, would you have come then?’
Chaloner certainly would not. ‘It depends what you wanted to talk about.’
‘There are several subjects I would like to air,’ said Kelyng, watching his men shuffle back up the stairs until only Snow and Bennet remained. ‘I understand you own a turkey?’
Chaloner nodded, unsure of the man and the discussion. ‘A great big one.’
Kelyng’s expression softened. ‘I know little about turkeys. What are they like, as companions?’
Chaloner was aware of Bennet’s blazing hatred, while Snow was itching to say something. ‘They have a tendency to hog the fire of an evening,’ he hedged, not sure how to reply.
Kelyng smiled indulgently. ‘Show me a beast that does not, Mr Heyden. I am sorry violence was used to bring you here, but you should not have resisted.’
‘He knows where I can find the woman what did for Storey,’ blurted Snow, no longer able to contain himself. He cracked his knuckles. ‘Let me ask him sir, and then you can–’
‘You may leave us, Snow,’ said Kelyng sharply, watching the cat jump into Chaloner’s lap. ‘You, too, Bennet. Wait outside.’
‘I do not think that is a very good idea,’ said Bennet immediately. ‘He is far from pleased about the way he was brought here, and–’
‘Go!’ ordered Kelyng icily. ‘I can look after myself. And anyway, a cat would not sit with a fellow contemplating rough behaviour, which is why she never comes to you. Go away.’
Bennet was seething as he obeyed, while Snow’s voice echoed on the stairway, asking him whether Kelyng could be trusted to ask after the woman who had killed his accomplice. Bennet muttered something inaudible, and Snow fell silent.
‘I know where Sarah Dalton lives,’ said Kelyng, when they had gone. ‘But I have no desire to see women killed, not even Thurloe’s kin, so I shall make sure Snow never touches her.’
‘He came close the other night. You may not be able to stop him.’
‘I have informed Bennet that I will dismiss him if anything happens to Mrs Dalton. He is inordinately dimwitted, but he usually does as he is told. I will pour you more wine, if you promise not to hurl it at me again. We can talk like civilised men, I hope?’
Chaloner accepted the proffered cup, worrying about what would happen to Metje and their baby when he was not there to care for them. He wondered whether Thurloe could be trusted to help, or whether the information Kelyng extracted would be used to harm him, too. He was not deceived by the lawyer’s friendly manner, suspecting he would not remain kindly once he saw his prisoner would never cooperate with him.
‘What did you want to talk about?’
‘Thurloe. Once I had your name, it was easy to find out about you. I spoke to George Downing, and he said you worked for Thurloe in Holland, and that you continue to visit him in Lincoln’s Inn, as a friend. I would like to know whether he asked you to spy on me.’
‘Why would he do that?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether Kelyng really expected him to answer such a question honestly.
‘He does not like me,’ explained Kelyng. ‘And the feeling is wholly reciprocated. I vowed to rid England of traitors, and anyone who once expressed loyalty to Cromwell is fair game. I repeat: did Thurloe order you to spy on me?’