‘I am sorry if I offend you, sir, but I had never heard of you before last Friday,’ replied Chaloner honestly.
Kelyng pursed his lips. ‘That is what I thought. He is an odd man, and I do not understand him at all. I am trying to destroy him, but he barely acknowledges I exist.’
‘This is a pleasant office,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject to hide his confusion. Surely, Kelyng would not believe answers given under such circumstances? He glanced at the man’s wolfish features, and was suddenly struck with the knowledge that his single-mindedness was his greatest weakness – he was so determined to carry out his mission that he was incapable of objectivity, and only saw what he wanted to see. No wonder Thurloe had been able to outwit him. Kelyng might have a reputation for violence, because of Bennet’s brutal antics, but he was not an artful man.
Kelyng nodded, looking around. ‘It is rather nice. Robinson’s original plan was to house me in the crypt where Barkstead buried his treasure – a nasty, damp place – but the King intervened on my behalf. There are tales that Barkstead incarcerated prisoners there, but I know for a fact that he did not.’
‘Really? How?’
‘I studied the Tower’s records when I first arrived here. That cellar has never housed prisoners, because it connects to the vaults of adjoining buildings, and felons thus have a tendency to escape. This chamber is much cosier, and I am extremely happy here. Have you ever heard of the Seven?’
‘The seven what?’ asked Chaloner, bracing himself for the real purpose of the interview.
‘Just the Seven. They are a group of men who formed an alliance during the Commonwealth, and their intention was to prevent the return of King Charles to the English throne.’
‘Then they were not very effective.’
Kelyng rubbed his chin. ‘True. Few people know about them, because they are a secret society – not like the Brotherhood, which is about as secret as the existence of White Hall. Most of its members gossip about their nasty objectives to anyone who asks, and they meet quite openly.’
‘The Brotherhood’s “nasty objectives” are promoting moderation and tolerance.’
‘Quite,’ said Kelyng grimly. ‘I abhor moderation and tolerance. I am a man of strong opinions, and I am ready for a society that is extreme and intolerant. I do not want to live in a world where any sinner can do as he pleases. I want one with guidelines, where every man knows his place and what will happen if he transgresses. I want traitors like Thurloe punished for supporting Cromwell, and I want to establish an effective undercover police force, which will infiltrate every aspect of society and keep a watchful eye on its people.’
‘It sounds idyllic.’
‘It will work,’ argued Kelyng. ‘We are an unruly species, and we need strong laws to govern us, not foppish, indulgent liberalism. But I did not bring you here to discuss my philosophical ideals.’
‘You were telling me about the Seven,’ prompted Chaloner, aware that he was eliciting more information from Kelyng, than Kelyng was from him. Was this some subtle interrogation technique, or was the man simply unused to extracting confessions? Chaloner had no idea, but he had seldom felt less comfortable than he did in Kelyng’s windowless domain.
Kelyng nodded. ‘The Seven did not succeed – obviously – but I have dedicated the last six months of my life to exposing their identities and the details of their wicked plot.’
‘Who are they?’
Kelyng grimaced. ‘You do not know? Damn! I was hoping you might give me a name or two.’
‘If they were operative during Cromwell’s reign, then the chances are that some will be dead by now, from natural causes.’
‘You are doubtless right, although that would be very annoying. I shall not give up, though, not until I have unveiled every last one of them. Are you sure you cannot give me a clue? I will buy you a new wig – a good one, like mine, which has real hair.’
‘I wish I could help, because a new wig would be very welcome.’
‘Well, you know where to come, should you learn anything in the future. However, I know the identities of three of the Seven: one was Barkstead.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because Downing read his papers when he arrested him. He showed some to me, and they proved Barkstead’s membership of the Seven without a shadow of doubt. Unfortunately, he was executed before I could ask him about his six colleagues. The second is Sir Michael Livesay.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Chaloner, while thinking it was no surprise the man had disappeared if Kelyng’s claim was true.
‘Another regicide. There is a rumour that he was killed in an exploding ship, but I do not believe it. The last time I fell for a tale in which a man was blown to pieces, the fellow appeared alive and well eighteen months later with a fortune in molasses. I am not certain Livesay is a member of the Seven, but it makes good sense.’
‘Who else?’ Chaloner knew what was coming next.
‘I have strong suspicions about Thurloe.’
‘Then you would be wrong. Thurloe would never join a group with those sorts of aims. Barkstead and Livesay were different: they were regicides, and had a lot to lose if the King was restored. But Thurloe is not a man to throw in his lot with extremists.’
‘He is a member of the Brotherhood.’
‘Was a member,’ corrected Chaloner, hoping Kelyng did not know he had founded it. He wondered why he persisted in defending a man who had been far from honest with him. ‘He has not been to a meeting in ages, and has lost all interest in politics. He just wants to be left alone, to live quietly. Surely, that is not too much to ask?’
‘It is for him,’ said Kelyng. ‘He will never have peace, and you can tell him so from me.’
Chaloner stood, not relinquishing the cat. Kelyng would never resort to rough tactics while he held the animal. ‘Very well. I will tell him when–’
‘In a moment,’ said Kelyng, waving him back down. ‘So, you have never heard of the Seven and their attempts to keep the King from his throne? Do you know anyone called Swanson?’
Chaloner made a pretence at considering the question, trying to remember what Robinson had said about a man called Swanning or Swanson. Eventually, he shook his head. ‘Who is he?’
‘The man who first became aware of the Seven. He sent word to the King, who told him he should have a gold bar for every name he provided. Incidentally, the King informs me that the offer still stands, although it is a minor incentive in my campaign – I do not persecute for money, but because I enjoy it.’
‘Naturally. How much is a bar of gold worth?’
Kelyng shrugged, as if he did not care. ‘These would be valued at nine hundred and ninety-seven pounds, seventeen shillings and fourpence-ha’penny each, as a very rough guide.’
‘Almost a thousand pounds. So, the total reward would be seven thousand pounds?’
‘Minus the odd fourteen pounds, eighteen shillings and fourpence ha’penny. It is definitely a prize worth having. Indeed, men acting for the King and the Earl of Sandwich dug up half the Tower looking for seven thousand pounds recently, although they did not find it, more is the pity.’
Chaloner wondered whether Kelyng really had not made the connection between the two near-identical sums, or whether he was playing some sophisticated mental game. ‘Why is it a pity?’
Kelyng gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Even to ask such a question is treason! No man loyal to the King could hope he would miss a share of this treasure. It belonged to Barkstead, and it would have been a glorious irony to see his money in Charles’s pocket. I know what you are thinking.’