North had arrived in London shortly after the Restoration, and was sufficiently unnerved by the city’s violence to want to leave it again. Were his chapel’s broken windows the sole reason for his pending departure? What if he was not moving to a safer home, but fleeing the scene of a crime he was about to commit? Chaloner thought about what he knew of North. He had been a soldier in the wars, and bad language bubbled to the surface when he was agitated; he kept a leaden club in his house, which he did not hesitate to use on intruders; and he was, for the most part, a kindly, gentle man who was devoted to his God. Could North and Livesay be one and the same?
Chaloner recalled how Thurloe had described the missing regicide – a Puritan in sober clothes with a plain face, dour features and a moustache darkened with charcoal. A man aiming to change his appearance would dispense with the moustache, and North was certainly both plain and dour. He was also a Nonconformist, prepared to risk physical abuse in order to adhere to his religious convictions. His most notable feature was the burn on his face. Had he been telling the truth when he claimed he had been the victim of an anti-sectarian mob, or had he earned his injury when his ship had exploded? Chaloner remembered something else Thurloe had said – Livesay had rubbed his hands in a certain way: ‘he interlocks his fingers, and makes a curious rubbing motion with his palms’. He had a sudden vivid recollection of North chafing his hands over the news of Dalton’s death earlier that day.
He broke into a trot when he became more certain he was right: North was indeed Livesay. And Metje was with him. His breath came in ragged gasps, and pain burned in his leg as he tried to run harder. He powered through the people in his way, thrusting them aside and oblivious to the furious indignation that followed. One man stood his ground and looked as though he intended to bring him down, but the sight of a dagger in Chaloner’s hand made him think again.
He turned into Fetter Lane, racing along it without thinking about what he would do when he arrived. His only thought was to reach Metje. Then a foot shot out from the alley next to the Golden Lion, and he went flying head over heels to crash into a water barrel. His senses reeled, and he was powerless to resist being hauled to his feet and pushed against the wall. When his vision cleared, he found himself facing Kelyng.
‘I have a bone to pick with you,’ said Kelyng coldly. ‘It involves a certain turkey, which you claimed to own, but which transpires to be no man’s bird – it has taken up residence in Knightsbridge, and defies all attempts to catch it. You lied to me, Heyden, and I dislike liars.’
Chaloner struggled, but Kelyng was stronger than he looked. ‘I can explain,’ he said, trying in vain to break lose. ‘But not now.’
‘Yes, you will explain,’ agreed Kelyng acidly. ‘In the Tower.’
‘No! There is a plot to kill the King. Fireballs.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Kelyng, bored. ‘Downing came with a similar yarn about an hour ago, but I no more believed him than I do you. You are all trying to take advantage of me today, sending me on fools’ errands that will make me look stupid in front of the King, because you know I have lost all my men to Bennet. But you will not succeed, because you are under arrest.’
‘Please!’ gasped Chaloner, trying to prevent himself from being dragged away. ‘I am telling the truth! Sir Michael Livesay is plotting as we speak, and I think his plan will go into action at the Touching Ceremony.’
The grip slackened slightly. ‘Livesay?’
Chaloner nodded fervently. ‘He is one of the Seven. I have been looking into the affair, just as you asked. He is not dead, as everyone believes, but alive and in the guise of a Puritan called North. If you are really loyal to the King, you must help me.’
‘Must I now?’ said Kelyng icily. ‘And how do you propose I do that? I have no men, remember? Or are you suggesting you and I should confront these villains single-handed?’
‘Thurloe,’ said Chaloner desperately, still trying to wriggle free. Was it wise to send Kelyng to Thurloe? Would Thurloe believe him, and what if Sarah was there? ‘He has armed porters. Tell him about Livesay and North – say he has a barrel of gunpowder, because I am almost certain it was he we saw near Dalton’s house after the fire started.’
‘You want me to secure help from Thurloe?’ asked Kelyng incredulously. ‘But we detest each other.’
‘North has a chicken,’ said Chaloner, grasping at straws. He did not add that it was a dead one, and had already been roasted. ‘You do not want a hen in a house with explosives.’
Kelyng released his vice-like grip a little further. ‘A chicken?’
‘Martha,’ elaborated Chaloner wildly. ‘She is called Martha.’
Kelyng released him so abruptly he stumbled. ‘My first wife was called Martha. She died just after the Restoration. Go and rescue this chicken, Heyden. I will gather reinforcements.’
‘You will go to Thurloe?’
Kelyng shrugged. ‘I might. Or I might see what Bennet is doing. He dislikes king-killers, too, and it could be a way to entice him back into my fold. Or perhaps I will ask–’
Chaloner did not wait to hear. He tore away and staggered across the road to North’s house, uncaring that a cart was obliged to swerve violently to avoid him. He thumped on the door, thinking nothing other than that he wanted Metje out. There was no reply so he hammered again, battering with his fists in increasing agitation. Eventually, it was answered by Faith, who raised her eyebrows in surprise when she recognised him. She held a pistol under her apron.
‘Thomas!’ she exclaimed. ‘When we heard such dreadful pounding, we thought the apprentices had come to hang us for being Nonconformists. What is the matter?’
Chaloner shoved past her and darted into the sitting room, knowing that if he was wrong, he was going to have some explaining to do. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.
The remnants of the Norths’ meagre Christmas meal had been cleared away, although the cloth was still in place. In the centre of the table was a barrel, and the entire chamber reeked of gunpowder. There were wicks soaked in saltpetre, fist-sized ceramic pots, a pan of thick oil and a heap of a white substance he took to be quicklime. North was busily assembling grenades, while his manservant Giles mixed the compounds in a bowl. Metje sat between them, cutting lengths of twine, and the second servant, Henry, packed the completed items into boxes that had been lined with straw. Two people were not involved in the activities. One was Preacher Hill, who sat on a bench near the window with his Bible on his knees, and the other was Temperance, red-eyed and regarding her parents with sullen defiance.
‘Our neighbour is here,’ announced Faith, pushing Chaloner so roughly that he fell into the table, drawing gasps of alarm from the others. When he turned around, he saw she had drawn her gun and was pointing it at him. ‘However, there is no Christmas dinner for you this time, Thomas Chaloner.’
There was nothing Chaloner could do to prevent Henry from confiscating his last dagger when he was searched, and there was little he could have done with it anyway. Faith’s pistol was fixed unwaveringly on him, while North had grabbed his club and wielded it menacingly. He saw he had been a fool to dash into such a situation unprepared, and should have known better. And he doubted help was on its way: even if Kelyng did go to Thurloe, the ex-Spymaster would regard the tale with perfectly justifiable suspicion. He had thrown away his life and Metje’s by behaving like a greenhorn.