A Conspiracy of Violence by Susanna Gregory

Thurloe,
     to see the remains of his friend so barbarously treated.
    When the craft bumped against the seaweed-draped Temple Stairs, Leybourn dropped some coins in the boatman’s hand – enough
     to earn him a pleased grin – and clambered inelegantly to dry land. He waved away Chaloner’s offer to pay half.
    ‘Who
are
you?’ asked Chaloner, as he and the bookseller walked along the narrow lane that divided the Middle Temple from Inner Temple.
     London’s four ‘Inns of Court’ – Lincoln’s, Gray’s, Middle Temple and Inner Temple – were all solid, semi-fortified foundations
     that stood aloof from the teeming metropolis that surrounded them, and within their towering walls stood peaceful courtyards,
     manicured gardens and gracious halls. But the public alley that ran between Inner and Middle temples, and provided access
     to the river from Fleet Street, was a foetid tunnel with a gate at either end, and a world apart from the rarified domains
     it transected. ‘You are no mere peddler of books.’
    Leybourn was indignant. ‘No, I am not! Robert and I print and sell books to earn an honest crust, but I am actually a surveyor
     and a mathematician of some repute. Have you never heard of me? I have written a numberof erudite pamphlets and treatises. You can come to see them in my shop if you do not believe me.’
    Chaloner remained unconvinced. ‘Who do you work for? The King?’
    ‘I work for no man!’ protested Leybourn. His expression became spiteful. ‘It is a good deal safer that way, if you are anything
     to go by. First Kelyng was after you, then Bennet. What have you done to make such dangerous enemies?’
    ‘It must have been a case of mistaken identity.’
    ‘Really,’ said Leybourn flatly. ‘Well, do not underestimate them. They may be bumbling fools, but they are dangerous ones.
     Kelyng is so ardently Royalist that he sees conspiracies everywhere, and if he thinks you are an enemy of the King, he will
     not rest until you are dead. And Bennet is vengeful, mean and ambitious. You would be wise to stay out their way.’
    ‘So would you. It was your tobacco that brought about Bennet’s ducking. But thank you for the ride.’ They were nearing the
     end of the lane. ‘If there is anything I can do in return …’
    ‘A generous offer,’ said Leybourn sullenly, ‘from a man who declines to tell me where he lives. I will never find you again,
     even if I do have a favour to ask.’
    ‘You can leave a message for me at the Golden Lion on Fetter Lane.’
    ‘I might, then,’ said Leybourn. He forced a smile. ‘I have enjoyed meeting you, Heyden. It is not every day I am obliged to
     rescue someone from waving pistols.’
    ‘And it is not every day I owe my life to a well-lobbed ball of tobacco,’ said Chaloner with a pleasant smile, passing through
     the gate at the end of the lane andemerging into Fleet Street. ‘Good morning, Mr Leybourn – and thank you.’
    Once through the gate, Chaloner limped towards St Dunstan-in-the-West, unwilling to visit Thurloe until he was sure he was
     not being followed. Fleet Street was perfect for tailing someone, because it was chaotic and busy, and the huddle of illegal
     stalls along each side provided ample opportunity for disguise and concealment. Leybourn was adequate – he kept his distance
     and exchanged his wide-brimmed hat for a skullcap – but nowhere near good enough to fool Chaloner. Smiling, because he had
     suspected from the start that the encounter had been engineered, Chaloner ambled past the church, then ducked behind a carriage,
     using it as a shield to mask his entry into the game shop at the end of Fetter Lane.
    Bright pheasants, pearl-feathered pigeons and dull-eyed rabbits swung from the rafters, while the limp bodies of deer were
     draped in the window, like curtains. The room smelled of the sawdust scattered on the floor and the cloying scent of old death:
     some of the corpses had been hung rather too long. Chaloner