A Conspiracy of Violence by Susanna Gregory Page B

the furious cackling at close quarters was unsettling.
    ‘Do not antagonise it!’ cried Temperance, frightened for him. ‘Let it have what it wants.’
    ‘Turkeys will slay a fellow without a moment’s hesitation,’ yelped the voice at the same time. ‘In New England, they are feared
     by man and beast alike.’
    With difficulty, Chaloner managed to extricate a fistful of grain, and the bird’s head followed his hand to the floor, gobbling
     greedily. He edged around it while it was feeding, and began to lay a trail. ‘Where do you want it?’
    ‘I want it dead,’ said the voice. ‘Use your dagger to cut its throat while its mind is on the barley.’
    Chaloner studied the featherless neck without enthusiasm. He had never enjoyed killing, and suspected any assault on the turkey’s
     life would end with them both being hurt, since he had no idea how to slaughter something of its ilk. Besides, there was something
     about the bird’s bristling defiance that appealed to him. ‘I will entice it out of your shop, but you can dispatch it yourself.’
    ‘I cannot!’ cried the voice in horror. ‘Not a great, dangerous brute like that!’
    ‘It can stay in here, then,’ said Chaloner, watching it eat. It was clearly starving, and the barley was probably the first
     food it had seen in days. It was no surprise the creature was in such a foul mood.
    The disembodied voice released a resigned sigh. ‘Then lead it into the yard. But for God’s sake make sure the gate is closed
     first. I do not want it to get into Fleet Street – I will be fined.’ ‘You are limping,’ said Temperance, watching
    Chaloner entice the bird towards the back door. ‘Did it bite you?’
    ‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly. That was something he would have to remember to disguise when he met Thurloe: the ex-Spymaster
     could not be expected to recommend anyone in a poor physical condition. ‘There is grain in my boot.’
    ‘Then get it out,’ advised the voice. ‘Or that greedy bird will chew through your foot to get at it.’
    It was not long before the turkey was installed in a tiny garden with the rest of the barley and a bowl of water. A thickset,
     lugubrious man with a black beard emerged from under a bench to watch it through the window, while Chaloner helped Temperance
     down from her perch.
    ‘Thank you,’ she said gratefully. ‘I was beginning to think I might be there all day. I knew it was a mistake to order one
     of those things for Christmas, but mother insisted. They dine on turkey in New England, you see, and she wanted to show kinship
     for our distant Puritan brethren.’
    ‘If she wants to eat like them, then she is going to have to behead it herself,’ said the shopkeeper shakily. ‘You can tell
     her it is in the yard, waiting.’
    The turkey incident had taken some time, but Chaloner was not entirely convinced Leybourn had really gone. He walked across
     the road to Praisegod Barbon’s leather factory, and pretended to inspect the jumble of displayed merchandise. Barbon, only
     recently released from the Tower for anti-Royalist ranting, nodded a startled welcome to a rare customer, but Chaloner declined
     to engage in conversation, and lingered near the door while he waited to see whether the bookseller would reappear. It was
     the first opportunity he had had to draw breathsince chasing Snow and Storey out of Lincoln’s Inn, and he used the time to think carefully about the theft of the satchel
     and the stabbing of the post-boy.
    Most of Thurloe’s spies were now unemployed, and Chaloner would not be the only one wanting to be hired by the new government.
     Was the entire incident a test, to see who was the most efficient, and whose name should go forward? Chaloner would not put
     such a trick past the wily Thurloe. The question was, would returning the satchel with news that its theft had been ordered
     by Kelyng be sufficient, or would Thurloe expect robbers in tow, too?
    Bells chimed, telling him it was