A Conspiracy of Violence by Susanna Gregory Page A

but then you would not be next door,’ he said, trying to think of ways to alleviate
     the problem. ‘And you cannot walk across half of London to visit me at night.’
    She agreed. ‘Nor can you come to me. My room is directly above Mr North’s bedchamber, and you have only to breathe on the
     floorboards to make them creak. He would find us out in an instant, and I do not want to lose my position because he thinks
     me a harlot. You must keep those rooms if you want to see me. And what about your viol? You play it most evenings now, because
     the Norths like hearing it through their walls, but if you moved, your new neighbours might complain.’
    ‘I should cancel the order for the cassock,’ he said, looking back to the tailor’s shop.
    She took his arm and pulled him on. ‘Consider it an investment, which will reap its own returns in time – and you
must
find work, Tom. You cannot live like a pauper for ever. Or would you rather I returned my new fancy apron, so we can purchase
     cheese instead?’
    He smiled. ‘I cannot imagine when you will wear it, when North forbids lace in his house. He told me the Devil’s underclothes
     are made of lace, although he declined to explain how he comes to be party to such an intimate detail.’
    ‘He is a dear man,’ she said affectionately. ‘Did I tell you more of his chapel windows were smashed last night? He was so
     upset that he is talking about leaving London again. I hope he does not, because what would become of us? Will you visit him
     this afternoon? He was asking for you yesterday – something to do with whether the community can afford to replace the glass.’
    ‘People remember the time when it was Puritans defacing churches, and they want revenge. North should sell the building, and
     hold his prayer-meetings in someone’s house instead.’
    ‘It is wicked that people cannot attend chapel without fanatics lobbing bricks,’ said Metje angrily. ‘I am not a good Puritan
     – or I would not visit you night after night – but Mr North is. I shall always be grateful to him for employing me – a destitute
     Hollander in a hostile foreign country – when no one else would give me the time of day.’
    They walked to Fetter Lane, where she returned to her duties. Although North would have dismissed Metje instantly had he learned
     she was carrying on with a man, he was not a strict taskmaster and afforded her a good deal of freedom. He seldom questioned
     her when sheannounced she was ‘going out’, and her life as a paid companion for Temperance was absurdly easy.
    When Chaloner was sure Metje was safely home – it was a Saturday and apprentices were drunkenly demanding of passers-by whether
     they were true Englishmen – he went to find North. The Nonconformist chapel was an unassuming building halfway along Fetter
     Lane, a short distance from North’s house and the rather less grand affair next door in which Chaloner rented an attic. Despite
     its modest appearance, it attracted much ill will, mostly from Anglican clerics who had been deposed by Puritans during the
     Commonwealth, and by apprentices who enjoyed lobbing rocks. Occasionally, larger missiles were launched, and there had been
     threats of arson.
    The door was barred, so Chaloner knocked. North answered, and his dour expression cracked into a smile when he recognised
     his accounts clerk. North was not an attractive man, and his plain clothes did little to improve his austere appearance. He
     had dark, oily hair, a low forehead and his stern face was rendered even more forbidding by a burn that darkened his chin
     and the lower half of one cheek.
    He waved Chaloner inside the chapel, which comprised a single room with white walls and uncomfortable benches. It was dominated
     by the large pulpit in which the Puritan incumbent, Preacher Hill, stood to rant of a Sunday morning. Hill ranted at the daily
     dawn meetings, too, when his flock came to pray before they went about their earthly