A Conspiracy of Violence

Chapter 6

‘Tell me more about Barkstead’s hoard,’ said Chaloner, as he and Evett left the Dolphin and made their way towards the Tower.

‘I have already told you everything. We dug on four separate occasions, but found nothing. When it became clear the gold was not there, Wade tried to locate Mother Pinchon, but failed. Meanwhile, I interviewed Samuel Pepys – the Earl of Sandwich’s clerk. I was suspicious of him, because when we were digging by the old Coldharbour Gate, I had to leave for an hour – between you and me, it was when I learned about poor Simon – and it occurred to me that Pepys might have found the cache and spirited it away. But Wade would not have agreed to that, and there would have been too many firkins for Pepys to carry alone. Besides, Robinson’s men would have seen him.’

Chaloner slowed as the grim façade of the fortress loomed ahead. It was a formidable mass, with clusters of grey towers and chimneys, all enclosed within curtain walls and an encircling ditch, the latter of which was a vile, grey-brown lake of liquid sewage, entrails, dead animals and kitchen slops. In the summer, when the water evaporated, the remaining sludge stank so badly that people had been known to pass out. Access to the Tower was via a barbican, which led to the causeway that snaked across the moat. As they passed under the first of a series of portcullises, there was a sudden whooping screech. Chaloner looked at Evett in alarm, hand dropping automatically to his sword.

‘The royal menagerie,’ explained Evett. ‘Where the King keeps his wild animals, and I am not referring to Buckingham. I mean real ones – tigers, apes and other nasty creatures. I hate them.’

Chaloner regarded him in surprise. ‘Why?’

‘Foul, stinking things, all fleas and claws.’ He jumped when something roared. ‘Have you never been? Many Londoners visit it on Saturdays, for something to do.’

Chaloner hoped Metje would not ask to be taken. He disliked places that were difficult to get out of, and the Tower’s gates, drawbridges and walls made him distinctly uncomfortable.

‘Wade works here,’ said Evett, pausing in a way that suggested he was not happy about entering it, either. ‘I do not know how I can show you around without him guessing what we are up to.’

‘Tell him I am a surveyor,’ said Chaloner, who had anticipated such an eventuality. ‘I borrowed some instruments from my landlord and know enough about the subject to fool most people.’

‘No,’ said Evett. ‘That is boring. We will say you are looking for mushrooms.’

Chaloner gaped at him. ‘In December? But if you think surveying is dull, then hopefully other people will, too – and they will leave us alone. The point is to be unobtrusive, and that will not be the case if folk think we are on a fungus foray at this time of year.’

Evett took a deep breath, as if to fortify himself, then shot through the building known as the Lion Tower, running harder still when his pounding footsteps elicited a cacophony of grunts, snorts and growls from its furred occupants. The drawbridge in the Middle Tower led to the causeway that crossed the moat, where three dead cats and a sheep floated in the poisonous waters below. Then came the Byward Tower, a gatehouse set into the massive curtain walls.

‘No weapons are allowed from here on,’ said Evett. He beamed at the soldier who came to disarm them. ‘Good morning, Sergeant Picard. We have come to look for fungus.’

Chaloner shot the captain a withering glance, but the guard just grinned. ‘You have come to the right place then, sir. There is a lot that is rotten around here.’

Evett was meticulous, and showed Chaloner all the areas he had dug with Wade and Pepys. At first, people were interested to know what sort of fungus they expected to find, keen to be told whether it represented any danger, but drifted away when Chaloner began a ponderous series of measurements that involved standing still a long time, then writing a figure in a notebook. When the last had left, he listened again to the description of the treasure’s hiding place, and agreed that there was only one serious possibility: a cellar in one of the smaller towers near the main gate. It was the only one that contained a ‘central grey stone arch with a single red brick in its middle’.

Although Evett had refilled the trenches he had excavated, his workings were still visible. He told Chaloner his pits had been waist deep, and the agent was forced to acknowledge that the treasure was unlikely to have been buried there – Barkstead had been in a hurry in his last night of office, and would not have had time to scrape out more than a foot or two, especially since the earth was hard packed and difficult to move. Chaloner stood in the undercroft and studied his surroundings carefully, while Evett sat on the stairs with Sergeant Picard, discussing the latest Court masque.

The cellar was low and dark, with cobwebs falling like curtains and a floor so ancient that centuries of filth had raised it by several feet. Chaloner’s head brushed the ceiling in places, while in others, he was obliged to drop to hands and knees. He crawled for some distance, and when he glanced back, he could see no light from the door, only a vast expanse of blackness. The air smelled foul, and at one point, he discovered a skeletal hand. He scratched a shallow hole with his dagger and reburied it, not liking to think of the poor soul who had died in such a place.

As he explored, he thought about his uncle’s treasure. The Banqueting House was a far more sensible hiding place than the vaults of the Tower, because coins under a flagstone were a lot easier to retrieve than butter barrels buried in London’s most inaccessible fortress. He recalled a story Temperance had recently told him about a Royalist who had put a hoard in his dead wife’s coffin – the fellow had been delighted when he had exhumed her to find it still there.

Water dripped, sending mournful echoes rolling through the arches, and rats lurked in the darker recesses. The cellar was otherwise as silent as the grave. He could hear nothing from outside – no traffic, horses or bells – and he realised he could no longer hear Evett and Picard, either. Then the lamp went out.

Cursing, he started back to where he thought the stairs were, but after several minutes, there was still nothing but darkness. He tried to stand, but the ceiling was so low that he could not even kneel without cracking his head, and he began to wonder whether he had been going in circles. Then he felt a breeze on his face, which encouraged him because it suggested he was near the exit. He crept along until his fingers touched something soft. At first he thought it was a rat and jerked away in revulsion, but it did not move, so he probed it more closely. It felt like hair, and he supposed someone had lost a periwig after the recent excavations. He shoved it in his pocket, and resumed crawling.

His leg was beginning to ache from the unaccustomed posture, and it protested even more when something sharp dug into his knee. Becoming annoyed, he called out to Evett, but all he could hear was his own muffled voice. He made a right-angled turn, in the hope of locating a wall, and was relieved when he bumped against one, considering a bruised skull a small price to pay for orientation. He yelled again for Evett and was astonished that what had seemed a normally sized vault when he had had a lamp had assumed monstrous proportions in the dark.

The walls were cold and slick under his hands, and the entire cellar had an ancient, disused feel to it. It occurred to him that he could be locked in it for years, and no one would ever know. Perhaps Evett had taken against him for his questions about the Brotherhood, and had decided to prevent him from asking more. Guards could be bribed to overlook the fact that the aide had arrived with a guest but had left without one, and the Tower had a history of stealthy murder. Chaloner began to feel uneasy.

He clambered to his feet and stumbled on, nose assailed by the rank, sickening smell of decaying flesh. The rats were growing bolder, and he could hear their claws on the earthen floor. He comforted himself with the knowledge that if they could get in, then he could get out, but his optimism was abruptly shattered when he trod on something soft, and his questing fingers encountered furry bodies – it was the reek of dead rodents that filled this part of the cellar and made him want to retch. He started moving again, gagging when he encountered something that squelched, then swore when he reached a dead end.

By now, he was genuinely alarmed. He called a third time for Evett, but there was no sound other than his own ragged breathing and the soft, sinister scrabbling of claws. And then he felt something that rose at an angle. The stairs! He began to climb, one hand on the wall for balance. Then he reached the door and saw a rectangle of light around it. It was closed, and he wondered whether anyone would hear when he hammered – and if they would help him if they did. He fumbled for the latch, anticipating that it would be barred from the outside. Consequently, he was startled when it opened. Light flooded into the cellar, leaving him blinking stupidly.

Evett looked up from where he was sitting on the steps that led to the yard. He was playing dice with Sergeant Picard, and was relaxed and cheerful. ‘I hope you did not mind us abandoning you, Heyden, but we were cold. I hollered to let you know, but you did not answer.’

‘I did not hear you,’ said Chaloner, somewhat accusingly.

Evett’s expression was hopeful. ‘You took longer than I expected. Did you find it?’

‘The lamp burned out.’

Evett’s jaw dropped. ‘Lord! Did it? We closed the door, because it kept banging in the wind, and that would have made it pitch black down there. Why did you not shout for a candle?’

‘I did,’ said Chaloner tartly.

Picard started to laugh, thinking it a fine joke. ‘Barkstead used to shut his prisoners in that cellar when he was Lieutenant of the Tower – he would lock them in at dusk, and by dawn they would be mad or dead.’

‘That would not happen after a single night,’ said Chaloner. The man was trying to unnerve him.

‘It would,’ argued Picard. ‘You were all right, because you knew you were going to get out. But imagine what it would be like if you thought you were going to die down there, alone and forgotten.’

‘Believe me, I did,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I doubt Barkstead would have done such a thing.’

‘You are wrong,’ insisted Picard, becoming sullen. ‘He said it saved money, because he did not have to pay for their food.’

‘I think you may be right, sergeant,’ said Evett thoughtfully. ‘When we were digging last month, we kept unearthing fragments of bone, and I am sure some were human.’

‘The cellar is hundreds of years old,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘I am sure people have died down there, but that does not mean they were Barkstead’s victims.’

‘What are you, a Roundhead or something?’ demanded Picard. ‘You take his side very readily.’

‘He is just sceptical of ghost stories,’ said Evett soothingly. ‘Politics have nothing to do with it.’

The sergeant sniffed, then pointed to the hair that tumbled from Chaloner’s pocket. ‘What is that?’

‘Someone dropped a wig,’ said Chaloner, removing it to show him. Although matted and muddy, the curls remained a fine chestnut colour, and the piece appeared to be made of real hair. He was surprised someone had not missed such an expensive object, and taken steps to recover it.

‘I did! It is mine,’ said Picard, snatching it. ‘I had a–’ He faltered, then let it drop to the ground. ‘That is no wig!’

Evett made a choking sound, revolted. ‘Jesus God, Heyden! You brought out a piece of someone’s scalp. What were you thinking of?’

Chaloner was sheepish. ‘It felt like a wig in the dark.’

‘Why did it not rot away, like the rest of the corpse?’ asked Picard ghoulishly.

‘It must have dried,’ explained Chaloner. ‘There was a breeze where I found it, so it must have desiccated, rather than decomposed. Hair and skin can last a long time under the right conditions.’

Evett was horrified. ‘How do you know such terrible things?’ he cried.

Intelligence agents collected all manner of bizarre facts during their assignments and, combined with the fact that the work was dangerous and people died, Chaloner knew a good deal about corpses and their various stages of decomposition. He considered regaling Evett with some of his experiences in the arid hills of Spain, but thought better of it when he saw the revulsion in the man’s eyes. There was no point in alienating someone who was helping him.

Picard was less squeamish. He picked up the hair, using the ruff on his sleeve so he would not have to touch it with his fingers. ‘It is very young hair – brown with reddish glints, like my grandson’s. How long has it been down there? A hundred years?’

‘Not that long,’ replied Chaloner.

‘One of Barkstead’s victims then,’ concluded Picard, rather defiantly. ‘We can get ten shillings for this, once we clean it up. That Dutch wigmaker near the Strand pays a fortune for hair, and never asks questions – then one of you could demand another ten shillings for keeping quiet about the fact that it came from a corpse.’

‘He is French,’ said Chaloner, not wanting Jervas’s windows smashed for the wrong reasons.

Picard sighed at his irrelevance. ‘Do you want in on this, or not?’

‘Bury it,’ ordered Evett. ‘Get the Tower chaplain to say a prayer, for decency’s sake. Do not stand gawking, sergeant. Do it!’

Picard slouched away, studying the find as he went, and Chaloner thought that if Evett believed it would ever see a graveyard, then he was a fool.

‘Before you started to dig under that arch, did it look as though the ground had been disturbed within the last three years?’ Chaloner asked, turning his thoughts back to the treasure.

Evett shook his head. ‘We checked for recent upheavals, but it was all uniform beaten earth. We found a few bones that we tossed into a corner, but … Oh, Lord!’ His hand flew to his mouth as something occurred to him. ‘The bones were not all in one place – they were scattered in a way that suggested they had been chopped about.’

‘Chopped about?’

‘As in disjointed, perhaps because someone was digging through them.’ Evett was appalled by the conclusion. ‘But we were so careful to look for evidence of earlier excavations. Does it mean someone got there before us?’

‘It might – although it does not tell us whether this someone also found the treasure. And bear in mind that it might also be evidence that Barkstead really did bury something there.’

Evett chewed his lip. ‘We could go deeper, I suppose.’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘There is no point. You dug for hours, but Barkstead could not have spared that kind of time with the Commonwealth collapsing and so much business to complete. You were right: there is nothing here now.’

It was almost noon by the time Chaloner had finished examining Evett’s excavations, and he was eager to return to the Dolphin, to observe the Brotherhood at their benefactors’ dinner.

‘Good,’ said Evett, when Chaloner informed him that he had a sudden desire to watch the Queen leaving St Katherine’s hospital. ‘I have business of my own at midday, and since you cannot be in the Tower without a military escort, you would have had to leave anyway. Now I need not feel guilty about shoving you out before you are ready. You can wave to the Queen, I can interview these wretched White Hall men, and we can come back here this afternoon to complete your work.’

They left the fortress and walked towards the tavern. ‘White Hall men?’ asked Chaloner.

‘His Majesty’s measurers of cloth. They took a liking to Clarke because he played the violin for their musical ensemble. The things you spies do to cultivate contacts! Anyway, they declined to speak to me in the palace, because walls have ears, but when I told them I planned to be in the Dolphin part of the day, they agreed to meet me there instead.’ Evett pushed open the tavern’s door and entered the smoky warmth within. ‘I would not mind you joining us, actually, since I imagine you are more skilled an interrogator than I will ever be. Would you mind? There they are.’

Chaloner followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw a trio of men sitting with their backs to a wall. They were difficult to tell apart, because they were all middle aged, overweight and wore identical uniforms that comprised grey wigs and blue coats. They exuded an aura of unease, and their agitation increased tenfold when Evett sat at their table. The hands of one were shaking so much that he could barely lift his ale to his lips. Some of it spilled on his clothes.

‘I hope this will not take long,’ said the tallest, after Evett had introduced Chaloner as an ‘associate of Clarendon’, which he thought made him sound sinister. The measurers obviously thought so, too, because one turned pale and another looked as though he might be sick. ‘The King wants a new cloak, urgently, and our skills are needed to pick the right cloth. We do not know anything that will help you anyway.’

Evett looked annoyed. ‘Then why did you agree to meet me?’

‘Because you were asking loud questions and it was the only way to stop you,’ said the smallest. ‘The clock keeper is in Kelyng’s pay. We cannot afford to have him hear us talk to you about murder – not even when we have nothing of relevance to impart. It would be dangerous to say the least.’

‘Do you think Kelyng killed Clarke, then?’ asked Chaloner. ‘You must, or you would not be worried about his spy seeing you with Evett.’

The three hung their heads in perfect synchrony. ‘No one believes that tale about Clarke being murdered by robbers,’ whispered the middle measurer. ‘He was a soldier, and knew how to look after himself. But Kelyng has been lurking around the palace, trying to befriend the law clerks. The clerks say he is just using them as an excuse to be there, though. Him and Bennet.’

‘I do not like Bennet,’ said the smallest. ‘He pretends he is educated – like us – but he cannot even tell you what William Heytesbury said about uniformly accelerated motion.’

‘How remiss,’ said Chaloner, recalling that Bennet was sensitive about his social standing. ‘Did Clarke ever take him to task over his lack of learning?’

‘Yes, about a month ago – after Bennet insulted him and us by saying he preferred the sound of yowling cats to our music,’ said the tallest. ‘And Clarke told him that yowling cats always sound attractive to upstart toms. Knives were drawn, but then Sir George Downing came bursting into the kitchen, looking for cream to rub on Lady Castlemaine’s ankles, and the quarrel was lost among the panic of finding him some.’

‘Sir George is a good man,’ said the shortest fondly. ‘He was very complimentary about our rendition of Pretorius last month, and the next day, he sent us copies of three new pieces.’

‘And he gave me five crowns towards the new transverse flutes we have commissioned,’ added the middle measurer, excited. ‘He said there is nothing so sweet as the sound of a silver flute.’

‘What happened after the cream was found and Downing left?’ asked Evett. ‘Did Clarke and Bennet resume their squabble?’

The tallest shook his head. ‘They let it go, but I saw the way Bennet looked at Clarke as he was leaving. It would not surprise me to learn that he stuck a knife in Clarke’s belly, thus depriving us of the best fiddler in White Hall. I do not suppose you have any talent for music, Mr Heyden?’

‘I play the bass viol.’

The tallest beamed, delighted. ‘Then visit us any evening, and we shall have a fugue in four parts.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Evett with strong disapproval. ‘The things you spies do–’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us about Clarke?’ asked Chaloner.

‘One thing,’ said the tallest hesitantly. ‘He was worried something might happen to him, because he asked us to give his wife a message in the event of a mishap. She was to be reached though Mr Thurloe, of Lincoln’s Inn.’

‘What was it?’ asked Evett.

The tall man pursed his lips. ‘It was personal, and Mr Thurloe agreed to send it sealed, because its contents were … intimate.’

‘You can tell me,’ said Evett. ‘I will not be embarrassed – I am a man of the world.’

‘Actually, we were thinking of her feelings,’ said the smallest. ‘I think we can tell Mr Heyden, though. A man who plays the bass viol will know how to be discreet.’

The tallest sighed. ‘Very well. Clarke said he would plant seven kisses on her lips when they met in Paradise, and that they would praise God’s one son together, well away from the shadows cast by the towers of evil. He was very insistent that she should know those exact words.’

The smallest stood. ‘And now we must go, or the clock keeper will tell Kelyng we were gone.’

Evett watched them leave. ‘That was a waste of time. They were right: they know nothing that will help me, and I suspect they want Bennet blamed for the crime, because he is critical of their music. There is one thing, though. I heard Clarke mention seven of things, too, and I suspect it was his codename – the Earl is fond of allocating such tags to people. He asked me to choose one, but I told him I did not want to be a spy. When he insisted, I opted for Admiral, but he did not take the hint.’

Chaloner’s thoughts whirled in confusion. If ‘Seven’ was Clarke’s codename, then were Hewson’s dying words intended to be a warning to him, because he did not know the colonel was already dead? More to the point, what had Thurloe made of the note the measurers had sent Mrs Clarke? He would certainly have read it – opening other people’s letters was second nature to a Spymaster, even a retired one, and he would have wanted to know what Clarke had considered so pressing. And what would he have learned? That Clarke, like Hewson, had turned to religion as death approached? Chaloner rubbed his chin. Praise God’s one son must be code, but for what? Something connected to the Brotherhood? Downing had denied that members used a phrase to recognise each other, but that did not mean he had been telling the truth.

He turned to the ‘brother’ who sat opposite him. ‘What does “praise God’s one son” mean?’

‘It is no good looking for sense in messages spoken by men in fear of their lives, Heyden – or ones intended for lovers. If it is not some panicky religious exhortation spoken in the terror of the moment, then it will be some lewd reference to his courtship with his wife.’

‘That man is trying to catch your eye,’ said Chaloner, nodding across the crowded room to where a clerk was eating veal chops and drinking beer. ‘He has been fluttering his handkerchief for the past ten minutes, like a whore recruiting a customer.’

Evett immediately stared down at the table. ‘It is Pepys from the Navy Office. We do not want to talk to him! He is a sly rogue, and will know in an instant that the Earl has asked us to have another look for Barkstead’s cache without his own master’s knowledge.’

‘He will only know if you tell him,’ said Chaloner, suspecting Pepys would guess something was afoot if Evett insisted on acting in a way that screamed furtiveness and guilt. ‘He is coming over.’

‘Damn! What shall we do? The Earl will think we disobeyed him deliberately.’

‘Calm down,’ ordered Chaloner sharply, knowing perfectly well who would be blamed if Pepys did learn the truth. ‘He only wants to pass the time of day.’

‘What do you want?’ demanded Evett, as Pepys approached. The navy clerk was a short, chubby man who took great care with his appearance and who clearly thought himself something of a devil among the ladies. His progress across the tavern had been punctuated by several attempts to paw the serving women.

Pepys was startled by the hostile greeting. ‘I came to enquire after your health. We spent several days chasing phantom gold together, and I assumed that allowed us a certain familiarity. Besides, I am always happy to greet acquaintances from White Hall.’

‘This is Tom Heyden,’ blurted Evett. ‘We are here to … to discuss viols.’

Pepys smiled. ‘I am partial to music myself, and, although modesty prevents me from elaborating, I am something of a composer, too. Did Captain Evett tell you about our treasure hunt?’

‘No,’ said Evett in the kind of way that made it clear the answer was yes.

Pepys frowned, puzzled by his behaviour, then addressed Chaloner again. ‘My Lord Sandwich was very disappointed with the outcome, but the hoard was alleged to have been hidden by Barkstead, and the regicides were slippery fellows. I doubt it was ever buried, and anyone looking for it will be wasting his time. Ha! There is Lord Lauderdale. Excuse me, gentlemen.’

‘He knows!’ breathed Evett, watching Pepys scurry across the room to bow to an overweight, badly dressed man in blue silk, who did not look at all pleased to see him.

‘He does not. He just wanted to renew an acquaintance that might prove useful in the future. You are the Lord Chancellor’s aide, and he intended to make sure you remember him – until someone more important caught his attention.’

‘He contrived to be here because of the conclave,’ said Evett in disgust. ‘When they have pledged enough money for the coming year, the hospital’s benefactors dine in the Dolphin, thus providing an opportunity for characters like Pepys to come here and toady. You should open the window, by the way, or you will miss the Queen.’

Chaloner unlatched the shutter and peered out, Evett standing close behind him. ‘Three of your brothers are about to come in,’ he said conversationally. ‘Downing, Dalton and my neighbour North.’

‘Several of them are generous to worthy causes,’ acknowledged Evett. ‘Especially ones that win them the favour of the Queen. There is her carriage now – the black one. Wave to her, then!’

Chaloner saluted as the vehicle rattled past. A tiny white hand flashed as she waved back. ‘She smiled at me!’

‘That was a grimace. Can you imagine how tedious it must be, constantly hailing the masses? But we should get back to the Tower. I know most of these benefactors from Court, and some are very difficult to escape from once they start talking. Damn! Lauderdale is in our way. Good day, My Lord!’

Lauderdale was difficult to understand, since his tongue was too large for his mouth, but the gist of his growled diatribe was that there had better be something worth eating, or he would not be so generous with his donation next year, and that if there was any kind of music, he would leave. While Evett tried to stay out of spittle range, Downing took the opportunity to speak to Chaloner. He pulled the spy to one side as the benefactors began to stream past, heading for the private chamber above.

‘Lauderdale has a poor opinion of music,’ he whispered, making it clear he considered it a serious defect. His green coat seemed tighter than ever that day, as though he had recently been gorging himself. ‘I would recommend you play to him, since you are in need of employment and he is in greater need of education, but I think his ears are past redemption. Well? What did Thurloe say? Will you join us?’

‘He does not think it is a good idea.’

Downing sighed his annoyance. ‘He is like an old woman these days, afraid to do anything with his friends – not even when it might prove advantageous to him. Well, I suppose I am not surprised, although I think he is wrong. So, we shall have to trust you with our secrets, Heyden, and hope your affection for him will keep you in line. But why are you here, if not to join us? Looking for Dalton, in the hope that he will employ you as a translator?’

‘Looking for Barkstead’s tr–’ began Evett, who had finished with Lauderdale.

‘Barkstead’s head,’ interrupted Chaloner, wondering what was wrong with Evett. Was he trying to land him in trouble with the Lord Chancellor? ‘It is still displayed outside the Tower.’

Downing regarded him in alarm. ‘Do not bring that subject up here! It still rankles with some people, although I cannot imagine why. He was a regicide, for God’s sake, and deserved what he got.’

‘He was a brother, too,’ said Evett reproachfully. ‘He was before my time, but still a brother.’

‘You have been discussing our fraternity together?’ said Downing uneasily. ‘I hope you have been discreet – both of you. It will not take much to draw Kelyng’s attention in the wrong direction.’

Evett declined to be diverted. ‘Why did you betray Barkstead, Sir George? It is one thing to catch a fugitive, but you were members of the same secret organisation – one that professes loyalty to its fellows.’

Downing’s expression was resigned, and he rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I have explained a hundred times: I had no choice. I was in Holland and he was in Holland. How would it have looked – me in the same city, rubbing shoulders with him, as though we were friends? It would have seen me dismissed and disgraced. Besides, there was the Brotherhood to protect.’

‘I do not see how arresting him helped us,’ said Evett doubtfully.

‘That is because you joined later, when it was safe,’ replied Downing frostily. ‘If it had emerged that Barkstead – who was always unrepentant about the old king’s death – was one of our members, we would all have hanged. It is as simple as that, and I did the right thing. But even so, you cannot imagine how painful it is to see his severed head outside the Tower every day.’

‘And what about the Brotherhood’s other regicides?’ asked Chaloner. ‘You dealt with Barkstead, but that still left Hewson, Ingoldsby and Livesay.’

‘They signed documents of apology,’ replied Downing. ‘Besides, Ingoldsby is the King’s man now, and the others are dead. Ask North. North, tell Heyden here that Livesay is dead.’

North closed his eyes and breathed a prayer, clasping his Bible as he did so. Although he had dressed well for the conclave, he was still drab in his black suit and plain white collar. ‘I fear so,’ he said sadly. ‘Although Dalton thinks otherwise.’

Dalton was not well. His face was pale and sweaty, and he smelled of wine. ‘Livesay is not dead. He is in hiding, and who can blame him?’

‘He is not hiding,’ said North gently. ‘I spoke to eyewitnesses. Gunpowder was stored in the forward hold of Livesay’s ship and the vessel exploded. There were no survivors.’

Chaloner had learned a lot about explosions during the wars, and knew their outcomes were unpredictable. The ship may well have sunk, and there would no doubt have been a large number of fatalities. But some of the bodies would have been impossible to identify, and there was always the chance that Livesay had used the situation to vanish. Such an opportunity would have been a godsend to a man in his position, and it was not impossible that he had ignited the gunpowder himself. Chaloner was inclined to side with Dalton: an explosion was not clear evidence that Livesay was dead.

‘I like Dalton,’ said Evett, when he and Chaloner had elbowed their way outside. ‘If he offers you work, you should take it. You do not know how this business with Barkstead’s gold will end, and even if you do find it, life at White Hall is precarious. Look at what happened to my poor cousin Simon.’

Chaloner spent the next hour examining all the Tower cellars that even vaguely fitted the description given by Mother Pinchon, although none were as promising as the first – there were grey arches galore, but none also had a distinctive red brick. When he had finished, he was faced with three possibilities: first, Pinchon’s memory was faulty; second, Barkstead had changed his mind about where he had left his treasure; and third, someone had been there before them.

Evett considered the last option. ‘Who?’

‘Someone capable of sending a team of diggers inside the castle with the authority to keep them quiet about what they discovered.’

‘Robinson?’ asked Evett. ‘He has been Lieutenant of the Tower most of the time since Barkstead was ousted. You think he spotted evidence that something was buried, and investigated by himself? Perhaps he thinks it is his to keep, since he is in charge of the castle.’

‘It is possible, but there is a sizeable garrison billeted here and a lot of people mill around. Folk have been watching us ever since we arrived, and I imagine it would be difficult for Robinson – or anyone else – to retrieve a large number of butter firkins with no one noticing. If someone was at the hoard before you, then it is more likely to have been someone from the old regime.’

‘But that means we will never have it,’ said Evett, disappointed.

‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘It does.’

It was nearing two o’clock, and Chaloner was ready to leave the Tower, hopefully never to return, but Evett had other ideas, and led him towards the long, timber-framed house in the south-west corner, where the Lieutenant had his offices.

‘The Earl said he did not want–’ began Chaloner, seeing what the captain intended to do.

‘He said not to talk to Pepys or Wade, who would be clamouring for their share. But Robinson has no vested interest, so I do not see why we should not discuss the matter with him. And you need all the help you can get. Besides, I like Robinson. He is a good man.’

‘Can he be trusted?’

‘Yes, probably. Incidentally, he is a member of the Brotherhood, but is sensitive about secrecy. If you want his help, you should not mention that you know about it.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘This is an odd organisation – some members open, and others furtive.’

‘That is why it will not survive long term. It cannot even agree about a basic thing like secrecy.’

Chaloner grabbed his arm before he could tap on the door. ‘This is not a good idea.’

Evett shrugged him off. ‘Do not be such a lily! You will be all right, as long as you watch what you say. And anyway, if you glance to your right, you will see Kelyng and Bennet standing between us and the gate. Robinson gave them a dungeon here, and they use it to frighten people into giving them information, although Kelyng spends most of his time fussing over the beasts in the menagerie. We cannot leave without passing them, and I do not want that pair quizzing us about mushrooms. We have enough to worry about, without adding them to the list.’

‘Why should they care what we are doing?’

‘Clarendon’s aide and Thurloe’s man together? They will be interested, I assure you.’

The term ‘Lieutenant’s Lodgings’ was a misnomer as far as Robinson was concerned. He owned a mansion on Mincing Lane, and declined to reside in the draughty, rambling edifice that had represented home for his predecessors. He agreed to use the building for Tower business, but only after it had been renovated to his exacting standards of comfort.

That day he was working in a large upper-floor room with wood-panelled walls, a fire in the hearth and a Turkish rug on the floor. He was reading, lips moving silently as he deciphered the words. Standing near the window was the plump girl who had been in the boat with him the previous Friday, her eyes fixed on the yard below. Robinson seemed pleased of the distraction when Evett and Chaloner were announced, and rose to greet them.

‘Do you know how much salted beef my soldiers eat each week?’ he asked, when introductions had been made. Fanny gave a brief smile that showed her to be pretty in a rotund sort of way, and turned her attention to the bailey again.

‘No, sir,’ said Chaloner, when Robinson waited for a response and Evett did not supply one.

‘Lots,’ declared Robinson angrily. ‘Herd upon herd disappears down their gullets, and Wade and I can barely keep up with the demand. Come away from the window, Fanny. He will come if he can.’ He elaborated in a whisper to his guests. ‘It is her birthday, and she longs for a visit from her beau.’

‘He promised,’ said Fanny. ‘Perhaps I should write …’

‘He will come when he can,’ repeated Robinson testily. ‘Do not send to him, or he will see you as desperate, and might demand a higher dowry.’

‘He would not!’ she cried, distressed. ‘He would take me for nothing.’

‘Yes, dear,’ said Robinson. ‘But come over here or Bennet will think you are pining for him, and we do not want his amorous expectations aroused again.’

Fanny shot away from the window as though it were on fire, and came to stand at her father’s side. ‘I hear you have been looking for fungus,’ she said politely to Chaloner.

‘There is a lot of it about,’ said Robinson. ‘Great orange things growing out of the Bell Tower, rot in the timbers of the Wakefield.’ He turned to Evett. ‘I do not suppose you had another look for Barkstead’s treasure while you were there, did you?’

‘No,’ said Evett, too quickly, and Chaloner thought that if Pepys and Wade did not surmise that another search had been launched, then it would be a miracle.

Robinson seemed to believe him, though. ‘Pity. But we considered Pinchon’s description very carefully before we dug, and we all agreed that particular arch was the only likely location. When you did not find it in the first hour, I knew you were harking after a lost cause.’

‘What would you have done, if you had been in Barkstead’s position, sir?’ asked Chaloner. ‘As his successor, you are in a position to know better than anyone else how he might have acted.’

Robinson went to the window, and was silent for so long that Chaloner began to suspect he had forgotten the question.

‘Bennet will think you are hankering after him if you stay there much longer,’ said Fanny eventually. ‘And he will offer me forty silver spoons.’

‘I am thinking,’ said Robinson tartly. ‘I have been asked for my expert opinion.’

‘Oh,’ said Fanny, chastened.

‘I would not have buried it here,’ Robinson said, after another lengthy pause. ‘I would have picked a hiding place where my money could have been retrieved as and when I needed it. It is not easy to gain access to the Tower, and Barkstead could never have returned here with a spade, even if he had been pardoned and granted his freedom.’

Chaloner nodded, thinking it was a sound assessment, mostly because it concurred with his own. ‘So why do you think he lied to Mother Pinchon?’

Robinson raised his hands. ‘Perhaps Pepys was right: that Barkstead wanted her to keep working for him, even after he had packed up his gold and could no longer pay her. It is a distasteful conclusion, but times were desperate and there was treachery everywhere.’

‘He was afraid of being betrayed?’ asked Evett. ‘By his own servant?’

Robinson arched an eyebrow. ‘People are always betraying their friends, their kin, their colleagues. You only have to look at what Downing did to Barkstead …’ He trailed off, and looked as though he wished he had not spoken, shooting Evett a glance to warn him to silence. He continued, slightly flustered. ‘Anyway, suffice to say that Barkstead would not have trusted anyone, not even favourite retainers. If you want another example of distrust and treachery, just remember that odd case …’ He hesitated again. ‘I should not resurrect ancient gossip.’

‘It might help,’ said Evett hopefully. ‘And My Lord Chancellor will be very grateful for anything that leads him to the gold – so he can present it to His Majesty, for bestowing on his subjects.’

Robinson did not look convinced – by the notion of the King’s largesse or the usefulness of Clarendon’s gratitude – but he shared his story anyway. ‘It started shortly after Cromwell died, and the Commonwealth was crumbling under Tumbledown Dick, his son. There was a group of seven men so determined to prevent Charles’s return, that they were ready to do anything to prevent it.’

‘There were more than seven men trying to do that,’ said Chaloner, thinking about the many plots that had erupted around the time of the Restoration.

‘But these seven were well-placed, influential and ruthless. It was rumoured that they were the ones who kept the Commonwealth going for so long.’

‘The Commonwealth owed its success to dedicated ministers like Thurloe,’ said Fanny, displaying surprising insight. ‘The same is true of any government: a few strong men lead the rest. I do not see any special role for these seven mysterious people.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Robinson irritably. ‘But that is beside the point. I am telling a story here – repeating a rumour – not providing facts. These seven men, who called themselves the Seven–’

‘Imaginative,’ said Evett with a derisive snigger.

Chaloner’s thoughts whirled. Could this be what Hewson and Clarke meant when they mentioned the number ‘seven’? Was he wrong in assuming it was a codename for Clarke? He thought about Hewson’s words and Clarke’s cryptic notes: that Seven were in danger. Were they trying to warn these ‘well-placed, influential and ruthless’ individuals, or was the connection too farfetched?

Robinson ignored Evett. ‘–dedicated themselves to blocking the return of Charles.’

‘Then they were not as powerful as they thought,’ said Evett. ‘The King is king now.’

‘They failed because of one man, according to the tale that was rumbling around the exiled Court,’ said Robinson, lost in memories. ‘This fellow found out about the Seven and told the King, who was suitably grateful – he offered a bar of gold for every name revealed.’

‘Do you know the identity of this traitor?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Traitor?’ asked Robinson sharply. ‘Most men would say he was a hero to confound such a plot. Which side are you on? But I heard this tale more than three years ago now, and my memory of it is hazy. Rumour had it that his name was Swanning or Swanson or some such thing. I saw him once – a young fellow who sang like an angel. Like my Fanny.’ He smiled affectionately at his daughter, who had edged towards the window again.

‘Did Swanning get his gold?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Not when I saw him, because he did not know the Seven’s names – only that they existed. I heard he had high hopes of learning them, though, because the Seven had scheduled a meeting, and he was going to eavesdrop.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Chaloner. It sounded like the kind of story told in Royalist homes at Christmas – a brave young Cavalier, valiantly taking on sinister Parliamentarian politicians.

‘It was not a secret,’ said Robinson. ‘It probably should have been, given the delicate nature of Swanning’s mission, but you cannot keep much quiet in courts.’

‘What happened to Swanning?’ asked Chaloner.

Robinson shoved his red wig to the back of his head and scratched his shaven pate. ‘Swanning: that does not sound right – his name was not Swanning. But as to what happened, I am not sure. He just disappeared and I never saw him again. I wonder if he did reveal the names of the Seven. I suppose he must have done, because Charles is on the throne.’

‘Or they discovered they were not as influential as they thought, and their machinations came to nothing,’ suggested Chaloner.

‘But this tale goes to prove the point I was trying to make earlier,’ said Robinson. ‘Men are always betraying each other – they cannot help themselves. Do not perch too comfortably on Clarendon’s shoulders, Evett. Great men have farther to fall.’

After a short silence, Evett and Robinson began to discuss the disgraceful state of the navy – not paid for two years, and still expected to defend England against her enemies. Chaloner joined Fanny at the window, wishing Evett would put an end to the discussion, so they could leave.

‘An ugly man,’ said Fanny, looking disparagingly at the loitering Bennet. ‘And a stupid one. I told him I was not interested in his advances – that my heart is tied to another – but he refused to believe me.’

‘It could have been worse,’ said Chaloner. ‘Kelyng might have made the offer. At least Bennet is not old enough to be your grandfather.’

She regarded him earnestly. ‘Bennet is the nastiest, most vicious man in the city. I only hope he has not done anything to frighten my Robert away from me. I would not put it past him.’

‘Is your Robert intelligent?’

Her eyes gleamed with misty adoration. ‘The cleverest fellow in London. My father believes so strongly in his prospects at the Treasury, that he is willing to let us wed now, while he is still poor.’

‘Then he has nothing to worry about from Bennet.’

She smiled, and was about to add something else, when a soldier arrived, bearing the news that a lion from the menagerie had eluded its keeper and was on the loose. Robinson grabbed his sword, and the interview came to an abrupt end.

‘Go that way,’ he ordered, pushing Evett towards a narrow passage between two buildings. ‘I do not want you savaged. The Earl will be vexed if he loses his aide. Mind the steps – they are slippery.’

Before Chaloner could say he wanted to collect his weapons first, he had been shunted down the passage to emerge in a yard dominated by towering walls. Evett headed for the nearest gate at a run.

‘What is the hurry?’ asked Chaloner, trying to keep up with him.

Evett regarded him as though he were insane. ‘Lions, man! Do you not know how dangerous they can be? And the one in the Tower is particularly fierce, because close confinement has sent it insane.’

‘Robinson should give it the run of Barkstead’s cellar then. There are enough rats down there to keep it happy for years.’

‘It wants human prey,’ said Evett, glancing around him in a way that suggested growing panic. ‘I am uneasy, Heyden. We have no swords, and it is too quiet here.’

‘We should go back to the main gate,’ said Chaloner, skidding to a standstill. He did not like the notion of moving deeper inside the Tower, although he was not unduly worried about the lion. The ones he had seen in captivity had been pathetic, mangy beasts, with rotten teeth and broken claws.

Evett grabbed his arm. ‘No, come this way.’

Reluctantly, Chaloner followed him through a series of doors, then down some unlit steps. Water slopped on stone, swishing softly in the darkness, and he supposed they were near the Thames.

‘Traitors’ Gate,’ said Evett, indicating a low, river-filled vault dominated by a pair of iron-barred doors. They stood open. ‘We can take a boat from here.’

Chaloner shuddered. He had passed Traitors’ Gate often enough, although he had never had cause to go through it. He knew only a handful of prisoners had ever made the one-way journey through its dismal portals, and its reputation was wildly exaggerated, but he felt uncomfortable nonetheless. He glanced around, taking in the dripping roof, slick steps and slime-coated walls. A boat was tied to a pier, oars ready. And then he saw something else: a pair of gleaming eyes.

‘I think the lion is in here,’ he said.

‘Stop it,’ ordered Evett sharply. ‘I am uneasy enough, without you trying to unnerve me.’

‘I am serious. It is looking right at us.’

Evett’s jaw dropped in horror as the animal began to move. ‘Oh, God! What shall we do?’

‘We keep calm for a start,’ said Chaloner curtly. He watched the beast settle on its haunches and peer at them. It was now close enough to pounce. ‘Do you have a dagger?’

‘Of course not. I left it at the gate, as we were told.’

Chaloner leaned down and removed the knife from his boot. He handed it to Evett, while he kept the one from his sleeve.

Evett gaped at him. ‘You were ordered to disarm.’

‘Then we are lucky I declined. Please do not twitch – you are attracting its attention.’

‘They will never look for it in here,’ said Evett shakily. The weapon slipped from his trembling fingers and he bent to retrieve it, while the lion looked on with interested eyes. ‘Cats do not like water. It will kill us long before they search this part of the Tower. Sweet Jesus, Heyden, it is standing up!’

‘I thought you were a soldier.’ Chaloner was unimpressed. ‘Pull yourself together.’

‘I am a soldier, but I have not been trained to fight slathering beasts.’

‘Think of it as Cromwell, then,’ suggested Chaloner. The lion was not a particularly fierce specimen, and Evett was armed with a blade. ‘Or Buckingham.’

Suddenly, Evett elbowed him out of the way and made a dash for the boat. He did not get far before he lost his footing, and went bouncing down the stairs, wailing as he went. The lion and Chaloner watched his antics in astonishment.

‘Robinson told you to mind your footing.’

When Evett seemed incapable of standing, Chaloner walked carefully towards him and took his elbow. As he did so, he noticed a rope had been placed across the third stair. He inspected it curiously. It had been rubbed with slime from the walls, so was virtually invisible to anyone using the steps. It was a potentially lethal hazard, and Evett was fortunate he had not cracked his skull. Chaloner wondered who had put it there, and supposed it was someone’s idea of a practical joke, albeit a very dangerous one.

As soon as he was upright, Evett lurched for the boat and tried to push it away from the pier. With silent grace, the lion sprang from its perch and made its way towards them. Evett tore wildly at the knot that moored the little craft, but his fingers were clumsy with terror. The lion swayed towards Chaloner, then pounced, while Evett’s shriek of fright echoed shockingly in the damp chamber.

The sudden weight of a fully grown lion was too much for Chaloner’s fragile balance on the slick steps, and he went down hard. The dagger flew from his hand. He gripped the creature’s throat, fingers disappearing into thick, oily fur as he sought to keep its teeth away from his neck. It batted him with its paw, and he noticed its claws were sheathed. He shoved it, and it backed away obediently.

‘It is tame,’ he said, beginning to laugh as he stood up. ‘The poor creature probably escaped to stretch its legs. Those cages are very small.’

Evett was unconvinced. He grabbed Chaloner’s knife and hurled it at the lion. The weapon clattered harmlessly against the wall.

‘No!’ snapped Chaloner, interposing himself between them. ‘You will hurt it.’

‘Then help me with this,’ pleaded Evett, scrabbling desperately at the painter. ‘I do not trust it.’

Chaloner staggered when the lion placed its paws on his shoulders again. It stank of old meat and urine, and he wondered whether the scent would cling to him, so Metje would notice it that night. If she did, he wondered how he would explain it – and whether she would believe him if he told her the truth. He unravelled the knot that tethered the boat, struggling to keep the lion away from the cowering Evett, then jumped into the craft and propelled it out on to the river. The cat watched, tail swishing behind it. Someone shouted when they emerged, and Chaloner saw soldiers on the wall above, pointing weapons. He supposed, from their hostile stance, that they assumed a pair of prisoners were making a bid for freedom, and was obliged to nudge Evett with his foot, to make him say something to stop them from being shot at.

Evett tried to stand, but his legs would not support him, so he identified himself sitting. Robinson appeared, and ordered his men to stand down. He raised a hand in farewell as they floated away, and Chaloner heard wheedling calls emanating from the gate – the keeper was trying to seduce his charge back into his tender care. Evett made a sudden lurch and was sick over the side. Chaloner looked away as he rowed to the nearest jetty, intending to see the boat returned to its rightful owners as soon as possible. He did not want to be accused of stealing Crown property.

‘You must think me a fool,’ said Evett in a low voice, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Chaloner nodded. ‘A coward, too. I would not like to go into battle with you.’

‘Well, that is honest,’ said Evett, attempting a smile. It emerged as a grimace. ‘I have had a deep fear of wild animals ever since I saw a bear chew the head from its owner as a child. I do not like … and a lion …’ He trailed off with a shudder.

‘I cannot imagine you encounter them very often.’

‘More than you might think. The King is stocking the royal parks with all manner of dangerous creatures – vicious, bronze-coloured birds with long tails and nasty, slashing beaks.’

‘Pheasants?’

‘And in White Hall, there are dogs everywhere.’

‘Dogs are not dangerous creatures,’ Chaloner pointed out.

‘The King’s are: massive things with dripping teeth. I hate them all. Why do you think I want to be Lord High Admiral? Because you do not get rampaging animals on ships.’

‘Well, we are away from it now,’ said Chaloner, thinking him deranged. ‘Who is Lee?’

‘What?’ Evett blinked stupidly at the abrupt change of subject.

‘When I was talking to Fanny, I saw a report you had written for Robinson about your previous searches for the treasures. It was on the window sill, waiting to be filed. It mentioned a Mr Lee, as well as Wade and Pepys.’

‘Lee is just a clerk. Robinson suggested we involve him, because he is quick at counting money and we were anticipating barrels of the stuff.’

‘Why did you not mention him before?’

Evett shrugged. ‘Why would I? I did not mention all the soldiers who wielded spades for us, either. None is relevant to the enquiry, and there is no point in me wasting your time.’

Chaloner was not so sure. ‘According to your report, Lee lives near the Tower – Thames Street. I suggest we visit him. We cannot talk to Pepys and Wade, but no one has warned us away from Lee.’

‘Now?’ asked Evett. ‘It must be almost three o’clock. It will be dark in an hour or so.’

‘Now,’ said Chaloner, easing the boat into the dock near Tower Wharf. A man in royal livery was waiting to collect it, although he said he would wait until the lion was in its cage before rowing back.

‘But it is tame,’ said Chaloner, puzzled.

The man tapped his temple. ‘Its wits are stewed. Sometimes it is as gentle as a kitten, but other times it is vicious. Even its keeper cannot predict which it will be.’

Chaloner led Evett along Thames Street until they located the clerk’s house. It was a tumbledown affair, leaning precariously between two equally unsteady neighbours, and no one answered their knocks. Evett, regaining his composure, suggested that Lee was probably at work, since it was a Wednesday, and would have no reason to be home. Chaloner stared at the windows.

‘No,’ said Evett, guessing what was in his mind. ‘I will not break in. It is illegal.’

‘We should not do it at the front,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘Too public.’

He made his way to the rear of the property, only to find it unlocked. He inspected the door carefully, then stood back to assess the rest of the building. A window was broken, and he could see someone sitting on a chair in the chamber within. He pointed out the shattered pane to Evett.

‘So?’ asked the aide. ‘Glass is expensive to replace, and Lee will not earn a huge salary at the Treasury. We should go there and talk to him, since it appears to be important to you.’

Chaloner opened the door, standing well back as he did so. He knew what he was about to find. The familiar odour of death was not overpowering, because the weather was cold, but it was strong enough to tell him that Lee had been past caring about broken windows for several days.

‘Is that him?’ he asked, pointing to the figure that sat at the table. ‘Is that Lee?’