A Conspiracy of Violence

Chapter 8

‘You enjoyed that,’ said Sarah accusingly, as she and Chaloner walked to the Lincoln’s Inn stables to collect her horse. ‘I had something interesting to tell him, and you pre-empted me.’

‘It was not important anyway – as you said yourself.’ He wondered why she was making such a fuss. ‘Everyone knows Buckingham harbours a liking for Lady Castlemaine.’

She regarded him curiously. ‘The mole … did you see … I mean, how did you find out?’

‘Your brother trained me well. Just as he did you.’

She pouted. ‘I wish that were true. You know how to locate birthmarks on royal mistresses, while I can barely decode the simplest cipher. I have begged him to teach me more, but he always has an excuse as to why he cannot.’

‘Spying is not a game. It can be dangerous.’

‘John has always been good to me, and I would like to return the favour. Bennet and his minions have been loitering near his gate most of today, which is why I have only been able to visit now – I dared not come before. Is there anything we can do to drive them away?’

‘Not without arousing their suspicions. You should not meddle – it may do more harm than good.’

‘You said you would help protect him, Thomas Chaloner. Are you reneging on your promise?’

He watched her lead her horse into the yard, horrified that she – a woman of whom he was intensely wary – should know his real name. He wished Thurloe had kept the matter to himself: he might dote on his sister, but Chaloner had no reason to trust her. He was also puzzled. Thurloe had refused to confide in Downing, with whom Chaloner had worked for five years, but had revealed the secret to Sarah, someone Chaloner had met only twice – and one of those was when she was committing murder. Why would Thurloe be cautious with one person, but so rash with another?

Sarah petted her restless pony, and Chaloner stepped forward to lift her into the saddle. She was surprisingly heavy, far more so than Metje, although he sensed her bulk was more muscle than fat. The blow she had dealt Storey attested to the fact that she was strong. He took the reins and started to lead the horse towards the gate, but she pulled them from him and made a pretence at untangling them.

‘Tell me about Claracilla,’ he said, intending to learn a little more about her character while she kept him waiting. ‘I saw The Parson’s Wedding once, but it was a poor performance.’

She was surprised. ‘You are familiar with Killigrew’s work?’

Since a spy was obliged to cultivate a knowledge of all manner of subjects, he had acquired a grasp of the performing arts that allowed him to converse about them with at least a modicum of intelligence. ‘I met him in Holland once, when Downing invited him to dinner.’

She was impressed. ‘What was he like?’

He had been petty, foul-mouthed, sharp-tongued and dissolute. ‘A learned gentleman, but passionate in his temper.’

‘I heard he was a rake. Look, Thomas, you do not have to walk home with me. My brother is overly protective, and I shall be perfectly safe on my own.’ She hesitated, then added in a softer tone, ‘But if it is not out of your way, I would not object to your company.’

‘It is no trouble.’ He tried to take the bridle, but she jerked it from him a second time. He sighed. ‘At least, it is no trouble if you allow me to do it tonight.’

She made a noise that sounded something like a sob, and he gazed up at her in surprise. When she spoke, her words emerged a rush. ‘Snow is following me, and I am so frightened that I do not know what to do. That is what I came to tell John, but I could not bring myself to do it. He looked so tired.’

‘He will not thank you for that – he will want to know. Go back and tell him.’

She shook her head firmly. ‘I cannot bother him with my problems. But I dare not go home, because then Snow will see where I live.’

‘Did he follow you here?’

‘No, I lost him by climbing out of a window at the Cockpit. He had followed me right inside, and sat glowering at me all through the second half. I am not easily alarmed, but I do not like this.’

‘How did he find you in the first place?’

‘He probably loitered at Charing Cross until he spotted me. You will always see the person you want if you wait there long enough.’

Snow had done much the same to catch Chaloner two days before. ‘How do you feel about lending me your hat?’

She regarded him uncertainly. ‘What for?’

‘So I can take your place. Your riding garb is masculine, and the streets are poorly lit. If I wear your hat and keep my head down, I think we can fool him. I shall take your horse – and Snow – on a tour of the city, while you go home.’

‘But he means me harm. You will be putting yourself in danger.’

‘I doubt he will do anything too outrageous as long as there are people around. I will lead him away from you, then give him the slip. It should not be difficult.’

‘What about my pony?’

‘I will stable him at the Golden Lion, and you can fetch him at your leisure.’

‘And what happens tomorrow? Will you take my place then, too?’

It was a reasonable question, and Chaloner suspected she would not be safe until she had either made some sort of arrangement with the fellow or one of them was dead. ‘Stay indoors. If he does not know where you live, then he cannot harm you. He will not linger on the Strand for ever – Kelyng will have other things for him to do.’

‘Why should you risk yourself on my account?’

‘You came to my rescue in the wigmaker’s shop,’ he replied, after wracking his brains for an answer. Why was he willing to help her? Because he disliked the notion of Snow stalking a woman? Because she was Thurloe’s sister and, for all his suspicions and uncertainties, he still felt a lingering affection for the man who had treated him well for a decade? Or because he wanted her to think kindly of him now she knew his real name?

He lifted her off the horse and climbed into the saddle, keeping his elbows tucked in to make himself less bulky. Her wig smelled faintly of a perfume that was sensual, and it carried her warmth.

‘Hoist up your petticoats, so they do not show,’ he instructed, as he started to ride down Chancery Lane. ‘Walk ahead of me – not too far, or I will not be able to help you if he sees through our plan, but not so close that we look as though we are together. And move like a man – do not mince.’

He smothered a laugh when she effected an exaggerated swagger. It made her appear drunk, and one fellow immediately sidled up to her, evidently intent on taking advantage of an inebriated gentleman. Chaloner drew his dagger and the thief melted away into the shadows, holding his hands in front of him to indicate he meant no harm.

It was not long before Chaloner spotted Snow; Sarah saw him at the same time, and tensed perceptibly. The robber was waiting near the Maypole in the Strand, a towering pillar set up two years before to replace the one destroyed during the wars. He was alert and watchful as he leaned against a wall, chewing a stick of dried meat. When he saw Sarah’s pony, he pushed himself upright and stretched. A bulge near his waist indicated he carried a pistol. Chaloner scanned the dark street for an accomplice, but Snow made no attempt to pass signals: the stalking of Sarah was personal, not duty, and he was alone.

‘Easy,’ called Chaloner softly, when he saw her falter, unwilling to walk past the man.

‘I cannot let you take the consequences for something I did,’ she replied unsteadily. ‘It is not fair. I should never have agreed to it.’

‘It is too late now. Go home, before your hesitation puts us both in danger.’

Reluctantly, she entered the garden of her house, while Chaloner continued along the Strand. He glanced behind him when he reached the corner, and saw Snow still watching. The ruse had worked. He rode towards the river, then eased the horse into a trot. Snow sped up, and Chaloner took a sharp left, but found himself in an alley barely wide enough for the animal to pass. The pony did not like the sensation of buildings hemming it in, and began to buck. Snow hauled a pistol from his belt and took aim. Chaloner ducked, and the shot blew to pieces a swinging sign above his head. The sound was shockingly loud in the confined space.

The horse bolted. It raced down the alley, and its hooves drew sparks when it reached the end and tried to make a hard right-hand turn. Snow tugged a second weapon from his coat, not taking the time to reload the first. The pony thundered on, then reared suddenly when its path was blocked by a stack of roofing tiles. Snow’s footsteps echoed behind, and he gave a brief shout of satisfaction when he saw his quarry trapped. Chaloner tried to turn, intending to ride Snow down, but there was no room for such a manoeuvre and the horse knew it. It started to gallop towards the tiles, and Chaloner braced himself for the impact. Then he was airborne, wind whistling past his ears. A sharp click sounded when a hoof connected with the highest tile, and then they were across. He grabbed the beast’s mane to keep his balance as it cavorted back towards the Strand, and Snow’s second shot was fired more in frustration than in any real hope of hitting its target.

Chaloner was grateful the landlord of the Golden Lion knew him, because it meant he did not demand advance payment for the horse’s lodging. He lingered in the tavern, partly to warm himself by the fire before he went to his icy garret, and partly to ensure Snow had not traced the tortuous route he had taken home. Nothing was amiss after an hour, and he left the inn with some reluctance. He smiled when he saw Temperance returning from a late prayer-meeting at the chapel, although she looked as though she had just spent an hour sitting next to a live cannon.

‘What did Hill rave about this time?’ he asked, watching her face light up when she saw him.

‘Turning the other cheek, although he is actually rather a vengeful man.’

‘Why does your father not hire someone more moderate?’

‘Hill was once attacked by brutal men who hated his religion, and my father feels a kinship with him because he suffered the same treatment, as did my brother. He knows Hill is a danger to us, and spends a lot of time asking God to make him more temperate.’

Chaloner wondered whether the incident Hill had related to North was actually the time he had spent in the Buckingham stocks for iconoclasm. ‘Then let us hope God hears him.’

She brushed aside his concerns. ‘Where is your hat? You should not be bareheaded on such a night – you will take a chill.’

Chaloner gave her a brief flash of Sarah’s headwear, which he had shoved in his pocket after the escapade with Snow. ‘I was hot.’

‘That is not yours,’ she said immediately. ‘That belongs to a woman.’ Her voice fell to a horrified whisper, so the last words might equally well have been ‘the devil’.

‘I must have picked up the wrong one,’ he said, wondering how she came to be so well acquainted with his clothing – it was dark, and he had only offered her a glimpse. ‘It happens all the time.’

‘Not to me,’ said Temperance. She regarded him uneasily. ‘Do you have a lady friend?’

‘Not one with whom I exchange clothes,’ replied Chaloner. He saw she was not amused. ‘It belongs to someone you know – Sarah Dalton. She is happily married to someone else.’

‘Sarah?’ asked Temperance, startled. ‘She is not happily married! Her brother advised her not to take Dalton, but she ignored him and has regretted it ever since. Poor Sarah. How do you know her?’

‘I am hoping to do some translating for her husband.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded relieved. ‘Will you come inside? I made knot biscuits today, and I do not think Preacher Hill finished them all when he visited us earlier. He came to deal with the turkey.’

Chaloner accepted willingly, hoping she might provide other food, too, and that Metje might be there. He wanted her to visit him that night, because it would be warmer in bed with two than one, and it was time their differences were forgotten. He followed Temperance into the comfortable sitting room at the front of the house, where the Norths and their servants gathered in the evenings. It was a pleasant chamber, dominated by its hearth and long oaken table. North sat at one end, reading under a lamp, while Faith sat at the other with a pile of darning. The servants ranged themselves in between: as in many Puritan homes, masters and servants mingled, all equal in the eyes of the Lord.

The household was small, but Chaloner had always sensed it was a happy one. The two maids were practising their handwriting under Metje’s watchful eye, while the men – named Henry and Giles – sharpened knives. There was a dish of dried fruit to assuage any hunger pangs remaining after supper, and a posset bubbled over the fire, to be drunk before everyone retired to bed. Metje glanced up, then turned her attention back to her students. Her coolness meant nothing, because she always ignored him when they were in the presence of the Norths. Nevertheless, he pushed Sarah’s hat and wig further inside his pocket, not wanting accusations of infidelity to add to their troubles.

‘Do not go in the kitchen, Miss Temperance,’ cried Henry in alarm, as the daughter of the house raised her hand to the latch. ‘The turkey is in there.’

‘We are lucky it is not in here,’ said North, standing to greet Chaloner. ‘It had designs on spending the night by the fire, and I was hard-pressed to prevent it from doing so. Wretched beast!’

‘It is still alive?’ asked Chaloner. ‘I thought Hill was going to kill it with his Bible – or his pistol.’

‘The gun flashed in the pan, and the Bible only served to annoy it,’ replied Faith. She looked furious, and her small eyes glittered. ‘It guessed what he intended to do and went for him. I will not shock you with details, Thomas, but suffice to say it is a good thing he stands to preach his sermons.’

Chaloner turned to the menservants, indicating the arsenal of blades in front of them. ‘What about you two? Surely you are not both afraid of a bird?’

‘It is not a bird,’ replied Henry coolly. ‘It is a turkey.’

‘And I do not kill God’s creations, either,’ added North, before Chaloner could challenge him. ‘I only eat them. Besides, I do not mind admitting that the thing has me terrified. It is a demon.’

‘I have never had trouble killing things before,’ said Faith. ‘But I did not like the feel of its neck when I grabbed it. It was like holding a snake, and I could not maintain my grip long enough to cut its throat. It was not like dispatching a person, which I was obliged to do several times during the wars.’

‘Where are the knot biscuits?’ asked Temperance, while Chaloner regarded Faith uneasily. She had related some of her war experiences before, and he was under the impression that she had endured a bloodier time of it than he had – and he had been in several major battles.

‘The bird had them,’ replied Faith, looking angrier still. ‘What a waste of good butter!’

‘The kitchen is now out of bounds for the night,’ said North to Chaloner. ‘The turkey will forage in the yard in daylight, but it moves indoors when dusk falls, and no Christian soul can stop it.’

Chaloner wondered whether the bird’s near starvation had rendered it unusually aggressive, or whether it was common for turkeys to take over a house if they were not executed immediately. He struggled not to laugh at the situation. Faith detected his amusement, and became cool with him.

‘Have you eaten tonight? If not, do have some raisins.’

‘I am not hungry,’ lied Chaloner. She had made the offer from spite, knowing he hated raisins with a passion. ‘But I should leave. It is very late and I still have some work to do.’

‘Paid work?’ asked Metje, rather eagerly.

‘He means to practise his music,’ said North with a fond smile. ‘But choose something more cheerful than the sad piece you played yesterday, Heyden. It was so mournful, it made Metje cry.’

‘Did it?’ asked Chaloner, startled.

‘It reminded me of home,’ said Metje uncomfortably. She stood up. ‘Do not let us keep you, Thomas. I will see you to the door.’

‘You do not have to go,’ said Temperance. ‘Sit next to me and show me those coin tricks again.’

‘Coin tricks?’ echoed Faith. She looked uneasily from her daughter to Chaloner, making him wonder what she thought they had entailed. ‘What sort of coin tricks?’

‘Nothing too debauched. And now he needs to work,’ said Metje, elbowing him towards the door. He did not want to go: it was warm and comfortable in the Norths’ house, and the prospect of a cold, lonely garret was not an enticing one. But he bowed to the Norths, aware of Faith regarding Temperance in motherly dismay, and followed Metje into the corridor, closing the door behind him. A murmur of conversation began, and he could hear someone stoking up the fire.

‘I was in no hurry to leave,’ he said, watching her unbar the front door and feeling his stomach growl emptily. ‘There was no need to force me out.’

‘You should not waste time fooling around with Temperance when you could be earning money for the rent,’ she said sharply. ‘Go to your translating. I lit the lamp for you.’

‘Did you really cry last night?’

‘It was such a gloomy tune,’ she replied, looking away. ‘And I keep thinking about what will happen if our countries go to war. Everything is so horribly uncertain.’

‘I am sorry, Meg.’ He tried to touch her, but she pulled away from him.

‘Go to your translating, or Faith will think you are seducing her servants, as well as her daughter.’

Chaloner did not like leaving Metje when she was ridden with anxieties, and was angry with himself, feeling he was letting her down by failing to provide her with the security she craved. A feeling of inadequacy washed over him as he climbed the stairs to his rooms, and he decided he would locate Barkstead’s treasure, even if it meant a journey to Holland. Clarendon would then pass him to Williamson, who was said to be intelligent, so would see the wisdom of using experienced men to help avert a crisis with the Dutch. And he would learn who killed Clarke and watch Kelyng for Thurloe, since two sources of income would surely allay Metje’s fears.

‘Heyden,’ came a soft voice from the stairwell. ‘Is that you?’

Stifling a sigh of annoyance, Chaloner retraced his steps. ‘Did I disturb you, Mr Ellis?’

The landlord shook his grey head. ‘I wanted to make sure you were not a whore. I like your lamp, by the way. I might accept that in lieu of rent, should you find yourself unable to pay this week.’

‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner, hoping it would not be necessary. Metje would be furious.

He walked back up the stairs, wondering whether he could petition Clarendon for an advance on his pay. It was not something he liked to ask; no man wanted to be a beggar. However, he was not so engrossed in his worries that he did not realise something was amiss in his room when he started to unlock it. The hall outside was always draughty, but when he put his fingers to the bottom of the door, there was a veritable gale whistling under it. There was also no flicker of light from the lamp Metje said she had lit. Had Ellis turned it off? Standing well back, Chaloner opened the door slowly, then waited a moment before entering, alert for any indication that someone was inside.

But the room was empty, and the icy draught was the result of a smashed window. Shards of glass were strewn across the floor, and the lamp had blown out. He walked to the broken pane and looked into the street below, aware that someone might be lurking there to see what would happen when he returned and found the mess – someone with a gun. But nothing moved, and Fetter Lane appeared to be deserted, so he secured the shutters and set about rekindling the lamp. Then he searched for the missile that had caused the damage. What he found astonished him.

He had expected a stone, lobbed by the people who attacked the Nonconformist chapel – either because they had confused his house with North’s, or because he was known to be in the Puritans’ employ. However, it was no rock that lay amid the chaos of glass and splintered wood, but a black object that emitted the distinctive aroma of gunpowder. Someone had thrown a grenade. He studied it where it lay, turning it with the tip of his sword, and trying to determine why it had not exploded. He saw it was the creation of an amateur, who did not understand that the vessel holding the inflammable chemicals needed to break in order for its contents to ignite, and too sturdy a container had been used.

So, who had thrown it? Clarke’s killer, because he intended the murder to remain unsolved? Someone who did not want Barkstead’s treasure located? Kelyng, because Chaloner was Thurloe’s man, or Bennet, because Chaloner had made a fool of him? Or had someone intended to strike a blow at the Puritans – or worse, at Metje, because she was Dutch?

He dropped Sarah’s hat and wig on the table, but then shoved them behind the bed, not wanting Metje to question him about them, as Temperance had done. In an attempt to take his mind off his empty stomach, he drank a lot of water, then sat at the table and stared at the scrap of paper he had retrieved from Lee. It was less than the length of his ring finger and only half as wide; the whole document had clearly never been very large. He assessed the kind of writing materials used, holding it to the lamp to see whether heat might reveal secret marks – some spies still used lemon or onion juice. But there was nothing visible, and the paper was the cheap kind favoured by everyone. Assuming the original document was rectangular, Chaloner had the bottom right-hand corner of it.

The cipher comprised not only letters, but numbers and symbols, too – a system of substitution devised many years before Thurloe’s rise and fall. The order of the characters was fixed, but only the sender and recipient knew which letter corresponded to another, and although it was usually possible to break the code, it was a time-consuming process. It was especially troublesome when only fragments of words were available. But Chaloner was keen for answers, and was prepared to work all night if necessary. He found an old broadsheet with a blank back page and began.

He laboured until the church bells chimed one o’clock, when his eyes burned from fatigue and a headache gnawed at his temples. He sat back and rubbed his back, wondering what had happened to Metje. He returned to his task a little longer, then began to worry. She often missed one evening with him, but it was rare for her to forgo two in a row. Had the Norths become suspicious at last, and locked her in? Or had she fallen foul of whoever had lobbed the bomb as she had left North’s house to join him?

He tiptoed down the stairs and let himself out through the back door, wincing at the sharp chill of the night. Carefully, he scaled the wall that separated his house from North’s, landing lightly on the other side. North’s bedchamber was in darkness, but there was a glimmer of light in Metje’s. He groped on the ground for a suitable piece of mud – not so small that it would not fly, but not so large that it would make too much noise. He found what he was looking for and took aim.

The clod struck the glass exactly where he had intended, making a soft but distinct tap. He waited, expecting her to answer. She did not, so he crouched a second time and hunted for something larger, supposing she was asleep and had not heard what was a very small sound. His second shot hit the window frame, making a sharp snap. The light wavered, as if someone was on the move, but the window still did not open. Becoming impatient, he selected a third missile, which he hurled with rather more vigour than was wise. The crack was startling in the still night air, and Metje was not the only one who heard it. North’s shutters flew open, and he peered into the darkness.

‘Cats,’ Chaloner heard Faith murmur sleepily. ‘That big orange thing from two doors up.’

‘It was not a cat.’ As North leaned out, the night-cap fell from his head and dropped to the ground below. ‘Curses!’ Chaloner smiled, certain only a Puritan would use such an expletive.

North’s head disappeared, and moments later, came the sound of a key turned in a latch. Chaloner padded to the end of the garden and crouched behind a holly bush, while North retrieved his hat and began to prowl, holding a lamp above his head. He carried a cudgel in his other hand, clearly determined to flush out intruders. Chaloner sighed. It was very late and he was tired: he did not want to be chased by an irate neighbour who thought he was a thief. He was tempted to stand up and announce himself, adding that he was also the man who intended to marry his daughter’s companion, but consideration for Metje made him prudent. He edged to one side as North drew closer.

‘Come out,’ North shouted. His voice was unsteady. ‘I am armed and in no mood for felons.’

Chaloner doubted the threat would strike fear into the hearts of many criminals. North moved closer, obviously intending to be thorough, and Chaloner saw he would be caught if he stayed where he was. Keeping low, he crept towards the rear gate. Then he trod on a shell.

‘Ha!’ shouted North, darting towards the sound. ‘You treacherous son of a whore! I shall thrash you to a pulp, and hand you over for hanging. Bastard!’

Chaloner ran, learning that even Puritans could employ salty language when sufficiently roused. He doubted North could best him in a fight, even with his club, but did not want to explain why he was hiding in the man’s garden, and flight seemed the best option for everyone concerned. He headed for the gate, North hot on his heels. It was barred, so Chaloner hauled himself up the wall.

‘Theft!’ screamed North. ‘Murder!’

Chaloner reached the top of the wall at the same time that North reached him. The merchant swung with his cosh, hitting the bricks and sending shards flying in all directions. Chaloner pulled his leg out of the way as North aimed again, careful to keep his face in shadow: it would be acutely awkward to be recognised now. Then North abandoned cudgel and lamp, and seized Chaloner’s foot.

‘Fire!’ he howled with increasing fury. ‘Arson!’

Lights started to gleam in neighbouring houses, and Chaloner saw shadows in the lane along which he had intended to escape. He was beginning to be annoyed with North. Claims of blazes in a tinderbox like London were taken seriously, and he might be lynched if he ran into the alley now – mobs tended to act first and think later once words like ‘arson’ and ‘fire’ were in the air. He struggled, trying to free himself without hurting the man.

‘I let our turkey out,’ shouted Temperance, stumbling up the dark garden towards them. Faith was behind her, priming a pistol. ‘Unhand my father, you vile man, or it will peck you to pieces.’

When she added her brawn to North’s, Chaloner felt himself begin to slide towards them. He gripped the wall and resisted hard, hoping Faith would not join the tug of war, because the situation had gone too far to be explained away innocently. Much as he was loath to harm North, he realised he would have to use force if he were to escape, so he reached down and pulled the man’s nose. The Puritan shrieked, releasing Chaloner’s leg as both hands flew to his face. But Temperance was furious, and with an impressive display of strength, she hauled Chaloner off the wall and into the garden. He landed flat on his back with a crash that drove the breath from his body.

‘Wicked man! You hurt my father!’ cried Temperance, hurling herself on top of Chaloner to prevent him from standing. Faith hurried forward and took aim with her pistol.

‘No!’ yelled North, shoving Faith away as her finger tightened on the trigger. ‘You might hit Temperance. Leave him to me.’ He snatched up his cudgel and advanced with genuine menace.

Chaloner shoved Temperance away from him, and scrambled upright, aware of raised voices from the lane. North lashed out with his club, hard enough to make him lose his own balance and stumble into his daughter. The tip caught Chaloner’s knee, and if he had not fallen at that precise moment, Faith’s shot would have killed him. He staggered to his feet a second time, and limped to the wall of his own house, scaling it awkwardly while North and Temperance wallowed on the ground and Faith reloaded. But by now, lights were burning in Ellis’s chambers, and Chaloner knew he would not be able to reach his rooms unseen. Thinking fast, he flung open the rear door of his landlord’s home and began to shout.

‘He is over here!’ he called to North. ‘In Ellis’s garden.’

Ellis was soon at his side, clad in a night-gown. ‘Where is the fire? Should we fetch buckets?’

‘Theft!’ screeched North, bobbing up and down on the other side of the wall as he tried to see what was happening. ‘Murder. And … and treason!’

‘Treason?’ echoed Ellis, startled. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Where is he?’ demanded Faith, hoisting herself up the wall and peering across it with her reloaded gun. ‘Flush him out, and I will shoot him dead.’

‘I cannot see anyone,’ said Ellis. ‘Are you sure he came this way? I do not think so, because–’

‘There!’ shouted Chaloner, pointing. ‘By the gooseberry bush.’

‘Well, go and get him, then,’ said Ellis, shoving him forward, while Faith took aim at the general area. ‘I do not want an arsonist on my property, and I cannot go, because I am not wearing any shoes.’

‘Yes, by the Devil! Catch the sod!’ howled North.

Chaloner moved to the back of the garden and made a lot of noise in the fruit bushes. His leg was numb, it was freezing cold and he was heartily sick of the whole business. It was not long before he returned to where North, Temperance, Faith and Ellis waited expectantly. In the lane at the end of the garden, he could see torches flickering as people ran here and there, looking for the fire.

‘I am sorry, sir,’ he said to North, who had found a crate to stand on. ‘He escaped.’

‘Damn!’ cried North, wringing his hands in agitation. ‘The scoundrel grabbed my nose, threatened me with his pistol and demanded all my money! Did you hear the shot he fired?’

‘Horrible!’ exclaimed Ellis with a shudder. ‘All your money?’

‘We should pray for his soul,’ said Chaloner sanctimoniously. ‘Poor misguided sinner.’

North took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I suppose so, although it is difficult to imagine a creature like that in the Lord’s Plan. But, unchristian though it may be, I am glad I gave him a good beating before he got away. That will make him think twice before invading the homes of … Ouch! What was that?’

‘The turkey!’ exclaimed Temperance. When she next spoke, her voice was some distance away. ‘I let it out to drive off the burglar.’

North promptly disappeared, doors slammed and there was a lot of agitated hollering. Then it was quiet again, except for North bemoaning the fact that the gun had flashed in the pan when Faith had tried to shoot the rampaging turkey, and Faith complaining that the thief had managed to duck away from the bullet that should have killed him. Shivering in the bitter night, Ellis was not long in returning to his warm bed, leaving Chaloner to tell the people in the alley that there was no fire after all. There were venomous mutters when he explained that the commotion had been caused by a prowler, and someone threw water at him. When he returned, sodden, to his back door, he saw Metje standing on the crate North had abandoned. Even in the dark, he could tell she was angry.

‘Where is the turkey?’ he asked, not liking to think of her at its mercy.

‘In the sitting room,’ she snapped, glancing behind her to ensure she was not overheard. ‘It is not so stupid as to stay out here when there is frost in the air. It had a go at North, then made for the best room of the house, where the embers of a good fire are glowing.’

‘Oh,’ he said tiredly.

‘What were you doing?’ she demanded furiously. ‘I know all that commotion was your fault.’

‘I was worried about you. You did not come.’

‘I did not want to come. I am angry with you – and you will not win my favour by hurting the man who pays my wages, either. Are you limping again? What happened this time? Another fall from a cart?’ Her voice had a hard, callous ring that was unfamiliar.

‘North hit me with his club. I did not know he kept such a weapon in his house.’

‘I told you about it when you offered to waylay him by pretending to have the plague. I am going inside now, Thomas. Do not lob any more bricks at my window; I do not want to see you.’ Her voice softened. ‘But perhaps I will come tomorrow, since you have been to such pains to secure my attention.’

Chaloner fell asleep over his decoding, leg propped on a stool in front of him. He awoke cold and stiff to hear the bells chime six o’clock. He returned to the cipher, and supposed he must have been overly exhausted the previous night, because suddenly there was a pattern that made sense:

He gazed at it. Praise God – the phrase Hewson had muttered, the words on Clarendon’s desk, and the message Clarke had asked the measurers of cloth to send his wife. He rubbed his leg. Seven what? The Seven? Seven thousand pounds – Barkstead’s cache? Without more of the original document, he knew he had taken interpretation as far as he could. However, he could conclude one thing: Lee’s paper contained more proof that all three of his investigations were inextricably linked.

Driven by hunger, Chaloner scoured his room for money, but all he found was a token. Tokens were issued by some taverns in lieu of change, since small denomination coins were often in short supply, so he visited the Rose at Covent Garden, and exchanged it for a pie that smelled rancid. He ate it anyway, and walked towards the Thames with the grenade in his pocket. The missile was not something he intended to keep, not just because incendiary devices were inherently unstable, but because men could be hanged for owning items that might be used to ferment rebellion.

A cat watched him hurl it into the river, so hard and far that its splash was inaudible. Then he stood on the Milford Stairs, listening to the water gurgle around the piers, while the cat wound about his legs, purring. It was still early, so the Thames was relatively empty of traffic. One craft rocked towards him, though, its oarsman driven on by a strident voice that made Chaloner jump towards the shadows to avoid being seen. He watched Preacher Hill reach the quay just as a robust recitation of Psalm Eighteen was completed. The boatman was breathless, and slumped on his seat as though he was drained of strength, although this did not stop him from pushing off as soon as Hill had alighted.

‘Thank you, my son,’ boomed Hill. ‘The Lord be with you.’

‘Fuck off!’ came the reply. ‘And never set foot in my boat again, you fanatical bastard!’

Hill grinned, before shifting his Bible to its customary position under his arm. When he passed the cat, it arched its back and spat at him. He stopped walking, then made a sudden lunge that saw the animal grabbed by the scruff of the neck. It yowled and hissed, but was powerless to resist as Hill drew back his arm and prepared to lob it into the river.

‘Good morning, Preacher,’ said Chaloner, stepping from his hiding place and catching the man’s wrist. The cat dropped from Hill’s fingers, and scampered away. ‘You were not thinking of sending one of God’s creatures to a watery grave, were you?’

Hill’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you doing here? You should be …’

‘Be what?’ asked Chaloner, immediately suspicious. ‘Be dead from the grenade someone tossed into my room last night? You seem to like hurling things around.’

Hill raised his eyebrows. ‘Someone tried to blow you up? The Devil must have been watching over his own, then. Who threw it? One of the apprentices from the tannery again?’

‘Again?’

‘I found a fireball in the chapel last night, although no attempt had been made to ignite the fuse – those stupid lads do not know how such devices work. I took it home with me, and I shall throw it at them if they try anything untoward again.’

‘Temperance said your homily last night was about turning the other cheek.’

‘I am the Lord’s soldier, and we are sometimes obliged to meet violence in kind. But the reason I am surprised to see you has nothing to do with explosives – North said he was going to ask you to kill the turkey, and I did not think you would survive the experience.’

Chaloner was curious as to why Hill was crossing the Thames at such an odd hour. ‘Were you over in Southwark because its whores are less likely to recognise you than London ones?’

Even in the pre-dawn light, he saw Hill’s face turn puce. ‘Do not make an enemy of me, Heyden. I am a friend of Gervaise Bennet, and I will set him after you if you make trouble for me.’

‘I am not afraid of Bennet.’

Hill was contemptuous as he turned to stalk away. ‘Then you are a fool.’

Chaloner watched him go, uneasy with the notion of Hill telling Bennet where he lived. He was not unduly worried for himself, but what would happen if Metje was home when Bennet struck?

He had intended to visit Ingoldsby that morning, but when he reached the Temple Bar he began to feel sick. He returned to his rooms, wondering whether the wretched illness that followed was a result of the Rose’s rotten pie or drinking so much water the previous night. He was better by the evening, but did not go out, for fear of missing a visit from Metje. He lit the lamp and played his viol, but she failed to appear, even when he bowed her favourite dance several times in a row.

Unable to sleep after dozing much of the day, he rose at two o’clock and went to the Puritans’ chapel, tucking himself behind a water butt and in the mood for confronting louts with grenades. But nothing happened until six, when a lone man approached. He was swathed in a cloak too large for him, and clearly did not want to be recognised. He reached the chapel, then leapt away in alarm when he discovered the hiding place behind the barrel was already taken. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, but when he saw Chaloner already armed, he turned and raced towards Fleet Street. Chaloner started to give chase, but his bout of sickness had left him unsteady on his feet, and it was obvious he was not going to catch the fellow. He gave up, and returned to his rooms, annoyed by his weakness, but supposing the fellow might think twice about causing mischief another time.

Seven o’clock saw the beginning of another grey dawn, with the occasional speck of snow drifting down and a bitter, raw feel to the air. The first cart laboured along Fetter Lane, its driver cracking his whip and yelling at his listless horse. A man hollered at a woman for hurling swill from her window, and the altercation developed into a fist-fight when a bellman became involved. A herd of sheep was being driven in a bleating ball to the slaughterhouses, and pigeons flapped and cooed on the rooftops.

Chaloner remained determined to solve his various mysteries, and decided that day would yield some answers. He donned his cloak, found the old horsehair wig, and left the house, aiming for the Fleet Rookery. It was a good time to begin his search for Mother Pinchon, because the gangs that roamed the streets during the hours of darkness would be in their beds, and anyone awake would be the more honest inhabitants, who might be inclined to talk to him.

He found Turnagain Lane, which was close to the alehouse where he had listened to Snow and Storey chatting to the dung collector. The tavern was closed, its windows shielded by thick shutters, and was deserted except for a rat that was grooming itself. He began to waylay passers-by. First, he spoke to a flower-seller, but she declined to converse once it became clear he had no money. A butcher in a glistening apron offered to cut his throat, and a ballad-seller spat at him. Then he became aware that three slovenly, dirty men were watching him from a distance. Word had spread that someone was asking questions, and he sensed he would not be left alone for much longer.

‘Fresh milk?’ came a voice at his side. ‘Warm from the ass? Only a penny.’

Chaloner smiled at the old woman. ‘Good morning, Mother Greene.’

‘You seem to like danger,’ she said, regarding him thoughtfully. ‘This makes twice you have come to a place where you cannot be sure of your welcome. Snow said you are Whitechapel’s parish constable, but you are too well dressed for that. Did you know that Bennet has vowed to kill you?’

‘Has he?’ Chaloner recalled Kelyng ordering Bennet to forget about him. ‘Why?’

‘Something to do with St Thomas à Becket. Give us a penny.’

‘I wish I had one,’ said Chaloner ruefully, ‘because I would like some milk.’

She smiled toothlessly and took his arm. ‘Come with me. Do not look alarmed. No one will harm you, now you are in the company of Mother Greene.’

The slouching figures in the shadows made no move to intervene, and he surmised that she had earned herself a degree of respect on account of her age. She also had the look of a witch about her, with her long nose and wrinkled face. She led the way down a street with particularly tall houses, and opened the gate to a tiny garden. It was surprisingly clean, its stones still wet from a recent scouring. She headed for a door and beckoned him to follow. Cautiously, he ducked under the lintel and found himself in a room full of the scent of dried herbs. It contained a table that was scrubbed white, and there were shelves on which stood an array of pots and bottles. The floor comprised red flagstones that were spotlessly clean, and there was a pot simmering over the embers of the hearth. It was a pleasant chamber, and a welcoming one, and not at all what he would have expected.

‘Surprised?’ she asked, noting his reaction. ‘My old man left me something when he died. He was an actor – the best in London, in his day.’

‘It is a lovely place,’ he said sincerely. ‘It smells of home.’

She grinned, pleased. ‘That is what my Oliver always said. What is wrong with your leg?’

He had not bothered to hide his limp that morning, hoping it would make him appear less threatening to potential informants. ‘I hurt it doing something stupid. I do not suppose you know where I might find Mother Pinchon? I need to ask her some questions.’

‘About Barkstead’s gold?’ She cackled at his astonishment. ‘Who do you think told her to go to Wade in the first place? I said to demand a thousand pounds, but she agreed to a hundred, soft cow. And now you have come to ask for better directions, so you can dig it up and give her nothing at all.’

‘Yes, I doubt she will see any of it,’ he admitted.

‘At least you are honest about it. Are you hungry? I got enough stew for two.’

‘I cannot take your food. You will need it for tomorrow.’

‘You might bring me a penny tomorrow. Besides, it is a pleasure to share food with the man who brained Storey. You did what I asked: you said my boy’s name. Snow heard you as he lay dazed.’

‘I cannot take the credit for dispatching your son’s killer.’

‘I do not care – all that matters is that he is dead, and that the last thing he heard was you talking about Oliver. This is hot, so mind your fingers.’

The stew was surprisingly good, and he said nothing until he had finished it, realising it was the first decent meal he had eaten in days. He felt it warming him through, and experienced a reviving of his energies. She returned his smile when he sat back in satisfaction.

‘Now we shall go to Mother Pinchon,’ she said.

Unlike the fastidious Mother Greene, Pinchon wallowed in her poverty, and cared nothing for the fact that water was free, and that it cost nothing to rinse the filth from the floor. Her hair hung in listless snakes, and her entire person was impregnated with grease. Chaloner found it hard to believe Barkstead had considered her his most trusted servant.

‘What about Bennet?’ she demanded, when Greene had introduced Chaloner as the man who had given Storey his comeuppance. ‘Will you do him too? Storey was a pig, but Bennet is worse.’

‘He will see to Bennet in his own good time – and Kelyng, too, I should not wonder,’ said Greene comfortably. ‘But today, he is here about that treasure in the Tower.’

Pinchon regarded Chaloner with naked hostility. ‘Wade promised he would never tell no one about me, so how did you find where I live?’

‘Luck,’ replied Chaloner truthfully. ‘Did you tell Wade everything you know about this hoard?’

Her face was sullen. ‘Barkstead said he would bury it under that tower near the gate. There is an arch with a red brick in the middle, but the rest is grey stone. The gold is there, in butter firkins. Barkstead and me packed it in that very cellar – out of sight, so his soldiers would not see us.’

‘Why did he choose you to help him?’

‘Because his other staff saw how things were going and ran. I stayed, because I wanted the pans he was going to leave – I was his scullion, see. He said I was the best of all his people for staying.’

Chaloner nodded, imagining the situation: Barkstead desperate, reduced to relying on the lowest member of his household, who had remained not out of loyalty but because she had wanted to scavenge. He probably had not trusted her, and therefore may not have told her the truth.

‘What was in these firkins? Coins?’

‘Coins, plate, jewellery, ivory combs, little pictures, gold crosses, all sorts of stuff. But it was all valuable. He said if we sold it, it would give us seven thousand pound.’

‘Did you see him bury it?’

‘He sent me away at four o’clock that afternoon, because he was afraid they might come for him, and did not want me to suffer, too. He said he would bury it himself. He had a spade hidden, ready.’

‘Why did you wait so long before telling anyone? It has been more than three years since this happened.’

‘I was scared they would hang me for a traitor, but the treasure was always there, in my mind. A month ago, I decided to tell Ma Greene. She said I should approach Wade – she sells him milk.’

‘Why did Barkstead share the secret with you? Why not a friend?’

‘Because he did not know who was friend and who was foe by then. He asked me to tell Secretary Thurloe, but I could not, because Kelyng was watching Lincoln’s Inn, and only a fool gets in his way. I never did speak to Thurloe. But Barkstead said I was to have the treasure, if anything bad happened to him. Well, something bad happened, all right, and his head is on a pole to prove it.’

‘Can you recall his exact words?’

‘What does it matter? The treasure is not where he said. Wade kept pressing for more details, too, but I cannot tell what I do not know. Wade even smuggled me into the Tower one night, after dark, and I pointed out the arch, but he said they had dug there already.’

But Chaloner was not interested in the arch or the treasure; his mind was moving along another avenue. ‘What did Barkstead tell you to say to Thurloe – his precise words.’

The urgency of the question caught her attention and she regarded him calculatingly. ‘What is in it for me? My hundred pound?’

‘Your hundred pound is long gone,’ said Greene scornfully. ‘It is obvious that Barkstead either never buried it, or someone else got it first. But this man has a job to do, so answer him.’

Pinchon scowled. ‘Why should I?’

‘Because he killed Storey, frightened Snow and annoyed Bennet. What more do you want?’

Pinchon sighed. ‘All right. Barkstead said to tell Thurloe that the stuff was buried in the cellar, and bade me mention the arch with the red brick.’

‘He referred to his treasure as “stuff ”?’ asked Chaloner incredulously.

She was thoughtful. ‘No, he used a queer expression: his “godly golden goose”. He said Thurloe would know what he meant. He made me repeat it, but he was panicky by then, not making sense.’

‘When did he say you were to deliver this message?’

‘As soon as it was safe. But it was not safe – not after he escaped to Holland, and especially not when he was brought back to die last March.’

‘When he said “as soon as it was safe”, I do not think he expected three years to lapse.’

‘He should have made himself more clear, then,’ said Pinchon resentfully. ‘If he had given proper orders, I might have found a way to get to Thurloe, and we would have been rich. Now it is too late.’

But Chaloner did not think the treasure had been Barkstead’s main concern, and Thurloe would certainly not have wanted the encumbrance of additional wealth at a time when Royalists were confiscating it all. It had been a different message the Lieutenant of the Tower had been passing to the Spymaster General, although Thurloe had never received it, and now Barkstead was long past caring.

Three men shadowed Chaloner until he was out of the Fleet Rookery, although they made no attempt to intercept him. They merely maintained a discreet distance, and seemed interested only in making sure he left. Chaloner thanked Mother Greene for her help, promised to return with a penny as soon as he had one, and took his leave, relieved to be away from the stench of poverty and despair.

He tried to make sense of what he had learned. Barkstead had wanted Thurloe to know he had buried something, but Pinchon had maintained a frightened silence until greed and destitution had overcome her reticence. Why Thurloe? Was it something to do with the Brotherhood, and Barkstead had naturally turned to a man who held similar values? Was it because both had been loyal supporters of Cromwell, or because Barkstead had trusted Thurloe to pass the treasure to his wife and child? Or, perhaps more darkly, did he want Thurloe to use it to oust the King when the time was right? And what had he meant by ‘godly golden goose’? Chaloner would never have described money as godly, since it invariably brought out the worst in people. He walked slowly, a sixth sense helping him avoid speeding carts and undersized men with quick fingers, and was startled when he heard his name spoken with some exasperation.

‘North,’ he said, recognising his neighbour. ‘Were you talking to me?’

‘I said you are limping,’ said North irritably. ‘And then I asked whether that fellow hurt you the other night – Ellis said you spent all yesterday in bed. He wounded me. Look at my nose!’

‘Is it very sore?’ asked Chaloner, trying to sound concerned. The appendage was red, but that could have been due to the weather, and he had not pulled it very hard. North was exaggerating.

‘Extremely. But I gave him a hiding he will not forget. We live in a wicked world, Heyden.’

‘We live in one full of obscene language, too,’ remarked Chaloner, not liking the way the incident was being warped so far from the truth. He had not been doing anything so terrible in the garden, and North’s vicious club and Faith’s gun had been far in excess of what had been warranted.

North looked sheepish. ‘I was a soldier during the wars, and learned some ripe expressions that occasionally slip out under duress. However, I regret shocking you.’

‘I shall probably recover,’ said Chaloner gravely. ‘Good day to you, sir.’

They exchanged bows and parted, Chaloner supposing that since he owned so little, he was more sanguine about theft than North. After a while, he found himself near White Hall, so asked one of the palace guards whether Evett was free to see him. He was shown to a tiny chamber near the Holbein Gate and ordered to wait, and while he was fretting about the wasted time, he saw one of the cloth measurers in the street outside. The man greeted him with pleasure, and showed him a transverse flute he had just collected from the artisan on the Strand, who had been commissioned to make it for him. It was a beautiful thing of silver, and Chaloner was charmed by the sweet notes it made.

‘Did you recognise the dagger that killed Clarke?’ he asked, when the demonstration had ended.

The measurer raised his eyebrows. ‘What dagger?’

‘Captain Evett has not shown it to you?’

The man shook his head, then backed away when a thickset man strode past. ‘Odds fish! There is the clock keeper! I do not want him to see me with you. Next time, bring your bass viol, because at least then we would look as though we were doing something innocent.’

He hurried away, and it was only a few more moments before Evett arrived, dishevelled and fastening the buttons on his breeches.

‘What have you done about Clarke?’ asked Chaloner without preamble. ‘Have you identified the owner of the murder weapon yet?’

Evett grimaced. ‘I have asked half of London, but no one will tell me anything.’

‘You failed to ask one of the cloth measurers.’

Evett bristled at what sounded like an accusation. ‘Rubbish! I spoke to all three in the kitchens, when the clock keeper was out bull-baiting. Did one tell you I had not? I wonder why?’

‘Ask him again,’ suggested Chaloner, backing down. Perhaps the cloth measurer had not been telling the truth – and he knew for a fact that the fellow was dishonest, because a silver flute cost a lot more than the four pounds he claimed he had paid. If he was willing to lie about that, then what else might he fabricate?

‘I hate murder,’ said Evett with considerable feeling. ‘Do you know what I was doing before you came? Something a lot more profitable than hawking daggers about – I was listening to a meeting of navy commissioners through one of those holes, learning all sorts of important facts for the future.’

‘With your breeches undone?’ asked Chaloner, wondering just how much Evett wanted to be Lord High Admiral. ‘But never mind that. What else have you done about Clarke?’

‘I wrote to his wife, asking if his romantic message meant anything special to her. If it does not, then we shall know it was code – and that it was actually intended for someone else.’

Chaloner suspected Mrs Clarke would tell him to mind his own business, and changed the subject. ‘What do you think the Earl will say if he learns Barkstead’s hoard does not exist?’

‘Mother Pinchon said–’

‘She is not the trusted servant we were led to believe. It is true she helped Barkstead parcel up his treasure, but there is no evidence to prove he actually buried it there. In fact, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that he would never have left it in a place like the Tower. It is probably in Holland, being used to support his family. He was a sensible man, well organised; he would not have left his wife destitute.’

‘Then you are in trouble, my friend. That is not a solution that will please Clarendon.’

‘But it may be the truth. However, all is not lost, because I think there may be a different kind of treasure concealed in the Tower.’

‘If it is not gold, the Earl will not care,’ warned Evett.

‘I imagine that depends on what it is.’ Chaloner shrugged. ‘I will continue to investigate and see what emerges. Perhaps it will be enough to see me hired as an intelligence officer again – a proper one this time, not just someone who runs shady errands for the Lord Chancellor.’

‘Now you know how I feel,’ muttered Evett.

‘Where does Ingoldsby live? The Earl told me to talk to Barkstead’s friends, so I had better do it.’

Evett gave him an address near the Tower. ‘And I will interview the cloth measurers again, so–’

But Chaloner had spotted Metje walking along King Street with a shopping basket over her arm. He nodded an abrupt farewell to the startled captain and darted after her, weaving through the crowd and calling her name until she looked around. She did not return his smile.

‘What?’ she demanded crossly.

He took a step back, startled by the hostile greeting. ‘I just wanted to speak to you. What are you doing here? I thought you did your shopping at–’

‘I came to buy a poultice for Mr North’s nose, if you must know – here is the apothecary’s receipt. But what about you? You say you have secured work, but you have had no money since Saturday, and I came to see you before chapel this morning, but you were already gone and it was far too early for the victualling office. God alone knows where you were and what you were doing at such an hour. How much longer can we live like this, Thomas?’

‘Has North been talking about leaving London again?’ asked Chaloner gently, suspecting his early departure was not the real reason for her display of temper.

She nodded miserably. ‘And it is your fault. You frightened him with your nocturnal invasion, and Temperance has been very outspoken against Preacher Hill over the last week – at your instigation. It is almost as though you want them to leave, and me to be destitute again.’

‘I am sorry, Meg. I did not want North to know I was trying to see you the other night.’

There were tears in her eyes. ‘Perhaps we should part company, Tom. We have been in England for months now, and your situation is as hopeless now as when we arrived.’

He took her hand. ‘I am working as hard as I can. Please do not give up on me yet.’

She gave him a wan smile, then glanced covertly behind her. ‘You see that man in the red hat? He asked whether I spoke Dutch earlier, and he has been watching me ever since.’

‘Go home. I will make sure he does not follow you.’

‘How will you stop him – you with your lame leg which does not seem to be getting any better? Perhaps you should give up dashing around dark gardens in the middle of the night.’

He fought down a tart response. ‘I will think of something. I am not entirely useless.’

He watched her walk away, then stepped forward to intercept the man who immediately started to follow her. He pushed his dagger against the fellow’s ribs, making his captive gasp in alarm.

‘I do not have any money! I am just a weaver.’

The accent was familiar, and Chaloner released him. ‘Where are you from? Amsterdam?’

The man was appalled, eyes full of naked terror. ‘I am Danish – from … from Hamburg.’

‘It is not safe to accost people and demand to know what languages they speak,’ said Chaloner in Dutch. ‘You will be shot as a spy.’

The man hung his head, and replied in the same tongue. ‘I do not know what to do. My friends shun me and it feels dangerous here. I was just looking for a sympathetic countryman …’

‘It will get worse,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Your safest option would be to sell all you have, and leave.’

‘Will you give the same advice to that woman you were just talking to? We are all in danger now.’

Chaloner headed towards the Tower, aiming for the street near the Royal Foundation of St Katherine, where Evett had told him Ingoldsby lived, his thoughts a chaos of worry for Metje. As he passed the castle, he paused by the blackened heads on poles, placed to gaze across the Thames. He wondered which was Barkstead’s, and joined the gathering of people who gaped at the spectacle, where someone rather more familiar with the heads than was nice told him Barkstead’s was the second from the left. The Lieutenant of the Tower had boasted long hair, watchful eyes and a moustache, and the bald skull with its missing teeth and sagging jaw bore no resemblance to the dignified man Chaloner had met.

‘What did you want Thurloe to know?’ Chaloner asked him softly. ‘What was your godly golden goose? And did you praise God, like Hewson, Clarke and Lee? What binds you to the Brotherhood, secrets buried in the Tower and the murder of Thurloe’s spies?’

He stared a while longer, then went in search of the regicide who had managed to do rather well for himself, a feat all the more remarkable given that Richard Ingoldsby was Oliver Cromwell’s cousin and had made much of that fact when the Lord Protector was in power. Ingoldsby lived in a fine Tudor mansion that overlooked the hospital gardens. Chaloner was about to knock at the door when he heard the clatter of hoofs travelling too fast down the narrow road. He turned to see a stallion galloping towards him, its rider kicking it forward for all he was worth. He saw a chicken disappear in an explosion of feathers, and heard people yell in alarm. The rider’s hat was pulled over his eyes and his collar was up – given his cavalier progress, Chaloner was not surprised he did not want to be recognised. He watched him come closer, but it did not occur to him that he was the fellow’s intended target until the very last moment – by which time, it was almost too late.

The horseman slashed with his sword as he thundered past. Chaloner threw himself to one side, and the blade missed him by the width of a finger. He scrambled to his feet and watched in disbelief as the rider wheeled around and came at him again. He ducked behind the gatepost, and the blade missed a second time. When the fellow came for a third pass, Chaloner drew his own sword, and was bracing himself for the impact, when there was a shout, and several soldiers began to canter towards them. The horseman glanced at the advancing posse, then spurred his mount in the opposite direction.

‘He was after doing you mischief,’ said a passing merchant. ‘I wondered what he was doing behind that tavern all morning, swathed and silent. I should have known it was nothing good.’

‘Have you seen him before?’

The man shook his head and lowered his voice. ‘Do not take it personally. None of us like Ingoldsby, and that rider probably decided to deprive him of a caller – to show the world that we do not want the likes of him as our neighbour.’

‘Why not?’

The merchant regarded him askance. ‘Clearly you have never met the fellow, or you would not ask. We dislike his manners, his greedy wife and his lies. Cousin Cromwell forced his hand indeed!’

He walked on, leaving Chaloner puzzled. Would someone really kill Ingoldsby’s visitors to make a point? Somehow, he did not think so. He reviewed the people who knew he had intended to see Ingoldsby. Thurloe did, and Sarah had been listening outside his door when they had talked about it. Had she sent someone to kill him? Had she hoped Snow might save her the bother, when Chaloner had so gallantly stepped in to rescue her? Or was Thurloe angry with him, and wanted rid of a man whose loyalty was no longer assured? Or had Sarah mentioned the matter to Dalton, who did not want anyone interrogating a fellow brother? And finally, there was Evett, who had given him directions to Ingoldsby’s house. But Evett was in White Hall, asking about the dagger that had killed Clarke. Chaloner’s thoughts returned to the Daltons, although cold logic told him that the main reason for choosing them as suspects was that he did not want to believe the culprit was Thurloe.

He waited to see if the rider would return, but the fellow obviously knew there was no point in mounting another assault when there were soldiers looking for him, so Chaloner knocked on Ingoldsby’s door. The politician was at home, but a series of wails suggested it was a bad time for callers. Nonetheless, a servant showed Chaloner into a low-ceilinged, wood-panelled room that was scented with sweet lavender, and asked him to wait. The portraits on the walls were of aloof men on oddly proportioned horses, as if Ingoldsby wanted to impress people with his Cavalier ancestry.

When he came to greet his guest, Ingoldsby looked even more porcine than he had in Will’s Coffee House. He was chewing something, clearly having rammed the last of it in his mouth just before he entered the chamber. His cheeks bulged, and when he spoke, he was incomprehensible.

‘I said my wife is in mourning,’ he repeated irritably when Chaloner looked blank. ‘Can you not hear her shrieks of distress?’

Chaloner cocked his head, but the cries had stopped, and before he could answer, the door opened and a woman entered. She carried a handkerchief, but her eyes were clear and blue, and he thought that while a good deal of noise might have been made, very few actual tears had been shed: Ingoldsby’s wife was doing what was expected of her, but without genuine sorrow. Her face was familiar, and he knew he had seen her before. After a moment, the memory snapped into place: she had been with the regicides who had escaped to Holland. She had left soon after, when her husband had secured his pardon, but she had been with them for a while.

‘I am sorry to come at a bad time,’ he said, after she had been introduced as Elizabeth, kin to the wealthy Lees of Hartwell in Northamptonshire. There was no flicker of recognition when he bowed to her, and he knew she had not associated him with the silently unobtrusive nephew of the exiled regicide.

‘The deceased is a brother-in-law from my first marriage,’ said Elizabeth, her face crumpling into the obligatory mask of grief. ‘Some villain shot him with a crossbow.’

‘A crossbow?’ asked Chaloner, not bothering to hide his shock.

Elizabeth nodded. ‘His colleagues from the Treasury came to tell us this morning.’

Chaloner’s thoughts whirled. Robert Lee, murdered while in possession of a document bearing the words ‘seven’ and ‘praise God’, and who had been digging for treasure in the Tower, was kin to one of the Brotherhood?

‘Did he have enemies?’ he asked. ‘Or was he involved in anything dangerous?’

Ingoldsby glared at him. ‘Ours is a respectable family, and although Robert was not wealthy, he was obviously very well-connected, since he is related to us.’

‘He would have had money eventually,’ added Elizabeth. ‘A woman with a large dowry.’

‘They said a thief killed him for the five pounds he kept on his window sill,’ said Ingoldsby, more angry than distressed. ‘And a friend in Fetter Lane told me that a prowler fired a great musket at him in his own garden the other night! What is becoming of our country?’

‘Mr North of Fetter Lane is my neighbour,’ said Chaloner. ‘But how do you know him, Sir Richard? He seldom engages in social activities outside his chapel.’

Ingoldsby was not about to admit to being a member of the Brotherhood. ‘We are both patrons of the Royal Foundation,’ he replied a little defensively. ‘I donate money to thank God for destroying the Commonwealth, and he does it to praise God.’

‘To praise God?’ asked Chaloner, more sharply than he had intended.

Ingoldsby regarded him oddly. ‘Most of us do it on Sundays, but he does it with every breath. It is all very laudable, but I could never be a Puritan. I would forget myself and have some fun.’

Was that the meaning of praise God: the way Puritans lived? But Clarke had not been a Puritan, and neither had Hewson, as far as Chaloner knew. Meanwhile, Ingoldsby was waiting for him to say why he had come.

‘I am acting on behalf of the Lord Chancellor, regarding Sir John Barkstead’s–’

Ingoldsby interrupted in alarm. ‘Barkstead was a traitor, so I seldom had occasion to speak to him! I know nothing about his evil deeds. I am devoted to the King, and–’

‘Your loyalty is not in question, sir. My enquiries do not relate to Barkstead’s politics, but to the dispersal of his estate after his death.’

‘Oh,’ said Ingoldsby, relieved. ‘However, I still cannot help you. He was wealthy, but he did not give any of his money to me – not that I would have accepted it, of course, him being a Parliamentarian.’

‘Of course,’ said Chaloner. ‘It seems he spirited some of it out of the country.’

Ingoldsby nodded. ‘Most regicides did – they had to. Barkstead smuggled his out on a fishing boat. Old Chaloner routed a cache through Scotland, but spent most of it on high living and died a pauper. Hewson put his hoard inside bales of wool, but the Dutch got wind of it and confiscated it all.’

‘Did you see Barkstead with his gold?’

It was Elizabeth who answered. ‘My husband was busy persuading the King of his loyalty at the time, but I saw it – in The Hague, when I was waiting to hear whether it was safe to come home. It was packed into butter firkins, and needed three carts to transport it. There were bags of money, beautiful jewellery, precious stones, silver plate, crosses … It was a fabulous sight.’

‘How much do you think it was worth?’

‘In excess of thirteen thousand pounds! I know that for a fact, because it was taken to the Jews for investing, and I saw the receipts.’

‘How did you come to do that?’ asked Chaloner, puzzled.

‘Because after Barkstead was arrested, Downing went through his house looking for plunder. He had decided Barkstead should pay for his own transport to London, you see.’

‘He said that?’ This was low, even for Downing.

She nodded. ‘But Barkstead’s wealth was with the money-lenders and therefore inaccessible to him. Downing toted up the receipts and showed us how they amounted to more than thirteen thousand pounds – a fabulous sum. Barkstead was laughing, because he had outwitted him.’

‘What about Sir Michael Livesay?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Did he send money overseas?’

‘Why do you ask about him?’ asked Ingoldsby suspiciously.

Chaloner shrugged. ‘No reason, other than the fact that he has disappeared and no one knows where. If he is dead, then the Crown would like to liquidate his estate.’

‘He is dead,’ said Ingoldsby. His tone was wary. ‘He was escaping from England on a ship, but there was an explosion. Everyone onboard was blown to pieces.’

‘Was the explosion a deliberate act aimed against Livesay, or an accident?’

Ingoldsby effected an attitude of studied carelessness. ‘I have no idea – I was not there.’

Every fibre in Chaloner’s being knew he was lying. ‘Very well,’ he said, picking up his hat. ‘If you are unwilling to cooperate here, then the Lord Chancellor can talk to you in the Tower instead.’

Ingoldsby was appalled, and reached out to stop him from leaving. ‘Wait! All right. I will tell you what I know, but you must explain to Clarendon that my role was innocent.’

‘Someone seized your hand and signed your name?’ asked Chaloner insolently, freeing his wrist.

Ingoldsby glowered at him. ‘I was to have travelled on that boat, too, but I changed my mind at the last minute. I am a poor sailor and the forecast was stormy. I saw the ship leave the harbour, and I heard the blast. Livesay did not stand a chance.’

Only if Livesay was on the vessel, Chaloner thought. Perhaps he was a poor sailor, too. Or perhaps he had seen a warning in Ingoldsby’s abrupt disembarkation, and it had saved his life. Or did it mean Ingoldsby had killed his ‘brother’ and fellow regicide, by putting gunpowder on his ship?

‘I understand you belong to a certain Brotherhood,’ he began. ‘I have–’

‘I know of no Brotherhood,’ snapped Ingoldsby. He was beginning to look dangerous. ‘And if you accuse me of belonging to secret sects, I shall complain to the King, and not even Clarendon will be able to protect you. So take that message to your Lord Chancellor!’