A Conspiracy of Violence (13 page)

Obediently, Evett took a tentative sip. Leaves dappled his moustache as he chewed and then swallowed. ‘Interesting,’ he said
in a way that made it clear he thought he had been misled.

‘Actually, sir,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether he should just drink the stuff, or whether it was a test to ascertain whether
he was a sycophant, ‘the Portuguese usually strain out the leaves.’

‘Do they?’ asked the Earl, his face falling. ‘Well, I suppose I can use my handkerchief as a sieve. It is relatively clean.’
He tipped the tea back into the jug, and wiped each glass with his sleeve. Then he placed the handkerchief across the top
of one beaker and poured. The volume of leaves was so dense that the material soon became clogged. ‘Dash it all!’ he cried.

‘It might be better to start again,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Using less tea.’

‘Have you been to Portugal?’ asked the Earl, following his instructions. ‘I expect it was nice.’

Chaloner glanced at him, trying to assess whether there was some inner meaning to the question. He could read nothing in the
guileless pale blue eyes. ‘Yes, sir. Very nice.’

‘Good,’ said the Earl. ‘Did you like the United Provinces, too? Or do you prefer France?’

Evett’s eyes shone. ‘
I
like France – those mighty castles in the south, perched on their great cliffs. We would not have lost the wars to Cromwell,
if we had had a few of those to fight from.’

‘We have the Tower,’ said Clarendon. ‘That has never fallen to an enemy. And you can show it to Ch … to
Heyden
tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after. Depending.’

‘The cellars,’ said Evett. ‘To look for buried treasure.’

Chaloner began to wonder whether they were both mad – that they had engaged in one culinary experiment too many and that whatever
they had imbibed had addled their wits. When a half-naked man dressed in a baboon’s head burst into the chamber, he suspected
the rest of the place was affected too, and that the entire country was in the hands of lunatics.

‘Be off with you!’ shouted the Earl crossly. ‘I am engaged in private state business.’

The baboon waggled its head and made an obscene gesture, but reversed hastily when Evett came to his feet with his sword in
his hand.

‘That was Buckingham,’ said Evett angrily, when the door had closed with the baboon on the other side. ‘Still, he is a monkey
in life, so why not come to the masque as an ape, too?’

‘Be careful, Philip,’ warned the Earl. ‘Walls have ears.
Now, let us drink this tea, and then we shall discuss business. This is a very pallid mixture, Heyden. Are you sure there
are enough leaves? My original brew was much thicker and blacker.’

‘This is how the Portuguese drink it.’ Chaloner disliked tea, but was loath to say so. He could not read the Earl, and did
not know whether he would be offended if his offer of hospitality was rejected.

The Earl downed his portion in a single gulp, then sat back as though waiting for something to happen. ‘I do not feel noticeably
refreshed,’ he announced after several moments.

‘It is nasty,’ pronounced Evett, setting his half-empty cup on the hearth and pulling a face. ‘Tea will never catch on in
England. It has a vile, bitter flavour, and in no way compares to ale.’

‘I agree,’ said Clarendon. ‘I will pass the rest to the Portuguese ambassador, since he likes it.’

‘Give it to Buckingham,’ said Evett venomously. ‘The leaves might choke him.’

‘Now,’ said the Earl, turning to Chaloner. ‘Thurloe informs me that you are a good spy, and said that once or twice your reports
prevented an exchange of hostilities with the Dutch. He also said you solved a series of thefts from Cerberus’s house
and
you caught the man who murdered the Dutch king’s favourite page.’

‘Those cases were not as difficult as they—’

‘Modesty,’ said the Earl, regarding Chaloner with a smile. ‘That is something I do not often encounter. Thurloe praises your
talent for finding the truth, and recommends I use you to look into Clarke’s murder, but I have a different task in mind –
one better suited to your abilities.’

‘Yes, sir?’ asked Chaloner, beginning to be anxious again.

‘It revolves around missing gold,’ said Clarendon. ‘Seven thousand pounds’ worth of it. It is said to have been buried in
the Tower of London and I want you to find it for me.’

Chaloner had experienced misgivings about the Earl of Clarendon from the moment he had set eyes on the fellow. He was superficially
pleasant, but there was a stubborn inflexibility in him that suggested he would make a dangerous master. Chaloner had trusted
Thurloe implicitly, confident that his role as intelligence agent in the various countries to which he had been assigned would
never be revealed, and that his reports would either be destroyed as soon as their contents had been absorbed, or filed in
such a way that they could never be traced to their sender. The Earl, on the other hand, left
his
spies’ missives lying on his desk, and Clarke’s death might well have been a result of his carelessness.

‘This missing gold,’ Chaloner said cautiously. ‘Does it belong to the Crown?’

‘Yes and no,’ replied the Earl cagily. ‘You can tell him how we came to hear about it, Philip. You have been more deeply involved
with it than I, and know more of the details.’

‘It started on the thirtieth day of October,’ began Evett obligingly. ‘A man named Thomas Wade of Axe
Yard came to us with a tale. He said an elderly woman by the name of Mother Pinchon had approached him the previous night,
and said she knew the whereabouts of a great hoard of treasure – and for a hundred pounds, she would tell him how to get it.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner, already suspicious. ‘If seven thousand pounds were hidden, why would she settle for a hundred? Why
not dig it up for herself, and keep it all?’

‘Because the treasure is buried inside the Tower,’ explained Clarendon. ‘We do not allow women to start excavating
there
whenever they please! It is full of rebel prisoners for one thing, and for another, it is always wise to restrict access
into such places. No one goes in or out without an escort, so this woman could never have reached the hoard without official
help. Besides, a hundred pounds is a fortune to a servant, and I imagine she thinks she has secured herself an excellent bargain.’

‘How did she know about the gold in the first place?’ asked Chaloner sceptically.

‘She was in the service of Sir John Barkstead,’ replied Evett. ‘Do you remember who Barkstead was?’

‘He fled abroad after the collapse of the Commonwealth,’ replied Chaloner, becoming even more uneasy. ‘And he was one of the
men Downing brought home to be executed last March.’

‘Yes, he was a
regicide
,’ said the Earl, looking at Chaloner as if to remind him of the secret they shared. ‘And as such, he did well for himself
during the Protectorate. One of the posts he held was Lieutenant of the Tower.’

Evett took up the tale. ‘And that means he had access to all parts of the castle. Mother Pinchon says that the
night before he was ousted, he and she packed this seven thousand pounds – all his moveable money – into butter firkins.’

Chaloner nodded, thinking about his uncle’s hoard. It was not only Parliamentarians who had hidden what they could, and there
were tales of Royalists returning to the country they had abandoned after the wars and setting out with spades. Some had found
their caches undisturbed, but many had not, and accusations were rife.

‘When they had finished, and all the containers were sealed, Barkstead told her where he planned to bury them,’ said Evett.

‘Why?’ demanded Chaloner. ‘If he hid his money, he obviously thought he would have an opportunity to collect it in the future.
Why would he share such a secret with a servant?’

‘Good,’ said the Earl, nodding vigorously. ‘Your questions show an enquiring mind. But the answer is simple: he was fond of
this woman. He said that if he could not retrieve it himself, then she should have it instead. She waited eight months to
the day from his execution, then approached Wade.’

‘Who
is
Wade?’

‘The Tower’s victualling commissioner,’ said the Earl. ‘He was the perfect fellow for this woman to see – not so mighty as
to refuse her an interview, but well enough connected to ensure her request was acted upon. So, she told Wade her tale, and
Wade came to us. I mentioned it to the King—’

‘Who happened to be entertaining the Earl of Sandwich,’ interrupted Evett. He sounded disapproving. ‘His Majesty and Sandwich
were deep in their cups, and
they reached an agreement I am sure the King regretted the following day.’

‘That Wade should have two thousand pounds as a finder’s fee; Sandwich should have two thousand because he is a good fellow;
and the King should have the remaining three,’ explained the Earl. ‘It was a simple division. Philip went to the Tower with
Wade the very next day.’

‘Did you find it?’ asked Chaloner, intrigued despite his reservations.

‘Obviously, they were obliged to visit Sir John Robinson first,’ said the Earl. ‘Do you know Robinson? Thurloe tells me your
knowledge of city’s officials is sadly lacking.’

‘The Lord Mayor of London,’ replied Chaloner, rather defiantly.

‘He is also Lieutenant of the Tower,’ added Captain Evett. ‘He took over Barkstead’s old post.’

‘We needed his agreement to dig up the cellars, you see,’ explained the Earl. ‘Once we had it, the captain, Wade and Sandwich’s
clerk … what is his name, Philip? A fat-cheeked, obsequious little fellow, who says one thing and thinks another. You
can see the truth in his calculating eyes.’

‘Samuel Pepys, sir.’

‘Yes, Pepys,’ said the Earl, nodding. ‘Sandwich commissioned Pepys to represent his interests. Meanwhile, Philip stood for
the King, and Wade was there for himself and Mother Pinchon.’

‘Wade had clear directions from Pinchon, so he knew exactly where to look,’ Evett went on. ‘He located the arch she described
with no trouble, and we dug all afternoon. But we found nothing.’

‘Mother Pinchon was not with you?’ asked Chaloner,
surprised. ‘Surely, it would have been best for her to point out where the hoard lies, rather than rely on her spoken instructions?’

‘They were very good instructions,’ said Evett defensively. ‘And we had every expectation of finding the treasure that day.
But we did not.’

‘So, next you asked Pinchon to come to the Tower, and say exactly where—’ surmised Chaloner.

‘She refused,’ interrupted Evett. ‘She had served a regicide for twenty years, and Wade could not persuade her to set foot
in the Tower again. Since she comes to Wade, and he does not know where she lives, her expertise was unavailable to us.’

‘It was very disappointing when they were unsuccessful the first day,’ said the Earl. ‘But, undaunted, they returned the following
morning to try again.’

‘Because it was such a huge sum, we felt we should not give up too soon, so we excavated half the cellar,’ said Evett. ‘By
this time, I confess I was beginning to be sceptical. We arranged a third dig for the following week, but were unlucky again.
Then Wade suggested we try near the old Coldharbour Gate, since it has an arch that vaguely matched Pinchon’s description,
but we still found nothing.’

‘Not even an empty butter firkin?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Nothing. Pepys thinks Barkstead lied to Pinchon – told her about the treasure and her chances of getting it, so she would
continue to serve him after he no longer had the free cash to pay her.’

‘You knew Barkstead,’ said the Earl to Chaloner. ‘Would he have done such a thing?’

Chaloner considered his brief acquaintance with Barkstead. They had met once before his arrest, and
there had been several long discussions when he was in Downing’s custody. ‘He was ruthless and devoted to the republic, but
I do not think he would have misled a faithful retainer so callously.’

Clarendon shot Evett a triumphant glance. ‘There! I concur, because
I
think Barkstead was telling the truth, too. So, since seven thousand pounds is a lot of money, I want you to find it, Heyden.’

‘You want me to dig again?’

‘I doubt that would do much good. If Philip says the gold is not in the Tower, then it is not there. It is somewhere else,
and you must discover where.’

Chaloner did not like the sound of this assignment. ‘How?’

‘That is for you to decide. Philip will answer questions, but you are free to undertake the task as you see fit. All I ask
is that you keep me informed. And there is one other thing: I do not want you to tell Wade or Pepys what you are doing.’

‘But I might have to ask them about—’

‘No!’ declared the Earl emphatically. ‘If you find this money on your own, then Sandwich and Wade have no claim on it. The
King can have his three thousand, and I shall use the rest to … to replace those religious statues smashed by Puritans
during the Interregnum.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether it was wise to involve himself in a plot that would defraud a powerful noble like
the Earl of Sandwich – and what would happen if the King learned he had been granted less of the money than his Lord Chancellor?

‘You must not tell Thurloe, either. Did he ask you to report the outcome of this interview?’

‘No, sir.’ Thurloe had asked for information about
Clarke and Kelyng, which was not the same thing at all.

The Earl regarded him closely. ‘I do not believe you.’

‘But it is true, sir. He no longer dabbles in politics.’

Clarendon sighed. ‘Then he is a wise man who knows when it is time to leave the stage. But you will not tell him about Barkstead’s
treasure. The only people who know what I have asked you to do are in this room – and Philip and I will not break our silence.’

‘Neither will I, sir.’

‘Good,’ said Clarendon, rubbing his hands. ‘All is settled, then.’

Once away from the grandeur of White Hall, Chaloner hauled off his new wig and scrubbed at his hair, glad to be rid of something
that was hot, itchy and uncomfortable. He wanted to consider the implications of his allotted task, and reflect on the man
who had assigned it to him, so began to walk to his favourite coffee house, thinking about the Lord Chancellor as he went.
On first acquaintance, Clarendon came across as genial and slightly absurd. However, he had taken the precaution of investigating
the spy recommended by Thurloe, and had learned something very few men knew, which suggested some degree of competence. Had
he discovered a secret about Clarke, too, who had then been killed because he was deemed unsuitable? Would Chaloner also be
found stabbed in a White Hall corridor – because he had failed to locate the gold, because he
had
located it but the Earl wanted no witnesses, or because the Earl did not want the nephew of a regicide in his employ?

Tucked away near Covent Garden was Will’s Coffee House. It was a large, noisy establishment, patronised by officials who worked
at White Hall and merchants whose
premises were on the Strand. Like most coffee houses – and more were being built each year – Will’s was the exclusive domain
of men, and was consequently a hearty, smoky place. Chaloner liked the pungent scent of tobacco as it mingled with the acrid
odour of burning wood in the hearth, and there was something pleasantly heady about the exotic aroma of coffee beans. Will’s
was also a good place to go, because its owner allowed his customers to buy pots of coffee on credit.

Chaloner was about to open the door when he sensed something amiss. It was nothing tangible, more of a tingling at the back
of his neck, but he had not survived ten years by ignoring such warnings, and had learned to trust his instincts. He moved
away from the door, and when a handsome coach decorated with the Duke of Buckingham’s crest collided with a brewer’s cart,
he capitalised on the chaos to slip into a wigmaker’s shop. From a shadowy corner near the window, he had a good view of the
road, but was invisible to anyone looking in. Moments later, the door clanked to admit a woman, while outside, two men peered
through the glass, making a pretence at examining the displayed merchandise.

‘Mr Heyden,’ said the wigmaker, a Frenchman named Jervas. His expression was one of agitated consternation, which intensified
when he saw curls dangling from Chaloner’s pocket. ‘Are you dissatisfied with the piece I sold you Saturday? Or have you come
to demand your own hair back? If so, then it is too late – I have promised it to another client, and he has been in for fittings.’

The door opened and the two loiterers strolled inside. They were Snow with his jet-black boots, and fair-headed Storey. Chaloner
glanced through the window, and saw the stout, menacing presence of Gervaise
Bennet across the street, distorted to monstrous dimensions by imperfections in the glass. He shot an apologetic smile at
the wigmaker and addressed him in his native tongue, confident the two louts would not be able to understand him.

‘I am eluding creditors, Monsieur. Tend your other customers and ignore me.’

Jervas tapped the side of his nose in manly camaraderie, and moved away to speak to the woman, a tall, elegant lady who carried
a fan and whose expensive dress had more ruffles and frills than Lady Castlemaine’s boudoir. With a jolt of unease, Chaloner
recognised Sarah Dalton. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye in a way that made him sure her presence there was
no coincidence. Surely
she
could not be working with Bennet and Kelyng?

Meanwhile, Snow and Storey sauntered to the rear of the shop, where they began to try on the more expensive hairpieces. The
way to the door was clear, but Bennet was standing with his hand inside his coat, and Chaloner saw through their plan in an
instant – he was not about to be herded out of the building and into the sights of Bennet’s pistol. The dagger in his sleeve
dropped into the palm of his hand, and he moved silently to where Storey was sniggering at the sight of Snow in an elaborate
auburn affair that reached his waist.

‘I recommend the black wigs today, Snow,’ he said, speaking in a low voice, so the man almost jumped out of his skin. He had
not expected Chaloner to approach him. ‘The red ones have lice.’

‘
I
do not need a wig,’ said Storey, fingering his oily yellow locks with pride. He glanced at his friend’s dour expression,
and collected himself, belatedly pretending
to be surprised that Chaloner should address him. ‘Who are you? We have not met before.’