A Conspiracy of Violence (22 page)

‘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.’