A Conspiracy of Violence (23 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evett considered the last option. ‘Who?’

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

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

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

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

‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘It does.’

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

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

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

‘Can he be trusted?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Why should they care what we are doing?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh,’ said Fanny, chastened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Imaginative,’ said Evett with a derisive snigger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Did Swanning get his gold?’ asked Chaloner.

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