A Conspiracy of Violence (31 page)

‘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?’