‘A fox, most likely,’ said the earl. ‘Or a wolf. It will be nothing cuddly, you can be sure of that.’
‘There is a rumour that the Duke of Buckingham will be a pig,’ said Evett with a perfectly straight face.
Clarendon chuckled. ‘A boar, Philip, not a pig. No, do not withdraw. Come and enjoy a cup of tea by the fire. It arrived fresh this morning.’
‘Tea?’ asked Evett with infinite suspicion. He was Chaloner’s age, with a head of reddish curls that tumbled around his shoulders. He wore the loose breeches and short doublet of the palace guard, and there was a thin scar on his left cheek that looked as though it had been made by a duelling sword. It was not disfiguring, and added a certain dash to his appearance; uncharitably it occurred to Chaloner that he might have put it there himself.
‘It is a beverage,’ explained the Earl. ‘Popular in Portugal. Come – do not stand on ceremony with me. You to my left, Heyden on my right. There. Now we can all enjoy the warmth of the fire.’
He leaned forward and poured a thick, brown liquid into three glasses. Leaves rose to the surface of each, where they formed a floating mat. Clarendon handed them to his guests.
‘We drink this?’ asked Evett, regarding it warily. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Clarendon cheerfully. ‘The Portuguese ambassador tells me it is excellent for the spirit and the digestion. Come on, man! Do not be shy.’
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.’
Chapter 4
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.’