And lastly, there was the treasure. If Chaloner was not permitted to speak to anyone connected with the case, it was not going to be an easy nut to crack. But he had faced worse odds in the past, and he enjoyed a challenge. He made his choice: he would remain in London and see what might be done about locating Barkstead’s gold, and he would try to watch Kelyng and make enquiries after Clarke’s killer. It would keep him busy, but he was no stranger to hard work.
A sudden clamour of voices broke into his thoughts. He had been aware of people entering the room, but had taken no notice, concealed as he was inside his booth. Now he lifted a corner of the curtain to look at them, puzzled by the abrupt outburst.
Seven people sat around the largest table, five of whom he recognised. At one end was a man he had last seen drifting on the Thames: the Lord Mayor and Lieutenant of the Tower, Sir John Robinson. Opposite Robinson were four other familiar faces. First, there was Dalton, wafting his orange-scented linen with a trembling hand. Second, there was Chaloner’s Puritan employer, North, a stricken expression on his face. Third, there was Robert Leybourn, the bookseller’s sardonic brother. And finally, there was Downing, sitting with his arms folded and his eyes flicking around the room as though he were looking for something. Chaloner supposed this was the ‘urgent meeting’ Dalton had mentioned to his wife. He closed the curtain to the merest slit, and prepared to do what came naturally to him: sit quietly and listen.
‘I do not believe it!’ one man cried, his voice rising above the others by sheer dint of its volume. He reminded Chaloner of a pig, with jowls that wobbled over his collar and fingers so fat they were elongated triangles. ‘You must be mistaken.’
‘There is no mistake,’ replied Robinson soberly. ‘I saw the body myself. So did Dalton.’
‘I chanced to meet Robinson when he was going to view the corpse, so I went with him,’ explained Dalton. ‘It was as well I did, given that it took both of us to make the identification. Recognising a man who has been consumed by flames is not easy.’
So, thought Chaloner, that explained the stench of burning on Dalton. It also accounted for why he had seemed troubled: inspecting a charred corpse was enough to put anyone off his stride.
‘Gentlemen!’ Downing snapped, when there was another flurry of raised voices. ‘This is not Parliament, so do not behave like a rabble, I beg you. All your questions will be heard, and we will answer as best we can. One at a time, please. North?’
‘You said the body had been burned beyond recognition, so how can you be sure it was him?’ asked North in a hushed voice that had Chaloner straining to hear.
‘I tried to do it from the shape of his teeth,’ said Robinson, a detail that made North and several others wince. ‘But Dalton searched the body for jewellery.’
‘You saw his ring?’ asked North in the same low whisper. His face was ashen, and his neighbour poured him coffee and urged him to drink it. ‘The one with the emerald?’
Dalton nodded unhappily. ‘On his little finger. There was an ancient mangling of the skull, too, and you will recall that he lost an eye at the storming of Kilkenny.’
Chaloner frowned. The man Bennet had knifed had worn a green ring and was missing an eye – but he had certainly not been near a fire.
‘Poor devil,’ said Robinson. ‘We must stick together now, and allow nothing to break the bonds of our Brotherhood.’
‘Our Brotherhood,’ said North softly. ‘Sometimes, it is the only thing that makes sense in this cruel, wicked city. I am grateful I joined you when I came here from Ely after the Restoration.’
‘We are all of the same mind,’ said Robinson kindly. ‘But we should never give voice to thoughts that may be deemed seditious – it is not safe, not even here, when we are alone.’
There was a general murmur of agreement. ‘I shall miss him,’ said the pig-faced man soberly. ‘He was generous with his donations to our cause.’
‘God rest his soul,’ whispered North. ‘Poor John Hewson.’
Chaloner gazed at the gathering, his thoughts rolling in confusion. He doubted there were two one-eyed, beringed men by the name of John Hewson, but how had the fellow come to be burned? And the gathering at Will’s Coffee House comprised wealthy, influential citizens, so why should a servant be mourned in such company? He thought about what had happened in Kelyng’s garden. Hewson must have been told to collect the satchel from Snow and Storey, or he would not have known they had it, and the fact that he took it to Kelyng’s house suggested he was following Kelyng’s orders. Kelyng had referred to him as Jones, indicating he had probably inveigled employment under false pretences. He was really Hewson, member of some mysterious Brotherhood.
Then he had been killed by Bennet, and Bennet had told Kelyng that Chaloner was responsible for the mishap, although Hewson’s friends were now saying he had been incinerated. Why had Bennet killed Hewson? Was he just a poor marksman, or had he taken the opportunity to dispatch Hewson for reasons he was unwilling to share with his master? And then what? Had Snow and Storey been instructed to burn the body in an attempt to disguise what had really happened? They had not done it very well, if they had left a ring and other identifying features for his friends to see.
Chaloner recalled what Hewson had muttered as he lay dying. He had recommended trusting no one and he had spoken his own name. Why? Because he had wanted someone to know what had happened to him, perhaps because he guessed what might be done to his corpse? And what about the rest – the mumbling about God’s son? The more Chaloner thought about the odd phrase, the more certain he became that it had nothing to do with religion.
He studied Hewson’s colleagues. Most seemed genuinely upset by the news of his death, although Downing was already putting the incident behind him, looking to the future. North was the most grief-stricken, but Chaloner knew him to be a kindly man, often moved by the sufferings of others. Dalton, on the other hand, was the most disturbed – a reaction quite different from North’s gentle compassion.
‘Will this damage us?’ asked a hulking man with thick, blunt features. His posture was hunched, as though he was uncomfortable with his size and sought to conceal it. ‘Hurt our cause?’
‘I do not see how, Thomas,’ replied Downing. ‘Do you?’
The man cringed under the attention that swivelled towards him. ‘I am only a clerk, and not in a position to answer such a question.’
‘Has there been any more news about that business in the Tower?’ asked the pig suddenly. He looked irritable when Thomas did not understand him. ‘Barkstead’s gold, man!’
Everyone looked interested in the answer, and there was disappointment all around when Thomas muttered that there had not. Chaloner’s first instinct was to assume the Brotherhood’s interest in the matter was sinister, but then realised that the affair was probably common knowledge. The Tower’s many inhabitants were bound to have gossiped about Evett’s activities with spades and hired diggers.
‘Damn!’ said Downing. ‘But it will appear sooner or later, and our cause will benefit eventually. Barkstead was one of us – a brother – and it is only right that his treasure should come our way.’
‘It is what he would have wanted,’ agreed Robert Leybourn.
‘How would you know?’ demanded the pig immediately. ‘You never met him – he fled from England long before you were admitted to our ranks.’