‘Are you going to eat that?’ asked Evett, sitting down in a flurry of damp cloak and cold air. ‘There was only pink pudding for breakfast at White Hall today. Why have you lost your appetite? Worry over this lost treasure?’
‘I argued with my woman,’ said Chaloner, surprising himself by the confidence. He did not normally open his heart to virtual strangers.
Evett was sympathetic. ‘They have a habit of provoking quarrels out of nothing. Does your wife know about her? Or was that what the row was about?’
‘Metje is my wife,’ said Chaloner. He reflected. ‘Or she will be.’
‘You intend to marry?’ asked Evett. He looked disapproving. ‘I would not recommend that. They become different once you wed them. It is better to leave them as mistresses – kept women are more loving and considerably less demanding. Of course, the King would probably disagree, since Lady Castlemaine is very demanding.’
‘Are you speaking from personal experience?’
Evett nodded, cheeks bulging with fish. ‘With both wives. One manages my farm in Kent, while the other looks after my house in Deptford.’
Chaloner did not know whether to be shocked or amused. Bigamy was a capital crime, and he was astonished to hear Evett so blithely confessing to it. ‘Does Clarendon know about them?’
Evett shook his head. ‘He would not understand. I was forced into both matches: the first declined to lie with me until she had been to the altar, and the second did lie with me, but a child appeared and her father put a gun to my head. They are lovely lasses, but I find myself lonely at Court. Perhaps I should take a third, to tend me in White Hall. What do you think?’
‘Managing three wives would require a deviousness beyond my abilities.’
‘And you a spy these last ten years,’ said Evett with a grin. ‘So, I have skills you envy, do I? Will you recommend me to Thurloe, then?’
‘I might. However, I understand you know him, so why not ask yourself?’
Evett chuckled. ‘I am jesting. I have been Clarendon’s aide for years, and it would be folly to leave him now his fortunes are finally on the rise. Of course, they will not continue that way if Buckingham has anything to do with it. He was the baboon at the masque, you know. I told you it was he who burst in on us, thinking himself suitably disguised.’
‘Thurloe is a good man,’ said Chaloner, trying to steer the conversation back in the direction he wanted it to go.
‘Is he?’ asked Evett, without much interest. ‘I see him when he visits Clarendon, but he tends to wait until I withdraw before embarking on whatever it is they discuss.’
‘You do not meet on other occasions, perhaps out with friends?’
‘Thurloe has no friends – he is not a sociable man. Why do you ask?’
‘He sent you a letter.’ Chaloner handed Evett the note Thurloe had scribbled the previous day. It contained nothing other than a polite suggestion that Chaloner’s skills might be of use in locating Clarke’s killer, and ended with the familiarly scrawled Jo: Thurloe, a signature that made some recipients imagine the sender’s name to be Joseph. Naturally, Chaloner had read it, then repaired the seal, but he had been unable to determine whether its cool professionalism suggested a prior acquaintance.
Evett scanned the few lines. ‘He thinks you might be able to help me with Clarke. Good! I am a soldier, not a parish constable and I am not pleased about being ordered to solve murders.’
‘The Earl told me to leave the matter alone.’
‘He asked me to stop looking for treasure in the Tower, too, but I will give you a detailed tour of the places where we dug, if you help me with Clarke. Agreed? Are you leaving that bread?’
Chaloner pushed it towards him.
‘So, your domestic dispute deprived you of your appetite, did it? You should recruit a couple of mistresses to take your mind off it. Do you want me to introduce you to some willing ladies?’
Chaloner watched him eat. ‘You seem to have very tolerant views of these matters.’
Evett nodded. ‘There are far too many fanatics around these days, and they are making life uncomfortable for the rest of us – like those miserable Puritan extremists who banned horse racing.’
‘Have you ever met other people who think your way?’ asked Chaloner casually.
Evett stopped chewing. ‘Why?’
‘Because I have. Well, I did not meet them, exactly, but I know what they think, and I know they gather occasionally to discuss their ideas.’
‘Damn! Who told you? Rob Leybourn? He will land us all in trouble with his loose tongue.’
‘What kind of trouble do you anticipate?’
‘People are suspicious of secret societies, and always think the worst. But the Brotherhood really does have good principles. I mean, what more can you ask than everyone tolerating the beliefs and opinions of everyone else? I saw Cromwell suppress Royalists in the fifties, and I see Royalists doing the same to Roundheads now. If we are to have peace, then we need an end to persecution.’
‘It sounds idealistic.’
‘What if it does? Everyone knows about the Court’s decadence – animal masques, pink puddings, money spent that is not there. How long will it be before the people object, and we find ourselves with a ruling Parliament again? And then what? Am I to be hanged, because I am Clarendon’s man? Are you? How many times can you change sides? I just want justice for everyone, no matter who is in power. The brothers are not men I normally associate with – I dislike Ingoldsby, for example – but unpleasant company is a small price to pay for peace and harmony.’
Chaloner rubbed his chin. Evett did not seem the type to harbour such notions – he was a soldier, for a start, and they tended to prefer war and disharmony, when their skills could be put to use. But then he recalled his own distaste for strife after the wars, and supposed the captain might feel the same.
Evett ate more bread. ‘And then there is Downing: he detests me and Clarendon, and the feeling is wholly reciprocated. I dislike Hewson, too, but Robinson sent me a message last night to say he is dead. Hewson claimed to be moderate, but he still said some fairly radical things about religion.’
‘Do you know Sir John Kelyng?’
‘I assure you he is not a brother. He is exactly the kind of man we are trying to overturn.’
‘Is the Brotherhood open to anyone?’
Evett laughed. ‘No, or we would have lunatics like Kelyng clamouring to join. Newcomers must believe in moderation, and they tend to be recommended by other brothers, who know their views.’
‘Who recommended Clarke?’
Evett did not seem surprised that Chaloner should know Clarke had been a member. ‘I did – to help me with Clarendon. Why? Surely you do not think the brothers had anything to do with his murder? Lord! That would be awkward! But now we are colleagues, and helping each other, I should tell you something important. Clarendon gives the impression he knows what he is doing, but he is not as competent as he appears. Others have misread his abilities, and it has cost them their lives.’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘That is a singularly disloyal thing for an aide to say.’
Evett grimaced unhappily. ‘I know, and it pains me to do it, but it cannot be helped. And anyway, he misuses me. I am a soldier, but he sends me to chase killers and treasure. He says he cannot trust anyone else, but that does not make such base duties any less distasteful.’