‘What would you rather be doing?’ asked Chaloner, surprised he should think an aide had a choice.
‘I want to be Lord High Admiral.’ Chaloner struggled to keep the incredulity from his face: it was a lofty ambition for a mere soldier, and the post was currently held by the King’s brother. ‘I know I get seasick when we cross the Channel, but I love ships. However, that is for the future, and we were talking about the present. I am Clarendon’s man, but that does not mean I am blind to his faults – or that I am prepared to watch another spy walk blithely to his death.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Chaloner, bewildered. ‘That your Earl killed Clarke?’
There was a guarded expression in Evett’s eyes. ‘He did not hold the daggers himself, but it was his orders that led them into the situations that saw them killed. He is liable for–’
Chaloner was acutely uncomfortable with the use of the plural. ‘Them? ’
‘Thurloe’s men. The Earl ordered them to follow certain people – to see where they went and who they met. It sounded easy, the kind of thing you spies do in your sleep. One lasted a month, but the others were dead within days – stabbed in the back in the dead of night with no witnesses.’
‘Thurloe sent six men in total,’ said Chaloner uneasily. ‘Five, then Clarke. How many have died?’
‘All of them.’
Chaloner did not believe him. ‘The Earl sends Thurloe letters saying they are doing well.’
Evett shrugged. ‘Thurloe was furious when he learned about Clarke, and the Earl could not bring himself to admit that the other five are gone, too.’
Chaloner’s voice became unsteady when he remembered the man who had shared his love of music. ‘Even Simon Lane?’
‘All are buried in unmarked graves at St Martin-in-the-Fields.’
‘Who killed them?’ demanded Chaloner, shocked by the carnage. ‘The men they were following?’
‘Possibly. I cannot imagine they were pleased to have spies dogging their every move.’
‘That assumes they knew they were being watched, but Simon was excellent at covert surveillance. No target would have known he was there.’
‘Then perhaps someone told them – or they found out another way,’ said Evett. ‘I am certain someone invades the Earl’s offices at night. I try hiding there, to see if I can catch someone in the act, but I never do. I am just not very good at that sort of thing – they must know I am there.’
Chaloner was angry. ‘Clarendon has an unfortunate habit of leaving confidential papers strewn across his desk. I saw Lane’s reports, and so could anyone else who happened to look.’
‘Quite. Do you still think me disloyal for expressing my doubts about his competence to you? Or are you just grateful to have been forewarned?’ Evett’s expression was cool.
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. A post under the Earl was sounding increasingly unappealing. ‘Was Clarke ordered to shadow these men, too? I thought he was investigating a theft.’
‘He was looking into the King’s missing table knives. Clarendon thinks servants made off with them, but I suspect Buckingham – I think he pays a silversmith to melt them down.’
‘Was Buckingham one of the people these agents were told to watch?’
‘No – Clarendon is wary of tackling men who are too powerful, although it is obvious that they are where the real threat lies. But I do not want to discuss this any more, Heyden. I told you about the risk, because we are supposed to be helping each other, but I dislike being interrogated.’
Chaloner did not care what he disliked. ‘Who were they following, if not Buckingham?’
Evett looked annoyed, but answered anyway. ‘Kelyng, because fanatical loyalty is just as dangerous as fanatical opposition and he needs to be monitored. And Cerberus … I mean Downing, because he is a turncoat.’
Something clicked in Chaloner’s mind. Lane’s report had said:
C talked all through church with Jo.
It had been about Downing, and Lane had used a codename for him known only to the Earl – or would have been, if the Earl had not been so free with it.
‘Who is Jo?’ he asked.
Evett shrugged, startled by the abrupt question. ‘It is short for Joseph, I suppose. Why?’
‘Or it could be an abbreviation of John,’ mused Chaloner, running ahead with his analysis without stopping to explain. He thought about the way Thurloe signed his name – Jo: Thurloe. Or perhaps it referred to another member of the Brotherhood: John Dalton, John Barkstead, John Hewson or John Robinson. Or perhaps even John Clarke. ‘Of course, there is always the possibility that it might mean nothing – that Simon sent the report just to show he was doing some work.’
‘Simon’s missives were never very helpful actually,’ said Evett, trying to conceal his confusion. ‘He told us things we already knew – such as that Downing and Thurloe meet. Well, of course they do: one has been asked to provide summaries of foreign policy and the other was a diplomat.’
Was that the answer? Lane was astute, and may have known the Earl was a poor master, so had sent reports that contained nothing contentious – although it had not saved his life.
‘You must feel uneasy,’ said Chaloner to Evett. ‘Downing is a leading member of your Brotherhood, and your Earl was hiring spies to follow him – spies who are now dead.’
‘That is coincidence.’ Evett hesitated uncomfortably. ‘Well, perhaps Downing did object to being followed, but he could not have dispatched five men without being caught. Kelyng might, though.’
Chaloner did not think so, given the ineptitude he had witnessed so far. ‘Who watches them now?’
‘No one – we do not have anyone. The Earl has given you other duties, because he knows he needs to be more careful with you than he was with your predecessors – Thurloe’s letter of recommendation went on at some length about how fond he is of you.’
‘I do not understand why you have told me all this. You do not know me – I could go to the Earl and repeat everything you have said.’
‘Well, please do not,’ said Evett coolly. ‘I am tired of sly murders, and I am tired of attending hasty funerals in St Martin-in-the-Fields. You seem a decent man – an old soldier, like me. Besides, Simon Lane was my cousin, and I miss him sorely.’
Chapter 6
‘Tell me more about Barkstead’s hoard,’ said Chaloner, as he and Evett left the Dolphin and made their way towards the Tower.
‘I have already told you everything. We dug on four separate occasions, but found nothing. When it became clear the gold was not there, Wade tried to locate Mother Pinchon, but failed. Meanwhile, I interviewed Samuel Pepys – the Earl of Sandwich’s clerk. I was suspicious of him, because when we were digging by the old Coldharbour Gate, I had to leave for an hour – between you and me, it was when I learned about poor Simon – and it occurred to me that Pepys might have found the cache and spirited it away. But Wade would not have agreed to that, and there would have been too many firkins for Pepys to carry alone. Besides, Robinson’s men would have seen him.’
Chaloner slowed as the grim façade of the fortress loomed ahead. It was a formidable mass, with clusters of grey towers and chimneys, all enclosed within curtain walls and an encircling ditch, the latter of which was a vile, grey-brown lake of liquid sewage, entrails, dead animals and kitchen slops. In the summer, when the water evaporated, the remaining sludge stank so badly that people had been known to pass out. Access to the Tower was via a barbican, which led to the causeway that snaked across the moat. As they passed under the first of a series of portcullises, there was a sudden whooping screech. Chaloner looked at Evett in alarm, hand dropping automatically to his sword.