Evett looked up from where he was sitting on the steps that led to the yard. He was playing dice with Sergeant Picard, and was relaxed and cheerful. ‘I hope you did not mind us abandoning you, Heyden, but we were cold. I hollered to let you know, but you did not answer.’
‘I did not hear you,’ said Chaloner, somewhat accusingly.
Evett’s expression was hopeful. ‘You took longer than I expected. Did you find it?’
‘The lamp burned out.’
Evett’s jaw dropped. ‘Lord! Did it? We closed the door, because it kept banging in the wind, and that would have made it pitch black down there. Why did you not shout for a candle?’
‘I did,’ said Chaloner tartly.
Picard started to laugh, thinking it a fine joke. ‘Barkstead used to shut his prisoners in that cellar when he was Lieutenant of the Tower – he would lock them in at dusk, and by dawn they would be mad or dead.’
‘That would not happen after a single night,’ said Chaloner. The man was trying to unnerve him.
‘It would,’ argued Picard. ‘You were all right, because you knew you were going to get out. But imagine what it would be like if you thought you were going to die down there, alone and forgotten.’
‘Believe me, I did,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I doubt Barkstead would have done such a thing.’
‘You are wrong,’ insisted Picard, becoming sullen. ‘He said it saved money, because he did not have to pay for their food.’
‘I think you may be right, sergeant,’ said Evett thoughtfully. ‘When we were digging last month, we kept unearthing fragments of bone, and I am sure some were human.’
‘The cellar is hundreds of years old,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘I am sure people have died down there, but that does not mean they were Barkstead’s victims.’
‘What are you, a Roundhead or something?’ demanded Picard. ‘You take his side very readily.’
‘He is just sceptical of ghost stories,’ said Evett soothingly. ‘Politics have nothing to do with it.’
The sergeant sniffed, then pointed to the hair that tumbled from Chaloner’s pocket. ‘What is that?’
‘Someone dropped a wig,’ said Chaloner, removing it to show him. Although matted and muddy, the curls remained a fine chestnut colour, and the piece appeared to be made of real hair. He was surprised someone had not missed such an expensive object, and taken steps to recover it.
‘I did! It is mine,’ said Picard, snatching it. ‘I had a–’ He faltered, then let it drop to the ground. ‘That is no wig!’
Evett made a choking sound, revolted. ‘Jesus God, Heyden! You brought out a piece of someone’s scalp. What were you thinking of?’
Chaloner was sheepish. ‘It felt like a wig in the dark.’
‘Why did it not rot away, like the rest of the corpse?’ asked Picard ghoulishly.
‘It must have dried,’ explained Chaloner. ‘There was a breeze where I found it, so it must have desiccated, rather than decomposed. Hair and skin can last a long time under the right conditions.’
Evett was horrified. ‘How do you know such terrible things?’ he cried.
Intelligence agents collected all manner of bizarre facts during their assignments and, combined with the fact that the work was dangerous and people died, Chaloner knew a good deal about corpses and their various stages of decomposition. He considered regaling Evett with some of his experiences in the arid hills of Spain, but thought better of it when he saw the revulsion in the man’s eyes. There was no point in alienating someone who was helping him.
Picard was less squeamish. He picked up the hair, using the ruff on his sleeve so he would not have to touch it with his fingers. ‘It is very young hair – brown with reddish glints, like my grandson’s. How long has it been down there? A hundred years?’
‘Not that long,’ replied Chaloner.
‘One of Barkstead’s victims then,’ concluded Picard, rather defiantly. ‘We can get ten shillings for this, once we clean it up. That Dutch wigmaker near the Strand pays a fortune for hair, and never asks questions – then one of you could demand another ten shillings for keeping quiet about the fact that it came from a corpse.’
‘He is French,’ said Chaloner, not wanting Jervas’s windows smashed for the wrong reasons.
Picard sighed at his irrelevance. ‘Do you want in on this, or not?’
‘Bury it,’ ordered Evett. ‘Get the Tower chaplain to say a prayer, for decency’s sake. Do not stand gawking, sergeant. Do it!’
Picard slouched away, studying the find as he went, and Chaloner thought that if Evett believed it would ever see a graveyard, then he was a fool.
‘Before you started to dig under that arch, did it look as though the ground had been disturbed within the last three years?’ Chaloner asked, turning his thoughts back to the treasure.
Evett shook his head. ‘We checked for recent upheavals, but it was all uniform beaten earth. We found a few bones that we tossed into a corner, but … Oh, Lord!’ His hand flew to his mouth as something occurred to him. ‘The bones were not all in one place – they were scattered in a way that suggested they had been chopped about.’
‘Chopped about?’
‘As in disjointed, perhaps because someone was digging through them.’ Evett was appalled by the conclusion. ‘But we were so careful to look for evidence of earlier excavations. Does it mean someone got there before us?’
‘It might – although it does not tell us whether this someone also found the treasure. And bear in mind that it might also be evidence that Barkstead really did bury something there.’
Evett chewed his lip. ‘We could go deeper, I suppose.’
Chaloner shook his head. ‘There is no point. You dug for hours, but Barkstead could not have spared that kind of time with the Commonwealth collapsing and so much business to complete. You were right: there is nothing here now.’
It was almost noon by the time Chaloner had finished examining Evett’s excavations, and he was eager to return to the Dolphin, to observe the Brotherhood at their benefactors’ dinner.
‘Good,’ said Evett, when Chaloner informed him that he had a sudden desire to watch the Queen leaving St Katherine’s hospital. ‘I have business of my own at midday, and since you cannot be in the Tower without a military escort, you would have had to leave anyway. Now I need not feel guilty about shoving you out before you are ready. You can wave to the Queen, I can interview these wretched White Hall men, and we can come back here this afternoon to complete your work.’
They left the fortress and walked towards the tavern. ‘White Hall men?’ asked Chaloner.
‘His Majesty’s measurers of cloth. They took a liking to Clarke because he played the violin for their musical ensemble. The things you spies do to cultivate contacts! Anyway, they declined to speak to me in the palace, because walls have ears, but when I told them I planned to be in the Dolphin part of the day, they agreed to meet me there instead.’ Evett pushed open the tavern’s door and entered the smoky warmth within. ‘I would not mind you joining us, actually, since I imagine you are more skilled an interrogator than I will ever be. Would you mind? There they are.’
Chaloner followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw a trio of men sitting with their backs to a wall. They were difficult to tell apart, because they were all middle aged, overweight and wore identical uniforms that comprised grey wigs and blue coats. They exuded an aura of unease, and their agitation increased tenfold when Evett sat at their table. The hands of one were shaking so much that he could barely lift his ale to his lips. Some of it spilled on his clothes.