‘I hope this will not take long,’ said the tallest, after Evett had introduced Chaloner as an ‘associate of Clarendon’, which he thought made him sound sinister. The measurers obviously thought so, too, because one turned pale and another looked as though he might be sick. ‘The King wants a new cloak, urgently, and our skills are needed to pick the right cloth. We do not know anything that will help you anyway.’
Evett looked annoyed. ‘Then why did you agree to meet me?’
‘Because you were asking loud questions and it was the only way to stop you,’ said the smallest. ‘The clock keeper is in Kelyng’s pay. We cannot afford to have him hear us talk to you about murder – not even when we have nothing of relevance to impart. It would be dangerous to say the least.’
‘Do you think Kelyng killed Clarke, then?’ asked Chaloner. ‘You must, or you would not be worried about his spy seeing you with Evett.’
The three hung their heads in perfect synchrony. ‘No one believes that tale about Clarke being murdered by robbers,’ whispered the middle measurer. ‘He was a soldier, and knew how to look after himself. But Kelyng has been lurking around the palace, trying to befriend the law clerks. The clerks say he is just using them as an excuse to be there, though. Him and Bennet.’
‘I do not like Bennet,’ said the smallest. ‘He pretends he is educated – like us – but he cannot even tell you what William Heytesbury said about uniformly accelerated motion.’
‘How remiss,’ said Chaloner, recalling that Bennet was sensitive about his social standing. ‘Did Clarke ever take him to task over his lack of learning?’
‘Yes, about a month ago – after Bennet insulted him and us by saying he preferred the sound of yowling cats to our music,’ said the tallest. ‘And Clarke told him that yowling cats always sound attractive to upstart toms. Knives were drawn, but then Sir George Downing came bursting into the kitchen, looking for cream to rub on Lady Castlemaine’s ankles, and the quarrel was lost among the panic of finding him some.’
‘Sir George is a good man,’ said the shortest fondly. ‘He was very complimentary about our rendition of Pretorius last month, and the next day, he sent us copies of three new pieces.’
‘And he gave me five crowns towards the new transverse flutes we have commissioned,’ added the middle measurer, excited. ‘He said there is nothing so sweet as the sound of a silver flute.’
‘What happened after the cream was found and Downing left?’ asked Evett. ‘Did Clarke and Bennet resume their squabble?’
The tallest shook his head. ‘They let it go, but I saw the way Bennet looked at Clarke as he was leaving. It would not surprise me to learn that he stuck a knife in Clarke’s belly, thus depriving us of the best fiddler in White Hall. I do not suppose you have any talent for music, Mr Heyden?’
‘I play the bass viol.’
The tallest beamed, delighted. ‘Then visit us any evening, and we shall have a fugue in four parts.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Evett with strong disapproval. ‘The things you spies do–’
‘Is there anything else you can tell us about Clarke?’ asked Chaloner.
‘One thing,’ said the tallest hesitantly. ‘He was worried something might happen to him, because he asked us to give his wife a message in the event of a mishap. She was to be reached though Mr Thurloe, of Lincoln’s Inn.’
‘What was it?’ asked Evett.
The tall man pursed his lips. ‘It was personal, and Mr Thurloe agreed to send it sealed, because its contents were … intimate.’
‘You can tell me,’ said Evett. ‘I will not be embarrassed – I am a man of the world.’
‘Actually, we were thinking of her feelings,’ said the smallest. ‘I think we can tell Mr Heyden, though. A man who plays the bass viol will know how to be discreet.’
The tallest sighed. ‘Very well. Clarke said he would plant seven kisses on her lips when they met in Paradise, and that they would praise God’s one son together, well away from the shadows cast by the towers of evil. He was very insistent that she should know those exact words.’
The smallest stood. ‘And now we must go, or the clock keeper will tell Kelyng we were gone.’
Evett watched them leave. ‘That was a waste of time. They were right: they know nothing that will help me, and I suspect they want Bennet blamed for the crime, because he is critical of their music. There is one thing, though. I heard Clarke mention seven of things, too, and I suspect it was his codename – the Earl is fond of allocating such tags to people. He asked me to choose one, but I told him I did not want to be a spy. When he insisted, I opted for Admiral, but he did not take the hint.’
Chaloner’s thoughts whirled in confusion. If ‘Seven’ was Clarke’s codename, then were Hewson’s dying words intended to be a warning to him, because he did not know the colonel was already dead? More to the point, what had Thurloe made of the note the measurers had sent Mrs Clarke? He would certainly have read it – opening other people’s letters was second nature to a Spymaster, even a retired one, and he would have wanted to know what Clarke had considered so pressing. And what would he have learned? That Clarke, like Hewson, had turned to religion as death approached? Chaloner rubbed his chin. Praise God’s one son must be code, but for what? Something connected to the Brotherhood? Downing had denied that members used a phrase to recognise each other, but that did not mean he had been telling the truth.
He turned to the ‘brother’ who sat opposite him. ‘What does “praise God’s one son” mean?’
‘It is no good looking for sense in messages spoken by men in fear of their lives, Heyden – or ones intended for lovers. If it is not some panicky religious exhortation spoken in the terror of the moment, then it will be some lewd reference to his courtship with his wife.’
‘That man is trying to catch your eye,’ said Chaloner, nodding across the crowded room to where a clerk was eating veal chops and drinking beer. ‘He has been fluttering his handkerchief for the past ten minutes, like a whore recruiting a customer.’
Evett immediately stared down at the table. ‘It is Pepys from the Navy Office. We do not want to talk to him! He is a sly rogue, and will know in an instant that the Earl has asked us to have another look for Barkstead’s cache without his own master’s knowledge.’
‘He will only know if you tell him,’ said Chaloner, suspecting Pepys would guess something was afoot if Evett insisted on acting in a way that screamed furtiveness and guilt. ‘He is coming over.’
‘Damn! What shall we do? The Earl will think we disobeyed him deliberately.’
‘Calm down,’ ordered Chaloner sharply, knowing perfectly well who would be blamed if Pepys did learn the truth. ‘He only wants to pass the time of day.’
‘What do you want?’ demanded Evett, as Pepys approached. The navy clerk was a short, chubby man who took great care with his appearance and who clearly thought himself something of a devil among the ladies. His progress across the tavern had been punctuated by several attempts to paw the serving women.
Pepys was startled by the hostile greeting. ‘I came to enquire after your health. We spent several days chasing phantom gold together, and I assumed that allowed us a certain familiarity. Besides, I am always happy to greet acquaintances from White Hall.’
‘This is Tom Heyden,’ blurted Evett. ‘We are here to … to discuss viols.’
Pepys smiled. ‘I am partial to music myself, and, although modesty prevents me from elaborating, I am something of a composer, too. Did Captain Evett tell you about our treasure hunt?’