‘Is that him?’ he asked, pointing to the figure that sat at the table. ‘Is that Lee?’
Chapter 7
For the second time that day, Evett retched while Chaloner looked in the opposite direction. Then the captain hovered in the doorway, offering to ‘keep watch’ while Chaloner searched the house, although there was no longer any danger – whoever had murdered Lee had been gone for days. Chaloner left the unhappy aide outside and stood next to the body, hands on hips as he looked around.
The little room was the home of a man who lived frugally, either from choice or necessity. There was a table, a chair and a bench, while pots and pans, all scrupulously clean, sat on shelves above the fireplace. A set of stairs, so steep and narrow that most people would have deemed them a ladder, led to an attic. Chaloner climbed them, but the loft was bare except for a bed with neatly folded covers. He poked the floorboards and knocked on the plaster walls, but there was nothing to find.
He returned to the lower chamber and completed a similar search, aware of Evett chatting to a water-seller outside. He knelt in the hearth and peered up the chimney, jumping back when his probing released an avalanche of soot. Then he turned his attention to the table. Three cups stood on it, and when he lifted one and sniffed its contents, he detected the distinctive aroma of wine. Lee had been enjoying a drink with two companions when he had died. However, there was nothing to suggest they had shared his fate. Had one of them killed him? Chaloner tapped a forefinger on his chin, looking from Lee to the broken window and back again.
Then he assessed the body, noting its relaxed posture, with one hand resting on the table and the other folded in its lap, and was sure death had come as a surprise. But what about Lee’s companions? Had they expected it? Or had the attack been startling for them, too? Chaloner looked more closely at Lee’s hands, and saw something caught between his fingers. He removed it carefully, but the house was no place to study such a find, so he put it in his pocket to examine later.
When he had finished, he rejoined Evett. The water-seller had gone and Evett was full of questions, but Chaloner motioned him to silence as he led the way to Botolph’s Wharf, where they hired a boat to carry them to White Hall. The sun had managed to burst through the clouds during the afternoon, and was setting in a blaze of orange. The boatman began to row with clean, strong stokes, hurrying to deliver them before dusk, and they sat in the stern, so they could talk without being overheard.
‘Do you know Latin or French?’ asked Chaloner in a low voice. ‘It would be safer.’
‘French would not,’ Evett pointed out. ‘He would think we were Catholic spies. I speak Dutch, though. I learned when I was in exile with Clarendon, but I do not suppose you–’
‘Good,’ said Chaloner, pleased to use the tongue he knew best. ‘Who would want to kill Lee?’
‘You cannot assume his death had anything to do with Barkstead’s treasure,’ said Evett, pronouncing each word carefully. He was not comfortable with the language. ‘It was a burglary. There are slums all around here, and that water-seller just told me thefts occur every night.’
‘Lee’s house was not burgled. When we first arrived, I saw five pounds in coins on the downstairs window sill, and a thief would have had that, if nothing else.’
‘Then the villain was disturbed,’ argued Evett. ‘He killed Lee, but heard someone coming. No man wants to be caught in a house with a corpse, so he fled before he could profit from his crime.’
‘That is possible, but when the body went undiscovered, the robber would have returned to finish what he had started. Also, I have never met a thief who would abandon that much silver when it was sitting in full view, no matter how pressed for time – not even a thief who lives in the splendour of White Hall.’ He stared hard at Evett, to let him see he knew what the man had done.
Evett had the grace to blush. ‘I took the money for Clarendon – to make sure the constables did not steal it. I spotted it when you were upstairs.’
But Chaloner was not interested in Evett’s colourful ethics. ‘How well did you know Lee?’
‘We met on four occasions – the four times I went to dig in the Tower. Robinson told me he was a good man, and he seemed honest enough. He worked in the Treasury, counting money.’
‘How did Robinson know him? Surely a Lord Mayor does not mingle with clerks?’
‘Lee was the kinsman of some friend. You will have to ask Robinson.’
Chaloner was annoyed with Evett. ‘Is there anything else about this treasure that may have slipped your mind? You are supposed to be helping me, and neglecting to mention one of the men involved in the initial search is not the way to go about it.’
Evett considered carefully, taking no offence at the accusatory nature of the comment – or perhaps his Dutch was not good enough to allow him to detect it. ‘No, there is nothing, and I really do not think Lee’s death has anything to do with the treasure. I saw nearly all the soldiers who did the actual spadework today. Why should Lee, who is insignificant, be killed, and the rest of us left alive?’
‘We saw Pepys this morning, but what about Wade? Are you sure he is living?’
‘He and I exchanged words when you were in the cellar. He came to ask what you were doing.’
‘What did you tell him?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
‘That I had lost a ring and sent servants to look for it. Do not worry. I can dissemble when necessary. Did you learn anything when you searched Lee’s house?’
‘No,’ lied Chaloner. ‘Why? What did you expect me to find?’
‘I did not expect you to find anything, as I told you to start with. I think it was a botched robbery. How did he die?’
‘Shot with a crossbow,’ replied Chaloner. ‘I imagine a gun was not used, because the killer did not want to make a noise. There was no evidence of a fight, and there were empty cups on the table. I think he was drinking wine with guests when it happened.’
‘And one shot him?’ Evett was incredulous. ‘Crossbows are large weapons, and I do not see even a gentle clerk like Lee sipping claret while his killer wound and aimed one at him. You do not need to be a spy to deduce that!’
‘No one in the house killed him. You remember the broken window? Someone stood outside and shot him, smashing the glass in the process. His drinking companions may have known what was going to happen, or it may have been as big a shock to them as it must have been to Lee. However, if the former is true, then they must be cool customers. I would not sit next to someone about to be assassinated – not unless I had absolute faith in the marksman, and probably not even then.’
Evett was thoughtful. ‘So who is this furtive killer? I can tell you think it was someone who believed Lee had information about the treasure.’
‘Actually, I do not think that. Dispatching Lee would not help the killer find the hoard, because obviously the information would die with him. So, perhaps the intention was not to learn the location of the gold, but to prevent Lee from telling anyone else about it.’
Evett stared at him. ‘That is convoluted reasoning.’
‘Yes, perhaps it is.’ Chaloner leaned back in the boat and tipped his hat over his eyes, not wanting to talk any more. Evett was a pleasant enough fellow, but he was not very bright – or perhaps he was just not at his best after dealing with lions and corpses – and seemed incapable of making insightful suggestions. Chaloner thought about the item he had retrieved from Lee: the scrap of paper. He had no firm evidence, but he believed Lee had been holding a document when he had died. Afterwards, someone – although whether a companion or the killer was impossible to say – had snatched it from him, but in the hurry it had torn, leaving a fragment behind. The writing was tiny, and it was in cipher. He would try to decode it that evening, before Metje came.