‘I do not think we should tell the Earl any of this,’ said Evett, somewhat out of the blue.
Chaloner was surprised. ‘Why not? And speak Dutch, especially when you are talking about Clarendon. He may not be the only one with spies paid to listen to idle chatter.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Evett. ‘And you wonder why I joined the Brotherhood! Are you content to have agents listening to your every word, and never daring to say what you think?’
‘I am used to it. And you had better inure yourself, too, if you want to be of use to the Earl.’
‘I joined the Brotherhood for him, you know,’ said Evett resentfully. ‘I believe in its aims, of course, but all they do is talk. They never act, because they are too busy arguing with each other.’
‘Did he ask you to enrol, or did you do it of your own volition?’
‘The former. Downing let slip something about it once, and Clarendon sent me to find out more. I stalked Downing for a few days, and eventually the fraternity met. I told Clarendon it was all perfectly innocent, but he asked Downing whether I could join anyway. Did you know Thurloe founded it?’
Chaloner only just managed to keep the surprise from his face. ‘Did he?’
‘He seems a decent man. It is a pity he spent the last ten years working for the other side.’
And which side was that? wondered Chaloner. He changed the subject. ‘Why should we not tell the Earl about Lee?’
‘Because he may order me to look into that death, too, and I have my hands full with Clarke. I do not want to spend weeks probing Lee’s personal affairs, only to learn I was right all along, and that he was killed by a burglar. I hate that kind of work.’ He hesitated, and a crafty expression stole across his face. ‘If you agree to say nothing about Lee, I will tell you something about the treasure that Clarendon ordered me to keep to myself.’
‘Very well.’
‘Can I trust you?’
‘You can trust me not to mention Lee to anyone else. What is this secret?’
‘Mother Pinchon. Clarendon ordered me to watch Wade’s house after that first night of digging, and I saw a crone come to visit him – probably to claim her hundred pounds. When she left, I followed her to the Fleet Rookery, but she ducked down one of those wretched alleys and I lost her. I do wish the Earl would not give me such missions. I hope to God he will pass such tasks to you from now on, and let me learn about the navy instead.’
‘So, Pinchon does exist,’ mused Chaloner. ‘I thought Wade had made her up – that Barkstead had told him the location of the hoard, and he invented someone to take the blame if things went wrong.’
‘What a suspicious mind you have,’ said Evett in distaste. ‘She exists, and she probably lives near Turnagain Lane, since that is where I lost her. I would have asked the locals, but they were not of a mind to chat, and I was lucky to escape with my life.’
‘Why did Clarendon order you to keep the Pinchon episode quiet?’
‘He does not want you to think us incompetent. Will you try to find her?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘Tonight.’
‘Do you mind if I decline to come with you? I did not enjoy it much the last time I went.’
‘Not at all.’ Chaloner leaned back in the seat again, and closed his eyes, thinking about the cipher from Lee, and wondering whether he would be able to unravel the code. If he could, then he would have two leads to follow: Mother Pinchon and whatever he learned from the document. Or was he being overly optimistic? He had assumed Lee’s death was connected to the treasure, but perhaps Evett was right and it was not. He did not dwell too long on the matter. Answers would come soon enough.
Chaloner and Evett did not speak again until the boatman pulled into the pier near White Hall and let them off. It was a long journey, but the tide was with them, so they were able to pass under the London Bridge without disembarking to meet the boat on the other side – the starlings that formed the bridge’s feet funnelled the water into treacherous rapids when the river was in full spate. Once the sun had set, the city assumed shades of grey and brown. Red roof tiles showed their dusting of black soot, and the once-pristine washes on the bank-side houses became the colour of old pewter. Buildings clawed towards the darkening sky in a confusion of chimneys, gables and garrets, their uneven lines punctuated by the taller, stronger masses of churches. Rising above it all, like a stately galleon on a turbulent sea, was the mighty bulk of St Paul’s with its myriad buttresses and pinnacles.
The city rang with sound, even on the Thames. Hundreds of craft still plied their trade, some carrying passengers, who shouted greetings to each other, and some ferrying the goods that were needed to keep the metropolis grinding on – grain from Lincolnshire, wool from Suffolk, coal from the north. A quay was being repaired, and the rattle of hammers and saws, along with the urgent yells of a foreman keen to squeeze the very last moment of light from the dying day, drifted across the water. Boats were being unloaded by winches that creaked and groaned, and people were everywhere, buying, selling, walking, working, picking pockets, shopping, scavenging.
Chaloner was hungry, and wanted to eat something before he inspected the place where Clarke’s body had been found, but Evett was keen to press on, claiming that since Chaloner had managed to deduce so much from the place where Lee had died, then he could now do the same for Clarke. He strode under the Holbein Gate, and opened an inconspicuous door that led to a dank passage and then the servants’ quarters. He led the way along several unlit corridors that he said were only ever used by the below-stairs staff, and Chaloner was astonished to see spyholes cut into the wood, affording views of the sumptuous chambers on the other side. He pointed them out to Evett.
‘We did not put them there,’ said the captain defensively. ‘This wing is said to have been built by the eighth King Henry, who was fond of that sort of thing. So was Queen Elizabeth, who also spent money here. Clarendon constantly orders them blocked, but people keep poking them open again.’
‘Are they concealed within paintings or murals?’ asked Chaloner. As an intelligence-gathering agent, it was the kind of thing that interested him, particularly if he was going to work at the palace.
‘Some are, while others are hidden behind statues or furniture. Here is one of the chambers used by Lady Castlemaine. She is in it now.’ He swallowed, and his voice became unsteady. ‘Naked.’
Chaloner peered through another hole. He had heard a lot about Lady Castlemaine, and was keen to see her for himself. Loyally, he thought she was nothing compared with Metje: her face was small and rather catlike, and it was not difficult to imagine her being spiteful. However, even her harshest critics could not deny that her body was about as near to perfection as it was possible to be, with perfectly proportioned limbs, exquisite curves and alabaster skin.
‘Metje is better,’ he declared, after a period of detailed study. ‘Rubens himself could not have made her more beautiful.’
Evett raised his eyebrows. ‘She must be a veritable Madonna. You must introduce us.’
‘You have enough women of your own.’
‘Two wives and someone special,’ acknowledged Evett. ‘I am in love again, thinking of extending my harem. But I was not going to seduce Metje: I just wanted to see her. When will you marry?’