‘I do not need your help.’
‘Every man needs help on occasion, and you need mine more than you imagine. I was telling the truth when I said Downing was very keen to learn who you are. Perhaps he offered to find out for Clarendon, who is naturally suspicious of all my people. I am worried for you.’
‘There is no need. Clarendon already knows my real name, and I fended off Downing’s enquiries for five years in Holland. He will not best me.’
Thurloe smiled faintly. ‘Yes, of that I am sure. Please sit down, Tom. You cannot imagine how unpleasant this has been for me. What would I have said if you had accepted the manor, and I was then forced to admit that it does not exist? Finish your milk. It may soothe your acid temper.’
Reluctantly, Chaloner sat, but he no longer had an appetite for milk or anything else. The first spurt of anger had faded, but Thurloe had fallen in his estimation, and he was not sure the trust the ex-Spymaster seemed to place in his integrity would ever be fully reciprocated. Then he reconsidered. There had been a moment when he had considered confiding in Thurloe, which would have meant defying Clarendon. Perhaps he was not as honourable as he thought, and had no right to sit in judgement of others. Thurloe was in an unenviable position, with men like Kelyng baying for his blood, and others like Downing regaling him with offers of ‘friendship’. Chaloner supposed he would be cautious of everyone, too, were he in Thurloe’s shoes. He relented, and Thurloe seemed to detect a softening of his mood, because he began to talk.
‘I suspect, from some of your earlier questions, that you have stumbled upon various matters that involve me, and you are wondering why I have not mentioned them sooner.’
‘The Brotherhood, for a start,’ said Chaloner. ‘The society you founded.’
‘Who told you that?’ Thurloe sighed. ‘Downing, I suppose. Robinson, Ingoldsby and Dalton would not have blathered; Clarke, Barkstead and Hewson cannot; and Wade, Leybourn, Evett and North are late-comers, so I suspect they do not know who started the whole business. Of course, I could be wrong …’
‘And Livesay? Why not him?’
Thurloe’s expression did not change. ‘North believes he was killed in an explosion, but you will know for yourself how violent “accidents” often conceal the truth. Personally, I believe he is still alive, and that he used the incident to disappear. Dalton thinks so, too, although none of us knows for certain. What I can say, though, is that Livesay would not have told you I founded the Brotherhood – he was not an original member, and so not in a position to know.’
‘Is it true?’
Thurloe stared at the flames for so long that Chaloner thought he was not going to reply. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Shortly after the birth of the Commonwealth, although most of the first members are now dead, senile or in exile. I do not really know the newcomers – men like Evett, North and Wade. But the Brotherhood ceased to have any significant function months ago – when England started to slide faster into the pit of bigotry and intolerance – so it is irrelevant who is acquainted with whom.’
‘And what about the Seven?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Are you one of them, too?’
Thurloe gazed at him, bemused. ‘The Seven what?’
‘The Seven men who were determined to prevent the Restoration. Hewson and Clarke both left messages warning the Seven, and I believe they were intended for you.’
‘For me? Why? I did not stand against the Restoration. If I had, I would not be sitting here now.’
That was true, although Chaloner was unwilling to admit it. ‘Then what about the cipher I saw in Clarendon’s room, about praising God’s son? What does that mean?’
Thurloe regarded him uneasily. ‘What cipher? If these messages were meant for me, then why does Clarendon have them? And what is it that you think Clarke and Hewson wanted me to know?’
Chaloner saw that interrogating Thurloe was not going to produce many answers. He sighed. ‘I saw letters on the Earl’s desk, which I assumed were from Clarke. Perhaps I was mistaken.’
‘On his desk?’ asked Thurloe, appalled. ‘You mean lying there, for anyone to read?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘They had gone the next time I visited.’
Thurloe rubbed his eyes. ‘If I asked you, as a friend, to walk away from Barkstead’s treasure, would you do it?’
‘That would be impossible. The Earl would demand to know why, and he would guess I have been divulging matters he ordered me to keep to myself.’
‘I do not want you associated with this business. It will almost certainly turn out badly.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Chaloner had predicted Thurloe would decline to admit an association with the Seven, but he had not anticipated a stand over the missing treasure. Surely he had not been to the Tower with a spade? As two highly placed ministers in Cromwell’s government, Thurloe and Barkstead would have known each other well, and it was entirely possible that the Lord Lieutenant had confided his secret to the Secretary of State and Spymaster General.
‘Because treasure comes in a variety of forms, Tom, and not all of it is gold and silver. The Earl may discover he is prodding about with more than he can handle.’
‘You are speaking in riddles, sir.’
‘I am saying you may well find treasure in the Tower, but it may not be the kind of wealth you hope for. And Clarendon may not be pleased with the result.’
‘My remit is to find it, not assess whether it is something he will like. I agreed to undertake this task, sir, and I cannot refuse it now. First, Clarendon is my only real hope for the future. And second, he may assume I have located it, but that I intend to keep it for myself. I would spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.’
‘You do that anyway,’ Thurloe pointed out. ‘It is second nature to you. I ask you again: please walk away from this dangerous assignment while you still can. I will petition the King on your behalf, and suggest he recommends you directly to Williamson.’
‘Why would Williamson trust me, when I have failed the Lord Chancellor in a fairly simple quest?’
Thurloe sighed. ‘Very well. If I cannot dissuade you, I suppose I must help you. Let us consider Barkstead’s damned hoard, then.’ He seldom swore, and Chaloner could see he was vexed.
‘I would rather not discuss–’
‘Do not worry about your vow to Clarendon: it is hardly your fault I guessed what you were doing. But I knew Barkstead, and may be able to answer some questions. Tell me what you need to know.’
‘First, it would be helpful to know whether this hoard actually exists.’
‘Barkstead was a rich man, and when the Commonwealth fragmented, he knew he would lose everything he could not carry away with him. He would definitely have hidden something somewhere, you can be sure of that.’
Chaloner thought of his uncle’s money, tucked inside the Banqueting House. ‘Then where is it?’
‘I have no idea, although I can be fairly confident in predicting that it will not be in the Tower.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he would have known that he was never likely to be in a position to go and get it again. He lived in the Lieutenant’s Lodgings, so there is no private London house to excavate, as there would be with Robinson. Perhaps you should look at the place he rented in Holland, before he was arrested.’
‘This treasure was packed into butter firkins. Could he have left England with what would have been a sizeable load?’
‘He knew a lot of merchants, and merchants excel at transporting goods. Of course he could have spirited his treasure away. If I were forced to locate it, I would go to Holland.’