Seven o’clock saw the beginning of another grey dawn, with the occasional speck of snow drifting down and a bitter, raw feel to the air. The first cart laboured along Fetter Lane, its driver cracking his whip and yelling at his listless horse. A man hollered at a woman for hurling swill from her window, and the altercation developed into a fist-fight when a bellman became involved. A herd of sheep was being driven in a bleating ball to the slaughterhouses, and pigeons flapped and cooed on the rooftops.
Chaloner remained determined to solve his various mysteries, and decided that day would yield some answers. He donned his cloak, found the old horsehair wig, and left the house, aiming for the Fleet Rookery. It was a good time to begin his search for Mother Pinchon, because the gangs that roamed the streets during the hours of darkness would be in their beds, and anyone awake would be the more honest inhabitants, who might be inclined to talk to him.
He found Turnagain Lane, which was close to the alehouse where he had listened to Snow and Storey chatting to the dung collector. The tavern was closed, its windows shielded by thick shutters, and was deserted except for a rat that was grooming itself. He began to waylay passers-by. First, he spoke to a flower-seller, but she declined to converse once it became clear he had no money. A butcher in a glistening apron offered to cut his throat, and a ballad-seller spat at him. Then he became aware that three slovenly, dirty men were watching him from a distance. Word had spread that someone was asking questions, and he sensed he would not be left alone for much longer.
‘Fresh milk?’ came a voice at his side. ‘Warm from the ass? Only a penny.’
Chaloner smiled at the old woman. ‘Good morning, Mother Greene.’
‘You seem to like danger,’ she said, regarding him thoughtfully. ‘This makes twice you have come to a place where you cannot be sure of your welcome. Snow said you are Whitechapel’s parish constable, but you are too well dressed for that. Did you know that Bennet has vowed to kill you?’
‘Has he?’ Chaloner recalled Kelyng ordering Bennet to forget about him. ‘Why?’
‘Something to do with St Thomas à Becket. Give us a penny.’
‘I wish I had one,’ said Chaloner ruefully, ‘because I would like some milk.’
She smiled toothlessly and took his arm. ‘Come with me. Do not look alarmed. No one will harm you, now you are in the company of Mother Greene.’
The slouching figures in the shadows made no move to intervene, and he surmised that she had earned herself a degree of respect on account of her age. She also had the look of a witch about her, with her long nose and wrinkled face. She led the way down a street with particularly tall houses, and opened the gate to a tiny garden. It was surprisingly clean, its stones still wet from a recent scouring. She headed for a door and beckoned him to follow. Cautiously, he ducked under the lintel and found himself in a room full of the scent of dried herbs. It contained a table that was scrubbed white, and there were shelves on which stood an array of pots and bottles. The floor comprised red flagstones that were spotlessly clean, and there was a pot simmering over the embers of the hearth. It was a pleasant chamber, and a welcoming one, and not at all what he would have expected.
‘Surprised?’ she asked, noting his reaction. ‘My old man left me something when he died. He was an actor – the best in London, in his day.’
‘It is a lovely place,’ he said sincerely. ‘It smells of home.’
She grinned, pleased. ‘That is what my Oliver always said. What is wrong with your leg?’
He had not bothered to hide his limp that morning, hoping it would make him appear less threatening to potential informants. ‘I hurt it doing something stupid. I do not suppose you know where I might find Mother Pinchon? I need to ask her some questions.’
‘About Barkstead’s gold?’ She cackled at his astonishment. ‘Who do you think told her to go to Wade in the first place? I said to demand a thousand pounds, but she agreed to a hundred, soft cow. And now you have come to ask for better directions, so you can dig it up and give her nothing at all.’
‘Yes, I doubt she will see any of it,’ he admitted.
‘At least you are honest about it. Are you hungry? I got enough stew for two.’
‘I cannot take your food. You will need it for tomorrow.’
‘You might bring me a penny tomorrow. Besides, it is a pleasure to share food with the man who brained Storey. You did what I asked: you said my boy’s name. Snow heard you as he lay dazed.’
‘I cannot take the credit for dispatching your son’s killer.’
‘I do not care – all that matters is that he is dead, and that the last thing he heard was you talking about Oliver. This is hot, so mind your fingers.’
The stew was surprisingly good, and he said nothing until he had finished it, realising it was the first decent meal he had eaten in days. He felt it warming him through, and experienced a reviving of his energies. She returned his smile when he sat back in satisfaction.
‘Now we shall go to Mother Pinchon,’ she said.
Unlike the fastidious Mother Greene, Pinchon wallowed in her poverty, and cared nothing for the fact that water was free, and that it cost nothing to rinse the filth from the floor. Her hair hung in listless snakes, and her entire person was impregnated with grease. Chaloner found it hard to believe Barkstead had considered her his most trusted servant.
‘What about Bennet?’ she demanded, when Greene had introduced Chaloner as the man who had given Storey his comeuppance. ‘Will you do him too? Storey was a pig, but Bennet is worse.’
‘He will see to Bennet in his own good time – and Kelyng, too, I should not wonder,’ said Greene comfortably. ‘But today, he is here about that treasure in the Tower.’
Pinchon regarded Chaloner with naked hostility. ‘Wade promised he would never tell no one about me, so how did you find where I live?’
‘Luck,’ replied Chaloner truthfully. ‘Did you tell Wade everything you know about this hoard?’
Her face was sullen. ‘Barkstead said he would bury it under that tower near the gate. There is an arch with a red brick in the middle, but the rest is grey stone. The gold is there, in butter firkins. Barkstead and me packed it in that very cellar – out of sight, so his soldiers would not see us.’
‘Why did he choose you to help him?’
‘Because his other staff saw how things were going and ran. I stayed, because I wanted the pans he was going to leave – I was his scullion, see. He said I was the best of all his people for staying.’
Chaloner nodded, imagining the situation: Barkstead desperate, reduced to relying on the lowest member of his household, who had remained not out of loyalty but because she had wanted to scavenge. He probably had not trusted her, and therefore may not have told her the truth.
‘What was in these firkins? Coins?’
‘Coins, plate, jewellery, ivory combs, little pictures, gold crosses, all sorts of stuff. But it was all valuable. He said if we sold it, it would give us seven thousand pound.’
‘Did you see him bury it?’
‘He sent me away at four o’clock that afternoon, because he was afraid they might come for him, and did not want me to suffer, too. He said he would bury it himself. He had a spade hidden, ready.’
‘Why did you wait so long before telling anyone? It has been more than three years since this happened.’