‘I was scared they would hang me for a traitor, but the treasure was always there, in my mind. A month ago, I decided to tell Ma Greene. She said I should approach Wade – she sells him milk.’
‘Why did Barkstead share the secret with you? Why not a friend?’
‘Because he did not know who was friend and who was foe by then. He asked me to tell Secretary Thurloe, but I could not, because Kelyng was watching Lincoln’s Inn, and only a fool gets in his way. I never did speak to Thurloe. But Barkstead said I was to have the treasure, if anything bad happened to him. Well, something bad happened, all right, and his head is on a pole to prove it.’
‘Can you recall his exact words?’
‘What does it matter? The treasure is not where he said. Wade kept pressing for more details, too, but I cannot tell what I do not know. Wade even smuggled me into the Tower one night, after dark, and I pointed out the arch, but he said they had dug there already.’
But Chaloner was not interested in the arch or the treasure; his mind was moving along another avenue. ‘What did Barkstead tell you to say to Thurloe – his precise words.’
The urgency of the question caught her attention and she regarded him calculatingly. ‘What is in it for me? My hundred pound?’
‘Your hundred pound is long gone,’ said Greene scornfully. ‘It is obvious that Barkstead either never buried it, or someone else got it first. But this man has a job to do, so answer him.’
Pinchon scowled. ‘Why should I?’
‘Because he killed Storey, frightened Snow and annoyed Bennet. What more do you want?’
Pinchon sighed. ‘All right. Barkstead said to tell Thurloe that the stuff was buried in the cellar, and bade me mention the arch with the red brick.’
‘He referred to his treasure as “stuff ”?’ asked Chaloner incredulously.
She was thoughtful. ‘No, he used a queer expression: his “godly golden goose”. He said Thurloe would know what he meant. He made me repeat it, but he was panicky by then, not making sense.’
‘When did he say you were to deliver this message?’
‘As soon as it was safe. But it was not safe – not after he escaped to Holland, and especially not when he was brought back to die last March.’
‘When he said “as soon as it was safe”, I do not think he expected three years to lapse.’
‘He should have made himself more clear, then,’ said Pinchon resentfully. ‘If he had given proper orders, I might have found a way to get to Thurloe, and we would have been rich. Now it is too late.’
But Chaloner did not think the treasure had been Barkstead’s main concern, and Thurloe would certainly not have wanted the encumbrance of additional wealth at a time when Royalists were confiscating it all. It had been a different message the Lieutenant of the Tower had been passing to the Spymaster General, although Thurloe had never received it, and now Barkstead was long past caring.
Three men shadowed Chaloner until he was out of the Fleet Rookery, although they made no attempt to intercept him. They merely maintained a discreet distance, and seemed interested only in making sure he left. Chaloner thanked Mother Greene for her help, promised to return with a penny as soon as he had one, and took his leave, relieved to be away from the stench of poverty and despair.
He tried to make sense of what he had learned. Barkstead had wanted Thurloe to know he had buried something, but Pinchon had maintained a frightened silence until greed and destitution had overcome her reticence. Why Thurloe? Was it something to do with the Brotherhood, and Barkstead had naturally turned to a man who held similar values? Was it because both had been loyal supporters of Cromwell, or because Barkstead had trusted Thurloe to pass the treasure to his wife and child? Or, perhaps more darkly, did he want Thurloe to use it to oust the King when the time was right? And what had he meant by ‘godly golden goose’? Chaloner would never have described money as godly, since it invariably brought out the worst in people. He walked slowly, a sixth sense helping him avoid speeding carts and undersized men with quick fingers, and was startled when he heard his name spoken with some exasperation.
‘North,’ he said, recognising his neighbour. ‘Were you talking to me?’
‘I said you are limping,’ said North irritably. ‘And then I asked whether that fellow hurt you the other night – Ellis said you spent all yesterday in bed. He wounded me. Look at my nose!’
‘Is it very sore?’ asked Chaloner, trying to sound concerned. The appendage was red, but that could have been due to the weather, and he had not pulled it very hard. North was exaggerating.
‘Extremely. But I gave him a hiding he will not forget. We live in a wicked world, Heyden.’
‘We live in one full of obscene language, too,’ remarked Chaloner, not liking the way the incident was being warped so far from the truth. He had not been doing anything so terrible in the garden, and North’s vicious club and Faith’s gun had been far in excess of what had been warranted.
North looked sheepish. ‘I was a soldier during the wars, and learned some ripe expressions that occasionally slip out under duress. However, I regret shocking you.’
‘I shall probably recover,’ said Chaloner gravely. ‘Good day to you, sir.’
They exchanged bows and parted, Chaloner supposing that since he owned so little, he was more sanguine about theft than North. After a while, he found himself near White Hall, so asked one of the palace guards whether Evett was free to see him. He was shown to a tiny chamber near the Holbein Gate and ordered to wait, and while he was fretting about the wasted time, he saw one of the cloth measurers in the street outside. The man greeted him with pleasure, and showed him a transverse flute he had just collected from the artisan on the Strand, who had been commissioned to make it for him. It was a beautiful thing of silver, and Chaloner was charmed by the sweet notes it made.
‘Did you recognise the dagger that killed Clarke?’ he asked, when the demonstration had ended.
The measurer raised his eyebrows. ‘What dagger?’
‘Captain Evett has not shown it to you?’
The man shook his head, then backed away when a thickset man strode past. ‘Odds fish! There is the clock keeper! I do not want him to see me with you. Next time, bring your bass viol, because at least then we would look as though we were doing something innocent.’
He hurried away, and it was only a few more moments before Evett arrived, dishevelled and fastening the buttons on his breeches.
‘What have you done about Clarke?’ asked Chaloner without preamble. ‘Have you identified the owner of the murder weapon yet?’
Evett grimaced. ‘I have asked half of London, but no one will tell me anything.’
‘You failed to ask one of the cloth measurers.’
Evett bristled at what sounded like an accusation. ‘Rubbish! I spoke to all three in the kitchens, when the clock keeper was out bull-baiting. Did one tell you I had not? I wonder why?’
‘Ask him again,’ suggested Chaloner, backing down. Perhaps the cloth measurer had not been telling the truth – and he knew for a fact that the fellow was dishonest, because a silver flute cost a lot more than the four pounds he claimed he had paid. If he was willing to lie about that, then what else might he fabricate?
‘I hate murder,’ said Evett with considerable feeling. ‘Do you know what I was doing before you came? Something a lot more profitable than hawking daggers about – I was listening to a meeting of navy commissioners through one of those holes, learning all sorts of important facts for the future.’
‘With your breeches undone?’ asked Chaloner, wondering just how much Evett wanted to be Lord High Admiral. ‘But never mind that. What else have you done about Clarke?’