‘I wrote to his wife, asking if his romantic message meant anything special to her. If it does not, then we shall know it was code – and that it was actually intended for someone else.’
Chaloner suspected Mrs Clarke would tell him to mind his own business, and changed the subject. ‘What do you think the Earl will say if he learns Barkstead’s hoard does not exist?’
‘Mother Pinchon said–’
‘She is not the trusted servant we were led to believe. It is true she helped Barkstead parcel up his treasure, but there is no evidence to prove he actually buried it there. In fact, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that he would never have left it in a place like the Tower. It is probably in Holland, being used to support his family. He was a sensible man, well organised; he would not have left his wife destitute.’
‘Then you are in trouble, my friend. That is not a solution that will please Clarendon.’
‘But it may be the truth. However, all is not lost, because I think there may be a different kind of treasure concealed in the Tower.’
‘If it is not gold, the Earl will not care,’ warned Evett.
‘I imagine that depends on what it is.’ Chaloner shrugged. ‘I will continue to investigate and see what emerges. Perhaps it will be enough to see me hired as an intelligence officer again – a proper one this time, not just someone who runs shady errands for the Lord Chancellor.’
‘Now you know how I feel,’ muttered Evett.
‘Where does Ingoldsby live? The Earl told me to talk to Barkstead’s friends, so I had better do it.’
Evett gave him an address near the Tower. ‘And I will interview the cloth measurers again, so–’
But Chaloner had spotted Metje walking along King Street with a shopping basket over her arm. He nodded an abrupt farewell to the startled captain and darted after her, weaving through the crowd and calling her name until she looked around. She did not return his smile.
‘What?’ she demanded crossly.
He took a step back, startled by the hostile greeting. ‘I just wanted to speak to you. What are you doing here? I thought you did your shopping at–’
‘I came to buy a poultice for Mr North’s nose, if you must know – here is the apothecary’s receipt. But what about you? You say you have secured work, but you have had no money since Saturday, and I came to see you before chapel this morning, but you were already gone and it was far too early for the victualling office. God alone knows where you were and what you were doing at such an hour. How much longer can we live like this, Thomas?’
‘Has North been talking about leaving London again?’ asked Chaloner gently, suspecting his early departure was not the real reason for her display of temper.
She nodded miserably. ‘And it is your fault. You frightened him with your nocturnal invasion, and Temperance has been very outspoken against Preacher Hill over the last week – at your instigation. It is almost as though you want them to leave, and me to be destitute again.’
‘I am sorry, Meg. I did not want North to know I was trying to see you the other night.’
There were tears in her eyes. ‘Perhaps we should part company, Tom. We have been in England for months now, and your situation is as hopeless now as when we arrived.’
He took her hand. ‘I am working as hard as I can. Please do not give up on me yet.’
She gave him a wan smile, then glanced covertly behind her. ‘You see that man in the red hat? He asked whether I spoke Dutch earlier, and he has been watching me ever since.’
‘Go home. I will make sure he does not follow you.’
‘How will you stop him – you with your lame leg which does not seem to be getting any better? Perhaps you should give up dashing around dark gardens in the middle of the night.’
He fought down a tart response. ‘I will think of something. I am not entirely useless.’
He watched her walk away, then stepped forward to intercept the man who immediately started to follow her. He pushed his dagger against the fellow’s ribs, making his captive gasp in alarm.
‘I do not have any money! I am just a weaver.’
The accent was familiar, and Chaloner released him. ‘Where are you from? Amsterdam?’
The man was appalled, eyes full of naked terror. ‘I am Danish – from … from Hamburg.’
‘It is not safe to accost people and demand to know what languages they speak,’ said Chaloner in Dutch. ‘You will be shot as a spy.’
The man hung his head, and replied in the same tongue. ‘I do not know what to do. My friends shun me and it feels dangerous here. I was just looking for a sympathetic countryman …’
‘It will get worse,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Your safest option would be to sell all you have, and leave.’
‘Will you give the same advice to that woman you were just talking to? We are all in danger now.’
Chaloner headed towards the Tower, aiming for the street near the Royal Foundation of St Katherine, where Evett had told him Ingoldsby lived, his thoughts a chaos of worry for Metje. As he passed the castle, he paused by the blackened heads on poles, placed to gaze across the Thames. He wondered which was Barkstead’s, and joined the gathering of people who gaped at the spectacle, where someone rather more familiar with the heads than was nice told him Barkstead’s was the second from the left. The Lieutenant of the Tower had boasted long hair, watchful eyes and a moustache, and the bald skull with its missing teeth and sagging jaw bore no resemblance to the dignified man Chaloner had met.
‘What did you want Thurloe to know?’ Chaloner asked him softly. ‘What was your godly golden goose? And did you praise God, like Hewson, Clarke and Lee? What binds you to the Brotherhood, secrets buried in the Tower and the murder of Thurloe’s spies?’
He stared a while longer, then went in search of the regicide who had managed to do rather well for himself, a feat all the more remarkable given that Richard Ingoldsby was Oliver Cromwell’s cousin and had made much of that fact when the Lord Protector was in power. Ingoldsby lived in a fine Tudor mansion that overlooked the hospital gardens. Chaloner was about to knock at the door when he heard the clatter of hoofs travelling too fast down the narrow road. He turned to see a stallion galloping towards him, its rider kicking it forward for all he was worth. He saw a chicken disappear in an explosion of feathers, and heard people yell in alarm. The rider’s hat was pulled over his eyes and his collar was up – given his cavalier progress, Chaloner was not surprised he did not want to be recognised. He watched him come closer, but it did not occur to him that he was the fellow’s intended target until the very last moment – by which time, it was almost too late.
The horseman slashed with his sword as he thundered past. Chaloner threw himself to one side, and the blade missed him by the width of a finger. He scrambled to his feet and watched in disbelief as the rider wheeled around and came at him again. He ducked behind the gatepost, and the blade missed a second time. When the fellow came for a third pass, Chaloner drew his own sword, and was bracing himself for the impact, when there was a shout, and several soldiers began to canter towards them. The horseman glanced at the advancing posse, then spurred his mount in the opposite direction.
‘He was after doing you mischief,’ said a passing merchant. ‘I wondered what he was doing behind that tavern all morning, swathed and silent. I should have known it was nothing good.’
‘Have you seen him before?’
The man shook his head and lowered his voice. ‘Do not take it personally. None of us like Ingoldsby, and that rider probably decided to deprive him of a caller – to show the world that we do not want the likes of him as our neighbour.’