‘Why not?’
The merchant regarded him askance. ‘Clearly you have never met the fellow, or you would not ask. We dislike his manners, his greedy wife and his lies. Cousin Cromwell forced his hand indeed!’
He walked on, leaving Chaloner puzzled. Would someone really kill Ingoldsby’s visitors to make a point? Somehow, he did not think so. He reviewed the people who knew he had intended to see Ingoldsby. Thurloe did, and Sarah had been listening outside his door when they had talked about it. Had she sent someone to kill him? Had she hoped Snow might save her the bother, when Chaloner had so gallantly stepped in to rescue her? Or was Thurloe angry with him, and wanted rid of a man whose loyalty was no longer assured? Or had Sarah mentioned the matter to Dalton, who did not want anyone interrogating a fellow brother? And finally, there was Evett, who had given him directions to Ingoldsby’s house. But Evett was in White Hall, asking about the dagger that had killed Clarke. Chaloner’s thoughts returned to the Daltons, although cold logic told him that the main reason for choosing them as suspects was that he did not want to believe the culprit was Thurloe.
He waited to see if the rider would return, but the fellow obviously knew there was no point in mounting another assault when there were soldiers looking for him, so Chaloner knocked on Ingoldsby’s door. The politician was at home, but a series of wails suggested it was a bad time for callers. Nonetheless, a servant showed Chaloner into a low-ceilinged, wood-panelled room that was scented with sweet lavender, and asked him to wait. The portraits on the walls were of aloof men on oddly proportioned horses, as if Ingoldsby wanted to impress people with his Cavalier ancestry.
When he came to greet his guest, Ingoldsby looked even more porcine than he had in Will’s Coffee House. He was chewing something, clearly having rammed the last of it in his mouth just before he entered the chamber. His cheeks bulged, and when he spoke, he was incomprehensible.
‘I said my wife is in mourning,’ he repeated irritably when Chaloner looked blank. ‘Can you not hear her shrieks of distress?’
Chaloner cocked his head, but the cries had stopped, and before he could answer, the door opened and a woman entered. She carried a handkerchief, but her eyes were clear and blue, and he thought that while a good deal of noise might have been made, very few actual tears had been shed: Ingoldsby’s wife was doing what was expected of her, but without genuine sorrow. Her face was familiar, and he knew he had seen her before. After a moment, the memory snapped into place: she had been with the regicides who had escaped to Holland. She had left soon after, when her husband had secured his pardon, but she had been with them for a while.
‘I am sorry to come at a bad time,’ he said, after she had been introduced as Elizabeth, kin to the wealthy Lees of Hartwell in Northamptonshire. There was no flicker of recognition when he bowed to her, and he knew she had not associated him with the silently unobtrusive nephew of the exiled regicide.
‘The deceased is a brother-in-law from my first marriage,’ said Elizabeth, her face crumpling into the obligatory mask of grief. ‘Some villain shot him with a crossbow.’
‘A crossbow?’ asked Chaloner, not bothering to hide his shock.
Elizabeth nodded. ‘His colleagues from the Treasury came to tell us this morning.’
Chaloner’s thoughts whirled. Robert Lee, murdered while in possession of a document bearing the words ‘seven’ and ‘praise God’, and who had been digging for treasure in the Tower, was kin to one of the Brotherhood?
‘Did he have enemies?’ he asked. ‘Or was he involved in anything dangerous?’
Ingoldsby glared at him. ‘Ours is a respectable family, and although Robert was not wealthy, he was obviously very well-connected, since he is related to us.’
‘He would have had money eventually,’ added Elizabeth. ‘A woman with a large dowry.’
‘They said a thief killed him for the five pounds he kept on his window sill,’ said Ingoldsby, more angry than distressed. ‘And a friend in Fetter Lane told me that a prowler fired a great musket at him in his own garden the other night! What is becoming of our country?’
‘Mr North of Fetter Lane is my neighbour,’ said Chaloner. ‘But how do you know him, Sir Richard? He seldom engages in social activities outside his chapel.’
Ingoldsby was not about to admit to being a member of the Brotherhood. ‘We are both patrons of the Royal Foundation,’ he replied a little defensively. ‘I donate money to thank God for destroying the Commonwealth, and he does it to praise God.’
‘To praise God?’ asked Chaloner, more sharply than he had intended.
Ingoldsby regarded him oddly. ‘Most of us do it on Sundays, but he does it with every breath. It is all very laudable, but I could never be a Puritan. I would forget myself and have some fun.’
Was that the meaning of praise God: the way Puritans lived? But Clarke had not been a Puritan, and neither had Hewson, as far as Chaloner knew. Meanwhile, Ingoldsby was waiting for him to say why he had come.
‘I am acting on behalf of the Lord Chancellor, regarding Sir John Barkstead’s–’
Ingoldsby interrupted in alarm. ‘Barkstead was a traitor, so I seldom had occasion to speak to him! I know nothing about his evil deeds. I am devoted to the King, and–’
‘Your loyalty is not in question, sir. My enquiries do not relate to Barkstead’s politics, but to the dispersal of his estate after his death.’
‘Oh,’ said Ingoldsby, relieved. ‘However, I still cannot help you. He was wealthy, but he did not give any of his money to me – not that I would have accepted it, of course, him being a Parliamentarian.’
‘Of course,’ said Chaloner. ‘It seems he spirited some of it out of the country.’
Ingoldsby nodded. ‘Most regicides did – they had to. Barkstead smuggled his out on a fishing boat. Old Chaloner routed a cache through Scotland, but spent most of it on high living and died a pauper. Hewson put his hoard inside bales of wool, but the Dutch got wind of it and confiscated it all.’
‘Did you see Barkstead with his gold?’
It was Elizabeth who answered. ‘My husband was busy persuading the King of his loyalty at the time, but I saw it – in The Hague, when I was waiting to hear whether it was safe to come home. It was packed into butter firkins, and needed three carts to transport it. There were bags of money, beautiful jewellery, precious stones, silver plate, crosses … It was a fabulous sight.’
‘How much do you think it was worth?’
‘In excess of thirteen thousand pounds! I know that for a fact, because it was taken to the Jews for investing, and I saw the receipts.’
‘How did you come to do that?’ asked Chaloner, puzzled.
‘Because after Barkstead was arrested, Downing went through his house looking for plunder. He had decided Barkstead should pay for his own transport to London, you see.’
‘He said that?’ This was low, even for Downing.
She nodded. ‘But Barkstead’s wealth was with the money-lenders and therefore inaccessible to him. Downing toted up the receipts and showed us how they amounted to more than thirteen thousand pounds – a fabulous sum. Barkstead was laughing, because he had outwitted him.’
‘What about Sir Michael Livesay?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Did he send money overseas?’
‘Why do you ask about him?’ asked Ingoldsby suspiciously.
Chaloner shrugged. ‘No reason, other than the fact that he has disappeared and no one knows where. If he is dead, then the Crown would like to liquidate his estate.’
‘He is dead,’ said Ingoldsby. His tone was wary. ‘He was escaping from England on a ship, but there was an explosion. Everyone onboard was blown to pieces.’