‘I would not have to eat it at all, if the Earl paid me,’ said Chaloner, not without bitterness.
Bulteel stared at him. ‘You are that impecunious? You should have said! I administer a small fund for emergencies, and you should have some expenses for your work. Here is ten shillings. I cannot give you more, but it should last until you bring about a successful resolution to your enquiries.’
Chaloner accepted it warily. ‘Are you sure this is legal? I do not want the Earl accusing me of theft.’
Bulteel looked hurt. ‘Of course it is legal! Do you think I would risk my career with a new child on the way? Now you must sign my ledger, to say you have received the said amount.’
Chaloner bent to write his name in the book Bulteel had pulled from his desk, and saw the clerk was telling the truth, because it did contain a list of minor expenditures incurred on the Earl’s behalf.
Bulteel lowered his voice. ‘Your reasons for leaving Newburne’s hoard where it was were sound at the time, but the situation has changed. If his cellar floods in all this rain, it will almost certainly be discovered by the workmen who come to clean up. I think you had better bring it here — today, if possible — and I will find somewhere to hide it. I have a feeling you are going to need it soon. The Earl is expecting his answer tomorrow, and you do not seem overwhelmed with solutions.’
Chaloner did not want to waste precious time on treasure, but Bulteel was right — a chest of coins might well appease the Earl in lieu of a solved case. Because he now had plenty of money, he took a hackney to Old Jewry. It raced recklessly towards its destination, spraying water so high that it splattered over the buildings on both sides simultaneously. It also drenched other road-users, and their progress was marked by waving fists and curses. The driver swore back, and Chaloner was not surprised when someone brought the journey to an abrupt end by hurling a clod of mud. It missed the hackneyman, but the ensuing altercation looked set to last for some time, so Chaloner ran the rest of the way.
When he arrived, Dorcus Newburne was leaving. A carriage waited outside her house, and L’Estrange enticed her into it with one of his leers. The maid stood sulkily in the doorway, and Dorcus gave her a jaunty wave as the coach rattled away. Sybilla made a gesture that was far from servile, then left herself; Chaloner had the impression she was playing truant as an act of rebellion. He waited until she had gone, then hurried around to the back of the mansion, and fiddled with the door until it came open. Then he trotted quickly down the cellar steps, intending to unearth the jewels and leave with them as fast as possible.
The first thing he saw was that the barrel he had placed over the hoard had gone. The second was that there was a hole where the box had been. He stared at it in dismay. Had his act of moving the cask precipitated the treasure’s removal? If so, then it meant someone else had been monitoring it. He thought about L’Estrange’s sudden interest in Dorcus, and could not help but wonder whether the editor might have another reason for courting the widow of his colleague.
‘You think L’Estrange has the jewels?’ asked Bulteel, when Chaloner reported the bad news back at White Hall. ‘How will we get them back? Or shall we just forget about them? It is one thing invading Dorcus Newburne’s domain, but another altogether taking on L’Estrange. He knows how to use a sword.’
‘So do I,’ said Chaloner, wondering if the secretary really was nervous of L’Estrange, or whether he had his own reasons for wanting to pretend the hoard had never existed. Chaloner rubbed his head, and thought he had been a fool to think anyone at White Hall could be trusted.
‘No, it is too dangerous. Leave them. We will have to think of another way to appease the Earl.’
‘Leave them?’ echoed Chaloner. ‘I thought they represented your chance for better working conditions, as well as seeing me reinstated.’
‘They do, but they are not worth your life. I am a religious man, Heyden. I do not want a soiled conscience, and you have always been decent to me. You let me take credit for finding the Earl’s lost pendant when most men would either have kept it or given it to him themselves, to earn his favour. Allies are few and far between at the palace, and I do not want you dead.’
‘I am glad someone does not,’ murmured Chaloner, finding it hard to imagine that a simple act of honesty — and laziness, if the truth be known, because he had not wanted to be bothered with the Earl’s baubles — should have resulted in the making of a friend. In fact, it was so difficult to believe that he was more wary and suspicious than ever.
‘You do seem to have accrued a lot of enemies. Yesterday — before he was poisoned — Hickes told me some of the Hectors were asking after you, wanting to know where you live. He did not tell them, but they are resourceful, and it is only a matter of time before they find someone else to question.’
And Bulteel was a coward, who would probably tell them what they wanted to know at the first asking. Time really was running out, because Chaloner could not dodge them, uncover Newburne’s killer and watch Leybourn, all at the same time.
‘What will you do now?’ asked the secretary, when Chaloner said nothing.
The spy did not want to discuss his plans — and he certainly had no intention of confiding that he intended to search L’Estrange’s house to see if he could find a chest of jewels. ‘Visit Hickes.’
‘Be careful, then. I do not want to lose you just yet.’
‘Just yet?’ echoed Chaloner.
Bulteel smiled his uneasy smile. ‘Just a figure of speech.’
* * *
Axe Yard was not far from White Hall. It was a culde-sac of twenty-five houses around a cobbled yard, and although the entrance to it was small and mean, the court itself was pleasant. The houses to the north overlooked St James’s Park, and were occupied by ambitious men who wanted to be near White Hall. In the south, the homes were rather more shabby, and the one rented by Hickes was the shabbiest of all. Its paint was peeling, and its plasterwork in desperate need of a wash.
Chaloner knocked several times, then let himself in when there was no reply. He heard male voices from the further of the two ground-floor rooms; Hickes had company. He eased open the door, and was surprised to see Greeting, violin at the ready. Meanwhile, Hickes lay on a bed groaning.
‘We can try it again,’ Greeting was saying. ‘But if it was going to work, I think we would have noticed an improvement by now. Perhaps we should call a physician, and-’
‘Please,’ moaned Hickes. ‘Just once more, and if I am still no better, you can fetch Mother Greene from Turnagain Lane. She is a witch, and knows some remedies.’
Greeting began to play, and Chaloner recognised an old tune called the Sick Dance. Some people believed singing it would protect them from the plague, and Hickes obviously had even greater hopes. When he had finished, Greeting lowered his bow and looked expectantly at the ailing man.
‘Mother Greene, did you say?’ he asked, when Hickes gripped his stomach.
Hickes had seen the movement in the doorway. ‘Heyden! What was in your damned stew? I knew I should not have touched it when I offered some to your cat and it turned up its nose.’
‘You said Heyden ate the same food you did,’ Greeting pointed out, ‘and there is nothing wrong with him, so you cannot blame his cooking. Nor would he have let you offer some to his cat, if it was tainted. No man takes risks with his own cat.’
‘No,’ groaned Hickes, white-faced and unhappy. ‘I suppose not.’
Suspecting that if Hickes had been suffering for a while, then he was probably over the worst, Chaloner fetched milk from the pantry and mixed it with charcoal, which he collected from the hearth and ground into a powder with the handle of his knife.
‘Where is Mrs Hickes?’ he asked as he worked.