‘Will you join us for an apple dumpling, Heyden?’ asked Leybourn. His expression was arch. ‘I know you have an acute interest in that particular fruit.’
Chaloner accepted, then listened to the banter between the brothers and Wade as he ate, making the occasional comment to encourage them, but preferring to gain their measure than to speak himself. It was some time before Robert realised the discussion was almost entirely one sided.
‘You are quiet,’ he said coolly. ‘Do you have nothing to say?’
‘I had an unpleasant experience this morning,’ replied Chaloner, taking a sip of wine. ‘I was near the Tower, when I saw a body removed from a house. It had been shot with a crossbow.’
‘I thought you would be used to that sort of thing,’ said Leybourn, surprised.
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Chaloner immediately.
Leybourn coloured. ‘I mean you coped well enough when Kelyng was on your heels. I would not have imagined you to be unsettled by the sight of a corpse, no matter what its manner of death.’
‘I dislike an excess of blood,’ said Chaloner. ‘And there was certainly an excess in this case. His name was Lee, and he worked for the Treasury. He was kin to Ingoldsby and lived on Thames Street.’
‘God save us!’ breathed Wade, white-faced with shock. He started to stand, then sank down again when he realised there was nothing he could do.
‘Did you know him?’ asked Chaloner innocently. ‘I am sorry. I should have guessed that a Treasury man and the Tower’s commissioner might have been acquainted.’
‘I have not …’ Wade hesitated, then spoke more firmly. ‘I did not know him.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘Then you seem oddly moved by a stranger’s death. Or are you like me, and have an aversion to spilled blood?’
‘I will spill some of yours if you do not leave him alone,’ growled Robert.
Chaloner leaned back in his chair. ‘I wonder if Lee advocated moderation, like the Brotherhood.’
‘Brotherhood?’ asked Wade. He turned paler still, while Robert’s jaw dropped.
‘You and Robert are members,’ said Chaloner to Wade. ‘I saw you both at Will’s Coffee House. I imagine an organisation like that is always in need of funds.’
He knew he was coming dangerously close to letting Wade know the hunt was still on for Barkstead’s treasure, but could think of no other way to broach the subject. Wade gnawed on his lower lip and his eyes darted around the room like those of a trapped rat. He was clearly terrified.
‘What are you suggesting?’ demanded Robert, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. ‘That we shot this Lee for his money? If you spied on our meetings, then you will know most of our members are rich, and we do not need paltry pickings from a Treasury clerk to help us.’
‘To help you what?’ asked Chaloner.
‘To help us in our objectives,’ snapped Robert. ‘To spread the word that the future lies in equanimity and tolerance. Who are you? A spy for the King? One of Kelyng’s men?’
‘Not Kelyng,’ said Leybourn quietly. ‘I saw Bennet try to kill him.’
‘But he did not succeed, did he,’ snarled Robert. ‘Perhaps it was a ruse, to persuade you that he is a friend. I ought to run him through.’
‘Stop,’ ordered Leybourn sharply, seeing his brother start to stand. ‘Sit down.’
‘Practise what you preach,’ suggested Chaloner mildly. ‘Equanimity and tolerance.’
It was the wrong thing to say, because Robert surged to his feet and hauled his sword from his belt. ‘Name the time and place, and I will meet you there.’
‘No, Rob!’ cried Leybourn. ‘You do not know what you are doing.’
‘I know I am being insulted.’ Robert glowered at Chaloner. ‘Meet me Christmas Day at dawn in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. We shall see then whether your sword is as sharp as your tongue.’
Because Robert’s voice was loud, every one of Don Pedro’s customers was listening as he and his brother began to quarrel – Leybourn was urging him to retract the challenge, which served to fuel his temper all the more. Chaloner took the opportunity to escape, disliking the attention Robert was drawing to himself. Craving peace and solitude, which would not be found in the busy St Paul’s, he walked instead to his parish church – St Dunstan-in-the-West on Fleet Street. Its rector was Joseph Thompson, who knew unscheduled visits from his congregation usually meant they wanted to escape the noisy flurry of London, and he always left them alone when they pushed open the clanking door and breathed their relief at the echoing stillness within. He nodded a friendly greeting to Chaloner, then turned his attention back to his registers.
Chaloner found a bench at the back, leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, wondering why Robert had responded to his questions with such fury. It was scarcely the kind of behaviour one would expect from a man belonging to an organisation devoted to restraint, and the encounter had left him unsettled. To take his mind off it, he considered what he knew about Lee. He was sure the murder was significant, since Lee had been present during the search for Barkstead’s treasure and he had been killed while holding a document bearing the words seven and praise God. Had the message been intended for Thurloe, as Chaloner believed Clarke’s and Hewson’s had been? But then who had stolen it from Lee’s corpse?
Next, he considered the way his three quite separate assignments were now inextricably linked. Thurloe wanted Clarke’s murder solved, but had warned Chaloner against finding Barkstead’s treasure; the Lord Chancellor wanted Barkstead’s cache, but had denied Chaloner permission to look into Clarke’s death; and both men were wary of Kelyng. It seemed Thurloe had been right to advise Chaloner to abandon the search for the hoard, since the Ingoldsbys’ evidence put the butter firkins firmly in Holland with Barkstead’s wife.
After a while, Chaloner left the quiet confines of the church, and a sharp nip in the air outside told him there would be more snow that night. Although it was only two o’clock, it was a dark day, and here and there the street gleamed yellow from lamps set in windows, while lanthorns – hollow horns containing candles – gleamed inside carriages, giving them a warm, cosy look as they rumbled past. Street traders with packs and trays yelled hoarsely, their breath pluming white before them, and everywhere folk were huddled inside their cloaks. Pigeons roosted in the skeletal oak tree in St Dunstan’s churchyard, fluffed up to almost twice their size as the wind blew and the branches swayed.
Chaloner was about to head home, when he became aware of a commotion. It had already attracted spectators, and others were stopping to join them, reminding him of a trick his uncle had often played. Old Chaloner had liked to stand in a public place and point to the sky in an excited manner, asking people whether they could see ‘it’. They nearly always could, and he encouraged them to witness all manner of marvels, some of which were then reported as fact in the daily news sheets. His most famous prodigy – as such phenomena were called – had been a complete replay of the Battle of Naseby in cloud formations, and some spectators had even claimed to have recognised the faces of known combatants.
However, it was no wry mischief that controlled the crowd that evening, but something far more invidious. Pulling his hood over his wig, partly for warmth, but mostly for disguise, Chaloner eased his way through the onlookers until he could see. There, at the centre of the group, was a bruised and bloodied man who begged pitifully for his life. Unfortunately for him, his pleas were in Dutch, which did more to incense the crowd than secure their compassion. Standing over him was Sir John Kelyng, while Bennet and Snow hovered to one side.