‘Perhaps that is why Dalton has become agitated,’ suggested Leybourn. ‘He believes Livesay has returned to make life difficult for him, regardless of whether or not it is true.’
‘Dalton always was the most nervous and least committed of the Seven,’ admitted Thurloe. ‘But it is irrelevant, because Livesay – if he is alive – would not go to the trouble of concealing his identity, then risk exposure by playing games with an old rival. He is not stupid.’
Chaloner started to move towards the door. There was nothing more he could do, and Thurloe was now among friends. The ex-Spymaster rose unsteadily, and came to take his arm.
‘I appreciate what you did for me today, Tom. You had just refused funds to leave London, but I urge you to reconsider. I do not think Dalton will harm you after my threat to expose him, but the man is not in his right mind, and you will be safer away from the city.’
‘No, thank you, sir,’ replied Chaloner. ‘It is best we part company. We do not trust each other, and I will fare better with Clarendon.’
‘You will not,’ warned Thurloe. ‘Not if you have committed yourself to finding Barkstead’s treasure. I asked Ingoldsby about it, and he says it is in Holland with Barkstead’s wife. And do not even think about looking for Swanson’s gold. That will see you in a churchyard next to Clarke for certain. But what makes you think I do not trust you?’
‘Because no one lies to friends, and you have been dishonest with me from the start of this affair.’
‘That was for your own safety. I did the same to Clarke – although it did not stop him from dashing into an investigation of his own, either. But please take my advice, because it will save your life: leave the city, and take Metje, Sarah and Will with you. I would be a lot happier if you all went away for a few weeks.’
‘I cannot leave London,’ said Leybourn, startled by the suggestion. ‘What about my bookshop?’
‘And I will not go as long as you are in danger, John,’ said Sarah firmly. ‘You may need me.’
Thurloe closed his eyes. ‘I was once Secretary of State, with legions of men under my command. Now I cannot even persuade my sister, a bookseller and a former spy to do as they are told. Very well, since none of you will see sense, stay a few more days, but if there is even the slightest hostile move towards any of you, I want you gone. Is that clear?’
Leybourn and Sarah nodded. Chaloner started to move towards the door again.
Thurloe gripped his hand. ‘Thank you again.’
‘It was instinct, sir. You trained me well.’
Thurloe looked hurt. ‘Christmas greetings, Tom,’ he said softly.
Chaloner was almost in Chancery Lane before Sarah and Leybourn managed to catch up with him. He had heard them calling his name, but had not shortened his stride. He had had enough of Thurloe and his devious associates, and wanted no more to do with any of them. Sarah grabbed his arm and swung him around roughly.
‘You did not have to be unkind,’ she snapped, ignoring his irritation as he freed himself. ‘You know he is fond of you.’
‘I know nothing of the kind.’
‘You would, if you used your wits. You overheard what happened in his chamber this morning when my husband wanted to kill you – John was ready to sacrifice himself to Kelyng to stop him. Does that count for nothing?’
Leybourn joined in. ‘He told us your real name, because Sarah and I have each other to turn to in times of crisis, but you were alone and he wanted to rectify that. He thought that by telling us your true identity, you would see the depth of his confidence in us. Think about it: he has kept your secret for a decade, and the fact that he has chosen to reveal it now – and to us – is significant.’
Chaloner was not convinced. Sarah sighed heavily at his reluctance to see their point of view. ‘He is trying to protect you, Thomas. Surely, you have worked out why by now? I thought you were supposed to be astute.’
‘I have worked out nothing at all,’ said Chaloner wearily.
‘The Seven,’ explained Leybourn patiently. ‘Think about them. Thurloe, the leader, trying to preserve the Commonwealth. Barkstead, Hewson and Livesay, three men who believed so strongly in an English republic that they were willing to behead a king. Ingoldsby, also a regicide, but who, like Thurloe, sees the futility of further plotting and just wants peace and stability …’
‘Dalton,’ said Chaloner, looking hard at Sarah. ‘Who is so eager to ensure the Seven’s secrets are kept that he murdered Wade and Mother Pinchon.’
She gazed at her feet, chagrined. ‘Yes, he killed them. And do you know what else he did to save his skin? He told me and then William about the Seven and Praisegod Swanson, so John would think twice about going to Kelyng – lest John’s sister and dear friend be implicated, too. And that is how we come to be involved – not because of John, but because of my loving husband.’
‘Praisegod Swanson,’ mused Chaloner. ‘No one seems to have heard from him since he wrote the letter Thurloe intercepted. Is he dead, do you think? Did one of the Seven kill him?’
‘William has been trying to find out, although John does not know it,’ said Sarah. ‘He would not approve of William putting himself in danger – like Clarke did.’
Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘I think Praisegod is dead.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Leybourn. ‘I was under the impression you had never heard of him before today.’
Chaloner began to sort through the chaos of facts he had gathered, beginning with Barkstead’s curious behaviour during his last night in power. ‘Barkstead tried to send Thurloe a message via Mother Pinchon, not knowing she would be too frightened to deliver it. He asked her to say his “godly golden goose” was buried in the Tower. She assumed, as he intended, that this referred to the butter-firkin treasure, but of course it did not. Barkstead meant Praisegod.’
‘Praisegod is buried in the Tower?’ asked Leybourn, startled.
‘Evett unearthed bones and I found hair that Sergeant Picard said was young, like that of his grandson.’ Chaloner wondered whether the guard had sold the grisly find to the wigmaker. ‘I suspect Praisegod was dismembered before he was buried, because small pieces are easier to hide than a whole corpse, especially in a place where the earth is hard-packed and difficult to excavate. Evett assumed, as I did, that the fragments were from prisoners who had died in captivity, but Kelyng has studied the Tower’s records, and he said that particular cellar has never been used as a dungeon.’
‘Except by Barkstead,’ said Sarah. ‘You must have heard the stories about what he did down there.’
‘Not even by him. He sited the grave well, because the passages that make the cellar an unsuitable prison also allow rats to come and go, and they have been destroying any evidence inadvertently exposed by Evett and his treasure hunters. Clarke must have guessed this, because the message he sent to his wife via the White Hall cloth measurers said he would “praise God’s one son … well away from the shadows cast by the towers of evil”. Now I know exactly what he meant by his reference to towers of eviclass="underline" London’s Tower.’
‘How can you be sure the bones belonged to Praisegod?’ asked Sarah.
‘I cannot, but it is the obvious conclusion. Did you ever meet him?’
‘Once,’ replied Sarah. ‘My husband brought him home, about four years ago. He was a young fellow with chestnut-brown curls, which may match the hair you found, and a pleasant, eager face. He sang religious songs for Cromwell. I suppose Barkstead was making covert reference to Praisegod’s name when he used the word “godly”.’