‘Or perhaps he buried the ingots with Praisegod’s body,’ suggested Leybourn. ‘Perhaps that is what he meant by the word “golden”.’
‘There is no treasure in the cellar,’ said Chaloner. ‘Evett was very thorough.’
‘So, Barkstead killed Praisegod,’ mused Leybourn. ‘I suppose it makes sense. He would not bury a murdered corpse for anyone else, and his message to Thurloe indicates he wanted someone to know a problem was settled.’
‘Will you dig again, Thomas?’ asked Sarah. ‘The Earl of Clarendon will be delighted if you find these ingots, although I imagine he will be less thrilled if you also present him with Praisegod’s bones.’
‘I hope you do not plan to tell Clarendon any of this,’ said Leybourn unhappily. ‘Because you still do not have all the information you need to make a rational decision. You know six members of the Seven, but you seem blissfully unaware of the last.’
‘That is not true,’ said Chaloner, as strands of information merged and the name of the seventh member finally became clear to him. ‘You are right about Thurloe never revealing the identities of his spies lightly, but Ingoldsby and Dalton know about me – I heard them when I listened outside his window today. I doubt Thurloe told them, but my uncle was very free with the information, and–’
‘My husband said you looked familiar when you first met last Friday,’ interrupted Sarah, recalling the exchange. ‘He knew your uncle, and recognised some of him in you.’
‘He knew him, because my uncle was the last member of the Seven,’ said Chaloner.
‘Exactly,’ said Leybourn. ‘So now do you see why Thurloe has tried to keep you from becoming involved?’
A good many things became clear once Chaloner understood his uncle’s role in the affair, all of which Sarah reiterated with a good deal of recrimination. Leybourn was more gentle, although even he seemed to think Chaloner a fool for not guessing sooner.
‘Your uncle and Thurloe were close, and Thurloe promised to protect you when the Commonwealth collapsed,’ explained Leybourn. ‘Old Chaloner knew that if the identities of the Seven ever became public, then his whole family would fall under suspicion – especially a nephew who worked for Thurloe’s intelligence service.’
‘You were with Downing in Holland, and when Downing changed sides, John assumed you would change with him and so be safe,’ Sarah went on. ‘But you did not: you shared enough information to keep Downing happy, but your real reports still came to John. Then Downing arrested Barkstead, and you found yourself back in London, needing employment. Recalling his promise to help, John recommended you to Clarendon, assuming you would prove yourself and make your own way in the new order.’
‘It was also a good opportunity to ask a reliable man to look into Clarke’s murder.’ Leybourn took up the tale. ‘If Thurloe had thought for an instant that Clarke had died investigating the Seven, he would never have asked you to look into the matter. Worse, Clarendon then ordered you to hunt for Barkstead’s treasure, and Thurloe knew you were tenacious enough to uncover the truth.’
‘Obviously, he did not want that,’ said Sarah. ‘So he asked you to leave England or decline Clarendon’s commission. You refused both, and now you know everything he tried to keep from you – for your own good. And before you claim he did all this because he loved your uncle, not you, let me remind you of your letters to him. You wrote sympathetically, and he interpreted this as a sign of friendship – he did not append personal paragraphs to the missives he sent to his other spies. He is not a naturally affectionate man, but the sentiments he expressed to you were real. He assumed yours were, too.’
‘All right,’ said Chaloner, finally accepting Thurloe’s motives had been benevolent. ‘But what happens now? Where do we go from here?’
‘You seem to have an understanding with Kelyng,’ said Sarah. ‘You can tell him to call off his brutes and leave John alone.’
‘That will not help. Bennet is no longer under Kelyng’s control.’
‘Well, we must do something,’ said Leybourn. ‘I refuse to sit back and wait for the next attack.’
‘I will be here,’ said Sarah. ‘I shall collect a few clothes and return with one of my husband’s pistols – then I can shoot Snow, if he comes after me, and protect John at the same time.’
‘What will Dalton say when he learns you are leaving him?’ asked Chaloner curiously.
She shrugged. ‘We quarrelled violently when I learned he has taken to strangling old women and pushing clerks over castle walls. I do not want him near me, and I do not care what he thinks.’
‘Will you go with her?’ asked Leybourn. ‘Or will you guard Thurloe while I do?’
‘I will stay here,’ said Chaloner, seeing Sarah about to object to his company. She was still annoyed with him, and he did not want to listen to any more recriminations. His feelings were ambiguous about what he had been told: on the one hand, he was angry that Thurloe had not taken him into his confidence, but on the other, he was ashamed that he had not handled the matter with more grace. Thurloe had offered a friendly hand, and he had slapped it away.
Leybourn and Sarah left Lincoln’s Inn, and Chaloner locked the gate behind them. He glanced up at the sky. Clouds hung thickly overheard, casting a dull, grey light over the city, and there was drizzle in the air. The gloomy weather did nothing to dampen the spirits of the people, though, and bells rang all over London. In Chancery Lane, carriages and horses clattered as their owners went to church, and folk greeted each other with cheerful calls; there was an atmosphere of celebration as citizens prepared to enjoy a festival that had been deemed illegal not many years before.
Aware that another attack would be rendered easier by the fact that the streets were unusually busy, Chaloner ordered the porters to vary their patrols and sent two men to hire dogs from the Golden Lion. Then he prowled the Inn’s gardens, looking for weaknesses in their defences. Mixed among the scent of drenched grass and dripping trees was the acrid reek of smoke, as fires were kindled across the city. Someone was roasting meat in the kitchens, so the smell of burning fat mixed with the yeasty scent of proving bread. A scullion started to warble. It was a carol, although the words had been changed to make it a coarse alehouse ballad, and the lad’s friends began to cheer. Chaloner smiled, recalling one of his brothers once chanting the same song to a deaf elderly aunt, who had applauded politely and asked him to sing it again.
The clocks struck ten, and Chaloner began to be restless, keen to be away from Lincoln’s Inn, either to resume his search for Praisegod’s gold or to spend time with Metje. It should not have taken long for Sarah to select a few clothes and return to Thurloe. He wondered whether she and Leybourn had stopped to visit a church or to enjoy breakfast with friends. But then he recalled their concern for Thurloe, and knew they would not have dallied as long as they believed he was in danger. Something was wrong. He abandoned his post and went to Chamber XIII.
‘Thomas,’ said Thurloe guardedly. He was wearing his cloak. ‘You should be with Metje today.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Sarah and Will should have been back an hour ago. I am worried.’
‘I will find them, sir. You stay here.’
Thurloe reached for the sword he kept behind his chair. ‘I can manage, thank you.’
‘It is not safe. Bennet may be waiting.’
‘I will leave by the back gate. Stand aside, Thomas. You are in my way.’
Chaloner staggered as Thurloe thrust past him. He was not the only one who objected to Thurloe’s departure: the porters clamoured at him to return to the place where he would be safe. The ex-Spymaster regarded them coolly and they fell silent, awed by the sudden force of his personality. Then he strode into the garden, leaving them staring at each other helplessly.