Footsteps and jolly hallooing come his way: sounds more terrible to his ears than the hoofbeats of the Four Horsemen, for they signify that he shall have to be civil to chaps he barely knows. He turns toward the entrance. In comes the First Lord of the Treasury his Clarke, Writer of the Tallies, and Auditor of the Receipt of the King’s Exchequer (one man) in his finest clothes. On his arm is the almost-as-well
–turned-out Chamberlain’s Deputy of the Receipt of the King’s Exchequer. These men, of course, have names and lives, but Daniel has forgot the former, and has no interest in the latter. This is one of those occasions in England when names do not matter, only titles. “Good morning, Dr. Waterhouse!” exclaims the first, “have you your Key?”
It is an inane question, as there’d be no point in Daniel’s being here if he didn’t have the bloody key; but the man who asks it does so with a twinkle in his eye. It is nothing more than a rhetorical and facetious chat-starter, and perhaps a way of taking Daniel’s measure.
“Have you yours, sir?” Daniel returns, and the oppressively cheerful Writer of the Tallies ( amp;c.) whips it out of his pocket. Not to be outdone, the Chamberlain’s Deputy ( amp;c.) pats his breast; a key hangs on a ribbon there.
Daniel’s key is in his left coat-pocket and his hand is clenched around it. In the right pocket, his other hand cradles a small wooden box, like a jewelry-chest, that he nicked from a storage-closet at Isaac’s a couple of hours ago. He is struck by a little spell of dizziness for a moment, and spreads his feet wider, as a precaution against toppling and splitting his head on the old floor-tiles. The Key and the Chest, the rite of the Six Padlocks-why, it’s as if he’s been dropped in to some hidden, never-published Chapter of the Revelation-perhaps even a whole separate book, an apocryphal sequel to the Bible.
Other voices can be heard out in the cloisters, and Daniel reckons they must be nearing a quorum. Noting Daniel’s interest, the Writer of the Tallies steps aside and settles into an after-you posture-whether because of age, rank, or general obsequiousness, Daniel can’t tell. Daniel’s here as one of the Treasury delegation. He leads the Writer of the Tallies and the Chamberlain’s Deputy back out to the gusty Cloister. Men have gathered before the door of the Pyx Chamber, some sitting on the huge mottled stone benches, others standing on stones bearing the names of middling-famous dead people. But when they spy Daniel and the others approaching, all rise and turn-as if he’s in charge! Which-given what he’s got in his pockets-he has every right to be. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he says, and waits for the answering murmur to die down. “Are we all present, then?” He sees a gaudy cleric, but not a bishop (no mitre), and pegs him as the Dean of Westminster. Two other gentlemen step up fondling great keys. Some very junior Church-men stand by with lanthorns at the ready, and there is a contingent of befuddled/suspicious Hanoverian nobles, escorted by a personable English Duke who’s been despatched to explain matters to them, and Johann von Hacklheber, serving as interpreter.
“His Majesty’s Privy Council have demanded a Trial of the Pyx,” Daniel reminds them, “and so provided there are no objections I say that we should give them satisfaction by fetching the necessary bits and conveying them to Star Chamber with no further ado.”
There are no objections and so Daniel turns significantly toward the locked door. The First Lord of the Treasury his Clarke, Writer of the Tallies, and Auditor of the Receipt of the King’s Exchequer moves into position on one side of him, and another Key-holder on the other. They make a second echelon behind another group of three Key-holders who form up directly in front of the door: the Dean of Westminster, the Chamberlain’s Deputy of the Receipt of the King’s Exchequer, and a representative of the Company of Goldsmiths. The Dean steps up, pulling off a key that has been dangling on his breast-bone on a golden rope, and sets to work on one of the three padlocks visible on this, the outer door. When he is finished, the other two Key-holders play their parts. The padlocks are carried away in pomp and laid out on the stone bench where important men make it their business to keep an eye on them. The great hasp is dismantled by a brawny Acolyte and the door is pulled open.
Two steps lead down into a small anteroom. The way is barred by a second door, no less formidable than the first. Daniel steps forward and down in to this space, takes out his key, and after a few moments’ trial and error, works out which lock it is meant to open. That achieved, he ascends back to cloister level, for there is only room there for one Key-holder and one lanthorn-man. Presently all three inner-door locks have been removed, and brought out into the light, and the hasp is undone. Eyes turn to Daniel again. He goes down in there and puts his shoulder to the door and shoves. It swings halfway open and stops resolutely, as he knew it would. The vault beyond is twice as ancient as the Chapter House. It was rifled during some 13th-Century disturbance-for this is where the Abbey stores its plate and other treasures-and so they installed a stone kerb on the floor so that the door could not be swung fully a-gape, and any future looters would have to ferry the goods out one bauble at a time, as opposed to by the chest-load.
It is Daniel’s privilege now to go in, so he takes possession of a lanthorn and side-steps into the Pyx chamber-then quells a misanthropic urge to slam it behind him and bar it, and live here for a thousand years on the Philosopher’s Stone. The place is bigger than he’d expected: thirty feet square, with a single squat pillar in the center holding up the four low-slung vaults that converge there and give the place such a hunched, dwarvish feel. After all of this fuss, Daniel’s bemused to find that it is just a dusty old storage-cellar with black lock-boxes strewn about according to no especial plan.
Others follow him in. Some seem to know their way around the place. They converge on certain of the treasure-chests, and there is much more finagling with keys. The last group to sack the place were Cromwell’s men, who shot the locks off the chests and helped themselves to the Coronation regalia. But Cromwell had needed a sound coinage as badly as any King of old, and so he’d had to mend the chests and replace the locks. Daniel is tempted to point this out as he watches hereditary nobles fumbling with the Puritan hard-ware, but he stifles himself.
Three important objects come out from their respective lock-boxes:
(item) A leather case containing Terrible Documents: the counterpanes of the indentures signed by Isaac and other Mint officials. The First Lord of the Treasury his Clarke takes possession of these.
(item) A boxy wooden chest containing standard weights.
(item) A broader and flatter chest containing standard plates: sheets of precious metal of known fineness, produced in the furnaces of the Company of Goldsmiths. It is against these that Isaac’s coins are to be compared.
These three treasures are borne up into the Cloister as if they were royal triplets being trotted out for some fresh air. Long and loud is the clicking of keys and clanging of hasps in their wake. This rite must have been a lot more efficient, Daniel reflects, back in the days when Parliament and the Council both held their deliberations a few paces away in the Chapter House. When the monks booted them out, there must have been some discussion along the lines of “Oh yes, and one of these days we must fetch the Pyx stuff out of the Abbey and store it where it is actually used.” But that was one of those errands that, if not achieved in the first twelve hours, would remain undone centuries later. And, as all of this was shewing, the fetching-out of these three items had long since ossified into a ceremony.