by Philip Kerr
Before dinner I went to The King’s Bench to make enquiries of Mister Defoe, that had taken the Master Worker’s house in the Tower. For since he was to live amongst us in the Mint, my master wished to know what kind of a fellow he was. And I discovered that Mister Neale’s friend was an occasional pamphleteer who also went by the name of Daniel de Foe, and Daniel De Fooe, and that he had once been made bankrupt in the enormous sum of seventeen thousand pounds, for which, prior to my seeing him in court, he had been imprisoned in the Fleet. Before his bankruptcy he had been a liveryman of the Butcher’s Company, a member of the Cornhill Grand Jury, and a projector in several enterprises, none of which had prospered. Currently he was acting as a trustee for the national lottery that Neale managed; but as well as this, he owned a brickmaker’s yard in Tilbury, and acted as the accountant to the commission on glass duty, collecting the tax on glasses and bottles, although not the window tax. But he still owed a lot of money, for the principal debt remained undischarged, so that I wondered how he was ever permitted to remain outside of the debtor’s prison, let alone work for Neale.
All of this I told to Newton when we met for dinner outside York Buildings off the Strand, which was where his friend, Mister Samuel Pepys, of the Royal Society, lived.
“You have done well,” said Newton. “I myself have discovered he is spying on me, for I am certain he followed me here today.”
“A spy?” Instinctively I looked around, but could see no sign of Mister Neale’s strange friend. “Are you certain, sir?”
“Quite certain,” replied Newton. “I saw him first when I got down from my carriage to leave some depositions with Mister Taylor at the Temple. He was speaking to some of the whores who go there. From there I went to the Grecian, and leaving there just now to come and meet you here, I saw him again. Which goes beyond all coincidence.”
“Why would Mister Neale wish to spy on you, Master?”
Newton shook his head impatiently. “Neale is nothing,” he said. “But there are some powerful men behind Neale who might wish to discredit me. Lord Godolphin and other Tories who hate all Whigs, like Lord Montagu, and their creatures, like you or I. Perhaps it would explain why our Mister Defoe is permitted to remain out of the debtors’ prison.”
Newton looked up at York Buildings, which were several modern houses that occupied the site of a great house that was once owned by the Archbishops of York.
“It would be well if Mister Defoe did not see us go in here,” he said. “For my friend Mister Pepys has his own fair share of Tory enemies.”
And so we went into the New Exchange nearby and meandered in a most haphazard fashion about its walks and galleries for several minutes, until Newton was convinced that we would be lost to anyone trying to follow us.
In York Buildings our host lived as comfortably as any man I ever saw. He was a most convivial man in his sixties who was a former President of the Royal Society and, until the accession of King William to the throne, had been Secretary to the Admiralty. I liked him immediately for he made me most welcome, as if he and I had been long acquainted. Mister Pepys lived very handsomely, but it was as well I had been asked to do that gentleman’s table the justice it deserved, for our host ate and drank almost as little as my master, explaining that he was troubled with the stone which obliged him to leave off eating and, more particularly, drinking, rather sooner than he often had a mind to.
“And who keeps your house in the Tower, Mister Ellis?” asked Mister Pepys. “Some pretty wench, I’ll be bound.”
“Sir, I cannot yet afford a servant. But I manage well enough. It is a fine little house I have. Thanks to the Doctor.”
“Yes, I know the one. Indeed there is very little about the Tower I do not know.”
Mister Pepys then proceeded to tell us a most curious story that involved the Tower.
“During the December of 1662 I spent several days digging for buried treasure in the Tower, for it had been rumoured that Sir John Barkstead had, while he was Oliver Cromwell’s Lieutenant of the Tower, placed the sum of seven thousand pounds in a butter firkin, and then hidden it somewhere in the Tower. But the search came to nothing.
“Then, not long after my retirement from the Admiralty, in 1689, my enemies reappeared with the aim of having me eliminated beyond recall to any government office. I was imprisoned in the Tower for six long weeks. I was not close-confined, which afforded me the opportunity to study the Tower records. These are kept in St. John’s Chapel at the White Tower. There, to my great fascination, I soon discovered that Barkstead, who was hanged in 1662, had spent a prodigious amount of time working among the Tower records; and, in particular, with those documents that dealt with the Templars.
“The Templars were an order of warrior monks who were accused of heretical practices by Philippe the Fourth of France; but it was generally held that King Philip envied the Order its enormous wealth and influence, and that the charges were falsely trumped up as an excuse to rob the Order. Many Templars were burned as heretics but a large number escaped. It was supposed that as many as eighteen galley ships containing the treasure of the Templars set sail from La Rochelle in 1307. The ships were never heard of again.
“Strenuous efforts were made to arrest those Templars who came to England,” continued Mister Pepys, “and many of these were imprisoned in the Tower. It is said that, fearing the secret of their treasure might forever be lost, the Templars made a map showing its location. This map was never found although a commentary made by a Jew who had seen the map was said to exist that purported to describe the treasure and what was on the map.
“Now before he was come to serve the Commonwealth, Barkstead was a goldsmith in the Strand, in a shop he purchased from Jews. I now believe that this was when he discovered the existence of that same commentary and that upon learning of the existence of Templar treasure, Barkstead did everything in his power to make himself Lord Lieutenant of the Tower, with the sole aim of finding the treasure for himself.
“It was a secret he shared with no one, not even his mistress, who nevertheless suspected something from his assiduous endeavours with the Tower records, and finally he told her that a great sum of money was buried in the basement of the Bell Tower. And yet none of Barkstead’s notes, which may still be found in the Tower records, make any mention of the Bell Tower. Only the White Tower, where many of the Templars were held. It was there that Barkstead concentrated his efforts.”
“Did you say the north-east turret?” remarked my master, frowning. “Until comparatively recently the Astronomer Royal, Mister Flamsteed, under the patronage of Sir Jonas Moore, Surveyor to the Ordnance, occupied that north-east turret as a makeshift observatory.”
“It is my belief,” said Mister Pepys, savouring his own conversation as I had savoured his excellent French wine, “that Flamsteed and Moore were looking for something else beside the stars.”
“But upon what basis did they conduct their search?” I asked. “Did they find the map? Or the commentary?”
“Sir Jonas Moore was a good friend of the librarian,” explained Mister Pepys. “Moore was Official Surveyor to the Ordnance in the Tower since 1669. No man knew the Tower better than he. I was well acquainted with Moore until his death, in 1679. But I never knew the secret of his wealth, which came late in his life. It was given out that the money came from the official and unofficial remunerations he received from his surveying work in Tangier. But I never believed that, for the sums of money were too great.
“When Moore became Surveyor of the Ordnance in 1669, it is my belief that William Prynne, who was the Keeper of the Tower Records, confided something of the secret of the Templar treasure to him, shortly before his own death in that same year. It is also my belief that soon thereafter, Moore stumbled accidentally upon a small part of the treasure and that he spent the last ten years of his life trying to find the rest of it, with Flamsteed’s help.”
“But, sir, pray explain,” I said. “I thought you said that the treasure of the Tem
plars was taken to Scotland.”
“It was only a rumour that it went to Scotland, and it is more likely that part of the treasure was in London during the early fifteenth century. Following the battle of Tewkesbury in 1471, Marguerite of Anjou used the treasure to buy her life and Richard, Duke of Gloucester, took it to his family estates in Greenwich Park and hid it there.”
“Greenwich Park,” exclaimed Newton. “God’s teeth, this story is the best I ever heard, Mister Pepys. Are you suggesting that our Royal Observatory at Greenwich was chosen because of its proximity to some buried treasure?”
“The pre-eminent sponsor of the new observatory was Sir Jonas Moore,” said Mister Pepys. “It was Moore who acquired the site and who, with the Master General of the Ordnance, organised the Observatory’s construction using money raised from the sale of army surplus gunpowder in Portsmouth. It was Moore who made certain that it was Flamsteed who became Astronomer Royal, and it was the Ordnance who paid and continue to pay his salary.”
“Do you suspect that Flamsteed still searches for the treasure?” I asked.
“I am certain of it,” replied Mister Pepys. “As certain as I am that he cannot ever find it. Moore found only a small part of the greater whole of treasure that still remains intact. And this leads to the second part of my story.”
Newton laughed cruelly. “No sir, I swear you cannot think to amuse me any further than you have already done so. Flamsteed plays Sir Perceval in search of the Holy Grail.”
“For once you say more than you know.” Mister Pepys smiled. “In 1682, I visited Scotland with the Duke of York, where I made the acquaintance of the Duke of Atholl. It was his eldest son, Lord Murray, who declared for King William and fought Viscount Dundee at the Battle of Killiecrankie in 1689. Dundee was killed whereupon Murray found a grand cross of the Order of the Temple of Sion around the dead man’s neck. Murray had a most exact copy of the cross fashioned which he recently gave to me as a keepsake. It is why I asked you here today, to show it to you.”
Here Mister Pepys produced, from the pocket of his coat, a saltire cross the size of a man’s palm which he handed over for Doctor Newton’s inspection. It appeared to be made of silver and was covered with markings which greatly interested my master.
“Why was it thought this was to do with the Order of Templars?”
“Because it was known that Dundee wore a cross of that name. I had hoped you could make some sense of it, Doctor, for it was generally held that this saltire constitutes the key to finding the treasure.”
“The markings are interesting,” conceded my master. “But what are these tiny holes for, I wonder? You say this is an exact facsimile of the original?”
“Exact,” said Mister Pepys.
Newton held the cross up to the window and muttered something beneath his breath. “How very fascinating,” he said, eventually. “This merely seems to be a cross. In truth it is something altogether different.”
“But if it be not a cross,” said Mister Pepys, “then pray, what is it?”
“It’s a constellation of stars,” Newton explained. “The positions of these holes, especially the three holes at the centre of the cross, indicate as much being most distinguishing of Orion, the hunter and master of our winter skies. It is quite unmistakable.”
Newton handed the cross back to Mister Pepys.
“Beyond that,” he said, “I can tell you very little. However, it may be that the positions of the holes, taken in conjunction with the numbers and symbols that also appear on it, may indicate a position on a map.”
Mister Pepys nodded with a great show of wonder. “No sir,” he said. “You have told me more than I ever hoped to know.”
“I am glad to have been of some small service to you,” said Newton, and bowed his head slightly to Mister Pepys.
“This discovery has increased my resolve to discover how the cross may be employed to find the Templar treasure,” declared our host.
“Then I wish you good fortune in your endeavours,” said Newton.
We took our leave of Mister Pepys soon after, and made our way back to the Tower.
“I’m damned if that wasn’t the most fascinating story I have ever heard,” said I.
“’Tis certain the Tower has many secrets,” admitted Newton.
“Would not such a secret be worth killing for?”
Newton stayed silent.
“A treasure in the Tower. Yes indeed. A powerful inducement to commit murder.”
“You know my philosophy, Ellis,” said he. “We must make an observation before we may hypothesise. Until then, I will thank you to keep your idle speculations to yourself.”
Arriving back at the Tower, Newton declared an intention to fetch something from my house; and so I accompanied him to unlock the door, it being my habit so to do since the murder of Mister Kennedy. Entering my house, Newton fetched his reflecting telescope from the same wooden box that housed his microscope, and placed it upon the table. The telescope itself was much smaller than I had supposed, being no more than six inches long and mounted on a small globe so that it resembled some kind of miniature cannon such as would have demolished the walls of a child’s toy castle.
“I have a mind to see the view from the north-east turret in the White Tower,” he declared, carrying the telescope out of the door.
We entered the White Tower and climbed up the main stairs to the third floor, where I lit a lantern, and then up a narrow stone stair to the north-east turret. Newton set his telescope down on a table near the window, and having adjusted the telescope on its plinth, he then peered in a small hole at the top so that he seemed to look back down the body of the telescope toward the polished mirror at its base. And while Newton observed—I knew not what precisely—I walked idly around the turret as might have done one who had been imprisoned there.
I confess, my thoughts dwelled not on bloody murder nor on the treasure of the Templars, but on Miss Barton, for it was several days since I had seen her, so that being in the turret of the White Tower served to remind me of how I was separate from her and, being separate, was not happy until I could see her again. Each hour that I did not see Miss Barton made me feel as if I was dying; but, in truth, death was never very far from my thoughts when I was at the Tower, for there was hardly a walk, a wall, a tower, or a turret that did not have a tale to tell of cruel murder or bloody execution, and so I tried to keep the image of Miss Barton before me as some tormented Jesuit priest might have conjured a picture of the Blessed Virgin Mary to ease his pain.
“What do you hope to see?” I asked Newton finally.
“Orion,” he said simply.
“Is this something to do with the treasure?”
“It is something to do with what Mister Pepys told me, which is an altogether different affair.”
“And what might that be?”
But he did not answer, so, for a time, I went down onto the second level and the Chapel of St. John the Evangelist, where I hoped to divert myself by looking upon the shelves of state records in imitation of Mister Pepys and Mister Barkstead who had once searched there for clues to buried treasure.
It being late, the present Keeper of the Records was not to be found and I wandered among the shelves that were arranged behind the simple stone capitals of the outer aisles. Upon these lay books and records which I was now resolved thoroughly to know whenever I found myself with sufficient time. Underneath the tribune gallery stood a great refectory table upon which lay an open book that I perused idly. And, doing so, was much surprised to discover a bookplate that proclaimed the book to be from the library of Sir Walter Raleigh. This book, which I examined for the love of the binding, it being most fine, disturbed me greatly, for it contained a number of engravings, some of which seemed so lewd that I wondered that the book was ever read in a chapel. In one picture a woman had a toad suck at her bare breast, while in another a naked girl stood behind an armoured knight urging him to do battle with a fire; a third picture depicted a nak
ed man coupling with a woman. I was more repelled than fascinated by the book, for there was something so devilish and corrupt about the pictures it contained that I wondered how a man like Sir Walter could have owned it. And upon returning soon thereafter to the north-east turret, I thought to mention that it seemed indecent to leave such a book lying around so that any might examine it.
At this Newton left off looking through his telescope and straightaway accompanied me back down to the second floor, where, in the chapel, he examined the book for himself.
“Michael Maier of Germany was one of the greatest her-metick philosophers that ever lived,” he remarked as he turned the book’s thick vellum pages. “And this book, Atalanta Fleeing, is one of the secret art’s great books. The engravings to which you objected, Mister Ellis, are of course allegorical, and although they are in themselves difficult to understand, they serve no indecent purpose, so you may rest assured on that count. But it was open, you say?”
I nodded.
“At which page?”
I turned the pages until I came upon the engraving of a lion.
“In the light of what happened to Mister Kennedy,” he said, “the page being open at the Green Lion may be suspicious.”
“There is a bookplate,” I said, turning back the pages. “And I showed him Raleigh’s bookplate.
Newton nodded slowly. “Sir Walter was imprisoned here for thirteen years. From 1603 until 1616, when he was released in order that he might redeem himself by discovering a gold mine in Guiana. But he did not, and upon his return to England he was imprisoned in the Tower once again, until his execution in 1618. The same year as this book.”
“Poor man,” I exclaimed.
“He merits your pity, right enough, for he was a great scholar and a great philosopher. It is said that he and Harry Percy, the Wizard Earl, being rightly minded, where possible, to avoid any hypothetical explications, carried out some experiments in matters hermetick, medical and scientific in this very Tower. Thus the book may indeed be accounted for, but not why it is being read now. I shall make sure to ask the Keeper of the Records who has been examining this book when next I see him. For it may that it shall give us some apprehension of who might have murdered poor Mister Kennedy.”