The Body in the Thames: Chaloner's Sixth Exploit in Restoration London (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘It is too hot to loll about here,’ Clarendon snapped, swabbing his forehead with a piece of lace. ‘It is an omen, you know.’

  ‘An omen, sir?’ asked Secretary Bulteel nervously, when no one else spoke.

  The Earl glowered at him. John Bulteel was a small, unattractive man with bad teeth and gauche manners. Clarendon treated him abominably, despite the fact that his loyalty, devotion and talent for administration made him almost indispensable.

  ‘Yes!’ the Earl snarled. ‘The weather is an omen for evil to come – probably this damned war everyone seems so determined to have. Where is Chaloner? I have a question for him.’

  Thomas Chaloner stepped forward. He had been a gentleman usher for exactly two weeks – the post had been the Earl’s wedding gift to him. The promotion had not entailed a change in his duties, though. He was still an intelligencer, with a remit to protect his master from harmful plots and to investigate any matter Clarendon deemed worthy of attention.

  He was in his thirties, of medium height and build, with brown hair and grey eyes. The sword at his side was more functional than ornamental, but there was nothing else remarkable about him. This was a deliberate ploy on his part – he had not survived more than twelve years in espionage by standing out from the crowd.

  ‘Your question, sir?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Is it as hot as this in the States-General?’ demanded Clarendon, using the popular name for the seven provinces that had united to form the Dutch Republic.

  He scowled dangerously, suggesting there would be trouble no matter how the question was answered. Chaloner had been in his service for eighteen months, but was still not fully trusted. Perhaps it was because espionage was considered a distasteful occupation for gentlemen, or perhaps it was because Chaloner had been employed as a spy by the Parliamentarian government before he had come to the Earl. Regardless, his master always gave the impression that he did not like him, and employed him only because he needed to stay one step ahead of his enemies.

  The antipathy was wholly reciprocated: Chaloner heartily wished he was hired by someone else. Unfortunately, opportunities for ex-Commonwealth intelligencers in Restoration London were few and far between, so he had no choice but to continue working for Clarendon.

  ‘Well?’ the Earl barked, when he thought Chaloner was taking too long to respond.

  ‘It varies from year to year, sir,’ replied Chaloner warily, not sure quite what his master was expecting to hear.

  Clarendon sighed peevishly. ‘I do not care about the time you spent there spying for Cromwell. I want to know what the weather was like when you visited the place for me. You have been skulking there since February, after all, and only deigned to return two weeks ago.’

  Chaloner regarded him askance. The remark suggested that it had been his idea to linger in Amsterdam, when the reality was that he had written several times to say that Lord Bristol – the enemy he had been ordered to hunt down – was not there. It was only at the beginning of June that the Earl had finally accepted that his quarry must be elsewhere, and Chaloner had been given permission to come home.

  ‘You told me it was much cooler, Tom,’ said Bulteel helpfully, seeing his friend struggle for a polite response.

  Clarendon nodded his satisfaction. ‘I thought so! The omen is intended for England only. The Dutch will win if we go to war, and we shall look foolish for taking them on in the first place.’

  Avoiding conflict with the United Provinces was one of few things upon which he and Chaloner agreed – both knew it was a fight Britain was unlikely to win.

  ‘Is it true that the whole of the States-General is ravaged by plague?’ asked the Earl, kicking off his fashionably tight shoes and waggling his fat little toes in relief.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Just Amsterdam.’

  The Earl regarded him uneasily. ‘ You were in Amsterdam. Did you see evidence of the disease?’

  Chaloner nodded, but did not elaborate because the subject was a painful one for him. When he had first been sent to spy on Holland, some twelve years before, he had married a Dutch lady, but had lost her and their child to plague. It had not been easy to see the same sickness at work in the same place, and he had been unsettled by the intensity of the memories it had stirred.

  ‘But you stayed away from sufferers?’ Pointedly, Clarendon held the piece of lace over his nose.

  ‘Of course.’

  The Earl regarded him coolly. ‘You are taciturn today, even by your standards. What is wrong? Are you concerned that you have made no headway on the cases I ordered you to investigate – these White Hall thefts and that missing Dutch diplomat? Or is married life not to your liking?’

  ‘I have identified the thieves, sir, while married life is …’ Chaloner trailed off. Two weeks was hardly long enough to tell, although it had occurred to him that he had made a mistake – spies made for poor spouses, and Hannah had already started two quarrels about the unsociable hours he kept.

  ‘You have the culprits?’ pounced the Earl eagerly. ‘Why did you not say so? They stole my wig, you know. I set it down on a bench next to me, and when I turned around, it had gone.’

  ‘Unfortunately, the evidence is circumstantial as yet,’ replied Chaloner. ‘The only way to ensure a conviction will be to catch them in the act of stealing, and—’

  ‘Then why are you not watching them?’ the Earl demanded. ‘Now? At this very minute?’

  ‘Because you ordered him to accompany you here, sir,’ explained Bulteel, when Chaloner hesitated, not sure how to respond without sounding insolent. ‘You wanted him to brief you on his investigation into that vanished Dutchman – Willem Hanse.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ The Earl mopped his face with the lace again. ‘Well, he has finished telling me about his lack of progress there, so there is no need for him to linger. Go and catch the thieves, Chaloner. At once. How dare they lay sticky fingers on my property!’

  Chaloner regarded him unhappily, sorry he should consider a wig more important than a man’s safety, and sorrier still that tracking thieves would take time away from his search for Hanse. He had not told the Earl – or anyone else, for that matter – but his first marriage meant he and Hanse were kinsmen. And Chaloner was extremely worried about him.

  He took his leave of Clarendon, but did not go far, because the two men he suspected of committing the White Hall thefts – a pair of courtier-stewards in the service of a diplomat named Sir George Downing – had just arrived and attached themselves to the royal party. He would far rather have resumed the hunt for Hanse, but he knew he would have no peace from the Earl until the thieves were under lock and key. With a sigh, he forced himself to concentrate on them.

  The case had not been difficult to solve; interviews with victims and the application of basic logic had quickly pointed to them as the culprits. Moreover, discussions with their previous employers – Downing had only hired them recently – told him that they had not been honest in the past, either, and had probably forged the testimonials that claimed them to be men of good character. Unfortunately, he needed more than that to confront them. They were reputed to be cunning, and would wriggle out of any accusations made without hard evidence.

  He crouched behind a bush, and watched. Abraham Kicke was a tall, handsome fellow with luxurious blue-black hair and a confident swagger. His accomplice, John Nisbett, was shorter and bulkier, with lank ginger locks and bulbous blue eyes. Both were said to be skilled swordsmen, although Chaloner had no intention of finding out whether that was true – while perfectly able to hold his own in a skirmish, he saw no point in taking unnecessary risks.

  He winced when a particularly loud shriek rent the air. The Earl was right: Lady Castlemaine did have a piercing voice. He glanced towards her, and could not help but notice that she was by far the most scantily clad of the cavorting crowd – her dress was made of some thin, filmy stuff that turned transparent in water. She had borne three children, but her clothing showed she had retained he
r perfect figure. No one was quite sure how, and there were rumours that the Devil was involved.

  Meanwhile, shy, lonely Queen Katherine watched her with haunted eyes. Two years of marriage had not provided her with a baby, despite fervent prayers and visits to spas. Her inability to conceive meant she was shunned by the Court, and Chaloner’s heart went out to her when he saw her ladies-in-waiting had abandoned her and she sat alone. Then one appeared, and distracted her with a barrage of merry chatter. He smiled when he saw the kindly Samaritan was Hannah.

  Dragging his attention back to his duties, Chaloner watched Kicke and Nisbett pause by the edge of the Canal, ostensibly to marvel at His Majesty’s new parterres. He braced himself, sure they were about to indulge their penchant for other people’s property.

  Suddenly, there was a roar of manly appreciation: the Lady had left the water to perform a series of exercises. They had the immediate effect of drawing every eye towards her, the men to ogle the display, and the women to regard it rather more critically. Chaloner glanced at the Earl, and saw that even he was transfixed, although he at least had the decency to pretend to be reading.

  While people were distracted, Kicke and Nisbett aimed for the nearest bundle of clothes. A brief rummage saw them emerge with a copper-coloured wig that would have cost its owner a fortune. It was distinctive, and Chaloner recognised it as belonging to a courtier named Charles Bates. Kicke shoved it down the front of his shirt. In the next pile, Nisbett found a purse, which he slipped into his pocket. And so they continued.

  ‘Hey!’ Chaloner yelled, when he felt they had stolen enough to condemn themselves. ‘Thieves!’

  Kicke and Nisbett froze in horror, and in the Canal, heads whipped around towards them. Lady Castlemaine stopped her gyrations with a glare: she hated not being the centre of attention.

  ‘Thieves!’ Chaloner yelled again, pointing to Kicke and Nisbett.

  Kicke held a necklace in his hand, and an expression of panicky guilt crossed his face as he dropped it. Nisbett spun around quickly, but thought better of making a bid for escape when he saw his way barred by the Earl’s soldiers. Several younger, fitter members of Court, led by the Duke of Buckingham, splashed out of the water and trotted towards the commotion; some even had the sense to collect swords en route. But Kicke was jabbing his thumb at Chaloner.

  ‘We are not the felons here,’ he declared, injecting indignation in his every word. ‘ He is.’

  Accusations of criminal behaviour were not uncommon in White Hall, and most courtiers lost interest once they had assured themselves that their own belongings were safe. One by one, they drifted back to the water. Part of the reason for their departure was because the Earl was waddling towards them – they often expressed their dislike by refusing to be in his company – but also because the Lady had resumed her exercises. Buckingham was among the few who remained, and so was Bates, a sad-faced gentleman who was old and ugly without his auburn wig.

  ‘Well, Chaloner?’ demanded the Duke, a tall, elegant fellow whose good looks were being eroded by high living; his eyes were yellowish, and his skin was sallow. He was one of the Earl’s most bitter enemies, and gleeful malice gleamed in his eyes when he heard the accusation levelled against a member of his rival’s household. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Thomas is not a thief.’ Chaloner turned to see Hannah. For reasons beyond his ken, she and the Duke were friends, and Buckingham often listened to what she had to say. Unfortunately, she often listened to what Buckingham had to say in return, and what emerged from the dissipated nobleman’s mouth was not always sensible. ‘I would not have married him if he were.’

  ‘No, you would not,’ agreed Buckingham. He sighed, sorry not to be able to strike a blow at the Earl through his most recently appointed gentleman usher.

  ‘My wig is missing,’ said Bates quietly. ‘I left it here, and it has gone. It is quite distinctive, because no one else at Court has one that colour.’

  ‘I lost one, too,’ added Clarendon, fixing the thieves with a baleful eye. ‘They must have a penchant for them. Or a penchant for the high prices such items fetch on the open market.’

  ‘We have stolen nothing,’ declared Kicke hotly. He pointed at Chaloner. ‘But he has. He—’

  ‘Search me,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Then search them. That will tell you who is telling the truth.’

  ‘If anyone comes near me, I will cut off his hands,’ snarled Nisbett, drawing his sword when Buckingham nodded that it was a good idea, and took a step towards him. ‘You insult us by giving credence to these slanderous lies.’

  ‘Put up your weapon,’ ordered Buckingham, his eyes pure ice. ‘How dare you threaten me! And your actions do nothing to convince me of your innocence, sir. Quite the reverse, in fact. Now, I am going to search you, so I strongly recommend—’

  ‘We refuse to submit to this outrage,’ declared Kicke. He glowered haughtily at the Duke. ‘And you cannot make us. We are in Downing’s service, not yours, so you have no jurisdiction over us.’

  ‘Actually, he does,’ put in Clarendon. He was a lawyer by training, so this was the sort of thing he knew about. ‘By virtue of his appointment as—’

  Bored with the debate, Buckingham made a grab for Kicke. There was a tearing sound as stitches parted company, and Kicke bawled his indignation. Nisbett took a threatening step towards them, but a glimmer of common sense warned him that it would be unwise to skewer a peer of the realm. He faltered just long enough for the Earl’s soldiers to disarm him.

  ‘That is my wig,’ Kicke shouted, as the Duke brandished what he found. ‘I bought it last week.’

  Bates took it from Buckingham’s hand. ‘No, it is mine. As you can see, it fits me perfectly.’

  The Duke turned his attention to Nisbett, and it was not many moments before the purse was located, along with several items of jewellery. Nisbett’s face flamed red with rage and humiliation.

  ‘I think we have seen enough,’ said the Earl, regarding both men contemptuously. ‘They are caught red-handed.’

  ‘They must be responsible for all the other thefts, too,’ said Hannah. ‘The method is the same: preying on the wealthy when they are otherwise engaged. I am glad my husband has solved the case, because ever since these crimes started back in April, White Hall has been full of suspicion and unpleasantness. Thank God it is over.’

  ‘We are innocent of those,’ began Kicke, alarmed. ‘Chaloner must have—’

  ‘Do not even think of accusing Tom,’ declared Bulteel. The secretary’s voice was unsteady: he hated pushing himself forward in such august company. But he took a deep breath and plunged on. Chaloner was touched by his support, knowing what it cost him to make bold with his opinions. ‘He was not in the country when these crimes began. He was in Holland.’

  Buckingham puffed out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘I suppose we had better search these villains’ homes, to see whether they have hidden their ill-gotten gains there. Meanwhile, we shall keep them under lock and key until their fates are decided.’

  ‘No!’ screeched Kicke, as the soldiers laid hold of him. ‘I will kill you for this, Chaloner! I have powerful friends, and you can expect retribution for—’

  ‘Enough!’ snapped Buckingham. ‘He caught you fair and square. Besides, stealing in full view of half the Court was just plain stupid.’

  Kicke’s violent objections were loud enough to interrupt Lady Castlemaine’s exhibition a second time. Petulantly, she flung away the branch she had been using, and stamped towards the water. The King was waiting for her, and Chaloner saw the Queen look away.

  ‘I think your mistress needs you,’ he whispered to Hannah.

  At the Earl’s insistence, Chaloner went with Buckingham to the chambers in White Hall where Kicke and Nisbett had their lodgings. He resented the wasted time, as he did not for a moment anticipate that they would be so foolish as to leave incriminating evidence in the place where they lived. He had been so certain of it, in fact, that he had not bothered to look himself. T
hus he was amazed to discover that one of the rooms had been fitted with a false ceiling, and the space above it was crammed to the gills with jewellery, coins, clothes and costly trinkets.

  The Duke’s jaw dropped. ‘Good God! I would never have thought of looking up there.’

  To a professional spy, it stood out like a sore thumb, and Chaloner could not imagine not noticing it. He stood on a chair to retrieve the loot, passing it into the Duke’s eagerly waiting hands.

  ‘What made you suspect Kicke and Nisbett in the first place?’ Buckingham asked as they worked. ‘They do not strike me as especially villainous types.’

  ‘No?’ asked Chaloner, surprised.

  ‘Well, I suppose there is something unpleasant about them,’ conceded the Duke. ‘They work for Downing for a start, which says nothing to commend them.’

  Prudently, Chaloner did not mention that he had once worked for Downing, too. Downing was Envoy Extraordinary to The Hague, and had been for years, first under Cromwell, and then the King. He had dismissed his entire staff at the Restoration, and had appointed Royalists instead, to demonstrate his commitment to the new regime. Intelligence on the Dutch had suffered a serious setback, and was still well below par four years later, but Downing had ‘proved’ himself loyal.

  Buckingham had been inspecting a beautiful necklace, but he looked up at Chaloner when a thought occurred to him. ‘Do you think he put them up to this? He is certainly unscrupulous and greedy enough.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ replied Chaloner. Downing was unscrupulous and greedy, but he was not stupid, and would know better than to embroil himself in brazen thievery.

  But Buckingham narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. ‘The thefts started in April, which was when he was recalled to London to help us negotiate with the Dutch. The timing fits.’