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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘No, they said he was naked when they stumbled across him. I believe them, because they often bring me bodies from the Thames, and they have never undressed one before.’

  Chaloner stared at him. Was this evidence of murder? That Hanse’s killer had removed his victim’s clothing to hinder identification? Or perhaps to inflict some final humiliation on him?

  ‘The only thing left was a stocking,’ Kersey went on. ‘And that was tied on so tightly that I needed a sharp knife to remove it.’

  Chaloner’s pulse quickened. Hanse had owned a peculiar habit of securing valuables in his hose, and kept them tight around his knees to prevent money and papers from spilling out. ‘Do you still have it? May I see?’

  Kersey’s eyebrows went up. ‘I threw it away. An odd stocking is of no use to me, and I cannot imagine his next-of-kin wanting it. It will be with the other rubbish outside. Why?’

  Chaloner shrugged, feigning indifference. ‘If it is all that is left, then I had better examine it.’

  Chapter 2

  Chaloner left the pungent building with relief, and went to rummage in the pile of refuse behind it. Most did not bear too close an inspection, and the feasting flies he disturbed buzzed in an angry cloud around his head. The stocking was near the bottom, recognisable by the high quality of its wool and an intricate design that rendered it unmistakably Dutch. It was unmistakably Hanse’s, too, because he had always prided himself on his immaculate footwear. It had been slit near the top, presumably by Kersey to allow it to be pulled off, but was otherwise undamaged.

  Chaloner glanced around carefully before picking it up, but the lane was deserted. The proximity of the Thames with its sun-baked cargo of sewage and rubbish, along with Kersey’s odoriferous domain, meant the alley was not a pleasant place to be, and anyone who lived nearby had taken themselves off to more conducive surroundings. He was definitely alone.

  He sat on a crate and turned the stocking over in his hands. Hanse had harboured an especially strong horror of robbers, and his family had always been amused by his habit of secreting valuables in his hose – he spurned pockets in coat or breeches, on the grounds that thieves knew how to find those. To ensure the stockings did not slide down, he took needle and thread each morning, and sewed them tight. The fact that the sock had resisted attempts to remove it – by whoever had stripped his body and later by Kersey – suggested it had been anchored very firmly. And that meant there was something within that Hanse had deemed worthy of protection.

  But Chaloner’s hopes were soon dashed – it contained nothing. Disgusted, he flung it away, but as it landed, it caught the sun, and he saw silver thread had been used to sew a pattern near the top. If the design had been on the outside, he would have thought nothing of it, but it was on the inside, where it would never be seen. Puzzled, he bent down and picked it up again. Two letters, an S and an N, had been embroidered, but the material was too filthy to allow any more to be made out.

  He went to a water butt – almost empty because of the recent drought, but containing enough for a rinse – and inspected it again. He was able to make out a word: Sinon.

  He frowned. Sinon was the original spy who had persuaded the Trojans to take a wooden horse into their city, so that the Greek soldiers hiding inside could emerge after darkness and destroy it. His name was synonymous with deceit, and was often used to describe plots involving traitors. It was hardly original, and Chaloner had lost count of the times he had taken part in ‘Operation Sinon’ through the years. But what did it mean now? Was Hanse suggesting there was a traitor in the Dutch delegation?

  He examined the hose again, and found more words embroidered opposite the first. They were difficult to read, as if Hanse had been hurrying, and indeed, the last letter was incomplete: Bezoek Nieuwe Poort.

  Chaloner translated it in his head. Visit new gate. But knowing its meaning did little to illuminate matters. What new gate? Or did it refer to Newgate, one of the gate-houses that had been built to protect the medieval city from attack? Chaloner hoped not. Newgate was also a prison, and harrowing experiences in such places, especially one in France had taught him to hate them intensely.

  Eventually, realising that staring at the stocking was not going to provide him with answers, he left that grim little pocket of Westminster, aiming for the open squares and wider streets that would take him to White Hall. He needed to tell Clarendon that Hanse was found, so the Dutch ambassador could be officially informed. And then there was Hanse’s wife. Chaloner stopped walking abruptly. Clearly, it was his duty to tell her first. The Earl would have to wait.

  When Ambassador Michiel van Goch had arrived in London for the talks he hoped would avert a war, he had requested lodgings that would allow all his retinue to be together under one roof. It was a tall order, given that he had brought with him some two hundred diplomats, clerks, lawyers, servants and guards, plus several ship-loads of luggage, and the government had been obliged to commandeer the Savoy Hospital to accommodate them all.

  The Savoy had once been a palace, but currently served as a charitable foundation for the poor. It comprised not only a hall, chapel, kitchens, stables and dormitories, but a number of fine mansions that were usually leased to nobles and high-ranking clergy. The precinct was self-contained, with secure courtyards in which vulnerable foreigners could take the air without fear of being attacked by those Londoners who thought the delegation should never have come in the first place.

  Its master, Dr Henry Killigrew, had not been pleased when he had been told what was going to happen – the Dutch were to pay no rent, which meant he would lose revenue for as long as they remained – but the Court was happy. The Savoy was near enough to be convenient for negotiations, but not so close that the visitors would impinge on the revelries for which White Hall was famous. As he walked there, Chaloner recalled that Killigrew had been at his wedding – it had been the master’s wife whose dress had been stained by Alden’s blood.

  He dragged his feet as he made his way up King Street, not relishing the prospect of informing his first wife’s sister that she was now a widow. He traversed Charing Cross slowly, and turned into The Strand, which was carpeted in a thick layer of manure impregnated with discarded scraps of food, rotting vegetables, urine and copies of the many broadsheets – usually rabid and ill-informed rants on politics and religion – that kept London’s printers busy. The blazing sun baked all, and the resulting stench was enough to make his eyes smart.

  The Savoy was located about a third of the way along, protected from the outside world by a fortified gate-house. It was guarded by soldiers, English ones in buff jerkins with stripy sleeves, and Dutch ones in sleek uniforms of black. Anyone wanting to enter the hospital complex was obliged to explain himself twice, once to each nationality.

  Chaloner was disinclined to tell anyone his business, so, as Worcester House, where Clarendon lived, was next door, he entered that, then climbed over the wall that divided them. The Dutch had pickets prowling the grounds, but they represented no challenge to a man of his experience, and it was not many moments before he reached the hospital’s main door.

  The man in charge of the delegation’s security was a burly, humourless officer named Captain van Ruyven, whom Chaloner had met before, some twelve years earlier, when he had been on his first assignment in the United Provinces. They had fallen in love with the same woman, and Chaloner had been somewhat surprised to learn that Ruyven had still not forgiven him for winning Aletta. When Hanse had dragged Chaloner to the Savoy the previous week, Ruyven had glowered and sulked through the entire encounter.

  ‘How did you get in?’ Ruyven demanded coldly.

  Chaloner realised he should have braved the guards, because it would not do to admit that he was skilled at breaking into houses. No one in the Dutch delegation had the slightest inkling that he had spent years spying on them. As far as they were concerned, he had been a minor diplomat in the service of the British ambassador.

  ‘I have come to see Jacoba,�
� Chaloner replied in Dutch – Ruyven’s English was poor – deftly avoiding the question.

  ‘The sister-in-law you have neglected for so long?’ asked Ruyven nastily. ‘When Aletta died, you disappeared within a week of burying her, and seldom bothered to visit afterwards.’

  It had not been Chaloner’s idea to leave Amsterdam so abruptly, but his Spymaster had decided that a grieving man was too great a liability, and had ordered him to France instead. Five years later, Chaloner had been posted back to the United Provinces, but to The Hague, where Aletta’s family rarely ventured. He had always felt guilty about abandoning Jacoba at such a time.

  ‘Jacoba will not want to see you,’ Ruyven went on. ‘She told me only last night that you remind her too painfully of Aletta.’

  Chaloner felt the same way about Jacoba, especially after his recent visit to Amsterdam. He saw Ruyven was expecting some sort of response, but did not know what to say, and the Dutchman turned to other matters when the resulting pause had extended long enough to be uncomfortable for both of them.

  ‘Envoy Downing came this morning. Apparently, some documents have been stolen from Worcester House, and he told us the general belief is that Hanse is responsible – that he took the papers and has disappeared with them. Do you know anything about this horrible tale?’

  ‘Only that it is circulating.’

  At that moment, the door opened and someone else stepped out, taking deep breaths and rolling his shoulders, as if he had spent too long at work. It was Peter van der Kun, an elderly, mild-mannered gentleman with a friendly face and a scholar’s stoop. He was van Goch’s secretary, and Chaloner was glad the cause of peace had a gentle, careful man like Kun fighting its corner.

  ‘Thomas Chaloner,’ he smiled. ‘The man who shares his name with the regicide who fled to our country and died there two years ago. You translated some documents for us the other day.’

  ‘It was unnecessary, though,’ replied Chaloner, declining to address the issue of his relationship to one of the men who had signed the old king’s death warrant. His flamboyant uncle was not someone to boast about in Restoration London. ‘Your English is perfect.’

  ‘You are too kind.’ Kun’s expression turned eager. ‘Do you bring a message from your Earl? He was going to address the Privy Council today, urging them to look favourably on the convention to be held here next Sunday evening.’

  ‘I doubt he will succeed,’ said Ruyven bitterly. ‘Our two countries do not trust each other enough to agree on anything, and these peace talks are a waste of time.’

  ‘You are wrong: we will have a truce,’ countered Kun stoutly. Then he grimaced. ‘But you are right about the mutual distrust. As soon as I disprove one set of lies about us, another appears. Maligning us is some villain’s way of hindering progress.’

  ‘The English do not have the wit for such tactics,’ said Ruyven, shooting Chaloner a challenging glare. ‘Their idea of damaging the talks is far less subtle. Such as refusing to bow to Heer van Goch at banquets, and calling the rest of us names.’

  Kun’s pained expression said he was sorry for Ruyven’s hostility. ‘What is your master’s message?’ he asked keenly. ‘Is it good news?’

  ‘Actually, I have come to visit Jacoba,’ replied Chaloner.

  ‘Oh,’ said Kun, disappointed. ‘Well, perhaps your company will take her mind off—’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Ruyven. ‘ I control who enters the Savoy, and I do not trust this man. He called himself Tom Heyden in Amsterdam, but now we learn his real name is something else entirely.’

  Most intelligencers used aliases when working overseas, and the practice did sometimes backfire. But Chaloner was ready with an explanation, just as he had been when Hanse had been startled to learn from an inconveniently garrulous Clarendon that his brother-in-law did not hail from a Bristol mercantile family, but was the youngest son of a country squire in Buckinghamshire.

  ‘I had debts in Holland. I had no choice but to use a different name there.’

  ‘So you say,’ snarled Ruyven. ‘But spies—’

  ‘Chaloner is not a spy,’ said Kun firmly, while Chaloner thought it ironic that Ruyven should think so now, when he was not gathering intelligence, but had never raised an eyebrow when he had been doing little else. ‘Let him pass. Jacoba will be pleased to see him.’

  In resentful silence, Ruyven conducted Chaloner to the quarters that had been allocated to Hanse and his wife for the duration of their stay in London. They comprised a pair of comfortably furnished rooms near the chapel, both pleasantly cool after the burning sunlight outside. Their size and location underlined the high esteem in which Hanse had been held by his ambassador – space was in short supply at the Savoy, and most envoys only had one.

  Jacoba was sitting at a harpsichord when Chaloner arrived, although her playing was lacklustre, and he could tell her heart was not in it. She was a small, dark haired woman with a neat figure and a regal bearing. For a moment, with the sun in his eyes, Chaloner mistook her for Aletta, and his stomach lurched. But Aletta had been twenty-two when she had died, and Jacoba was approaching forty: he forced himself to acknowledge that they were nothing alike.

  ‘Tom!’ she exclaimed, abandoning the instrument and coming to take his hand. ‘Is there any word of Willem?’

  Chaloner nodded, and then spoke quickly, unwilling to prolong the agony for her. ‘He is dead, Jacoba. I am so sorry.’

  ‘Why did you not tell me this immediately?’ cried Ruyven, shocked. ‘And why break the news in so brutal a fashion? What is wrong with you? It is—’

  Jacoba’s wail of grief cut through his tirade, and was loud enough to bring Kun and several others running to see what was happening. A maid rushed to comfort her, while Ruyven glowered at Chaloner, fists clenched. The knife Chaloner always carried in his sleeve slipped into his hand.

  ‘Easy, Ruyven,’ said Kun, coming to lay a hastily soothing hand on the captain’s shoulder. ‘We cannot afford to be seen as ruffians, no matter what the provocation.’

  ‘I would not be itching to punch him if he had spoken more gently,’ said Ruyven between clenched teeth.

  ‘Unfortunately, there is no gentle way to impart such terrible tidings,’ said Kun quietly. ‘And I am sure he did not mean to be unkind.’ He turned to Chaloner. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the Westminster charnel house. I will arrange for him to be brought here later.’

  ‘How did he die?’ demanded Ruyven, white-faced. ‘He was fit and healthy, so his death cannot have been natural.’

  ‘He drowned,’ replied Chaloner. ‘In the river, apparently.’

  ‘You mean he fell in?’ asked a man with a sharp, pointed face, small teeth and russet hair. The combination made him look like a fox, and Chaloner recalled Hanse saying his name was Gerbrand Zas, one of the ambassador’s most talented lawyers. ‘How in God’s name did that happen?’

  ‘He would not have fallen in,’ spat Ruyven scathingly. ‘He was not stupid! Someone must have pushed him. He was murdered!’

  Chaloner kept his voice and expression neutral, knowing the peace talks would be doomed for certain if the Dutch delegation accused England of assassinating one of its number. And that was the last thing Hanse would have wanted.

  ‘It is unclear what happened,’ he replied truthfully.

  ‘It is not unclear to me,’ snarled Ruyven. Chaloner was surprised to see tears glinting in his eyes – he did not remember the captain as a sentimental man. ‘It is obvious! He was pushed in the Thames in the expectation that his body would be washed away and never seen again. And why? Because of this rumour that says he stole Clarendon’s papers! Someone wants him blamed for the theft, even though we all know the tale is nothing but a slanderous lie!’

  Kun raised his hand to prevent him from saying more. ‘Before jumping to wild conclusions, let us review what we know of his movements that last day,’ he said with quiet reason. ‘He went with Heer van Goch to Worcester House on Friday morning. He worked here all aft
ernoon, and left a few minutes before six o’clock for his rendezvous in the Westminster tavern with Chaloner.’

  ‘It is a pity you enticed him there,’ said Ruyven accusingly.

  ‘It was his idea,’ countered Chaloner, recalling how he had tried to postpone the occasion to a time when he might not have been so tired. Hanse had chosen the Sun, too, whereas he would have picked somewhere quieter. ‘He mentioned stomach ache, but was not otherwise anxious or uneasy.’

  ‘In other words, he did not look like a man who had made off with a great stack of sensitive papers,’ concluded Zas.

  ‘He did not,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘We arrived at the Sun at about six o’clock, and stayed until half past eight, during which time he did not stop talking. I am afraid I fell asleep.’

  ‘He did enjoy holding forth,’ acknowledged Kun with a fond smile. ‘And a weary companion would have been an irresistible temptation: tired men are less likely to interrupt with their own opinions. His behaviour with you sounds reassuringly familiar.’

  ‘He woke me as the daylight began to fade,’ Chaloner continued. ‘He said Jacoba would be worried about him, so we left the tavern—’

  ‘And you abandoned him, despite the fact that London is full of men who would relish the opportunity to shove a Dutchman in the river,’ concluded Ruyven coldly.

  ‘He would not let me in the carriage,’ said Chaloner, trying to keep the guilt from his voice. He did not need Ruyven to tell him he should have insisted.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ declared Ruyven. ‘It was unthinkable to let an unarmed diplomat travel alone. Especially with darkness approaching.’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Chaloner bleakly. ‘And I shall regret it for the rest of my life.’

  The maid was still struggling to quieten Jacoba, and Chaloner was not sure what to do. There were no words he knew to comfort her, and it was possible that his presence might exacerbate her distress – he had, after all, gone home to sleep, rather than ensuring that her husband arrived safely at the Savoy. But he was loath to slink away until he was certain there was nothing she wanted from him.