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

by Gregory, Susanna

  But Jacoba was a strong-minded woman, like her sister had been, and once the initial shock had worn off, she dismissed the maid and indicated that she wanted to speak to him alone. Ruyven was reluctant to leave her, and Kun and Zas were obliged to pull him away. None went far, though, and Chaloner knew they were hovering just out of earshot, lest they were needed again.

  ‘I knew Willem was dead the moment I realised he was missing,’ Jacoba said, when the door had closed. ‘We were married for fifteen years, and wives just feel these things. But it was still a terrible thing to hear even so. Do you know how it happened?’

  ‘He drowned. Ruyven and the others think it was murder.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I will look into it, and if they are right, I will find his killer. I promise.’

  She shot him a wan smile. ‘Thank you. I suspect you are his sole hope of justice. Ruyven is brave and determined, but he is a stranger here – he will fail if he tries to investigate.’

  ‘He is brave and determined,’ agreed Chaloner, recalling that these were the qualities Aletta had admired. Of course, Ruyven was also surly, feisty and bore grudges.

  ‘He is not the hot-tempered youth you knew,’ Jacoba went on. ‘He has learned how to be gentle, although Willem says … Willem said he is dangerous, and would not like him as an enemy.’

  ‘Did he?’ asked Chaloner. Ruyven was one of those Dutchmen who thought a pact with Britain was a mistake. Could he have drowned a man whose death would deal peace a heavy blow?

  ‘Ruyven did not hurt Willem,’ said Jacoba quickly, seeing what he was thinking. ‘He liked Willem and considered him a friend.’

  ‘Did Willem make any enemies while he was here?’ Chaloner asked, thinking he would make up his own mind about what Ruyven might or might not do.

  ‘Well, there are three hundred thousand Londoners who do not want a truce. Your countrymen itch for war, although it will cost them dear – in money and well as lives.’

  ‘Not all of us are spoiling for a fight,’ objected Chaloner. ‘Clarendon wants peace, and so do—’

  ‘Clarendon is a bumbling old man whom everyone ignores,’ Jacoba interrupted bitterly. ‘Heer van Goch is wasting his time here. And my poor Willem has wasted his life.’

  ‘Does “Sinon” mean anything to you?’ asked Chaloner, after a short and uncomfortable silence.

  Jacoba frowned. ‘No, why?’

  ‘Willem had the word sewn into his stocking, along with “Visit new gate”.’

  Jacoba’s eyes filled with tears. ‘That would have been a message for you. You are the only one who knows about his habit of hiding valuables in his hose.’

  Chaloner did not believe that. ‘There must be others who were aware of—’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Jacoba. ‘It was a family secret. And they are all dead now, except you and me. If he sewed words in his stockings, then you were the one he wanted to communicate with.’

  ‘Or you,’ Chaloner pointed out.

  Jacoba smiled rather sadly. ‘He did not trust women with business matters. But he trusted you. He told me so the night before he went missing.’

  Chaloner regarded her unhappily. Did this mean Hanse had anticipated that he would die, and had worn those particular hose in readiness? And if so, had there been more messages in the other stocking? But then he thought about Hanse’s last evening: he had not behaved like a man on the brink of death.

  ‘May I see his other hose?’ he asked eventually.

  Jacoba stared at him. ‘You think he might have embroidered more words into them?’

  ‘It is possible. I recall he had a strange habit of changing them every day, and—’

  ‘And he would not have worn that particular set unless he knew he was going to die,’ finished Jacoba. ‘They were clean on that morning. I remember him stitching them up.’

  She left the room, and returned a few moments later with her arms full. They inspected the hose together, but there were no other messages. Hanse had, however, given Chaloner two pairs when they had been arguing about who should ride in the hackney coach. It had been done casually, and Chaloner had not looked at them closely. Clearly, he would have to do so when he went home.

  ‘Did he mention anything that was worrying him?’ he asked.

  ‘No. He was uneasy in the few days before he went missing, but he was a foreigner in a hostile city, so that is not surprising. Besides, if he had been really concerned, he would have told you.’

  ‘Jacoba, we were not close,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘We met too infrequently to stay firm friends.’

  Jacoba sniffed in a way that said she did not believe him. ‘You know he did not steal those papers, do you not? That horrible Downing accused him … but Willem was not a thief.’

  ‘I know. He was with me when these documents were said to have disappeared.’

  ‘It is a tale put about to discredit our delegation,’ declared Jacoba tearfully. ‘And Downing picked on Willem, because he is not here to defend himself.’

  ‘Very possibly,’ acknowledged Chaloner. ‘But to return to Sinon—’

  ‘I never heard Willem or anyone else mention it,’ said Jacoba firmly. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Then do you know of any new gate in the Savoy?’

  ‘There is nothing “new” about this place. It is falling to pieces!’

  She could add nothing more to help him, so Chaloner took his leave, promising to keep her appraised of his progress.

  As he left the hospital complex, Ruyven at his heels to make sure he really went, Chaloner met Henry Killigrew. He had been cornered by the Master of the Savoy at his wedding, just after the speeches, and had been compelled to spend a long time listening to the man’s complaints about the cost of maintaining a lot of elderly buildings. Killigrew, it seemed, was more interested in profit than in the wellbeing of his residents.

  ‘And housing these damned Dutchmen is not helping,’ he grumbled when their paths converged, as if the conversation had not suffered a two-week break. Uninvited, he fell into step at Chaloner’s side and began to walk with him towards the gate. ‘They are costing me a fortune. Not only do they live here rent-free, but they are very demanding. One even asked me to empty the latrines, which had overflowed into the room where he was sleeping.’

  ‘How very unreasonable,’ murmured Chaloner.

  Ruyven strained forward. ‘What is he saying about us?’ he demanded in Dutch. ‘All he ever does is make disparaging remarks. Personally, I think he might be a spy, too.’

  ‘And he is the worst,’ spat Killigrew, jerking a thumb towards Ruyven. ‘Always criticising my security arrangements and carping on about hygiene. He does not even speak English, the ignorant pig! If he cannot converse in our language, then he should not have come here.’

  ‘I suspect him of being Catholic,’ said Ruyven, not understanding Killigrew’s words, but guessing they were offensive. ‘He has that look about him – devious, scheming and greedy.’

  ‘Is there a new gate in your hospital?’ asked Chaloner of Killigrew.

  ‘No, why?’ said Killigrew suspiciously. ‘Did that butter eating lout just tell you that I am going to install one? Well, I am not! He claims the back door is flimsy, but I am not made of money, and if he is so worried, then why does he not go out and buy one himself? With his own silver!’

  ‘I did not break the brazier in the State Room,’ snapped Ruyven, scowling as he tried to follow Killigrew’s rapid sentences. ‘And you can tell him so, because I know that is what he is carping about. I was nowhere near it when it fell. Go on, tell him.’

  ‘Ruyven did not break the brazier,’ obliged Chaloner in English.

  Killigrew narrowed his eyes. ‘I never thought he did, but now he denies it, I begin to wonder. Could it be his conscience speaking? Between you and me, I suspect him of being Catholic, and you know what they are like with guilt.’

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, reaching the gate with relief.

  Ruyven caught his a
rm before he could step through it. ‘It is best if you do not come here again. Your presence will only distress Jacoba.’

  ‘But she has asked me to look into what happened to Willem,’ said Chaloner. ‘And she wants reports on my progress.’

  Ruyven stared at him. ‘Then you can give them to me. I shall also be investigating.’

  ‘I would not recommend it. You are right in that London is hostile to Hollanders, especially ones who cannot speak English. You are likely to land yourself in trouble.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ demanded Ruyven.

  ‘It is friendly advice. You are unlikely to succeed, and a second suspicious death in the ambassador’s retinue would ruin the negotiations for certain. Hanse would not want that.’

  ‘No,’ conceded Ruyven reluctantly. ‘Very well. I shall not interfere. But I want you to keep me abreast of your findings. I am in charge of security here, so I am within my rights to ask.’

  Chaloner inclined his head, although he had no intention of obliging. Not until he was sure Hanse’s killer was not a Dutchman, at least.

  ‘I had no idea Hannah was marrying a fellow who spoke Hollandish,’ said Killigrew, watching Ruyven stride away, and then turning to glare accusingly at Chaloner. ‘It is not seemly, man. Not in this day and age.’

  ‘Where is the nearest new gate that you know of?’ asked Chaloner. He suspected Killigrew was not alone in his convictions, and wondered what chance there was for a treaty when there was so much dislike between the two countries. And it was not even a dislike he understood. Both were Protestant nations, and they had been allies in the past.

  Killigrew regarded him askance. ‘What is this obsession with new gates? Are you sun-touched?’

  ‘I am thinking of replacing the one at home,’ lied Chaloner, supposing he had better furnish an explanation. Killigrew was inclined to gossip, and he did not want it put about that he was short of wits. Or that his familiarity with Dutch was leading him into suspicious activities regarding doors.

  ‘And you want to inspect a few before you make a final decision? Well, why did you not say so?’ Killigrew frowned in thought. ‘No one around here has brought one recently. In fact, the only “new gate” I can think of is Newgate itself, and you will not want one of those in your garden!’

  He roared with laughter as he stepped out of the hospital precinct and turned right along The Strand, leaving Chaloner staring after him thoughtfully. Did Hanse’s message refer to the prison? But Hanse had known nothing about Chaloner’s career as a spy, so had no reason to expect him to unravel cryptic clues. So why had he left one for him? Or was Jacoba wrong, and the words sewn in the hose were intended for someone else?

  Before he went to White Hall, he stopped at his house in Tothill Street to inspect the stockings Hanse had given him. They were lying on a bench in the parlour, where he had tossed them when he had arrived home on Friday night, too tired to think of putting them away.

  They were thin summer ones, obviously intended to be worn while the weather was warm. Was that significant? It did not take him many moments to see that it was. There were words sewn into the finer of the two pairs – the ones he was most likely to have used first. They were: Sinon and Bezoek Nieuwe Poort again. So Jacoba had been right: Hanse’s message had been intended for him.

  Hanse had often praised his brother-in-law’s sharp mind, and Chaloner could only assume that Hanse had left him the riddle because he believed him to be capable of solving it. Uncomfortably, he suspected Hanse had overrated his abilities, because he had no idea how even to start unravelling what it meant. He stared at the stockings for a long time before standing reluctantly and going to tell the Earl of Clarendon that the missing diplomat was dead.

  * * *

  The Palace of White Hall was a sprawling, chaotic affair, said to contain more than two thousand rooms. It boasted elegant halls that rubbed shoulders with laundries and coal sheds, and was a maze of twisting lanes, cobbled yards and covered walkways. Because it was the King’s main London residence, it was always busy, and that Monday morning it thronged with servants, courtiers, nobles and clerks. Many had ridden there, or travelled in carriages, so there was a lot of traffic, too.

  White Hall was not just home to the King, his Queen, his mistress and the immediate members of his family. It was also a seat of administrative power, and some of His Majesty’s most important ministers had offices there. These included the Lord Chancellor, who had been provided with a suite of rooms overlooking the manicured elegance of the Privy Garden.

  Bulteel occupied a small, windowless room at the top of the great marble staircase. Its stone walls meant it was frigid in winter, and cool in summer. Chaloner stepped inside gratefully, relishing the sudden drop in temperature after the blistering heat of outside.

  ‘Have you found the Earl’s papers yet?’ the secretary asked. He wore a coat, and blew on his fingers to warm them as he sat back to smile a greeting at Chaloner.

  ‘Not yet. It would help – a lot, I imagine – if I knew what was in them. For example, there is a rumour that Hanse stole them, but if they pertain to agricultural policy in Wales, then I doubt he would have been very interested.’

  ‘Apparently, the rumour that Hanse is to blame was started by Sir George Downing. And I wish I could tell you what is in them, but I cannot, because Clarendon says they are sensitive.’

  ‘Does that mean you think they are not?’

  ‘Stop!’ ordered Bulteel nervously. ‘There is nothing I would like more than to answer your questions, but he has forbidden me, so my hands are tied. I cannot disobey him.’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner, disappointed. Bulteel was nothing if not obedient.

  ‘I was going to make knot biscuits this morning,’ said Bulteel unhappily, in the silence that followed. ‘My cousin tends to rise late, so I thought I could bake a batch before he was awake. But he must have heard the pantry door open, because he came down while I was measuring out the flour, and I had to concoct a tale about lending it to a neighbour.’

  Chaloner was sorry. Bulteel’s cakes were often the only pleasant thing about visiting White Hall. ‘How much longer will Griffith be staying with you?’ he asked, mostly out of self-interest.

  Bulteel looked pained. ‘My lessons are taking rather longer than we expected, and he says it will be at least another month before I am converted into a proper courtier. I want my kitchen back, but I want to be respected and admired more. It will be worth the inconvenience in the end.’

  ‘He cannot think badly of you for cooking,’ said Chaloner, resisting the urge to flinch at the desperate hope in Bulteel’s eyes. If he had known how to say it without causing hurt, he would have advised his friend to stop wasting his time.

  ‘He says I should expend all my spare energy in learning to dance, and he is right, of course. I dislike dancing, but it is an art I shall master.’ Bulteel’s small face was full of grim determination.

  ‘Are you sure this is a path you want to follow?’ asked Chaloner gently. ‘It is not—’

  ‘I have no choice,’ said Bulteel shortly. ‘I do not want to be a secretary for the rest of my life, because I am capable of much greater things. But never mind me. Griffith is with the Earl at the moment. He spied for him during the Commonwealth, you see, and they often reminisce together. You should be glad, because Clarendon is usually in a good mood when they have finished.’

  ‘Is it true?’ asked Chaloner. He could not imagine Griffith being subtle enough for espionage. ‘He really was an intelligencer?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He and Clarendon have dozens of stories to tell about their exploits. I think I have heard them all now, thank God, but for a while, they insisted that I sat and listened. My cousin is a lovely man, but he can be very long-winded. I pity his valet, having to wait hours while he gabbles.’

  Bulteel lowered his voice as he pointed to the antechamber at the far end of the hall, where the soberly clad manservant sat. The man was so still that Chaloner wondered if he was asleep, bu
t he saw them looking, and raised a hand in greeting. He did not smile, though, and Chaloner did not think he had ever seen a more impassive visage.

  ‘Roger Lane,’ said Bulteel in a whisper. ‘I cannot say I like him. In fact, he makes me uneasy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I cannot explain – it is just a feeling. Perhaps it is because he so rarely speaks.’

  ‘Your cousin makes up for his taciturnity.’

  Bulteel grinned, revealing his sadly decayed teeth. ‘Yes, he does.’

  Both turned when a door opened, and Griffith stepped out. He was followed by a roar of laughter and some jovial farewells, and was beaming as he minced towards them, lace kerchief flapping back and forth. Immediately, Lane came to his feet and followed, treading as silently as a cat.

  Griffith turned to him. ‘Summon a carriage, if you please. It is too dusty for walking, and I have been invited to watch His Majesty and the Duke of Buckingham play tennis at noon.’

  ‘Surely, it is too hot for that sort of thing?’ remarked Bulteel, watching as Lane slunk away to do as he was told. ‘Tennis, I mean.’

  Griffith fanned himself theatrically. ‘Gentleman do not allow a mere inconvenience like the climate to prevent them from doing what they like. Besides, the King has invited the Dutch ambassador to watch, and he will not want him disappointed.’

  Chaloner doubted van Goch would mind a cancellation, and he would certainly have more profitable things to do than sit in a stuffy room and watch two sweaty Englishmen run about.

  ‘But first, I shall visit the Spares Gallery,’ Griffith declared. The Spares Gallery, so named because it was a repository for duplicate or unwanted pieces of art, was a long hall used by courtiers and minor nobles as a common room. Chaloner often eavesdropped in it, because it was a great place for gossip. ‘Where I shall enjoy a refreshing glass of ale.’

  ‘I will join you,’ said Bulteel, removing his coat in anticipation of a walk outside. ‘And while we drink, I shall recite the romantic poem you suggested I write. It is called “Reflections on a Stale Biscuit”. Keep looking for those papers, Tom. Do your best to find them.’