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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Hanse seemed to think an interview with them would be a good idea,’ he said. ‘Do you know why?’

  Compton shook his head. ‘Perhaps he heard Sinon mentioned by one of the Privy Council – they are apt to assume foreigners speak no English, and are always babbling incautiously in front of them – and was afraid it might adversely affect the peace process.’

  Suddenly, there was a commotion in the hall outside, as someone thrust his way past the indignant servants and made his way towards Compton’s parlour. Chaloner winced, recognising the strident tones of Surgeon Wiseman, the most arrogant, opinionated and conceited man in London.

  Richard Wiseman had been appointed Surgeon to the Person at the Restoration, and loved the adulation the post had brought him. He was huge man, and never wore any colour except red. His detractors – and his acerbic tongue meant he had a lot of them – said it was to conceal the spilled blood of his victims, but Chaloner suspected the flamboyant medicus just liked to be noticed.

  That day, he wore a scarlet long-coat, breeches of a paler crimson, and his boots were maroon. His thick hair fell in vibrant auburn curls down his back. He followed a curious regime of lifting heavy stones each morning, which gave him the muscles and physique of a wrestler. He was a very powerful man, and Chaloner pitied anyone unfortunate enough to be treated by him.

  ‘Chaloner!’ Wiseman exclaimed in genuine pleasure, thrusting aside a maid, when she tried to prevent him from bursting in on what was a private meeting. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘He was talking to me,’ said Compton coolly. ‘Would you mind waiting outside until we have finished? We will not be long, and you can tend me afterwards.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ declared Wiseman, striding towards him. ‘I am a busy man, and you are clearly in need of my services. Besides, Chaloner and I are old friends. He will not mind me being here.’

  Chaloner minded very much, and he minded people being told he was Wiseman’s friend, too. He owned a grudging respect for the surgeon, but Wiseman’s universal unpopularity meant it was not sensible for a man who liked to stay in the shadows to admit friendship with such a man. Moreover, Wiseman’s abrasive manner meant it was difficult to like him much of the time.

  ‘Surely I have some say in the matter?’ said Compton. ‘And I would like you to wait outside.’

  Wiseman crouched next to him and peered into his eyes. ‘That would be unwise. You are gravely ill, and need my expertise immediately.’

  ‘I have a mild fever brought on by riding without a hat. All I want is a draught to relieve the pain in my temples. My brother said you gave him one that set him to rights within moments.’

  ‘True,’ said Wiseman, preening. ‘But his sore head resulted from too much wine. Yours requires surgery, to relieve pressure on the brain. I have invented a new implement to remove small parts of the skull, and you shall be the first to have it tested … to benefit from it.’

  Compton was aghast. ‘You will not touch me! Chaloner, remove this madman from my house!’

  ‘You are a fool,’ declared Wiseman, flouncing out before Chaloner could oblige. ‘But I shall wait in the street for a few moments to give you time to reconsider. If you come to your senses, I may deign to save your life.’

  ‘Lord Christ!’ breathed Compton, when the surgeon had gone. ‘Is he always like that?’

  Chaloner nodded.

  ‘Is he good at his trade?’ asked the Master of Ordnance worriedly. ‘Should I be concerned, do you think?’

  Chaloner would not have let Wiseman near him with a surgical implement, because the man was known to experiment. However, despite his natural antipathy towards the medical profession in general, he was forced to concede that Wiseman did know his business. ‘A second opinion might be a good idea,’ he hedged.

  Compton lay back. ‘Then I shall send to Chyrurgeons’ Hall for another butcher. If he concurs with Wiseman, I shall consent to be examined. But I am not letting either saw my head off !’

  * * *

  Chaloner left with his thoughts full of how Hanse could have become aware of a plot to steal the British crown jewels. Was Compton right, and he had overheard an indiscreet remark made by a Privy Council member? Or had he, like Compton, overheard Swan, Swallow and Falcon plotting? Hanse had liked taverns, so it was not inconceivable that he had visited the Feathers. Then, being a foreigner, he would not have known to whom to report the information. Of course, it did not explain why he had sewn messages in his hose. Or why he had not mentioned the matter during the evening he had spent with Chaloner in the Sun.

  Chaloner had not gone far when he felt his shoulder grabbed. He was about to knock the hand away when he saw it belonged to Wiseman. And he rarely manhandled the surgeon lest the surgeon did some manhandling back.

  ‘You should have supported me in there,’ Wiseman said accusingly. ‘You know I am right.’

  ‘Perhaps you are. But you cannot go around sawing people’s heads off. It is unethical.’

  ‘So is letting them die. But no matter. It was his choice to reject me, and on his head be it.’

  ‘At least he still has one,’ muttered Chaloner. ‘Which he would not, if you had had your way.’

  Wiseman stared blankly at him for a moment, then released a bellow of laughter that brought Drury Lane to a standstill. He clapped Chaloner on the back in what was probably intended to be a friendly gesture, but that almost knocked the spy from his feet.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ he asked, once he had controlled his mirth. ‘To see Temperance?’

  Temperance North was Chaloner’s friend and Wiseman’s mistress. She ran a high-class bordello in Hercules’ Pillars Alley, just off Fleet Street.

  ‘Not today. Hannah is expecting me home.’ Chaloner brightened when he recalled that she had arranged for him to hear the King’s Private Musick that evening.

  ‘Rent yourself some separate lodgings,’ advised Wiseman. ‘Then you will have more freedom.’

  ‘I would, but I have not had time to—’

  ‘There is a spare garret in my house in Fleet Street. You may lease that, if you like.’

  ‘You live in Fleet Street? I thought you had rooms in Chyrurgeons’ Hall.’

  ‘The Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons suggested I move out, because my experiments were upsetting the other residents. But I do not mind: Fleet Street is closer to Temperance. As my friend, you may have the attic for a very reasonable price.’

  Chaloner would rather sleep in an alley than lodge with the surgeon. For a start, Wiseman might conduct unpleasant procedures there, and the screams of his victims would be unsettling.

  ‘Well, I must be off,’ said Wiseman cheerfully, when Chaloner did no more than nod cautious thanks. ‘There is an increase of gaol-fever in Newgate, and I have been asked to look into it.’

  ‘May I come with you?’ Chaloner heard himself say. He rubbed his eyes. The last thing he felt like doing was visiting a prison – and he might be late for the concert. He had had scant opportunity for music since returning from Holland, and its absence from his life was beginning to depress him. He needed to hear the performance that night.

  Wiseman stared at him. ‘Why? I thought you hated gaols.’

  ‘I have to do something there for the Earl,’ replied Chaloner vaguely.

  ‘You cannot come today, because the Keeper will not admit you without prior warning,’ replied Wiseman. ‘But I can arrange for you to accompany me on my next visit, which is on Thursday. I shall tell everyone that you are my assistant. Just remember to wear old clothes.’

  Chaloner was tired and dispirited as he walked down Drury Lane. Despite all he had learned, he still did not know why Hanse had been murdered. Was it connected to the Sinon Plot? Or because a lot of people wanted Ambassador van Goch to go home without negotiating a treaty? In which case, had Hanse been killed by an Englishman or a Dutchman? And was it wise to delay interviewing the Sinon Plot conspirators until Wiseman could sneak him inside Newgate? Perhaps h
e should go sooner. He shuddered at the thought, and told himself that he could gather a lot of intelligence in three days, and with luck, he might not have to go at all.

  Still deep in reverie, he joined the stream of carts and pedestrians lining up to pass through Temple Bar, an inconvenient gate that divided Fleet Street from The Strand. It restricted the flow of traffic, and he narrowly missed being kicked when a horse, alarmed by the press, began to buck. It was such a common occurrence that no one paid it any heed, and the conversations around him continued as though nothing had happened.

  ‘Our fleet can be ready in eight days,’ a merchant was saying to his companion. ‘I say we declare war on the cheese-eaters and be done with it. There is no question that we will win.’

  ‘The newsbooks agree with you,’ the friend replied worriedly. ‘But Samuel Pepys of the Navy Board – who knows what he is talking about – told me they are wrong.’

  ‘Pepys is an old woman,’ sneered the merchant. ‘He is no better than Clarendon with his wailings for peace. Peace be damned! Let us show these devils who is master of the oceans.’

  Chaloner walked on, his spirits sinking further still. Why were people so keen to inflict damage on a country that had done them no harm? Had the King forgotten the kindness showed to him by the Dutch when he was in exile? Moreover, the United Provinces were Protestant, which alone should have ensured some sort of bond between the two nations.

  Without conscious thought, he turned up Chancery Lane and headed towards Rider’s Coffee House, a dimly lit, smoky little establishment sandwiched between two much larger buildings. Coffee houses were springing up all over London, and were popular with men – women were not allowed – who gathered to enjoy a dish of the beverage and to discuss politics, religion and current affairs in an atmosphere of amiable gentility. It was not uncommon for nobles to rub shoulders with apprentices, and anyone had the right to express an opinion.

  He pushed open the door and walked inside, peering through the oily brown smog created by roasting coffee beans, his eyes smarting. He smiled when he spotted the man he wanted to see.

  John Thurloe was sitting in the shadows near the back, reading a newsbook. Newsbooks were twice-weekly papers – The Intelligencer on Mondays, and The Newes on Thursdays – that were supposed to keep the public abreast of domestic and foreign affairs. The reality was that their editor believed it was undesirable for the general populace lace to know what its government was up to, so news of any description was in frustratingly short supply.

  Thurloe had been the Commonwealth’s Secretary of State and Spymaster General, and there were those who said Cromwell would not have clung to power for as long as he had, were it not for his quietly efficient and loyal first minister. Thurloe had been dismissed at the Restoration, and now lived in peaceful retirement, dividing his time between Lincoln’s Inn and his home in Oxfordshire. He was slightly built with brown hair and blue eyes, and his mild manners had led more than one would-be traitor to underestimate him and live to regret it. He was the most ethical man Chaloner had ever met, but there was a core of steel in him that explained why he had risen to such power.

  ‘I heard you caught the White Hall thieves, Tom,’ he said, looking up. ‘And the culprits have been punished by being given lucrative posts in Lady Castlemaine’s retinue.’

  Chaloner was not surprised to learn that Thurloe knew what was happening in White Hall. His old spies still supplied him with gossip, and although he had taken a definite and final step away from politics, he was still one of the best informed men in London. Of course, given that there were a lot of people who thought his severed head should be on a pole outside Westminster Hall next to Cromwell’s, he was wise to keep himself abreast of current affairs.

  ‘I cannot imagine what she thinks she is doing,’ said Chaloner. ‘They might steal from her.’

  ‘Or steal for her,’ Thurloe pointed out. ‘They are said to be good at it, and she has a penchant for other people’s property. I suspect there is a lot she could do with such men.’

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, supposing it was true. ‘I hope I will not be ordered to investigate burglaries that show her to be the instigator. She is far too deadly an opponent for me.’

  ‘For anyone,’ agreed Thurloe. ‘But she is not such a fool as to use them straight away, so you need not concern yourself just yet.’

  ‘They are angry with me for catching them,’ said Chaloner, sitting on the bench opposite. ‘And so is Downing, who had employed them as stewards.’

  ‘Downing,’ said Thurloe in distaste, folding the newsbook and pushing it to one side to give Chaloner his full attention. ‘But do not worry about him. Heer van Goch will go home when war is declared, and Downing will accompany him back to The Hague. All you have to do is stay out of his way until he has gone, which should not be too difficult in a city this size.’

  Chaloner gazed at him. ‘You seem very certain that the peace talks will fail.’

  Thurloe sighed. ‘Fighting the States-General would be disastrous for our country, so of course that is what the Privy Council will decide to do. I would not say this to anyone else, but those ridiculous hedonists deserve to be shot. They will lead us all into chaos and disorder.’

  ‘It is a sorry state of affairs.’

  ‘Very sorry. I wish Downing was not here, though. He knows it was your hard work and diligence that kept him in office during the Commonwealth, and he resents being in debt to you.’

  ‘Hardly!’ exclaimed Chaloner, startled. ‘We both supplied you with—’

  ‘Your intelligence was accurate and useful, whereas his was street gossip. Doubt me if you will, but do not underestimate the malice he bears you. He is an unsavoury villain.’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Chaloner, not wanting to dwell on it.

  Tactfully, Thurloe changed the subject. ‘It has been another glorious day, although I imagine it will be unpleasantly sultry again tonight. I wish the weather would break. Such oppressive heat is not good for a man with a delicate constitution.’

  Thurloe was always worried about his health, and swallowed many tonics, pills and purges in his quest for an efficacious cure-all. Chaloner often wondered if he might be healthier if he threw them all away and concentrated on devising himself a healthy diet instead.

  ‘You seem distracted,’ said Thurloe, after a moment during which a coffee-boy came and poured a dense black sludge into two dishes. ‘What is the matter?’

  Chaloner took a sip of the drink and winced. Rider’s brew was better than most, because he knew how to cook most of his beans without burning them, but the beverage was not pleasant, even so. It was not as bad as tea, which tasted of rotting vegetation, and it was a considerable improvement on chocolate, which was bitter and greasy, but they were all unpleasant, and Chaloner doubted any would remain popular for long.

  ‘It is much nicer with sugar,’ said Thurloe, watching him.

  Chaloner nodded, but did not take any. A year ago, he had vowed not to touch it, as a silent protest against the plantations, although he knew his stance would make no difference to the people forced to labour in appalling conditions just so Britain could enjoy sweetened drinks.

  ‘Willem Hanse is dead,’ he said, placing the dish back on the table. ‘I identified his body this morning, and then went to tell his wife.’

  ‘I am sorry, Tom,’ said Thurloe sympathetically. ‘It must have been dreadful. How did he die?’

  ‘Drowned. Murdered, probably. He spent his last evening with me, at the Sun tavern in Westminster, and I should have seen him back to the Savoy. But I was tired, and I let him go home alone. The hackneyman was in the pay of the Hectors, and now he is dead, too.’

  ‘Blaming yourself will do no good,’ said Thurloe kindly. ‘It is better to invest your energies in bringing his killer to justice. What have you learned about his death so far?’

  ‘Almost nothing.’

  Thurloe was thoughtful. ‘If I were in your position, I would return to the Sun,
and question the landlord again. People are apt to remember more once they have had a chance to reflect.’

  Chaloner doubted it would help, but was willing to try. ‘I will do it tomorrow. But this evening, I am going to listen to some music.’

  Virtually every courtier at White Hall had been invited to hear the King’s Private Musick, because the players were to perform in the vast expanse of St James’s Park, which meant the audience could be as large as His Majesty chose to make it. The players occupied a barge in the middle of the Canal, which was to be punted back and forth by four men with poles, while the guests had ranged themselves along both banks – the lesser ones on blankets, and the more important ones on chairs.

  The King, his Queen, his mistress and his favourite companions were housed in a purpose-built gazebo. Among them were Buckingham and the dissipated Alan Brodrick, cousin to Clarendon. The Earl himself was some distance away, talking animatedly to the Bishop of Hereford. Hereford was something of a fanatic, and, Chaloner thought acidly as he watched them, was probably picking the Earl’s brains for new ways to suppress anyone who was not an Anglican.

  Sitting on the fringes of the royal party were several members of the Dutch delegation, stiff and tense in company they knew wished them ill. Their attention was fixed on the spectacle of Colonel Griffith, who had donned a startling orange suit for the occasion, and was holding forth in his high-pitched, effeminate way to members of the Privy Council. There was no sign of Bulteel, although that was not surprising: the secretary disliked music, but would never have been asked to attend such an august occasion, anyway. And, despite Griffith’s grooming, probably never would.

  Chaloner was pleased to note that Kicke, Nisbett and Williamson were not there: it would be difficult to give his full attention to the music if he was surrounded by men who meant him harm. Unfortunately, Downing had been invited. The envoy was clad in a green long-coat that was too tight for his lard, and was busily ogling any ladies who came within leering distance.