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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Chaloner watched Buckingham and his cronies drive away the last of the spectators, and it was not long before Charing Cross was empty. When it was, the Duke came to accept the gratitude of those he had saved. Zas made a pretty speech of thanks, but Kun was still too shaken for talking.

  Buckingham peered at the Dutchmen in the dim light cast by a nearby tavern. ‘Good God! It is van Goch’s secretary and the lawyer from the Savoy!’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Zas. ‘Our driver swerved to avoid a dog, but the manoeuvre broke a wheel. People immediately swarmed towards us, presumably to steal. But when they saw who we were, they dragged us out, and …’

  ‘I see,’ said Buckingham. He sounded disgusted, and Chaloner wondered whether he would have dashed to their rescue with such élan had he understood what was happening. He was, after all, one of those clamouring for war. ‘Then I suppose we had better see you safely home. You can ride Brodrick’s horse. He will not mind.’

  The following day was hotter than ever, and Chaloner woke breathless and sweating from a nightmare in which he was locked in one of Williamson’s Newgate cells with Aletta. He rarely dreamt about his first wife, but when he did, it invariably left him unsettled. A wave of guilt washed over him when he opened his eyes and saw Hannah lying next to him. Discomfited, he slid out of the bed, moving carefully so as not to wake her. Unfortunately, he stumbled over a discarded blanket en route to the door, and she sat up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she demanded. ‘It is still dark, so it is far too early to be up. Come back to bed, or you will be tired in the morning.’

  He smothered a smile – she was a true courtier in her horror of early starts. ‘It is morning.’

  ‘I doubt it is four o’clock yet, and that is the middle of the night. Do you have a fever? We should have summoned Surgeon Wiseman to tend your arm last night.’

  ‘Christ, no! There is nothing wrong. Go back to sleep.’

  ‘You still have not told me what happened. I am not sure how, but we ended up discussing my worries until we fell asleep, and I neglected to ask about yours.’

  Which was exactly how Chaloner had engineered it, for her protection, as well as his own. He wondered how long it would be before she realised that he always sidetracked her when she asked about his day. And how long it would be before their marriage suffered because of it.

  ‘You were telling me about Charles Bates,’ he said, hoping the subject that had put her in such a lather the previous night would distract her again that morning. ‘And his wife Ann.’

  Hannah grimaced. ‘Yes. After the music, when we were travelling home in Killigrew’s carriage, Charles told us how Kicke is intent on seducing her. He had confided in the Duke, too, who said Charles should call him out. But Charles is no fighter, and Kicke is likely to kill him.’

  ‘Duelling is illegal, anyway,’ said Chaloner, supposing he should not be surprised to hear that Buckingham dispensed such impractical advice.

  ‘Yes, but it does not stop anyone from doing it.’ Hannah regarded Chaloner in sudden alarm. ‘Is that how you came by the cut on your arm?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘But there is worse,’ Hannah went on. ‘Some villain is blackmailing Charles – demanding money in return for not braying that Ann is as besotted with Kicke as Kicke is with her.’

  ‘Bates should not pay. If you and the Duke know about the situation, it cannot be a very closely guarded secret. People will start talking about it soon anyway.’

  Hannah scowled. ‘It is a closely guarded secret. And I think Charles will pay, because he does not want Ann’s reputation sullied with gossip.’

  Then the man was a fool, thought Chaloner. ‘Thank you for arranging the invitation to the park last night. It was …’ He faltered, unable to find the words to describe such hauntingly beautiful music.

  ‘Yes, I was bored, too.’ Hannah narrowed her eyes. ‘You are not thinking of getting your viol out now, are you, Thomas? It will disturb the neighbours.’

  Chaloner shook his head, although it had been exactly what he had intended. Sourly, he wondered when he would be permitted to play, since she complained if he did it during the day, too.

  ‘Then come back to bed,’ she ordered. ‘Or are you hoping I will make you some breakfast?’

  Chaloner shook his head again, trying not to do so too fervently. Hannah had many talents, but cooking was not one of them. And when she had turned her hand to brewing ale, it had put Buckingham in bed for the best part of a week.

  ‘Incidentally, the Queen talked about you yesterday,’ Hannah went on. ‘She enjoyed our wedding – except for the murder – and told me that I am a lucky woman. She also said that if ever Clarendon dispenses with your services, she will find you a post in her household.’

  ‘Really?’ Chaloner doubted the Queen would have much use for a spy. Or perhaps it was just that he knew Portuguese, and she preferred speaking her native tongue to struggling with English.

  ‘Personally, I think you should abandon your Earl before he sends you on any more dangerous missions. I have been widowed once, and I do not want it to happen again.’

  ‘The United Provinces were not dangerous.’ Except for the plague and the uncomfortable memories of his first wife, Chaloner had enjoyed himself there, and had seriously considered not coming back. Not least among his concerns was the prospect of marrying Hannah, a woman he thought he loved, but who was as different from him as it was possible to be. Failed relationships in the recent past had made him acutely aware of his own shortcomings in selecting suitable partners, and the last thing he wanted was to trap her in a problematic marriage – he certainly loved her enough to want to avoid inflicting that on her. ‘Of course, that might change if we go to war, although even then, I cannot see Dutchmen attacking our diplomats on the streets.’

  ‘Has Ambassador van Goch been assaulted, then? I am sorry, but not surprised, given that the Dutch are so unpopular in London at the moment. If they had any sense, they would stay inside the Savoy, where they are safe. Of course, Hanse – the man who was fished from the Thames – was always out on his own, so no eyebrows were raised when he met an untimely end.’

  Chaloner stared at her. ‘Who told you Hanse was always out alone?’

  Hannah shrugged. ‘Everyone – Charles Bates, the Duke, Brodrick, Henry and Judith Killigrew. And the last two live in the Savoy, so they know what they are talking about. Apparently, Hanse liked visiting taverns, so someone must have recognised him as a Hollander and killed him. I am not saying such behaviour is right, but it is certainly predictable.’

  ‘Which taverns?’ demanded Chaloner.

  Hannah started, unnerved by the sudden harshness in his voice. ‘I am not sure anyone knows – just that he liked to frequent such places. What is wrong? Why are you glaring at me?’

  ‘Sorry. I am supposed to be investigating his death, but I have not heard these tales.’

  ‘Then speak to Killigrew. He will confirm them.’

  Chaloner nodded his thanks, and it occurred to him that this would be a good opportunity to tell her that Hanse was related to him through Aletta. They were alone, with plenty of time for her to air any grievances she might feel, and it was not the sort of thing one should keep from a spouse. As he flailed about for the right words, he became aware that she was smiling at him in a way that drove all thoughts of Aletta from his mind. One hand beckoned a sultry invitation, while the other patted the empty bed at her side.

  Afterwards, as Chaloner retrieved the clothes that had been tossed carelessly around the room, it seemed inappropriate to broach the subject of his first wife. He smiled fondly as Hannah yawned and began to burrow back under the bedcovers.

  ‘If you plan on visiting Mr Thurloe today, take the biscuits I made for him,’ she murmured. ‘You keep forgetting, and they will be stale soon.’

  He nodded, manfully resisting the urge to remark that the biscuits would never go stale, because that assumed they were edible, and few of Hannah’s cul
inary creations could claim that distinction. The warmth of his feelings for her suffered a jolt at her next remark, however.

  ‘I am going back to sleep, so no scraping on that wretched viol, if you please.’

  Chaloner left her to her slumbers with a vague sense of unease. How could they be happy together if she kept him from his music? Or was she worth the sacrifice?

  Chapter 4

  It was still not fully light when Chaloner opened his front door and stepped outside, savouring the freshness of the air after the stuffiness of the house. Tothill Street was semi-rural; St James’s Park lay in one direction, and the wilder area known as Tothill Fields in another. It was rich with the scent of bramble blossom, new leaves and scythed grass. Sheep bleated in the distance, and two blackbirds were engaged in a battle of song, shrill and bright.

  As he walked, Thurloe’s biscuits tucked under his arm, he thought about Hannah’s aversion to his viol. It was the third time she had asked him not to practise since he had returned from Holland, and while he could have overridden her and done it anyway, the resulting quarrel would have spoiled the experience. He decided that as soon as he had solved Hanse’s murder and retrieved the Earl’s papers, he would find lodgings of his own, a bolthole to which he could escape when he and Hannah did not see eye to eye. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea – a solution that would benefit both of them.

  To take his mind off his marital hiccups, he reviewed yet again the evening he and Hanse had spent in the tavern on King Street, trying to recall whether there had been remarks that should have alerted him to the fact that Hanse knew about a plot to deprive the King of his jewels. Or that Hanse thought he might be in danger, for that matter. For the life of him, Chaloner could not recall any.

  Deciding to follow Thurloe’s advice, he went to the Sun, where its owner, Edmond Waters, was closing for the night – it might be early morning for most of London, but there were plenty for whom the night’s revels were only just drawing to a close.

  Waters was an elderly man with grey hair. He yawned hugely as Chaloner approached to ask his questions, and wiped grimy hands on what had, at the beginning of the evening, been a clean white apron. Now it was stained not only with wine, but with what looked ominously like blood, too.

  ‘The Duke of Buckingham was in here last night,’ was all he said in explanation.

  ‘I see.’ Chaloner moved to the business in hand. ‘You were more than patient with my questions on Saturday morning, but would you mind going over your answers again?’

  ‘Or course not. Mr Hanse is a lovely man, and I will do anything to help you find him. I do not make a habit of letting Hollanders drink here, though. I do not want my tavern set alight because I open my doors to men who will soon be our enemies. But Mr Hanse is special.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He lets me keep the change when he pays his bill. Unlike that miserly Buckingham, I might add. If all Hollanders were like Mr Hanse, we would not need to go to war. Have you news of him?’

  ‘He died,’ replied Chaloner baldly. ‘Probably late on Friday, after he left your tavern.’

  Waters’ eyes opened wide. ‘Dead? I hope you are not here to suggest my wine was responsible. I know he had more than his share that night, but …’

  ‘He drank a lot?’ Chaloner was disgusted that he had not noticed.

  ‘Perhaps not a lot,’ backtracked Waters. ‘But he had far more than you. He said he was not feeling well, and that wine would settle his stomach.’

  ‘I know I have asked you this before, but do you remember anything odd about that night? Anything that might have a bearing on his death?’

  ‘I am afraid not,’ said Waters. ‘And I have been thinking about it. As I said, I liked Mr Hanse.’

  Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘Did he drink here regularly? You speak of him as though he did.’

  Waters nodded. ‘He met four other men here, although I cannot tell you their names. One was a vicar, though. I know, because he always wore clerical garb.’

  ‘Was there anything distinctive about him?’

  There were hundreds of clergymen in London – parish priests, clerks and chaplains to various bishops and nobles, not to mention those who had been extruded from their churches for nonconformism, and were in London because they had nowhere else to go. Tracing one would be next to impossible without a good description.

  ‘Not really,’ came the disappointing reply. ‘Although he was generous with tips, too.’

  ‘What can you tell me about the other three?’

  ‘One was a handsome fellow with long, dark hair and a regal bearing. He and Mr Hanse were of an age – late thirties. He was kind to the serving wench when she accidentally spilled wine in his lap. And not everyone would have been so gracious, because she made a terrible mess.’

  ‘A clergyman and someone who sounds like a gentleman,’ mused Chaloner. No one came to mind, and he wondered what Hanse had been doing. ‘And the other two?’

  ‘The third was the antithesis of the gentleman – fat, sweaty and ordinary. The last was a medical man, who always carried a bag of surgical weapons. He was elderly with a birth-stain on his neck.’

  Chaloner supposed he would have to return one evening and ask the same questions of Waters’ customers. Perhaps one might have overheard what was discussed, or would have a name to put to the descriptions. He nodded his thanks and started to walk away, but Waters caught his arm.

  ‘You seem a decent sort, so let me give you some advice. Do not consort too openly with Hollanders, not even nice ones like Mr Hanse. There will be a war, and then anyone with Dutch friends will become suspect. I heard that some of Heer van Goch’s retinue were attacked last night, and there is bitter rumbling against three villains who stepped in to rescue them.’

  ‘A lot of courtiers rode in to rescue them,’ countered Chaloner.

  ‘That was later. Two patriots were about to slit the diplomats’ throats, but these rogues stopped them. People did not like it. So, if you must consort with Hollanders, do it discreetly.’

  Mulling over the warning, Chaloner walked towards Lincoln’s Inn, one of London’s four great legal foundations, moving carefully to avoid being doused in the night-soil that was being hurled from the windows of the houses he passed.

  Hanse had been a stranger in London, so his mysterious meetings were unlikely to have been social. The obvious conclusion was that he was embroiled in something untoward, although Chaloner refused to believe that it might have been a plot to steal the crown jewels. However, the fact that one of his associates was a vicar did not bode well. England was undergoing a period of religious turmoil, and the city was full of dangerous clerics. Yet Hanse had not been particularly devout, and Chaloner could not see him involving himself in another country’s spiritual problems.

  So what else could he have been doing? Something in the name of peace? He had certainly been passionate about that, and would have done almost anything to secure a non-violent solution to the discord. Chaloner supposed he would have to ask Hanse’s colleagues about it.

  The Strand was already busy as he strode along it, mostly with carts bringing produce from the country – vegetables, fruit, eggs and grain to feed London’s vast rumbling belly. Livestock was being driven to the markets, too – ducks, geese and chickens to Covent Garden, and cattle to Smithfield. And there were other goods – baskets, pots, linen, books, maps and charts, soap, ornaments, scientific instruments, perfume, clothes, tools, furniture and building materials. It was not said for nothing that anything under the sun could be bought in the city.

  Street shows were setting up, too, ready to draw the custom of the idle. The Bearded Lady of Holborn had relocated in an effort to attract new admirers; she could be viewed for a penny. Meanwhile, a glimpse of a calf with six legs would cost two pennies, and the two-headed Barbary Ape three. Uncomfortable amid such noisy, colourful bustle, Chaloner left the main road, and weaved through a maze of quiet lanes until he reached
the open area known as Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

  The Fields had once been much larger, but land near the city’s centre was worth a fortune, and bits had been sold off to developers. There was, however, a core of ground that had retained its ancient trees and heath-like vegetation. It was popular in the summer as a place to relax, giving the illusion that London was rural. But after dark and at dawn, it became a different place altogether.

  That morning, a duel was in progress, one of the several that were alleged to occur there each week. Both combatants and their seconds were drunk, and Chaloner thought that if any of them did score a hit, it would be more by luck than design. There was a sharp crack, and he turned just in time to see a bundle of feathers drop from a tree. He winced at the ensuing guffaws: he liked birds.

  Lincoln’s Inn’s gate was opened by a sleepy porter, who knew Chaloner well enough to wave him inside without asking the nature of his business. Chaloner aimed for the garden, where Thurloe liked to stroll each morning. A veritable army was required to maintain its neat little hedges, gravelled paths and themed flower beds, but the benchers – the Inn’s governing body – did not mind. Theirs was a wealthy institution, and could well afford it. And they all loved the garden.

  Chaloner found Thurloe admiring the roses. The air was rich with their scent, although even they could not mask the stench of sun-baked sewage, manure and rotting rubbish that hung in a pall over the city – and would do so until rain sluiced it away.

  ‘I was hoping you would come today, Tom,’ said Thurloe. ‘I heard a tale last night about “evil-minded traitors” preventing some of the Dutch delegation from being lynched. The description of one of these villains sounded uncannily like you. I trust it was not.’

  ‘Why? You did not train me to stand by and watch the murder of innocents.’

  ‘I did not train you to leap wildly into dangerous situations, either.’

  Chaloner grimaced. ‘Then I wish I had listened. Nisbett is a much better swordsman than me.’