‘It was Nisbett doing the lynching?’ asked Thurloe uneasily. ‘Was Kicke with him?’
‘Yes. They were taunting Kun and Zas, fuelling a mob with inflammatory remarks.’
‘Will you tell Clarendon, so they can be arrested? Such antics cannot be tolerated.’
‘Unfortunately, they took care to conceal their faces, and someone is sure to give them an alibi if I accuse them. Lady Castlemaine, probably. Moreover, I imagine they would receive even more adulation for attacking Hollanders than they did for thieving. London hates the Dutch.’
‘But we are a civilised nation! We do not assault visiting diplomats!’
‘No? That was not how it appeared last night.’
Thurloe shook his head in disgust. ‘Is our country mad? We cannot win a war, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool. I am told the Privy Council is divided, with some crying for peace, but most baying for a fight. This would never have happened in Cromwell’s time. There is no unseemly squabbling among government ministers when you have a military dictatorship.’
Chaloner did not share his friend’s views on the joys of repressive regimes, so he handed over the package as a way of moving to less contentious matters. ‘Hannah made you some biscuits. However, I should warn you that she gave one to Buckingham, and he claims it broke two of his teeth.’
Thurloe weighed the parcel in his hand. ‘The porter’s dog would not touch the last batch she baked me – and that ravenous beast eats anything – so I put them on the fire. She should patent the recipe, because they made for a lovely blaze.’
‘I have to go to Newgate,’ said Chaloner gloomily, falling in beside Thurloe as the ex-Spymaster resumed his stroll. ‘And as if that is not bad enough, I must do it with Wiseman.’
‘Wiseman has his faults, but he is a good man. Do not reject his overtures of friendship. But my breakfast will be waiting, and you look hungry. Come to my rooms and partake of a little pottage. And then you can tell me why you must visit Newgate.’
Chaloner followed Thurloe out of the garden, to the building that housed Chamber XIII. Thurloe’s home comprised a pleasant suite of rooms overlooking Chancery Lane. They smelled of beeswax, books and wood-smoke, and were the one place in London where Chaloner felt truly safe.
A servant brought some thin, unappetising gruel, then left. Thurloe drank his with obvious relish, then washed it down with an alarming array of medicines bearing names like Stinking Pills, Lazarus Lozenges and Aqua Digitalis. When he had finished, he regaled Chaloner with the latest city gossip: the shipyards had not stockpiled enough victuals to send the navy to sea, Sir Edward Montagu was dismissed from Court for squeezing the Queen’s hand, and the learned men of the Royal Society had sent a dog to sleep by injecting something into its hind leg.
‘There is a rumour about Cromwell, too,’ Thurloe went on unhappily. ‘It says he broke into the royal tombs in Westminster Abbey, and swapped all the bones about.’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Why did he do that?’
‘He did not do that,’ snapped Thurloe. Cromwell had been a much-loved friend. ‘It is a lie put about by his enemies. He is dead, and his poor rotted body torn from its grave to be hanged and beheaded, so why can they not leave him in peace now? Why invent monstrous tales?’
Chaloner had no answer, but Thurloe had not expected one. He went on bitterly.
‘All I can think is that the King and his licentious Cavaliers hope to improve their own ghastly reputations by “reminding” London that Parliamentarians were worse. It is transparent and sly, but people are too gullible to see through these tricks. They love nasty stories about Cromwell.’
‘But people will ask why he despoiled these graves,’ Chaloner pointed out soothingly. ‘Then they will recall that he was a religious man, and excavating tombs was not something he—’
‘They remember him giving orders to smash churches,’ interrupted Thurloe. ‘And it is a small step from iconoclasm to desecrating tombs. Moreover, it is said that he emptied these grand mausoleums to make room for his own body when the time came – that it was not his corpse the Royalists dragged out to be mutilated, but some long-dead monarch’s, which was ousted from its own resting place and shoved in his more modest sarcophagus.’
‘I half wish that were true. It would have a certain irony.’
Thurloe smiled at last. ‘It would, although you had better not say so to anyone else. But we have discussed my worries long enough. Do you want to tell me why you must visit Newgate? I know how you feel about prisons, so I imagine it is not something you undertake lightly.’
‘Sinon,’ replied Chaloner, to see whether the word meant anything to his friend.
‘The conspiracy to steal the crown jewels,’ replied Thurloe promptly, thus proving that the affair was not as confidential as the Earl and Sir William Compton believed. ‘But it has been foiled, and the would-be villains are incarcerated in the Tower.’
‘In Newgate,’ corrected Chaloner. ‘It is common knowledge then? I was told it was a secret.’
‘There is no such thing, not when the Privy Council leaks its business like an old boot. France, Denmark, Sweden and Russia have all hired spies to monitor our dealings with the Dutch, but they could have saved their money. All they need do is listen to street gossip. Of course, it explains why no headway has been made on the peace talks.’
‘It does?’ asked Chaloner, bemused.
Thurloe nodded. ‘It is obvious that a foreign intelligencer is at work, listening to these rumours, and using them to sabotage progress. We would have reached some agreement by now, otherwise.’
‘There are high hopes that advances will be made on Sunday, at the convention in the Savoy.’
‘High hopes from the doves,’ corrected Thurloe. ‘The hawks want it to flounder.’
Chaloner was sure he was right, but discussing politics was not helping his enquiries. ‘What else have you heard about Sinon?’ he asked.
‘Just that three men plotted to steal the crown jewels, but were thwarted. Efforts were made to keep the matter quiet, because there was fear of a public outcry. But such concerns are ridiculous.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it assumes people care. They might have done four years ago, when the King first returned to London, but his debauched, corrupt Court has turned them against him. Are you going to Newgate to speak to these would-be thieves? Why? Presumably, they confessed to their crime?’
‘I am not sure whether they confessed or not. Williamson did most of the investigating …’
‘I share your distrust of my successor’s abilities, but I imagine he would have been thorough in a case like this. He will want to know whether it might have succeeded, for a start – his would be the first head to roll, if the plot had been successful.’
‘Hanse sewed two messages in his stockings. They were “Sinon” and “Visit Newgate”. There is nothing to say they are connected to his death, but …’
‘I imagine they are. Even I, with all my informants, did not know the Sinon plotters are in Newgate. Yet Hanse did. You are right to secure an interview with them.’
‘He met four men in the Sun tavern,’ Chaloner went on. ‘They included a cleric, a gentleman, someone fat and sweaty, and a medical man with a birth-stain on his neck.’
‘Wiseman might be able to advise you about the medical man.’
Chaloner smiled. It was a good suggestion, and a good way forward.
Chaloner’s restless night had left him drained and woolly-headed, so he went to the Rainbow Coffee House on Fleet Street, hoping a dish of the toxic beverage would serve to sharpen his wits.
Already, the streets were swelteringly airless and tempers were frayed. A horse had dropped dead in its traces outside St Dunstan-in-the-West, blocking the passage of traffic. No one was inclined to help the bereft carter haul the carcass out of the way, but no one wanted to stand around while he fetched his family to do it, either. Furious yells were traded, then punches started to swing. Chalo
ner dodged around the mêlée, scrambled over the hapless nag and continued on his way.
He reached the Rainbow with relief. It was owned and run by a man named Thomas Farr, an opinionated individual with views on everything, from fashion and current affairs, to music and science. That morning, he was telling his patrons about a series of terrible infernos in Amsterdam, which had coincided with a ‘blazing star’ that had passed over the city like a pillar of fire.
‘God created all these portents, as a sign that they will lose the war we are going to have with them,’ he concluded, as Chaloner sank on to a bench, grateful to be out of the sun.
‘How do you know what God was saying?’ asked Joseph Thompson, rector of St Dunstan-in-the-West. He was sitting next to a fellow cleric – Edward White, the amiable vicar who had married Hannah and Chaloner in St Margaret’s Church. ‘It might be a sign that they are going to win.’
There was a shocked intake of breath, and Chaloner reached for the most recent newsbook. He usually ignored such discussions, on the grounds that the participants rarely knew what they were talking about. That day was a good example. He had been in Amsterdam when the conflagrations had started, but they had been caused by careless servants. And the blazing star had been a meteorite shower, like many others he had seen on clear nights.
‘The Dutch will never win,’ declared Farr. ‘Incidentally, did you hear what happened at Charing Cross last night? Two patriots cornered a couple of cheese-eaters, but three traitors rescued them.’
‘But the patriots fought very bravely,’ said Fabian Stedman, a young printer, who always seemed to be in the Rainbow; Chaloner wondered whether he ever went to work. ‘And one villain was stabbed so badly that his arm was virtually severed. He slunk away with his tail between his legs.’
Casually, Chaloner tugged his sleeve down over the bandage, marvelling at the way facts could become so distorted within such a short space of time.
‘You cannot slink anywhere if your arm is hanging off,’ argued Rector Thompson pedantically. ‘So I am inclined to doubt the veracity of this tale.’
Stedman ignored him. ‘London’s surgeons have been ordered to report any such injuries to Spymaster Williamson, so I am sure the villain will be caught.’
‘And when he is, I shall pay him a visit,’ said Farr darkly. ‘With a cudgel and several like-minded friends. I am not alone in thinking we do not need Judases in our midst.’
‘No!’ cried White, appalled. ‘You cannot go around attacking people! We have courts of law to deal with these matters.’
‘Traitors do not deserve courts of law,’ Farr flashed back. ‘And there is treason afoot, because Clarendon’s papers were stolen by a Dutchman. That is an act of war, as far as I am concerned.’
‘The thief’s name was William Hands,’ supplied Stedman confidently. ‘But he is murdered, by all accounts. Some say Ambassador von Gauche killed him, for not being sly enough.’
‘Van Goch,’ corrected White quietly. ‘And the poor man who died was named Willem Hanse. He was said to have been an honourable, decent fellow, wholly dedicated to peace.’
‘Then he is a villain!’ declared Farr. ‘Because peace will damage England. I want war, and I am looking forward to slitting a few Dutch throats. Especially men like this Hands.’
Chaloner could bear it no more. ‘There is a report in the newsbooks that the hot weather will cause a shortage of peas later in the year,’ he blurted. Then he winced. It was hardly a subtle way of changing the subject, and a startled silence followed his announcement.
‘Peas?’ asked Thompson eventually, regarding Chaloner as though he had just sprouted horns. ‘Why should we care about peas? I do not even like them.’
‘I do,’ said Stedman, somewhat provocatively. ‘And a shortage of them will be terrible. I imagine the Dutch brought some sort of pea-plague with them, and—’
‘No,’ said White, shocked. ‘You cannot blame diseased peas on the Dutch. They are—’
‘We are not discussing peas,’ interrupted Farr firmly. ‘Not in my coffee house. I forbid it.’
‘Well, I do not want to talk about lynching Dutchmen,’ countered White. ‘It is unchristian.’
‘Let us chat about blackmail instead, then,’ said Farr, after a moment of consideration. ‘I heard several courtiers have been victims – money demanded in exchange for silence about unsavoury doings. What do you say, Bates? You are a Court man. What can you tell us about it?’
Chaloner had not noticed Hannah’s sad-eyed friend sitting at the far end of the room. Bates did not often grace the Rainbow with his presence, and Chaloner suspected that when he did, it reminded him how acrimonious the company could be, driving him away again.
‘Nothing,’ squeaked Bates, when all eyes turned towards him.
‘You must know something,’ pressed Farr, impatiently. ‘You are at White Hall all day, and we all know it is a great place for gossip. Come on, man. Tell us! We can keep a secret.’
‘No,’ said Bates. He stood hastily, upsetting his coffee dish. The spilled liquid slid across the table in a malignant black streak. ‘I know nothing.’
He aimed for the door, jostling people in his haste. Farr watched him go in astonishment, although Stedman, White and Thompson were already on another debate, and did not notice.
‘The King is not corrupt,’ Stedman was saying fiercely. ‘Some of his courtiers could benefit from acquiring a few morals, but White Hall is far more ethical than it was in Cromwell’s time.’
‘I beg to differ,’ said Thompson stiffly. ‘At least Cromwell and his ministers went to church. This Privy Council does not bother.’
‘Perhaps they are bored with long-winded sermons,’ Stedman shot back.
Chaloner stopped listening. He opened the newsbook, and settled down to read an account of the Spanish ambassador’s recent holiday in Rome, which was the government’s idea of keeping its people abreast of international affairs.
It was not long before the coffee began to have an effect. Chaloner’s weariness diminished, and his heart began to beat faster. He folded the newsbook, paid for the coffee and left Farr, Stedman, White and Thompson debating whether going hatless in the sun was dangerous. He was surprised when Bates emerged from an alley as he stepped outside, and indicated that he wanted to talk.
‘Hannah told me you frequent the Rainbow,’ he said softly. ‘Of a morning.’
‘Did she?’ asked Chaloner, wishing she had not. It was dangerous for a spy’s haunts to be known, and he disliked the fact that she talked about him to men he barely knew.
Bates nodded. ‘So I have been waiting for you. I need to talk to you about something, but I could not go to your house, because I do not want our meeting witnessed.’
Chaloner gestured around him. ‘Then why accost me here, on a busy public thoroughfare?’
Bates looked stricken, so Chaloner beckoned him down Hercules’ Pillars Alley, a lane named for the tavern that stood on the corner. About halfway down was a large house with a paved courtyard, separated from the road by railings. The shutters were closed, and there was no sign of life. It was Temperance North’s gentleman’s club, and at that hour in the morning, its owner and her ladies were in bed, sleeping off the excesses of the previous night. Chaloner stepped into the shadows created by a little willow tree, and pulled Bates after him.
‘How can I help you?’ he asked.
Bates swallowed hard, and would not meet Chaloner’s eyes. ‘I hate Kicke,’ he whispered. ‘He has set lustful eyes on my wife, and woos her with silvery words. Ann is weakening fast.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said Chaloner, although it went through his mind that most women would probably prefer the handsome, confident Kicke to poor Bates.
‘It is wicked that he was allowed to wriggle free of the charges brought against him,’ Bates went on bitterly. ‘And I wanted you to know that I wholeheartedly support what you did in the park.’
‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner, wondering where the disc
ussion was going.
‘I spend a lot of time in the Spares Gallery,’ Bates blundered on. ‘The place where courtiers go to relax, or for refreshments.’
‘Yes, I have seen you.’
Bates gave his sad smile. ‘No one else has. They forget I am there, and I hear things. So if you decide to tackle Kicke again, come to me first. I know a lot about what goes on in White Hall. But more importantly, I know how and where to get written evidence for some of it.’
Chaloner regarded him warily. ‘I have no idea what you are trying to tell me.’
‘I am volunteering my help, should you decide to bring him down a second time,’ hissed Bates, a little desperately. ‘I am not bold enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with you wielding a sword, but I know where to find documents.’
Chaloner was still none the wiser. ‘Are you saying that you know something detrimental about Kicke and Nisbett? And that there is a written record of it?’
Bates winced. ‘No. If there were, I would have made sure copies were left lying around for the right people to “discover”. But I know how to locate deeds of ownership, and I know who goes where and when. I may be able to unearth witnesses if you catch Kicke stealing again.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, sorry for him. He knew what it was like to feel powerless in the face of overwhelming odds. But he doubted Bates’s ‘help’ would be much use. It sounded precarious at best, and smacked of contrivance at worst.
The sun was blazing as Chaloner trudged towards the Savoy to ask what Killigrew knew of Hanse’s drinking habits. He was not the only one to be travelling at half his normal speed. Horses plodded with drooping heads, and street vendors could barely summon the energy to push their carts. Everywhere, people had shed clothes in an effort to stay cool, and burned skin was in abundance, from the blistered pate of a hatless merchant to the scarlet shoulders of a baker’s lad.
Chaloner wandered to the river in search of a cooling breeze, but the air around the Thames was as still and sultry as the rest of the city. Moreover, the rubbish that had been dumped in the water when the tide was coming in was now oozing back downstream. Some of it would reach the sea, but the lack of rain had rendered the great stream sluggish, and most of it was likely to revisit the city yet again later.
The Body in the Thames: Chaloner's Sixth Exploit in Restoration London (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 12
