Despite the squalor, children shrieked and whooped in the shallows, splashing each other and taking turns to clamber aboard a makeshift raft. It threatened to capsize at every jump, eliciting excited laughter. Chaloner was tempted to cool his feet at the water’s edge, but came to his senses when several lumps of sewage and a dead cat drifted past. When the clocks struck nine, he sighed, and made his way back towards The Strand.
A rabid Puritan minister named Preacher Hill was bawling doom-laden prophecies in the street. ‘God will not let it rain again until we have declared war on the Dutch,’ he hollered.
Hill earned his daily bread by working in Temperance’s brothel as a doorman, and Chaloner had never liked him. Several people nodded agreement with his declaration, although most were so used to being regaled with diatribes as they went about their business that his words did not register.
‘War is His will,’ Hill raved on. ‘He will strengthen our arms and sharpen our swords. We must drive the cheese-eaters off the oceans, and wrest their trade routes away from them. And then we shall all be rich, which will be God’s reward for doing what He wants.’
Chaloner doubted the likes of Hill would grow fat from ousting the Dutch from the high seas, because any profit would go directly into the pockets of a few powerful merchants. He skirted around him, wondering what hope van Goch had, when even the lowliest citizen howled for war.
He smiled when he saw three familiar figures walking towards him.
‘What a dreadful man!’ exclaimed Griffith, regarding Hill in distaste. Bulteel was next to him, and Lane was a few diffident paces behind. ‘His strident voice pains the ears.’
‘You were not at the church this morning, Tom,’ said Bulteel. ‘You said you would be there for the singing, and I was worried when you did not appear.’
‘I forgot,’ replied Chaloner, and wished he had not. Listening to the Chapel Royal Choir might have made up for him not playing his viol. ‘Did you go? I thought you did not like music.’
‘I detest it,’ said Bulteel. ‘But Griffith says I should acquire an appreciation, and if learning to like a largo is the cost of my admission to high society, then I shall persevere. And I will succeed. How can I not, when my future success and happiness depend on it?’
Chaloner regarded him worriedly, hoping he would not be too disappointed when his labours did not bring him the adulation he anticipated. Mentally, he cursed the Earl, whose callous indifference was likely to have been the catalyst for Bulteel’s sudden display of determined ambition.
Griffith smiled fondly. ‘Good. Because you cannot charm White Hall into submission until you are conversant with all the finer things in life. I hope you will remember my lessons after I leave, cousin, because I would not like all this hard work to be wasted.’
Chaloner looked at Griffith. ‘Are you leaving?’
‘I think I must. London is so dirty. Lane is for ever wiping soot from my clothes.’
‘I told you to stay in my Chelsey house,’ said Bulteel, a little vindictively. ‘I said Westminster would prove too grubby for your elevated tastes.’
Griffith flapped the lace. ‘Yes, but you did not warn me that London’s summers are so wretchedly hot, and I yearn for the cool, green hills of home.’
‘Where is your home?’ asked Chaloner politely.
‘Buckinghamshire. A lovely place called Great Hampden. And you?’
Chaloner smiled. ‘Steeple Claydon. You must know it, because it is not far from Great Hamp—’
‘You have never told me where you were born,’ interrupted Bulteel, stung. ‘And we are supposed to be friends. Yet you confide in my cousin within a few days of meeting him.’
Chaloner regarded him in surprise. ‘You have never asked me where—’
‘Yes, I have,’ declared Bulteel. ‘But as I have been under the impression that you hail from Guiseborough, you must have lied to me!’
Chaloner rarely fabricated that sort of detail, because there was too great a danger that the truth would out in an embarrassingly awkward manner, such as had happened when Clarendon had cheerfully informed Hanse that his brother-in-law’s real name was something else entirely.
‘My uncle came from Guiseborough,’ he said. ‘You must be thinking of him.’
‘I most certainly am not,’ declared Bulteel coolly. ‘He was a regicide, and not fit to bear the same name as you. But let us talk of happier things. Have you caught Hanse’s killer yet?’
‘I heard he liked to drink in taverns,’ said Griffith, while Chaloner wondered why Bulteel should consider murder a ‘happier’ subject. ‘With friends.’
‘Really?’ asked Bulteel. ‘I have not been told that particular tale.’
‘Because you do not move in the right circles, cousin,’ explained Griffith loftily. ‘Not yet, at least. I heard it from members of the Privy Council, when I happened to be in the Spares Gallery. I usually visit the place when I know it is graced by persons of quality.’
‘Why were they talking about Hanse?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Because they had just learned of his death, and were telling each other what they knew of him. They did not know the names of these friends, though. And I did ask, knowing you are looking into the matter. All they could tell me was that they were local men, not Dutch.’
‘How did they know that?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.
‘Their clothes. Dutch fashions are plainer and duller than our own. In fact, you could be a Hollander, given your preference for muted colours and a sorry lack of lace. No insult intended.’
Chaloner supposed he would have to let Hannah loose on his wardrobe, because it was not a good idea to be thought of as a foreigner.
‘Lane, fetch me a cup of wine from that tavern, will you?’ said Griffith, holding his hand to his head dramatically. ‘My throat is so clogged with dust, I can scarcely breathe.’
‘I want one, too,’ said Bulteel, then sighed irritably when it became obvious that Lane was not going to oblige. A sulky expression suffused his face as he followed the servant to the alehouse. When they were alone, Griffith turned to Chaloner and spoke softly.
‘If it is all the same to you, I would sooner keep my role in last night’s skirmish quiet. I do not want to be lynched because I went to those Hollanders’ rescue.’
‘You did not go to their rescue,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Lane did.’
‘Yes, and I have berated him soundly for it,’ said Griffith disagreeably. ‘He had no business rushing into such a situation without my consent, and I would dismiss him if I had a suitable replacement. And I did do my part last night, by the way – I am not a coward. I drew my sword.’
‘Yes, you did,’ acknowledged Chaloner, seeing he had hurt the man’s feelings. ‘I understand your reluctance to be associated with the matter. So am I. But we were recognised. Buckingham—’
‘I have asked for his discretion,’ interrupted Griffith, flailing furiously at a fly that had developed an interest in the pastes that gave his face its fashionable pallor.
‘And you trust him to give it?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.
‘Yes. I promised him a length of fine silk for a new waistcoat if he forgot about the matter, and I believe he is sufficiently bribed.’
‘But he was in company with several members of the Privy Council, while Brodrick is—’
‘They were more interested in chasing commoners. Besides, I met them in Temperance North’s bordello later, and it was clear they did not connect me with the “villains” who defended the Dutch. And you were deeper in the shadows than I.’
‘Then what about the masked men?’ persisted Chaloner. ‘They saw us very clearly.’
‘They were masked,’ said Griffith acidly. ‘That means they do not want to be identified, so they are hardly likely to break cover by pointing fingers at us, are they!’
Chaloner was tempted to tell him who they were, but held his tongue. It was better to leave matters as they were. Kicke and Nisbett would soon do something else to
disgrace themselves, and thus bring about their own downfall. He turned as Bulteel came back.
‘We are going to Rotherhithe, to pick cherries,’ the secretary said, wiping his lips on his sleeve as he watched Lane present the wine to Griffith. ‘Clarendon is lending us his second-best carriage.’
Chaloner was astonished. The Earl was not noted for his generosity, and he could not imagine why his largesse should so suddenly be extended to Bulteel. The secretary saw his reaction.
‘All right – he is not lending it to me,’ he said bitterly, as Griffith took a sip of the claret, then went through an elaborate series of gags to demonstrate it was anathema to his refined palate. ‘He is lending it to my cousin, whom he says is a real gentleman. When I become one, too, do you think he will be sorry for treating me so shabbily all these years?’
‘He might,’ said Chaloner, although without conviction.
When they had gone, Chaloner walked the short distance to the Savoy. He was just girding himself up to talk his way through the gamut of guards on the gates, when Killigrew emerged.
‘Lord!’ the Master of the Hospital exclaimed. ‘What a night! After that tedious music in the park, I felt the need for something more stimulating, so I dropped off the wife, and went to Temperance’s club. I was only there an hour, but when I came back, everyone acted as though I had been gone for a week! How was I to know I would be needed?’
‘Why?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. ‘What had happened?’
‘Kun and Zas were attacked by a mob. Well, it was their own fault. They should have stayed in the Savoy, not gone gallivanting around after dark.’
‘I imagine they had no choice. They were invited by the King, and refusing would not have furthered the cause of peace.’
Killigrew glared. ‘You argue their case? What are you, some kind of rebel?’
‘No! But it is not—’
‘Word is that Lady Castlemaine was behind the attack,’ interrupted Killigrew, waving a hand that said Chaloner’s explanation was of no interest to him. ‘She denies it, of course. But it was her driver who took their carriage into a ditch, then ran off when a rabble converged.’
‘Why would she do something like that?’
‘Because the King is a member of the Company of Royal Adventurers Trading to Africa,’ explained Killigrew. ‘And the Adventurers stand to profit enormously if certain shipping routes can be wrested from the Dutch. Obviously, it is in her interests to provoke a war.’
‘I see.’ Chaloner was disgusted, but not surprised. He caught Killigrew’s arm as the Master of the Savoy turned to leave. ‘The Lord Chancellor has charged me to look into Hanse’s death, and I have been told that you noticed he went out alone a lot.’
‘Every two or three days. He said he liked to browse the markets for stockings, but I suspect it was an excuse to get into a tavern. Old Hanse liked a drink, and I saw him in the Sun at least twice.’
‘On his own?’
‘No, but I cannot tell you who was with him – I did not really look at them, although they all left very quickly after I wished him good evening. Almost as if they were sorry I had spotted them.’
‘You think they were doing something untoward?’
‘With Hanse? I doubt it! He was a nice fellow. For a Dutchman.’
‘Are you sure you cannot recall who was with him? Not even a vague description?’
‘No. It is dark in that tavern.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything, no matter how insignificant it may seem?’
‘You sound desperate,’ said Killigrew with a smirk. ‘Of course, I know why. A lot of people want to know who murdered Hanse, so the pressure on you to solve the crime must be immense. Moreover, you could destroy the peace talks if you produce a culprit who proves to be controversial – whether he is a Hollander or an Englishman. I would not be in your shoes for a kingdom.’
‘Is that so,’ said Chaloner shortly. He was beginning to dislike Killigrew.
‘And whatever you discover is unlikely to satisfy Ruyven,’ Killigrew prattled on. ‘He would like to investigate himself, but he has no English. And if he tried to interrogate me, I would give him short shrift – I cannot abide the fellow. But there is one snippet you may find interesting. My wife Judith mentioned something …’
‘Yes?’ asked Chaloner impatiently, when Killigrew hesitated.
‘She said a woman was following Hanse. I thought she was imagining it, but I saw the lass myself once. Judith was right.’
‘Do you know this woman’s name?’
‘No, it was too dark to see. She might have been anyone.’
The day was passing quickly, and Chaloner had made scant headway with Hanse’s death, while he had not spared the Earl’s missing papers a single thought, other than to dismiss out of hand any notion that Hanse had had anything to do with their disappearance. So, as he was there, he decided to question the Dutch delegation about both crimes. He was admitted to the hospital by a sturdy Dutch sergeant called Taacken, a pleasant, round-faced fellow with yellow hair.
‘I shall take you to the Brown Room,’ Taacken said, as they crossed the expanse of withered grass and plants that had once been a verdant courtyard. ‘It is reserved for high-ranking members of our delegation, and is usually off-limits to foreigners, but they will not mind you.’
Chaloner stopped abruptly. The Savoy was busy, not only with Dutchmen, but with English clerks, lawyers and envoys, who had been sent to grease the wheels of diplomacy. He did not want them to see him escorted into some sensitive inner sanctum. They might assume he was a spy.
‘The Brown Room is best,’ said Taacken, when Chaloner voiced his reservations. ‘All our senior officials are there at the moment, because the ambassador is hosting a dinner in the State Room.’
‘And these senior officials are not invited?’ asked Chaloner, bemused by the information.
‘Not needed,’ corrected Taacken. ‘And none of them are eager to volunteer, because the guests are Lord Buckingham, Lady Castlemaine and Sir George Downing. Need I say more?’
Poor van Goch, thought Chaloner. Still, it was part of an ambassador’s duty to meet disagreeable people, and he was probably being well paid for it.
The Brown Room was aptly named. Its walls had been painted a dirty tan, and there were thin, coffee-coloured rugs on the floor. Pictures had been hung, but they were black with age, so it was impossible to make out what they depicted. The result was dismally drab, and Chaloner wondered whether the government’s aim was to depress the Dutch into going home early.
Kun and Zas were sitting near the door, working on a pile of documents. The elderly secretary wore a handsome suit of green silk, and his white hair was neatly trimmed. His face was pale, though, and there was a bruise under one eye. Zas wore a russet coat, and bared his foxy teeth in a welcoming smile as Chaloner approached. He had not escaped unscathed, either, and there was a graze on his chin and dried blood in his ear.
‘You saved our lives, Chaloner,’ said Kun, coming to seize his hand in tearful gratitude. ‘There was murder in the eyes of our attackers, and if you had not been there …’
‘We did not have so much as a dagger to defend ourselves,’ Zas elaborated. ‘The ambassador does not want his diplomats armed, lest it is interpreted as a hostile act.’
‘Personally, I suspect the driver broke the wheel deliberately,’ said Kun. ‘He ran away very quickly, leaving us to fend for ourselves.’ He shuddered: the incident had shaken him badly.
‘Perhaps you should not venture out again,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘London’s mood is volatile, and crowds turn quickly into mobs.’
‘Unfortunately, that is not possible, because we are expected to attend meetings and functions,’ replied Kun. ‘And to refuse might damage the negotiations. Still, we have learned our lesson. We will not be going anywhere without a proper escort again.’
‘Buckingham, Lady Castlemaine and Downing have been sent here to make amends,’ said Zas wryly. ‘Unfortuna
tely, none have offered anything remotely approaching an apology. They did bring a bribe, though, to encourage us to pretend the incident did not happen.’
‘Do you know what it was?’ asked Kun. He shook his head, torn between indignation and amusement. ‘A lot of cheese and butter! Downing even had the temerity to inform me that it is common knowledge that my countrymen will forgive anything in exchange for dairy produce.’
‘What is going on?’ came an angry voice from behind them. Chaloner had been watching Ruyven’s approach through a reflection in the window, so did not jump as the others did. The burly captain’s face was angry. ‘The Brown Room is closed to foreigners.’
‘Taacken brought him,’ explained Kun. ‘And I am glad he did, because I was in no state to thank him for helping us last night. But why did you come, Chaloner? Have you news of Hanse’s killer?’
‘Not yet. But I am trying to learn more about his life here. Will you answer some questions?’
‘We will try,’ agreed Kun. ‘But I doubt we will be of much help.’
‘Why would you think that?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Because we are always so busy. The root of the dispute between our nations lies in trade – the complex net of arrangements and treaties that have been agreed over the past few decades—’
‘And that the English have consistently broken,’ interjected Ruyven.
‘There have been infractions on both sides,’ said Kun, shooting him a warning glance. ‘And we are not here to dwell on them, but to find ways to heal the rifts.’
‘We are obliged to comb through these treaties,’ added Zas. ‘So we work from dawn to dusk, with barely a moment to spare. I know I never notice what my colleagues are doing, because I am too intent on my own work. The others are the same.’
‘You will appreciate that we are talking about hundreds of documents here,’ elaborated Kun. ‘And we did not bring copies of all of them with us. Hanse was obliged to visit Westminster several times, to inspect the ones stored there.’
The Body in the Thames: Chaloner's Sixth Exploit in Restoration London (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 13
