The Body in the Thames: Chaloner's Sixth Exploit in Restoration London (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner)
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‘How many times?’ asked Chaloner.
Kun shook his head helplessly. ‘I really could not say. A dozen, perhaps. He was braver than the rest of us – he did not mind leaving the safety of the Savoy.’
‘And look where it took him: to an early grave,’ muttered Ruyven. He spun around suddenly as someone else approached. ‘Jacoba! What are you doing here? I thought you were lying down.’
Chaloner was sorry to see his sister-in-law looking so low. There were rings under her eyes, and her face was reddened and puffy from weeping. She came to take Chaloner’s hands.
‘Do you know yet what happened to Willem?’
‘No,’ said Ruyven, before Chaloner could reply. ‘Or he would not be asking us for clues.’
‘Then we must help him,’ said Jacoba with quiet dignity. ‘We shall sit down together – all of us – and tell him everything we know.’
It did not take Kun long to clear a table and summon everyone who had worked with Hanse. A number of people arrived to take part in the proceedings, and Ruyven’s expression was resentful as he watched them take their places.
‘Hanse was one of us,’ he said bitterly. ‘ I should be the one investigating his murder.’
‘How?’ asked Kun gently. ‘You speak no English. Besides, Heer van Goch wants Chaloner to do it. He is afraid people will take umbrage if we ask questions that look as though we are accusing them of a crime. And that will do nothing for peace.’
‘Peace!’ spat Ruyven. ‘London does not want peace! We are wasting our time here.’
‘I disagree,’ said Kun. ‘With patience and determination, we can succeed.’
‘But we have been patient and determined,’ argued Ruyven. He sounded tired and frustrated in equal measure. ‘Yet for every step forward, we take two back. We should have the basis of a treaty by now, but we have nothing. Indeed, the two sides regard each other with even greater suspicion and mistrust than ever.’
‘All that is true,’ said Kun quietly. ‘But we cannot give up while there is still hope – and there is hope. Sunday evening’s convention will see progress made.’
‘And butter grows on trees,’ muttered Ruyven. ‘We should just declare war and be done with it.’
‘He was fond of Willem,’ Jacoba whispered in Chaloner’s ear, as Ruyven slouched away to take a seat as far from Chaloner as possible. ‘And it is grief that makes him angry. Take no notice of his sour remarks. He does not mean to offend.’
Ruyven had never been good at controlling his temper, Chaloner thought, recalling their old rivalry over Aletta. He started to make a noncommittal reply, but the light caught Jacoba’s face in such a way that the resemblance to her sister was uncanny, and the words died in his throat. He was startled, confused and unsettled. Desperate to escape emotions he could not begin to understand, he dragged his attention back to Kun’s little assembly.
The men who sat around the table were all sober, serious fellows from good families, who had been hand-picked to accompany van Goch on his frantic mission for peace. Some were lawyers or clerks, and others were experts in English affairs or talented negotiators. All were said to be committed to negotiating a truce.
But were they? Ruyven made no secret of his preference for war, and there were bound to be others who felt the same. Had one of them killed Hanse for his fervent commitment to peace? The Savoy was on the banks of the Thames, so it would be easy to deliver a well-timed elbow when the tide was running fast and deep.
‘Could Hanse swim?’ Chaloner winced, realising he should have phrased the question more subtly. Fortunately, no one seemed to guess why he had asked it.
‘I think so,’ said Kun, frowning. ‘It was not something we ever discussed.’
‘He could not,’ replied Ruyven. He shrugged when everyone looked at him. ‘Amsterdam is full of canals, and I once asked what he would do if he fell in one. He did like a drink on occasion.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Zas, while Chaloner wondered whether it was significant that Ruyven should know Hanse would be unable to save himself once in water.
‘That he only ever imbibed when the tide was out.’ Ruyven looked sheepish. ‘I was not sure if he was joking. It was often difficult to tell with him.’
‘Did he have friends in London?’ asked Chaloner. He had never had any problems understanding Hanse’s dry wit: his brother-in-law had been amusing himself at Ruyven’s expense. ‘Other than the people here at the Savoy?’
‘Well, there was you,’ muttered Ruyven.
‘He knew no one,’ replied Kun, ignoring him. ‘Like all of us, he was a stranger here. And he did not try to make new acquaintances, because it is not safe to go out socialising. As last night showed.’
‘He did not even know you were in London until you met in White Hall,’ added Zas.
‘But he was delighted,’ said Jacoba softly. ‘He always was fond of you.’
Chaloner returned to Hanse’s excursions. ‘You said he was obliged to visit Westminster several times. How did he travel there? By coach?’
‘Yes, always,’ replied Zas. ‘But in the evenings, when his work was done, he liked to walk around the city.’
‘He enjoyed shopping for stockings,’ explained Kun. An expression of great sadness suffused his face. ‘He was generous with them, too. He often gave them as gifts to his friends.’
‘He did,’ agreed Zas. ‘Although, I looked in the ones he gave me, but there was no secret message sewn in them, as Jacoba said there was in yours, Chaloner.’
‘Nor in mine,’ added Kun, while all around the table there were similar denials.
‘He bought a lot of stockings,’ said Jacoba in a choked voice. ‘He was writing a book about them, you know. They were his passion.’
For several moments, the only sounds in the Brown Room were her broken sobs. Ruyven shot Chaloner a furious glare, making it clear he blamed him for her distress. Chaloner supposed he was, and resumed his questions quickly, eager to bring her ordeal to an end.
‘How late did Hanse return from these evening jaunts?’
‘Usually before sunset,’ replied Zas. ‘But not always. I noticed him returning quite late once or twice, and I told him it was not a good idea.’
‘So did I,’ added another man. ‘God only knows where he went.’
‘He loved long summer evenings,’ explained Kun, while Chaloner wondered why this had not been mentioned when Hanse had first gone missing. ‘You said it was half-past eight when you left him, so there would have been daylight left. He hated retiring early, so perhaps he did go for a walk after you parted ways.’
Chaloner stared at him. If Hanse had been in the habit of wandering around after dark, then his murder took on a whole new dimension. Perhaps his being a foreigner, with secret messages about the Sinon Plot sewn in his hose, was irrelevant, and he was just the victim of a common robbery. Or the victim of someone who did not like Hollanders.
‘Did any of you accompany him on these evening rambles?’ he asked. ‘Or follow him, to see where he went?’
‘No, of course not!’ said Ruyven indignantly. ‘We do not spy on each other.’
‘He valued his privacy,’ added Zas. ‘We all have our own way of relaxing, and solitary evening rambles were his. Obviously, with hindsight, we should have stopped him. But what is the rationale behind this particular line of questioning?’
Chaloner saw no reason not to enlighten them. ‘He was seen meeting four men on a regular basis in a tavern –– a cleric, a surgeon, a gentleman and a fat, sweaty fellow. They are—’
‘So this quartet killed him?’ pounced Ruyven eagerly. ‘Why did you not tell us you had solved the case? Who are they? Give me their names.’
‘I do not know them yet. But there is nothing to say they harmed him. On the contrary, the meetings sounded amiable. They were friends.’
‘But he had no friends besides us,’ objected Ruyven, while all around the table, his countrymen concurred. So did Jacoba. ‘We would have known.’
‘No,’ said Kun, accompanied by a chorus of denials from everyone else. ‘But Sinon was the original traitor, of Trojan horse fame. What does he have to do with Hanse?’
‘I am not sure,’ said Chaloner, loath to furnish explanations. ‘It is just an avenue of—’
‘I hope you are not suggesting Hanse was a traitor,’ said Ruyven, rather dangerously. ‘Because if you are, I shall defend his honour with my sword.’
‘No!’ cried Jacoba, dismayed. ‘Stop it! Willem is gone. Is that not enough? Why do men always insist on resolving everything with blood? Well, I will not have it!’
Kun rested a fatherly hand on her shoulder. ‘There will be no fighting, Jacoba. Moreover, if these witnesses are telling the truth, then Chaloner is right to question our understanding of the man we thought we knew. So, I suggest we all go away and review our exchanges with Hanse. Perhaps, with hindsight, something will come to mind that will answer these questions.’
It was a good idea, and the meeting broke up with everyone – even Ruyven – agreeing to do as Kun suggested.
Chapter 5
As Chaloner emerged from the Brown Room with Jacoba clinging tearfully to his arm, he found Sergeant Taacken waiting for him.
‘The ambassador wants to see you,’ he said. ‘Would you mind sparing him a few moments? His other visitors are on the verge of leaving.’
Chaloner did mind, because he had a lot to do. He scrabbled around for an excuse. ‘I have—’
‘Do not slight him, Tom,’ begged Jacoba. ‘There are only so many insults from your countrymen he can be expected to endure. Besides, he will need to meet someone decent after two hours with Buckingham, Downing and Lady Castlemaine.’
Reluctantly, Chaloner followed her to the chamber that Killigrew had decked out as a State Room for his Dutch guests. He had not done a very good job. A few paintings had been mounted on the plain white walls, but they were so variable in size, theme and quality that it looked as though he had just had a quick scout around his domain and grabbed whatever was to hand. Meanwhile, the rugs were such a wild assortment of shapes and colours that they made the place look untidy, and the banners hanging from the rafters were mostly Swedish.
When Jacoba and Chaloner arrived, the State Room was busy. There were pages to conduct van Goch’s guests out, valets to carry their hats, and an army of minions to open doors and form a guard of honour. Chaloner hung back, having no wish to exchange words with the haughty trio, especially Downing. He pretended to inspect the pictures as they approached, so as to keep them from seeing his face, although he could not help but hear what they were saying to each other.
‘This looming conflict is of your own making,’ Downing admonished the ambassador. ‘Your sailors started it, by being offended when our ships do not salute them at sea.’
‘The terms of our previous treaty stipulate that we dip our flags to English vessels,’ said van Goch tiredly. ‘And we do. Would it cost so much to return the courtesy? To acknowledge us by dropping your own pennants in return? It seems a small price to pay for peace between our nations.’
‘But do we want peace?’ asked Buckingham provocatively. ‘Our countries have been at loggerheads for years now. Perhaps we should just battle it out, and let the best side win.’
‘Perhaps you and I could make a little peace, Heer van Goch,’ suggested Lady Castlemaine with a sultry smile. She was walking at his side, rather closer than was socially acceptable.
‘I want peace with all your countrymen, madam,’ replied van Goch, edging away. ‘Not just you.’
She ran her fingers down his sleeve. ‘Yes, but none of them desire it as much as I do. Perhaps we should go somewhere private, and discuss terms. With wine. I hear you keep a fine cellar.’
Van Goch tried to distance himself a second time, but she caught his arm in a way that meant he could not do so without using force – which would be unwise with Buckingham and Downing watching. Defeated, he submitted to her mauling, although it was clear he was uncomfortable.
‘She is trying to seduce him, in the hope that it will make him concede detrimental terms,’ whispered Jacoba to Chaloner. ‘She does it every time she comes, although I imagine it is Buckingham’s idea.’
Not necessarily, thought Chaloner: the Lady had an eye for attractive men, and van Goch was unquestionably handsome. Rich, too, which was always a consideration where she was concerned.
‘We are wasting our time here,’ said Downing, regarding the ambassador with undisguised disdain. ‘You have no intention of listening to our demands.’
‘I will listen to reasonable suggestions,’ countered van Goch, taking the opportunity to dislodge the Lady when both Buckingham and Downing turned their backs on him. ‘But demands have no place in any negotiations. We are none of us barbarians, gentlemen.’
‘I am not so sure about that,’ Jacoba whispered. ‘Downing is crude and brutal. Willem told me you were in his service for five years in The Hague. I cannot imagine how you bore it.’
Nor could Chaloner. He pretended to inspect the paintings again as the entourage moved closer. Lady Castlemaine and Buckingham sailed past him without a second glance, but Downing’s roving eye was drawn by Jacoba’s pale loveliness. And then he saw who was next to her.
‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed. ‘Consorting with the friends you cultivated in The Hague, so you can pass them information detrimental to your own country?’
Jacoba spoke poor English, but she had understood the first question. She replied in Dutch, of which Downing owned a smattering, drawing herself up to her full height to address him icily.
‘He is here to see me, sir. My husband died on Friday, and Thomas has been very kind.’
Desire flashed in Downing’s eyes as he looked her up and down. ‘My condolences, madam,’ he said in English, all oily charm. ‘But I doubt there is much he can do to alleviate your suffering. I, however, have considerable experience in such matters, and I have taken a house overlooking St James’s Park. If you visit me there, I am sure a little frolic will take your mind off—’
‘You low dog,’ interrupted Chaloner, unable to help himself. ‘Stay away from her.’
‘Or what?’ sneered Downing. ‘I will have to account to you? I could crush you like a worm.’
‘Come, Tom,’ said Jacoba, regarding the envoy with loathing. She had understood little of what had been said, but Downing’s open lust had told her all she needed to know. ‘Heer van Goch will see you now.’
Unwilling to draw attention to himself with a scene, Chaloner started to do as she asked, but Downing had other ideas. Offended by Jacoba’s disdain, he lashed out at an easier victim.
‘I enjoyed your tale about spying on Grand Pensionary de Witt, Chaloner,’ he said loudly. Several people turned to listen. ‘You broke into his bedchamber, stole his secret papers, and had them all back again before he woke.’
Chaloner’s stomach lurched, although he was careful to keep the alarm from his face. It was bad enough that Downing had shared the story with Williamson, but to bray it in a Dutch embassy was madness itself. Did he want them both arrested? Because if Chaloner was taken, Downing’s own role in the affair would quickly be exposed, regardless of what his old spy might or might not reveal under questioning.
‘You are mistaken.’ Chaloner spoke with a lightness he did not feel. ‘I was in Middleburg when all that happened. You sent me there to deliver letters, and I still have the receipts to prove it.’
Or rather, Thurloe did. The ex-Spymaster had taken to organising alibis for his intelligencers when dispatched on especially dangerous missions. It was partly for their protection, but also for England’s, so she could be ready with a denial if things went wrong.
Downing glowered, hi
s temper up. ‘I am not mistaken. It was you that I …’
‘Me that you ordered to invade de Witt’s privacy?’ Chaloner smiled. ‘You should watch what you say, Sir George. I doubt many people here think that incident was amusing, and may not know that you are in jest when you claim you were behind it.’
Downing leaned towards him, eyes glittering with thwarted fury. ‘You think you can best me with your lies and twisted words,’ he hissed. ‘But you cannot. I will have my revenge.’
Jacoba watched him stalk away. ‘Did he just accuse you of raiding Grand Pensionary de Witt’s documents, and passing his secrets to Cromwell?’
Chaloner nodded, aware that a servant was translating the altercation for Ruyven. De Witt had vowed to execute the culprit, should he ever be caught, and Ruyven would no doubt be delighted to see his old rival shot. Downing’s attempt to see Chaloner in trouble might succeed yet.
Jacoba scowled at the envoy’s retreating back. ‘He is a revolting man, and it is not the first time he has made nasty accusations against the innocent. I cannot imagine why your King chose him to be a diplomat, because tact and charm are anathema to him.’
Chaloner had often wondered the same thing, and could only suppose that Downing had managed to blackmail His Majesty in some way. And blackmailed Cromwell before him, too.
Van Goch had slumped wearily on a large leather chair at the end of the State Room, looking drained and disconsolate. A man dressed in black stood behind him, and was whispering in his ear. There was something odd about the fellow – about the intensity of his gaze – but he had a pleasant enough face. He stepped back when Jacoba approached, Chaloner in tow.
‘De Buat reads lips,’ said van Goch, acknowledging Chaloner’s bow, then indicating the man behind him with a wave of his hand. ‘And he just told me what Downing said to you. We searched a long time for the fellow who burgled de Witt, but eventually decided one of his staff was responsible – had sold our secrets for money. Downing chose a very sensitive matter about which to joke.’