‘Is there?’ asked Chaloner, forcing himself to sound disinterested. He did not want Temperance to accuse him of visiting purely for the purpose of eliciting information again.
‘It is said that Hanse was different from the other Hollanders,’ Maude went on. ‘He went out alone, and he visited taverns. Kicke and that foppish Griffith had an argument about it here the other night. Kicke said Hanse was murdered by another Dutchman, but Griffith disagreed.’
‘I like Kicke,’ said Temperance warmly. ‘He is a handsome, charming man. But I cannot take to Colonel Griffith. I do not know why he bothers coming here, because he is not interested in girls.’
‘What reason did Griffith give for disagreeing with Kicke?’ Chaloner asked of Maude.
She frowned. ‘I think it was something to do with Hanse meeting Englishmen in taverns, and plotting with them. Griffith said that he was murdered for it.’
Chaloner went home after he had taken his leave of Temperance. He was tired after sleeping badly the night before, and his arm hurt. He declined to play his viol when Hannah informed him that he might do so for half an hour while she was in the kitchen, and he could not bring himself to eat the stew she had prepared. It comprised lumps of undercooked meat in a grey, watery gravy, and he felt sick just looking at it. After forcing down two mouthfuls at considerable risk to his health, he retired to bed while it was still light.
Hannah was solicitous of him the following morning, and sent out to a cookshop for a pie when he said he was hungry. He was grateful, because the stew had developed a hard plate of grease across the top, and smelled rancid.
‘You are unwell,’ said Hannah kindly. ‘You have not said a word since you woke.’
‘Willem Hanse’s funeral is today,’ said Chaloner, saying what had been on his mind since he had first opened his eyes. ‘I liked him.’
She laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘Then I shall come with you.’
‘No!’ He had not meant to sound sharp, but it would not be a good idea to bring Hannah into contact with the Dutch delegation when so many Londoners meant them harm. Moreover, he was not sure how he felt about her meeting Jacoba, either. It would be too much like introducing her to Aletta, and he was eager to keep those two parts of his life separate, although he could not have said why.
Hannah drew back, hurt. ‘I thought you would appreciate my support.’
‘I do,’ he said quickly. ‘Very much. But …’
He knew he should tell her that his first wife’s sister was in the city, and he also knew that there was no time like the present. He took a breath, but then was not sure what to say. Why did he find such matters so difficult? Surely, it could not be entirely attributable to his life as a spy? He was angry with himself, because Hannah deserved better. Moreover, he would have liked to regale her with affectionate remarks – the kind he imagined most men murmured to their wives on a regular basis. So far, he had not managed one, and his inadequacy both annoyed and exasperated him.
‘Well,’ said Hannah, when the silence had extended for some time, ‘I think I had better come. It is what spouses are expected to do, and I do not want to be seen as uncaring. You can collect me from White Hall half an hour before it starts. Now eat the pie while it is warm.’
The pie was past its best, too, because hot weather spoiled food fast. He ate a little, and tried again to tell her about Jacoba, but she interrupted with a tale about Kicke’s improper fascination with Charles Bates’s wife. He let her talk, feeling cowardly for ducking the issue.
‘The Duke has invited us to a soiree,’ said Hannah brightly, once she had exhausted the topic of the Bates’s marital hiccups. ‘A week on Monday.’
‘Oh,’ said Chaloner without enthusiasm. The Duke’s parties tended to involve a lot of drinking and lewd behaviour, and he was always surprised when Hannah enjoyed them. Moreover, there was rarely any decent music. ‘You go. I may be working.’
‘Working!’ spat Hannah in disgust. ‘That wretched Earl demands far too much of you. In fact, he sees you more than I do, and it is hardly fair. We are newly wed!’
‘Yes,’ said Chaloner. Was he being unreasonable by declining to accompany her? He decided he was, and that he should make an effort, regardless of what he thought about the Duke and his hedonistic companions. ‘But I am sure I can arrange to—’
‘Do not bother,’ said Hannah huffily. ‘I will have more fun without you.’
Chaloner had no wish to quarrel. He smiled, and tried to make amends. ‘Perhaps we could go to the theatre today. I understand Worse and Worse is playing at the Duke’s House.’
Hannah glared at him. ‘It is, and I asked you to see it with me last week. But you were too busy trying to learn who killed that dirty old spy during our wedding, so I went with Charles Bates and the Killigrews instead. I told you it was boring, but apparently, you did not listen.’
Chaloner could not recall her saying a thing about it, and supposed he had neglected to pay attention, as often happened when he was preoccupied with murder and she was prattling on about something he did not find very interesting.
‘My friends warned me that I had nothing in common with you,’ said Hannah, when there was no reply. ‘But I thought it would not matter, because we love each other. Do you think the storm at our wedding was an omen? That God was trying to tell us we were making a mistake?’
She was not the first person to suggest a supernatural significance for the events of that day: Bulteel had, too, although mostly because he had been hurt by not receiving an invitation. Chaloner had spotted him lurking by the church door, but had not understood why he had failed to join the celebrations until the situation had been explained to him the following day. He wished he had known sooner, because Hannah had invited a lot of people he did not like, and he did not see why she should have had everything her own way.
‘No, of course not,’ he said, when he saw it was one of the rare occasions when Hannah did expect an answer, and was prepared to wait until she had one. ‘It meant nothing more than that you chose a month notorious for its turbulent weather.’
‘I will be late if I stay chatting here,’ said Hannah, standing abruptly and reaching for her hat. ‘And the Queen will be wondering where I am. I will see you later. For Hanse’s funeral.’
Chaloner left Tothill Street feeling unsettled and confused, and was relieved to push Hannah to the back of his mind and consider the day ahead instead. His first task was to tackle Williamson, so he set off towards Westminster, where the Spymaster had been allocated a suite of rooms from which to conduct the sordid business of espionage. He had Oetje’s gun with him, and made sure there was a dagger in his sleeve, in his boot and in his belt. And he stopped at White Hall to collect Bulteel, too.
‘Why do you want me with you?’ asked the secretary, trotting along at his side. ‘I know nothing about murdered Dutchmen. Or about the Earl’s lost papers, although I wish I did. I worry about those.’
‘Williamson likes you,’ explained Chaloner. ‘He will be nicer to me if you are there.’
Bulteel smiled. ‘He and I do spend the odd evening together. We share a number of interests, you see, such as a dislike of music and exclusive soirees. Not that we are ever invited to any, of course. However, that will change when I complete my training with Griffith.’
‘About that,’ began Chaloner, feeling it incumbent on him as a friend to warn Bulteel that the outcome he was anticipating might not come to pass. Then he hesitated, not sure how to put it.
‘He has been working on my gait this week,’ Bulteel went on happily. ‘He says I have not quite mastered a courtly bearing yet, but urges me to practise as often as possible.’
‘Not here,’ said Chaloner hastily, as Bulteel began the bizarre mince he had affected in the Savoy the previous day. It attracted the attention of passers-by, who gazed at him warily. ‘It is better done in the privacy of your own home.’
‘Griffith said the same,’ confided Bulteel, reverting to his normal wa
lk. ‘Although I cannot imagine why. Surely, all practise is good?’
Chaloner was spared from answering when something struck him on the shoulder. Immediately, he dropped into a defensive stance, ready to repel an attack. But it was only hail. Pieces of ice the size of musket balls began to fall, and Bulteel yelped when one bounced off his head. Chaloner pulled him into the shelter of a doorway.
The hailstones grew harder and larger, causing pedestrians to scatter in alarm. A hackney driver abandoned his carriage and dived for cover in St Margaret’s Church. His passengers peered out of the windows in alarm when they heard the staccato rattle of ice-balls on the roof, and Chaloner saw they were van Goch and Kun. Ruyven was accompanying them on horseback, with several well-armed soldiers at his heels. Van Goch called an order, but it was only reluctantly that they left him and went to wait out the barrage with the driver.
‘Look!’ exclaimed Bulteel, reaching out to retrieve one of the missiles. ‘It is huge! What a pity it will melt. No one will believe us when we say it was the size of a hen’s egg.’
The flurry stopped as quickly as it had started. There was one grey cloud in an otherwise azure sky, and Chaloner wondered what had caused it to release its burden so abruptly. Doubtless the street-prophets would have answers. They always did.
‘No rain, though,’ said Bulteel. ‘And we could do with some. Are you ready to go?’
Chaloner watched Ruyven gather his troops and surround the ambassador’s coach again. The captain railed at the driver for abandoning his duties, but the man only pretended not to understand. Eventually, the cavalcade clattered away.
‘Tom,’ prompted Bulteel. ‘I cannot be gone too long, or the Earl will complain. If you want me to accompany you to Williamson’s office, then we must go now.’
Chaloner nodded assent, but they had not gone far before they were intercepted by White, the friendly, smiling vicar of St Margaret’s Church. He was not smiling that morning, however.
‘My ceiling does not cope well with this kind of weather,’ he remarked unhappily. ‘As you no doubt remember from your wedding.’
‘I do not,’ said Bulteel bitterly. ‘ I was not on the guest list. Incidentally, I heard those tales about Cromwell – how he excavated the bodies of Westminster Abbey’s dead kings, and swapped them all about. You were his chaplain at the time, so you must have seen him doing it.’
Chaloner winced. Clearly, Griffith’s lessons in gentility and tact had some way to go.
‘I assure you, there is no truth in those accusations,’ said White stiffly. ‘Cromwell was a religious man, not in the habit of despoiling graves. Good day to you both.’
Bulteel watched him stalk away. ‘Do you think I offended him?’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘You suggested that he stood by and watched while the King’s ancestors were desecrated, so yes, I would say he considers himself insulted.’
Bulteel looked crestfallen. ‘I did not mean … Oh, damn it all! Perhaps I should not have spoken.’
‘Perhaps not,’ agreed Chaloner, beginning to walk again.
Westminster was the older of the two royal palaces that stood next to each other on the west bank of the Thames. It was dominated by medieval buildings, including the abbey and the Great Hall, and was full of gothic pinnacles, spires and gracefully arched windows. Parts looked like the religious precinct it had once been, and it was populated by clerks in sober robes.
Williamson had been provided with a modest building in the cobbled expanse of New Palace Yard. As usual, uniformed guards stood outside it, wearing buff jerkins with stripy sleeves. These represented the respectable face of his operation. The less salubrious one comprised criminals from London’s gangs, who were employed when solutions were needed that broke the law.
Hoping he was not making a mistake by entering the place, Chaloner stepped past the guards, and found himself in an airy hall, where a dozen clerks laboured feverishly. The cells where Williamson conducted his interrogations were below it, reached by an ominously dark stairway. Chaloner tried not to think about them as he and Bulteel were conducted to the upper floor, where Williamson occupied a tastefully furnished office.
‘Well,’ drawled the Spymaster, leaning back in his chair as his guests were shown in. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure? I thought you went to some trouble to avoid my company.’
‘Hello, Joseph,’ said Bulteel, peering out from behind Chaloner with a mischievous grin. He looked around. ‘So this is where you work. It is lovely! Far nicer than my vile little office.’
Williamson understood immediately why Bulteel had been brought. He nodded an affable greeting to the secretary, but the moment Bulteel went to admire the view from the window and could not see him, his expression turned hard and dangerous.
‘There is no need for insurances when you deal with me, Chaloner,’ he said, making it perfectly clear that there was. ‘You need not be afraid.’
‘There,’ said Bulteel, turning to smile. ‘You see? I told you there was nothing to fear.’
A shadow glided soundlessly through the door and came to stand protectively at Williamson’s side. It was John Swaddell, technically a clerk, although everyone knew he was really an assassin. He was clad in black from head to toe, with the exception of a spotlessly white ‘falling band’ – a decorative bib that lay across his chest. He had small, dark eyes that were never still, and was one of the most sinister men Chaloner had ever encountered.
‘The Earl suggested I talk to you,’ lied Chaloner, knowing Williamson was unlikely to learn that his master had done nothing of the kind. ‘About the Sinon Plot.’
Williamson’s eyes widened fractionally, but otherwise he betrayed no emotion. He indicated with an elegant gesture of his hand that Swaddell was to lock the door.
‘Why is that necessary?’ asked Bulteel, most of his attention on the window. It afforded an excellent view of the severed heads displayed on poles outside Westminster Hall, and explained why so many people who had tried to rescue Cromwell’s skull had been apprehended.
‘It is just a precaution to ensure your friend does not leave before we have enjoyed a full and frank exchange of information,’ replied Williamson. ‘If I am to provide him with intelligence, then he must reciprocate in kind, and I do not want him wandering off before we have finished.’
‘That will not happen,’ said Swaddell, moving his hand to reveal that he held a dagger. Chaloner did likewise, and alarm flashed in Williamson’s eyes, no doubt predicting that it would not be his assassin who would be skewered first if the situation turned hostile. By the window, Bulteel gazed happily into New Palace Yard, oblivious to the deadly undercurrents that surged behind him.
‘Make a start, Tom,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I cannot stay much longer.’
Chaloner obliged. ‘The Sinon Plot is not as secret as you believe,’ he told Williamson. ‘It is common knowledge.’
Williamson paled. ‘You must have read Clarendon’s private papers, and learned about Sinon that way. It is not common knowledge.’
‘There is nothing about any Sinon in the Earl’s correspondence,’ said Bulteel, turning to face them and frowning his puzzlement. ‘I would have seen it. What is this plot?’
‘The tale is out,’ Swaddell told his master. ‘Although I would hardly call it “common knowledge”. One of the Privy Council must have blabbed.’
Williamson sighed heavily. ‘Damn them! It is not a good idea for London to know that three men came close to making off with the crown jewels.’
‘What?’ cried Bulteel. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, and it is a secret.’ Williamson winced. ‘Or it should be. I am appalled to learn otherwise.’
‘Why have you gone to such lengths to suppress it?’ asked Chaloner. ‘People do not care enough about the jewels to be angry about their disappearance. There will be no public outcry.’
‘There will if London is taxed to replace the things,’ retorted Williamson, truthfully enough. ‘And, if we may
be blunt, the King’s popularity is at a low ebb at the moment, and we cannot afford the bad publicity. It is one reason why most of the Privy Council is keen for a war with the Dutch – a military campaign will settle people’s eyes on problems outside our domestic hiccups.’
‘That is hardly a good reason to plunge two countries into bloody conflict,’ objected Chaloner.
‘Nations have clashed for a lot less,’ said Williamson soberly. ‘I am not saying it is right – indeed, I am personally convinced that antagonising the Dutch is a very bad idea – but history tells us that our leaders do not always make sensible decisions. Still, perhaps progress will be made towards peace on Sunday night, at the convention in the Savoy.’
‘What is the real reason for wanting the Sinon Plot kept quiet?’ asked Chaloner, aware that the Spymaster had managed to change the subject. ‘It is nothing to do with the King’s popularity – if the plot had succeeded, people would have felt sorry for him, and perhaps liked him better.’
Williamson smiled coldly. ‘You are too astute for your own good. But I suppose I can tell you, given that Clarendon seems to have taken you into his confidence. The three villains are named Swan, Swallow and Falcon. I know it does not sound very likely, but those are their real names. Sir William Compton overheard them plotting together in a tavern on Cheapside.’
‘Who are they, exactly?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Swan and Swallow are booksellers; Falcon is a cleric. And that is the reason why we have tried to keep the matter quiet.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘Are you saying you acted to spare the Church embarrassment, by keeping from the public that one of their ministers was on the verge of stealing from the King?’
Williamson inclined his head. ‘It is beset with problems at the moment, what with Quakers and Catholics refusing to obey its edicts. It does not need tales of criminal members, too.’
Chaloner supposed it might be true: the Church would be grateful for such help. And spymasters were always happy to have powerful organisations in their debt. ‘I need to speak to these plotters.’
The Body in the Thames: Chaloner's Sixth Exploit in Restoration London (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 17
