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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Jacoba began to talk about the book her husband had been writing on stockings, asking Kun and Zas whether they might be prepared to finish it. Leaving them fabricating diplomatically worded excuses, Chaloner made for the door, feeling he had already done more than his duty. De Buat was standing outside, smoking his pipe away from the bustle.

  ‘Oetje will be buried later today,’ he said. ‘Although I will be the only mourner. Incidentally, I re-examined her and Hanse, and I believe that the poison that killed them was not administered in food or drink. It may have been on a sharp point that was jabbed into their skin.’

  ‘But there were blisters in their mouths. Surely, that means they swallowed something?’

  ‘Not necessarily. I found blisters in their eyes, too, and when I opened Oetje up, her liver was—’

  ‘Stop,’ said Chaloner uneasily. ‘I am not sure it is legal for foreign medici to conduct anatomies in London. I do not want to hear any more.’

  ‘Her liver showed a lot of damage,’ de Buat pressed on. ‘And, had Heer van Goch given me permission, I am sure I would have found the same in Hanse. It was a particularly nasty substance, and would not have given them easy deaths. Whoever did this is more than a killer. He is a brute who cares nothing for the sufferings of his victims.’

  Chaloner returned to White Hall, where he spent the rest of the day and all evening listening for rumours about the Sinon Plot, Hanse’s murder, the Earl’s missing papers and the blackmailer. He was a silent shadow in doorways and corridors that no one noticed, but although he lingered in the palace until well past midnight, his efforts went largely unrewarded.

  He learned that Cromwell was indeed suspected of opening the royal tombs in Westminster Abbey, and there was a plan afoot to remove his rotting head from outside Westminster Hall, lest it actually belonged to someone else. Chaloner smiled, thinking Thurloe would be pleased: it was not easy for him, seeing the remains of his old friend treated in so barbaric a fashion.

  He also learned that Downing had been making a nuisance of himself among the royal seamstresses, and that most people thought Hanse was guilty of making off with the Earl’s papers. But it was all based on gossip, not fact, and he decided to give up his eavesdropping when the servants went home and White Hall was left to courtiers, who were even less well informed than their minions.

  As he walked towards the gate, he saw that a private party was beginning in Lady Castlemaine’s apartments. Her windows were open, and a lot of manly laughter was wafting out. White Hall’s pitch torches illuminated a number of familiar faces making their way towards it – Buckingham and his cronies, who attended any event likely to turn debauched, and the foolish Lady Muskerry, whose services in the bedchamber were likely to be in demand later. Nisbett was there in an official capacity, welcoming guests and repelling anyone he deemed unsuitable.

  Chaloner happened to glance to his left as he passed, and saw someone else he recognised, too, although it was the last person he would have expected to see there. Hannah was slinking towards the entrance, Bates at her side. Curious to know what they were doing, Chaloner stepped out of the shadows to intercept them. Hannah did not look pleased to see him and, sensing her irritation, Bates went to hover in a nearby doorway, tactfully out of earshot.

  ‘You went to Hanse’s funeral without me,’ she said accusingly. ‘After you promised to let me go.’

  ‘I did not promise,’ he said tiredly. ‘It was a dismal affair, anyway – a dozen mourners, and a lot of soldiers nearby, ready to repel attacks by hostile Londoners.’

  ‘You mean it was dangerous?’ she demanded.

  ‘It did not feel entirely safe. And it was certainly no place for you.’

  ‘Did you attend the ceremonies in the Savoy afterwards? And think very carefully before you answer, Thomas, because Judith Killigrew was there, and I have been talking to her.’

  Chaloner felt overwhelmed by the interrogation. Was this how people felt when he was asking them questions? ‘Briefly, yes.’

  Hannah’s lips compressed into an angry line. ‘Were there cakes and gifts?’

  Chaloner handed her the biscuit and the ring, then wished he had not. The value of jewellery distributed at funerals expressed two things: the state of the deceased’s wealth, and how close he had been to the recipient – the more expensive the item, the more intimate the association. The ring Jacoba had pressed on Chaloner was a costly thing of gold, and Hannah’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘This is an oddly generous gift for a passing acquaintance. Why is—’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he interrupted, cutting off her offensive with one of his own. ‘Do not tell me you plan on joining Lady Castlemaine’s games?’

  ‘I am, actually,’ replied Hannah coolly. ‘But since you are here, perhaps you will give me some advice. You are better at this kind of thing than I.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’ he asked suspiciously.

  Hannah beckoned to Bates, who approached unhappily, shuffling his feet and looking for all the world as if he wished he were somewhere else. Chaloner knew exactly how he felt. ‘Explain it to him, Charles,’ she ordered.

  ‘As you know, Kicke has taken a liking to my wife,’ obliged Bates miserably. ‘Well, more than a liking, if you want the truth …’

  ‘And we suspect his wooing campaign has finally won Ann over,’ elaborated Hannah. ‘So we are going to slip into the Lady’s soiree, to see if it is true.’

  ‘Ann is already there, you see,’ blurted Bates, close to tears. ‘One of the Lady’s grooms came to fetch her, saying the order to attend came from the hostess herself. But I believe it was all arranged by Kicke, and that the Countess of Castlemaine has nothing to do with it.’

  ‘How do you plan on getting in?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Nisbett is guarding the door.’

  ‘Charles will distract him while I slip past,’ explained Hannah. She swallowed hard. These were desperate measures, and ones with which she was not entirely comfortable, although Chaloner admired both her determination and her loyalty towards an old friend. ‘But now you are here, perhaps you can think of a better idea.’

  ‘Go home,’ said Chaloner, not liking the notion of her coming into contact with Nisbett – which she would, because the chances of her sidling past him undetected were negligible. ‘I will do it.’

  It was a measure of Hannah’s relief that she did not argue. ‘Thank you. Ann is wearing pale yellow skirts and a blue bodice. But all we want to know is whether our concerns are justified. Do not tackle Kicke, especially if Nisbett is with him. I do not want you hurt.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Bates miserably. ‘Money is not worth a life.’

  ‘He is being blackmailed,’ explained Hannah, although she had already told Chaloner the tale. ‘Some greedy villain wants fifty pounds from him.’

  ‘In return, he will keep his silence over the fact that I am a cuckold and my wife is a whore.’ Bates whispered the last word; it was painful to him. ‘But Ann is not wanton. Just weak.’

  ‘But if she cavorts with Kicke at this soiree, there will be no need to pay the extortionist,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Everyone will know what is happening anyway.’

  Bates winced. ‘Kicke genuinely admires her, and will not want her reputation sullied. In other words, he will not seduce her in front of witnesses. But I need to know how far they … whether the blackmailer is telling the truth about …’

  It was all very sordid, and Chaloner wished Hannah had not let herself become involved. ‘Take my wife home,’ he said to Bates. ‘I will contact you in the morning.’

  When they had gone, Chaloner turned his attention to the sumptuous suite occupied by the King’s mistress. Entering via the main door was out of the question, because Nisbett was taking his duties seriously. But it did not take him long to locate a loose window shutter, and then it was only a matter of moments before he was inside the building, where the boisterous laughter, loud music and womanly shrieks were all but deafening.

  The Lady’s home com
prised six or seven large chambers on the upper floor. Every one was full of revellers, although the corridor that connected them was relatively empty. It contained several life-sized statues of Greek gods on heavy marble plinths, so Chaloner stepped behind Zeus, and settled down to wait.

  Eventually, a woman in blue and yellow appeared, and tiptoed towards a window that was hung with long, thick curtains. She pretended to be gazing into the courtyard below when Buckingham tottered past, a giggling courtesan on each arm. When he had gone, she scanned the hallway carefully, then ducked quickly behind the draperies.

  A quarter of an hour passed before Kicke arrived. He loitered in the hallway for several minutes, ostensibly admiring the artwork, then slunk towards the woman’s hiding place. There was a soft squeal of delight when he disappeared behind the material, followed by low voices as the couple conversed. Then there was silence, although the bottom of the curtain began to swing in a suspiciously regular motion. It stopped eventually, and there was more muttering. After a while, Kicke poked out his head, peered around cautiously, and ushered her out.

  Chaloner was not surprised to find Bates waiting anxiously for him when he finally made his escape.

  ‘I took Hannah home,’ he said. There was an agonised expression on his face, and when he removed his copper wig, he looked tired, old and ugly, a marked contrast to his vibrantly handsome rival. ‘What did you learn?’

  ‘Do not pay the money,’ advised Chaloner kindly. ‘Kicke and Ann were careful, but that sort of thing cannot be kept quiet for long. You will impoverish yourself for nothing.’

  ‘I have made arrangements for us to leave London next week, so I will give him what he wants. He will keep his silence, and people will remember us as a happy couple, not as a cuckold and a …’

  ‘Does Ann know of these plans?’ asked Chaloner, suspecting she might decline to go.

  ‘I will tell her tonight,’ said Bates unsteadily. ‘When I also tell her that she has been seen frolicking with Kicke, and will lose her reputation unless immediate steps are taken to repair the damage. Thank you for your help, Chaloner. And my offer of documents to incriminate Kicke still stands, but do not leave it too long to ask.’

  Chaloner had had enough of White Hall and its sordid goings-on. He started to walk home, but met Wiseman by the Court Gate, a vast, unsettling figure in his flowing crimson robe.

  ‘The King has wind again,’ he confided in a booming voice. ‘He should have laid off the onions, as I advised. And his summons is a damned nuisance, because there are parlour games at the club tonight, and I was enjoying myself.’

  ‘You and Temperance are friends again, then?’

  Wiseman grinned. ‘Thanks to you. She sent me a note, inviting me to visit, and we made up for our quarrel in ways that only an experienced surgeon and a brothel-keeper could devise.’

  Chaloner managed to stop himself asking for details. ‘You should not bray remarks about the King’s digestion. It is asking to be dismissed.’

  Wiseman snorted his disdain for the advice. ‘His Majesty would not deprive himself of the best surgeon in London – nay, in England and perhaps the world. He knows quality when he sees it. He is an observant man.’

  ‘Unlike you,’ retorted Chaloner, deciding to tackle the subject he had postponed the day before. ‘You told me Hanse had drowned, but the cause of his death was poisoning.’

  ‘I suppose you refer to the blisters in his eyes and mouth. Yes, he certainly came into contact with a toxic substance before he died. But the actual cause of death was drowning. There was froth in his lungs, and you do not get that when a corpse goes in a river – the water needs to be inhaled, you see. Ergo, although Hanse was poisoned, it is not what killed him.’

  Chaloner sighed in exasperation. ‘And it did not occur to you to tell me all this?’

  ‘I did not want to upset you. Kersey told me that Hanse was your friend.’

  Chaloner was appalled. ‘You withheld vital information in an effort to be kind?’

  ‘I did,’ replied Wiseman, unrepentant. ‘It is one thing to probe the grisly deaths of strangers, but another altogether to do it with folk you know. For example, I did not like anatomising my brother-in-law. It made me feel quite disconcerted.’

  Chaloner took an involuntary step away. Conversations with Wiseman were often unsettling. ‘You sliced out the entrails of a kinsman?’

  ‘My wife’s sibling,’ nodded Wiseman. ‘He was a lunatic, too, and also a resident of Bedlam. It was decided to dissect him, to see whether we could learn anything about the nature of insanity.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Not really. His brain looked the same as every other one I have excised. I keep it in a bottle on the shelf in my study, and I shall show it to you when you are my lodger.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Chaloner in revulsion, backing away farther. ‘I will find other accommodation, thank you. I do not want to share a house with your relatives’ body parts.’

  ‘Only his brain. And it is an item of scientific interest. But I cannot stand here chatting with you when the King needs relief. Are you still coming to Newgate with me tomorrow?’

  Chaloner nodded. ‘And if you need to introduce me, say I am called John Crane.’ Then if word did get back to Williamson that someone had interviewed the men he had incarcerated for life, the bird name might throw him off the scent.

  ‘Until the morning, then,’ said Wiseman. ‘Eight o’clock sharp.’

  When Wiseman had gone, Chaloner realised he had forgotten to ask about the surgeon with the birth-marked neck who had met Hanse in the Sun. What was wrong with him, that he could not remember to put his questions? Was he losing his touch? He started to run after Wiseman, but the man had already entered the royal apartments. Chaloner waited a while, but soon saw he was wasting his time: Wiseman might be with the King for hours, and there was nothing he could do about the matter that night anyway. He decided to leave it until the following day.

  He was tired when he reached Tothill Street, but not so weary that he did not notice someone moving in the shadows opposite his house. He froze, and slipped into an alley to watch. It did not take him long to see that his home was under surveillance. But by whom, and why?

  He eased forward, aiming to lay hold of the fellow and demand some answers, but the ground was crisp with withered leaves, and a stealthy approach was impossible, even for him. The shadow heard him coming and fled. Chaloner followed, but the night was dark and his quarry had too great a start. Moreover, there was a veritable labyrinth of places to hide. He prowled the streets for some time afterwards, but was too tired to be effective, and eventually gave up. He entered his house, and lay fully clothed on the bed, his senses on high alert even as he slept.

  A curious sound snapped him awake the following day, and he was off the bed with a dagger in his hand before he was fully cognisant. It was just past dawn, and the streets were full of grey shadows. The roaring grew louder.

  ‘It is a hailstorm, Thomas,’ said Hannah crossly, jostled awake by his sudden movement.

  Muttering an apology, he went to check that the strands of thread he had left on the stairs were still in place. They were, telling him that no one had passed. As he stared at them, he knew it was time to find a bolthole, because if he felt unsafe enough to set traps for intruders, then he had no business staying with Hannah. He would never forgive himself if anything were to happen to her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded.

  ‘Looking for leaks,’ lied Chaloner, as the thunder of hail on the roof intensified.

  ‘Our roof does not leak, as you would know if you ever spent any time here.’

  ‘I would have been home sooner, but you sent me on an errand,’ he said defensively.

  ‘You volunteered to help,’ she shot back. She was rarely amiable first thing in the morning, something he had learned only after they were married. ‘And you took a lot longer than I expected.’

  ‘Did I wake you when I returned?’ he asked
, trying to sound conciliatory.

  ‘I felt you flop beside me, all clammy and hot.’ She glanced upwards, as the hail came down harder than ever. ‘Did you hear that yesterday’s storm was so violent it broke the cupola in the King’s Theatre? It caused a terrible panic as glass showered down on the audience below. It is a good thing I did not allow you to take me there when you suggested it.’

  ‘The street-preachers claim it was a sign that God does not approve of the stage,’ said Chaloner, recalling what had been whispered in White Hall the night before. ‘But the Court maintains that God just does not like Ben Jonson, and wants the actors to perform something else.’

  This coaxed a reluctant smile. ‘Buckingham put that tale about. He is a great one for fun. And it was good to have something to laugh about, because I had a terrible day yesterday. There were Charles and Daniel upset, you being awkward about Hanse’s funeral, and on top of all that, someone sent the Queen some baby clothes. She was distraught, and I spent hours calming her.’

  Chaloner was puzzled. ‘Is she with child at last, then?’

  ‘It was a prank – if such an act of malice can be called such. Do you know there are tales that she made herself barren deliberately, as part of a Catholic plot to deprive England of its heir?’

  Chaloner nodded. It was common street gossip.

  Hannah bit her lip and stared at the bedcovers. ‘I am assuming, from your ominous silence on the matter, that Kicke did seduce Ann last night. That vile scoundrel! If I were a man, I would call him out and put a musket ball through his black heart.’

  ‘Most people duel with swords or handguns,’ Chaloner said absently. ‘Not muskets.’

  Hannah regarded him oddly. ‘I shall not ask how you come to be party to such information. Sometimes, you are a stranger to me, Thomas, and I wonder whether I know you at all.’