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

by Gregory, Susanna

  While she continued in this vein, Chaloner donned a thin vest – a collarless tunic with skirts to the knees, gathered at the waist by a belt – and an old pair of breeches. Both had seen better days, but were suitable apparel for what he planned to do that day. Hannah stopped berating him to stare.

  ‘You cannot go out dressed like that! You will never get past the Court Gate.’

  ‘I am not going to White Hall today.’ He saw her eyebrows draw together in annoyance at the enigmatic answer, and hastened to elaborate. ‘I am meeting Wiseman.’

  The scowl lifted. For reasons Chaloner failed to understand, she liked the bombastic surgeon. Then the dark expression returned. ‘I hope you are not leading him into anything dangerous.’

  ‘He will be doing the leading,’ Chaloner assured her. ‘But the current case is transpiring to be troubling, and it might be better if I do not come home until it is resolved. It will be safer for you, because I could not bear it if …’

  ‘If what?’ asked Hannah, when he trailed off. ‘It is perfectly all right to tell your wife that you harbour protective feelings towards her, you know. I appreciate the fact that you deplore admitting to anything that vaguely resembles a human emotion, but we are married.’

  ‘I harbour protective feelings towards you,’ mumbled Chaloner uncomfortably.

  Hannah started to laugh. ‘Very romantic! But it is a start, and who knows? Maybe one day, you might even manage to say you love me. I assume you do, but I have never had it confirmed.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Chaloner. He took a deep breath to oblige. And when he had made his long-overdue declaration of affection, he would tell her about Jacoba. ‘I—’

  But a sudden increase in volume from the hail made further conversation impossible. Then there was a crack as a windowpane broke. By the time he had replaced it with a panel of wood, all talk of love and other unsettling subjects had been forgotten. By him, at least.

  ‘When will I see you again?’ asked Hannah, as he made for the door. ‘I know we are hardly star-struck youngsters in the throes of first love, but we are still newly-weds, and I am not happy to hear that you intend to disappear for an undisclosed period of time. I shall miss you.’

  ‘Is there a friend you can stay with for a while?’ He saw her horrified expression. ‘I am probably worrying over nothing, but I do not like the notion of you being here alone.’

  ‘I have been here alone for two years,’ Hannah pointed out. ‘While you have lived here on a permanent basis for less than three weeks. And who am I supposed to ask for refuge? Buckingham? I can imagine what the Court gossips would make of that!’

  The sun was bathing London in a pale gold light when Chaloner began the long trudge from Tothill Street to the complex of streets near Pye Corner, where Newgate Gaol was located. But it was not yet six o’clock, and far too early to meet Wiseman, so he stopped at the Rainbow Coffee House.

  ‘What news?’ called James Farr. He had just burned his beans, and the place was thick with brown smoke. It covered everything in an oily pall, and Chaloner started to cough.

  ‘The cupola in the King’s Theatre cracked during a hailstorm,’ he said, when he had caught his breath. No one looked impressed.

  ‘We already knew that,’ said Farr disdainfully. ‘But here comes Rector Thompson. Perhaps he can do better. What news, Thompson?’

  ‘The Dutch have just put sixty ships to sea,’ replied Thompson, going to sit next to Chaloner. ‘What are they thinking? We shall have no peace if they make that sort of gesture.’

  ‘We can beat them,’ declared Stedman dismissively. ‘One of our ships is worth ten of theirs, and one of our sailors is worth fifty Dutchmen.’

  There was a patriotic cheer from the dozen or so men who had gathered for an early-morning dose of coffee and conversation.

  ‘Actually,’ said Chaloner, recalling what he had heard at White Hall the previous night, and hoping to alleviate Thompson’s concerns, ‘they put forty vessels to sea, and of those, only fifteen are warships, which are needed to protect the rest of the fleet from … from pirates.’

  He stopped himself from saying ‘English ships’, on the grounds that it was likely to lead to accusations of disloyalty. But he wished he had not spoken when Stedman regarded him warily.

  ‘You are always defending the cheese-eaters. Why? Are you secretly on their side?’

  ‘Do not speak nonsense, man!’ chided Thompson. ‘He is reporting a fact, as Farr asked him to do when he requested news.’

  ‘Well, some facts are more acceptable than others,’ sniffed Stedman. ‘Or are you suggesting we greet all intelligence with equal enthusiasm? That smacks of despotism, such as we had when the tyrant Cromwell was in power.’

  ‘Facts are facts,’ argued Thompson. ‘Regardless of what you think of them. The disciples did not appreciate some of the Lord Jesus’s teachings concerning the Holy Spirit, but that did not give them the right to tell him to talk about something else.’

  Stedman was silent, as were most sane men once the Holy Trinity had entered the equation. Chaloner took a copy of The Intelligencer, and pretended to be engrossed in an advertisement for a paste that could repair brown and broken teeth, to deter the printer from attempting to resume the discussion concerning his views on the Dutch. Then he read about the plague that still raged in Amsterdam, which made him think of Aletta. To take his mind off her, he asked Thompson whether he knew of any rooms for rent in the area.

  ‘I thought you were just married,’ said Stedman nosily. ‘Is your union in difficulties already?’

  ‘Hailstones damaged our roof,’ lied Chaloner.

  ‘There is nothing available that I know of,’ said Thompson apologetically. ‘The weather is causing crops to fail in the country, you see, so people are flocking to London for work, and living quarters are in short supply. But if you are desperate, you may lodge with me for a few days.’

  Chaloner took him to one side. ‘Will you take my wife instead? I am … in a little trouble, and I do not want her to stay at home.’

  Thompson regarded him in alarm. ‘You have not done anything illegal—’

  ‘No!’ Chaloner thought fast. ‘I helped expose two thieves at White Hall, and they are angry with me. I am worried that they may strike at me through Hannah.’

  ‘Kicke and Nisbett?’ asked Thompson. ‘Their arrest was your doing? In that case, of course you may bring her. I detest that pair almost as much as I detest their erstwhile master, Sir George Downing. And my wife will enjoy Hannah’s company. But that does not really help you, does it?’

  ‘Actually, it does,’ said Chaloner relieved and grateful. ‘It helps enormously.’

  When Chaloner left the Rainbow, it was late enough that the first rush of traffic had eased. The street vendors were already at their pitches, and he stopped to buy some early strawberries that had been picked from the fields near Islington. They were still slightly yellow, and could have been left to ripen a little longer, but they were the first he had eaten that year, and he supposed the unseasonably hot weather was good for something at least.

  He was just crossing the filthy smear of the River Fleet, so deprived of water that it was little more than a grey trickle between two slopes of festering mud, when he saw someone he recognised. It was Sir William Compton, riding down Ludgate Hill with several soldiers in his wake. He was clad in a fine but plain uniform, which included a pair of very white gloves. He reined in when he spotted Chaloner.

  ‘I am glad I did not heed Wiseman’s advice,’ he said grimly. ‘He would have sawn off my head, when all I needed was a tonic and a good night’s sleep. As you see, I am quite recovered.’

  ‘I will tell him he made a mistake when I next see him,’ offered Chaloner.

  ‘Please do not!’ exclaimed Compton, shuddering. ‘He is the kind of fellow who would wreak revenge in ways only he knows how, and Clarendon tells me that you are indispensable.’

  ‘He does?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully. The Earl never gave him that i
mpression. Indeed, most of the time he felt like an interloper, tolerated only because there was unpleasant work to be done.

  ‘All the time,’ averred Compton. ‘Indeed, I am thinking of poaching you because, as Master of Ordnance, I can always use a good man. You will not be surprised to learn that large caches of weapons attract the attentions of some very dubious characters, and there are always plots to steal from me. If he ever dismisses you, come to me first.’

  Chaloner smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  Compton took a deep breath of air, then gagged. ‘Lord, this city reeks when the sun is on it. It is almost certainly an omen of evil to come. I know people are always saying that – about inclement weather, strange clouds, odd tides and collapsing buildings – but this is different.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Chaloner, failing to see how.

  ‘I cannot shake this peculiar sense of impending doom. I am not normally assailed by such wild notions, but this feeling is very strong. How much longer will the heat-wave last, do you think?’

  Chaloner shrugged. ‘Who knows? But we will all complain when it turns cold and wet again.’

  ‘Not me,’ vowed Compton fervently. ‘I have never liked high temperatures.’

  Chaloner nodded at the gloves. ‘You might feel more comfortable without those.’

  Compton flexed his hands. ‘These were a gift from the Dutchman who died – Hanse – and I am wearing them for him. It sounds ridiculous, but there you are.’

  ‘You knew Hanse?’ asked Chaloner, surprised. ‘How?’

  ‘Through the peace negotiations – I am often called upon to give my opinion on the various treaties and pacts that have been signed in the past. But to return to this torrid weather, you should see what excessive heat can do to the barrel of a cannon. Moreover, I am always afraid that it will make my stocks of gunpowder ignite.’

  Chaloner was doubtful. ‘It would need a flame. Powder does not explode of its own volition.’

  ‘The sun is a flame,’ argued Compton. ‘A great, big powerful one that only God can control. I tell you, Chaloner, if this weather does not ameliorate, we shall all be in trouble.’

  But Chaloner suspected Compton had not stopped to chat about the elements. ‘Have you remembered any more about the business we discussed on Monday? Something that perhaps slipped your mind when you were unwell and Wiseman was hovering?’

  Compton leaned down from his horse, glancing around furtively as he did so. ‘No, but something has happened since then. Another one of my men is dead.’

  Chaloner frowned. ‘What do you mean by “another”?’

  Compton looked around again, and lowered his voice to the point where he was difficult to hear. ‘I took four good lads with me when I arrested the Sinon plotters – fine warriors, whom I trust with my life. I had word last night that Upton is dead. He fell in the river and drowned.’

  Chaloner was not sure what he was being told. ‘Are you saying someone pushed him?’

  ‘I do not know what happened. But when I took the plotters into custody, one of them – Falcon – started to curse. I am not an impressionable man, and neither are my soldiers, but there was something about this fellow’s words that frightened all of us. We discussed it afterwards.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That we would all die before the next full moon. I put it from my mind, and when Osborn and Oates were killed by a speeding carriage last week, I told myself it was just an accident. But now Upton is drowned … Well, there were five of us, and now there are two. Only Fairfax and I are left.’

  ‘Fairfax?’

  ‘No relation to the Parliamentarian general, I hasten to add. My Fairfax brought me the news about Upton last night. And I am not ashamed to say that it unnerved me.’

  ‘Where is Fairfax now?’ asked Chaloner, glancing at Compton’s men, who were waiting patiently for their master to finish talking.

  ‘I told him to stay with his sister in the Fleet Rookery. It is the haunt of killers, robbers and the resentful poor, but they look after their own. He will be safer there than with me.’

  ‘You said the first two were killed by a speeding cart—’

  ‘Yes – one that that did not stop, and that witnesses have failed to identify.’

  ‘It may be coincidence.’

  ‘May it? The Sinon Plot was thwarted at the eleventh hour, and its leader cursed me and my soldiers as he was committed to Newgate. And now, just three weeks later, Osborn, Oates and Upton are dead. Even if Falcon’s vile threats are not the cause, there is still something amiss.’

  And there was Hanse, Chaloner thought but did not say. He had some connection to the Sinon Plot, and he was dead, too, as was the sinister Oetje. And Ibbot the hackney driver, who should have taken Hanse home.

  ‘I know I have asked you this before,’ began Chaloner, ‘but did you ever discuss Sinon with anyone other than the Privy Council and Williamson? With Hanse, for example?’

  Compton stared at him. ‘Why would I share that sort of thing with a foreigner? A plan to make off with our crown jewels hardly shows my country in a favourable light!’

  And with that, he nodded a farewell, and rode off, his men streaming behind him.

  Chapter 7

  Wiseman was waiting when Chaloner arrived at Newgate. He, too, was wearing old clothes, although they were still scarlet, even down to his shoes. He had also donned a leather apron, like the kind worn by fishmongers.

  ‘You are late,’ he growled. ‘I said eight o’clock.’

  The words were no more out of his mouth before the bells of nearby Christ Church began to chime, to announce the start of its eight o’clock service.

  ‘They are late, too,’ declared Wiseman belligerently. Then St Martin’s and St Sepulchre’s added their clangs to the clamour, and his glower deepened. ‘In fact, the entire city is late. What is wrong with people? Can they not read a clock?’

  Chaloner did not waste his breath arguing. He was looking at Newgate, trying to control a sudden queasiness. The gate itself was ancient, a great, crumbling monstrosity that crouched over the road like a carrion bird. It was five storeys tall, and was where the Keeper and his more wealthy prisoners were accommodated. Attached to it were a number of grim extensions, where the remainder of the inmates were housed. Bars filled every small, mean window, and white, desperate faces could be seen behind them. Chaloner shuddered, and it took every ounce of his self control not to turn around and run away.

  ‘I brought you this,’ said Wiseman, shoving an apron at him. ‘And you had better carry my instruments, too, if I am to pass you off as my assistant. I have no idea why you are set on coming here – and nor do I want to know, should you think to furnish me with an explanation – but we had better at least try to look convincing. I do not want to be accused of anything untoward.’

  ‘You mean something untoward like offering to saw the head from a man you said was dying, but who was hale and hearty this morning?’ asked Chaloner.

  Wiseman raised his eyebrows. ‘Compton survived? Well, there is a surprise! I was certain he was a dead man. Did you see him yourself? In person?’

  ‘Just a few moments ago, and we held a perfectly rational discussion.’

  Wiseman blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, well! Wonders never cease.’

  Chaloner remembered that he was supposed to ask Wiseman about the surgeon who had met Hanse, and in an effort to delay entering Newgate, he repeated the description of the elderly man with the birth-stain on his neck.

  ‘Ned Molins,’ replied Wiseman promptly. ‘He was once called to tend Cromwell. As a medical man, he had no choice but to oblige. But as a Royalist, he made his objections known by refusing to take payment. Other than a drink.’

  ‘So he cured Parliamentarians for nothing, but charged Cavaliers?’ asked Chaloner, amused. ‘Is that how he showed his allegiance to the Crown? I think there was something awry with his reasoning!’

  Wiseman waved a dismissive hand. ‘I applauded his courage in making a stand.
And Cromwell was lucky his servants did not summon me, because I would have given the old scoundrel something to remember. And it would not have been a pleasant memory, either.’

  ‘Which memories of you are?’ muttered Chaloner, tying the apron around his middle. It was stiff with something he assumed was dried blood, and had a rank, rotten smell.

  ‘Molins had the last word, though,’ Wiseman went on, grinning nastily. ‘He insisted that Cromwell be turned upside-down three times, to ensure the medicine was working. But afterwards, he told me that he had done to Cromwell what Cromwell was doing to our country.’

  ‘He sounds quite a character,’ said Chaloner flatly.

  ‘Oh, yes! A man of strong opinions and rigid principles. What prompts your interest in him?’

  ‘Clarendon’s business,’ replied Chaloner vaguely.

  ‘Well, in that case, I shall take you to meet him myself. It will give me something to look forward to, because I doubt I shall enjoy what we are going to do here for the next couple of hours.’

  ‘No?’ asked Chaloner nervously. If it was something to disconcert the surgeon, then he was sure he would not fare any better. ‘Why? What do you intend, exactly?’

  ‘There has been a lot of gaol-fever recently, and while I am always pleased with new corpses to anatomise, there is a limit to the number I can accommodate. I mentioned the matter to the King, and he ordered me to look into it. So, after several preliminary discussions with Keeper Sligo, I begin my inspection proper today. And I anticipate some very distressing sights.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Chaloner, swallowing hard.

  ‘Will you stay with me, or am I to invent an excuse that will let you wander off alone? I would not recommend the latter – you may not find your way out again.’ Wiseman roared with laughter, although Chaloner did not find the notion amusing.

  ‘I need to find a cell in which three men have been incarcerated,’ he said, when the surgeon had his mirth under control. ‘Their names are Swan, Swallow and Falcon.’

  Wiseman raised his eyebrows. ‘Aliases?’

  ‘Apparently not. They are said to be in a part of the prison that is closed to visitors.’