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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘That will be the ward they call Calais, where there are two layers of dungeons, one under the other. Prisoners only ever leave there in a coffin, so I have decided to exclude it from my reforms – there is no point in making improvements for people who are doomed anyway. It would be unethical to prolong their misery.’

  Chaloner felt his resolve begin to crumble. ‘I have to visit it,’ he heard himself say.

  Wiseman shrugged. ‘Then I shall order you there to make an inspection on my behalf. Keeper Sligo will make a fuss, but I have the ear of the King, so I can force him to comply.’

  Without another word, he led the way to Newgate’s great iron-studded door and hammered on it. His fist caused hollow booms to echo in a way that was decidedly sinister, and it was all Chaloner could do to prevent himself from bolting. Then the gate opened, and a warden indicated that the surgeon and his assistant were to enter. It closed behind them with a resounding clang.

  The warden who answered the gate was an obese, grim-faced man with rotten teeth that might have been responsible for his surly temper. He spat on the floor as Wiseman marched past him, and made an obscene gesture at his back. Chaloner followed more slowly, feeling his heart begin to pound and sweat break out all over his body. How much longer would his experiences in the French prison torment him? Or was he destined to be haunted by them for the rest of his life?

  ‘We got better things to do than fuss over inmates,’ the warden muttered, securing the door with one of the biggest keys Chaloner had ever seen. ‘Keeper Sligo had us scrubbing all day yesterday. You could eat your dinner in here now.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ retorted Wiseman, ‘given that the prisoners are obliged to do just that.’

  The entrance hall stank, although it was clear that an effort had been made to tidy up – rotten straw, rags and discarded food had been swept into a corner, where they festered gently. Parts of the pile undulated, and Chaloner looked away when he realised it was full of rats.

  Sligo was waiting for them. He was a thin, cadaverous man, whose fiery red nose stood out like a beacon against his white face. The stench of wine on his breath made Chaloner recoil.

  ‘I have been looking forward to your visit, Surgeon Wiseman,’ the Keeper gushed. ‘Perhaps you will join me for a glass of claret before you—’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Wiseman. ‘There is too much to do. So, let us begin. My assistant, John Crane, will inspect Calais, while I concentrate on the parts you call Tangier and the Press Yard.’

  ‘Calais?’ echoed Sligo, horrified. ‘He cannot go down there! No one can. It is off-limits to everyone except Mr Williamson. And I dare not disobey his orders, because … well, I cannot.’

  ‘In other words, he has a hold over you,’ said Wiseman with exaggerated weariness.

  ‘It is not a hold,’ objected Sligo. ‘It is an arrangement. I set aside a part of the prison for his exclusive use, and he does not meddle in the way I run the rest of it.’

  ‘He overlooks your corruption,’ surmised Wiseman. ‘Of which he doubtless has a good deal of evidence. No, do not deny it. I am not a fool. What I am, however, is a close friend of the King. You may find yourself incarcerated in Calais yourself, if you do not cooperate with me.’

  ‘I object most strenuously,’ bleated Sligo. ‘I have given you permission to pry everywhere else, so why can you not be content with that? Calais is closed.’

  ‘Not to me. The King said I was to have unlimited access.’ Wiseman turned to Chaloner. ‘Calais is in that direction, and the sooner you start, the sooner we can finish.’

  ‘I had better go with him,’ said Sligo sullenly, seeing he was defeated. ‘To unlock the doors and let him in. And out again, I suppose.’

  Wiseman strode away, indicating with a snap of imperious fingers that the fat warden was to follow. When the man demurred, Wiseman hauled him along as if he were no more substantial than feathers, and Chaloner was reminded yet again that the surgeon was a very powerful man.

  ‘Perhaps you and I can come to an arrangement, Mr Crane,’ said Sligo, smiling slyly once the surgeon had gone. ‘Would five shillings suffice to see you write your report in my office?’

  ‘Five shillings will see you charged with bribery,’ retorted Chaloner tartly. ‘I have my orders.’

  Sligo glared at him. ‘Very well, but do not blame me if the experience plagues your dreams. And you cannot talk to any of the inmates, either. I must have your word.’

  ‘What would I have to say to such people?’ asked Chaloner, deftly avoiding the condition.

  With a final glower, Sligo led the way through a series of corridors, each marked by a set of double-locked doors. As they went deeper into the prison, Chaloner’s heart pounded harder, and he could not take breaths deep enough to fill his lungs.

  He was not unduly affected by the stench of brimming sewage buckets, the putrid straw that carpeted the floor, or even the unwashed, parasite-ridden prisoners, because he had been ready for those. What disturbed him was the crushing sense of helplessness and despair that seemed to ooze from the very walls of such places. It sapped his courage and filled him with a fear so dark that it threatened to overwhelm him. He struggled to fight it off, steadying himself with one hand on the wall when his legs threatened to fail him.

  After what felt like an age, Sligo opened a door to reveal a flight of steps. There was a lamp at the bottom, and the fetid atmosphere that wafted upwards made even the Keeper gag.

  ‘Calais,’ he said, sleeve over his mouth and nose. ‘Are you ready?’

  When a prisoner in a nearby cell released a scream of mad laughter, Chaloner almost leapt out of his skin. Why was he putting himself through this ordeal? Was it really so important to learn what Hanse had known about the Sinon Plot? Why not leave it at the fact that Hanse, like Compton, had probably overheard the culprits planning their crime in a tavern? But Chaloner knew he would have no peace if he did not follow through with it – not from the Earl, not from Jacoba or van Goch, and not from himself, either. He took one step downwards, and then another, and eventually he reached the bottom, where Sligo was waiting impatiently.

  ‘Here it is,’ the Keeper said, still holding his sleeve over his nose. ‘Satisfied?’

  Chaloner looked around to see he was in a long hallway with a dozen doors off it, each with a board on which had been chalked a name. The floor was soft with filth, and his feet squelched as he forced himself to walk along it. The only ventilation – and light – came from a tiny window that was thick with cobwebs.

  ‘Can we go now?’ asked Sligo peevishly, when Chaloner had read all the names and determined that the Sinon Plot conspirators were not among them. He shivered. ‘It is cold down here.’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner, ignoring the instincts that clamoured at him to race back up the steps as fast as his legs would carry him. ‘There is another level below this one, and I need to see that, too.’

  Sligo regarded him silently, then without a word led the way to a second set of steps. The stairway was icy and damp, and the air felt as though it had not been changed since the place was built. Somewhere, a man was crying, babbling in a way that said his wits had gone.

  ‘Rebel,’ said Sligo, as if by explanation. ‘Take the lamp. I will wait here.’

  ‘You are not coming?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

  Sligo shook his head. ‘Not down there. A warden delivers food once a day – he opens a flap at the bottom of their doors and shoves it through – but other than that, we leave the place alone.’

  Chaloner was horrified. ‘But what if one of them is ill? Or dies?’

  ‘There is nothing we can do about sickness. And when they die, we know, because they do not eat their food. We open the doors then, and remove the corpses.’

  Chaloner took the lamp with a hand that shook, and began his descent. Twice he stopped, and it was only Sligo’s irritable sighs that started him moving again. The stench of decay grew stronger with each step, and led him to wonder whether someone h
ad died. Or perhaps it was the fact that Sligo had mentioned no facility for emptying slop buckets, and they were left to overflow until the prisoner perished from whatever foul diseases were carried within them.

  He reached the bottom, and was faced with a low tunnel that ran in both directions. Doors were embedded in the walls, each with a sliding grille at its base. As on the level above, names had been chalked on a slate, and it did not take Chaloner long to find the one that said Swallow, Swan and Falcon. It was at the end farthest from the steps, and he knew Sligo would not be able to hear what he was doing. He knocked softly. Immediately, there was a scuffling sound.

  ‘Swan?’ he called. ‘Swallow?’

  There was an eerie laugh. ‘They are gone. And Falcon flew away, like a bird. He escaped.’

  ‘Then who are you?’

  ‘I am Yarrow, from the room next door. But this one is bigger, so I made a hole and helped myself. They will not be needing it. Falcon flew through the wall, and the other two are in Heaven.’

  Chaloner returned to the stairs and called to Sligo. ‘Your guests appear to be moving cells. You had better come down and check them.’

  There was no reply, and for a moment, he thought he had been abandoned. He raced up the steps in a panic, only to find Sligo drinking from a bottle he had concealed inside his coat.

  ‘I told you I was cold,’ the Keeper said defensively. ‘Have you finished? Can we go now?’

  Chaloner repeated what he had said, watching as Sligo snatched some keys from a hook on a wall, and tore down the stairs in alarm. He followed, drawing his dagger as the Keeper unlocked the cell door. It swung open to reveal three people. One was sitting on his haunches, chewing a bone.

  ‘Yarrow!’ exclaimed Sligo, shocked. ‘You should not be in here.’

  A small hole in the wall explained how that had happened. The other two figures were huddled together on the floor, and for a moment, Chaloner did not understand what he was seeing. But then he turned away in revulsion. The heads of both had been burned away.

  There was a room in Newgate that Wiseman had used to examine dead prisoners before. It was disconcertingly near the area where food was prepared, and Chaloner did not know which smell was worse – the corpses, or whatever rancid stew was being prepared for the prisoners’ dinner.

  ‘They died from inhaling smoke,’ Wiseman said, after doing something grisly with a knife that had Chaloner and Sligo looking studiously in the opposite direction. ‘You can see soot here, if you care to look. It can only have entered their airways by them breathing it in.’

  ‘We will take your word for it,’ said Sligo shakily.

  ‘There are no other injuries,’ Wiseman went on. ‘And no obvious incidence of disease. But where is Falcon? Unlike Yarrow, I do not believe he made his escape by flying through the wall.’

  ‘I have no idea,’ gulped Sligo. ‘And I do not know how Swan and Swallow caught themselves alight, either, because we do not allow candles or lamps in Calais.’

  Wiseman grimaced. ‘Well, these two have been dead for some time – probably since soon after their arrival – which will certainly be in my report to His Majesty. It is not healthy to leave corpses lying around for weeks on end. You are lucky that my assistant struck up a discussion with Yarrow, or they might have lain undiscovered for years.’

  ‘No!’ objected Sligo. ‘It would have been noticed!’

  ‘Not if Yarrow was eating their food,’ Chaloner pointed out.

  ‘How can this have happened?’ breathed Sligo, raising a bottle to his lips with a hand that shook. ‘What will Williamson say? He will accuse me of ineptitude, but I run a tight ship. And I shall have to confess that I let you down there – a place where visitors are forbidden.’

  ‘We will not tell him if you do not,’ said Chaloner hopefully.

  But Sligo shook his head. ‘He will find out, so it is best to be honest.’

  ‘You say visitors are barred from Calais,’ said Wiseman. ‘But one must have gone down there, because how else would Falcon have escaped? Or is a gaoler responsible?’

  ‘My men swear they know nothing about it,’ said Sligo miserably.

  ‘But?’ asked Chaloner, sensing a caveat.

  ‘But they do not get paid much, so few of them stay long. And no one questions a strange face.’

  ‘I see,’ said Wiseman. ‘In other words, anyone can dress up as a guard and get inside?’

  ‘Well, not anyone,’ hedged Sligo. ‘We challenge those who are flagrantly out of place.’

  Wiseman regarded him very coldly. ‘Some prisoners are here because they represent a serious threat to the public – killers, rapists and fanatical dissidents. But now we learn you do not have a secure hold on them. You should be ashamed of yourself !’

  ‘We do have a secure hold on them!’ cried Sligo, horrified by the accusation. ‘ They do not have cunning associates who know how to break through our defences.’

  ‘Why did Swan and Swallow allow themselves to be set alight?’ mused Chaloner, more interested in what had happened than in berating Sligo. ‘There is no evidence that they were restrained.’

  Wiseman tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘You make a valid point. However, I detect the smell of oil on them.’

  ‘They were doused in fuel to make them burn?’ Chaloner felt slightly sick.

  ‘I cannot imagine they went quietly,’ said Wiseman.

  ‘But why do it?’ asked Chaloner, frustrated that what had looked to be a promising line of inquiry should be cut so brutally short. ‘Why not rescue them with Falcon?’

  ‘I know the answer to that,’ said Sligo. ‘One “guard” and one prisoner could deceive us, but not one “guard” and three prisoners. In other words, Swan and Swallow were sacrificed to allow Falcon – their leader – to go free.’

  ‘Falcon must be very ruthless,’ said Wiseman, ‘to subject his friends to such a terrible fate.’

  ‘Oh, he is horrible,’ agreed Sligo. ‘He cursed us when he was first brought here, and frightened some of my guards so much that they refused to go down there to feed him. And they are not easily intimidated.’

  Chaloner recalled what Compton had said about Falcon’s curses, and the odd deaths of his men. He began to wonder whether he had been told the entire truth about the Sinon Plot, and it occurred to him that it might involve something a lot more sinister than the theft of a few jewels.

  ‘So now you have two more murders to investigate,’ said Wiseman, as he and Chaloner left Newgate some time later. ‘Along with the escape of a dangerous prisoner. And Falcon is dangerous, or he would not have been put in Calais.’

  ‘Two more deaths associated with Sinon,’ said Chaloner, more to himself than the surgeon. ‘There are eight now: Hanse and possibly Oetje and Ibbot, Compton’s three soldiers, and Swan and Swallow. Assuming the dead men in Calais are Swan and Swallow, of course. With their faces burned away, Sligo could not be sure.’

  ‘No, but I can,’ said Wiseman. He grinned at Chaloner’s surprise. ‘There was a detailed physical description of them in the pile of papers he left unattended when he went to refill his bottle. You were interviewing the guards, so I took the opportunity to flick through them.’

  Chaloner smiled. ‘Perhaps you should be the Lord Chancellor’s spy.’

  ‘I prefer surgery, thank you – it is not quite so sordid. But Swan had a mole on his knee, and Swallow had a scar on his forearm. I checked: they are the same men.’

  ‘What about Falcon?’ asked Chaloner. ‘What description was given of him?’

  Wiseman frowned. ‘Now there is a curious thing: one was not included. Apparently, he possesses the ability to change his appearance, so the papers said there was no point.’

  ‘Did these documents tell you anything else?’

  ‘Just that these three prisoners had been planning to steal the crown jewels. I did hear a rumour that someone intended to try, but I did not believe it. It seems such an unpatriotic thing to do.’

  ‘I spoke to the o
ther Calais prisoners while you and Sligo retrieved the bodies,’ said Chaloner. ‘Swan and Swallow were killed the day after they were brought to Newgate – their screams were heard. The inmates tried to tell the warden who brought their food, but he would not listen.’

  ‘The decomposition of the bodies confirms their claim,’ said Wiseman pompously. ‘Swan and Swallow have been mouldering for at least two weeks. And that means Falcon spent no more than a day in Calais before he was rescued.’

  Chaloner nodded. Did it mean Compton was right to think the deaths of his men could be laid at Falcon’s door? If the felon had been at liberty for so long, then it was not inconceivable that he had plotted his revenge on the soldiers who had arrested him. Chaloner rubbed his chin. So, if Falcon had killed Compton’s men, then was he responsible for the other deaths connected to the Sinon Plot, too – Hanse, Oetje and Ibbot? And if so, how was Chaloner to find him, when he was such a master of disguise that no description of him was possible?

  ‘You are very white,’ said Wiseman, after a while during which they walked in silence. ‘However, I did warn you that a visit to Calais would be distressing, and so did Sligo. You have only yourself to blame if the jaunt upset you.’

  Chaloner looked away. ‘I have experienced worse,’ he said quietly. ‘Far worse.’

  Wiseman regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then released a gusty sigh. ‘I said earlier that I did not want to know the nature of your business in Newgate, but I spoke over-hastily. I suspect you need my formidable wits to solve this case. So you may confide in me, if you like.’

  Chaloner saw no problem in doing so, given that much of what he had learned was in the public domain anyway. ‘Falcon, Swan and Swallow plotted an audacious robbery, but Compton overheard them. Williamson investigated, and when he had convinced himself that the threat was genuine, he ordered them arrested. Compton obliged, because Williamson’s own men are unpopular.’

  ‘I suppose they were incarcerated in Calais to keep the affair quiet,’ surmised Wiseman. ‘Although these stories have a way of seeping out, and this one was bandied around in White Hall.’