‘I thought he drowned,’ said Swaddell, puzzled. ‘Are you saying he was shot?’
‘Well, if he was, then I had nothing to do with it,’ said Williamson, before Chaloner could reply. ‘I can barely keep up with dispatching home-grown villains – assassinating foreigners would stretch my resources well past breaking point.’
There was an awkward silence. It was not an admission Williamson should have made.
‘We have commissioned at least two dozen of those,’ said Swaddell eventually, nodding at the weapon. ‘And a number have been lost. Ergo, its presence in connection to Hanse’s murder is not a reliable clue, because anyone might have come into possession of it. And that includes Dutchmen.’
‘You think Hanse was killed by one of his own people?’ asked Chaloner.
‘It is possible,’ replied Swaddell. ‘They present a united front to outsiders, but our spies tell us that divisions are rife. Hanse was frantic for peace, and was willing to offer generous terms to get it. But not every Hollander thought he was right to be so accommodating.’
Chaloner said nothing, but inwardly he groaned. It would not be easy to investigate the residents of the Savoy, and they would certainly resent any questions that looked as though he was going to lay the murder at their door.
‘Better the culprit is a Dutchman than an Englishman,’ said Williamson fervently. ‘I have high hopes for the convention on Sunday, but the talks will fail if one of us killed Hanse.’
‘What do you care about peace?’ asked Chaloner, sufficiently disheartened by their revelations to let his bitterness show. ‘The rest of the country does not.’
‘The rest of the country does not have access to intelligence reports,’ retorted Williamson. ‘Ones that tell me to delay hostilities until we have at least a sporting chance of victory. At the moment, we have none. And if it is revealed that an Englishman killed Hanse, the Dutch will go home and we will be at war within weeks.’
‘They will go home if they learn he was murdered by one of their own, too,’ Swaddell pointed out. ‘They will claim that our spies put the culprit up to it, regardless of whether or not it is true.’
‘Well, one side or the other must have done it,’ said Chaloner, exasperated. ‘Unless you suspect a third party – the French, perhaps, to prevent two Protestant countries from forming an alliance.’
‘Now there is an idea!’ exclaimed Williamson, eyes gleaming. ‘I may put that tale about, no matter who transpires to be the villain.’
‘Keeper Sligo came to our offices earlier,’ said Swaddell to Chaloner. ‘He told us how Wiseman’s assistant, Crane, made a horrible discovery in Calais.’
‘Calais?’ asked Chaloner innocently.
‘It is where I deposit undesirables,’ said Williamson smoothly. ‘Men who are a nuisance.’
‘Is that legal?’ asked Chaloner, hoping the Spymaster would never learn about his mortal terror of prisons, because it would certainly be used against him.
‘I am above the law,’ said Williamson smugly. ‘Spymasters are, where national security is concerned.’
‘Crane uncovered an alarming fact,’ Swaddell went on, while Chaloner regarded Williamson in distaste, thinking that Thurloe would never have made such an arrogant claim. ‘Namely that two of the men incarcerated for plotting to steal the coronation regalia are dead, while the other escaped.’
‘Dead of gaol-fever?’ asked Chaloner. ‘I heard it is rife in Newgate.’
‘Murdered, according to Sligo. We have set guards on Falcon’s Cheapside house and his known haunts, but there is no sign of him yet. He remains at large. And that is a problem.’
‘Because he might make another attempt on the jewels?’ asked Chaloner.
Swaddell shook his head. ‘Because he is a very dangerous individual. We did not make the decision to put him in Calais lightly.’
‘In what way is he dangerous?’
Swaddell grimaced. ‘He seems to have a certain power about him. And he curses.’
‘Lots of people curse,’ said Chaloner. ‘Especially when their plans are foiled.’
‘Yes, but this is different,’ said Swaddell. ‘I am not a sensitive man. Indeed, I imagine I am less susceptible than most to this sort of thing – you cannot be too concerned about divine vengeance in my line of work, or you would never get anything done. But he unnerved me.’
Chaloner raised his hands in a shrug. ‘I still do not understand.’
‘There is a power about him,’ snapped Williamson impatiently. ‘It happens sometimes in those wholly dedicated to their cause. God knows, there were enough of them during the Commonwealth. You know what I mean – men who are so convinced of their rectitude that they are blind to all else.’
‘A fanatic?’ asked Chaloner.
‘The term will serve,’ said Williamson. ‘He has curious eyes that … burn. Swan and Swallow were terrified of him. He unsettled Compton and his soldiers, too, and they are sensible sorts.’
‘Three of those are dead,’ said Chaloner. ‘Two crushed by a speeding cart and one drowned.’
Williamson and Swaddell exchanged a glance that showed they were shocked by the news.
‘Falcon represents a considerable risk to London and Londoners,’ said Williamson. ‘So if you hear rumours pertaining to his whereabouts, I would appreciate being told immediately.’
‘Of course,’ said Chaloner, although the Spymaster would only be told once Falcon had been thoroughly questioned about Hanse’s murder, because Chaloner had no intention of visiting Calais a second time to secure an interview.
‘Good,’ said Williamson with his reptilian smile. ‘And now let us return to Crane. We would like to speak to him, but the Company of Barber-Surgeons has no one registered under that name.’
‘Crane,’ mused Chaloner. ‘A bird. Do you think he was another of Falcon’s accomplices?’
‘He had Swan and Swallow,’ snapped Williamson. ‘He did not have any one else.’
‘But yet he must have done,’ reasoned Swaddell. ‘Because, according to Sligo, one came dressed up as a warden, and rescued him.’
Williamson did not deign to acknowledge the point. ‘Wiseman is in trouble, though. It was his assistant who discovered what had transpired in Calais – a place this Crane should not have been.’
‘Wiseman is lazy,’ said Chaloner, alarmed that the surgeon might suffer on his account. ‘He probably did not bother to check Crane’s credentials, so he cannot be blamed for—’
‘Crane was his responsibility,’ said Williamson coldly. ‘So we can blame him for whatever we choose. But we will find Crane, because Sligo is drawing a picture of him as we speak. And then we shall put him in Calais, since he was so eager to see it.’
The hot summer day suddenly seemed cold to Chaloner as he walked away, and he shivered.
Hannah was released from her duties early that evening, because the Queen expected to be at the Banqueting House until late and Judith Killigrew had offered to wait up for her.
‘We shall go out together,’ she announced, when Chaloner came to collect her. ‘If we are to live separately for a while, then you can compensate by taking me somewhere pleasant now.’
Chaloner nodded absently, although his thoughts were still on Falcon, a man so clever and dangerous that his escape had disconcerted even the Spymaster. Had Falcon somehow learned about the message Hanse had left in his stockings, and the surveillance on Tothill Street was his doing? Given what had happened to Swallow and Swan, Chaloner knew he had to do everything in his power to keep Hannah as far away from the man as possible.
‘Joseph Thompson has offered you a bed in his house.’ He passed her the bag he had packed. ‘You must stay there tonight, because Tothill Street is no longer safe.’
‘But it is my home, Tom!’ cried Hannah, distinctly unimpressed.
‘I know. But it will not be for long. Please, Hannah. I would not ask if it were not important.’
Hannah stared at him. ‘Will it always be like this? Yo
u will cross deadly villains, and I will be bundled off to some rectory until you have eliminated the threat they represent?’
‘Not once I find different rooms,’ said Chaloner, although he knew that even this would not entirely eliminate the problem. ‘I should have done it sooner. This is my fault, and I am sorry. I think I have dragged Wiseman into hot water, too.’
‘He will not be pleased,’ predicted Hannah. ‘And neither am I. You really should be more careful. But I have decided it will be the last one anyway.’
‘The last what?’ asked Chaloner warily.
‘The last case like this. Sir William Compton has offered you a post – he told me. You will take it, and be done with that horrible old Earl.’
Chaloner smiled. ‘I imagine the work Compton has in mind will be just as risky. He is Master of Ordnance, and you do not encounter saints trying to steal weapons.’
Hannah put her face in her hands. ‘I cannot bear this. I have seen one husband in his grave. Am I to be deprived of another? You have no idea what it is like to lose someone you love.’ Then her head jerked up and she looked at him in dismay. ‘But you do, of course. Your first wife …’
‘Aletta,’ said Chaloner, forcing the name out. As he did so, he realised how rarely he spoke it aloud. He hesitated, but then forged on. It was now or never. ‘Her sister is in London with the Dutch delegation. It is … unsettling, because Jacoba reminds me … they look like …’
He was expecting anger for not confiding sooner, so was startled when Hannah took his hands in hers, and regarded him with compassion. ‘Poor Tom! That cannot have been easy for you.’
‘No,’ he agreed fervently. He looked at his feet, not sure what more to say.
‘I will go to Thompson,’ said Hannah gently. ‘But you must agree to two things in return: talk to Compton, and take me out somewhere now. It is a lovely evening, and we should spend it together.’
‘Have you seen the crown jewels?’ He had intended to visit them anyway, to assess for himself how secure they were, and there could be no harm in taking Hannah. Or could there?
‘It is not quite as romantic as the cherry trees at Rotherhithe,’ said Hannah, beaming. ‘Which I was going to recommend. But it will certainly be more interesting.’
But Chaloner was having second thoughts. ‘Or better yet, we could see whether Brodrick has any music planned. I have not played my viol in—’
‘The jewels,’ said Hannah firmly, leading the way towards the gate. ‘Listening to you sawing and scraping is not my idea of doing something nice.’
As it was such a fine evening, they decided to walk to the Tower. They met Temperance and Maude on Fleet Street, out to take the air before things got going at the club. Fortunately for Chaloner, life at Court had made Hannah refreshingly liberal-minded, and she did not object to his friendship with the mistress of a bordello, as most respectable ladies would have done.
‘Buckingham told me that Downing plans to visit us tonight,’ said Temperance, after greetings had been exchanged. ‘But I have ordered Preacher Hill to turn him away.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner worriedly. ‘You do not want him angry with you, because he is vindictive. Let him in. He will not return once he learns how much everything costs.’
‘Yes, I have heard he is miserly,’ said Maude. ‘Did you know he is being blackmailed?’
‘No,’ said Hannah, intrigued. ‘What about?’
Maude grinned. ‘Apparently, he has been tampering with his expense accounts – making claims for money that was never spent. I heard it from Mr Gardner, who works in the Accompting House, so it is certainly true.’
‘If his secret is out, then there is no need for him to pay his blackmailer,’ said Chaloner.
‘There is evidence, apparently,’ elaborated Maude. ‘Documents. Until they are produced, the tale is just rumour, and the King is inclined to dismiss it. However, His Majesty will be forced to revise his opinion if he is shown papers proving what his Envoy Extraordinary has done.’
‘The King is blind where Downing is concerned,’ said Temperance in disgust. ‘The man is a rogue, and everyone can see it except His Majesty.’
‘The blackmailer claims he has these documents,’ said Maude. ‘And Mr Gardner says Downing will do just about anything to get them back.’
Chapter 8
The Tower of London was a formidable place, a great, squat fortress surrounded by high walls and protective gates. There was also a moat, but much of the water had evaporated in the heat, leaving a stinking sludge that steamed in the evening sunlight. Hannah gagged as they crossed the drawbridge, overwhelmed by the reek of sewage, refuse and even dead animals that festered below.
‘They should dredge it,’ she gasped, bunching a scarf under her nose. ‘It is horrible!’
Chaloner started to tell her about Amsterdam’s moat-canals, which were kept far cleaner, when there was a strange, undulating cry. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.
‘It is just an animal in the royal menagerie,’ said Hannah, laughing at his momentary confusion. ‘Did you not know that the King keeps lions, tigers and other exotic beasts here?’
Chaloner did know, because he had encountered one rather more closely than was pleasant the last time he had visited, but it had slipped his mind. He resumed walking, acutely aware that much of the complex was given over to housing prisoners, and it took considerable willpower to knock on the gate and ask to be admitted. Two gaols in one day was taxing the limits of his endurance, and he heartily wished they had gone to Rotherhithe instead. Hannah frowned as they waited for a yeoman to escort them to the Martin Tower, where the jewels were kept.
‘Are you unwell? You are very pale.’
‘I do not like places like this,’ he replied, looking up at the sturdy grey walls and trying to suppress a shudder. Even after his wash and clean clothes, he fancied he could still smell Newgate.
‘It was your idea to come,’ she pointed out. ‘But here comes the yeoman. Oh, look! Reverend White is with him. How nice! I am very fond of him.’
‘Mr and Mrs Chaloner!’ White smiled. ‘I have had a long and difficult day, and the brightest part is seeing two people I recently married looking so happy in each other’s company.’
Chaloner was not happy, but he smiled politely, while Hannah regarded the old man in concern.
‘Are you still worried about your roof? I recall that you would not join us for our wedding feast, because you were so distressed by the damage that storm caused.’
‘I am upset about the roof,’ said White gloomily. ‘But what really grieves me are these rumours about Cromwell. He did not excavate the royal tombs. The current Court is far more likely to indulge in that sort of thing than him, for a jape, or some bizarre quest for scientific knowledge.’
‘Please do not say that to anyone else,’ said Hannah soberly. ‘It may be taken amiss.’
White rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘Lord! You are right. I am not myself this evening – a combination of the heat and these dreadful lies.’
‘Perhaps you should have stayed at home,’ said Hannah unhelpfully. ‘Or did you think that viewing the jewels or the royal menagerie would take your mind off your concerns?’
‘I came to dine with my friend Talbot Edwards. But he had invited other guests, too, and they would not believe me when I said Cromwell was no grave-despoiler. And now I do not feel well.’
‘May we take you home?’ offered Chaloner, more than willing to postpone the jewels.
‘Thank you, but that is not necessary,’ replied White. ‘I shall visit my sister in the country tomorrow. A spell in cooler air will put me right.’
‘It would be no trouble,’ said Chaloner, a little desperately.
White patted his hand. ‘I would rather you spent the evening with each other. Have you come to see the jewels? Tell Edwards that you are friends of mine, and he will give you a special tour. He is terribly short-sighted, though, so watch he does not blunder into you and knock you from y
our feet.’
‘And he is in charge of the coronation regalia?’ asked Chaloner. ‘A man who cannot see?’
‘He can see well enough to polish them,’ said White. ‘But I had better go, because I am growing more weary by the moment. Good evening to you both.’
‘Poor old fellow,’ said the yeoman, leading Chaloner and Hannah through a series of locked and barred doors that made Chaloner feel queasy. ‘He should just say Cromwell did do those terrible things, and let the rumours die a natural death. It is his fervent denials that keep them alive.’
Unfortunately for White, Chaloner suspected the yeoman was right.
Because the Assistant Keeper – the man charged with the daily care of His Majesty’s jewels – did not earn a large salary, he had been given permission to exhibit them to the general public, and to charge a fee for the privilege. They were a popular attraction, and the yeoman who escorted Chaloner and Hannah to meet Talbot Edwards said they were shown off several times a week.
‘Is he not afraid someone will steal them?’ asked Chaloner.
Hannah jabbed him with her elbow, apparently thinking that this was an inappropriate question, and one that might see him arrested.
But the yeoman laughed. ‘This is the Tower, sir! No one makes off with anything from here.’
Chaloner thought that he could: the Tower’s locks were not state of the art, and he could pick them easily. Then it would be child’s play to shove a sceptre under his coat and walk out the way he had come.
‘Here you are, Mr Edwards,’ said the yeoman genially, as the Assistant Keeper emerged from his domain with several courtiers at his heels. Chaloner assumed they were the folk who had so distressed White. ‘Two more visitors for you. The gentleman seems to think our jewels are not very safe, so you had better watch him, or he might try to make off with them.’
Edwards, a portly fellow in his seventies, shared the yeoman’s guffaw, laughing so hard that sweat beaded his forehead and ran down his face. He removed a cloth from the pocket of his overly tight coat, and dabbed at it, while Chaloner wondered whether he would have been quite so amused had Falcon’s plan succeeded.
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