‘Come,’ Edwards said, once the courtiers and the yeoman had gone, and he was alone with Chaloner and Hannah. ‘You did not come to entertain me. You came to be entertained.’
‘You will show us around by yourself?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘Are you not afraid someone will knock you over the head and steal your treasure?’
‘And do what with it?’ asked Edwards with a shrug. ‘There is no great market for stolen crowns in London. And between you and me, the regalia is not even that valuable. Most of the so-called precious stones are nothing of the kind, because the best ones have been prised out and put in a safe place. The ones you will see are coloured glass.’
Chaloner regarded him askance, wondering whether that constituted fraud, given that people paid to see them. ‘But, even so, they still must be worth something.’
‘Oh, they are,’ Edwards assured him. ‘Just not as much as everyone thinks. Yet I was concerned about security at first, and consulted Sir William Compton on the matter. He is Master of Ordnance, and knows better than most how to keep things safe. He recommended that I hire a guard.’
‘Then where is he?’
‘Brown died of a fever last week, and I have yet to replace him. But enough chatter. Come.’
He began to walk away in entirely the wrong direction, and only after colliding with the Brick Tower did he realise he was well off course. With cool aplomb, he turned right, chatting gaily all the while about Cromwell’s antics in Westminster Abbey. When he reached the Martin Tower, he ran his fingers over the door until he located the keyhole. Keeping one finger on it so he would not lose it again, he fumbled for the key that hung on a chain around his waist, and unlocked it with a flourish. Chaloner watched with mounting horror. Surely, sharp eyes should be a requisite for such a post? Thieves were noted for their sleights of hand, after all.
Smiling genially, Edwards beckoned his guests into a low, dark chamber. There were no windows, and there was nothing in the room except a chest atop a table. He used a second key to unlock it, then stood back so his visitors could admire its contents. Half expecting it to be empty, Chaloner stepped forward.
The so-called Crown of England was the largest piece, a mass of sparkling colour in a frame of gold. Then there were the sceptre and orb, and various other head-pieces and accoutrements. Chaloner gave them no more than a cursory glance – he had never been very interested in such items – but Hannah cooed appreciatively.
‘May I hold the sceptre?’ she asked, adding when Edwards looked wary, ‘We are friends of Reverend White, and he—’
‘Why did you not say?’ cried Edwards, handing it to her. ‘White and I have known each other for years. He is a lovely man, although I wish he were not so vocal about these rumours concerning Cromwell. It is not a good idea to say nice things about the Old Tyrant in this day and age. I know White was one of Cromwell’s chaplains, but even so …’
Hannah took the sceptre to the door, so she could admire it in the light, while Chaloner thought it would not need a cunning Falcon to make off with the King’s treasure – anyone could do it.
‘You chose a good time to visit,’ Edwards said amiably, addressing the place where she had been standing. ‘I am going to see kin in the country tomorrow, so had you left it a day later, you would have been disappointed.’
‘No one shows the jewels off while you are away?’ asked Chaloner.
‘No. Visitor fees are my prerogative, and I do not see why I should share them with anyone else. But I shall not be gone long – a night or two, perhaps. The King sometimes likes to try his crown on, and it would not do to be away when he calls for it.’
‘I understand there was a recent plot to make off with it,’ said Chaloner, deciding to take the bull by the horns. ‘A man called Falcon—’
‘Falcon!’ sneered Edwards, showing no surprise at the mention of the affair. ‘He pretended to befriend me, but I saw through his antics in an instant. He stood no more chance of stealing the regalia than he has of flying to the moon. Spymaster Williamson arrested him in the end.’
‘Did you know he has escaped?’ asked Chaloner, watching Hannah return the sceptre to the box and turn her attention to the orb. ‘And his accomplices have been murdered?’
Edwards’s jaw dropped in disbelief. ‘But that is impossible! No one ever leaves Calais.’
‘Well, Falcon has. Do you think he might make another attempt on—’
‘No!’ declared Edwards vehemently. ‘He will not chance his arm here again. He would not dare.’
‘What does he look like?’ asked Chaloner, before realising that he was asking the wrong man.
Edwards answered anyway. ‘He always came dressed as an affluent middle-aged cleric, which Compton said he is. I did not see him after his arrest, but the yeomen did, and they said he seemed younger, stronger, and rather secular. They claim they have never known a fellow able to change his appearance so completely, and declared it uncanny and sinister.’
‘Will you take additional precautions with the jewels, now you know he is at large?’
Edwards nodded. ‘And so will the yeomen, who are as robust and reliable a corps as you could ever hope to meet. But Falcon will not come here – he is not a fool.’
It was difficult to prise Hannah away, and when Chaloner finally did manage, she enthused about the jewels all the way to Thompson’s house. Only when their journey came to an end, and they were standing in the rectory garden, Chaloner scanning their surroundings for any evidence that they were being watched, did she turn to face him.
‘You have barely said a word all evening. Did you not think the regalia fine?’
‘Very fine,’ replied Chaloner. ‘And also very vulnerable. Stealing them would be easy.’
‘You had better not say that to anyone else,’ she said with a grin, ‘because if they do go missing, you will be the prime suspect.’
Curious to know whether he had overreacted by taking Hannah to a place of safety, Chaloner walked to Tothill Street. It did not take him long to see that he had made the right decision. The men watching his house were smoking pipes or sipping ale outside the tavern opposite, and might have gone unnoticed. But Chaloner knew what to look for. There were six of them, stationed at the front and the rear, and all were alert and vigilant. They became more so as dusk approached and the shadows lengthened and deepened.
He wondered what they wanted. Were they there to monitor his movements, or was their remit to lay hold of him? Regardless, he was not inclined to tackle so many in order to secure answers, so turned around and walked back the way he had come.
He took a carriage to Cheapside, where it was easy to identify Falcon’s home – Swaddell and a companion were watching it, rather obviously, from the nearby Feathers tavern. Chaloner went to the side of the house, where he gained access via a badly secured window.
It was not very large, and had probably been neat and clean before Williamson had been through it. There was a huge stock of clothes and face-paints, suggesting the tales were true about the vicar’s love of disguise. Chaloner stood in the house as darkness fell outside, and tried to gain a measure of the man. He found he could not do it. And even if he could, he doubted whether it would have helped: Falcon would already have assumed a new identity.
He sat on a chair and tried to think of ways to unmask him, because he was sure about one thing: Falcon was not the kind of person to accept defeat and slink away. He would be close at hand, plotting revenge on those who had foiled him. Or perhaps even working to resume the Sinon Plot, whatever that might entail.
Chaloner frowned. As a master of deception, it would be easy for Falcon to infiltrate White Hall, which was a transient place, always full of newcomers and visitors. And if he had, he might be anyone, even someone Chaloner had met. The spy rubbed his eyes wearily. The task of exposing the fellow seemed impossible, but he knew he would have to try, especially if, as he was beginning to suspect, Falcon had killed Hanse.
There was no more to be gained
from sitting in a deserted house, and Chaloner had the strong sense that the cleric had no intention of ever returning there, so he took his leave and went to the Golden Lion on Fetter Lane. The landlord was noted for his discretion: he did not ask why Chaloner wanted a room for the night, and Chaloner did not tell him.
Chaloner slept badly, waking each time there was a creak or a groan, and as the building was old, there were plenty of them. When he did doze, his dreams were plagued by muddled situations involving Newgate, Aletta and the Crown of England. He woke from one nightmare clutching a dagger, although he did not recall drawing it. Wryly, it occurred to him that Hannah was indeed safer with Rector Thompson, if her bed-mate was going to lay hold of sharp implements in his sleep.
When the stars began to fade and the first glimmer of dawn showed in the east, Chaloner rose and went to sit by the window. Opposite was a gap in the line of houses. He had lived there until recently, but the building had collapsed. Somewhere in the rubble that still littered the ground were his second-best viol, a cracked mirror that had been Aletta’s, and a little jug his mother had given him. He wished he still had them, especially the mirror.
A sudden, vivid image of Aletta filled his mind, the clarity of which he had not experienced in years. He was honest enough with himself to know that theirs had not been a match made in heaven – all their friends had advised against it, on the grounds that the differences in their characters would lead to quarrels and an eventual cooling of affection. But passion and youth had won out, and they had wed anyway. Plague had taken her before the predictions could come to pass, but he suspected that he and Aletta would not have been happy together in the long run.
Since then, he had stumbled through a series of hopeless relationships, mostly because he seemed incapable of choosing suitable partners. There had been a lady in Spain who might have been different, but circumstances had conspired against them enjoying a future together. And then there was Hannah. He believed he loved her, but the emotion was so different from what he had felt for Aletta that it was impossible to be sure. One thing was certain, though: the notion of her being in danger because of his work for the Earl filled him with a deep and all-consuming horror, and he knew he would do anything to protect her. Perhaps that was love.
To take his mind off matters that were so far beyond his understanding, he turned his thoughts to his investigations. He still had more questions than answers. How had Hanse learned about the Sinon Plot, and was Falcon responsible for his murder? Had Falcon killed Compton’s soldiers? Why had Hanse met Surgeon Molins in the Sun tavern, and why had Hanse started drinking more heavily? Could Falcon be the mysterious vicar who met Molins and Hanse in the Sun? Who had stolen the Earl’s papers? Who was holding half the Court to ransom with demands for money in return for keeping embarrassing secrets? And, right at the bottom of the list, was poor, forgotten Alden. His murderer had caught a lucky break, because Chaloner had not spared him a thought in days.
As soon as it was light, Chaloner walked to Lincoln’s Inn. It was already blisteringly hot, and the piles of rubbish that were usually washed along the drains at the sides of the road had grown so large that it would take a deluge of Biblical proportion to dislodge them. Most leaked a poisonous green-black slime that was treacherously slick, and undulated with maggots and flies.
He scaled a wall to enter Lincoln’s Inn – he knew no one was following him, but was unwilling to take risks where his friends were concerned. As usual, Thurloe was in the garden, but Chaloner’s heart sank when he saw he was not alone: a fellow bencher named William Prynne was with him.
Prynne was a pamphleteer, who liked to make scurrilous attacks on everything from religion and fashion, to playhouses and politics. He had been punished for his vitriol, though – no matter what the weather, he wore a woollen cap with long cheek-flaps, to conceal the fact that his ears had been lopped off and he had been branded. Unfortunately, not even that draconian measure had taught him to moderate his opinions, and he was a man most decent people tried to avoid.
‘Tom!’ exclaimed Thurloe, as the spy materialised next to him. He sounded relieved. ‘You will want to tell me about your wife’s health in private, so we shall retire to my rooms immediately.’
The removal of his ears had done nothing to impair Prynne’s hearing, and he scowled his anger and disappointment at Thurloe’s suggestion. ‘But I was giving you my judgement on the Dutch delegation! You must be interested – you had dealings with them yourself during the Commonwealth.’
Thurloe looked pained. ‘Your views are … enlightening, Prynne. Thank you. But Tom is—’
‘You will be interested, too,’ said Prynne, addressing Chaloner. ‘You work at White Hall, so you will find this fascinating, although most courtiers are sinful heathens, who fornicate with Satan’s—’
‘Does your wife need one of my tonics, Tom?’ asked Thurloe desperately. ‘Shall I prepare it now?’
‘As soon as possible,’ agreed Chaloner.
‘Secretary Kun is sly and deceitful,’ Prynne went on, unfazed by Thurloe’s transparent efforts to escape. ‘A double-tongued viper, who pretends to be affable but who is actually full of wickedness. The lawyer named Zas looks like a fox, and owns that creature’s cunning viciousness, so he cannot be trusted. And Ruyven, the soldier who protects them all, has a dark and deadly secret.’
‘What secret?’ Chaloner turned back suddenly, resisting Thurloe’s attempts to pull him away.
‘One of which he is deeply ashamed, but that he cannot help but pursue,’ replied Prynne, pleased to have secured Chaloner’s interest. ‘I can smell it on him, and it is what makes him the man he is. I usually like Hollanders, but the ones in the Dutch delegation are agents of corruption and vice, and their women bear the badge of prostituted strumpets who ramble like harlots to—’
‘No,’ snapped Chaloner, knowing there was no point in arguing with a committed bigot like Prynne, but unable to overlook insults to Jacoba. ‘Do not make such—’
Prynne overrode him. ‘They revel in pernicious and intolerable corruptions—’
‘Enough!’ barked Thurloe, fixing Prynne with a furious glare. He rarely raised his voice, but when he did, wise men took heed, and Prynne, for all his faults, was not stupid. He bowed a hasty farewell and scurried away, muttering something about a pamphlet that needed his attention.
‘I am sorry, Tom,’ said Thurloe. ‘He had no right to make those remarks. Come and sit in this arbour with me. We can talk in peace now he has gone.’
The arbour boasted a chamomile bench, and when they sat, it released a sweet, soothing odour.
‘I had forgotten that you know some of Heer van Goch’s delegation,’ said Chaloner, breathing in deeply. ‘You played host to them when you were Secretary of State.’
‘I knew some rather well, and Kun has been to visit me here since he arrived this time. Prynne has a point, though: there is something hard and determined under that affable exterior.’
The same might be said of Thurloe himself, Chaloner thought. ‘You do not like him?’
Thurloe shrugged. ‘It is not a case of like or dislike. He just has hidden depths.’
‘What about Zas? Did you meet him?’
‘Yes. He does look like a fox, but I never found him vicious. Cromwell was fond of him.’
Chaloner was not sure the approbation of a military dictator said much that was positive. ‘What did Prynne mean about Ruyven? What dark secret does he hold?’
‘I have no idea, but I would not place too much faith in it. Prynne loves to cause trouble.’
Chaloner supposed he was right. ‘Do you still have the receipts that prove I was in Middleburg when de Witt’s bedchamber was burgled?’ he asked, after a moment.
Thurloe’s eyebrows went up. ‘Why? Do not tell me you need them after all these years? I thought everyone had agreed that that particular exploit would never be solved.’
‘Downing has other ideas. He has mentioned it twice now, including once in the Sav
oy. I thought it was going to see me arrested. So did he, I imagine.’
‘What is wrong with the man?’ exclaimed Thurloe, shocked. ‘Can he not see that the incident will reflect as poorly on him as on the spy who performed the deed? I know I told him I needed that information, but I never imagined he would order you into such a dangerous situation. It was bad enough telling you to steal the papers, but to then force you to put them back again …’
‘They would have been no use to you if de Witt had known their contents were comprised. Downing was right about that.’
‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Thurloe reluctantly. ‘But the whole escapade was reckless and stupid, and would have caused untold damage had you been caught. You should have refused.’
‘I did refuse, but he threatened to shoot Aletta’s maid unless I did as I was told. He may have been bluffing, but I could not take the chance.’
‘I will find those receipts today,’ promised Thurloe. ‘And if I have misplaced them, I shall arrange for more to be produced. Downing will not use this to hurt you.’
Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn glad he had a friend like Thurloe.
It was now a full week since the Earl’s papers had been stolen, so Chaloner spent the first half of the morning in Worcester House, questioning the staff – again – about what they had seen or heard the evening the documents had gone missing. He did not expect anything new to come to light, and nor did it – the thief had slipped in and out without being seen by a single witness. Even Bulteel, who was more observant than most, had failed to notice anything amiss.
‘Are you sure they are stolen?’ Chaloner asked, exasperated. ‘He has not mislaid them?’
‘They have gone,’ said Bulteel grimly. ‘I checked very carefully, believe me. Is there nothing to help you trace them? This is important. I do not like the notion of them being in the wrong hands.’
The Body in the Thames: Chaloner's Sixth Exploit in Restoration London (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 24
