‘What hour was that?’
‘It must have been well after ten o’clock. But he learned to his cost that the Devil was no place for him – some villain flailed at him with a sword as he left. He managed to duck, but he fell and landed awkwardly. According to Barford, my father’s drinking companions saw the villain off. Then two of them left, but the other pair stayed with him until I arrived.’
‘Did you know the names of these companions?’
‘Sir William Compton was one of those who waited. Do you know him? He is the Master of Ordnance, and a very decent gentleman. The other was a Dutchman.’
‘A Dutchman?’ echoed Chaloner, thoughts whirling.
Joseph nodded again. ‘A kindly-faced, amiable one, with a mass of yellow hair. He gave my father those nice white gloves that he liked to wear.’
Chaloner stared at him. The description fitted Hanse perfectly. Did this explain why he had refused the offer of an escort back to the Savoy? He had more socialising planned, and did not want anyone else to witness it? And what did it say about Ibbot, the hackneyman? That he had delivered Hanse to the Devil, rather than the Savoy, and had been murdered for it?
‘Did you see his other two companions?’ he asked hopefully.
‘No,’ replied Joseph. ‘They had gone by the time I arrived. But the landlord said one was a vicar, while the other was fat and untidy.’
So, the five men who had met in the Devil on Friday night were the same as the ones who gathered in the Sun, thought Chaloner. But what did that tell him? He saw it raised more questions than answers, and supposed he would have to visit Compton and ask him why he had met Molins, Hanse, a vicar and a fat, untidy man late at night in London’s taverns.
* * *
The afternoon heat hit Chaloner like a physical blow as he stepped outside. He turned into Fleet Street, which was full of dust kicked up by the traffic. Grit flew into his eye, momentarily blinding him, and causing him to trip over a sun-baked rut. A coach accompanied by horsemen rattled past, and one of the riders smirked as he witnessed the stumble. It was Ruyven.
‘Been drinking?’ he called. He spoke Dutch, and nearby pedestrians began to glare. Chaloner winced, thinking the captain was a fool for drawing attention to his nationality on such a busy highway.
‘Stop the coach!’ called Zas from inside the vehicle, hammering on the roof until it came to a standstill. Then he leaned out of the window. ‘Climb in, Chaloner. We are going in the same direction, and it is too hot for walking. Especially for a man who has been at the claret.’
‘No,’ objected Ruyven, before Chaloner could inform Zas that he had been nowhere near wine of any description for days – he had not had time. ‘It is not safe to offer rides to Englishmen.’
‘He is not an Englishman,’ countered Zas. ‘He is Chaloner – Hanse’s kinsman.’
They began to argue, and while Chaloner had no wish to accept Zas’s invitation, a refusal was likely to prolong the incident and attract even more attention. Moving quickly, he opened the carriage door and clambered inside. Ruyven scowled, but Chaloner did not care what he thought.
It was cramped in the coach. Besides Zas, there was Secretary Kun, the burly sergeant called Taacken, and two more diplomats. All nodded politely, except Kun, whose greeting was cool. Chaloner could only suppose that he, like Ruyven, did not think that stopping to collect passengers was a good idea. Everyone winced when there was a thump – a stone had been thrown. But then the driver flicked his reins and they were off, Ruyven and his men cantering along beside them.
‘I am surprised you are out,’ Chaloner remarked. ‘Given what happened last time.’
‘We have drivers we trust now,’ explained Zas. ‘There will not be a repeat of the incident at Charing Cross. But we are out because we were all tired of being cooped up inside the Savoy.’
‘Where have you been?’ Chaloner was aware of Kun staring morosely out of the window, which was unusual behaviour from the amiable secretary.
‘St Paul’s Cathedral,’ replied Zas. ‘It seemed a pity to leave London without seeing it. It truly is a wonder!’
‘The wonder is that it is still standing,’ muttered Kun uncharitably. ‘It is virtually a ruin.’
Chaloner glanced at him, wondering what had brought about his sudden change of mood. Were Thurloe and Prynne right when they claimed he had another, darker side?
‘It is precarious in places,’ acknowledged Zas. He grinned at Chaloner, a brazenly vulpine expression that immediately put the spy on his guard. ‘But we did not offer you a ride so we could talk about hackney drivers and architecture. We had a rather different discussion in mind.’
‘One concerning Hanse, I suppose,’ predicted Chaloner.
Zas nodded. ‘Precisely. What more have you learned about his murder?’
‘Progress is being made,’ replied Chaloner shortly, resenting the fact that they felt free to demand answers when they had been far from open with him.
‘What progress?’ demanded Kun.
‘We may be able to help,’ coaxed Zas, when Chaloner declined to answer. ‘After all, we want the same thing: Hanse’s killer caught and the peace talks to succeed. We will achieve our objectives far sooner if we work together.’
‘I thought we were working together,’ said Taacken bitterly. ‘Us and the English. But there are rumours – ones that claim we will not sign a trade treaty, when the truth is that we are ready to put pen to paper this very day. Someone is spreading lies about us, to damage our reputation.’
‘The negotiations are not advancing as fast as they might,’ agreed Kun, looking hard at Chaloner. ‘Especially given the energy and goodwill that we have poured into them. So we have reached the conclusion that someone is trying to sabotage them. A traitor.’
‘You mean a Dutchman?’ asked Chaloner, recalling that the slow pace had been remarked upon by van Goch, Ruyven, Clarendon and even Thurloe. ‘Someone in your delegation?’
‘Of course not!’ declared Zas, offended. ‘All right – I accept that not everyone at the Savoy believes peace is our best option. But no one would actively work against it.’
‘It is an outsider,’ said Kun pointedly. ‘Someone with an intimate knowledge of Dutch affairs.’
‘Well, it is not me,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘The talks have been in failure for months, but I have been in London for less than four weeks.’
‘Of course it is not you,’ said Zas impatiently. ‘However, Hanse’s murder is a major stumbling block to progress, and we desperately need a solution. So tell us what you have learned.’
‘Very little,’ said Chaloner, giving each of the Dutchmen a cool look. ‘Which is not surprising, given that witnesses have not been honest with me. For example, it would have been helpful to know far sooner about Hanse’s penchant for solitary walks and his sudden increase in drinking. But here we are at the junction with Wich Street, where our paths diverge, so let me out and—’
‘No,’ said Kun, reaching out to prevent him from knocking on the roof to tell the driver to stop. ‘Tell us what you know, even if it is only a little.’
‘I know I have wasted a lot of time learning facts that you could have confided days ago.’
‘Because we did not want to mislead you,’ said Taacken impatiently. ‘His walks and drinking are irrelevant. Indeed, we are all imbibing more than is our wont, because we are worn out by these interminable delays. But neither it nor his nocturnal ambles pertain to his murder.’
Chaloner would make up his own mind about that. ‘Perhaps. But withholding the information was not helpful, and your dissimulation is the reason why I have nothing more to tell you.’
With a sigh, Zas rapped on the ceiling, bringing the coach to a standstill. ‘Then we are sorry. But please do your best to find answers. Peace between two nations may depend on what you learn.’
It was unreasonable pressure, and Chaloner grimaced as he turned to climb out of the carriage. Kun leaned forward as he passed.
‘Be c
areful,’ he whispered in a voice so low as to be virtually inaudible. ‘Nothing is as it seems.’
Chaloner stared after the carriage as it rattled away. Had he just been issued with a warning or a threat? And why had Kun been less friendly than usual? Had he tired of the negotiations, and decided there was no longer any need to present an amiable face to the opposition? Or was it the notion that Chaloner might be closing in on Hanse’s killer that worried him?
Kun had looked different that day – smaller, older and thinner. How good a master of disguise was Falcon? Good enough to fool the friends of the man he was impersonating? With that unsettling thought, Chaloner turned and began to retrace his steps, hoping Compton would have answers to his questions, because if not, he was beginning to fear that he might never solve the mysteries that seemed to grow deeper and more entangled with every new piece of intelligence he acquired.
It was not far to Drury Lane, but it was now the hottest part of the day, and heat rose in wavy, shimmering sheets off the road. When Chaloner heard his name called, he was tempted to ignore it, wanting only to reach Compton’s house, so he could step out of the sun. Moments later, a carriage rolled to a stop beside him. It was Murdoch, the hackneyman who had identified Ibbot.
‘You are a difficult man to track down,’ said the Scot, wiping his sweaty face with a rag. ‘I would have given up, if the order to find you had come from anyone other than Mr Thurloe. But I would do anything for him, as you know. Even traipse around hot cities.’
During the Commonwealth, Thurloe had saved Murdoch’s sister from wrongful execution, and had earned himself a devoted servant in the process.
‘Why does he want me?’ asked Chaloner worriedly. ‘Has something happened to him?’
Murdoch shook his head. ‘No, no. It is more a case of something happening to me. But, Lord, it is hot! The weather is an omen, you know.’ He flicked his head to where the sun was a malevolent yellow eye in a cloudless sky. ‘A terrible evil will befall us before the month is out.’
‘People said that in February, when the old king’s ghost took to wandering about and pieces started falling off St Paul’s Cathedral. But we are still here.’
‘Give it time,’ said Murdoch darkly. ‘My sister reckons it will be plague. After all, the disease is raging in Amsterdam, so the newsbooks say. But I had better tell you my story, because Mr Thurloe says it is important, and he charged me to relate it to you as soon as possible.’
‘Yes?’ asked Chaloner, when the Scot paused, apparently for dramatic effect.
Murdoch cleared his throat. ‘I had a Dutchman in my carriage the other day. He spoke good English, but he scoffed cheese for the entire journey. That is how I guessed his nationality, see.’
‘Right,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether there was any point in informing him that the Dutch were no more enamoured of dairy produce than the average Briton.
‘So, being a patriotic soul, I took him down a dark lane in the Fleet Rookery, and shoved a knife to his throat,’ Murdoch continued, so blithely that Chaloner wondered how many other fares had suffered this fate. ‘And I told him that if he did not confess to being a spy, I would kill him.’
‘And did he?’ asked Chaloner, sorry for the hapless foreigner.
‘No.’ Murdoch sounded disgusted. ‘And then I was in a fix, because I did not really want to stab him. So I ordered him never to spy on us again, on pain of death, and took him home to the Savoy.’
‘The Savoy?’ pounced Chaloner. ‘He was one of Ambassador van Goch’s people?’
‘A diplomat,’ agreed Murdoch. ‘Maybe that was why he refused to admit being an intelligencer – he is skilled at reading minds, and could tell I was bluffing. Anyway, when we reached the Savoy, he flew out of my coach without bothering to pay, which was a damned cheek. But in his desperation to deprive me of my due, he left something behind.’
‘What?’ asked Chaloner, suspecting it had been fear that had led the man to bolt, not a ploy to gain a free ride – although most folk would baulk at paying for a journey that included unscheduled excursions to dark lanes and threats of murder.
‘Something important,’ said Murdoch smugly. ‘Because the other hackneymen say he has been asking after it ever since – darting out to grill them as they drive past the Savoy. I rarely work that end of The Strand, so I have not seen him since. None of them told him anything, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Chaloner. ‘So I assume you took this item to Thurloe?’
‘Today,’ nodded Murdoch. ‘When it occurred to me that I should probably hand it to someone in authority. And there is no greater authority than Mr Thurloe, as far as I am concerned, regardless of the fact that stupid Royalists have stolen away his power. Anyway, he took one look at it and told me to give it to you. So here it is.’
He reached behind him, and produced a package that was about the size of his head. Chaloner recognised the distinct colouring of one of the States-General’s most famous cheeses, and supposed the diplomat had been gorging on it during his journey. He felt a surge of exasperation. What had the fellow been thinking? Had he wanted to perpetuate the stereotype?
‘Look,’ said Murdoch, removing the waxy paper in which the item was wrapped.
The middle of the cheese had been hollowed out and a sheaf of paper shoved inside. Clearly, the intention had been to conceal it by replacing the rind lid, but the diversion to the Fleet Rookery must have distracted its owner, and he had neglected to complete what he had started.
‘Most are incomprehensible, because of word-shortening and code,’ said Murdoch, watching Chaloner remove the documents and begin to sift through them. ‘But there is an interesting bit about Lady Castlemaine’s underwear.’
Chaloner took a page at random, and scanned it quickly. The ‘code’ was Latin, while the ‘word-shortening’ was the kind of shorthand all clerks employed. He had seen enough of such items to recognise notes taken at a meeting, and was also aware that ‘Bu’ probably meant Buckingham, while LC referred to the Lord Chancellor. They were minutes from a Privy Council gathering.
Were they the ones that had been stolen from Clarendon? Clearly, Thurloe thought so. Unfortunately, Bulteel said seven meetings’ worth had gone, and there were not enough notes in the cheese to represent that many discussions. So where were the rest? And why had these been in the hands of a Dutchman? Had a diplomat taken them from Worcester House, and put them in the cheese to keep them safe, perhaps for transportation back to The Hague?
‘When did all this happen?’ he asked.
‘Monday morning,’ replied Murdoch, promptly and without hesitation.
Chaloner smiled. He had always known Hanse was not responsible, but it was still good to have it confirmed: Hanse was dead by the time the mysterious Dutchman had sat in Murdoch’s carriage and fiddled with his cheese. ‘Thank you. Is there anything else you can tell me?’
‘Yes,’ said Murdoch, pleased with himself. ‘Something about Saul Ibbot. I know you are interested in him, because you asked after him earlier in the week. Well, there is a rumour that he was killed by Hectors, but I know for a fact that they stopped using him last year because of his wife’s loose tongue. The rumour is false – he just had an accident.’
Chaloner mulled over the information. So there was nothing sinister about the hackney that had transported Hanse from the Sun. Hanse had probably asked Ibbot to take him to the Devil, rather than the Savoy, but it had been his decision, and had had nothing to do with criminal gangs. Ibbot’s death was a coincidence, proving that they did occur from time to time.
Murdoch turned the discussion back to the papers. With a gleeful grin, he wrenched the minutes from Chaloner’s hand and slapped a different page into it. This document was on thinner, cheaper paper, and was in different handwriting.
‘The coded stuff is boring. This is the interesting bit, although Mr Thurloe did not agree.’
Chaloner saw the document did indeed contain details of Lady Castlemaine’s nether garments. He gaz
ed at it in confusion. Why should such a thing be among Privy Council papers? Or in the possession of a Dutch diplomat for that matter?
‘When I dropped that butter-lover off at the Savoy, I heard his cronies call him Kern,’ Murdoch was saying. ‘At least, it sounded like Kern.’
‘Kun?’ asked Chaloner, his thoughts tumbling about like acrobats.
Murdoch snapped his fingers. ‘You have it! The villain’s name was Kun.’
Chapter 9
From being at a virtual standstill, Chaloner now had several leads to follow. He needed to see Kun, and demand to know why the secretary had been toting Privy Council papers around inside a cheese – and how he could have been so indescribably stupid as to leave them in a hackney carriage. Then there was the Devil tavern on Fleet Street, where he would ask what the landlord knew of the five men who had met there, and about the attack on Molins. And finally, there was Compton. As he was already at his house, he decided to interview the Master of Ordnance first.
He knocked on the door, and when it was opened, he was startled to find the house in an uproar, with servants standing in small, frightened knots.
‘What is the matter?’ he asked of the maid who had admitted him the last time he was there.
‘The master is ill,’ she replied with a sob. ‘He was well this morning, but then he complained of pains in his stomach, and took to his bed. Surgeon Wiseman said he just needed to rest and drink lots of water. But he is getting worse!’
‘Have you summoned Wiseman back again?’
The maid nodded fearfully. ‘And a physician is already here.’
All heads turned as a man appeared at the top of the staircase. Chaloner could tell from his sombre clothes that he was a medical man.
‘Are you a member of Compton’s family?’ the fellow demanded.
‘He is the Lord Chancellor’s envoy,’ replied the maid before Chaloner could speak.
The Body in the Thames: Chaloner's Sixth Exploit in Restoration London (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 26
