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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Write it down, then. One of us will see he has it the moment he returns.’

  ‘When might that be?’

  ‘Tomorrow or the day after. He does not like to be gone for too long. Here is pen and paper.’

  Chaloner took them, and wrote a note informing Edwards that Compton, Molins and Hanse were dead. He did not add that the Assistant Keeper should be on his guard, because it should be obvious, and he did not want to compromise the man, should the missive fall into the wrong hands. He gave the yeoman some coins for his trouble, and turned back towards the city, supposing he would have to revisit both Tower and Fleet Rookery the following day, to ensure his warnings had been received – and to ask Edwards for the name of the last member of his curious cabal. His own promise to Compton would not be discharged until he was sure the three men understood the danger they might be in.

  The hackney carriage that had taken him to the Tower was still waiting, so he asked its driver to ferry him to the Devil tavern on Fleet Street, thinking to interview the landlord about the five men who had gathered there. But when he arrived, it was to find the place closed and shuttered for the night. He hammered on the door until an angry neighbour informed him that Barford was away, and was not expected back until the following evening.

  Chaloner closed his eyes in despair. From having a number of leads, he was now reduced to one – and it was too late to interrogate Kun at the Savoy. Exhausted, he started to walk home, but then remembered that his house was being watched, and it would not be safe to sleep there. He would not endanger Thurloe or Temperance by foisting himself on them, so he was effectively homeless.

  With nothing else to do, he prowled, a silent shadow in the dark streets. The other London was awake now. Robbers and thieves roamed, ready to pounce, and prostitutes flounced in twos and threes, scantily clad in the sweltering heat. Court rakes travelled in carriages or on horseback, carousing in those taverns that catered to late-night patrons. Chaloner saw Kicke and Nisbett in a boisterous, belligerent throng. Whores followed them, hopeful for business.

  He reached The Strand, and was padding past the maypole – demolished by Cromwell and replaced by the King – when he decided to visit the Savoy anyway. If the elderly secretary objected to being woken in the middle of the night, then he should not have dabbled in espionage.

  Knocking on the front gate was out of the question – no guard would admit casual visitors after dark – so he went to Worcester House, and entered the Savoy’s garden by scaling the wall that divided them. The night was clear but moonless, and he had no trouble evading the sentries.

  As he drew near the State Room, he saw a soiree was in progress. Lights blazed, and its windows were thrown open in the hope of catching a breeze. The sound of civilised society drifted out: music, the clink of goblets against decanters, and the buzz of genteel conversation. The language was Dutch, and he surmised that a reception was being held for ex-patriot merchants. It was a relaxed affair, and people were enjoying themselves. Except three: van Goch, Zas and de Buat were standing by a window, speaking in low, strained voices. Chaloner edged closer.

  ‘… no idea where he is,’ the physician was saying. ‘Ruyven has been searching all evening.’

  Van Goch looked as though he might be sick, and Zas patted his arm. ‘The Savoy is a big place, sir. Kun will have found himself a quiet corner somewhere, to sit and think quietly about how best to counter Downing’s most recent effort to damage relations between our countries.’

  ‘Then let us hope he is successful,’ said van Goch worriedly. ‘The convention is in two days, and we cannot afford yet another obstacle in the path of peace.’

  ‘To which obstacle do you refer?’ asked de Buat. ‘The one that says the Duke of York has set to sea with thirty warships? Or the business with the vase?’

  Van Goch sighed unhappily. ‘Buckingham says the tale about the boats is a canard, and perhaps he is right. Such an action would be tantamount to declaring war, and I do not think the King would be so insensitive as to launch an armada while we are still in the country.’

  ‘Clearly, this rumour is a ploy to create suspicion and mistrust,’ said Zas. ‘Like Downing’s so-called discovery in the vase. We must ignore them – refuse to let them influence us.’

  They moved away, leaving Chaloner wondering what Downing had found and whether he should search the precinct for Kun. He glanced around, then sagged in defeat: Zas was right when he said the place was huge, and he could not do it thoroughly, at night and on his own. It would be a waste of time.

  Supposing his questions would have to wait until morning after all, he prowled until he reached Jacoba’s lodgings. A lamp burned, showing she had declined to join the party in the State Room, but had not yet gone to sleep. He raised his hand to knock on her door, then let it drop when he heard the rumble of conversation through one of the open windows. Loath to disturb her when she had company, he started to leave, but then stopped when he recognised one voice as Ruyven’s.

  ‘… appreciate your position,’ the captain was murmuring. ‘But you said you loved me.’

  ‘I do love you.’ Jacoba’s voice was unsteady. ‘But Willem is dead, and I cannot escape the feeling that it is my fault – that I am being punished for betraying him. So, as I told you the last time we talked, I cannot see you again. Not ever. Now please leave, before someone sees you.’

  ‘I will wait for you to change your mind,’ declared Ruyven softly. ‘Even if it takes years, you will be mine again.’

  Chaloner hid in the shadows as the captain crept past, then leaned against the wall and stared up at the sky. So, he thought, poisonous old Prynne had been right: Ruyven did have a dark secret. Had Hanse known? Chaloner was inclined to suspect he had, and that it was the reason why he had turned to excessive drinking. But what did it say about Hanse’s death? That Ruyven had poisoned him and pushed him half-dead into the river? Unpleasant though it would be, Chaloner knew he would have to find out.

  The Golden Lion was too busy for Chaloner’s liking, so, in the absence of anywhere else to go, he found a quiet spot under a tree in Lincoln’s Inn’s Fields. The night was warm, and it had not rained for so long that there was no dew to chill him. Moreover, the vegetation was dust dry, and anyone approaching could not do so without crunching, cracking or rustling, sounds that would rouse him. But no one came, and he woke just as the night sky was beginning to turn a lighter shade of blue.

  He lay for a while, looking up at the fading stars, and inhaling deeply of air that was scented with seared earth and baked leaves. He thought about his investigations, wondering why Hanse had met Compton, Molins, Edwards and the still-unidentified vicar. Compton’s reluctant admission – that the Sinon Plot was more than an attempt to steal the crown jewels – made him certain that the five men had met to discuss it. But what was it, and had they been aiming to stop it or further it?

  Still, at least he could conclude that the mysterious vicar was not Falcon – Compton would have noticed if the man he had arrested was the same individual he had met in taverns. Ergo, it was another cleric who needed to be warned of the danger he was in.

  Worriedly, Chaloner pondered the enigma that was Falcon. Compton believed Falcon was responsible for the deaths of his men, and Chaloner strongly suspected that he had had a hand in what had happened to Hanse and Molins, too. Williamson and Swaddell had remarked on how dangerous he was, and what a threat he represented to London and Londoners, so hunting him down was a matter of urgency. But how was it to be done when no one could say what he looked like?

  Staring at the sky was bringing no answers, so Chaloner stood, brushed himself down, and began to make his way towards the road. Shadows moved in the trees ahead, so he slowed and inched forward carefully. In the predawn light, he could see a rough table on which weapons had been laid: a duel was about to take place. He started to move away, but stopped when he recognised one of the combatants. Charles Bates looked white and sick under his copper wig.

  ‘I do
not have a second,’ he was saying unsteadily. ‘I could not find … I did not want to tell …’

  Kicke laughed. ‘You kept my challenge secret, lest your friends see you as the cuckold you are.’

  ‘I will kill you,’ vowed Bates, swallowing hard. ‘You insult Ann, as well as me.’

  ‘She does not deserve you,’ spat Kicke contemptuously. ‘She deserves me, and I will have her when you are in your grave. So, shall we start, or do you need a moment to pray first?’

  Bates tried to draw his sword, but his hand was shaking so badly that it stuck. Chaloner watched in horror. The contest was tantamount to murder, because there was no way Bates stood even the remotest chance of surviving the encounter. Hannah would be devastated – she was fond of the man who had been her father’s closest friend. Moreover, what would she say if she ever learned that her husband had stood by and watched the slaughter from the safety of a bush?

  Chaloner had seen Kicke fight: he was no Nisbett, and the spy knew he could probably defeat him. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then strode forward.

  ‘Sorry I am late.’ He smiled amiably when Kicke whipped around. ‘I am Bates’s second.’

  ‘But he just said he does not have one,’ objected Kicke uneasily. ‘Go away. You—’

  ‘No, let him stay,’ said Nisbett, advancing from the gloom with his blade at the ready. ‘And I move that the principals stand back and let the seconds settle this matter. Is everyone agreed?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Kicke quickly. ‘Carry on.’

  Wishing he had remained hidden, and sincerely hoping Wiseman’s report on Nisbett’s weak knee was accurate, Chaloner drew his sword. Nisbett grinned his delight, and Chaloner knew he would have to act quickly, or it was going to be a very short – and fatal – encounter.

  ‘No!’ cried Bates, grabbing Chaloner’s arm. ‘Hannah will never forgive me.’

  He jerked away when Nisbett launched a savage attack that had Chaloner retreating faster than was comfortable. Nisbett smirked his satisfaction when the spy stumbled.

  ‘Remember what happened the last time you played with him,’ warned Kicke. ‘Finish him quickly, and then I shall dispatch the worm who married my Ann.’

  Nisbett lunged again, forcing Chaloner to work hard to avoid being skewered, but the spy knew he was holding back – that despite Kicke’s words, he intended to enjoy himself before delivering the final blow. The assault ended when the tip of his sword pierced Chaloner’s coat, which would have hurt, had his shirt not been stuffed full of Privy Council minutes. Gloating, Nisbett strutted away, expressing his contempt by turning his back.

  It was the opportunity Chaloner had been waiting for. He shot forward, and managed to score a gash in the man’s thigh. It was a superficial injury, but it slowed Nisbett down. It also made him less agile, so he struggled to defend himself when attacked. And then he lost his balance. He landed on the ground with a screech of agony, clutching his leg and letting the weapon fly from his hand.

  ‘I yield!’ he howled. ‘Fetch me a surgeon. Quickly! The pain …’

  ‘What happens now?’ asked Bates, regarding him dispassionately. ‘Do I fight Kicke?’

  ‘I will,’ offered Chaloner. ‘Or you can accept his apology. It is your choice.’

  ‘I apologise,’ said Kicke hastily, apparently unwilling to risk a bout with the man who had bested Nisbett. ‘There. Now honour has been satisfied and I can tend my wounded friend.’

  ‘I accept on one condition,’ said Bates with sudden spirit. ‘That you stay away from Ann. Decline, and Chaloner will dispatch you here and now.’

  Kicke regarded him with blazing eyes. ‘Very well,’ he said, after a brief internal struggle, during which Nisbett howled, moaned and pleaded with him to hurry. ‘You have my word.’

  ‘The word of a scoundrel,’ said Bates coldly. ‘But it will have to do, I suppose. Good day.’

  He strode away, head held high. Nisbett whimpered his relief, and there was a vengeful expression on Kicke’s face. Neither would forgive what had happened that morning.

  Chaloner accepted Bates’s offer of a ride to Fleet Street, and they climbed into his carriage just as the twilight lifted and the first hint of gold in the east indicated that the sun was coming up.

  ‘You risked your life, dashing in like that,’ said Bates, when they were under way. ‘Because they meant to murder me.’

  ‘I imagine they still do, so be on your guard.’

  ‘I will.’ Bates looked out of the window. ‘I had another demand for money this morning – the blackmailer is growing impatient. I am going to pay him, then take Ann away. By this evening, we shall be gone from the city for ever.’

  ‘Good. Hannah will be relieved to see you out of danger.’

  Bates nodded. ‘Yes, she will. But I am sorry I shall not be able to do as I offered – provide you with documents to bring Kicke down. However, Hannah told me you are also looking into the murder of that Dutch diplomat, so I wondered whether this might help you.’

  He withdrew a sheet of paper from his pocket. It had been screwed into a ball at some point, because it was wrinkled. It was also partially burned at one end.

  Chaloner took it cautiously. ‘How did you come by it?’

  ‘I found it in the Spares Gallery. Someone must have been working on it, then tossed it in the fire when he had finished. Unfortunately for him, the flames did not consume it all.’

  Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Are you in the habit of picking through ashes, then?’

  Bates shrugged. ‘It caught my eye when I was rearranging the fireplace. I like a tidy hearth.’

  Chaloner turned his attention to the paper. ‘A recipe for gingerbread?’

  ‘Turn it over,’ said Bates impatiently. ‘Look at the other side.’

  Chaloner did as he was told, and then it was difficult to prevent his shock from showing. There was a list of names, some with lines scored through them. It read:

  There may have been others, too, but the paper was too singed to tell. Chaloner gazed at it, thoughts churning. It comprised people he thought were associated with the Sinon Plot, with those who were dead crossed off. Compton said he had lost three of his four men – Upton, Osborn and Oates – with only Fairfax left alive, while Chaloner knew about Hanse, Molins, Oetje, Swallow and Swan. Moreover, Assistant Keeper Edwards had lost a guard named Brown to a recent illness. Did his name on the list suggest the ‘fever’ had been nothing of the kind? And did Edwards’s own name mean he was marked for assassination, too?

  Chaloner could only assume the list was Falcon’s, and that he was eliminating anyone he considered a problem. After all, Swan and Swallow’s names had been written, but Falcon’s own had not. It was possible that it had been burned off the bottom, but somehow Chaloner did not think so, and the more he considered it, the more he became certain.

  But who was Pocks? The last member of the group who had met in the taverns – the vicar, whose name Compton had spoken too softly to hear? If so, then the fact that it was scored through suggested that Chaloner was already too late to save him. And why were there question marks next to Chaloner’s own name and that of Joseph? Did it refer to Joseph Molins?

  Yet one thing was clear: Falcon had access to White Hall, and was sufficiently at ease there that he had lounged comfortably in the Spares Gallery and written a death list. Did that mean the Dutch delegation could be eliminated as suspects? Unfortunately, Chaloner suspected it did not – such an audacious master of deceit would probably feel at home anywhere he chose to be.

  ‘Do you know a vicar called Pocks?’ he asked Bates urgently. ‘Perhaps Edward Pocks?’

  Bates shook his head. ‘I am sorry. And I would offer to help you find out, but I have booked seats for Ann and myself on the Oxford coach at nine o’clock.’

  ‘Then be sure you do not miss it.’

  Even though it was early, the Rainbow Coffee House was open for business. Chaloner knew it was risky to visit a familiar haunt when his
home had been put under surveillance, but he wanted to see Rector Thompson and ask after Hannah. And meeting him in the coffee house was a lot safer than visiting his home or waylaying him in public.

  Farr was roasting beans in a pan over a fire, and the air was thick with smoke. It billowed so densely that the skillet was invisible, and although Farr had once told Chaloner that he did not need to see the beans to know when they were ready – he could tell by the sound they made in the pot – Chaloner did not think he was very good at judging it. His brews always tasted burnt.

  ‘Freshly ground this morning,’ he announced, flapping his way out of the fug and coming to present his customers with a jug of steaming liquid. ‘It does not come any better than this.’

  Chaloner sipped it, and thought that if Farr’s claim were true, then coffee would be a short-lived phenomenon. But he nodded polite appreciation, and Farr went to serve Stedman, who was holding forth about the religious significance of hailstones. Unwilling to listen to the ridiculous assertions being made, Chaloner withdrew to a corner while he waited for Thompson to appear, and passed the time by studying the documents he had found in the cheese.

  It did not take him long to realise that Bulteel had been right when he had said Privy Council secretaries wrote everything down: the documents contained a huge amount of irrelevant chatter. He learned that while Buckingham had no concept of the manoeuvrability of the navy’s gunships, he owned a detailed grasp of the quality of the horses in the King’s stables. He also discovered that the Duke of York liked women with short, fat legs in green stockings, and that Clarendon thought there should be a tax on traffic, as a measure to reduce London’s congestion.

  Reading on, he saw that military statistics given in one meeting were contradicted in the next, and that the ‘expert opinions’ of committee members changed constantly, depending on how they happened to feel at the time. As far as he was concerned, the minutes told the reader nothing more useful than that here was a group of men who did not know what they were talking about.