Would the papers be dangerous to national security if they fell into the wrong hands? They revealed the Privy Council to be a band of clueless idiots, but Chaloner suspected the Dutch already knew that. Moreover, the conflicting information did more to confuse than inform, and if van Goch believed any of it, then he was likely to do his own country a serious disservice.
The last document was the one that had intrigued Murdoch. It was written in bold roundhand, and said that Lady Castlemaine had stolen the veil the Queen wore to church, and had had it converted into some indecent underwear. It went on to describe the skimpy garment. Chaloner knew the Queen would be horrified if she ever found out, and, because he would not want her quite so brazenly insulted, the King was unlikely to be amused. The letter went on say that the Lady could have the item in question back, if she parted with fifty pounds.
Chaloner stared at it. Was the Lady guilty as charged? It was certainly the kind of prank that would appeal to her – and knowledge of it would appeal to the White Hall blackmailer. But how had Kun come to be in possession of such a note? With a sigh, Chaloner saw he would have to ask him as soon as he had delivered the papers to the Earl.
He was about to give up on Thompson and go about his duties, when the rector arrived.
‘Your wife is charming company,’ he enthused, all smiles. ‘I may not let her go when you decide it is safe for her to return home, because she tells such entertaining tales of the Court …’
Chaloner was sure she did. ‘Thank you for looking after her.’
‘How are you faring?’ asked Thompson in a lower voice. ‘I have seen you looking better.’
Chaloner supposed his appearance did leave something to be desired. His night in the open had left him rumpled and unkempt, and he had not shaved in days. He decided he had better make a foray to Tothill Street before visiting the Earl.
‘White Hall was in a frenzy just now,’ Thompson went on, when Chaloner made no reply. ‘Sir George Downing’s house was burgled last night. Unfortunately for the would-be thief, Downing was up, frolicking with some hapless chambermaid, and there was a bit of a fight.’
‘Is Downing harmed?’ asked Chaloner hopefully.
‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Thompson with a rueful smile. ‘Which goes to show the Devil always looks after his own. The felon was heavily disguised, but Downing is going around White Hall braying that the suspect is Lane – Colonel Griffith’s manservant. Lane denies it, of course, and Griffith is defending him stoutly, although I can tell it pains him to do so.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he cannot abide the man, and longs to replace him. Unfortunately, anyone who applies for the post mysteriously withdraws his application within a few hours. The suspicion is that Lane warns them off. Poor Griffith! There is something about Lane that is very sinister.’
‘Downing’s accusations are a good opportunity for Griffith to be rid of the fellow. So why does he back him?’
Thompson shrugged. ‘Principles, I suppose: Griffith feels obliged to stand by his own. He may be a cockerel, but he is loyal to his people. And that is not all that has set White Hall a-twitter today. Charles Bates announced just minutes ago that he is leaving on account of the plague.’
‘He has it?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
Thompson shook his head. ‘He says the heat will entice it to London. I heard him speak myself, and he was very convincing. There was none of the self-effacing fellow we have grown accustomed to, but a man who spoke firmly and with conviction. It was almost as if he was another person.’
Chaloner frowned. Had Bates’s victory over Kicke changed him? Or had Falcon boldly assumed the identity of a shy, unassuming man whom no one had ever really noticed? Chaloner shook himself impatiently. Wild flights of fancy were not going to help him catch one of the most elusive criminals he had ever encountered.
Hannah’s house was still under surveillance, but Chaloner had not put in an appearance for so long that the watchers had grown complacent. There were still too many to tackle for answers, but it was easy to evade the ones at the back and gain access to his home via a window.
Inside, the place was in a terrible state. Clothes had been hauled from chests and tossed on the floor, cushions had been slit and furniture upended. What did someone think he had? The Privy Council papers? Evidence about the Sinon Plot? The documents that proved Downing was a cheat? He looked around unhappily. It was not the first time it had happened to him, and would probably not be the last, but it would be the first time for Hannah, and he was sorry.
He shaved, found a smart blue waistcoat and black breeches, and left the way he had come. He had not gone far when he heard a shout, and a glance behind showed two men racing towards him. One carried a gun. Chaloner turned and fled, aware that others were joining the chase. But he had a good start, and was conveniently close to the maze of alleys around Westminster. He ducked into a doorway, and watched three men hurtle past. There was a fourth, but he lagged behind, fatter and less fit. Chaloner stuck out his foot and the fellow went sprawling.
‘Answer some questions and you will live,’ he whispered, hauling the fellow into his hiding place and pressing a knife to his throat. ‘Refuse, and you will learn just how angry I am about the mess you made of my house.’
‘Not me, sir,’ bleated the man, frightened. ‘I stood outside and kept guard, but I never went in. The one who hired us did, although I do not know his name and I did not see his face, so I cannot tell you who he is. He pays a dozen of us to watch your house full time, and says he will give us five shillings each if we lay hold of you and bring you to him.’
‘Bring me where?’
‘To the Heaven Inn, where we are to wait for someone to come and take you off our hands.’
The information did not help. The Heaven was a large, impersonal tavern, and Chaloner could ask questions there all day and not learn the identity of whoever wanted him.
‘Then who are you?’ he demanded.
‘Just poor Richard Inch of Smithfield, sir. No one important.’
Clearly, Inch was a member of one of London’s many criminal gangs, who hired their services to anyone who could pay. Such organisations were powerful and secretive, and Inch would be a lowly operative: Chaloner was unlikely to learn more by questioning him further. He put the knife in his pocket, aware that the interrogation had told him nothing he did not already know.
‘Did your employer say why he wants me?’ he asked, not really expecting a sensible answer.
‘Not at first – he just said he needed to talk to you. But last night he told us that you are a spy, and a danger to our country.’
Again, the answer told Chaloner nothing, other than the fact that ‘he’ was aware the watchers had become complacent and hoped to give them added incentive for vigilance. Any one of his suspects – Falcon, Williamson, Downing or Kicke and Nisbett – might have invented such a tale.
Chaloner heard the King’s many clocks striking seven as he reached White Hall, and was surprised: he had been up for hours, and thought it was much later. He headed for the Earl’s offices, relishing the cool emanating from the great marble staircase. He walked quickly, thinking of all he needed to do that day – confront Kun, visit the Devil tavern, ensure his messages to White and Fairfax had been delivered. And that was before he turned his attention to unmasking Falcon, and assessing whether Ruyven and Jacoba’s affair had a bearing on Hanse’s death.
‘Wait!’ hissed Bulteel, hurrying to intercept him as he passed. ‘There is something you need to know before you speak to Clarendon. Come into my office.’
‘What is the matter?’ asked Chaloner, alarmed by the worry on the secretary’s face.
‘There is a rumour that says you are a spy for the States-General. Apparently, you were seen climbing into a carriage with some Dutchmen yesterday. Moreover, you make regular visits to the Savoy, and you met Hanse in suspicious circumstances.’
Chaloner sighed. ‘Who started the gossip? Downing? William
son?’
Bulteel pursed his lips. ‘I would not know about Williamson. I did not like the atmosphere in his place of work when we visited it the other day, so I decided to cool our relationship. The Earl has never approved of it, and neither have you, so you should both be pleased. Moreover, he is unpopular at Court, and I will never be accepted in lofty circles as long as I fraternise with him.’
‘The same might be said about your friendship with me,’ said Chaloner, although he was relieved to hear Bulteel’s curious association with the Spymaster was on the wane. He had never been comfortable with it.
‘Downing would certainly agree,’ said Bulteel. ‘He claims you are related to Hanse through a secret former marriage, and he came here this morning with a band of louts to arrest you.’
‘He cannot arrest me: he has no authority.’
‘That is what Clarendon said, so he has stormed off to Williamson, to get some. You cannot stay in London, Tom. I know you are innocent and so does the Earl, but no one else will give you the benefit of the doubt. You are not safe here, and you should leave while you can.’
Chaloner understood exactly what the envoy was doing. ‘Downing thinks I have papers that show him to be corrupt, and no doubt hopes that if I am in prison, they will be dismissed as forgeries. And he will escape prosecution.’
‘I do not believe you have any such papers,’ declared Bulteel stoutly. ‘He is lying about them.’
‘Oh, I imagine they exist. He would not be going to such efforts to defend himself otherwise. But they are not with me.’
Bulteel looked worried. ‘Please say you will leave London. Downing is treacherous and selfish, and would think nothing of delivering you to a terrible fate in order to protect himself.’
‘I cannot run away. People will assume I am guilty.’
‘Better that than what Downing has in mind. Besides, Griffith told me last night that all manner of men are dying in curious circumstances – Hanse, Sir William Compton, Ned Molins. I do not want your name added to this list.’
‘Have you heard of a vicar named Edward Pocks?’ asked Chaloner hopefully. ‘He may have died recently, too.’
‘I have not, but I will ask my cousin – he seems to be acquainted with half of London. Do you know anything else about this vicar? The name of his parish, perhaps?’
Chaloner shook his head. ‘And I do not know how to begin finding out.’
‘I do,’ said Bulteel brightly. ‘The Bishop of London is coming to visit Clarendon later. He has an excellent memory for names, so I shall ask him if he knows a clergyman called Pocks.’
‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner gratefully. ‘Incidentally, I heard Lane is in trouble.’
Bulteel nodded. ‘He is accused of burgling Downing, although I do not believe it, and neither does my cousin. Lane may be a sinister devil, but he is not a thief. I suspect Downing made the tale up to hurt poor Griffith.’
‘What has Griffith done to annoy Downing?’
‘He composed a scurrilous, but very funny poem about his greed and corruption.’
Chaloner grinned, and his opinion of Griffith rose. ‘May I read it?’
Bulteel did not smile back. ‘It is no laughing matter, Tom. First, it may damage my efforts to be accepted at Court – people know Griffith is my kinsman. And second, but rather more importantly, it may make Downing more dangerous than ever, which may harm you.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘In a swordfight, perhaps, but Downing has other contrivances at his disposal. Take this morning, for instance. He had a second reason for coming here – namely to return some of Clarendon’s missing papers, which he says he found in the Savoy. They were in a vase, apparently.’
Chaloner regarded him askance, although he recalled what he had overheard van Goch, Zas and de Buat saying the previous night: Downing’s ‘so-called discovery’.
‘Why would the Dutch treat potentially valuable documents in so bizarre a manner?’ he asked dubiously. ‘And why was Downing poking about inside their flower pots anyway?’
‘Clarendon asked both those questions, but Downing declined to answer. He was unbearably smug when he handed the minutes over, though. He tried to make the Earl feel stupid for losing them in the first place, and kept saying that you did not retrieve them because your real loyalties lie with the States-General.’
Chaloner pulled the sheaf of papers from his waistcoat. ‘But I have retrieved some.’
Bulteel snatched them, and began to thumb through them lovingly. ‘I knew you would prevail! Where were they? Do you have the culprit under lock and key? Who is he?’
‘Are they are all recovered now?’ asked Chaloner, ignoring the flurry of questions.
‘No – only about half.’ Bulteel frowned when he found the letter pertaining to Lady Castlemaine. ‘But this is not a document I recognise from—’
Chaloner took it from him. ‘I think you might be safer not knowing the contents of that.’
Bulteel tried to grab it back. ‘I am Clarendon’s secretary. I know everything about his affairs.’
‘It does not affect Clarendon,’ said Chaloner firmly, declining to let him see it.
‘As long as you are sure,’ said Bulteel, unhappily. ‘But I meant what I said about leaving London, Tom. I do not want to see your head on a spike outside Westminster Hall.’
With a strong sense that unless he found answers quickly, Bulteel’s grim prediction might well come true, Chaloner stepped inside the Earl’s office. That morning, even Clarendon had eschewed a fire, although his gouty foot was still swathed in blankets. He glared when Chaloner approached.
‘Have you heard what Downing is saying? That your first marriage makes you a Dutch spy.’
‘We have never seen eye to eye.’
The Earl grimaced. ‘But he contradicts himself in his efforts to malign: he claims you gather intelligence for the States-General, but then brays a tale in which you invaded de Witt’s bedroom and made off with his secrets. Obviously, you are unlikely to have done both. But the evidence against you is damning – your visits to the Savoy, your fluency in Hollandish …’
‘I have been investigating Hanse’s death and your missing papers,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Of course I have been to the Savoy. And it was necessary to speak Dutch, because some witnesses—’
The Earl cut across him. ‘Moreover, you have just returned from the States-General. No one but I knows why you went there, and I am not about to announce that I ordered you to hunt for Lord Bristol. The King would not approve of that.’
‘I suppose the situation does not look good for me,’ conceded Chaloner.
‘It does not. So you had better stay away from me until this business is over.’
Chaloner thought about Griffith’s staunch defence of Lane. Clearly, the same courtesy was not going to be extended to him. Clarendon seemed to read his thoughts.
‘I tried discrediting Downing’s accusations, but my enemies immediately began to clamour that I am in the pay of the Dutch, too, which accounts for my determination to prevent a war. And as peace is more important than either of us, it is best if I just distance myself from you for a while.’
‘Very well, sir,’ said Chaloner flatly.
The Earl grimaced. ‘None of this is my fault, Chaloner. You are the one who made an enemy of Downing, and now you must bear the consequences. However, you cannot leave London until the fuss dies down, because I need you here. You will just have to keep your head down.’
‘I will try,’ said Chaloner, not bothering to point out that it was difficult to conduct investigations without being visible to a certain extent.
‘Good. But do not look so sullen! This unpleasantness will soon be over. The peace talks are failing, and van Goch is mumbling about going home. And when he goes, Downing will follow.’
Chaloner was horrified. ‘You mean we are on the brink of war?’
‘Yes, although I shall fight for conciliation for as long as I can. Who knows? Perhaps tomorr
ow’s convention will see some progress – we can but hope. Incidentally, your failure to find my missing papers has caused me a great deal of embarrassment. I have had Downing gloating—’
Chaloner handed him the bundle. ‘These were hidden in a hollowed-out cheese in a hackney carriage,’ he said, loath to reveal Kun’s role in the affair until he understood what was happening.
‘Lord!’ breathed Clarendon, skimming through them quickly. ‘A cheese in a hackney carriage is not a place I would have thought to look. And these are far more important than the ones Downing found, which transpired to be minutes of the discussion we had about the price of horses. He found then in a vase in the Savoy, so I was right all along: Hanse did steal them.’
‘Or someone planted them there in an effort to undermine the peace talks,’ suggested Chaloner.
‘It is possible, I suppose,’ acknowledged the Earl. ‘But I do not like the notion of my papers in Dutch hands – not even ones about horses.’
‘I doubt any harm has been done. The minutes expose the Privy Council as ill-informed and stupid, and will lull the Dutch into a false sense of security. That can only benefit England.’
The Earl gaped at him. ‘Men have been hanged for making less acerbic remarks! Besides, I am on this committee, and I am not ill-informed or stupid.’
Chaloner was inclined to think he was, if the transcripts were anything to go by. He watched the Earl continue to leaf through them, and said no more.
‘But what is this?’ demanded his master, stopping suddenly. ‘Not notes from the Council.’
Too late, Chaloner realised he probably should not have included the letter about the Lady, but it was too late to take it back, and he watched the Earl’s eyes widen in horror as he read it.
‘Is this your idea of a joke?’ he demanded. ‘To embarrass me with ribald missives?’
‘I am sorry, sir. It was in the cheese with the other documents, and—’
Clarendon flung it back at him. ‘I assure you, it has nothing to do with me. It is disgusting!’
‘I will burn it, then,’ said Chaloner, going towards the hearth and reaching for a tinderbox.
The Body in the Thames: Chaloner's Sixth Exploit in Restoration London (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 29
