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

by Gregory, Susanna

‘Let us drink a toast to our success,’ said Williamson, after a brief and uncomfortable silence. ‘You no longer need to fear exposure for dispatching your predecessor, and I have struck a major blow against these villains. It was courageous of you to insist on delivering the blackmail money in person, thus allowing Swaddell to do his business. We must work together again.’

  ‘Actually, I would rather not,’ said Kersey, making no effort to conceal his distaste. ‘I did not like your men loitering in my domain day and night. They have no place in a decent establishment like this. I do not mean to offend, but I speak as I find.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Williamson stiffly. ‘Now, you promised me a cask of claret. Will you fetch it yourself, or shall I ask one of my assistants to oblige? I have three of them outside.’

  ‘I will go,’ said Kersey, equally cool. ‘You stay here.’

  When Kersey had disappeared into his cellar, Chaloner emerged from his hiding place and went to stand behind Williamson. The Spymaster was lounging contentedly in his chair, pleased with what he considered to be a job well done, and when Chaloner spoke, he leapt so violently that the wine flew from his goblet.

  ‘So you ordered Swaddell to murder Nisbett. I hope you had good evidence.’

  ‘The best kind,’ said Williamson, recovering quickly. ‘He was caught in the act. And he admitted to his crime once we had him. Poor Kersey’s secret left him vulnerable to such vultures, you see.’

  ‘Was the accusation true? Did Kersey really murder his predecessor?’

  ‘He says it was self-defence. But the old man was a vile wretch, and no one mourned his passing. No one will mourn Nisbett’s, either. He was a criminal, as you, of all people, should know.’

  ‘Did Nisbett tell you about the White Hall thefts, too?’ asked Chaloner. ‘That he and Kicke had an accomplice – someone who immediately stepped in to rescue them when they were caught, and who had helped them to steal by staging distractions? One example was in St James’s Park, when a diversion by the Canal allowed them to work without being noticed.’

  ‘He did mention a certain arrangement with Lady Castlemaine,’ acknowledged Williamson. ‘She has debts and expensive tastes, so is always eager for money. Nisbett and Kicke were in Downing’s service at the time, but that did not stop her from recruiting them. How long have you known?’

  ‘Since about an hour after I began investigating. But I am not such a fool as to point fingers at the King’s mistress. I hoped they would betray her themselves, in an effort to save their own necks, but she extricated them before awkward questions could be asked.’

  ‘Bulteel told me you were remarkably sanguine about her interference with the course of justice,’ mused Williamson. ‘Now I understand why: you felt you had risked her wrath far enough.’

  ‘She is a formidable adversary, and too strong for me. But she is not the blackmailer, lest you think to accuse her.’

  Williamson steepled his fingers, and settled back in the chair. ‘No? How do you know?’

  ‘Because I discovered a document that was written to extort money from her – some of her underwear has fallen into the wrong hands. Obviously, she is not blackmailing herself.’

  ‘You are right,’ acknowledged Williamson. ‘The Lady is innocent of that affair. But before he died, Nisbett told Swaddell that he and Kicke are now in the pay of two masters – Lady Castlemaine and one other. Can you guess the identity of the second?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Chaloner tiredly.

  ‘Falcon,’ announced Williamson with a flourish. ‘Swaddell is looking for Kicke as we speak, to ask whether he knows the location of the villain’s lair.’

  Chaloner supposed it was possible: Kicke and Nisbett were greedy and unscrupulous, and exactly the kind of men Falcon might recruit. ‘What was wrong with trying Nisbett in a court of law? Was it really necessary to dispatch him on the sly?’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ said Williamson firmly. ‘Because none of his victims would make a formal complaint – not when they have spent a fortune to keep their peccadilloes quiet. A public trial would ruin them, and they are upright men of good standing.’

  ‘Not all are decent. Take Downing, for example. He has been paying to ensure inconsistencies in his expense accounts do not come to light.’

  ‘I knew he was a victim, but not the nature of his secret,’ admitted Williamson. ‘Although I cannot say I am surprised by it. But, of course, you would seek to malign him. He has accused you of being bought by the Dutch, and now there is a warrant for your arrest.’

  ‘Have you stationed men outside my house, to execute it?’

  ‘Of course not! I am not such a fool as to believe you can be cornered there. It would be a waste of my thinly stretched resources.’

  ‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not sure whether to believe him.

  ‘But to return to our little problem in the mortuary, I did the right thing by letting Swaddell have Nisbett: he was an odious brute, who did not deserve to live. Not even in Calais. And speaking of Calais, it was you who sneaked in after I expressly declared the Sinon Plot off limits. Do not deny it: Keeper Sligo described you.’

  ‘I did go to Newgate,’ conceded Chaloner. ‘But I did not speak to anyone connected with the Sinon Plot. How could I, when Falcon had escaped, and Swan and Swallow were murdered?’

  Williamson winced at the reminder that his most formidable prison had been found lacking. ‘Falcon is dangerous – perhaps the deadliest adversary I have ever faced. I am not ashamed to confess that he unsettles me with his diabolical powers and fearsomely devious mind.’

  ‘Diabolical powers?’ echoed Chaloner sceptically. It was unlike the Spymaster to make fanciful remarks.

  Williamson regarded him oddly. ‘If you do not believe me, then look at what happened to Compton and his soldiers. All were cursed, and now only one remains alive.’

  ‘Is that why you sent them to arrest Falcon instead of going yourself? You were afraid of—’

  ‘No!’ snapped Williamson, although the guilty flicker in his eyes suggested that was exactly what had happened. ‘Although Falcon hates me regardless.’

  For the first time, Chaloner saw the Spymaster was afraid, which no doubt accounted for the bodyguards outside. Yet he was still prepared to attack Falcon by depriving him of Nisbett. Grudgingly, Chaloner acknowledged his courage.

  ‘It is imperative that he is caught as soon as possible,’ Williamson went on. ‘But he owns an unnatural talent for changing his appearance, which means I cannot circulate his description among my men. If I do, he will just turn himself into someone else.’

  Clearly, Williamson had no more idea how to catch Falcon than Chaloner did, which was not a reassuring thing to hear a spymaster admit. ‘I cannot help but wonder whether he is right under our noses,’ he said worriedly. ‘A servant, perhaps. Or a courtier.’

  Williamson nodded wry agreement. ‘I find myself looking hard at everyone these days. Indeed, I noticed only this morning that Griffith’s manservant, Lane, seemed darker and smaller than I remembered, while Charles Bates has undergone quite a transformation.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I spoke to him shortly before coming here, and he seemed younger and more confident. Or perhaps it was my imagination. I rarely give him more than a passing glance.’

  ‘What time was this?’ asked Chaloner, recalling that Bates’s coach was to leave at nine.

  ‘Ten o’clock, or a little after,’ replied Williamson. ‘He told me he was leaving London because he feared the plague, and he is taking his adulterous wife with him.’

  Chaloner asked the question that had prompted him to follow the Spymaster in the first place. ‘Why did Secretary Kun come to see you last night?’

  Williamson’s eyes widened. ‘You are well informed! But the nature of our conversation was private, and if you use violence to make me tell, I shall holler and my men will save me.’

  ‘You think they will be in time, do you?’ asked Chaloner, amused. ‘But the reason I
ask is because Kun is missing, and he was last seen going to visit you.’

  Williamson smiled unpleasantly. ‘Is that so? Well, you will find that there is no one who can say whether he reached me or not.’

  ‘You have just admitted to enjoying a tête-à-tête.’

  ‘Admitted it to you. I shall deny it to anyone else.’

  ‘Did you order Swaddell to cut his throat?’

  ‘What a low opinion you have of me! No, I did not. We had our little chat, and he left in perfect health. I heard he did not return to the Savoy, but his disappearance has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘There are rumours of a traitor in the Dutch delegation. It is unlikely to be Kun – he would not have told Jacoba he was going to see you, if it were. Did he confide his suspicions?’

  ‘I told you: our discussion was confidential.’ Williamson’s eyes gleamed suddenly. ‘But of course there is a traitor. There are several, in fact. It should not surprise you – it would be unthinkable for me not to recruit eyes and ears in a large foreign delegation like that.’

  ‘But there is a big difference between spies who watch and listen, and those who intervene,’ said Chaloner. ‘Such as by leaving stolen papers in vases for Downing to find, and starting rumours that have the two sides at each other’s throats.’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Williamson. ‘And I do not have any of those. Kun did express his concerns about that sort of conspirator last night, but I was unable to help him. Whoever this villain is, he has nothing to do with me. I want the talks to succeed, as I have told you before.’

  ‘What time did Kun leave you?’

  ‘Midnight, or thereabouts. I keep a discreet hackneyman for after-hours work, and I told him to take Kun wherever he wanted to go. When I heard Kun was missing, I questioned the man. He said Kun had stopped him at Charing Cross, and said he wanted to walk the rest of the way – it was hot, and he needed air. My driver was telling the truth; Kun probably was not.’

  ‘So you have no idea where he might have gone?’

  ‘None at all.’

  Chaloner left the charnel house when he heard Kersey returning, but had only taken a few steps before Williamson emerged to yell that there was a dangerous spy on the loose. The bodyguards gave chase, and he was obliged to race down a series of alleys before he was able to lose them. He was not very pleased: it was too hot for such antics. But he supposed he did not blame the Spymaster for trying: it would not look good if it later came to light that they had met, and Chaloner had been allowed to walk free.

  He was tired, but there was no time to rest. He needed to go to the Feathers on Cheapside, to see whether its landlord could shed any light on Falcon. Then he had to visit the Devil tavern, to ask what had happened when Molins had been assaulted. And he was obliged to return to the Tower and the Fleet Rookery yet again, to ensure that his warnings had been delivered.

  He went to the Feathers first, because it seemed the most urgent. The landlord, a Mr Benson, told him with an exaggerated shudder that he was glad Falcon no longer visited his establishment.

  ‘Swan and Swallow are nice,’ he said. ‘But Falcon is horrible. I think he might be insane.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because he looks insane – eyes that blaze, and a way of cursing. He cursed one of my pot-boys, and the next day, the lad broke his arm. Now, you may say it was coincidence, but I am not so sure.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Falcon?’

  ‘Not since Sir William Compton came and took him away. I can tell you one thing, though: Williamson reckons that Falcon is his real name, and that he is a canon in Canterbury Cathedral. But he is not.’ Benson pursed his lips, waiting for Chaloner to ask him more.

  Chaloner obliged. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because my brother is a verger at Canterbury, and he has been visiting me this week. He said there is no canon there called Falcon.’

  ‘Where is your brother now?’ asked Chaloner, intending to question the man himself.

  ‘Gone home,’ came the disappointing reply. ‘But we discussed it at length, and he is quite certain: there is no one called Falcon at the cathedral.’

  ‘What about a vicar named Pocks?’ asked Chaloner, suspecting that Williamson would be galled when he learned that his efforts to ingratiate himself with the Church had been in vain. ‘Have you met or heard of him?’

  Benson smirked. ‘Pocks? I must write that one down! My brother and I keep a list of amusing or embarrassing names, and have done for years. I have never heard of any vicar called Pocks, though – and he has not either, because, he would have mentioned it.’

  Chaloner was beginning to be exasperated – not by Benson, whose testimony seemed sound, but by the lack of answers. ‘Tell me about Falcon,’ he said. ‘Did you ever see him dressed as a vicar?’

  Benson shook his head. ‘He wore different clothes every time he came here, and sometimes I did not recognise him until Swallow and Swan arrived – they sat with him, which gave him away.’

  ‘You are talking about Falcon,’ said a man who had approached to have his ale jug refilled. He grinned, revealing himself to be sadly bereft of teeth. ‘He was in Newgate.’

  ‘I know,’ said Chaloner, not without rancour.

  ‘I saw him in a cell there about a year ago,’ the man went on. ‘And then he sails in here, giving himself airs, when he is actually nothing but a common felon. Mr Benson is right – he is no vicar. He did wear clerical garb on occasion, but he never swore any holy orders.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ asked Chaloner.

  The man nodded. ‘If I recall aright, he was in Newgate for stealing. He is just a thief, although not one I would want to cross. I am glad those soldiers came and took him away, and I hope I never set eyes on him again. Unless it is with a noose around his neck.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Benson fervently.

  Their declarations made Chaloner even more concerned for the men Compton had charged him to protect, so he went immediately to the Fleet Rookery. He sighed his relief when Mother Greene assured him that Fairfax had received and understood the message.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he pressed.

  She nodded. ‘Quite sure. I delivered it myself, and he told me to thank you. You can rest assured that Sir William Compton’s last wishes have been fulfilled.’

  He did not think she would lie to him, although he wished he could have spoken to the soldier in person. But there was no more he could do if Fairfax declined to meet him, so he returned to Fleet Street, where he flagged down a hackney carriage and told its driver to take him to the Tower. The same yeoman was on duty yet again.

  ‘Mr Edwards is back, and I gave him your note. Stay here. I will fetch him for you.’

  Chaloner took a deep breath, feeling some of his anxieties recede. Edwards would tell him what Compton had declined to share, and how to reach the last member of their cabal. Once Edwards and the vicar – if he was still alive – had been warned, Chaloner’s obligations to Compton would be complete. He rested his forehead against the stone wall, seeking coolness, but it was as warm as blood in the heat of late afternoon.

  Eventually, the door opened, and Edwards stepped out. He squinted around myopically until a cough from Chaloner made him turn in the right direction. His expression was one of bemusement.

  ‘It was you who left me the note saying Compton, Molins and Hanse are dead?’

  Chaloner nodded. ‘Compton told me to warn you with his dying breath.’

  Edwards continued to look bewildered. ‘Warn me about what?’

  Chaloner had not spelled out that Edwards needed to be on his guard, because he had assumed it was obvious. ‘That your life is in danger, and you should take additional care until Falcon is caught,’ he explained, a little impatiently.

  ‘My life?’ asked Edwards stupidly. ‘But Falcon did not kill the others! Molins and Compton died of fevers, and Hanse drowned. I am deeply sorry, because they were good men, and—’

  ‘Hans
e was murdered,’ interrupted Chaloner curtly. ‘The other deaths are suspicious, too, especially considering that Compton lost three soldiers to “accidents”, and you lost one to sickness.’

  Edwards blanched. ‘I do not believe you.’

  ‘You should – it might prevent you from joining them in their graves. Who was the last man in your group? The vicar? Is his name Edward Pocks?’

  Edwards’s face was ashen. ‘I do not know anyone called Pocks. The last man is Edward White.’

  Chaloner stared at him in surprise. ‘He officiated at my wedding.’

  Edwards blinked his bemusement. ‘Did he?’

  Chaloner’s thoughts were a mass of confusion. So who was Pocks? And why was White’s name missing from Falcon’s list? Or had it been on the section that had been burned off? But Edwards was peering around uneasily, clearly unwilling to be out when killers might be at large, so Chaloner continued with his questions before the Assistant Keeper could scuttle back inside the Tower.

  ‘What did you discuss when you met Compton and the others?’

  ‘I cannot tell you. I swore an oath never to reveal anything about it. We all did.’

  Chaloner sighed. ‘People are dying, and more will follow unless this scheme – whatever it is – is thwarted. I know the Sinon Plot is nothing to do with stealing the crown jewels—’

  ‘It was,’ whispered Edwards. ‘We believed Falcon wanted them to finance …’

  ‘Finance what?’ demanded Chaloner.

  But Edwards shook his head stubbornly. ‘No. There are some things more important than the lives of individuals. You can ask White, although I doubt if he will break his word, either. He lives on Fleet Street, near the Rainbow Coffee House.’

  Chaloner leapt in a hackney carriage, and ordered the driver to take him to Fleet Street as quickly as possible. The city was full of people who had abandoned work early, because of the heat, and he chafed at the delay caused by a snarl of vehicles near Fish Street Hill, and then again by St Paul’s. But there was nothing he could do, and he doubted he could make better time on foot.

  To take his mind off the minutes that were ticking inexorably away, he thought about the last member of Hanse’s group. It was a shock to learn that White was involved. But involved in what? He sincerely hoped White would not follow Edwards’s example, and refuse to confide the real nature of the Sinon Plot. But White was an intelligent man – far more so than Edwards – and would see that silence might be dangerous. Or at least, Chaloner hoped so.