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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Unfortunately, when he reached White’s home, there was no reply to his hammering. He clenched his fists in frustration when he recalled their last encounter: the vicar had been feeling out of sorts, and had declared an intention to visit his sister in the country. Was he still there? If so, how long would he be gone?

  His mind teeming with questions, Chaloner hurried towards the Devil, but he had not gone far before a coach rattled to a halt next to him, and several rough men piled out. Another figure alighted after them.

  ‘There is the spy!’ shouted Downing, jabbing a finger. Excitement made his voice shrill. ‘There is the man who has been selling English secrets to Hollanders. Stop him! Bring him to me!’

  The envoy’s face was vengeful, and Chaloner had the distinct sense that to be in his custody might prove fatal. He started to run, but the street was crowded, and Downing’s accusing howls encouraged passers-by to snatch at him. He managed to slither away from three apprentices, but they slowed him down, allowing one of the envoy’s louts to seize his coat. He used every trick he knew to escape, but the odds were against him, and it was not long before he was overpowered.

  ‘Put him in my coach,’ Downing ordered, grinning victoriously. He turned to the crowd that had gathered, and addressed the preening apprentices. ‘Spymaster Williamson will be grateful to you for apprehending such a deadly villain. Here are a few coins for your trouble.’

  ‘Sixpence?’ asked one, regarding what had been dropped into his palm in disappointment. ‘Between three of us? We should not have bothered!’

  ‘Williamson will give him six pounds,’ said Chaloner, as he was hauled to his feet.

  ‘He is lying,’ snapped Downing, shooting him an irritable look. ‘Ignore him.’

  ‘And a new horse,’ Chaloner went on. ‘And a set of silver spoons.’

  ‘He is playing games,’ declared Downing contemptuously. ‘Do not listen to him.’

  ‘You are the one playing games,’ shouted a member of the crowd. ‘These lads’ help was worth more than sixpence. So come on, pay up!’

  ‘I most certainly shall not!’ cried Downing, miserly to the last. ‘You can all go to hell!’

  It was no way to appease an indignant horde, and the apprentices surged forward angrily. Downing shrieked as fists began to fly, and Chaloner used the opportunity to wrench away from his captors, and roll under the carriage. He was just emerging on the other side when a boot caught him on the side of the head. He stumbled, dazed, then hands fastened around him and he felt himself hoisted inside the coach. Downing leapt in on top of him and screeched for the driver to go. The coach lurched forward, followed by a barrage of missiles.

  When Chaloner’s senses cleared, his hands were tied, and he could feel blood oozing from a cut on his temple. Downing was glaring at him. The envoy had a swelling under one eye, and his fine clothes were torn. There was a hired man on either side of Chaloner, and another next to Downing. All had apparently been picked for size and strength, because they were enormous and looked fit. However, they were also incompetent, because although they had relieved Chaloner of his sword and the dagger in his sleeve, he still had a knife in his boot and the little gun in his belt.

  ‘You will pay for that trick, Chaloner,’ Downing snarled. ‘Williamson has places for men like you – dark, deep dungeons, from which there is no escape. And do not expect Thurloe or Clarendon to save you, because they will never know where you have gone.’

  Chaloner feigned indifference, but his stomach lurched. Behind his back, he began to assess the rope that bound him. The knots were tight, but manageable. The only question was whether he would be able to wriggle free of it quickly enough, because the coach was rattling along at a furious rate, and it would not be long before it reached Westminster. And then it would be too late.

  ‘You are losing your touch,’ Downing gloated. ‘You would not have been caught so easily in The Hague. I was right to dismiss you in favour of better intelligencers.’

  ‘Such as the one who told you to look in the Savoy’s vases for Clarendon’s missing papers?’ asked Chaloner coolly.

  ‘I have my sources,’ said Downing smugly. ‘Ones that will live to serve me again, thanks to your sacrifice. You see, I have fed Heer van Goch information that proves you are the spy, and your execution will stop him looking for the real culprit. And it will please me into the bargain.’

  ‘I am sure it will,’ muttered Chaloner, trying to intensify his struggles without the men on either side of him realising what he was doing.

  ‘So will your wife’s. Call it repayment for her rude remarks to me in St James’s Park before that tedious music. No one calls me “loathsome” and goes unpunished.’

  Chaloner regarded Downing in shock, escape forgotten. ‘You would harm Hannah?’

  Downing’s eyes gleamed when he saw the effect his words had had. ‘With the greatest of pleasure. And do not imagine she is safe, because I know where you have hidden her. You see, she regaled Rector Thompson with a lot of Court gossip, and he repeated it in his coffee house. My spies overheard, and we put two and two together. As soon as I have delivered you to Williamson, I shall collect her. She will hang by your side.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Chaloner, appalled. ‘You know she is innocent. You cannot—’

  ‘Oh, yes, I can,’ countered Downing. ‘I know what people said about us in The Hague – that my success derived from the intelligence you provided. Well, it is time to put the matter straight. I have outwitted you now, and it proves I was the better man all along.’

  ‘You are certainly more devious,’ acknowledged Chaloner, fingers now working frantically at the knots. ‘But not quite devious enough. Have you forgotten the documents that show you have been cheating the government regarding your expenses? You accused me of having them.’

  Downing narrowed his eyes. ‘You told me you do not.’

  ‘You believed that, did you?’ taunted Chaloner. One hand came free.

  ‘Stop the carriage,’ ordered Downing, which was just the reaction Chaloner had anticipated.

  The envoy managed to land two hard punches before Chaloner was able to wrench his other hand from the rope, but the moment he was free, Chaloner moved fast. He incapacitated the guard to his left with an elbow to the nose, and the one to his right with a backhanded blow to the jaw. The third, slow to react, was just drawing a dagger when Chaloner hauled the dag from his belt. Downing gaped in horror as Chaloner indicated that he was to alight from the coach.

  ‘I really would not mind shooting you,’ Chaloner said softly, when the envoy baulked. ‘So you would be wise not to give me cause.’

  Downing knew him well enough to appreciate he meant what he said, so he hastened to obey. Chaloner climbed out after him, and saw they were in a seedy part of Westminster, alarmingly close to Williamson’s lair. It had almost been too late. He addressed the hirelings.

  ‘Turn around and go back the way you came. If you return here within an hour, Downing dies.’

  ‘Do it!’ screamed Downing, when the men only exchanged uneasy glances. ‘Now!’

  ‘Well,’ mused Chaloner, when the carriage had gone. He indicated Downing was to precede him down an alley that was no more than a dark slit between two buildings. ‘What shall I do with you?’

  ‘I was teasing.’ Downing tried to turn, but Chaloner shoved him on. ‘I was only taking you to Williamson so we can correct our little misunderstandings. I know you are not really Falcon.’

  ‘You told him I was?’

  ‘Yes, but I doubt he believed me. And I never intended to harm your wife, either. Please, Chaloner. Be reasonable!’

  There was no reply. Downing walked a little farther, then stopped. It was shadowy in the alley, and he could not see very far ahead. Very slowly, heart thudding, he turned around.

  Chaloner was nowhere to be seen.

  Chaloner did not have much time. Downing would race out of the alley, demand men and a fast carriage from Williamson, and go directly to Thompso
n’s house. And while Chaloner might not understand the complexity of his feelings for Hannah, he knew he would rather die than see her fall into Downing’s hands. He flagged down a hackney and offered a princely reward for travelling to Fleet Street with all possible speed.

  The driver did his best, but it still felt like an age before the coach rolled to a standstill outside the rectory. Chaloner shoved coins at him and raced towards it. He pounded on the door, then kicked it open when it was not answered immediately.

  ‘Hannah is not back yet,’ said Thompson, lowering his cudgel when he recognised the frantic invader. ‘She said she might be late tonight, but you can wait in the—’

  ‘Soldiers will come,’ said Chaloner, feeling he owed Thompson some explanation for why his comfortable existence was about to be turned upside down. ‘With Downing and Williamson. When they do, tell them I forced you to keep Hannah here. Do not say you offered willingly. I am sorry …’

  He was hurrying back through the splintered door when a carriage drew up outside. He braced himself for trouble, but the vehicle bore Buckingham’s coat of arms, and Hannah stepped out.

  ‘Tom!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is that blood on your face? Has someone punched you? It is a—’

  ‘Come with me,’ he said urgently. ‘Quickly.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Hannah, and he cursed himself for marrying a woman of strong character with a mind of her own. Could she not see that there was no time for explanations?

  ‘Do as he says,’ ordered Thompson. ‘There is trouble afoot, and he is trying to keep you safe. I shall help. I do not like Downing or Williamson, and if your bother is with them, then I am happy to—’

  ‘No.’ Chaloner did not want him involved any further. ‘Stay here, and say you have no idea where we have gone.’

  ‘They are no worse than my old adversary, the Devil,’ declared Thompson with spirit. ‘Follow me. I have a back entrance that no one knows about – one I use to avoid disagreeable parishioners.’

  There was no time to argue, and Chaloner was grateful for his help. As they reached Fleet Street, he was aware of two coaches travelling fast from the direction of Westminster, but did not need to look around to know where they were stopping. He turned quickly into Chancery Lane, dragging Hannah behind him. There was only one man he trusted to keep her safe.

  ‘How can I help, Tom?’ Thurloe asked immediately, nodding a polite greeting to Hannah and Thompson. He was far too experienced an operative to waste time by demanding explanations.

  ‘I need you to take Hannah somewhere safe. Do not tell me where.’

  Thurloe nodded tersely, and left to make arrangements, while Thompson went to help the porter back a pony into the traces of a cart. The rector looked as if he was enjoying himself, and Chaloner hoped he would not regret his actions later – the Devil had nothing on Downing and Williamson.

  ‘Tom,’ said Hannah shakily, once they were alone. ‘What is going on? Why did you tell Mr Thurloe not to say where he is taking me?’

  Chaloner leaned against a wall. Now matters were being taken out of his hands, and he was no longer fuelled with anxiety, he found his legs were unsteady.

  ‘You are in danger. Go with Thurloe, and do not come back or attempt to contact me until I tell you it is safe. Your life depends on it.’

  ‘What about yours?’ cried Hannah, alarmed. ‘Come with us. You can protect me.’

  ‘You do not want to spend the rest of your life as a fugitive, and neither do I. I need to resolve this case, and foil the people who are accusing me of …’ He trailed off. The less said, the better.

  ‘I am not leaving you,’ said Hannah, tears sliding down her cheeks. ‘We took vows to stay with each other through bad times, as well as good, and—’

  Chaloner pulled himself upright. ‘Here is Thurloe. Go with him.’

  ‘We will remain hidden until you send word,’ promised Thurloe. ‘Contact me via Lincoln’s Inn, and make sure you include the word rabbit, so I know the order is genuine, not coerced.’

  ‘The horses are ready,’ said Thompson, face alight with excitement. ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Somewhere we will not be found,’ replied Thurloe shortly. He gripped Chaloner’s shoulder. ‘Be careful, old friend.’

  Chaloner hugged Hannah, then slipped out of Lincoln’s Inn and loitered in the shadows opposite. After a moment, a carriage rolled out, and rattled towards Holborn. At the same time, two coaches tore around the corner, its passengers leaning out of the windows. They raced past Lincoln’s Inn, and set off in pursuit. When they had gone, a cart trundled out and made its sedate way in the opposite direction. No one followed that, and Chaloner sighed his relief. Hannah was safe.

  It might have been Chaloner’s imagination, but there seemed to be more of Williamson’s soldiers on the streets than usual, distinctive in their buff jerkins and striped sleeves. There were also an inordinately large number of men who looked as if they had no particular business; they slouched along in groups, scanning the faces of passers-by. A manhunt had been initiated, and someone – Williamson, perhaps, or Downing – had called up reinforcements from the criminal gangs. It was only a matter of time before he was challenged, so he decided to lie low until nightfall. But where? Not with Temperance or Bulteel, because he did not want to endanger friends.

  He had just resigned himself to skulking in a thicket in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, when he remembered Wiseman’s house on Fleet Street. He knew the attic was empty, because it had been offered to him as lodgings. He would slip into it unseen, and the surgeon need never know that he had harboured a fugitive.

  Wiseman’s home was a four-storey affair with a cobbled yard at the back. Chaloner scaled the rear wall, and opened the door carefully. There was a servants’ parlour to the left, where three men sat playing cards. He was disconcerted to note that two were missing limbs and one an eye. Had Wiseman been practising on them, or were they just old patients, hired because his ministrations had left them too incapacitated to work for anyone else?

  He crept past them, and found himself in a laboratory, with shelves along the walls and a chemical odour in the air. The shelves held jars, but he did not inspect them too closely, lest one contained Wiseman’s brother-in-law. He rubbed his head; the boot that had knocked him out of his wits earlier had given him a nasty cut, and it was beginning to throb now he had time to be aware of it. Pushing the discomfort to the back of his mind, he aimed for the stairs.

  The middle two floors were occupied by Wiseman, while the attic contained nothing but empty boxes and dead flies. Chaloner went to the window and looked into the street below. Williamson’s soldiers were questioning pedestrians, and the rough men from the gangs were everywhere. He could only suppose the Spymaster was hunting Falcon, although it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack given the man’s talent for disguise.

  There were at least two hours of daylight left, so Chaloner lay down and closed his eyes. The garret was too stuffy for comfort, and floors rarely made for easy sleeping. He did doze, but his dreams teemed with unpleasant images – Calais, Nisbett with his throat cut, and Downing stalking Hannah. He dreamt about Wiseman, too, and when he started awake for at least the tenth time, he was horrified to see the surgeon looming over him. He leapt to his feet, dagger in his hand.

  ‘There is no need for that,’ cried Wiseman, starting away in alarm. ‘I was only trying to ascertain whether someone had left me a corpse to anatomise.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘It is my house,’ replied Wiseman indignantly. ‘I live here. What excuse do you have?’

  ‘None,’ admitted Chaloner, sheepish and apologetic. ‘What prompted you to come up here?’

  ‘Blood,’ replied Wiseman, eyes gleaming. ‘There were splashes of it on the stairs. I knew I had not left them there, so I investigated.’

  Chaloner supposed he must have reopened the cut on his head when he had rubbed it, and cursed himself for his carelessness. It was inexcusable in an intelligen
cer of his experience.

  ‘A warrant has been issued for your arrest,’ Wiseman went on. ‘You are a Dutch spy, apparently, although Heer van Goch maintains you have been spying on him, not for him. So everyone thinks you are a traitor – Dutch and English. It is an impressive achievement.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner tiredly, thinking that Downing should congratulate himself. Or did he have Falcon to thank for the situation, with Downing as his unwitting – or willing – ally?

  ‘Moreover, Clarendon is furious with you. There is a rumour that he had no idea what was in the papers that were stolen from him, and he has become a laughing stock. He told me you are the only person to know that particular secret, and thinks you started the tale to discredit him.’

  Chaloner groaned. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Well, if Downing is to be believed, because you are a Dutch spy who wants to bring ridicule and disgrace to our country’s most respected ministers.’

  ‘That makes no sense. If I were their spy, I would be denigrating the warmongers, not the doves.’

  ‘That is what I said, but no one listened. Where are you going?’

  ‘You will lose your Court appointment if I am found here. I should leave.’

  ‘I might lose it anyway, because my enemies are making much of the fact that I killed Molins and Compton. My only hope is that you will prove my innocence.’

  Chaloner had forgotten Wiseman’s problems. ‘Did the samples you took from Compton and Molins’s homes reveal anything amiss?’ he asked, loath to admit that he had done nothing about the matter lest Wiseman took umbrage. He did not have the energy for another confrontation.

  ‘Not yet, although you must bear in mind that not all toxins work instantly, and it may take some time for symptoms to appear. But I shall not rest until I have exhausted all the possibilities.’