‘Good. I shall leave you to your labours, then.’
Wiseman gestured towards the window. ‘It will be dark soon, and you look tired. Rest tonight, and start afresh tomorrow. Downing will not be back.’
‘Be back? You mean he has been here already?’
Wiseman nodded. ‘I tried to show him my anatomical collection, but he went quite pale, and I had to revive him with a sip a tonic. Then he claimed I was trying to poison him. If only I had!’
‘He was looking for me?’ Chaloner was appalled: it suggested Downing knew him better than he had thought, and that was dangerous.
‘He asked if I had seen you, but I doubt he guessed that you are hiding here – he is just desperate. It is not because you are the one blackmailing him, is it?’ Wiseman laughed, but not with his usual unrestrained vigour, and Chaloner saw the accusations against him were weighing heavily on his mind. Chaloner knew exactly how he felt.
‘May I borrow some clothes?’ he asked, indicating his own ripped, dirty and stained attire. ‘Preferably ones that are not red.’
It took some searching, but the surgeon eventually produced some brown breeches, white hose and a black coat. He also owned plenty of pastes and powders that Chaloner could use to change his appearance. Then, as the daylight faded and night approached, Chaloner left the house and slipped out into the darkness.
The night was sweltering. It drove people from their homes in search of cooler air, and the streets were full as Chaloner made his way towards the Devil tavern. There were plenty of soldiers and watchful hired-hands about, too, and he discovered the reason when he overheard two of them questioning an onion-seller: there was a reward of five pounds for anyone who produced Falcon.
But there was a twist. Downing had offered a further ten pounds to the man who caught Chaloner, having declared publicly that he and Falcon were one and the same. It was not clear whether Williamson agreed, but it was irrelevant anyway – the point was that there were a lot of men determined to have the reward. Chaloner did not blame them. It was a fabulous sum, especially from a miserly man like the envoy, and underlined just how determined Downing was to see him in chains.
The Devil was not far. Chaloner pushed open the door and entered, fighting not to choke on the wall of smoke that greeted him: every patron puffed a pipe, and the lack of anything approaching a breeze rendered the air all but unbreathable. Landlord Barford was doing a roaring trade with cool ale from his cellar, and was in an affable mood. He watched his serving boys weave among the noisy throng, smiling his satisfaction. The hot weather was pleasing someone, at least.
‘Yes, I remember Molins,’ he said, when Chaloner broached the subject. ‘Some villain lunged at him with a sword. I saw it happen, but it was dark, so I could not see the fellow’s face. However, I did notice the unusually fine lace on his boot-hose, so we are not talking about a common felon here. Personally, I suspect someone from Court.’
‘Why could it not be a merchant?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Or a wealthy visitor from the country?’
‘Because White Hall is overrun by vicious rogues who are always duelling and fighting. But to get back to the tale, Mr Molins jerked away, and fell as he did so. I raised the alarm, and Sir William Compton came to his rescue. He and the Dutchman saw the villain off.’
‘You mean they fought?’
‘No, I mean the coward fled when he saw Compton and the Dutchman coming.’
‘Did you see anyone watching Molins, or behaving suspiciously?’ Chaloner was expecting at any moment for Barford to demand why he should want to know, but the landlord was apparently used to being pumped for gossip, and did not seem to find anything odd in the inquisition.
‘It is strange you should ask, because someone did watch him and his friends like a hawk one night. Indeed, it was the day before poor Molins was attacked, now I think about it.’
‘Can you describe him?’
At that moment, the door opened, and three ruffians entered. They sat not far away, alert and watchful, and Chaloner tensed. If they were halfway intelligent, they would notice a patron pressing a tavern-owner for information, and would be suspicious.
‘Not really,’ Barford was saying, ‘because it is dark in here of an evening. He was well dressed, though. I remember that.’
‘Could it have been the same man who attacked Molins?’ Chaloner was aware of the three louts looking in his direction, and hoped his disguise would protect him.
‘Yes, it could, now I think about it. The damned rogue! If he shows his face in here again he will be sorry!’
‘Did you ever hear what Molins and his friends discussed?’
‘Only once. He and the Dutchman liked a drink, so they were not always as quiet-voiced as the others. They were chatting in a foreign language, but I heard Molins mention an emissary.’
‘Emissary?’ Chaloner thought fast. ‘Could it have been emissarius?’
Barford snapped his fingers. ‘That was it! He must have been talking about sending someone on a mission, perhaps to get medicine or a surgical implement. It was all innocent enough.’
But Chaloner suspected otherwise. Molins, Compton, Hanse, White and Edwards were educated men. All five would have known Latin, and they had used it to converse, to reduce the danger of eavesdroppers. And an emissarius was a spy: they had been discussing espionage.
When Chaloner left the Devil, the three men followed him out. Unwilling to believe it was coincidence, he ducked down an alley, and only emerged when he was sure they had gone. Then he approached White’s house again, but it was locked up very tightly, and no lights were lit. Breaking in would necessitate climbing to a second floor window, but he was too weary for such antics. It was too late to do anything else, so he returned to Wiseman’s house.
This time, he was careful to leave no tell-tale drips of blood.
Chapter 11
Although Chaloner was used to sleeping in uncomfortable places, the night in Wiseman’s attic was dismal by any standards, and he snapped awake at the slightest creak or groan. When dawn finally broke, it was accompanied by a light, clammy drizzle, not enough to shift the festering piles of rubbish, but more than enough to intensify their reek. Moreover, it served to render London’s already polluted air heavy, stale and humid. All in all, it was not a change for the better.
He crept down to Wiseman’s laboratory and used the surgeon’s plentiful supplies of potions and greases to transform himself from a thirty-four year-old intelligencer into a sixty year-old merchant. Wiseman arrived just as he was finishing.
‘I am not open for business until …’ Wiseman began indignantly, then stopped when he recognised Chaloner’s grey eyes. ‘Breaking into my home is becoming something of a habit with you.’
‘I will try not to do it again.’
‘Clearing my name of these hideous accusations is taking you too long,’ declared Wiseman, following him to the door. ‘So I shall accompany you, to speed matters along before the damage to my reputation becomes permanent. Where shall we go first?’
‘I work better alone, Wiseman. Besides, it is not a good idea to be seen with me at the moment.’
‘I do not care about that, and I cannot go on with this Sword of Damocles hanging above me. I need you to prove that I did not kill Compton and Molins. This morning, if possible.’
Chaloner stifled a sigh; he did not have time for the surgeon’s troubles. ‘I doubt you are responsible – these deaths are connected to a case in which at least seven other people have been murdered. But you must be patient: finding the right answers takes time.’
Wiseman’s expression was suddenly bitter. ‘My critics might be right. If Molins and Compton were poisoned, then why did I not see it? Moreover, I misdiagnosed Compton twice – once when I thought a headache was a deadly fever of the brain, and once when I dismissed a serious sickness as the ill-effects of heat. Perhaps I am losing my touch.’
Chaloner was not sure what to say. ‘The most productive thing you can do is stay here and kee
p working on the samples you took.’
‘Very well,’ said Wiseman reluctantly. ‘But where are you going?’
‘The Fleet Rookery,’ lied Chaloner, unwilling for anyone to know his real plans.
Wiseman nodded in a way that said he knew he was not being told the truth, then handed the spy a tin. ‘More grease for your disguise. You will need it, because not only is it hot today, but it is wet, too. Your pastes may wash off and give you away.’
Chaloner left through the back door, while Wiseman distracted the servants. Even with the disguise, he felt acutely vulnerable, and it was difficult not to break step and run when he saw a group of Williamson’s guards marching towards him. One hand dropped to his sword, while the other gripped the little gun, but the soldiers passed by without giving him a second glance.
He grimaced. It was going to be a long day. As he walked, it occurred to him that it was Sunday, the day when the Dutch were due to host the conference that represented the last chance of peace. Would they succeed, or would two nations be plunged into bloody conflict? And would Chaloner himself be alive to see it?
There was still no reply at White’s house, so Chaloner decided to go to White Hall, in the hope that Bulteel had asked the Bishop of London about Pocks. It was not a sensible place to visit, given the lies Downing had spread about him. Moreover, he was wary about revealing himself to anyone, even trusted friends, given that an incautious slip of the tongue on their part might see him arrested. But he was desperate for clues, and time was short, so he felt he had no choice.
Bulteel was in his office when he arrived, early even for him, because he had papers to assemble before the conference that evening. The secretary looked up irritably when he saw the old merchant hovering in the doorway.
‘I am not wearing pink gloves to the Savoy,’ he snapped. ‘So if you have come to sell me some, you can just take them away again. I know my cousin claims they will conceal my ink-stained fingers, but I have not seen any other gentlemen wearing pink gloves, and I am beginning to wonder whether I should have asked someone else to oversee my training, because—’
‘It is me,’ said Chaloner, cutting into the tirade. ‘Tom.’ ‘
You should not be here!’ hissed Bulteel in alarm, once recognition had dawned. ‘Downing is telling everyone that you are Falcon. A spy.’
‘I prefer the term intelligencer,’ said Chaloner, sitting tiredly on the desk. ‘It sounds less sordid.’
‘Do not jest!’ cried Bulteel, distressed. ‘He has accused you of being a double agent, of passing secrets to England and the Dutch. You are in very real danger, because someone at White Hall has been feeding information to the enemy, and Downing makes a good case for you as the culprit.’
Chaloner was sure he had. ‘Then I had better visit Williamson, and explain that—’
‘No! I heard him tell the Earl that while he does not believe Downing’s accusations, arresting you will relieve pressure on him to catch the real Falcon. And if he should let you fall into Downing’s hands … well, suffice to say that your guilt or innocence will not matter, because you will die regardless.’
Chaloner did not doubt it. ‘I do not suppose you have learned anything about Pocks?’
Bulteel shook his head. ‘I could not corner the Bishop, because my cousin said—’
‘I said we can no longer afford to help you.’ Chaloner whipped around at the sound of Griffith’s voice. He had not heard him approach, and realised weariness and strain were combining to make him careless. It was something he would have to rectify if he wanted to end the day a free man.
Bulteel dragged his cousin inside the office, pointedly closing the door on Lane, whose face was its usual impassive mask. Chaloner had no idea whether the manservant had recognised him.
‘How long have you been listening?’ Bulteel demanded, his thin face full of anxiety.
‘Long enough to know you have disregarded my advice,’ said Griffith reproachfully. He turned to Chaloner, and the lace began to flap. ‘It is nothing personal. Indeed, you are one of few men I have met in London who possesses an ounce of integrity. But espionage is a serious matter, and John and I cannot risk being seen as your confederates. I am sure you understand.’
Bulteel was dismayed. ‘You defended Lane when Downing fabricated that tale about him being a burglar. So what is the difference between that and me defending Tom?’
‘Lane is a servant, and masters have a duty to protect hirelings,’ explained Griffith. He shot a pained glance towards the door, which said he had objected to the inconvenience. ‘And he told me he is innocent, whereas Chaloner has made no effort to deny the charges brought against him.’
‘He has no need to deny them, not to me,’ Bulteel flashed back. ‘His innocence is the one thing I am sure about in this treacherous city.’
Griffith softened, and the lace flapped a little less frantically. ‘You are right, of course. Forgive me, Chaloner. John does not give his trust readily, and the fact that you have earned his should have told me all I needed to know. So we will help you. We shall give you all our money, and urge you to disappear before Downing catches you.’ He produced his purse, a fancy thing in puce silk.
Bulteel nodded vigorously, and began to rummage in his desk. ‘It is a good idea. You must leave London, immediately, Tom. I will give you everything I have, plus a little of the Earl’s—’
‘No,’ said Chaloner, backing away. ‘It is better to stay, and prove Downing wrong.’
Bulteel regarded him in horror. ‘But he will kill you before you succeed. See some sense!’
Griffith lowered his voice. ‘Obviously, we will not betray you, but Lane has probably seen through your disguise, too. And I am beginning to wonder whether he is a spy. He disappears, and declines to say where he has been, he listens to everything, and then there is that horribly bland face. I do not trust him, and I wish I had never hired the fellow.’
‘I do not trust him, either,’ said Bulteel, also sotto voce. ‘And if he comes after you, Tom, you must slit his throat before he slits yours.’
‘Slit his throat?’ squeaked Griffith, shocked. ‘That is hardly a gentlemanly—’
‘Please go, Tom,’ begged Bulteel. ‘And only come back when you are sure it is safe.’
Chaloner nodded agreement, although with no intention of complying, and took his leave, brushing aside the proffered money. He doubled back when he heard them begin to talk, slipping past their door unseen. He wanted to see the Earl before abandoning White Hall.
‘Poor Tom!’ Bulteel was saying tearfully. ‘He is a good man, and my only real friend here.’
‘I am leaving London today,’ declared Griffith abruptly. ‘Downing remains unreasonably vexed over that poem I wrote, and he is too vengeful an adversary for me. It is time to go home.’
* * *
A fire was lit in Clarendon’s office, which was hot and airless. Chaloner padded across it and stood behind his master, coughing softly to announce his presence.
‘Lord save us!’ exclaimed the Earl, putting his hand over his chest after Chaloner had identified himself, and he saw he was not about to be assassinated. ‘ Must you do that? What are you doing here, anyway? I told you to stay away until this business is over. Have you heard what Downing is saying about you now? That you stole my documents, and stuffed them in vases at the Savoy.’
‘I doubt that tale will prove very popular. People are more interested in blaming Hanse.’
‘Yes, but Downing is going around telling everyone that you know your way around Worcester House, including where I keep my papers. And he points out that your alibi is a dead Hollander.’
Chaloner stared at him. ‘What do you believe, sir?’
‘That Downing is an inveterate liar, who will destroy anyone for personal gain. But I cannot afford to protect you, Chaloner. I have already explained why. The peace talks …’
‘It was not me who spread the rumour about you not knowing what was in your missing papers,’ said Chalone
r, unwilling to be blamed for that particular piece of nastiness.
The Earl pointed to the windows, now closed. ‘Someone must have overheard us talking. When Wiseman reported the rumour to me, I admit my first thought was that you were the culprit. But then I reconsidered: you are no gossip. Quite the reverse, in fact – you never tell anyone anything. But why did you come? You do not need me to remind you that it is dangerous.’
‘I came to tell you who has been blackmailing courtiers.’
‘I do not care about them,’ said Clarendon irritably. ‘If they were decent, godly people, they would not have shady secrets. I am far more interested in getting the rest of my missing documents back. It was an audacious raid, stealing them from under my nose as I slept.’
‘As you slept? You said they disappeared when you were dining with your wife.’
The Earl became flustered. ‘Yes, well, they may have gone a little sooner than I led you to believe. The afternoon, for example.’
‘The afternoon?’ Chaloner was torn between anger and frustration. ‘Are you sure? When did you last see them?’
The Earl looked sheepish. ‘When Bulteel left them on the table after I had eaten breakfast. Do not look at me so accusingly! As I told you before, I meant to read them, but I dozed off. I am overworked, so is it surprising that I am always exhausted?’
‘No,’ said Chaloner, trying to hide his exasperation and failing. ‘But the difference in time opens the theft up to a whole new range of suspects – the staff on duty during the day are not the same as the ones who work at night. I will have to start all over again.’
The Earl narrowed his eyes dangerously. ‘How dare you berate me! And I—’
There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs outside, and Downing’s self-important voice echoed along the hallway. Chaloner glanced around quickly, assessing avenues of escape. They were limited, and he saw a confrontation was going to be inevitable. But the Earl had other ideas.
The Body in the Thames: Chaloner's Sixth Exploit in Restoration London (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 33
