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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Ruyven struck him with the butt of his gun, driving him to his knees, stunned.

  ‘Make sure Jacoba stays in her room,’ said Ruyven to Zas, grabbing Chaloner’s arm and hauling him upright again. ‘She will not want this villain shot, regardless of what he has or has not done, and she will make a scene. That will be unpleasant for everyone.’

  ‘It will,’ agreed Zas. ‘However, while I have no stomach for executions, I had better see this one through. It would not be the first time a spy has survived this sort of situation.’

  Ruyven laughed mirthlessly. ‘He will not escape from me. When you hear the gunshot, you will know it is done. Jacoba may guess what has happened, so stop her from rushing to investigate. Her distress will distract Heer van Goch, and we need him at his best this evening.’

  Chaloner felt his last hope evaporate when Zas went to do as he was told. Ruyven had been waiting a long time to avenge himself on his hated rival, and the chances of reasoning with him were non-existent. He reeled dizzily when he saw his battle against Falcon was over, but made no attempt to right himself. Ruyven grunted with the effort of supporting him.

  ‘For God’s sake, Chaloner,’ he muttered. ‘Do you have to make this quite so difficult?’

  Chaloner did not reply, and it was not long before they reached the wall that separated the Savoy’s grounds from Worcester House. It was shielded from the hospital buildings by trees, and was the perfect place for an execution. Ruyven shoved him against it, then stood back.

  ‘Can you climb over this wall unaided? Or must I help you?’

  Chaloner regarded him suspiciously. ‘Why? So you can shoot me trying to escape? What purpose would that serve, other than to salve your conscience?’

  ‘I do not have a conscience,’ replied Ruyven shortly. ‘I seduce the wife of my oldest friend, and I betray my country. For money. Does that sound like a man with a conscience to you?’

  Chaloner struggled to understand what he was being told. ‘ You are a spy? Do not tell me you are Falcon, because I will not believe it. You are not nearly intelligent enough.’

  Ruyven regarded him wryly. ‘You might at least try to phrase your remarks in a conciliatory manner, given that I am the one holding a gun. But no, I am not Falcon. I am a spy, though. I am surprised you did not guess. You saw me with my paymaster once.’

  ‘With Downing! In the Savoy’s yard. I assumed you were pumping each other for information.’

  ‘He was pumping me. It was I who told him that Clarendon’s papers were in the vase. Does it surprise you to learn we are on the same side?’

  Chaloner was more than surprised, he was dumb-founded. Ruyven was the last man alive he would have imagined corruptible. ‘And you did it for money?’

  Ruyven laid his gun in the grass. ‘For a pension, actually. I have never been paid enough to invest in one, despite risking life and limb for the States-General since I was twenty.’

  ‘A pension?’ echoed Chaloner in disbelief. He had met many traitors in his life, but none who had been motivated by the chance to save for the future.

  Ruyven grimaced. ‘I asked Heer van Goch to raise my salary dozens of times, but he always palmed me off with excuses. Well, there is only so far I am willing to be abused – passed over, while less worthy recipients are rewarded.’

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. He knew he should take advantage of the opportunity Ruyven had presented by setting down his weapon, but he was too dazed by the captain’s startling revelations.

  ‘There are intelligencers galore in the delegation,’ Ruyven went on. ‘For example, Zas spies for Heer van Goch. Why do you think he wants you dead? Because he hopes you will be blamed for some of the things he has done. He does not know I am Downing’s man, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Chaloner weakly. ‘But if we really are on the same side, then warn van Goch to be ready for whatever Falcon is planning. It is—’

  ‘He will not listen to me,’ interrupted Ruyven bitterly. ‘I am far too lowly.’

  ‘Then take me to someone who isn’t,’ said Chaloner desperately. ‘Or Falcon will succeed.’

  ‘Perhaps he will,’ agreed Ruyven with a sigh. ‘But I am unequal to stopping him, and so are you. Downing lied when he concocted that tale about you and de Witt’s bedchamber. You do not have the mettle for espionage, and I am beginning to realise that I do not, either. But hop over the wall, or Zas will catch us, and then I will have to shoot you.’

  ‘I have no idea what is happening,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Why are you letting me go? Especially now I know you are a spy.’

  ‘Because of Downing.’ Ruyven’s voice was resentful. ‘He has not paid me what he pledged, and I suspect he never will. In other words, I have squandered my principles for nothing. Killing you will please him, and I am not inclined to do anything that will make him happy.’

  ‘He does have a reputation for reneging on promises.’

  Ruyven smirked suddenly. ‘The only good thing to come out of this was hitting you just now – consider it revenge for winning Aletta all those years ago. She is the only woman I have ever really loved. Jacoba is all right, but she does not have Aletta’s courage or her intelligence. Besides, Hanse’s death has filled her with guilt, and she has ended our association.’

  Impatiently indicating that they had talked enough, he made a stirrup of his hands. Chaloner stepped into it, and pulled himself to the top of the wall. Ruyven tossed him the little gun, then pointed his own dag at a nearby tree and squeezed the trigger. The resulting crack set a number of gulls to screaming their alarm.

  ‘Goodbye, Chaloner,’ he said softly. ‘We shall not meet again.’

  Chapter 12

  Chaloner stumbled through the grounds of Worcester House in a daze, staggered by Ruyven’s revelations. Unfortunately, they told him nothing that would help him trap Falcon, and the clocks were striking four. Surely, he would not be reduced to following Edwards’s plan – of loitering at the convention in the hope of spotting something amiss? He had to find something to give him an edge.

  ‘Look!’ came a howl of disbelief as he stepped into The Strand. It was Killigrew, and he was jabbing a forefinger that shook with righteous indignation. ‘There is the traitor!’

  Chaloner cursed himself for forgetting that he no longer wore a disguise. He saw two ruffians immediately break into a run, so he jigged to his left and, when they changed course to intercept him, shot off to his right, tearing eastwards.

  It was not an easy journey. There was a lot of traffic, and drivers cursed him as he cut in front of their carts. A glance behind told him that his pursuers were experiencing similar problems, but were gaining anyway. He tried to run harder, but the street was too crowded. He reached Temple Bar, and shoved his way to the front of the queue that had formed to file through it, earning himself kicked shins and a punch. But then he was past it, and into Fleet Street.

  Unfortunately, his pursuers’ brutish appearance meant people jumped aside for them, and they burst through, hot on his heels. Aware that he needed to aim for quieter pastures if he wanted to escape, he ducked down a lane that led towards the river. When they followed, he jigged left, along an alley that had the wall of the Inner Temple’s garden to the south and its stately buildings to the north. There was a gate in the wall, and by miraculous chance, it was open. He shot through it, and secured the other side with a bar. Moments later, it shuddered under the impact of a kick. There was a brief silence, then a scraping sound told him that the wall was being scaled.

  He looked around quickly. He was in a large arbour, as fine as the one in Lincoln’s Inn. Mature trees graced it, and it was neatly dissected by paths and flower beds. It was brown from lack of rain, but well tended and clearly loved. Cut off from the noise and bustle of the city, it was an unexpected pocket of stillness and tranquility.

  His lame leg burning from overexertion, Chaloner hobbled to a compost heap and crouched behind it. The two men were soon over the wall, and began hunting for him. H
e fingered the gun in his pocket, and supposed he could shoot one, but the discharge in this quiet place would attract attention and make it difficult for him to escape afterwards.

  Almost as if he could scent his prey, the larger of the two suddenly gazed directly at Chaloner’s hiding place. He muttered something to his companion, and they started to walk towards it. Chaloner looked around desperately. There was nowhere else to go, and he knew he could not scramble over the wall before they caught him. He waited until they were almost on him, then leapt to his feet, gun in his hand. Both stopped dead in their tracks.

  ‘There is no need for that,’ the larger one said, raising his hands. ‘We just want a word.’

  ‘A word about what?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘About Falcon. Stop your questions and your meddling, and stay away from him.’

  ‘Who is Falcon?’

  The big man smiled without humour. ‘He ordered us to issue you with a kindly warning. Heed it; there will not be another. He also told us to tell you that if you disobey, Hannah will die.’

  ‘Hannah is safe,’ said Chaloner, although he did not like the notion that these two brutes should know about her. ‘Even I do not know where she is.’

  ‘No, but Falcon does,’ said the smaller man with a sly grin. ‘You should choose your friends more carefully, because Rector Thompson is not very brave with a knife to his throat. He told us to leave a message mentioning rabbits with one John Thurloe at Lincoln’s Inn.’

  Chaloner’s stomach lurched. ‘No! You cannot—’

  ‘We already have.’

  Chaloner stared at them, and suddenly, his wits were sharp and clear. Who had the contacts and resources to hire men such as these – strong louts, but ones with a modicum of intelligence – and order them to deliver ultimatums? There was Downing, but he wanted Chaloner dead or caught, not warned off. Nisbett was murdered; Kicke, Lane and Bates were not sufficiently wealthy; and the Dutch would not know how to recruit gang members. And then there was Williamson. Chaloner’s anger was a cold, hard knot. The Spymaster had crossed the line, and he would pay for it.

  ‘Where is Falcon now?’ he demanded, pointing the gun at the larger man’s head.

  The fellow cringed, seeing he was in earnest. ‘We do not know! He issues us with orders through a captain – Abraham Kicke, who works at White Hall. We have never met him in person.’

  ‘He is telling the truth,’ said the smaller man, smug grin gone. ‘And Falcon does have your wife. He sent someone to collect her the moment Thurloe dropped her off in Tothill Street.’

  ‘Thurloe thought all was well,’ added his friend. ‘But it is not, and Falcon will kill her if you interfere with his plans.’

  There was a sudden shout, and Chaloner saw a gardener striding towards them, clearly angry that trespassers should dare to set foot in his domain. His indignant yell alerted his fellows, who began to converge, all clutching a variety of tools that could double as weapons. Chaloner swore under his breath. They were an inconvenience, but he did not want them hurt.

  ‘What now?’ asked the big man, confidence returning when he saw what was happening. ‘Will you kill us in front of witnesses? Let us go, then make your own escape. It is your only option.’

  Reluctantly, Chaloner conceded he was right. He lowered the weapon, and the two moved away quickly. He followed, aware of the gardeners breaking into a run. The big man ripped the bar from the gate, and then he and his companion were gone. Chaloner was not far behind them.

  He knew they had been bluffing about ‘Falcon’ having Hannah, because Thurloe would not have taken her to Tothill Street – he would have gone to Lincoln’s Inn, and not let her leave until Chaloner himself had arrived to collect her. But if Williamson had sent a letter using Thurloe’s codeword, then he and Hannah would certainly be on their way home. Williamson might not have Hannah yet, but it was only a matter of time before he did. And while Chaloner’s feelings towards his wife might be confusingly ambivalent, he knew one thing for certain: that he did not want her in the Spymaster’s ruthless hands.

  Chaloner’s breath came in agonised gasps as he sprinted towards Lincoln’s Inn, and he vowed that if Williamson had laid so much as a finger on Hannah, the Spymaster would die.

  Williamson’s men were out in force, not the soldiers in their buff uniforms, but the rough villains who shouldered their way along, peering into the faces of passers-by. Chaloner kept his head down as he ran, bracing himself for trouble when one fellow gave him a long, hard look. But the man was distracted by a prancing horse, and Chaloner was able to slip past unimpeded.

  He cursed himself for not appreciating sooner that Falcon was someone with the resources to play deadly games – to dabble in high-level espionage, spread misleading rumours, and kill those who tried to stop him. And how many had that been? Hanse, Compton and his soldiers, White and his guard, Molins, Oetje, Swan, Swallow, Pocks. And who knew how many more names had been written on the part of the death list that had been burned away?

  But what was Williamson thinking? He claimed to want peace, so why was he trying to provoke a war – and damage two governments into the bargain? For money? Chaloner supposed he should not be surprised. He had met many spies – Ruyven being the most recent – who were not ashamed to admit they were driven by a desire for wealth.

  He was breathless, limping and hot when he arrived at Lincoln’s Inn. But there was bad news. Thurloe had arrived with a woman beside him, and a messenger had been waiting.

  ‘He told Mr Thurloe that he and the lady were to get into his carriage, and go with him to see Tom’s rabbits,’ said the porter, shaking his head, perplexed. ‘Why would they want to—’

  ‘What did this man look like?’ Chaloner demanded, stomach churning.

  ‘I could not see. It was drizzling, and his hat was over his eyes.’

  ‘Then in which direction did they go?’

  ‘I did not look.’ The porter’s expression turned from bemused to anxious. ‘Is Mr Thurloe in danger?’

  Chaloner was in an agony of despair, thickly overlain with guilt. It was bad enough that Hannah had been dragged into his murky affairs, but to endanger Thurloe, too … He knew he would never forgive himself if anything happened to either.

  But self-recrimination could come later: now he needed to force his fears to the back of his mind and think rationally. Where had they been taken? To Newgate, where they could be incarcerated until they were quietly dispatched? He did not think Williamson would be rash enough to take his prisoners to his Westminster lair – someone would see them, and awkward questions would be asked. But the Spymaster was likely to be there himself. Chaloner set off at a run again, ignoring the porter’s wails for answers.

  Fortunately, Murdoch had parked outside Lincoln’s Inn, lounging with his feet up while he ate a pie. He hurled it away and snatched up his reins when Chaloner yelled at him that Thurloe was in trouble, and they rattled at a furious pace towards Westminster. It was quicker than running, and also served to keep Chaloner off the streets and away from anyone who might recognise him.

  ‘Mr Thurloe is in there?’ asked Murdoch in horror, when they reached New Palace Yard and Chaloner alighted. Like all Londoners, he knew what went on in Williamson’s domain.

  ‘Wait here,’ ordered Chaloner. There was no time for explanations. ‘I may need you to take me somewhere else when I have finished.’

  His inclination was to storm the building with his sword flailing, but common sense told him that was unlikely to help Thurloe and Hannah, so he forced himself to hide in the shadows of a nearby doorway while he studied the place, chafing at the passing moments.

  The front was protected by two guards – not the ones in uniform, but the ruffians. It did not look good to station members of criminal gangs at the entrance, and Chaloner wondered whether the Spymaster had lost his mind. However, the building gave the impression of being otherwise empty – Williamson’s clerks did not work on Sundays.

  Unwilling to tackle the sentrie
s in the street, lest cronies came to their assistance, Chaloner made his way to the back door, which was locked but unguarded. He picked his way inside, and immediately tripped over a body. It was a man in a buff uniform, and he had been stabbed. Confused and uncertain, Chaloner armed himself with the fellow’s sword and selection of daggers, and made sure the dag was in a place where it could easily be reached.

  The main chamber, where the clerks worked, was deserted with the exception of two secretaries. Both were dead. Chaloner stared at them: something was badly wrong. He crept on, aiming for the Spymaster’s office on the upper floor.

  Swaddell lay near the door. His eyes were closed, and there was blood on his face. Chaloner paused to put his hand on the assassin’s neck. Swaddell was alive, and stirred when he was touched. There was a nasty gash on his head, and it was apparent that he had been struck from behind. Had Williamson tired of his faithful henchman and ordered him dispatched? With infinite care, Chaloner eased open the door to the Spymaster’s office, just enough to let him see inside.

  Williamson was sitting at his desk, hands clasped in front of him. Kicke was in the centre of the room, pacing back and forth. Two more men stood to one side, and the stains on their clothes indicated they had been responsible for at least some of the killing.

  Chaloner reviewed his options. The gun would eliminate Kicke, while a lobbed dagger would dispatch one lout and the other could be finished with a sword. And Williamson represented no threat – while no coward, the Spymaster preferred to let others do his fighting, and was not an accomplished warrior. The only question was whether there were more men who were out of sight.

  He pushed the door open further, trying to see, but Williamson chose that moment to look in his direction. Their eyes locked, and the Spymaster’s jaw dropped in astonishment. Desperately, Chaloner began to haul the dag from his belt, knowing he had to win the confrontation, because it was not just his life in the balance, but Thurloe’s and Hannah’s, too.

  ‘How much longer will you and these four villains keep me prisoner in my own office, Kicke?’ Williamson demanded quickly. ‘I have no idea what you think you are doing, but holding me here against my will and slaughtering my people is extremely unwise.’