The Body in the Thames (14 page)

Hannah scowled. ‘It
is
a closely guarded secret. And I think Charles
will
pay, because he does not want Ann’s reputation sullied with gossip.’

Then the man was a fool, thought Chaloner. ‘Thank you for arranging the invitation to the park last night. It was …’ He faltered,
unable to find the words to describe such hauntingly beautiful music.

‘Yes, I was bored, too.’ Hannah narrowed her eyes. ‘You are not thinking of getting your viol out now, are you, Thomas? It
will disturb the neighbours.’

Chaloner shook his head, although it had been exactly what he had intended. Sourly, he wondered when he
would
be permitted to play, since she complained if he did it during the day, too.

‘Then come back to bed,’ she ordered. ‘Or are you hoping I will make you some breakfast?’

Chaloner shook his head again, trying not to do so too fervently. Hannah had many talents, but cooking was not one of them.
And when she had turned her hand to brewing ale, it had put Buckingham in bed for the best part of a week.

‘Incidentally, the Queen talked about you yesterday,’
Hannah went on. ‘She enjoyed our wedding – except for the murder – and told me that I am a lucky woman. She also said that
if ever Clarendon dispenses with your services, she will find you a post in her household.’

‘Really?’ Chaloner doubted the Queen would have much use for a spy. Or perhaps it was just that he knew Portuguese, and she
preferred speaking her native tongue to struggling with English.

‘Personally, I think you should abandon your Earl before he sends you on any more dangerous missions. I have been widowed
once, and I do not want it to happen again.’

‘The United Provinces were not dangerous.’ Except for the plague and the uncomfortable memories of his first wife, Chaloner
had enjoyed himself there, and had seriously considered not coming back. Not least among his concerns was the prospect of
marrying Hannah, a woman he thought he loved, but who was as different from him as it was possible to be. Failed relationships
in the recent past had made him acutely aware of his own shortcomings in selecting suitable partners, and the last thing he
wanted was to trap her in a problematic marriage – he certainly loved her enough to want to avoid inflicting that on her.
‘Of course, that might change if we go to war, although even then, I cannot see Dutchmen attacking our diplomats on the streets.’

‘Has Ambassador van Goch been assaulted, then? I am sorry, but not surprised, given that the Dutch are so unpopular in London
at the moment. If they had any sense, they would stay inside the Savoy, where they are safe. Of course, Hanse – the man who
was fished from the Thames – was always out on his own, so no eyebrows were raised when
he
met an untimely end.’

Chaloner stared at her. ‘Who told you Hanse was always out alone?’

Hannah shrugged. ‘Everyone – Charles Bates, the Duke, Brodrick, Henry and Judith Killigrew. And the last two live in the Savoy,
so
they
know what they are talking about. Apparently, Hanse liked visiting taverns, so someone must have recognised him as a Hollander
and killed him. I am not saying such behaviour is right, but it is certainly predictable.’

‘Which taverns?’ demanded Chaloner.

Hannah started, unnerved by the sudden harshness in his voice. ‘I am not sure anyone knows – just that he liked to frequent
such places. What is wrong? Why are you glaring at me?’

‘Sorry. I am supposed to be investigating his death, but I have not heard these tales.’

‘Then speak to Killigrew. He will confirm them.’

Chaloner nodded his thanks, and it occurred to him that this would be a good opportunity to tell her that Hanse was related
to him through Aletta. They were alone, with plenty of time for her to air any grievances she might feel, and it was not the
sort of thing one should keep from a spouse. As he flailed about for the right words, he became aware that she was smiling
at him in a way that drove all thoughts of Aletta from his mind. One hand beckoned a sultry invitation, while the other patted
the empty bed at her side.

Afterwards, as Chaloner retrieved the clothes that had been tossed carelessly around the room, it seemed inappropriate to
broach the subject of his first wife. He smiled fondly as Hannah yawned and began to burrow back under the bedcovers.

‘If you plan on visiting Mr Thurloe today, take the
biscuits I made for him,’ she murmured. ‘You keep forgetting, and they will be stale soon.’

He nodded, manfully resisting the urge to remark that the biscuits would never go stale, because that assumed they were edible,
and few of Hannah’s culinary creations could claim that distinction. The warmth of his feelings for her suffered a jolt at
her next remark, however.

‘I am going back to sleep, so no scraping on that wretched viol, if you please.’

Chaloner left her to her slumbers with a vague sense of unease. How could they be happy together if she kept him from his
music? Or was she worth the sacrifice?

It was still not fully light when Chaloner opened his front door and stepped outside, savouring the freshness of the air after
the stuffiness of the house. Tothill Street was semi-rural; St James’s Park lay in one direction, and the wilder area known
as Tothill Fields in another. It was rich with the scent of bramble blossom, new leaves and scythed grass. Sheep bleated in
the distance, and two blackbirds were engaged in a battle of song, shrill and bright.

As he walked, Thurloe’s biscuits tucked under his arm, he thought about Hannah’s aversion to his viol. It was the third time
she had asked him not to practise since he had returned from Holland, and while he could have overridden her and done it anyway,
the resulting quarrel would have spoiled the experience. He decided that as soon as he had solved Hanse’s murder and retrieved
the Earl’s papers, he would find lodgings of his own, a bolthole to which he could escape when he and Hannah did not see
eye to eye. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea – a solution that would benefit both of them.

To take his mind off his marital hiccups, he reviewed
yet again the evening he and Hanse had spent in the tavern on King Street, trying to recall whether there had been remarks
that should have alerted him to the fact that Hanse knew about a plot to deprive the King of his jewels. Or that Hanse thought
he might be in danger, for that matter. For the life of him, Chaloner could not recall any.

Deciding to follow Thurloe’s advice, he went to the Sun, where its owner, Edmond Waters, was closing for the night – it might
be early morning for most of London, but there were plenty for whom the night’s revels were only just drawing to a close.

Waters was an elderly man with grey hair. He yawned hugely as Chaloner approached to ask his questions, and wiped grimy hands
on what had, at the beginning of the evening, been a clean white apron. Now it was stained not only with wine, but with what
looked ominously like blood, too.

‘The Duke of Buckingham was in here last night,’ was all he said in explanation.

‘I see.’ Chaloner moved to the business in hand. ‘You were more than patient with my questions on Saturday morning, but would
you mind going over your answers again?’

‘Or course not. Mr Hanse is a lovely man, and I will do anything to help you find him. I do not make a habit of letting Hollanders
drink here, though. I do not want
my
tavern set alight because I open my doors to men who will soon be our enemies. But Mr Hanse is special.’

‘How so?’

‘He lets me keep the change when he pays his bill. Unlike that miserly Buckingham, I might add. If all Hollanders were like
Mr Hanse, we would not need to go to war. Have you news of him?’

‘He died,’ replied Chaloner baldly. ‘Probably late on Friday, after he left your tavern.’

Waters’ eyes opened wide. ‘Dead? I hope you are not here to suggest my wine was responsible. I know he had more than his share
that night, but …’

‘He drank a lot?’ Chaloner was disgusted that he had not noticed.

‘Perhaps not a
lot
,’ backtracked Waters. ‘But he had far more than you. He said he was not feeling well, and that wine would settle his stomach.’

‘I know I have asked you this before, but do you remember anything odd about that night? Anything that might have a bearing
on his death?’

‘I am afraid not,’ said Waters. ‘And I
have
been thinking about it. As I said, I liked Mr Hanse.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘Did he drink here regularly? You speak of him as though he did.’

Waters nodded. ‘He met four other men here, although I cannot tell you their names. One was a vicar, though. I know, because
he always wore clerical garb.’

‘Was there anything distinctive about him?’

There were hundreds of clergymen in London – parish priests, clerks and chaplains to various bishops and nobles, not to mention
those who had been extruded from their churches for nonconformism, and were in London because they had nowhere else to go.
Tracing one would be next to impossible without a good description.

‘Not really,’ came the disappointing reply. ‘Although
he
was generous with tips, too.’

‘What can you tell me about the other three?’

‘One was a handsome fellow with long, dark hair and a regal bearing. He and Mr Hanse were of an age – late thirties. He was
kind to the serving wench when she accidentally
spilled wine in his lap. And not everyone would have been so gracious, because she made a terrible mess.’

‘A clergyman and someone who sounds like a gentleman,’ mused Chaloner. No one came to mind, and he wondered what Hanse had
been doing. ‘And the other two?’

‘The third was the antithesis of the gentleman – fat, sweaty and ordinary. The last was a medical man, who always carried
a bag of surgical weapons. He was elderly with a birth-stain on his neck.’

Chaloner supposed he would have to return one evening and ask the same questions of Waters’ customers. Perhaps one might have
overheard what was discussed, or would have a name to put to the descriptions. He nodded his thanks and started to walk away,
but Waters caught his arm.

‘You seem a decent sort, so let me give you some advice. Do not consort too openly with Hollanders, not even nice ones like
Mr Hanse. There
will
be a war, and then anyone with Dutch friends will become suspect. I heard that some of Heer van Goch’s retinue were attacked
last night, and there is bitter rumbling against three villains who stepped in to rescue them.’

‘A lot of courtiers rode in to rescue them,’ countered Chaloner.

‘That was later. Two patriots were about to slit the diplomats’ throats, but these rogues stopped them. People did not like
it. So, if you must consort with Hollanders, do it discreetly.’

Mulling over the warning, Chaloner walked towards Lincoln’s Inn, one of London’s four great legal foundations, moving carefully
to avoid being doused in the night-soil
that was being hurled from the windows of the houses he passed.

Hanse had been a stranger in London, so his mysterious meetings were unlikely to have been social. The obvious conclusion
was that he was embroiled in something untoward, although Chaloner refused to believe that it might have been a plot to steal
the crown jewels. However, the fact that one of his associates was a vicar did not bode well. England was undergoing a period
of religious turmoil, and the city was full of dangerous clerics. Yet Hanse had not been particularly devout, and Chaloner
could not see him involving himself in another country’s spiritual problems.

So what else could he have been doing? Something in the name of peace? He had certainly been passionate about that, and would
have done almost anything to secure a non-violent solution to the discord. Chaloner supposed he would have to ask Hanse’s
colleagues about it.

The Strand was already busy as he strode along it, mostly with carts bringing produce from the country – vegetables, fruit,
eggs and grain to feed London’s vast rumbling belly. Livestock was being driven to the markets, too – ducks, geese and chickens
to Covent Garden, and cattle to Smithfield. And there were other goods – baskets, pots, linen, books, maps and charts, soap,
ornaments, scientific instruments, perfume, clothes, tools, furniture and building materials. It was not said for nothing
that anything under the sun could be bought in the city.

Street shows were setting up, too, ready to draw the custom of the idle. The Bearded Lady of Holborn had relocated in an effort
to attract new admirers; she could be viewed for a penny. Meanwhile, a glimpse of a calf with six legs would cost two pennies,
and the two-headed
Barbary Ape three. Uncomfortable amid such noisy, colourful bustle, Chaloner left the main road, and weaved through a maze
of quiet lanes until he reached the open area known as Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

The Fields had once been much larger, but land near the city’s centre was worth a fortune, and bits had been sold off to developers.
There was, however, a core of ground that had retained its ancient trees and heath-like vegetation. It was popular in the
summer as a place to relax, giving the illusion that London was rural. But after dark and at dawn, it became a different place
altogether.

That morning, a duel was in progress, one of the several that were alleged to occur there each week. Both combatants and their
seconds were drunk, and Chaloner thought that if any of them did score a hit, it would be more by luck than design. There
was a sharp crack, and he turned just in time to see a bundle of feathers drop from a tree. He winced at the ensuing guffaws:
he liked birds.

Lincoln’s Inn’s gate was opened by a sleepy porter, who knew Chaloner well enough to wave him inside without asking the nature
of his business. Chaloner aimed for the garden, where Thurloe liked to stroll each morning. A veritable army was required
to maintain its neat little hedges, gravelled paths and themed flower beds, but the benchers – the Inn’s governing body –
did not mind. Theirs was a wealthy institution, and could well afford it. And they all loved the garden.

Chaloner found Thurloe admiring the roses. The air was rich with their scent, although even they could not mask the stench
of sun-baked sewage, manure and rotting rubbish that hung in a pall over the city – and would do so until rain sluiced it
away.

‘I was hoping you would come today, Tom,’ said Thurloe. ‘I heard a tale last night about “evil-minded traitors” preventing
some of the Dutch delegation from being lynched. The description of one of these villains sounded uncannily like you. I trust
it was not.’

‘Why? You did not train me to stand by and watch the murder of innocents.’

‘I did not train you to leap wildly into dangerous situations, either.’

Chaloner grimaced. ‘Then I wish I had listened. Nisbett is a much better swordsman than me.’

‘It was Nisbett doing the lynching?’ asked Thurloe uneasily. ‘Was Kicke with him?’

‘Yes. They were taunting Kun and Zas, fuelling a mob with inflammatory remarks.’

‘Will you tell Clarendon, so they can be arrested? Such antics cannot be tolerated.’

‘Unfortunately, they took care to conceal their faces, and someone is sure to give them an alibi if I accuse them. Lady Castlemaine,
probably. Moreover, I imagine they would receive even more adulation for attacking Hollanders than they did for thieving.
London hates the Dutch.’

‘But we are a civilised nation! We do not assault visiting diplomats!’

‘No? That was not how it appeared last night.’

Thurloe shook his head in disgust. ‘Is our country mad? We cannot win a war, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool. I
am told the Privy Council is divided, with some crying for peace, but most baying for a fight. This would never have happened
in Cromwell’s time. There is no unseemly squabbling among government ministers when you have a military dictatorship.’

Chaloner did not share his friend’s views on the joys of repressive regimes, so he handed over the package as a way of moving
to less contentious matters. ‘Hannah made you some biscuits. However, I should warn you that she gave one to Buckingham, and
he claims it broke two of his teeth.’

Thurloe weighed the parcel in his hand. ‘The porter’s dog would not touch the last batch she baked me – and that ravenous
beast eats anything – so I put them on the fire. She should patent the recipe, because they made for a lovely blaze.’

‘I have to go to Newgate,’ said Chaloner gloomily, falling in beside Thurloe as the ex-Spymaster resumed his stroll. ‘And
as if that is not bad enough, I must do it with Wiseman.’

‘Wiseman has his faults, but he is a good man. Do not reject his overtures of friendship. But my breakfast will be waiting,
and you look hungry. Come to my rooms and partake of a little pottage. And then you can tell me why you must visit Newgate.’

Chaloner followed Thurloe out of the garden, to the building that housed Chamber XIII. Thurloe’s home comprised a pleasant
suite of rooms overlooking Chancery Lane. They smelled of beeswax, books and wood-smoke, and were the one place in London
where Chaloner felt truly safe.

A servant brought some thin, unappetising gruel, then left. Thurloe drank his with obvious relish, then washed it down with
an alarming array of medicines bearing names like Stinking Pills, Lazarus Lozenges and Aqua Digitalis. When he had finished,
he regaled Chaloner with the latest city gossip: the shipyards had
not stockpiled enough victuals to send the navy to sea, Sir Edward Montagu was dismissed from Court for squeezing the Queen’s
hand, and the learned men of the Royal Society had sent a dog to sleep by injecting something into its hind leg.

‘There is a rumour about Cromwell, too,’ Thurloe went on unhappily. ‘It says he broke into the royal tombs in Westminster
Abbey, and swapped all the bones about.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Why did he do that?’

‘He did
not
do that,’ snapped Thurloe. Cromwell had been a much-loved friend. ‘It is a lie put about by his enemies. He is dead, and
his poor rotted body torn from its grave to be hanged and beheaded, so why can they not leave him in peace now? Why invent
monstrous tales?’

Chaloner had no answer, but Thurloe had not expected one. He went on bitterly.

‘All I can think is that the King and his licentious Cavaliers hope to improve their own ghastly reputations by “reminding”
London that Parliamentarians were worse. It is transparent and sly, but people are too gullible to see through these tricks.
They love nasty stories about Cromwell.’

‘But people will ask
why
he despoiled these graves,’ Chaloner pointed out soothingly. ‘Then they will recall that he was a religious man, and excavating
tombs was not something he—’

‘They remember him giving orders to smash churches,’ interrupted Thurloe. ‘And it is a small step from iconoclasm to desecrating
tombs. Moreover, it is said that he emptied these grand mausoleums to make room for his own body when the time came – that
it was not
his
corpse the Royalists dragged out to be mutilated, but some long-dead
monarch’s, which was ousted from its own resting place and shoved in his more modest sarcophagus.’