The Body in the Thames (15 page)

‘I half wish that were true. It would have a certain irony.’

Thurloe smiled at last. ‘It would, although you had better not say so to anyone else. But we have discussed my worries long
enough. Do you want to tell me why you must visit Newgate? I know how you feel about prisons, so I imagine it is not something
you undertake lightly.’

‘Sinon,’ replied Chaloner, to see whether the word meant anything to his friend.

‘The conspiracy to steal the crown jewels,’ replied Thurloe promptly, thus proving that the affair was not as confidential
as the Earl and Sir William Compton believed. ‘But it has been foiled, and the would-be villains are incarcerated in the Tower.’

‘In Newgate,’ corrected Chaloner. ‘It is common knowledge then? I was told it was a secret.’

‘There is no such thing, not when the Privy Council leaks its business like an old boot. France, Denmark, Sweden
and
Russia have all hired spies to monitor our dealings with the Dutch, but they could have saved their money. All they need
do is listen to street gossip. Of course, it explains why no headway has been made on the peace talks.’

‘It does?’ asked Chaloner, bemused.

Thurloe nodded. ‘It is obvious that a foreign intelligencer is at work, listening to these rumours, and using them to sabotage
progress. We would have reached
some
agreement by now, otherwise.’

‘There are high hopes that advances will be made on Sunday, at the convention in the Savoy.’

‘High hopes from the doves,’ corrected Thurloe. ‘The hawks want it to flounder.’

Chaloner was sure he was right, but discussing politics was not helping his enquiries. ‘What else have you heard about Sinon?’
he asked.

‘Just that three men plotted to steal the crown jewels, but were thwarted. Efforts were made to keep the matter quiet, because
there was fear of a public outcry. But such concerns are ridiculous.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it assumes people care. They might have done four years ago, when the King first returned to London, but his debauched,
corrupt Court has turned them against him. Are you going to Newgate to speak to these would-be thieves? Why? Presumably, they
confessed to their crime?’

‘I am not sure whether they confessed or not. Williamson did most of the investigating …’

‘I share your distrust of my successor’s abilities, but I imagine he would have been thorough in a case like this. He will
want to know whether it might have succeeded, for a start – his would be the first head to roll, if the plot
had
been successful.’

‘Hanse sewed two messages in his stockings. They were “Sinon” and “Visit Newgate”. There is nothing to say they are connected
to his death, but …’

‘I imagine they are. Even I, with all my informants, did not know the Sinon plotters are in Newgate. Yet Hanse did. You are
right to secure an interview with them.’

‘He met four men in the Sun tavern,’ Chaloner went on. ‘They included a cleric, a gentleman, someone fat and sweaty, and a
medical man with a birth-stain on his neck.’

‘Wiseman might be able to advise you about the medical man.’

Chaloner smiled. It was a good suggestion, and a good way forward.

Chaloner’s restless night had left him drained and woolly-headed, so he went to the Rainbow Coffee House on Fleet Street,
hoping a dish of the toxic beverage would serve to sharpen his wits.

Already, the streets were swelteringly airless and tempers were frayed. A horse had dropped dead in its traces outside St
Dunstan-in-the-West, blocking the passage of traffic. No one was inclined to help the bereft carter haul the carcass out of
the way, but no one wanted to stand around while he fetched his family to do it, either. Furious yells were traded, then punches
started to swing. Chaloner dodged around the mêlée, scrambled over the hapless nag and continued on his way.

He reached the Rainbow with relief. It was owned and run by a man named Thomas Farr, an opinionated individual with views
on everything, from fashion and current affairs, to music and science. That morning, he was telling his patrons about a series
of terrible infernos in Amsterdam, which had coincided with a ‘blazing star’ that had passed over the city like a pillar of
fire.

‘God created all these portents, as a sign that they will lose the war we are going to have with them,’ he concluded, as Chaloner
sank on to a bench, grateful to be out of the sun.

‘How do
you
know what God was saying?’ asked Joseph Thompson, rector of St Dunstan-in-the-West. He was sitting next to a fellow cleric
– Edward White, the amiable vicar who had married Hannah and
Chaloner in St Margaret’s Church. ‘It might be a sign that they are going to win.’

There was a shocked intake of breath, and Chaloner reached for the most recent newsbook. He usually ignored such discussions,
on the grounds that the participants rarely knew what they were talking about. That day was a good example. He had been in
Amsterdam when the conflagrations had started, but they had been caused by careless servants. And the blazing star had been
a meteorite shower, like many others he had seen on clear nights.

‘The Dutch will
never
win,’ declared Farr. ‘Incidentally, did you hear what happened at Charing Cross last night? Two patriots cornered a couple
of cheese-eaters, but three traitors rescued them.’

‘But the patriots fought very bravely,’ said Fabian Stedman, a young printer, who always seemed to be in the Rainbow; Chaloner
wondered whether he ever went to work. ‘And one villain was stabbed so badly that his arm was virtually severed. He slunk
away with his tail between his legs.’

Casually, Chaloner tugged his sleeve down over the bandage, marvelling at the way facts could become so distorted within such
a short space of time.

‘You cannot
slink
anywhere if your arm is hanging off,’ argued Rector Thompson pedantically. ‘So I am inclined to doubt the veracity of this
tale.’

Stedman ignored him. ‘London’s surgeons have been ordered to report any such injuries to Spymaster Williamson, so I am sure
the villain will be caught.’

‘And when he is, I shall pay him a visit,’ said Farr darkly. ‘With a cudgel and several like-minded friends. I am not alone
in thinking we do not need Judases in our midst.’

‘No!’ cried White, appalled. ‘You cannot go around
attacking people! We have courts of law to deal with these matters.’

‘Traitors do not deserve courts of law,’ Farr flashed back. ‘And there
is
treason afoot, because Clarendon’s papers were stolen by a Dutchman. That is an act of war, as far as I am concerned.’

‘The thief’
s
name was William Hands,’ supplied Stedman confidently. ‘But he is murdered, by all accounts. Some say Ambassador
von Gauche killed him, for not being sly enough.’

‘
Van Goch
,’ corrected White quietly. ‘And the poor man who died was named
Willem Hanse
. He was said to have been an honourable, decent fellow, wholly dedicated to peace.’

‘Then he
is
a villain!’ declared Farr. ‘Because peace will damage England. I want war, and I am looking forward to slitting a few Dutch
throats. Especially men like this Hands.’

Chaloner could bear it no more. ‘There is a report in the newsbooks that the hot weather will cause a shortage of peas later
in the year,’ he blurted. Then he winced. It was hardly a subtle way of changing the subject, and a startled silence followed
his announcement.

‘Peas?’ asked Thompson eventually, regarding Chaloner as though he had just sprouted horns. ‘Why should we care about peas?
I do not even like them.’

‘I do,’ said Stedman, somewhat provocatively. ‘And a shortage of them will be terrible. I imagine the Dutch brought some sort
of pea-plague with them, and—’

‘No,’ said White, shocked. ‘You cannot blame diseased peas on the Dutch. They are—’

‘We are
not
discussing peas,’ interrupted Farr firmly. ‘Not in my coffee house. I forbid it.’

‘Well,
I
do not want to talk about lynching Dutchmen,’ countered White. ‘It is unchristian.’

‘Let us chat about blackmail instead, then,’ said Farr, after a moment of consideration. ‘I heard several courtiers have been
victims – money demanded in exchange for silence about unsavoury doings. What do you say, Bates? You are a Court man. What
can you tell us about it?’

Chaloner had not noticed Hannah’s sad-eyed friend sitting at the far end of the room. Bates did not often grace the Rainbow
with his presence, and Chaloner suspected that when he did, it reminded him how acrimonious the company could be, driving
him away again.

‘Nothing,’ squeaked Bates, when all eyes turned towards him.

‘You must know something,’ pressed Farr, impatiently. ‘You are at White Hall all day, and we all know it is a great place
for gossip. Come on, man. Tell us! We can keep a secret.’

‘No,’ said Bates. He stood hastily, upsetting his coffee dish. The spilled liquid slid across the table in a malignant black
streak. ‘I know nothing.’

He aimed for the door, jostling people in his haste. Farr watched him go in astonishment, although Stedman, White and Thompson
were already on another debate, and did not notice.

‘The King is
not
corrupt,’ Stedman was saying fiercely. ‘Some of his courtiers could benefit from acquiring a few morals, but White Hall is
far more ethical than it was in Cromwell’s time.’

‘I beg to differ,’ said Thompson stiffly. ‘At least Cromwell and his ministers went to church. This Privy Council does not
bother.’

‘Perhaps they are bored with long-winded sermons,’ Stedman shot back.

Chaloner stopped listening. He opened the newsbook, and settled down to read an account of the Spanish ambassador’s recent
holiday in Rome, which was the government’s idea of keeping its people abreast of international affairs.

It was not long before the coffee began to have an effect. Chaloner’s weariness diminished, and his heart began to beat faster.
He folded the newsbook, paid for the coffee and left Farr, Stedman, White and Thompson debating whether going hatless in the
sun was dangerous. He was surprised when Bates emerged from an alley as he stepped outside, and indicated that he wanted to
talk.

‘Hannah told me you frequent the Rainbow,’ he said softly. ‘Of a morning.’

‘Did she?’ asked Chaloner, wishing she had not. It was dangerous for a spy’s haunts to be known, and he disliked the fact
that she talked about him to men he barely knew.

Bates nodded. ‘So I have been waiting for you. I need to talk to you about something, but I could not go to your house, because
I do not want our meeting witnessed.’

Chaloner gestured around him. ‘Then why accost me here, on a busy public thoroughfare?’

Bates looked stricken, so Chaloner beckoned him down Hercules’ Pillars Alley, a lane named for the tavern that stood on the
corner. About halfway down was a large house with a paved courtyard, separated from the road by railings. The shutters were
closed, and there was no sign of life. It was Temperance North’s gentleman’s club, and at that hour in the morning, its owner
and her ladies were in bed, sleeping off the excesses of the previous
night. Chaloner stepped into the shadows created by a little willow tree, and pulled Bates after him.

‘How can I help you?’ he asked.

Bates swallowed hard, and would not meet Chaloner’s eyes. ‘I hate Kicke,’ he whispered. ‘He has set lustful eyes on my wife,
and woos her with silvery words. Ann is weakening fast.’

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said Chaloner, although it went through his mind that most women would probably prefer the handsome,
confident Kicke to poor Bates.

‘It is wicked that he was allowed to wriggle free of the charges brought against him,’ Bates went on bitterly. ‘And I wanted
you to know that I wholeheartedly support what you did in the park.’

‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner, wondering where the discussion was going.

‘I spend a lot of time in the Spares Gallery,’ Bates blundered on. ‘The place where courtiers go to relax, or for refreshments.’

‘Yes, I have seen you.’

Bates gave his sad smile. ‘No one else has. They forget I am there, and I hear things. So if you decide to tackle Kicke again,
come to me first. I know a lot about what goes on in White Hall. But more importantly, I know how and where to get written
evidence for some of it.’

Chaloner regarded him warily. ‘I have no idea what you are trying to tell me.’

‘I am volunteering my help, should you decide to bring him down a second time,’ hissed Bates, a little desperately. ‘I am
not bold enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with you wielding a sword, but I know where to find documents.’

Chaloner was still none the wiser. ‘Are you saying that
you know something detrimental about Kicke and Nisbett? And that there is a written record of it?’

Bates winced. ‘No. If there were, I would have made sure copies were left lying around for the right people to “discover”.
But I know how to locate deeds of ownership, and I know who goes where and when. I may be able to unearth witnesses if you
catch Kicke stealing again.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, sorry for him. He knew what it was like to feel powerless in the face of overwhelming odds. But he
doubted Bates’s ‘help’ would be much use. It sounded precarious at best, and smacked of contrivance at worst.

The sun was blazing as Chaloner trudged towards the Savoy to ask what Killigrew knew of Hanse’s drinking habits. He was not
the only one to be travelling at half his normal speed. Horses plodded with drooping heads, and street vendors could barely
summon the energy to push their carts. Everywhere, people had shed clothes in an effort to stay cool, and burned skin was
in abundance, from the blistered pate of a hatless merchant to the scarlet shoulders of a baker’s lad.

Chaloner wandered to the river in search of a cooling breeze, but the air around the Thames was as still and sultry as the
rest of the city. Moreover, the rubbish that had been dumped in the water when the tide was coming in was now oozing back
downstream. Some of it would reach the sea, but the lack of rain had rendered the great stream sluggish, and most of it was
likely to revisit the city yet again later.