The Body in the Thames (17 page)

‘Not
needed
,’ corrected Taacken. ‘And none of them are eager to volunteer, because the guests are Lord Buckingham, Lady Castlemaine and
Sir George Downing. Need I say more?’

Poor van Goch, thought Chaloner. Still, it was part of an ambassador’s duty to meet disagreeable people, and he was probably
being well paid for it.

The Brown Room was aptly named. Its walls had been painted a dirty tan, and there were thin, coffee-coloured
rugs on the floor. Pictures had been hung, but they were black with age, so it was impossible to make out what they depicted.
The result was dismally drab, and Chaloner wondered whether the government’s aim was to depress the Dutch into going home
early.

Kun and Zas were sitting near the door, working on a pile of documents. The elderly secretary wore a handsome suit of green
silk, and his white hair was neatly trimmed. His face was pale, though, and there was a bruise under one eye. Zas wore a russet
coat, and bared his foxy teeth in a welcoming smile as Chaloner approached. He had not escaped unscathed, either, and there
was a graze on his chin and dried blood in his ear.

‘You saved our lives, Chaloner,’ said Kun, coming to seize his hand in tearful gratitude. ‘There was murder in the eyes of
our attackers, and if you had not been there …’

‘We did not have so much as a dagger to defend ourselves,’ Zas elaborated. ‘The ambassador does not want his diplomats armed,
lest it is interpreted as a hostile act.’

‘Personally, I suspect the driver broke the wheel deliberately,’ said Kun. ‘He ran away very quickly, leaving us to fend for
ourselves.’ He shuddered: the incident had shaken him badly.

‘Perhaps you should not venture out again,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘London’s mood is volatile, and crowds turn quickly into mobs.’

‘Unfortunately, that is not possible, because we are expected to attend meetings and functions,’ replied Kun. ‘And to refuse
might damage the negotiations. Still, we have learned our lesson. We will not be going anywhere without a proper escort again.’

‘Buckingham, Lady Castlemaine and Downing have been sent here to make amends,’ said Zas wryly. ‘Unfortunately, none have offered
anything remotely approaching an apology. They did bring a bribe, though, to encourage us to pretend the incident did not
happen.’

‘Do you know what it was?’ asked Kun. He shook his head, torn between indignation and amusement. ‘A lot of cheese and butter!
Downing even had the temerity to inform me that it is common knowledge that my countrymen will forgive anything in exchange
for dairy produce.’

‘What is going on?’ came an angry voice from behind them. Chaloner had been watching Ruyven’s approach through a reflection
in the window, so did not jump as the others did. The burly captain’s face was angry. ‘The Brown Room is closed to foreigners.’

‘Taacken brought him,’ explained Kun. ‘And I am glad he did, because I was in no state to thank him for helping us last night.
But why
did
you come, Chaloner? Have you news of Hanse’s killer?’

‘Not yet. But I am trying to learn more about his life here. Will you answer some questions?’

‘We will try,’ agreed Kun. ‘But I doubt we will be of much help.’

‘Why would you think that?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Because we are always so busy. The root of the dispute between our nations lies in trade – the complex net of arrangements
and treaties that have been agreed over the past few decades—’

‘And that the English have consistently broken,’ interjected Ruyven.

‘There have been infractions on both sides,’ said Kun, shooting him a warning glance. ‘And we are not here to dwell on them,
but to find ways to heal the rifts.’

‘We are obliged to comb through these treaties,’ added Zas. ‘So we work from dawn to dusk, with barely a moment to spare.
I know I
never
notice what my colleagues are doing, because I am too intent on my own work. The others are the same.’

‘You will appreciate that we are talking about hundreds of documents here,’ elaborated Kun. ‘And we did not bring copies of
all of them with us. Hanse was obliged to visit Westminster several times, to inspect the ones stored there.’

‘How many times?’ asked Chaloner.

Kun shook his head helplessly. ‘I really could not say. A dozen, perhaps. He was braver than the rest of us – he did not mind
leaving the safety of the Savoy.’

‘And look where it took him: to an early grave,’ muttered Ruyven. He spun around suddenly as someone else approached. ‘Jacoba!
What are you doing here? I thought you were lying down.’

Chaloner was sorry to see his sister-in-law looking so low. There were rings under her eyes, and her face was reddened and
puffy from weeping. She came to take Chaloner’s hands.

‘Do you know yet what happened to Willem?’

‘No,’ said Ruyven, before Chaloner could reply. ‘Or he would not be asking
us
for clues.’

‘Then we must help him,’ said Jacoba with quiet dignity. ‘We shall sit down together – all of us – and tell him everything
we know.’

It did not take Kun long to clear a table and summon everyone who had worked with Hanse. A number of people arrived to take
part in the proceedings, and Ruyven’s expression was resentful as he watched them take their places.

‘Hanse was one of us,’ he said bitterly. ‘
I
should be the one investigating his murder.’

‘How?’ asked Kun gently. ‘You speak no English. Besides, Heer van Goch wants Chaloner to do it. He is afraid people will take
umbrage if
we
ask questions that look as though we are accusing them of a crime. And that will do nothing for peace.’

‘Peace!’ spat Ruyven. ‘London does not want peace! We are wasting our time here.’

‘I disagree,’ said Kun. ‘With patience and determination, we
can
succeed.’

‘But we
have
been patient and determined,’ argued Ruyven. He sounded tired and frustrated in equal measure. ‘Yet for every step forward,
we take two back. We should have the basis of a treaty by now, but we have nothing. Indeed, the two sides regard each other
with even greater suspicion and mistrust than ever.’

‘All that is true,’ said Kun quietly. ‘But we cannot give up while there is still hope – and there
is
hope. Sunday evening’s convention will see progress made.’

‘And butter grows on trees,’ muttered Ruyven. ‘We should just declare war and be done with it.’

‘He was fond of Willem,’ Jacoba whispered in Chaloner’s ear, as Ruyven slouched away to take a seat as far from Chaloner as
possible. ‘And it is grief that makes him angry. Take no notice of his sour remarks. He does not mean to offend.’

Ruyven had never been good at controlling his temper, Chaloner thought, recalling their old rivalry over Aletta. He started
to make a noncommittal reply, but the light caught Jacoba’s face in such a way that the resemblance to her sister was uncanny,
and the words died in his throat. He was startled, confused and unsettled.
Desperate to escape emotions he could not begin to understand, he dragged his attention back to Kun’s little assembly.

The men who sat around the table were all sober, serious fellows from good families, who had been hand-picked to accompany
van Goch on his frantic mission for peace. Some were lawyers or clerks, and others were experts in English affairs or talented
negotiators. All were said to be committed to negotiating a truce.

But were they? Ruyven made no secret of
his
preference for war, and there were bound to be others who felt the same. Had one of them killed Hanse for his fervent commitment
to peace? The Savoy was on the banks of the Thames, so it would be easy to deliver a well-timed elbow when the tide was running
fast and deep.

‘Could Hanse swim?’ Chaloner winced, realising he should have phrased the question more subtly. Fortunately, no one seemed
to guess why he had asked it.

‘I think so,’ said Kun, frowning. ‘It was not something we ever discussed.’

‘He could not,’ replied Ruyven. He shrugged when everyone looked at him. ‘Amsterdam is full of canals, and I once asked what
he would do if he fell in one. He did like a drink on occasion.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Zas, while Chaloner wondered whether it was significant that Ruyven should know Hanse would be unable
to save himself once in water.

‘That he only ever imbibed when the tide was out.’ Ruyven looked sheepish. ‘I was not sure if he was joking. It was often
difficult to tell with him.’

‘Did he have friends in London?’ asked Chaloner.
He
had never had any problems understanding Hanse’s dry wit: his brother-in-law had been amusing himself at Ruyven’s expense.
‘Other than the people here at the Savoy?’

‘Well, there was you,’ muttered Ruyven.

‘He knew no one,’ replied Kun, ignoring him. ‘Like all of us, he was a stranger here. And he did not try to make new acquaintances,
because it is not safe to go out socialising. As last night showed.’

‘He did not even know
you
were in London until you met in White Hall,’ added Zas.

‘But he was delighted,’ said Jacoba softly. ‘He always was fond of you.’

Chaloner returned to Hanse’s excursions. ‘You said he was obliged to visit Westminster several times. How did he travel there?
By coach?’

‘Yes, always,’ replied Zas. ‘But in the evenings, when his work was done, he liked to walk around the city.’

‘He enjoyed shopping for stockings,’ explained Kun. An expression of great sadness suffused his face. ‘He was generous with
them, too. He often gave them as gifts to his friends.’

‘He did,’ agreed Zas. ‘Although, I looked in the ones he gave me, but there was no secret message sewn in them, as Jacoba
said there was in yours, Chaloner.’

‘Nor in mine,’ added Kun, while all around the table there were similar denials.

‘He bought a lot of stockings,’ said Jacoba in a choked voice. ‘He was writing a book about them, you know. They were his
passion.’

For several moments, the only sounds in the Brown Room were her broken sobs. Ruyven shot Chaloner a furious glare, making
it clear he blamed him for her
distress. Chaloner supposed he was, and resumed his questions quickly, eager to bring her ordeal to an end.

‘How late did Hanse return from these evening jaunts?’

‘Usually before sunset,’ replied Zas. ‘But not always. I noticed him returning quite late once or twice, and I told him it
was not a good idea.’

‘So did I,’ added another man. ‘God only knows where he went.’

‘He loved long summer evenings,’ explained Kun, while Chaloner wondered why this had not been mentioned when Hanse had first
gone missing. ‘You said it was half-past eight when you left him, so there would have been daylight left. He hated retiring
early, so perhaps he
did
go for a walk after you parted ways.’

Chaloner stared at him. If Hanse had been in the habit of wandering around after dark, then his murder took on a whole new
dimension. Perhaps his being a foreigner, with secret messages about the Sinon Plot sewn in his hose, was irrelevant, and
he was just the victim of a common robbery. Or the victim of someone who did not like Hollanders.

‘Did any of you accompany him on these evening rambles?’ he asked. ‘Or follow him, to see where he went?’

‘No, of course not!’ said Ruyven indignantly. ‘We do not spy on each other.’

‘He valued his privacy,’ added Zas. ‘We all have our own way of relaxing, and solitary evening rambles were his. Obviously,
with hindsight, we should have stopped him. But what is the rationale behind this particular line of questioning?’

Chaloner saw no reason not to enlighten them. ‘He was seen meeting four men on a regular basis in a tavern
–– a cleric, a surgeon, a gentleman and a fat, sweaty fellow. They are—’

‘So this quartet killed him?’ pounced Ruyven eagerly. ‘Why did you not tell us you had solved the case? Who are they? Give
me their names.’

‘I do not know them yet. But there is nothing to say
they
harmed him. On the contrary, the meetings sounded amiable. They were friends.’

‘But he
had
no friends besides us,’ objected Ruyven, while all around the table, his countrymen concurred. So did Jacoba. ‘We would have
known.’

‘But he
did
meet these men, and you did
not
know,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘So you are not as familiar with his habits as you seem to think.’ He turned to another matter.
‘Did he ever mention the word Sinon? Or have any of you heard it spoken?’

‘No,’ said Kun, accompanied by a chorus of denials from everyone else. ‘But Sinon was the original traitor, of Trojan horse
fame. What does he have to do with Hanse?’

‘I am not sure,’ said Chaloner, loath to furnish explanations. ‘It is just an avenue of—’

‘I hope you are not suggesting Hanse was a traitor,’ said Ruyven, rather dangerously. ‘Because if you are, I shall defend
his honour with my sword.’

‘No!’ cried Jacoba, dismayed. ‘Stop it! Willem is gone. Is that not enough? Why do men always insist on resolving everything
with blood? Well, I will
not
have it!’

Kun rested a fatherly hand on her shoulder. ‘There will be no fighting, Jacoba. Moreover, if these witnesses are telling the
truth, then Chaloner is right to question our understanding of the man we thought we knew. So, I suggest we all go away and
review our exchanges with
Hanse. Perhaps, with hindsight, something will come to mind that will answer these questions.’

It was a good idea, and the meeting broke up with everyone – even Ruyven – agreeing to do as Kun suggested.

As Chaloner emerged from the Brown Room with Jacoba clinging tearfully to his arm, he found Sergeant Taacken waiting for him.

‘The ambassador wants to see you,’ he said. ‘Would you mind sparing him a few moments? His other visitors are on the verge
of leaving.’

Chaloner did mind, because he had a lot to do. He scrabbled around for an excuse. ‘I have—’

‘Do not slight him, Tom,’ begged Jacoba. ‘There are only so many insults from your countrymen he can be expected to endure.
Besides, he will
need
to meet someone decent after two hours with Buckingham, Downing and Lady Castlemaine.’

Reluctantly, Chaloner followed her to the chamber that Killigrew had decked out as a State Room for his Dutch guests. He had
not done a very good job. A few paintings had been mounted on the plain white walls, but they were so variable in size, theme
and quality that it looked as though he had just had a quick scout around his domain and grabbed whatever was to hand. Meanwhile,
the rugs were such a wild assortment of
shapes and colours that they made the place look untidy, and the banners hanging from the rafters were mostly Swedish.

When Jacoba and Chaloner arrived, the State Room was busy. There were pages to conduct van Goch’s guests out, valets to carry
their hats, and an army of minions to open doors and form a guard of honour. Chaloner hung back, having no wish to exchange
words with the haughty trio, especially Downing. He pretended to inspect the pictures as they approached, so as to keep them
from seeing his face, although he could not help but hear what they were saying to each other.

‘This looming conflict is of your own making,’ Downing admonished the ambassador. ‘Your sailors started it, by being offended
when our ships do not salute them at sea.’

‘The terms of our previous treaty stipulate that we dip our flags to English vessels,’ said van Goch tiredly. ‘And we do.
Would it cost so much to return the courtesy? To acknowledge us by dropping your own pennants in return? It seems a small
price to pay for peace between our nations.’

‘But do we
want
peace?’ asked Buckingham provocatively. ‘Our countries have been at loggerheads for years now. Perhaps we should just battle
it out, and let the best side win.’

‘Perhaps you and I could make a little peace, Heer van Goch,’ suggested Lady Castlemaine with a sultry smile. She was walking
at his side, rather closer than was socially acceptable.

‘I want peace with
all
your countrymen, madam,’ replied van Goch, edging away. ‘Not just you.’

She ran her fingers down his sleeve. ‘Yes, but none of them desire it as much as I do. Perhaps we should go
somewhere private, and discuss terms. With wine. I hear you keep a fine cellar.’

Van Goch tried to distance himself a second time, but she caught his arm in a way that meant he could not do so without using
force – which would be unwise with Buckingham and Downing watching. Defeated, he submitted to her mauling, although it was
clear he was uncomfortable.

‘She is trying to seduce him, in the hope that it will make him concede detrimental terms,’ whispered Jacoba to Chaloner.
‘She does it every time she comes, although I imagine it is Buckingham’s idea.’

Not necessarily, thought Chaloner: the Lady had an eye for attractive men, and van Goch was unquestionably handsome. Rich,
too, which was always a consideration where she was concerned.

‘We are wasting our time here,’ said Downing, regarding the ambassador with undisguised disdain. ‘You have no intention of
listening to our demands.’

‘I will listen to reasonable suggestions,’ countered van Goch, taking the opportunity to dislodge the Lady when both Buckingham
and Downing turned their backs on him. ‘But demands have no place in any negotiations. We are none of us barbarians, gentlemen.’

‘I am not so sure about that,’ Jacoba whispered. ‘Downing is crude and brutal. Willem told me you were in his service for
five years in The Hague. I cannot imagine how you bore it.’

Nor could Chaloner. He pretended to inspect the paintings again as the entourage moved closer. Lady Castlemaine and Buckingham
sailed past him without a second glance, but Downing’s roving eye was drawn by Jacoba’s pale loveliness. And then he saw who
was next to her.

‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed. ‘Consorting with the friends you cultivated in The Hague, so you can pass them information
detrimental to your own country?’

Jacoba spoke poor English, but she had understood the first question. She replied in Dutch, of which Downing owned a smattering,
drawing herself up to her full height to address him icily.

‘He is here to see me, sir. My husband died on Friday, and Thomas has been very kind.’

Desire flashed in Downing’s eyes as he looked her up and down. ‘My condolences, madam,’ he said in English, all oily charm.
‘But I doubt there is much
he
can do to alleviate your suffering. I, however, have considerable experience in such matters, and I have taken a house overlooking
St James’s Park. If you visit me there, I am sure a little frolic will take your mind off—’

‘You low dog,’ interrupted Chaloner, unable to help himself. ‘Stay away from her.’

‘Or what?’ sneered Downing. ‘I will have to account to you? I could crush you like a worm.’

‘Come, Tom,’ said Jacoba, regarding the envoy with loathing. She had understood little of what had been said, but Downing’s
open lust had told her all she needed to know. ‘Heer van Goch will see you now.’

Unwilling to draw attention to himself with a scene, Chaloner started to do as she asked, but Downing had other ideas. Offended
by Jacoba’s disdain, he lashed out at an easier victim.

‘I enjoyed your tale about spying on Grand Pensionary de Witt, Chaloner,’ he said loudly. Several people turned to listen.
‘You broke into his bedchamber, stole his secret papers, and had them all back again before he woke.’

Chaloner’s stomach lurched, although he was careful
to keep the alarm from his face. It was bad enough that Downing had shared the story with Williamson, but to bray it in a
Dutch embassy was madness itself. Did he want them both arrested? Because if Chaloner was taken, Downing’s own role in the
affair would quickly be exposed, regardless of what his old spy might or might not reveal under questioning.

‘You are mistaken.’ Chaloner spoke with a lightness he did not feel. ‘I was in Middleburg when all that happened. You sent
me there to deliver letters, and I still have the receipts to prove it.’

Or rather, Thurloe did. The ex-Spymaster had taken to organising alibis for his intelligencers when dispatched on especially
dangerous missions. It was partly for their protection, but also for England’s, so she could be ready with a denial if things
went wrong.

Downing glowered, his temper up. ‘I am not mistaken. It
was
you that I …’

‘Me that you ordered to invade de Witt’s privacy?’ Chaloner smiled. ‘You should watch what you say, Sir George. I doubt many
people here think that incident was amusing, and may not know that you are in jest when you claim you were behind it.’

Downing leaned towards him, eyes glittering with thwarted fury. ‘You think you can best me with your lies and twisted words,’
he hissed. ‘But you cannot. I
will
have my revenge.’

Jacoba watched him stalk away. ‘Did he just accuse you of raiding Grand Pensionary de Witt’s documents, and passing his secrets
to Cromwell?’

Chaloner nodded, aware that a servant was translating the altercation for Ruyven. De Witt had vowed to execute
the culprit, should he ever be caught, and Ruyven would no doubt be delighted to see his old rival shot. Downing’s attempt
to see Chaloner in trouble might succeed yet.

Jacoba scowled at the envoy’s retreating back. ‘He is a revolting man, and it is not the first time he has made nasty accusations
against the innocent. I cannot imagine why your King chose him to be a diplomat, because tact and charm are anathema to him.’

Chaloner had often wondered the same thing, and could only suppose that Downing had managed to blackmail His Majesty in some
way. And blackmailed Cromwell before him, too.

Van Goch had slumped wearily on a large leather chair at the end of the State Room, looking drained and disconsolate. A man
dressed in black stood behind him, and was whispering in his ear. There was something odd about the fellow – about the intensity
of his gaze – but he had a pleasant enough face. He stepped back when Jacoba approached, Chaloner in tow.

‘De Buat reads lips,’ said van Goch, acknowledging Chaloner’s bow, then indicating the man behind him with a wave of his hand.
‘And he just told me what Downing said to you. We searched a long time for the fellow who burgled de Witt, but eventually
decided one of his staff was responsible – had sold our secrets for money. Downing chose a very sensitive matter about which
to joke.’

‘He has a habit of doing that,’ said Chaloner. His heart was pounding. Could he fight his way out of the Savoy if van Goch
ordered him detained? Or should he stand fast, and insist that the tale had been Downing’s idea of humour?

‘I know your King is a comparative novice at running
a country,’ van Goch went on irritably. ‘But surely there is
someone
at Court who can help him appoint suitable officials?’

Chaloner was not sure how to reply, loath to denigrate his country by acknowledging that His Majesty was not always a good
judge of character, but equally unwilling to defend Downing. Yet van Goch’s remarks were hardly discreet, and should have
been beneath a skilled diplomat. Then Chaloner looked at the ambassador’s pale face, and supposed it was exhaustion speaking.
He said nothing, and van Goch took a shuddering sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.

‘Forgive me,’ he said in English, his voice low and hoarse. ‘We have been here since April, and should have made
some
progress, but we are no further forward now than when we arrived. I have no idea why, because we have all worked extremely
hard.’

‘Downing is a brute,’ declared Jacoba in Dutch; she had not understood the ambassador’s words, and thought he was still talking
about the envoy. ‘He propositioned me the moment he heard I was a widow. Tom defended me, and Downing responded by making
those stupid allegations.’

‘Ignore him,’ advised van Goch. ‘I do, or our countries would have been at war months ago.’

‘Perhaps the crime against de Witt should be re-examined, sir,’ said Ruyven, stepping forward keenly. ‘There was no evidence
that a member of his staff was responsible, and Downing was—’

‘Downing probably did it himself,’ interrupted Jacoba, still angry. ‘He is unscrupulous enough.’

‘He is,’ agreed van Goch with a faint smile. ‘But if he had, he would not be so foolish as to make jokes about
it. He is just trying to cause trouble, and I refuse to let his spiteful tongue plunge us even deeper into distrust and suspicion.’

‘I agree that Downing is unlikely to have been involved,’ said Ruyven tightly. ‘But his claim was that
Chaloner
is the culprit, and—’

‘A malicious riposte, because Chaloner defended a lady’s honour,’ van Goch cut in. ‘So we shall dismiss his sly remarks for
what they are – hateful mischief.’

Ruyven opened his mouth to argue, but van Goch raised an imperious hand and he shut it again. ‘I will take Jacoba to lie down,’
he said stiffly. ‘Chaloner’s visit has been one ghastly experience after another for her, and she looks tired.’

‘I am tired,’ admitted Jacoba, sagging at the realisation. ‘But not through any doing of Tom’s.’

Chaloner watched Ruyven escort her away with self-conscious gentleness, and the servants went back to work. It was not long
before he was alone with the ambassador and the black-garbed de Buat. He wondered who the man was – he did not look big enough
to be a bodyguard.

‘Do you have questions for me, sir?’ asked Chaloner, when the ambassador did nothing but massage his temples with his forefingers.

‘No,’ said van Goch, pulling himself together. ‘I would like you to take a message to Clarendon. Tell him we did not take
those papers from his house.’

‘I know it was not Hanse,’ said Chaloner carefully.

‘It was not any of us! These negotiations are far too important to risk by dabbling in espionage.’

‘But if they fail, such intelligence may help you win whatever conflict follows,’ Chaloner pointed out, thinking
that if the situation had been reversed,
he
would have been gathering all the information he could lay his hands on.

‘Is that the nature of these lost documents?’ pounced van Goch. ‘Military facts and figures? We have been accused of stealing
them, but we have not been told what they contain.’

Neither have I, thought Chaloner ruefully. ‘I have been ordered to retrieve them.’

‘Why? They have been missing for days now, so the information in them is tainted. You would do better to work out who took
them, and take steps to prevent it from happening again.’

Chaloner made no reply, recalling his unsuccessful efforts to tell the Earl the very same thing.

‘I understand it was you who found Hanse,’ said van Goch, abruptly moving to another matter. ‘Thank God you thought to look
in that charnel house, or he would have been buried anonymously, and we would never have known what happened to him. He was
murdered, you know.’

Chaloner nodded cautiously. ‘Pushed in the river. He could not swim.’

‘Oh, he did not drown, although that is what we are supposed to believe. He was poisoned.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘Poisoned? How do you know?’

Van Goch indicated the man in black. ‘De Buat is my personal physician – the man who ensures Downing and Buckingham do not
give me a seizure with their insolent manners. When Hanse’s body arrived from the charnel house, he examined it. You tell
him, de Buat.’

‘The signs are there, clear to anyone who knows where
to look,’ obliged the physician. ‘There are blisters in his mouth and bleeding in his eyes.’