The Body in the Thames (24 page)

He was just crossing the filthy smear of the River Fleet, so deprived of water that it was little more than a grey trickle
between two slopes of festering mud, when he saw someone he recognised. It was Sir William Compton, riding down Ludgate Hill
with several soldiers in his wake. He was clad in a fine but plain uniform, which included a pair of very white gloves. He
reined in when he spotted Chaloner.

‘I am glad I did not heed Wiseman’s advice,’ he said grimly. ‘He would have sawn off my head, when all I needed was a tonic
and a good night’s sleep. As you see, I am quite recovered.’

‘I will tell him he made a mistake when I next see him,’ offered Chaloner.

‘Please do not!’ exclaimed Compton, shuddering. ‘He is the kind of fellow who would wreak revenge in ways only he knows how,
and Clarendon tells me that you are indispensable.’

‘He does?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully. The Earl never gave
him
that impression. Indeed, most of the time he felt like an interloper, tolerated only because there was unpleasant work to
be done.

‘All the time,’ averred Compton. ‘Indeed, I am thinking of poaching you because, as Master of Ordnance, I can always use a
good man. You will not be surprised to learn that large caches of weapons attract the attentions of some very dubious characters,
and there are always plots to steal from me. If he ever dismisses you, come to me first.’

Chaloner smiled. ‘Thank you.’

Compton took a deep breath of air, then gagged. ‘Lord, this city reeks when the sun is on it. It is almost certainly an omen
of evil to come. I know people are always saying that – about inclement weather, strange clouds, odd tides and collapsing
buildings – but this is different.’

‘Is it?’ asked Chaloner, failing to see how.

‘I cannot shake this peculiar sense of impending doom. I am not normally assailed by such wild notions, but this feeling is
very strong. How much longer will the heat-wave last, do you think?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘Who knows? But we will all complain when it turns cold and wet again.’

‘Not me,’ vowed Compton fervently. ‘I have never liked high temperatures.’

Chaloner nodded at the gloves. ‘You might feel more comfortable without those.’

Compton flexed his hands. ‘These were a gift from the Dutchman who died – Hanse – and I am wearing them for him. It sounds
ridiculous, but there you are.’

‘You knew Hanse?’ asked Chaloner, surprised. ‘How?’

‘Through the peace negotiations – I am often called upon to give my opinion on the various treaties and pacts that have been
signed in the past. But to return to this torrid weather, you should see what excessive heat can do to the barrel of a cannon.
Moreover, I am always afraid that it will make my stocks of gunpowder ignite.’

Chaloner was doubtful. ‘It would need a flame. Powder does not explode of its own volition.’

‘The sun is a flame,’ argued Compton. ‘A great, big powerful one that only God can control. I tell you, Chaloner, if this
weather does not ameliorate, we shall all be in trouble.’

But Chaloner suspected Compton had not stopped to chat about the elements. ‘Have you remembered any more about the business
we discussed on Monday? Something that perhaps slipped your mind when you were unwell and Wiseman was hovering?’

Compton leaned down from his horse, glancing around furtively as he did so. ‘No, but something has happened since then. Another
one of my men is dead.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘What do you mean by “another”?’

Compton looked around again, and lowered his voice to the point where he was difficult to hear. ‘I took four good lads with
me when I arrested the Sinon plotters – fine warriors, whom I trust with my life. I had word last night that Upton is dead.
He fell in the river and drowned.’

Chaloner was not sure what he was being told. ‘Are you saying someone pushed him?’

‘I do not know what happened. But when I took the plotters into custody, one of them – Falcon – started to curse. I am not
an impressionable man, and neither are my soldiers, but there was something about this fellow’s words that frightened all
of us. We discussed it afterwards.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That we would all die before the next full moon. I put it from my mind, and when Osborn and Oates were killed by a speeding
carriage last week, I told myself it was just an accident. But now Upton is drowned … Well, there were five of us, and now
there are two. Only Fairfax and I are left.’

‘Fairfax?’

‘No relation to the Parliamentarian general, I hasten to add. My Fairfax brought me the news about Upton last night. And I
am not ashamed to say that it unnerved me.’

‘Where is Fairfax now?’ asked Chaloner, glancing at Compton’s men, who were waiting patiently for their master to finish talking.

‘I told him to stay with his sister in the Fleet Rookery. It is the haunt of killers, robbers and the resentful poor, but
they look after their own. He will be safer there than with me.’

‘You said the first two were killed by a speeding cart—’

‘Yes – one that that did not stop, and that witnesses have failed to identify.’

‘It may be coincidence.’

‘May it? The Sinon Plot was thwarted at the eleventh hour, and its leader cursed me and my soldiers as he was committed to
Newgate. And now, just three weeks later,
Osborn, Oates and Upton are dead. Even if Falcon’s vile threats are not the cause, there is still something amiss.’

And there was Hanse, Chaloner thought but did not say. He had some connection to the Sinon Plot, and he was dead, too, as
was the sinister Oetje.
And
Ibbot the hackney driver, who should have taken Hanse home.

‘I know I have asked you this before,’ began Chaloner, ‘but did you ever discuss Sinon with anyone other than the Privy Council
and Williamson? With Hanse, for example?’

Compton stared at him. ‘Why would I share that sort of thing with a foreigner? A plan to make off with our crown jewels hardly
shows my country in a favourable light!’

And with that, he nodded a farewell, and rode off, his men streaming behind him.

Wiseman was waiting when Chaloner arrived at Newgate. He, too, was wearing old clothes, although they were still scarlet,
even down to his shoes. He had also donned a leather apron, like the kind worn by fishmongers.

‘You are late,’ he growled. ‘I said eight o’clock.’

The words were no more out of his mouth before the bells of nearby Christ Church began to chime, to announce the start of
its eight o’clock service.

‘They are late, too,’ declared Wiseman belligerently. Then St Martin’s and St Sepulchre’s added their clangs to the clamour,
and his glower deepened. ‘In fact, the entire city is late. What is wrong with people? Can they not read a clock?’

Chaloner did not waste his breath arguing. He was looking at Newgate, trying to control a sudden queasiness. The gate itself
was ancient, a great, crumbling monstrosity that crouched over the road like a carrion bird. It was five storeys tall, and
was where the Keeper and his more wealthy prisoners were accommodated. Attached to it were a number of grim extensions, where
the remainder of the inmates were housed. Bars filled
every small, mean window, and white, desperate faces could be seen behind them. Chaloner shuddered, and it took every ounce
of his self control not to turn around and run away.

‘I brought you this,’ said Wiseman, shoving an apron at him. ‘And you had better carry my instruments, too, if I am to pass
you off as my assistant. I have no idea why you are set on coming here – and nor do I want to know, should you think to furnish
me with an explanation – but we had better at least
try
to look convincing. I do not want to be accused of anything untoward.’

‘You mean something untoward like offering to saw the head from a man you said was dying, but who was hale and hearty this
morning?’ asked Chaloner.

Wiseman raised his eyebrows. ‘Compton survived? Well, there is a surprise! I was certain he was a dead man. Did you see him
yourself? In person?’

‘Just a few moments ago, and we held a perfectly rational discussion.’

Wiseman blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, well! Wonders never cease.’

Chaloner remembered that he was supposed to ask Wiseman about the surgeon who had met Hanse, and in an effort to delay entering
Newgate, he repeated the description of the elderly man with the birth-stain on his neck.

‘Ned Molins,’ replied Wiseman promptly. ‘He was once called to tend Cromwell. As a medical man, he had no choice but to oblige.
But as a Royalist, he made his objections known by refusing to take payment. Other than a drink.’

‘So he cured Parliamentarians for nothing, but charged Cavaliers?’ asked Chaloner, amused. ‘Is that how he
showed his allegiance to the Crown? I think there was something awry with his reasoning!’

Wiseman waved a dismissive hand. ‘I applauded his courage in making a stand. And Cromwell was lucky his servants did not summon
me
, because
I
would have given the old scoundrel something to remember. And it would not have been a pleasant memory, either.’

‘Which memories of you are?’ muttered Chaloner, tying the apron around his middle. It was stiff with something he assumed
was dried blood, and had a rank, rotten smell.

‘Molins had the last word, though,’ Wiseman went on, grinning nastily. ‘He insisted that Cromwell be turned upside-down three
times, to ensure the medicine was working. But afterwards, he told me that he had done to Cromwell what Cromwell was doing
to our country.’

‘He sounds quite a character,’ said Chaloner flatly.

‘Oh, yes! A man of strong opinions and rigid principles. What prompts your interest in him?’

‘Clarendon’s business,’ replied Chaloner vaguely.

‘Well, in that case, I shall take you to meet him myself. It will give me something to look forward to, because I doubt I
shall enjoy what we are going to do
here
for the next couple of hours.’

‘No?’ asked Chaloner nervously. If it was something to disconcert the surgeon, then he was sure he would not fare any better.
‘Why? What do you intend, exactly?’

‘There has been a lot of gaol-fever recently, and while I am always pleased with new corpses to anatomise, there is a limit
to the number I can accommodate. I mentioned the matter to the King, and he ordered me to look into it. So, after several
preliminary discussions with Keeper
Sligo, I begin my inspection proper today. And I anticipate some very distressing sights.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner, swallowing hard.

‘Will you stay with me, or am I to invent an excuse that will let you wander off alone? I would not recommend the latter –
you may not find your way out again.’ Wiseman roared with laughter, although Chaloner did not find the notion amusing.

‘I need to find a cell in which three men have been incarcerated,’ he said, when the surgeon had his mirth under control.
‘Their names are Swan, Swallow and Falcon.’

Wiseman raised his eyebrows. ‘Aliases?’

‘Apparently not. They are said to be in a part of the prison that is closed to visitors.’

‘That will be the ward they call Calais, where there are two layers of dungeons, one under the other. Prisoners only ever
leave there in a coffin, so I have decided to exclude it from my reforms – there is no point in making improvements for people
who are doomed anyway. It would be unethical to prolong
their
misery.’

Chaloner felt his resolve begin to crumble. ‘I have to visit it,’ he heard himself say.

Wiseman shrugged. ‘Then I shall order you there to make an inspection on my behalf. Keeper Sligo will make a fuss, but I have
the ear of the King, so I can force him to comply.’

Without another word, he led the way to Newgate’s great iron-studded door and hammered on it. His fist caused hollow booms
to echo in a way that was decidedly sinister, and it was all Chaloner could do to prevent himself from bolting. Then the gate
opened, and a warden indicated that the surgeon and his assistant
were to enter. It closed behind them with a resounding clang.

The warden who answered the gate was an obese, grim-faced man with rotten teeth that might have been responsible for his surly
temper. He spat on the floor as Wiseman marched past him, and made an obscene gesture at his back. Chaloner followed more
slowly, feeling his heart begin to pound and sweat break out all over his body. How much longer would his experiences in the
French prison torment him? Or was he destined to be haunted by them for the rest of his life?

‘We got better things to do than fuss over inmates,’ the warden muttered, securing the door with one of the biggest keys Chaloner
had ever seen. ‘Keeper Sligo had us scrubbing all day yesterday. You could eat your dinner in here now.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ retorted Wiseman, ‘given that the prisoners are obliged to do just that.’

The entrance hall stank, although it was clear that an effort had been made to tidy up – rotten straw, rags and discarded
food had been swept into a corner, where they festered gently. Parts of the pile undulated, and Chaloner looked away when
he realised it was full of rats.

Sligo was waiting for them. He was a thin, cadaverous man, whose fiery red nose stood out like a beacon against his white
face. The stench of wine on his breath made Chaloner recoil.

‘I have been looking forward to your visit, Surgeon Wiseman,’ the Keeper gushed. ‘Perhaps you will join me for a glass of
claret before you—’

‘No,’ interrupted Wiseman. ‘There is too much to do. So, let us begin. My assistant, John Crane, will inspect
Calais, while I concentrate on the parts you call Tangier and the Press Yard.’

‘Calais?’ echoed Sligo, horrified. ‘He cannot go down there! No one can. It is off-limits to everyone except Mr Williamson.
And I dare not disobey
his
orders, because … well, I cannot.’

‘In other words, he has a hold over you,’ said Wiseman with exaggerated weariness.

‘It is not a
hold
,’ objected Sligo. ‘It is an arrangement. I set aside a part of the prison for his exclusive use, and he does not meddle in
the way I run the rest of it.’

‘He overlooks your corruption,’ surmised Wiseman. ‘Of which he doubtless has a good deal of evidence. No, do not deny it.
I am not a fool. What I
am
, however, is a close friend of the King. You may find yourself incarcerated in Calais yourself, if you do not cooperate with
me.’

‘I object most strenuously,’ bleated Sligo. ‘I have given you permission to pry everywhere else, so why can you not be content
with that? Calais is closed.’

‘Not to me. The King said I was to have unlimited access.’ Wiseman turned to Chaloner. ‘Calais is in that direction, and the
sooner you start, the sooner we can finish.’

‘I had better go with him,’ said Sligo sullenly, seeing he was defeated. ‘To unlock the doors and let him in. And out again,
I suppose.’

Wiseman strode away, indicating with a snap of imperious fingers that the fat warden was to follow. When the man demurred,
Wiseman hauled him along as if he were no more substantial than feathers, and Chaloner was reminded yet again that the surgeon
was a very powerful man.

‘Perhaps you and I can come to an arrangement, Mr
Crane,’ said Sligo, smiling slyly once the surgeon had gone. ‘Would five shillings suffice to see you write your report in
my office?’

‘Five shillings will see you charged with bribery,’ retorted Chaloner tartly. ‘I have my orders.’

Sligo glared at him. ‘Very well, but do not blame me if the experience plagues your dreams. And you cannot talk to any of
the inmates, either. I must have your word.’

‘What would I have to say to such people?’ asked Chaloner, deftly avoiding the condition.

With a final glower, Sligo led the way through a series of corridors, each marked by a set of double-locked doors. As they
went deeper into the prison, Chaloner’s heart pounded harder, and he could not take breaths deep enough to fill his lungs.

He was not unduly affected by the stench of brimming sewage buckets, the putrid straw that carpeted the floor, or even the
unwashed, parasite-ridden prisoners, because he had been ready for those. What disturbed him was the crushing sense of helplessness
and despair that seemed to ooze from the very walls of such places. It sapped his courage and filled him with a fear so dark
that it threatened to overwhelm him. He struggled to fight it off, steadying himself with one hand on the wall when his legs
threatened to fail him.

After what felt like an age, Sligo opened a door to reveal a flight of steps. There was a lamp at the bottom, and the fetid
atmosphere that wafted upwards made even the Keeper gag.

‘Calais,’ he said, sleeve over his mouth and nose. ‘Are you ready?’

When a prisoner in a nearby cell released a scream of mad laughter, Chaloner almost leapt out of his skin. Why
was he putting himself through this ordeal? Was it really so important to learn what Hanse had known about the Sinon Plot?
Why not leave it at the fact that Hanse, like Compton, had probably overheard the culprits planning their crime in a tavern?
But Chaloner knew he would have no peace if he did not follow through with it – not from the Earl, not from Jacoba or van
Goch, and not from himself, either. He took one step downwards, and then another, and eventually he reached the bottom, where
Sligo was waiting impatiently.

‘Here it is,’ the Keeper said, still holding his sleeve over his nose. ‘Satisfied?’

Chaloner looked around to see he was in a long hallway with a dozen doors off it, each with a board on which had been chalked
a name. The floor was soft with filth, and his feet squelched as he forced himself to walk along it. The only ventilation
– and light – came from a tiny window that was thick with cobwebs.

‘Can we go now?’ asked Sligo peevishly, when Chaloner had read all the names and determined that the Sinon Plot conspirators
were not among them. He shivered. ‘It is cold down here.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, ignoring the instincts that clamoured at him to race back up the steps as fast as his legs would carry
him. ‘There is another level below this one, and I need to see that, too.’

Sligo regarded him silently, then without a word led the way to a second set of steps. The stairway was icy and damp, and
the air felt as though it had not been changed since the place was built. Somewhere, a man was crying, babbling in a way that
said his wits had gone.

‘Rebel,’ said Sligo, as if by explanation. ‘Take the lamp. I will wait here.’

‘You are not coming?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

Sligo shook his head. ‘Not down there. A warden delivers food once a day – he opens a flap at the bottom of their doors and
shoves it through – but other than that, we leave the place alone.’

Chaloner was horrified. ‘But what if one of them is ill? Or dies?’

‘There is nothing we can do about sickness. And when they die, we know, because they do not eat their food. We open the doors
then, and remove the corpses.’

Chaloner took the lamp with a hand that shook, and began his descent. Twice he stopped, and it was only Sligo’s irritable
sighs that started him moving again. The stench of decay grew stronger with each step, and led him to wonder whether someone
had
died. Or perhaps it was the fact that Sligo had mentioned no facility for emptying slop buckets, and they were left to overflow
until the prisoner perished from whatever foul diseases were carried within them.

He reached the bottom, and was faced with a low tunnel that ran in both directions. Doors were embedded in the walls, each
with a sliding grille at its base. As on the level above, names had been chalked on a slate, and it did not take Chaloner
long to find the one that said Swallow, Swan and Falcon. It was at the end farthest from the steps, and he knew Sligo would
not be able to hear what he was doing. He knocked softly. Immediately, there was a scuffling sound.

‘Swan?’ he called. ‘Swallow?’

There was an eerie laugh. ‘They are gone. And Falcon flew away, like a bird. He escaped.’