The Body in the Thames (30 page)

‘It happened at the Devil tavern on Fleet Street,’ Joseph went on. ‘Although I cannot imagine what he was doing there. It
is a rough place, and he had told me he was going out to see a patient.’

‘Perhaps the patient was in the tavern,’ suggested Chaloner.

‘Not according to the owner – Barford said my father was there for a drink with four friends. My father later said the same,
too, although he declined to tell me who had demanded his company at such an hour.’

‘What hour was that?’

‘It must have been well after ten o’clock. But he learned to his cost that the Devil was no place for him – some
villain flailed at him with a sword as he left. He managed to duck, but he fell and landed awkwardly. According to Barford,
my father’s drinking companions saw the villain off. Then two of them left, but the other pair stayed with him until I arrived.’

‘Did you know the names of these companions?’

‘Sir William Compton was one of those who waited. Do you know him? He is the Master of Ordnance, and a very decent gentleman.
The other was a Dutchman.’

‘A Dutchman?’ echoed Chaloner, thoughts whirling.

Joseph nodded again. ‘A kindly-faced, amiable one, with a mass of yellow hair. He gave my father those nice white gloves that
he liked to wear.’

Chaloner stared at him. The description fitted Hanse perfectly. Did this explain why he had refused the offer of an escort
back to the Savoy? He had more socialising planned, and did not want anyone else to witness it? And what did it say about
Ibbot, the hackneyman? That he had delivered Hanse to the Devil, rather than the Savoy, and had been murdered for it?

‘Did you see his other two companions?’ he asked hopefully.

‘No,’ replied Joseph. ‘They had gone by the time I arrived. But the landlord said one was a vicar, while the other was fat
and untidy.’

So, the five men who had met in the Devil on Friday night were the same as the ones who gathered in the Sun, thought Chaloner.
But what did that tell him? He saw it raised more questions than answers, and supposed he would have to visit Compton and
ask
him
why he had met Molins, Hanse, a vicar and a fat, untidy man late at night in London’s taverns.

* * *

The afternoon heat hit Chaloner like a physical blow as he stepped outside. He turned into Fleet Street, which was full of
dust kicked up by the traffic. Grit flew into his eye, momentarily blinding him, and causing him to trip over a sun-baked
rut. A coach accompanied by horsemen rattled past, and one of the riders smirked as he witnessed the stumble. It was Ruyven.

‘Been drinking?’ he called. He spoke Dutch, and nearby pedestrians began to glare. Chaloner winced, thinking the captain was
a fool for drawing attention to his nationality on such a busy highway.

‘Stop the coach!’ called Zas from inside the vehicle, hammering on the roof until it came to a standstill. Then he leaned
out of the window. ‘Climb in, Chaloner. We are going in the same direction, and it is too hot for walking. Especially for
a man who has been at the claret.’

‘No,’ objected Ruyven, before Chaloner could inform Zas that he had been nowhere near wine of any description for days – he
had not had time. ‘It is not safe to offer rides to Englishmen.’

‘He is not an Englishman,’ countered Zas. ‘He is Chaloner – Hanse’s kinsman.’

They began to argue, and while Chaloner had no wish to accept Zas’s invitation, a refusal was likely to prolong the incident
and attract even more attention. Moving quickly, he opened the carriage door and clambered inside. Ruyven scowled, but Chaloner
did not care what he thought.

It was cramped in the coach. Besides Zas, there was Secretary Kun, the burly sergeant called Taacken, and two more diplomats.
All nodded politely, except Kun, whose greeting was cool. Chaloner could only suppose that he, like Ruyven, did not think
that stopping to collect
passengers was a good idea. Everyone winced when there was a thump – a stone had been thrown. But then the driver flicked
his reins and they were off, Ruyven and his men cantering along beside them.

‘I am surprised you are out,’ Chaloner remarked. ‘Given what happened last time.’

‘We have drivers we trust now,’ explained Zas. ‘There will not be a repeat of the incident at Charing Cross. But we are out
because we were all tired of being cooped up inside the Savoy.’

‘Where have you been?’ Chaloner was aware of Kun staring morosely out of the window, which was unusual behaviour from the
amiable secretary.

‘St Paul’s Cathedral,’ replied Zas. ‘It seemed a pity to leave London without seeing it. It truly is a wonder!’

‘The wonder is that it is still standing,’ muttered Kun uncharitably. ‘It is virtually a ruin.’

Chaloner glanced at him, wondering what had brought about his sudden change of mood. Were Thurloe and Prynne right when they
claimed he had another, darker side?

‘It is precarious in places,’ acknowledged Zas. He grinned at Chaloner, a brazenly vulpine expression that immediately put
the spy on his guard. ‘But we did not offer you a ride so we could talk about hackney drivers and architecture. We had a rather
different discussion in mind.’

‘One concerning Hanse, I suppose,’ predicted Chaloner.

Zas nodded. ‘Precisely. What more have you learned about his murder?’

‘Progress is being made,’ replied Chaloner shortly, resenting the fact that they felt free to demand answers when they had
been far from open with him.

‘What progress?’ demanded Kun.

‘We may be able to help,’ coaxed Zas, when Chaloner declined to answer. ‘After all, we want the same thing: Hanse’s killer
caught and the peace talks to succeed. We will achieve our objectives far sooner if we work together.’

‘I thought we
were
working together,’ said Taacken bitterly. ‘Us and the English. But there are rumours – ones that claim we will not sign a
trade treaty, when the truth is that we are ready to put pen to paper this very day. Someone is spreading lies about us, to
damage our reputation.’

‘The negotiations are
not
advancing as fast as they might,’ agreed Kun, looking hard at Chaloner. ‘Especially given the energy and goodwill that we
have poured into them. So we have reached the conclusion that someone is trying to sabotage them. A traitor.’

‘You mean a Dutchman?’ asked Chaloner, recalling that the slow pace had been remarked upon by van Goch, Ruyven, Clarendon
and even Thurloe. ‘Someone in your delegation?’

‘Of course not!’ declared Zas, offended. ‘All right – I accept that not everyone at the Savoy believes peace is our best option.
But no one would actively work against it.’

‘It is an outsider,’ said Kun pointedly. ‘Someone with an intimate knowledge of Dutch affairs.’

‘Well, it is not me,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘The talks have been in failure for months, but I have been in London for less
than four weeks.’

‘Of course it is not you,’ said Zas impatiently. ‘However, Hanse’s murder is a major stumbling block to progress, and we desperately
need a solution. So tell us what you have learned.’

‘Very little,’ said Chaloner, giving each of the Dutchmen a cool look. ‘Which is not surprising, given that witnesses have
not been honest with me. For example, it would have been helpful to know far sooner about Hanse’s penchant for solitary walks
and
his sudden increase in drinking. But here we are at the junction with Wich Street, where our paths diverge, so let me out
and—’

‘No,’ said Kun, reaching out to prevent him from knocking on the roof to tell the driver to stop. ‘Tell us what you know,
even if it is only a little.’

‘I know I have wasted a lot of time learning facts that you could have confided days ago.’

‘Because we did not want to mislead you,’ said Taacken impatiently. ‘His walks and drinking are irrelevant. Indeed, we are
all
imbibing more than is our wont, because we are worn out by these interminable delays. But neither it nor his nocturnal ambles
pertain to his murder.’

Chaloner would make up his own mind about that. ‘Perhaps. But withholding the information was not helpful, and your dissimulation
is the reason why I have nothing more to tell you.’

With a sigh, Zas rapped on the ceiling, bringing the coach to a standstill. ‘Then we are sorry. But please do your best to
find answers. Peace between two nations may depend on what you learn.’

It was unreasonable pressure, and Chaloner grimaced as he turned to climb out of the carriage. Kun leaned forward as he passed.

‘Be careful,’ he whispered in a voice so low as to be virtually inaudible. ‘Nothing is as it seems.’

Chaloner stared after the carriage as it rattled away.
Had he just been issued with a warning or a threat? And why had Kun been less friendly than usual? Had he tired of the negotiations,
and decided there was no longer any need to present an amiable face to the opposition? Or was it the notion that Chaloner
might be closing in on Hanse’s killer that worried him?

Kun had looked different that day – smaller, older and thinner. How good a master of disguise was Falcon? Good enough to fool
the friends of the man he was impersonating? With that unsettling thought, Chaloner turned and began to retrace his steps,
hoping Compton would have answers to his questions, because if not, he was beginning to fear that he might never solve the
mysteries that seemed to grow deeper and more entangled with every new piece of intelligence he acquired.

It was not far to Drury Lane, but it was now the hottest part of the day, and heat rose in wavy, shimmering sheets off the
road. When Chaloner heard his name called, he was tempted to ignore it, wanting only to reach Compton’s house, so he could
step out of the sun. Moments later, a carriage rolled to a stop beside him. It was Murdoch, the hackneyman who had identified
Ibbot.

‘You are a difficult man to track down,’ said the Scot, wiping his sweaty face with a rag. ‘I would have given up, if the
order to find you had come from anyone other than Mr Thurloe. But I would do anything for him, as you know. Even traipse around
hot cities.’

During the Commonwealth, Thurloe had saved Murdoch’s sister from wrongful execution, and had earned himself a devoted servant
in the process.

‘Why does he want me?’ asked Chaloner worriedly. ‘Has something happened to him?’

Murdoch shook his head. ‘No, no. It is more a case of something happening to
me
. But, Lord, it is hot! The weather is an omen, you know.’ He flicked his head to where the sun was a malevolent yellow eye
in a cloudless sky. ‘A terrible evil will befall us before the month is out.’

‘People said that in February, when the old king’s ghost took to wandering about and pieces started falling off St Paul’s
Cathedral. But we are still here.’

‘Give it time,’ said Murdoch darkly. ‘My sister reckons it will be plague. After all, the disease is raging in Amsterdam,
so the newsbooks say. But I had better tell you my story, because Mr Thurloe says it is important, and he charged me to relate
it to you as soon as possible.’

‘Yes?’ asked Chaloner, when the Scot paused, apparently for dramatic effect.

Murdoch cleared his throat. ‘I had a Dutchman in my carriage the other day. He spoke good English, but he scoffed cheese for
the entire journey. That is how I guessed his nationality, see.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether there was any point in informing him that the Dutch were no more enamoured of dairy
produce than the average Briton.

‘So, being a patriotic soul, I took him down a dark lane in the Fleet Rookery, and shoved a knife to his throat,’ Murdoch
continued, so blithely that Chaloner wondered how many other fares had suffered this fate. ‘And I told him that if he did
not confess to being a spy, I would kill him.’

‘And did he?’ asked Chaloner, sorry for the hapless foreigner.

‘No.’ Murdoch sounded disgusted. ‘And then I was in a fix, because I did not really want to stab him. So I
ordered him never to spy on us again, on pain of death, and took him home to the Savoy.’

‘The Savoy?’ pounced Chaloner. ‘He was one of Ambassador van Goch’s people?’

‘A diplomat,’ agreed Murdoch. ‘Maybe that was why he refused to admit being an intelligencer – he is skilled at reading minds,
and could tell I was bluffing. Anyway, when we reached the Savoy, he flew out of my coach without bothering to pay, which
was a damned cheek. But in his desperation to deprive me of my due, he left something behind.’

‘What?’ asked Chaloner, suspecting it had been fear that had led the man to bolt, not a ploy to gain a free ride – although
most folk would baulk at paying for a journey that included unscheduled excursions to dark lanes and threats of murder.

‘Something important,’ said Murdoch smugly. ‘Because the other hackneymen say he has been asking after it ever since – darting
out to grill them as they drive past the Savoy. I rarely work that end of The Strand, so I have not seen him since. None of
them told him anything, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Chaloner. ‘So I assume you took this item to Thurloe?’

‘Today,’ nodded Murdoch. ‘When it occurred to me that I should probably hand it to someone in authority. And there
is
no greater authority than Mr Thurloe, as far as I am concerned, regardless of the fact that stupid Royalists have stolen
away his power. Anyway, he took one look at it and told me to give it to you. So here it is.’

He reached behind him, and produced a package that was about the size of his head. Chaloner recognised the distinct colouring
of one of the States-General’s most
famous cheeses, and supposed the diplomat
had
been gorging on it during his journey. He felt a surge of exasperation. What had the fellow been thinking? Had he
wanted
to perpetuate the stereotype?

‘Look,’ said Murdoch, removing the waxy paper in which the item was wrapped.

The middle of the cheese had been hollowed out and a sheaf of paper shoved inside. Clearly, the intention had been to conceal
it by replacing the rind lid, but the diversion to the Fleet Rookery must have distracted its owner, and he had neglected
to complete what he had started.