The Body in the Thames (31 page)

‘Most are incomprehensible, because of word-shortening and code,’ said Murdoch, watching Chaloner remove the documents and
begin to sift through them. ‘But there is an interesting bit about Lady Castlemaine’s underwear.’

Chaloner took a page at random, and scanned it quickly. The ‘code’ was Latin, while the ‘word-shortening’ was the kind of
shorthand all clerks employed. He had seen enough of such items to recognise notes taken at a meeting, and was also aware
that ‘Bu’ probably meant Buckingham, while LC referred to the Lord Chancellor. They were minutes from a Privy Council gathering.

Were they the ones that had been stolen from Clarendon? Clearly, Thurloe thought so. Unfortunately, Bulteel said seven meetings’
worth had gone, and there were not enough notes in the cheese to represent that many discussions. So where were the rest?
And why had these been in the hands of a Dutchman?
Had
a diplomat taken them from Worcester House, and put them in the cheese to keep them safe, perhaps for transportation back
to The Hague?

‘When did all this happen?’ he asked.

‘Monday morning,’ replied Murdoch, promptly and without hesitation.

Chaloner smiled. He had always known Hanse was not responsible, but it was still good to have it confirmed: Hanse was dead
by the time the mysterious Dutchman had sat in Murdoch’s carriage and fiddled with his cheese. ‘Thank you. Is there anything
else you can tell me?’

‘Yes,’ said Murdoch, pleased with himself. ‘Something about Saul Ibbot. I know you are interested in him, because you asked
after him earlier in the week. Well, there is a rumour that he was killed by Hectors, but I know for a fact that they stopped
using him last year because of his wife’s loose tongue. The rumour is false – he just had an accident.’

Chaloner mulled over the information. So there was nothing sinister about the hackney that had transported Hanse from the
Sun. Hanse had probably asked Ibbot to take him to the Devil, rather than the Savoy, but it had been his decision, and had
had nothing to do with criminal gangs. Ibbot’s death
was
a coincidence, proving that they did occur from time to time.

Murdoch turned the discussion back to the papers. With a gleeful grin, he wrenched the minutes from Chaloner’s hand and slapped
a different page into it. This document was on thinner, cheaper paper, and was in different handwriting.

‘The coded stuff is boring.
This
is the interesting bit, although Mr Thurloe did not agree.’

Chaloner saw the document did indeed contain details of Lady Castlemaine’s nether garments. He gazed at it in confusion. Why
should such a thing be among Privy Council papers? Or in the possession of a Dutch diplomat for that matter?

‘When I dropped that butter-lover off at the Savoy, I heard his cronies call him Kern,’ Murdoch was saying. ‘At least, it
sounded
like Kern.’

‘Kun?’ asked Chaloner, his thoughts tumbling about like acrobats.

Murdoch snapped his fingers. ‘You have it! The villain’s name was Kun.’

From being at a virtual standstill, Chaloner now had several leads to follow. He needed to see Kun, and demand to know why
the secretary had been toting Privy Council papers around inside a cheese – and how he could have been so indescribably stupid
as to leave them in a hackney carriage. Then there was the Devil tavern on Fleet Street, where he would ask what the landlord
knew of the five men who had met there, and about the attack on Molins. And finally, there was Compton. As he was already
at his house, he decided to interview the Master of Ordnance first.

He knocked on the door, and when it was opened, he was startled to find the house in an uproar, with servants standing in
small, frightened knots.

‘What is the matter?’ he asked of the maid who had admitted him the last time he was there.

‘The master is ill,’ she replied with a sob. ‘He was well this morning, but then he complained of pains in his stomach, and
took to his bed. Surgeon Wiseman said he just needed to rest and drink lots of water. But he is getting worse!’

‘Have you summoned Wiseman back again?’

The maid nodded fearfully. ‘And a physician is already here.’

All heads turned as a man appeared at the top of the staircase. Chaloner could tell from his sombre clothes that he was a
medical man.

‘Are you a member of Compton’s family?’ the fellow demanded.

‘He is the Lord Chancellor’s envoy,’ replied the maid before Chaloner could speak.

‘He will do. Your master should have someone of quality with him, lest there is business he wants to complete before he sinks
too far. And servants are hardly the thing.’

‘Should we send for his brothers, then?’ asked the maid, ignoring the slight.

‘Yes,’ said the physician urgently. ‘And someone should hurry Wiseman along, too.’

‘What is wrong with Compton?’ asked Chaloner, shocked by the doom-laden words.

‘It is too complex a matter to explain to laymen,’ declared the physician haughtily, suggesting he probably did not know.
‘Come with me. Quickly!’

Thoroughly alarmed, Chaloner followed him up the stairs and into a darkened chamber. Compton lay in a bed with a cloth on
his head. Like Molins, his clothes had been tossed to one side – hat, gloves, stockings, breeches and coat.

‘It is not the heat ailing me now,’ he whispered, smiling wanly as he recognised his visitor. ‘I am dying. I said I had a
sense of impending doom, and I was right.’

‘You cannot be dying!’ declared Chaloner, although he was aware from the physician’s grim expression that
he might be right. ‘I saw you yesterday, and you said you were fit and well.’

‘But today, God has seen fit to call me to Him,’ breathed Compton, his face serene. ‘Will you stay until my brothers arrive?
And if I am unable, tell them … tell them our problem is resolved. They will know what I mean.’

He lapsed into silence, and Chaloner wondered what to do. He was not so ruthless as to pump a dying man for information, but
he was also aware that Compton would take his secrets to the grave unless questions were asked. Fortunately, he was spared
from having to make a decision when the Master of Ordnance broached the subject himself.

‘How goes your enquiry?’ he whispered. ‘Did you visit Newgate?’

‘I did, but Falcon had escaped, and Swan and Swallow were murdered.’

Compton gaped at him. ‘Falcon is on the loose? No! It is not possible!’

‘He has probably been free for the last two weeks. When did the first of your men die, exactly?’

Compton swallowed hard. ‘Twelve days ago. You
must
help me, Chaloner. Go to the Fleet Rookery and warn Fairfax. Four of us are gone; there cannot be a fifth.’

‘You think your illness is Falcon’s doing?’

‘I am sure of it – his curses are very powerful. Will you do as I ask?’

‘Of course. As soon as your brothers come.’

Compton closed his eyes in relief. ‘My soldiers are important to me. All my people are.’

‘Will you tell me something?’ Chaloner began tentatively.
‘You met four men in two London taverns. One was Hanse, who is dead. Another was Ned Molins, and he is dead, too.’

Compton’s expression was agonised. ‘Molins? But Wiseman said he had saved him!’

‘He thought he had.’

‘Lord God!’ Compton’s face was a mask of despair. ‘I lied to you, Chaloner, when you asked about the Sinon Plot. I did it
to protect you
and
them, because … Visit the last two men … tell them they are in terrible peril. We should have known it was too hazardous
a … You
must
help them!’

‘Lied to me about what, exactly?’

‘No! It is far too dangerous! Warn the other two. Please! Promise me you will do it.’

‘It may be more dangerous
not
knowing what is going on,’ said Chaloner, becoming frustrated.

Compton gripped Chaloner’s hand with unexpected strength for a man on the verge of expiring. ‘I misled you specifically to
keep you out of Falcon’s clutches. If
we
could not stop him, with all our combined resources, then how can one man expect to prevail? I will not see you dead, too.
He is even beyond Williamson’s skills …’

‘I can look after myself. And to be blind to the risks is far more—’

The physician came to pull him away, seeing his presence was agitating the patient, but Compton tightened his hold on Chaloner’s
wrist, and it was the
medicus
who was obliged to retreat.

‘I can tell you that the crown jewels were just a beginning,’ Compton whispered, once the physician was out of earshot. ‘They
were needed to finance Falcon’s
real
work – the Sinon Plot.’

‘What
is
the real Sinon Plot?’ pressed Chaloner urgently.

‘Warn the last two members of our group,’ ordered Compton. His voice was weakening, and perspiration stood out on his forehead
‘One is Talbot Edwards … of the Tower. Go to him …’

The ‘fat, sweaty, ordinary’ man, thought Chaloner, recalling his own encounter with Edwards the previous evening: the rotund
Assistant Keeper of the Jewels had perspired heavily under his unremarkable clothes. ‘And the last one is a vicar,’ he prompted.

‘Yes. He is Edw …’ The rest of the sentence was spoken too softly for Chaloner to hear.

‘Enough,’ said the physician sharply, stepping forward again when Compton’s eyes closed and he slumped back, exhausted. ‘Let
him rest, or he will die before his family arrives.’

The agitation had gone from Compton’s face, and Chaloner saw he thought his message had been delivered – that his companions
were going to be safe. He started to shake him awake, to ask for the last name to be repeated, but the physician shoved him
back.

‘Do you
want
him dead?’ he hissed. ‘At least give his brothers a chance to say their farewells.’

But Chaloner thought the dying man would probably sooner save the life of a friend, and reached for Compton’s shoulder again.
Ignoring the physician’s objections, he shook it, lightly at first and then harder, but the patient was past rousing.

It was not many moments before the floor was flung open, and two men raced in. Chaloner recognised Compton’s brothers from
Court. The older one was the
Earl of Northampton, and the younger was Charles. Northampton immediately took command, firing questions at the physician
and issuing orders to the servants. Both reeled with shock when informed that Compton was dying.

‘He wanted me to tell you something,’ Chaloner said, eager to deliver the message and be away to fulfil their sibling’s last
wishes. ‘Your problem has been resolved.’

Northampton bowed his head in relief, still ashen from the physician’s grim prognosis. ‘Thank God! He doubtless explained
it all to you? About Penelope, our sister?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner. ‘He just—’

‘She fell in love,’ Northampton interrupted wretchedly. ‘And gave herself to a man. There was a child. We thought we had kept
the matter quiet, that her reputation was intact, but …’

‘But someone found out and is demanding money for his silence?’ Chaloner was not surprised: the White Hall blackmailer seemed
to know secrets about virtually every family at Court.

Northampton swallowed hard. ‘Our honour is at stake, so we had no choice but to pay. My brother did it yesterday. As you no
doubt know, that was the meaning of his message to us.’

In Chaloner’s experience, once blackmailers had profited from their work, they tended to come back for more, and Compton’s
capitulation was likely to mark the beginning of the problem, not the end. But it was no time to say so. He became aware that
Northampton was staring at him.

‘Why did my brother confide in you? He has never mentioned you as a particular friend before.’

Chaloner did not want to distress him further by telling
him that Compton had confided nothing, and that it had been Northampton himself who had just let the family skeleton out of
its closet. It was understandable enough: the poor man was in shock.

‘He trusted me,’ replied Chaloner simply, meeting his eyes. ‘And so may you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Northampton gruffly, seeming to sense his sincerity.

‘Your brother met four men in different London taverns,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether Northampton could help him out with
answers, given that Compton was no longer in a position to do it. ‘They included Willem Hanse, Ned Molins and Talbot Edwards.
Could he have been meeting them in connection with this blackmailer, do you think?’

Northampton looked bewildered. ‘I doubt it. Edwards sometimes consulted my brother on security for the crown jewels, while
Molins acted as surgeon to his troops. I had no idea he knew any Hollanders though. But you said four men. Who is the last?’

‘Does he know any vicars?’

‘Lots – he is a devout man. But I doubt
they
are the sort to gather in alehouses, and—’

He broke off when Wiseman exploded into the room. The surgeon dropped to his knees beside Compton, but it was clear the patient
was past earthly help. He shook his head at the brothers’ hopeful gazes. Northampton began to sob, so Chaloner left, to give
them privacy. He was walking down the stairs, aiming to execute his promise to Compton straight away, when Wiseman came after
him. The surgeon was pale.

‘I thought it was the heat, so I recommended rest and plenty of water. How
can
he be dead?’

Chaloner had no answer, although it was the second time that Wiseman had misdiagnosed Compton. ‘Could he have been poisoned?
Falcon cursed him and his men for putting him in Newgate. Now four of the five are dead. That cannot be coincidence.’

Wiseman stared at him. ‘I can take samples and test them on a few rats.’

‘Do that,’ said Chaloner. ‘And let me know what you find.’

With the sense that time was of the essence, Chaloner left Drury Lane, and ran towards the Fleet Rookery, an area of tiny
lanes, filthy runnels, creaking tenements and seedy yards. It was home to thousands of people, crammed twenty or thirty to
a room, and the stench of sewage, poverty and filth that pervaded it that sultry June evening was enough to take his breath
away.

It was no place for a man wearing Court clothes, and Chaloner, still clutching the cheese and its hidden papers, was obliged
to fend off several attacks as he tried to learn where he might find Fairfax. He was beginning to think he might have to give
up, when he remembered that Mother Greene lived nearby.

Mother Greene, a sprightly old lady with opinions, had helped him before. She owned a small but spotlessly clean house on
Turnagain Lane, and claimed she had once been married to a wealthy actor. Her home was full of herbs and potions, and Chaloner
was fairly sure she was a witch. She was pleased to see him, although her expression grew guarded when he explained what he
wanted.

‘I do not know Fairfax.’ Fleet Rookery residents did not talk about their own.

‘It is vital that I pass him a message. His life may be in danger, and he needs to know it.’

‘Then tell me this message,’ she ordered. ‘And I will see what I can do.’

‘Sir William Compton is dead, and so are three of the four soldiers who went with him to arrest a thief named Falcon. With
his dying breath, Compton warned Fairfax to be on his guard.’

‘Sir William is dead?’ Mother Greene was dismayed. ‘Then I am sorry. He was a good man – generous with alms for the poor,
and kind to his servants. And young, too. How did he die?’

Chaloner wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. ‘I am not sure.’

‘That cheese smells nice,’ she remarked, after a short silence during which they both reflected on the man who had been so
widely admired for his integrity and courage. ‘Did you bring it for me? It is a pity you have scoured out the middle, but
I suppose beggars cannot be choosers.’

There was no reason not to let her have it – the Earl would not thank him for bringing something that reeked into his offices,
not even to see how cleverly the documents had been concealed. He retrieved the papers, shoved them inside his shirt, and
stood to leave.

‘Wait,’ said Mother Greene, climbing stiffly to her feet. ‘I will go with you to the edge of the rookery. It will be dark
soon, and you should not be unaccompanied at this time of night.’

‘There is no need,’ said Chaloner, reluctant to accept the services of an old lady as a bodyguard. ‘And I am in a hurry.’

‘In a hurry to die?’ she asked archly. ‘Let me walk with you. To repay you for the cheese.’

Biting back his impatience, he matched her stately pace as she led him towards Fleet Street. But then the hair on the back
of his neck rose in the way it always did to warn him of danger, and he had the sense that he was being watched. He glanced
around uneasily, and thought he saw shadows flitting in the doorways they had passed. Mother Greene was right: the Fleet Rookery
was no place for an outsider after dark. Thus he was surprised to see a familiar figure materialise in the gloom ahead. It
was Sir George Downing, a dozen thickset louts at his heels.