The Body in the Thames (38 page)

‘I really would not mind shooting you,’ Chaloner said softly, when the envoy baulked. ‘So you would be wise not to give me
cause.’

Downing knew him well enough to appreciate he meant what he said, so he hastened to obey. Chaloner climbed out after him,
and saw they were in a seedy part of Westminster, alarmingly close to Williamson’s lair. It had almost been too late. He addressed
the hirelings.

‘Turn around and go back the way you came. If you return here within an hour, Downing dies.’

‘Do it!’ screamed Downing, when the men only exchanged uneasy glances. ‘Now!’

‘Well,’ mused Chaloner, when the carriage had gone. He indicated Downing was to precede him down an alley that was no more
than a dark slit between two buildings. ‘What shall I do with you?’

‘I was teasing.’ Downing tried to turn, but Chaloner shoved him on. ‘I was only taking you to Williamson so we can correct
our little misunderstandings. I know you are not
really
Falcon.’

‘You told him I was?’

‘Yes, but I doubt he believed me. And I never intended to harm your wife, either. Please, Chaloner. Be reasonable!’

There was no reply. Downing walked a little farther, then stopped. It was shadowy in the alley, and he could not see very
far ahead. Very slowly, heart thudding, he turned around.

Chaloner was nowhere to be seen.

Chaloner did not have much time. Downing would race out of the alley, demand men and a fast carriage from Williamson, and
go directly to Thompson’s house. And while Chaloner might not understand the complexity of his feelings for Hannah, he knew
he would rather die than see her fall into Downing’s hands. He flagged down a hackney and offered a princely reward for travelling
to Fleet Street with all possible speed.

The driver did his best, but it still felt like an age before the coach rolled to a standstill outside the rectory. Chaloner
shoved coins at him and raced towards it. He pounded on the door, then kicked it open when it was not answered immediately.

‘Hannah is not back yet,’ said Thompson, lowering his cudgel when he recognised the frantic invader. ‘She said she might be
late tonight, but you can wait in the—’

‘Soldiers will come,’ said Chaloner, feeling he owed Thompson some explanation for why his comfortable existence was about
to be turned upside down. ‘With Downing and Williamson. When they do, tell them I forced you to keep Hannah here. Do not say
you offered willingly. I am sorry …’

He was hurrying back through the splintered door when a carriage drew up outside. He braced himself for trouble, but the vehicle
bore Buckingham’s coat of arms, and Hannah stepped out.

‘Tom!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is that blood on your face? Has someone punched you? It is a—’

‘Come with me,’ he said urgently. ‘Quickly.’

‘Why?’ demanded Hannah, and he cursed himself for marrying a woman of strong character with a mind of her own. Could she not
see that there was no time for explanations?

‘Do as he says,’ ordered Thompson. ‘There is trouble afoot, and he is trying to keep you safe. I shall help. I do not like
Downing
or
Williamson, and if your bother is with them, then I am happy to—’

‘No.’ Chaloner did not want him involved any further. ‘Stay here, and say you have no idea where we have gone.’

‘They are no worse than my old adversary, the Devil,’ declared Thompson with spirit. ‘Follow me. I have a back entrance that
no one knows about – one I use to avoid disagreeable parishioners.’

There was no time to argue, and Chaloner
was
grateful for his help. As they reached Fleet Street, he was aware
of two coaches travelling fast from the direction of Westminster, but did not need to look around to know where they were
stopping. He turned quickly into Chancery Lane, dragging Hannah behind him. There was only one man he trusted to keep her
safe.

‘How can I help, Tom?’ Thurloe asked immediately, nodding a polite greeting to Hannah and Thompson. He was far too experienced
an operative to waste time by demanding explanations.

‘I need you to take Hannah somewhere safe. Do not tell me where.’

Thurloe nodded tersely, and left to make arrangements, while Thompson went to help the porter back a pony into the traces
of a cart. The rector looked as if he was enjoying himself, and Chaloner hoped he would not regret his actions later – the
Devil had nothing on Downing and Williamson.

‘Tom,’ said Hannah shakily, once they were alone. ‘What is going on? Why did you tell Mr Thurloe not to say where he is taking
me?’

Chaloner leaned against a wall. Now matters were being taken out of his hands, and he was no longer fuelled with anxiety,
he found his legs were unsteady.

‘You are in danger. Go with Thurloe, and do not come back or attempt to contact me until I tell you it is safe. Your life
depends on it.’

‘What about yours?’ cried Hannah, alarmed. ‘Come with us. You can protect me.’

‘You do not want to spend the rest of your life as a fugitive, and neither do I. I need to resolve this case, and foil the
people who are accusing me of …’ He trailed off. The less said, the better.

‘I am not leaving you,’ said Hannah, tears sliding down her cheeks. ‘We took vows to stay with each other through bad times,
as well as good, and—’

Chaloner pulled himself upright. ‘Here is Thurloe. Go with him.’

‘We will remain hidden until you send word,’ promised Thurloe. ‘Contact me via Lincoln’s Inn, and make sure you include the
word rabbit, so I know the order is genuine, not coerced.’

‘The horses are ready,’ said Thompson, face alight with excitement. ‘Where will you go?’

‘Somewhere we will not be found,’ replied Thurloe shortly. He gripped Chaloner’s shoulder. ‘Be careful, old friend.’

Chaloner hugged Hannah, then slipped out of Lincoln’s Inn and loitered in the shadows opposite. After a moment, a carriage
rolled out, and rattled towards Holborn. At the same time, two coaches tore around the corner, its passengers leaning out
of the windows. They raced past Lincoln’s Inn, and set off in pursuit. When they had gone, a cart trundled out and made its
sedate way in the opposite direction. No one followed that, and Chaloner sighed his relief. Hannah was safe.

It might have been Chaloner’s imagination, but there seemed to be more of Williamson’s soldiers on the streets than usual,
distinctive in their buff jerkins and striped sleeves. There were also an inordinately large number of men who looked as if
they had no particular business; they slouched along in groups, scanning the faces of passers-by. A manhunt had been initiated,
and someone – Williamson, perhaps, or Downing – had called up reinforcements from the criminal gangs. It was only a matter
of time before he was challenged, so he decided to lie low until nightfall. But where? Not with Temperance or Bulteel, because
he did not want to endanger friends.

He had just resigned himself to skulking in a thicket in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, when he remembered Wiseman’s house on Fleet
Street. He knew the attic was empty, because it had been offered to him as lodgings. He would slip into it unseen, and the
surgeon need never know that he had harboured a fugitive.

Wiseman’s home was a four-storey affair with a cobbled yard at the back. Chaloner scaled the rear wall, and opened the door
carefully. There was a servants’ parlour to the left, where three men sat playing cards. He was disconcerted to note that
two were missing limbs and one an eye. Had Wiseman been practising on them, or were they just old patients, hired because
his ministrations had left them too incapacitated to work for anyone else?

He crept past them, and found himself in a laboratory, with shelves along the walls and a chemical odour in the air. The shelves
held jars, but he did not inspect them too closely, lest one contained Wiseman’s brother-in-law. He rubbed his head; the boot
that had knocked him out of his wits earlier had given him a nasty cut, and it was beginning to throb now he had time to be
aware of it. Pushing the discomfort to the back of his mind, he aimed for the stairs.

The middle two floors were occupied by Wiseman, while the attic contained nothing but empty boxes and dead flies. Chaloner
went to the window and looked into the street below. Williamson’s soldiers were questioning pedestrians, and the rough men
from the gangs were everywhere. He could only suppose the Spymaster was
hunting Falcon, although it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack given the man’s talent for disguise.

There were at least two hours of daylight left, so Chaloner lay down and closed his eyes. The garret was too stuffy for comfort,
and floors rarely made for easy sleeping. He did doze, but his dreams teemed with unpleasant images – Calais, Nisbett with
his throat cut, and Downing stalking Hannah. He dreamt about Wiseman, too, and when he started awake for at least the tenth
time, he was horrified to see the surgeon looming over him. He leapt to his feet, dagger in his hand.

‘There is no need for that,’ cried Wiseman, starting away in alarm. ‘I was only trying to ascertain whether someone had left
me a corpse to anatomise.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘It is my house,’ replied Wiseman indignantly. ‘I live here. What excuse do
you
have?’

‘None,’ admitted Chaloner, sheepish and apologetic. ‘What prompted you to come up here?’

‘Blood,’ replied Wiseman, eyes gleaming. ‘There were splashes of it on the stairs. I knew
I
had not left them there, so I investigated.’

Chaloner supposed he must have reopened the cut on his head when he had rubbed it, and cursed himself for his carelessness.
It was inexcusable in an intelligencer of his experience.

‘A warrant has been issued for your arrest,’ Wiseman went on. ‘You are a Dutch spy, apparently, although Heer van Goch maintains
you have been spying
on
him, not for him. So everyone thinks you are a traitor – Dutch
and
English. It is an impressive achievement.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner tiredly, thinking that Downing should congratulate himself. Or did he have Falcon to
thank for the situation, with Downing as his unwitting – or willing – ally?

‘Moreover, Clarendon is furious with you. There is a rumour that he had no idea what was in the papers that were stolen from
him, and he has become a laughing stock. He told me you are the only person to know that particular secret, and thinks you
started the tale to discredit him.’

Chaloner groaned. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘Well, if Downing is to be believed, because you are a Dutch spy who wants to bring ridicule and disgrace to our country’s
most respected ministers.’

‘That makes no sense. If I were their spy, I would be denigrating the warmongers, not the doves.’

‘That is what I said, but no one listened. Where are you going?’

‘You will lose your Court appointment if I am found here. I should leave.’

‘I might lose it anyway, because my enemies are making much of the fact that I killed Molins and Compton. My only hope is
that you will prove my innocence.’

Chaloner had forgotten Wiseman’s problems. ‘Did the samples you took from Compton and Molins’s homes reveal anything amiss?’
he asked, loath to admit that he had done nothing about the matter lest Wiseman took umbrage. He did not have the energy for
another confrontation.

‘Not yet, although you must bear in mind that not all toxins work instantly, and it may take some time for symptoms to appear.
But I shall not rest until I have exhausted all the possibilities.’

‘Good. I shall leave you to your labours, then.’

Wiseman gestured towards the window. ‘It will be dark
soon, and you look tired. Rest tonight, and start afresh tomorrow. Downing will not be back.’

‘Be
back
? You mean he has been here already?’

Wiseman nodded. ‘I tried to show him my anatomical collection, but he went quite pale, and I had to revive him with a sip
a tonic. Then he claimed I was trying to poison him. If only I had!’

‘He was looking for me?’ Chaloner was appalled: it suggested Downing knew him better than he had thought, and that was dangerous.

‘He asked if I had seen you, but I doubt he guessed that you are hiding here – he is just desperate. It is not because you
are the one blackmailing him, is it?’ Wiseman laughed, but not with his usual unrestrained vigour, and Chaloner saw the accusations
against him were weighing heavily on his mind. Chaloner knew exactly how he felt.

‘May I borrow some clothes?’ he asked, indicating his own ripped, dirty and stained attire. ‘Preferably ones that are not
red.’

It took some searching, but the surgeon eventually produced some brown breeches, white hose and a black coat. He also owned
plenty of pastes and powders that Chaloner could use to change his appearance. Then, as the daylight faded and night approached,
Chaloner left the house and slipped out into the darkness.

The night was sweltering. It drove people from their homes in search of cooler air, and the streets were full as Chaloner
made his way towards the Devil tavern. There were plenty of soldiers and watchful hired-hands about, too, and he discovered
the reason when he overheard two of them questioning an onion-seller: there was a reward of five pounds for anyone who produced
Falcon.

But there was a twist. Downing had offered a further
ten
pounds to the man who caught Chaloner, having declared publicly that he and Falcon were one and the same. It was not clear
whether Williamson agreed, but it was irrelevant anyway – the point was that there were a lot of men determined to have the
reward. Chaloner did not blame them. It was a fabulous sum, especially from a miserly man like the envoy, and underlined just
how determined Downing was to see him in chains.

The Devil was not far. Chaloner pushed open the door and entered, fighting not to choke on the wall of smoke that greeted
him: every patron puffed a pipe, and the lack of anything approaching a breeze rendered the air all but unbreathable. Landlord
Barford was doing a roaring trade with cool ale from his cellar, and was in an affable mood. He watched his serving boys weave
among the noisy throng, smiling his satisfaction. The hot weather was pleasing someone, at least.