The Body in the Thames (39 page)

‘Yes, I remember Molins,’ he said, when Chaloner broached the subject. ‘Some villain lunged at him with a sword. I saw it
happen, but it was dark, so I could not see the fellow’s face. However, I did notice the unusually fine lace on his boot-hose,
so we are not talking about a common felon here. Personally, I suspect someone from Court.’

‘Why could it not be a merchant?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Or a wealthy visitor from the country?’

‘Because White Hall is overrun by vicious rogues who are always duelling and fighting. But to get back to the tale, Mr Molins
jerked away, and fell as he did so. I raised the alarm, and Sir William Compton came to his rescue. He and the Dutchman saw
the villain off.’

‘You mean they fought?’

‘No, I mean the coward fled when he saw Compton and the Dutchman coming.’

‘Did you see anyone watching Molins, or behaving suspiciously?’ Chaloner was expecting at any moment for Barford to demand
why he should want to know, but the landlord was apparently used to being pumped for gossip, and did not seem to find anything
odd in the inquisition.

‘It is strange you should ask, because someone
did
watch him and his friends like a hawk one night. Indeed, it was the day before poor Molins was attacked, now I think about
it.’

‘Can you describe him?’

At that moment, the door opened, and three ruffians entered. They sat not far away, alert and watchful, and Chaloner tensed.
If they were halfway intelligent, they would notice a patron pressing a tavern-owner for information, and would be suspicious.

‘Not really,’ Barford was saying, ‘because it is dark in here of an evening. He was well dressed, though. I remember that.’

‘Could it have been the same man who attacked Molins?’ Chaloner was aware of the three louts looking in his direction, and
hoped his disguise would protect him.

‘Yes, it could, now I think about it. The damned rogue! If he shows his face in
here
again he will be sorry!’

‘Did you ever hear what Molins and his friends discussed?’

‘Only once. He and the Dutchman liked a drink, so they were not always as quiet-voiced as the others. They were chatting in
a foreign language, but I heard Molins mention an emissary.’

‘Emissary?’ Chaloner thought fast. ‘Could it have been
emissarius
?’

Barford snapped his fingers. ‘That was it! He must have been talking about sending someone on a mission, perhaps to get medicine
or a surgical implement. It was all innocent enough.’

But Chaloner suspected otherwise. Molins, Compton, Hanse, White and Edwards were educated men. All five would have known Latin,
and they had used it to converse, to reduce the danger of eavesdroppers. And an
emissarius
was a spy: they had been discussing espionage.

When Chaloner left the Devil, the three men followed him out. Unwilling to believe it was coincidence, he ducked down an alley,
and only emerged when he was sure they had gone. Then he approached White’s house again, but it was locked up very tightly,
and no lights were lit. Breaking in would necessitate climbing to a second floor window, but he was too weary for such antics.
It was too late to do anything else, so he returned to Wiseman’s house.

This time, he was careful to leave no tell-tale drips of blood.

Although Chaloner was used to sleeping in uncomfortable places, the night in Wiseman’s attic was dismal by any standards,
and he snapped awake at the slightest creak or groan. When dawn finally broke, it was accompanied by a light, clammy drizzle,
not enough to shift the festering piles of rubbish, but more than enough to intensify their reek. Moreover, it served to render
London’s already polluted air heavy, stale and humid. All in all, it was not a change for the better.

He crept down to Wiseman’s laboratory and used the surgeon’s plentiful supplies of potions and greases to transform himself
from a thirty-four year-old intelligencer into a sixty year-old merchant. Wiseman arrived just as he was finishing.

‘I am not open for business until …’ Wiseman began indignantly, then stopped when he recognised Chaloner’s grey eyes. ‘Breaking
into my home is becoming something of a habit with you.’

‘I will try not to do it again.’

‘Clearing my name of these hideous accusations is taking you too long,’ declared Wiseman, following him
to the door. ‘So I shall accompany you, to speed matters along before the damage to my reputation becomes permanent. Where
shall we go first?’

‘I work better alone, Wiseman. Besides, it is not a good idea to be seen with me at the moment.’

‘I do not care about that, and I cannot go on with this Sword of Damocles hanging above me. I need you to prove that I did
not
kill Compton and Molins. This morning, if possible.’

Chaloner stifled a sigh; he did not have time for the surgeon’s troubles. ‘I doubt you are responsible – these deaths are
connected to a case in which at least seven other people have been murdered. But you must be patient: finding the right answers
takes time.’

Wiseman’s expression was suddenly bitter. ‘My critics might be right. If Molins and Compton
were
poisoned, then why did I not see it? Moreover, I misdiagnosed Compton twice – once when I thought a headache was a deadly
fever of the brain, and once when I dismissed a serious sickness as the ill-effects of heat. Perhaps I
am
losing my touch.’

Chaloner was not sure what to say. ‘The most productive thing you can do is stay here and keep working on the samples you
took.’

‘Very well,’ said Wiseman reluctantly. ‘But where are you going?’

‘The Fleet Rookery,’ lied Chaloner, unwilling for anyone to know his real plans.

Wiseman nodded in a way that said he knew he was not being told the truth, then handed the spy a tin. ‘More grease for your
disguise. You will need it, because not only is it hot today, but it is wet, too. Your pastes may wash off and give you away.’

Chaloner left through the back door, while Wiseman distracted the servants. Even with the disguise, he felt acutely vulnerable,
and it was difficult not to break step and run when he saw a group of Williamson’s guards marching towards him. One hand dropped
to his sword, while the other gripped the little gun, but the soldiers passed by without giving him a second glance.

He grimaced. It was going to be a long day. As he walked, it occurred to him that it was Sunday, the day when the Dutch were
due to host the conference that represented the last chance of peace. Would they succeed, or would two nations be plunged
into bloody conflict? And would Chaloner himself be alive to see it?

There was still no reply at White’s house, so Chaloner decided to go to White Hall, in the hope that Bulteel had asked the
Bishop of London about Pocks. It was not a sensible place to visit, given the lies Downing had spread about him. Moreover,
he was wary about revealing himself to anyone, even trusted friends, given that an incautious slip of the tongue on their
part might see him arrested. But he was desperate for clues, and time was short, so he felt he had no choice.

Bulteel was in his office when he arrived, early even for him, because he had papers to assemble before the conference that
evening. The secretary looked up irritably when he saw the old merchant hovering in the doorway.

‘I am
not
wearing pink gloves to the Savoy,’ he snapped. ‘So if you have come to sell me some, you can just take them away again. I
know
my cousin claims they will conceal my ink-stained fingers, but I have not seen any other gentlemen wearing pink gloves, and
I
am beginning to wonder whether I should have asked someone else to oversee my training, because—’

‘It is me,’ said Chaloner, cutting into the tirade. ‘Tom.’ ‘

You
should not be here!’ hissed Bulteel in alarm, once recognition had dawned. ‘Downing is telling everyone that you are Falcon.
A spy.’

‘I prefer the term intelligencer,’ said Chaloner, sitting tiredly on the desk. ‘It sounds less sordid.’

‘Do not jest!’ cried Bulteel, distressed. ‘He has accused you of being a double agent, of passing secrets to England
and
the Dutch. You are in very real danger, because someone at White Hall
has
been feeding information to the enemy, and Downing makes a good case for you as the culprit.’

Chaloner was sure he had. ‘Then I had better visit Williamson, and explain that—’

‘No! I heard
him
tell the Earl that while he does not believe Downing’s accusations, arresting you will relieve pressure on him to catch the
real Falcon. And if he should let you fall into Downing’s hands … well, suffice to say that your guilt or innocence will not
matter, because you will die regardless.’

Chaloner did not doubt it. ‘I do not suppose you have learned anything about Pocks?’

Bulteel shook his head. ‘I could not corner the Bishop, because my cousin said—’

‘I said we can no longer afford to help you.’ Chaloner whipped around at the sound of Griffith’s voice. He had not heard him
approach, and realised weariness and strain were combining to make him careless. It was something he would have to rectify
if he wanted to end the day a free man.

Bulteel dragged his cousin inside the office, pointedly
closing the door on Lane, whose face was its usual impassive mask. Chaloner had no idea whether the manservant had recognised
him.

‘How long have you been listening?’ Bulteel demanded, his thin face full of anxiety.

‘Long enough to know you have disregarded my advice,’ said Griffith reproachfully. He turned to Chaloner, and the lace began
to flap. ‘It is nothing personal. Indeed, you are one of few men I have met in London who possesses an ounce of integrity.
But espionage is a serious matter, and John and I cannot risk being seen as your confederates. I am sure you understand.’

Bulteel was dismayed. ‘You defended Lane when Downing fabricated that tale about him being a burglar. So what is the difference
between that and me defending Tom?’

‘Lane is a servant, and masters have a duty to protect hirelings,’ explained Griffith. He shot a pained glance towards the
door, which said he had objected to the inconvenience. ‘And he told me he is innocent, whereas Chaloner has made no effort
to deny the charges brought against
him
.’

‘He has no need to deny them, not to me,’ Bulteel flashed back. ‘His innocence is the one thing I
am
sure about in this treacherous city.’

Griffith softened, and the lace flapped a little less frantically. ‘You are right, of course. Forgive me, Chaloner. John does
not give his trust readily, and the fact that you have earned his should have told me all I needed to know. So we
will
help you. We shall give you all our money, and urge you to disappear before Downing catches you.’ He produced his purse,
a fancy thing in puce silk.

Bulteel nodded vigorously, and began to rummage in
his desk. ‘It is a good idea. You must leave London, immediately, Tom. I will give you everything I have, plus a little of
the Earl’s—’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, backing away. ‘It is better to stay, and prove Downing wrong.’

Bulteel regarded him in horror. ‘But he will kill you before you succeed. See some sense!’

Griffith lowered his voice. ‘Obviously,
we
will not betray you, but Lane has probably seen through your disguise, too. And I am beginning to wonder whether
he
is a spy. He disappears, and declines to say where he has been, he listens to everything, and then there is that horribly
bland face. I do not trust him, and I wish I had never hired the fellow.’

‘I do not trust him, either,’ said Bulteel, also
sotto voce
. ‘And if he comes after you, Tom, you must slit his throat before he slits yours.’

‘Slit his throat?’ squeaked Griffith, shocked. ‘That is hardly a gentlemanly—’

‘Please go, Tom,’ begged Bulteel. ‘And only come back when you are
sure
it is safe.’

Chaloner nodded agreement, although with no intention of complying, and took his leave, brushing aside the proffered money.
He doubled back when he heard them begin to talk, slipping past their door unseen. He wanted to see the Earl before abandoning
White Hall.

‘Poor Tom!’ Bulteel was saying tearfully. ‘He is a good man, and my only real friend here.’

‘I am leaving London today,’ declared Griffith abruptly. ‘Downing remains unreasonably vexed over that poem I wrote, and he
is too vengeful an adversary for me. It is time to go home.’

* * *

A fire was lit in Clarendon’s office, which was hot and airless. Chaloner padded across it and stood behind his master, coughing
softly to announce his presence.

‘Lord save us!’ exclaimed the Earl, putting his hand over his chest after Chaloner had identified himself, and he saw he was
not about to be assassinated. ‘
Must
you do that? What are you doing here, anyway? I told you to stay away until this business is over. Have you heard what Downing
is saying about you now? That
you
stole my documents, and stuffed them in vases at the Savoy.’

‘I doubt that tale will prove very popular. People are more interested in blaming Hanse.’

‘Yes, but Downing is going around telling everyone that you know your way around Worcester House, including where I keep my
papers. And he points out that your alibi is a dead Hollander.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘What do you believe, sir?’

‘That Downing is an inveterate liar, who will destroy anyone for personal gain. But I cannot afford to protect you, Chaloner.
I have already explained why. The peace talks …’

‘It was not me who spread the rumour about you not knowing what was in your missing papers,’ said Chaloner, unwilling to be
blamed for that particular piece of nastiness.

The Earl pointed to the windows, now closed. ‘Someone must have overheard us talking. When Wiseman reported the rumour to
me, I admit my first thought was that you were the culprit. But then I reconsidered: you are no gossip. Quite the reverse,
in fact – you never tell anyone anything. But why did you come? You do not need me to remind you that it is dangerous.’

‘I came to tell you who has been blackmailing courtiers.’

‘I do not care about them,’ said Clarendon irritably. ‘If they were decent, godly people, they would not have shady secrets.
I am far more interested in getting the rest of my missing documents back. It was an audacious raid, stealing them from under
my nose as I slept.’

‘As you
slept
? You said they disappeared when you were dining with your wife.’

The Earl became flustered. ‘Yes, well, they may have gone a little sooner than I led you to believe. The afternoon, for example.’

‘The afternoon?’ Chaloner was torn between anger and frustration. ‘Are you sure? When did you last see them?’

The Earl looked sheepish. ‘When Bulteel left them on the table after I had eaten breakfast. Do not look at me so accusingly!
As I told you before, I
meant
to read them, but I dozed off. I am overworked, so is it surprising that I am always exhausted?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, trying to hide his exasperation and failing. ‘But the difference in time opens the theft up to a whole
new range of suspects – the staff on duty during the day are not the same as the ones who work at night. I will have to start
all over again.’

The Earl narrowed his eyes dangerously. ‘How dare you berate me! And I—’

There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs outside, and Downing’s self-important voice echoed along the hallway. Chaloner
glanced around quickly, assessing avenues of escape. They were limited, and he saw a confrontation was going to be inevitable.
But the Earl had other ideas.

‘Stand behind the curtain,’ he ordered. ‘I cannot afford to be caught consorting with you, especially today, with the conference
looming. So stay hidden until I tell you to come out.’

‘Downing is being blackmailed because he has submitted fraudulent expense claims to the government,’ said Chaloner quickly.
‘If you need to disconcert him, mention them.’

There was no time for further explanations, because Downing was outside, and Chaloner had only just stepped behind the draperies
when the envoy marched in. He sported a spectacularly bruised eye from the scuffle in Fleet Street.

‘What happened to you?’ asked the Earl, eyeing him with dislike. ‘Been brawling?’

‘Chaloner attacked me,’ claimed Downing, raising a tentative hand to touch it. ‘He is a vicious brute, and I recommend extreme
caution when dealing with him.’

‘You no doubt deserved it,’ said the Earl coldly. ‘But what do you want? I am busy. Can you not do your business with my secretary?’

‘I thought it best to see you in person,’ said Downing, equally frosty. ‘And do not look at
me
with distaste, My Lord.
I
am not the one who harbours criminals – betrayers of King and country.’

‘I am not harbouring anyone,’ asserted Clarendon, somewhat furtively. ‘Search my rooms if—’

‘I
have
searched them,’ interrupted Downing curtly. ‘Chaloner has been hiding somewhere these last few days, so I have been through
your offices
and
your home.’

Clarendon was purple with rage and indignation. ‘You impudent upstart! You have no right—’