The Body in the Thames (12 page)

‘Or steal
for
her,’ Thurloe pointed out. ‘They are said to be good at it, and she has a penchant for other people’s property. I suspect
there is a lot she could do with such men.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, supposing it was true. ‘I hope I will not be ordered to investigate burglaries that show
her
to be the instigator. She is far too deadly an opponent for me.’

‘For anyone,’ agreed Thurloe. ‘But she is not such a fool as to use them straight away, so you need not concern yourself just
yet.’

‘They are angry with me for catching them,’ said Chaloner, sitting on the bench opposite. ‘And so is Downing, who had employed
them as stewards.’

‘Downing,’ said Thurloe in distaste, folding the newsbook and pushing it to one side to give Chaloner his full attention.
‘But do not worry about him. Heer van Goch will go home when war is declared, and Downing will accompany him back to The Hague.
All you have to do is stay out of his way until he has gone, which should not be too difficult in a city this size.’

Chaloner gazed at him. ‘You seem very certain that the peace talks will fail.’

Thurloe sighed. ‘Fighting the States-General would be disastrous for our country, so of course that is what the Privy Council
will decide to do. I would not say this to anyone else, but those ridiculous hedonists deserve to be shot. They will lead
us all into chaos and disorder.’

‘It is a sorry state of affairs.’

‘Very sorry. I wish Downing was not here, though. He knows it was your hard work and diligence that kept him in office during
the Commonwealth, and he resents being in debt to you.’

‘Hardly!’ exclaimed Chaloner, startled. ‘We both supplied you with—’

‘Your intelligence was accurate and useful, whereas
his was street gossip. Doubt me if you will, but do not underestimate the malice he bears you. He is an unsavoury villain.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Chaloner, not wanting to dwell on it.

Tactfully, Thurloe changed the subject. ‘It has been another glorious day, although I imagine it will be unpleasantly sultry
again tonight. I wish the weather would break. Such oppressive heat is not good for a man with a delicate constitution.’

Thurloe was always worried about his health, and swallowed many tonics, pills and purges in his quest for an efficacious cure-all.
Chaloner often wondered if he might be healthier if he threw them all away and concentrated on devising himself a healthy
diet instead.

‘You seem distracted,’ said Thurloe, after a moment during which a coffee-boy came and poured a dense black sludge into two
dishes. ‘What is the matter?’

Chaloner took a sip of the drink and winced. Rider’s brew was better than most, because he knew how to cook most of his beans
without burning them, but the beverage was not pleasant, even so. It was not as bad as tea, which tasted of rotting vegetation,
and it was a considerable improvement on chocolate, which was bitter and greasy, but they were all unpleasant, and Chaloner
doubted any would remain popular for long.

‘It is much nicer with sugar,’ said Thurloe, watching him.

Chaloner nodded, but did not take any. A year ago, he had vowed not to touch it, as a silent protest against the plantations,
although he knew his stance would make no difference to the people forced to labour in appalling conditions just so Britain
could enjoy sweetened drinks.

‘Willem Hanse is dead,’ he said, placing the dish back on the table. ‘I identified his body this morning, and then went to
tell his wife.’

‘I am sorry, Tom,’ said Thurloe sympathetically. ‘It must have been dreadful. How did he die?’

‘Drowned. Murdered, probably. He spent his last evening with me, at the Sun tavern in Westminster, and I should have seen
him back to the Savoy. But I was tired, and I let him go home alone. The hackneyman was in the pay of the Hectors, and now
he is dead, too.’

‘Blaming yourself will do no good,’ said Thurloe kindly. ‘It is better to invest your energies in bringing his killer to justice.
What have you learned about his death so far?’

‘Almost nothing.’

Thurloe was thoughtful. ‘If I were in your position, I would return to the Sun, and question the landlord again. People are
apt to remember more once they have had a chance to reflect.’

Chaloner doubted it would help, but was willing to try. ‘I will do it tomorrow. But this evening, I am going to listen to
some music.’

Virtually every courtier at White Hall had been invited to hear the King’s Private Musick, because the players were to perform
in the vast expanse of St James’s Park, which meant the audience could be as large as His Majesty chose to make it. The players
occupied a barge in the middle of the Canal, which was to be punted back and forth by four men with poles, while the guests
had ranged themselves along both banks – the lesser ones on blankets, and the more important ones on chairs.

The King, his Queen, his mistress and his favourite
companions were housed in a purpose-built gazebo. Among them were Buckingham and the dissipated Alan Brodrick, cousin to Clarendon.
The Earl himself was some distance away, talking animatedly to the Bishop of Hereford. Hereford was something of a fanatic,
and, Chaloner thought acidly as he watched them, was probably picking the Earl’s brains for new ways to suppress anyone who
was not an Anglican.

Sitting on the fringes of the royal party were several members of the Dutch delegation, stiff and tense in company they knew
wished them ill. Their attention was fixed on the spectacle of Colonel Griffith, who had donned a startling orange suit for
the occasion, and was holding forth in his high-pitched, effeminate way to members of the Privy Council. There was no sign
of Bulteel, although that was not surprising: the secretary disliked music, but would never have been asked to attend such
an august occasion, anyway. And, despite Griffith’s grooming, probably never would.

Chaloner was pleased to note that Kicke, Nisbett and Williamson were not there: it would be difficult to give his full attention
to the music if he was surrounded by men who meant him harm. Unfortunately, Downing
had
been invited. The envoy was clad in a green long-coat that was too tight for his lard, and was busily ogling any ladies who
came within leering distance.

‘I have heard that Downing will not pay for clothes that fit, because he is too mean,’ whispered Hannah in Chaloner’s ear,
following the direction of his gaze. The spy had managed an admirable job of pretending to be astonished when she had announced
she was taking him to hear the music that evening, so Bulteel’s hope to cause a spat had been thwarted. ‘He hates parting
with cash.’

Chaloner knew it, because although Thurloe had paid his spies regularly and well, the money had gone through Downing, and
Downing had not always been willing to pass it on. He tried to steer Hannah away when he saw their path was going to cross
the envoy’s, but she did not understand what he was trying to do, and resisted. And then it was too late. Downing eyed her
salaciously.

‘Is this your new wife, Chaloner? Perhaps you would introduce me. I am always eager to meet pretty ladies, even ones married
to reprobates.’

The open lust on his face made Chaloner want to punch him, and a curt rejoinder was on the tip of his tongue, but Hannah was
there first.

‘My husband is
not
a reprobate, sir,’ she said icily. ‘Moreover, I do not consort with low-mannered men, so please remove yourself from my presence.
The Queen is watching, and I will not have her thinking badly of me.’

Downing’s jaw dropped. ‘I assure you, madam, she holds me in the highest esteem, and—’

‘The Queen is a
lady
!’ interrupted Hannah haughtily. ‘And her esteem is reserved for those who deserve it. She does not deign to pass judgement
on the loathsome.’

Chaloner regarded her uneasily, wondering whether she had gone too far, but Downing merely bowed and moved away. Hannah watched
him go.

‘What a
revolting
creature!’ she declared. ‘He has no place in a genteel gathering like this.’

‘The King likes him, and it is unwise to make an enemy of such a man. You should not have—’

‘He was my enemy long before I put him in his place. First, because he was nasty to you. And second, because
he is a lecher. No decent woman should give him the time of day, and I am not having
my
reputation sullied by simpering at him.’

Chaloner experienced a surge of affection as he looked down at her determinedly jutting chin and flashing eyes. Her fierce
opinions were one of the reasons why he had married her.

Hannah had agreed to meet some friends in the park, and among her little party were Killigrew, his wife Judith and Charles
Bates, the sad-faced man with the copper wig. While Killigrew and Judith chatted to Hannah in French – a Court affectation
to let everyone know they were civilised – Bates started to thank Chaloner for saving his hairpiece, but then stopped abruptly,
and backed away.

Chaloner turned to see the Earl approaching, Griffith mincing at his side. Clarendon beamed at Hannah, for whom he felt a
fatherly affection, although the fondness was not reciprocated. Hannah disliked him on two counts: the irritating delight
he took in being a killjoy, and the shabby way he treated her husband. As she seemed to be in a feisty mood, Chaloner braced
himself for trouble.

‘You look well, my dear child,’ said the Earl, taking her hand and patting it paternally.

She smiled pleasantly enough as she pulled it away. ‘Thank you, My Lord. You look terrible.’

‘Your wife has a discerning eye,’ said the Earl to Chaloner, who was holding his breath for fireworks. ‘I
do
feel terrible. But my spirits have been lifted by my old friend Colonel Griffith. He always did know how to make me forget
my troubles with laughter.’

Griffith effected an elegant bow, all waving lace and
bobbing wig. ‘The pleasure of diverting you is all mine, sir.’

‘Such fine manners,’ said the Earl admiringly, watching him flounce away. ‘Do you know why Bulteel took him into his home,
by the way? So that Griffith can transform him into a such a
beau ideal
that we will all fall helplessly at his feet.’ He sniggered at the notion.

‘Not even Griffith is equal to
that task,’
said Hannah. ‘Of course, Bulteel has never had anyone decent to emulate, given where he works.’

The Earl regarded her uncertainly, then smiled. ‘You refer to White Hall as a whole, and you are quite right, my dear. The
rakes of Court do
not
set a good example.’

‘I meant—’ began Hannah, although she faltered when Chaloner shot her an agonised glance. While he admired her independence
of thought, it would be unfortunate if it saw him dismissed.

‘Of course, Griffith has changed since the wars,’ the Earl went on, blithely unaware of the attempt to insult him.

‘You mean he is older?’ asked Chaloner, relieved when Hannah returned to the Killigrews, openly disgusted that her barbs had
failed to hit their target.

‘Well,
obviously
he is older.’ The Earl shot him an irritable glance. ‘The wars started more than twenty years ago. But I do not recall him
prancing so. And his face was thinner in those days.’

Chaloner imagined the Earl’s had been thinner, too, because he was gaining weight at a rate of knots. And his gout was not
helping: it meant he was often immobile, but still ate a lot.

‘Yet he still has the ability to make me laugh,’ said the Earl fondly. ‘I had forgotten how amusing he can be.
Escort me back to the Bishop, Chaloner. The Lady keeps looking my way, and I do not like it. However, she will not do anything
untoward if I am with him.’

By the time Chaloner had obliged, the musicians had tuned their instruments, and were ready to start. Immediately, a hush
fell over the assembled guests.

The first strains of an air by Matthew Locke drifted towards them. One bass viol was joined by another, the melodies intertwining,
delicate and light on the still evening air. Then the treble came in, soaring above them. In the distance, a blackbird sang,
as if in answer. The four watermen poled the barge slowly up and down the Canal, and its changing position, along with the
hint of a breeze, played with the notes, so they were sometimes loud and sometimes soft, but always exquisite.

Eventually, the sun began to dip, turning the trees in the distance into dark silhouettes against a blaze of orange-gold.
Bats flitted, feasting on the insects that proliferated in the hot weather. The air was full of the scent of scythed grass
and scorched earth, overlain lightly with the odour of still water. Then, as the light faded further, lanterns were lit on
the barge, which created shimmering paths of silver on the darkening Canal.

The last piece had been written specially for the occasion by the French composer Louis Grabu. It began with a lively dance,
with all the musicians playing together, but gradually evolved into a haunting fugue. This time, when the barge was punted
into the gloom, it did not return, and the music grew ever softer, until just a single bass viol was left. Its notes hung
in the air, sad and sweet. Then, one by one, the lamps were doused. The last flickered, matching the viol’s fading melody.
And finally, the music diminished into nothing and the
light winked out. There was a brief pause, then rapturous applause.

Chaloner did not join in. He had been moved by the performance, and the sudden clamour of hands and voices seemed somehow
sacrilegious. He sat with his head bowed, trying not to lose the magic of the last moments. No one else seemed to share his
sensibilities. The King shot out of his chair and aimed for his carriage, the Lady hot on his heels; doubtless, they had more
lively entertainment planned for the rest of the night. The Queen lingered to exchange pleasantries with Ambassador van Goch,
Secretary Kun and the fox-faced Zas, then she left, too.

Once the royals had gone, there was a concerted move towards the gates. People clambered inelegantly to their feet, and servants
hurried to gather up the blankets on which they had been sitting. Bates claimed that nightdew had seeped into his joints,
and he had to be hauled to his feet. Nearby, Griffith was declaring to his companions that the performance had moved him to
tears.