The Body in the Thames (21 page)

Bulteel looked crestfallen. ‘I did not mean … Oh, damn it all! Perhaps I should not have spoken.’

‘Perhaps not,’ agreed Chaloner, beginning to walk again.

Westminster was the older of the two royal palaces that stood next to each other on the west bank of the Thames. It was dominated
by medieval buildings, including the abbey and the Great Hall, and was full of gothic pinnacles, spires and gracefully arched
windows. Parts looked like the religious precinct it had once been, and it was populated by clerks in sober robes.

Williamson had been provided with a modest building in the cobbled expanse of New Palace Yard. As usual, uniformed guards
stood outside it, wearing buff jerkins with stripy sleeves. These represented the respectable face of his operation. The less
salubrious one comprised criminals from London’s gangs, who were employed when solutions were needed that broke the law.

Hoping he was not making a mistake by entering the place, Chaloner stepped past the guards, and found himself in an airy hall,
where a dozen clerks laboured feverishly. The cells where Williamson conducted his interrogations were below it, reached by
an ominously dark stairway. Chaloner tried not to think about them as he and Bulteel were conducted to the upper floor, where
Williamson occupied a tastefully furnished office.

‘Well,’ drawled the Spymaster, leaning back in his chair as his guests were shown in. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure? I thought
you went to some trouble to avoid my company.’

‘Hello, Joseph,’ said Bulteel, peering out from behind Chaloner with a mischievous grin. He looked around.
‘So this is where you work. It is lovely! Far nicer than my vile little office.’

Williamson understood immediately why Bulteel had been brought. He nodded an affable greeting to the secretary, but the moment
Bulteel went to admire the view from the window and could not see him, his expression turned hard and dangerous.

‘There is no need for insurances when you deal with me, Chaloner,’ he said, making it perfectly clear that there was. ‘You
need not be afraid.’

‘There,’ said Bulteel, turning to smile. ‘You see? I told you there was nothing to fear.’

A shadow glided soundlessly through the door and came to stand protectively at Williamson’s side. It was John Swaddell, technically
a clerk, although everyone knew he was really an assassin. He was clad in black from head to toe, with the exception of a
spotlessly white ‘falling band’ – a decorative bib that lay across his chest. He had small, dark eyes that were never still,
and was one of the most sinister men Chaloner had ever encountered.

‘The Earl suggested I talk to you,’ lied Chaloner, knowing Williamson was unlikely to learn that his master had done nothing
of the kind. ‘About the Sinon Plot.’

Williamson’s eyes widened fractionally, but otherwise he betrayed no emotion. He indicated with an elegant gesture of his
hand that Swaddell was to lock the door.

‘Why is that necessary?’ asked Bulteel, most of his attention on the window. It afforded an excellent view of the severed
heads displayed on poles outside Westminster Hall, and explained why so many people who had tried to rescue Cromwell’s skull
had been apprehended.

‘It is just a precaution to ensure your friend does not leave before we have enjoyed a full and frank exchange of information,’
replied Williamson. ‘If I am to provide him with intelligence, then he must reciprocate in kind, and I do not want him wandering
off before we have finished.’

‘That will not happen,’ said Swaddell, moving his hand to reveal that he held a dagger. Chaloner did likewise, and alarm flashed
in Williamson’s eyes, no doubt predicting that it would not be his assassin who would be skewered first if the situation turned
hostile. By the window, Bulteel gazed happily into New Palace Yard, oblivious to the deadly undercurrents that surged behind
him.

‘Make a start, Tom,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I cannot stay much longer.’

Chaloner obliged. ‘The Sinon Plot is not as secret as you believe,’ he told Williamson. ‘It is common knowledge.’

Williamson paled. ‘You must have read Clarendon’s private papers, and learned about Sinon that way. It is
not
common knowledge.’

‘There is nothing about any Sinon in the Earl’s correspondence,’ said Bulteel, turning to face them and frowning his puzzlement.
‘I would have seen it. What is this plot?’

‘The tale
is
out,’ Swaddell told his master. ‘Although I would hardly call it “common knowledge”. One of the Privy Council must have blabbed.’

Williamson sighed heavily. ‘Damn them! It is not a good idea for London to know that three men came close to making off with
the crown jewels.’

‘What?’ cried Bulteel. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes, and it is a secret.’ Williamson winced. ‘Or it should be. I am appalled to learn otherwise.’

‘Why have you gone to such lengths to suppress it?’ asked Chaloner. ‘People do not care enough about the jewels to be angry
about their disappearance. There will be no public outcry.’

‘There will if London is taxed to replace the things,’ retorted Williamson, truthfully enough. ‘And, if we may be blunt, the
King’s popularity is at a low ebb at the moment, and we cannot afford the bad publicity. It is one reason why most of the
Privy Council is keen for a war with the Dutch – a military campaign will settle people’s eyes on problems outside our domestic
hiccups.’

‘That is hardly a good reason to plunge two countries into bloody conflict,’ objected Chaloner.

‘Nations have clashed for a lot less,’ said Williamson soberly. ‘I am not saying it is right – indeed, I am personally convinced
that antagonising the Dutch is a very bad idea – but history tells us that our leaders do not always make sensible decisions.
Still, perhaps progress will be made towards peace on Sunday night, at the convention in the Savoy.’

‘What is the
real
reason for wanting the Sinon Plot kept quiet?’ asked Chaloner, aware that the Spymaster had managed to change the subject.
‘It is nothing to do with the King’s popularity – if the plot had succeeded, people would have felt sorry for him, and perhaps
liked him better.’

Williamson smiled coldly. ‘You are too astute for your own good. But I suppose I can tell you, given that Clarendon seems
to have taken you into his confidence. The three villains are named Swan, Swallow and Falcon. I know it does not sound very
likely, but those
are
their
real names. Sir William Compton overheard them plotting together in a tavern on Cheapside.’

‘Who are they, exactly?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Swan and Swallow are booksellers; Falcon is a cleric. And
that
is the reason why we have tried to keep the matter quiet.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Are you saying you acted to spare the Church embarrassment, by keeping from the public that one of their
ministers was on the verge of stealing from the King?’

Williamson inclined his head. ‘It is beset with problems at the moment, what with Quakers and Catholics refusing to obey its
edicts. It does not need tales of criminal members, too.’

Chaloner supposed it might be true: the Church
would
be grateful for such help. And spymasters were always happy to have powerful organisations in their debt. ‘I need to speak
to these plotters.’

‘No,’ said Williamson immediately. ‘I have given orders that no one will ever speak to them again. The affair is over, so
let it alone.’

‘Were Swan, Swallow and Falcon the only ones involved? Or did they have accomplices?’

‘They said not, and I believe them,’ replied Williamson curtly.

‘Then what about witnesses? Did anyone other than Compton overhear what they were plotting?’

Williamson scowled. ‘No, because they would have come forward to tell me.’

‘Unfortunately, not everyone sees you as a benevolent soul,’ said Swaddell, when Chaloner did not grace that claim with a
response. ‘Having Londoners afraid of you is good in some ways, but it does make them reluctant
to confide. Chaloner may be right: a witness may well have blathered, and we might be wrong to blame the Privy Council for
gossiping.’

‘Then find him,’ said Williamson to Swaddell. ‘Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention, Chaloner. You may go now.
But before you do, let me issue a warning: do not dabble in this matter any further. You will not look for this witness, and
you will stay away from Newgate. Is that clear?’

‘Clear enough,’ said Chaloner, although he had no intention of complying.

‘Disobey me, and you will be sorry.’ Williamson’s eyes bored into Chaloner’s. ‘I mean it.’

‘There is no need for threats,’ said Bulteel reproachfully. ‘Thomas will do as you say.’

Far from discouraging Chaloner, Williamson’s threat had convinced him that a quiet word with Falcon, Swan and Swallow might
be extremely useful, and he decided he would use Surgeon Wiseman to gain access to Newgate the following day. It would be
risky – and certainly unpleasant – but he had faced far greater dangers in the past.

He returned to White Hall with Bulteel, and was just crossing the Great Court to report to the Earl, when Hannah waylaid them.
A man was with her, arm extended to escort her over the cobbles. He appeared to be in his mid fifties, with a face that was
lined and worn from a life outdoors. He was surprisingly clean shaven, though, and his uniform was smart. Bulteel made Hannah
a graceless obeisance that caused him to stumble, and scurried away when she started to smirk.

‘Are you feeling better now, Tom?’ she asked sweetly, thus indicating that she considered their earlier spat his fault, not
hers. ‘You were sadly out of sorts this morning.’

‘Probably the heat,’ said her companion sympathetically. ‘It is affecting us all.’

‘This is Daniel Cotton,’ said Hannah, in response to Chaloner’s questioning look. ‘My first husband’s brother – or one of
them. There are also Josias and William, and all three hold Court appointments. Daniel is a Yeoman Cartaker, which means he
looks after the King’s carriages.’

Chaloner bowed, thinking Daniel held the same relationship to him that Hannah held to Jacoba. Did it make them kin, or was
the tie too tenuous?

‘I have a bit of a problem,’ said Daniel, bowing in return. He had a curious, gravelly voice. ‘But Hannah says you have a
way with problems, and may be able to help.’

Chaloner suppressed a sigh. There were not enough hours in the day for yet another enquiry. ‘It is not a good time …’

‘Because we are about to go to Hanse’s funeral?’ asked Hannah. ‘I have not forgotten. I assume you are here to collect me?’

‘It will not take a moment to tell you,’ said Daniel. ‘And then you can be on your way.’

‘Daniel has the same difficulty as another of my friends,’ explained Hannah. She grabbed Chaloner’s hand and jerked him towards
her, so she could whisper in his ear. ‘Charles Bates is being blackmailed, and now Daniel is similarly menaced. You explore
nasty happenings in White Hall, so …’

‘Not this nasty happening,’ Chaloner whispered back. ‘I have other cases to solve.’

‘Please, Tom,’ said Hannah quietly. ‘This is important to me.’

‘We shall talk here,’ determined Daniel, when Chaloner could think of no excuse, and Hannah indicated that the
Yeoman Cartaker should begin his tale. ‘It is in the blazing sun, but we will see anyone coming, and I cannot afford to be
overheard. You may wait in the shade, Hannah. What I am about to say is too delicate for the ears of ladies.’

Chaloner’s heart sank, and he hoped he was not about to be regaled with anything too risqué.

‘I shall leave you to it, then,’ said Hannah, rather resentfully. ‘Afterwards, we shall attend this funeral, and then Tom
can take me to the Banqueting House, where the King is putting on a play.’

‘I am not sure where to begin,’ said Daniel, when she was out of earshot. Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and
spoke in a blurt. ‘I am pregnant. There! It is out.’

Chaloner regarded him warily. ‘Are you?’ Daniel’s only response was a curt nod, and the spy was clearly expected to say something
else, so he added, ‘Does your wife know?’

‘I am not married,’ snapped Daniel. ‘Obviously.’

‘It was an immaculate conception, then, was it?’ asked Chaloner unable to help himself.

Daniel glared at him. ‘Of course not. A man is involved – a fellow named John Nisbett. I know I should not have bedded him,
but these things happen, and we were both drunk at the time. He has since confessed that he does not recall what happened.
Thank God!’

Chaloner tried to understand why anyone – of either sex – should want to bed Nisbett. ‘So you are a woman, then?’

‘Of course I am a woman! I would not be pregnant if I were a man, would I?’

Chaloner felt it was unreasonable of her to bark at
him. ‘You must forgive me, madam, but it is not every day that a Yeoman Cartaker confesses to being a lady.’

‘Well, perhaps not, but this is White Hall, so you should be used to the unexpected. Of course, Hannah does not know I am
a sister-in-law, and I would be grateful if you did not enlighten her.’

‘Her first husband, Nathan, was he a woman, too?’

‘Do not be ridiculous! It is only me, William and Josias who are of the fairer sex. Well, we had to do something to earn a
crust, given that none of us are pretty enough to be ladies-in-waiting. And I am an excellent manager of His Majesty’s carriages.
Far better than any man.’

‘I am sure you are,’ asked Chaloner weakly.

‘We have all done extremely well at White Hall, and we have made the name of Cotton highly respected. However, that will change
should my secret emerge. It would hurt Hannah, too.’

Chaloner supposed it would. ‘So, can I assume that someone found out about your … your
condition
, and is threatening to expose you?’

‘Precisely! I shall disappear to the country to “visit kin” when my time comes, as I have done in the past, so no one should
know anything about it. But some wretched villain found out, although I cannot imagine how. All I can think is that someone
must have overheard me talking to my sisters.’

‘Do you have any idea who?’

‘If I did, I would call the villain out. I may be a woman, Mr Chaloner, but I am more than a match for most of these fops
who strut about Court.’

Chaloner was sure she was. ‘How does the blackmailer communicate?’

Daniel handed him a sheet of paper, on which the
writer informed the reader in a bold roundhand that the cost of concealing the pregnancy would be fifty pounds. It was to
be paid by the end of the month, which was about two weeks hence.

‘I do not have fifty pounds,’ she said. ‘It is more than I earn in a year. Yet I cannot have my family exposed to ridicule.
People will say Nathan was a woman, too, and it explains why his marriage was childless. But he was a perfectly normal man,
and it was just unfortunate that he and Hannah were never blessed with brats.’

‘Not nearly as unfortunate as the fact that you are,’ muttered Chaloner. ‘All I can promise is to listen for rumours regarding
his identity. And I will look into the matter when my current cases are closed, and I have more free time.’

Daniel sighed her relief. ‘Thank you. Is there anything I can do for you in return?’

‘Yes. You can take Hannah to this play in the Banqueting House.’

‘So you can pursue your other work?’ asked Daniel.

So I do not have to take her to Hanse’s funeral, thought Chaloner. He nodded.

‘Very well,’ said Daniel. ‘I will do a great deal to secure your help, even sit through a play.’

For convenience, Hanse was going to be laid to rest in St Martin-in-the-Fields, no longer rural, but still possessed of a
decent sward of grass for burials. Aware that a large gathering of Dutchmen was likely to attract unwanted attention, Ambassador
van Goch had permitted only a few of his staff to attend. All had been instructed to don clothes that would not reveal them
to be foreigners.

There was a smattering of English mourners besides
Chaloner. Bulteel was there as the Earl’s representative, and he had asked Griffith to join him. Bulteel had not bothered
to change, and his pale-green coat was inappropriate. By contrast, Griffith had taken considerable care with
his
appearance, and every item of clothing was black. Chaloner could see him berating his cousin for his insensitivity, although
Bulteel appeared bemused, not understanding what he had done wrong.

Chaloner wore a black coat for the occasion, and felt the sun burning through it as he stood at the graveside, listening to
the priest drone the all-too-familiar words. Inevitably, he thought of his first wife and child, especially when Jacoba came
to cling to his arm, as she had done at Aletta’s funeral. It was a dismal occasion, and upset him more than he liked to admit.

Afterwards, everyone was invited to the Savoy for wine, biscuits and the distribution of mourning rings. Being sociable was
the last thing Chaloner felt like doing, but Jacoba said she wanted him there, and it would have been churlish to refuse.
Reluctantly, he climbed into one of the waiting carriages, and found it already occupied by Bulteel, Griffith and the Killigrews.

‘Thank God that is over,’ said Griffith, flapping his piece of lace and leaning back against the upholstery with a gusty sigh.
‘I
detest
funerals. All that weeping and wailing …’

‘I do not mind,’ said Bulteel blithely. ‘I am not asked to many, so it makes for a pleasant change. But I do not want to go
to this post-burial reception. I hate the Savoy.’

‘Do you?’ asked Killigrew coldly. ‘And why is that, pray?’

‘It is not the place itself,’ gabbled Bulteel, seeing he had offended. ‘It is its current residents. I do not like
being among Dutchmen when they are so unpopular. It makes me fearful for my life.’

‘I can agree with you there,’ said Judith. ‘I cannot wait to see the back of them.’

‘You amaze me,’ said Griffith. ‘I have always found the delegates extremely mannerly.’

‘Oh, they are mannerly,’ acknowledged Killigrew. ‘But that does not mean we must like them. Besides, they are not
all
well behaved. That Ruyven is downright uncouth.’

‘Hanse was the best of them,’ said Judith sadly. ‘And I am sorry he is the one who died. He was nothing but smiles and cheerful
conversation.’

‘I do not believe he stole those papers from Clarendon,’ said Killigrew. ‘Not him. Well, not any of them, if you want the
truth. They are not thieves. Not even Ruyven.’

‘Yet someone made off with them,’ said Bulteel unhappily. ‘And I hope to God they turn up soon. I shall not rest easy until
I know what has happened, because the notion of someone breaking into Worcester House and helping himself to important documents
does not bear thinking about.’

Chaloner felt guilty when it occurred to him that he had done virtually nothing about retrieving them, but then told himself
that the Earl had only himself to blame. How could the theft be investigated when Chaloner had no notion as to what kind of
person the papers might appeal?

When the coach drew to a standstill outside the Savoy, Griffith’s servant, Lane, was waiting to help the occupants out. As
usual, he was dour and silent, although the briefest of smiles cracked when he contrived to make Bulteel stumble. Griffith
berated him soundly for his lack of care, although Lane did not seem to take the reprimand
to heart. Or perhaps he did – it was difficult to tell with such a taciturn character.

‘How is your arm?’ he asked Chaloner, the last to alight. ‘Nisbett fought like a scoundrel the other night. True gentlemen
do not taunt their opponents.’

‘I never thanked you for standing with me,’ said Chaloner. ‘I hope it did not see you in trouble.’

‘It did, but there we are. I am glad
you
picked Nisbett, because I would not have lasted two minutes with him. Kicke, on the other hand, is all bluster. I wish I
had slit his throat.’

And with that venomous remark, he bowed, and turned away to help the driver with the horses.

‘I swear he just said more to you than he has uttered in three months to me,’ said Griffith, who had been watching from the
shade of the porch. ‘He is a desperately uncommunicative rogue.’

‘Is he given to fighting?’

Griffith raised his eyebrows. ‘No, or I would not have hired him! But there is something odd about him. Something sly. I shall
dismiss him the moment I find a suitable replacement.’

Chaloner recalled what Temperance had said about Griffith. ‘I understand you have been listening to rumours about Hanse, and
have learned that he drank in taverns with strangers.’

Griffith nodded. ‘It is amazing what one overhears in the Spares Gallery. And my cousin ordered me to keep my ears open, in
the hope that I might learn something to help you locate the villain who made off with Clarendon’s papers. Unfortunately,
I heard nothing useful about those, but I did catch a few whispers about Hanse.’

‘What, exactly?’

‘Just that he visited the Sun tavern and sat with four men, although no one seems to know their names. As far as I am concerned,
that is peculiar behaviour for a foreign diplomat, so perhaps there
is
truth in the rumour that he stole the Earl’s documents.’

The reception for Hanse was being held in the State Room, where were gathered many people who had wanted to attend the funeral,
but who had been forbidden to do so by van Goch. They comprised not only every member of the ambassadorial delegation, but
a large number of London-based Dutch merchants, too. The ten or so British guests formed a distinct minority, and stood together
looking acutely uncomfortable. All except one.

‘
He
was not invited,’ Bulteel whispered in Chaloner’s ear, pointing to where Downing was making a nuisance of himself with the
women. Most fled before he could corner them, but Kun and Zas were obliged to rescue others who were less fleet of foot.

‘Then why did he come?’ asked Chaloner. A funeral was the last occasion
he
would gatecrash.

‘For the funeral gifts,’ explained Bulteel. ‘And the free food.’

Chaloner regarded him in amused surprise. ‘I hardly think—’

‘I am right,’ asserted Bulteel. ‘His meanness is legendary, and he will do anything to avoid spending money. The food and
wine served here will save him the cost of his dinner.’

Chaloner was about to argue when he saw Downing grab a handful of biscuits, eat half as quickly as he could, and slip the
rest in his pocket for later. Bulteel nodded
his satisfaction at this proof that he was right, then wandered away to admire the paintings, evidently trying to put Griffith’s
art lessons to good use. Chaloner went to pay his respects to Jacoba.