The Body in the Thames (33 page)

‘I do not have a second,’ he was saying unsteadily. ‘I could not find … I did not want to tell …’

Kicke laughed. ‘You kept my challenge secret, lest your friends see you as the cuckold you are.’

‘I
will
kill you,’ vowed Bates, swallowing hard. ‘You insult Ann, as well as me.’

‘She does not deserve you,’ spat Kicke contemptuously. ‘She deserves me, and I will have her when you are in your grave. So,
shall we start, or do you need a moment to pray first?’

Bates tried to draw his sword, but his hand was shaking so badly that it stuck. Chaloner watched in horror. The contest was
tantamount to murder, because there was no way Bates stood even the remotest chance of surviving the encounter. Hannah would
be devastated – she was fond of the man who had been her father’s closest friend. Moreover, what would she say if she ever
learned that her husband had stood by and watched the slaughter from the safety of a bush?

Chaloner had seen Kicke fight: he was no Nisbett, and the spy knew he could probably defeat him. He closed his eyes for a
moment, took a deep breath, then strode forward.

‘Sorry I am late.’ He smiled amiably when Kicke whipped around. ‘I am Bates’s second.’

‘But he just said he does not have one,’ objected Kicke uneasily. ‘Go away. You—’

‘No, let him stay,’ said Nisbett, advancing from the gloom with his blade at the ready. ‘And I move that the principals stand
back and let the seconds settle this matter. Is everyone agreed?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Kicke quickly. ‘Carry on.’

Wishing he had remained hidden, and sincerely
hoping Wiseman’s report on Nisbett’s weak knee was accurate, Chaloner drew his sword. Nisbett grinned his delight, and Chaloner
knew he would have to act quickly, or it was going to be a very short – and fatal – encounter.

‘No!’ cried Bates, grabbing Chaloner’s arm. ‘Hannah will never forgive me.’

He jerked away when Nisbett launched a savage attack that had Chaloner retreating faster than was comfortable. Nisbett smirked
his satisfaction when the spy stumbled.

‘Remember what happened the last time you played with him,’ warned Kicke. ‘Finish him quickly, and then I shall dispatch the
worm who married my Ann.’

Nisbett lunged again, forcing Chaloner to work hard to avoid being skewered, but the spy knew he was holding back – that despite
Kicke’s words, he intended to enjoy himself before delivering the final blow. The assault ended when the tip of his sword
pierced Chaloner’s coat, which would have hurt, had his shirt not been stuffed full of Privy Council minutes. Gloating, Nisbett
strutted away, expressing his contempt by turning his back.

It was the opportunity Chaloner had been waiting for. He shot forward, and managed to score a gash in the man’s thigh. It
was a superficial injury, but it slowed Nisbett down. It also made him less agile, so he struggled to defend himself when
attacked. And then he lost his balance. He landed on the ground with a screech of agony, clutching his leg and letting the
weapon fly from his hand.

‘I yield!’ he howled. ‘Fetch me a surgeon. Quickly! The pain …’

‘What happens now?’ asked Bates, regarding him dispassionately. ‘Do I fight Kicke?’

‘I will,’ offered Chaloner. ‘Or you can accept his apology. It is your choice.’

‘I apologise,’ said Kicke hastily, apparently unwilling to risk a bout with the man who had bested Nisbett. ‘There. Now honour
has been satisfied and I can tend my wounded friend.’

‘I accept on one condition,’ said Bates with sudden spirit. ‘That you stay away from Ann. Decline, and Chaloner will dispatch
you here and now.’

Kicke regarded him with blazing eyes. ‘Very well,’ he said, after a brief internal struggle, during which Nisbett howled,
moaned and pleaded with him to hurry. ‘You have my word.’

‘The word of a scoundrel,’ said Bates coldly. ‘But it will have to do, I suppose. Good day.’

He strode away, head held high. Nisbett whimpered his relief, and there was a vengeful expression on Kicke’s face. Neither
would forgive what had happened that morning.

Chaloner accepted Bates’s offer of a ride to Fleet Street, and they climbed into his carriage just as the twilight lifted
and the first hint of gold in the east indicated that the sun was coming up.

‘You risked your life, dashing in like that,’ said Bates, when they were under way. ‘Because they meant to murder me.’

‘I imagine they still do, so be on your guard.’

‘I will.’ Bates looked out of the window. ‘I had another demand for money this morning – the blackmailer is growing impatient.
I am going to pay him, then take
Ann away. By this evening, we shall be gone from the city for ever.’

‘Good. Hannah will be relieved to see you out of danger.’

Bates nodded. ‘Yes, she will. But I am sorry I shall not be able to do as I offered – provide you with documents to bring
Kicke down. However, Hannah told me you are also looking into the murder of that Dutch diplomat, so I wondered whether this
might help you.’

He withdrew a sheet of paper from his pocket. It had been screwed into a ball at some point, because it was wrinkled. It was
also partially burned at one end.

Chaloner took it cautiously. ‘How did you come by it?’

‘I found it in the Spares Gallery. Someone must have been working on it, then tossed it in the fire when he had finished.
Unfortunately for him, the flames did not consume it all.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Are you in the habit of picking through ashes, then?’

Bates shrugged. ‘It caught my eye when I was rearranging the fireplace. I like a tidy hearth.’

Chaloner turned his attention to the paper. ‘A recipe for gingerbread?’

‘Turn it over,’ said Bates impatiently. ‘Look at the
other
side.’

Chaloner did as he was told, and then it was difficult to prevent his shock from showing. There was a list of names, some
with lines scored through them. It read:

There may have been others, too, but the paper was too singed to tell. Chaloner gazed at it, thoughts churning. It comprised
people he thought were associated with the Sinon Plot, with those who were dead crossed off. Compton said he had lost three
of his four men – Upton, Osborn and Oates – with only Fairfax left alive, while Chaloner knew about Hanse, Molins, Oetje,
Swallow and Swan. Moreover, Assistant Keeper Edwards had lost a guard named Brown to a recent illness. Did his name on the
list suggest the ‘fever’ had been nothing of the kind? And did Edwards’s own name mean he was marked for assassination, too?

Chaloner could only assume the list was Falcon’s, and that he was eliminating anyone he considered a problem. After all, Swan
and Swallow’s names had been written, but Falcon’s own had not. It was possible that it had been burned off the bottom, but
somehow Chaloner did not think so, and the more he considered it, the more he became certain.

But who was Pocks? The last member of the group who had met in the taverns – the vicar, whose name Compton had spoken too
softly to hear? If so, then the fact that it was scored through suggested that Chaloner was already too late to save him.
And why were there question marks next to Chaloner’s own name and that of Joseph? Did it refer to Joseph Molins?

Yet one thing was clear: Falcon had access to White Hall, and was sufficiently at ease there that he had lounged comfortably
in the Spares Gallery and written a death list. Did that mean the Dutch delegation could be eliminated as suspects? Unfortunately,
Chaloner suspected it did not – such an audacious master of deceit would probably feel at home anywhere he chose to be.

‘Do you know a vicar called Pocks?’ he asked Bates urgently. ‘Perhaps Edward Pocks?’

Bates shook his head. ‘I am sorry. And I would offer to help you find out, but I have booked seats for Ann and myself on the
Oxford coach at nine o’clock.’

‘Then be sure you do not miss it.’

Even though it was early, the Rainbow Coffee House was open for business. Chaloner knew it was risky to visit a familiar haunt
when his home had been put under surveillance, but he wanted to see Rector Thompson and ask after Hannah. And meeting him
in the coffee house was a lot safer than visiting his home or waylaying him in public.

Farr was roasting beans in a pan over a fire, and the air was thick with smoke. It billowed so densely that the skillet was
invisible, and although Farr had once told Chaloner that he did not need to see the beans to know when they were ready – he
could tell by the sound they made in the pot – Chaloner did not think he was very good at judging it. His brews always tasted
burnt.

‘Freshly ground this morning,’ he announced, flapping his way out of the fug and coming to present his customers with a jug
of steaming liquid. ‘It does not come any better than this.’

Chaloner sipped it, and thought that if Farr’s claim were true, then coffee would be a short-lived phenomenon. But he nodded
polite appreciation, and Farr went to serve Stedman, who was holding forth about the religious significance of hailstones.
Unwilling to listen to the ridiculous assertions being made, Chaloner withdrew to a corner while he waited for Thompson to
appear, and
passed the time by studying the documents he had found in the cheese.

It did not take him long to realise that Bulteel had been right when he had said Privy Council secretaries wrote everything
down: the documents contained a huge amount of irrelevant chatter. He learned that while Buckingham had no concept of the
manoeuvrability of the navy’s gunships, he owned a detailed grasp of the quality of the horses in the King’s stables. He also
discovered that the Duke of York liked women with short, fat legs in green stockings, and that Clarendon thought there should
be a tax on traffic, as a measure to reduce London’s congestion.

Reading on, he saw that military statistics given in one meeting were contradicted in the next, and that the ‘expert opinions’
of committee members changed constantly, depending on how they happened to feel at the time. As far as he was concerned, the
minutes told the reader nothing more useful than that here was a group of men who did not know what they were talking about.

Would the papers be dangerous to national security if they fell into the wrong hands? They revealed the Privy Council to be
a band of clueless idiots, but Chaloner suspected the Dutch already knew that. Moreover, the conflicting information did more
to confuse than inform, and if van Goch believed any of it, then he was likely to do his own country a serious disservice.

The last document was the one that had intrigued Murdoch. It was written in bold roundhand, and said that Lady Castlemaine
had stolen the veil the Queen wore to church, and had had it converted into some indecent underwear. It went on to describe
the skimpy
garment. Chaloner knew the Queen would be horrified if she ever found out, and, because he would not want her quite so brazenly
insulted, the King was unlikely to be amused. The letter went on say that the Lady could have the item in question back, if
she parted with fifty pounds.

Chaloner stared at it. Was the Lady guilty as charged? It was certainly the kind of prank that would appeal to her – and knowledge
of it would appeal to the White Hall blackmailer. But how had Kun come to be in possession of such a note? With a sigh, Chaloner
saw he would have to ask him as soon as he had delivered the papers to the Earl.

He was about to give up on Thompson and go about his duties, when the rector arrived.

‘Your wife is charming company,’ he enthused, all smiles. ‘I may not let her go when you decide it is safe for her to return
home, because she tells such entertaining tales of the Court …’

Chaloner was sure she did. ‘Thank you for looking after her.’

‘How are
you
faring?’ asked Thompson in a lower voice. ‘I have seen you looking better.’

Chaloner supposed his appearance did leave something to be desired. His night in the open had left him rumpled and unkempt,
and he had not shaved in days. He decided he had better make a foray to Tothill Street before visiting the Earl.

‘White Hall was in a frenzy just now,’ Thompson went on, when Chaloner made no reply. ‘Sir George Downing’s house was burgled
last night. Unfortunately for the would-be thief, Downing was up, frolicking with some hapless chambermaid, and there was
a bit of a fight.’

‘Is Downing harmed?’ asked Chaloner hopefully.

‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Thompson with a rueful smile. ‘Which goes to show the Devil always looks after his own. The felon
was heavily disguised, but Downing is going around White Hall braying that the suspect is Lane – Colonel Griffith’s manservant.
Lane denies it, of course, and Griffith is defending him stoutly, although I can tell it pains him to do so.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he cannot abide the man, and longs to replace him. Unfortunately, anyone who applies for the post mysteriously withdraws
his application within a few hours. The suspicion is that Lane warns them off. Poor Griffith! There is something about Lane
that is very sinister.’