The Body in the Thames (34 page)

‘Downing’s accusations are a good opportunity for Griffith to be rid of the fellow. So why does he back him?’

Thompson shrugged. ‘Principles, I suppose: Griffith feels obliged to stand by his own. He may be a cockerel, but he is loyal
to his people. And that is not all that has set White Hall a-twitter today. Charles Bates announced just minutes ago that
he is leaving on account of the plague.’

‘He has it?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

Thompson shook his head. ‘He says the heat will entice it to London. I heard him speak myself, and he was very convincing.
There was none of the self-effacing fellow we have grown accustomed to, but a man who spoke firmly and with conviction. It
was almost as if he was another person.’

Chaloner frowned. Had Bates’s victory over Kicke changed him? Or had Falcon boldly assumed the identity of a shy, unassuming
man whom no one had ever
really noticed? Chaloner shook himself impatiently. Wild flights of fancy were not going to help him catch one of the most
elusive criminals he had ever encountered.

Hannah’s house was still under surveillance, but Chaloner had not put in an appearance for so long that the watchers had grown
complacent. There were still too many to tackle for answers, but it was easy to evade the ones at the back and gain access
to his home via a window.

Inside, the place was in a terrible state. Clothes had been hauled from chests and tossed on the floor, cushions had been
slit and furniture upended. What did someone think he had? The Privy Council papers? Evidence about the Sinon Plot? The documents
that proved Downing was a cheat? He looked around unhappily. It was not the first time it had happened to him, and would probably
not be the last, but it would be the first time for Hannah, and he was sorry.

He shaved, found a smart blue waistcoat and black breeches, and left the way he had come. He had not gone far when he heard
a shout, and a glance behind showed two men racing towards him. One carried a gun. Chaloner turned and fled, aware that others
were joining the chase. But he had a good start, and was conveniently close to the maze of alleys around Westminster. He ducked
into a doorway, and watched three men hurtle past. There was a fourth, but he lagged behind, fatter and less fit. Chaloner
stuck out his foot and the fellow went sprawling.

‘Answer some questions and you will live,’ he whispered, hauling the fellow into his hiding place and pressing a knife to
his throat. ‘Refuse, and you will learn just how angry I am about the mess you made of my house.’

‘Not me, sir,’ bleated the man, frightened. ‘I stood outside and kept guard, but I never went in. The one who hired us did,
although I do not know his name and I did not see his face, so I cannot tell you who he is. He pays a dozen of us to watch
your house full time, and says he will give us five shillings each if we lay hold of you and bring you to him.’

‘Bring me where?’

‘To the Heaven Inn, where we are to wait for someone to come and take you off our hands.’

The information did not help. The Heaven was a large, impersonal tavern, and Chaloner could ask questions there all day and
not learn the identity of whoever wanted him.

‘Then who are you?’ he demanded.

‘Just poor Richard Inch of Smithfield, sir. No one important.’

Clearly, Inch was a member of one of London’s many criminal gangs, who hired their services to anyone who could pay. Such
organisations were powerful and secretive, and Inch would be a lowly operative: Chaloner was unlikely to learn more by questioning
him further. He put the knife in his pocket, aware that the interrogation had told him nothing he did not already know.

‘Did your employer say why he wants me?’ he asked, not really expecting a sensible answer.

‘Not at first – he just said he needed to talk to you. But last night he told us that you are a spy, and a danger to our country.’

Again, the answer told Chaloner nothing, other than the fact that ‘he’ was aware the watchers had become complacent and hoped
to give them added incentive for vigilance. Any one of his suspects – Falcon, Williamson,
Downing or Kicke and Nisbett – might have invented such a tale.

Chaloner heard the King’s many clocks striking seven as he reached White Hall, and was surprised: he had been up for hours,
and thought it was much later. He headed for the Earl’s offices, relishing the cool emanating from the great marble staircase.
He walked quickly, thinking of all he needed to do that day – confront Kun, visit the Devil tavern, ensure his messages to
White and Fairfax had been delivered. And that was before he turned his attention to unmasking Falcon, and assessing whether
Ruyven and Jacoba’s affair had a bearing on Hanse’s death.

‘Wait!’ hissed Bulteel, hurrying to intercept him as he passed. ‘There is something you need to know before you speak to Clarendon.
Come into my office.’

‘What is the matter?’ asked Chaloner, alarmed by the worry on the secretary’s face.

‘There is a rumour that says you are a spy for the States-General. Apparently, you were seen climbing into a carriage with
some Dutchmen yesterday. Moreover, you make regular visits to the Savoy, and you met Hanse in suspicious circumstances.’

Chaloner sighed. ‘Who started the gossip? Downing? Williamson?’

Bulteel pursed his lips. ‘I would not know about Williamson. I did not like the atmosphere in his place of work when we visited
it the other day, so I decided to cool our relationship. The Earl has never approved of it, and neither have you, so you should
both be pleased. Moreover, he is unpopular at Court, and I will never be accepted in lofty circles as long as I fraternise
with him.’

‘The same might be said about your friendship with me,’ said Chaloner, although he was relieved to hear Bulteel’s curious
association with the Spymaster was on the wane. He had never been comfortable with it.

‘Downing would certainly agree,’ said Bulteel. ‘He claims you are related to Hanse through a secret former marriage, and he
came here this morning with a band of louts to arrest you.’

‘He cannot arrest me: he has no authority.’

‘That is what Clarendon said, so he has stormed off to Williamson, to get some. You cannot stay in London, Tom. I know you
are innocent and so does the Earl, but no one else will give you the benefit of the doubt. You are not safe here, and you
should leave while you can.’

Chaloner understood exactly what the envoy was doing. ‘Downing thinks I have papers that show him to be corrupt, and no doubt
hopes that if I am in prison, they will be dismissed as forgeries. And he will escape prosecution.’

‘I do not believe you have any such papers,’ declared Bulteel stoutly. ‘He is lying about them.’

‘Oh, I imagine they exist. He would not be going to such efforts to defend himself otherwise. But they are not with me.’

Bulteel looked worried. ‘Please say you will leave London. Downing is treacherous and selfish, and would think nothing of
delivering you to a terrible fate in order to protect himself.’

‘I cannot run away. People will assume I am guilty.’

‘Better that than what Downing has in mind. Besides, Griffith told me last night that all manner of men are dying in curious
circumstances – Hanse, Sir William
Compton, Ned Molins. I do not want your name added to this list.’

‘Have you heard of a vicar named Edward Pocks?’ asked Chaloner hopefully. ‘He may have died recently, too.’

‘
I
have not, but I will ask my cousin – he seems to be acquainted with half of London. Do you know anything else about this
vicar? The name of his parish, perhaps?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘And I do not know how to begin finding out.’

‘I do,’ said Bulteel brightly. ‘The Bishop of London is coming to visit Clarendon later. He has an excellent memory for names,
so I shall ask him if he knows a clergyman called Pocks.’

‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner gratefully. ‘Incidentally, I heard Lane is in trouble.’

Bulteel nodded. ‘He is accused of burgling Downing, although I do not believe it, and neither does my cousin. Lane may be
a sinister devil, but he is not a thief. I suspect Downing made the tale up to hurt poor Griffith.’

‘What has Griffith done to annoy Downing?’

‘He composed a scurrilous, but very funny poem about his greed and corruption.’

Chaloner grinned, and his opinion of Griffith rose. ‘May I read it?’

Bulteel did not smile back. ‘It is no laughing matter, Tom. First, it may damage my efforts to be accepted at Court – people
know Griffith is my kinsman. And second, but rather more importantly, it may make Downing more dangerous than ever, which
may harm
you
.’

‘I can look after myself.’

‘In a swordfight, perhaps, but Downing has other
contrivances at his disposal. Take this morning, for instance. He had a second reason for coming here – namely to return some
of Clarendon’s missing papers, which he says he found in the Savoy. They were in a vase, apparently.’

Chaloner regarded him askance, although he recalled what he had overheard van Goch, Zas and de Buat saying the previous night:
Downing’s ‘so-called discovery’.

‘Why would the Dutch treat potentially valuable documents in so bizarre a manner?’ he asked dubiously. ‘And why was Downing
poking about inside their flower pots anyway?’

‘Clarendon asked both those questions, but Downing declined to answer. He was unbearably smug when he handed the minutes over,
though. He tried to make the Earl feel stupid for losing them in the first place, and kept saying that
you
did not retrieve them because your real loyalties lie with the States-General.’

Chaloner pulled the sheaf of papers from his waistcoat. ‘But I
have
retrieved some.’

Bulteel snatched them, and began to thumb through them lovingly. ‘I
knew
you would prevail! Where were they? Do you have the culprit under lock and key? Who is he?’

‘Are they are all recovered now?’ asked Chaloner, ignoring the flurry of questions.

‘No – only about half.’ Bulteel frowned when he found the letter pertaining to Lady Castlemaine. ‘But this is not a document
I recognise from—’

Chaloner took it from him. ‘I think you might be safer not knowing the contents of that.’

Bulteel tried to grab it back. ‘I am Clarendon’s secretary. I know everything about his affairs.’

‘It does not affect Clarendon,’ said Chaloner firmly, declining to let him see it.

‘As long as you are sure,’ said Bulteel, unhappily. ‘But I meant what I said about leaving London, Tom. I do not want to see
your head on a spike outside Westminster Hall.’

With a strong sense that unless he found answers quickly, Bulteel’s grim prediction might well come true, Chaloner stepped
inside the Earl’s office. That morning, even Clarendon had eschewed a fire, although his gouty foot was still swathed in blankets.
He glared when Chaloner approached.

‘Have you heard what Downing is saying? That your first marriage makes you a Dutch spy.’

‘We have never seen eye to eye.’

The Earl grimaced. ‘But he contradicts himself in his efforts to malign: he claims you gather intelligence for the States-General,
but then brays a tale in which you invaded de Witt’s bedroom and made off with his secrets. Obviously, you are unlikely to
have done both. But the evidence against you is damning – your visits to the Savoy, your fluency in Hollandish …’

‘I have been investigating Hanse’s death and your missing papers,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Of course I have been to the Savoy.
And it was necessary to speak Dutch, because some witnesses—’

The Earl cut across him. ‘Moreover, you have just returned from the States-General. No one but I knows why you went there,
and I am not about to announce that I ordered you to hunt for Lord Bristol. The King would not approve of that.’

‘I suppose the situation does not look good for me,’ conceded Chaloner.

‘It does not. So you had better stay away from
me
until this business is over.’

Chaloner thought about Griffith’s staunch defence of Lane. Clearly, the same courtesy was not going to be extended to him.
Clarendon seemed to read his thoughts.

‘I tried discrediting Downing’s accusations, but my enemies immediately began to clamour that I am in the pay of the Dutch,
too, which accounts for my determination to prevent a war. And as peace is more important than either of us, it is best if
I just distance myself from you for a while.’

‘Very well, sir,’ said Chaloner flatly.

The Earl grimaced. ‘None of this is my fault, Chaloner.
You
are the one who made an enemy of Downing, and now you must bear the consequences. However, you cannot leave London until
the fuss dies down, because I need you here. You will just have to keep your head down.’

‘I will try,’ said Chaloner, not bothering to point out that it was difficult to conduct investigations without being visible
to a certain extent.

‘Good. But do not look so sullen! This unpleasantness will soon be over. The peace talks are failing, and van Goch is mumbling
about going home. And when he goes, Downing will follow.’

Chaloner was horrified. ‘You mean we are on the brink of war?’

‘Yes, although I shall fight for conciliation for as long as I can. Who knows? Perhaps tomorrow’s convention will see some
progress – we can but hope. Incidentally, your failure to find my missing papers has caused me a great deal of embarrassment.
I have had Downing gloating—’

Chaloner handed him the bundle. ‘These were hidden
in a hollowed-out cheese in a hackney carriage,’ he said, loath to reveal Kun’s role in the affair until he understood what
was happening.

‘Lord!’ breathed Clarendon, skimming through them quickly. ‘A cheese in a hackney carriage is not a place
I
would have thought to look. And these are far more important than the ones Downing found, which transpired to be minutes
of the discussion we had about the price of horses. He found then in a vase in the Savoy, so I was right all along: Hanse
did
steal them.’