The Body in the Thames (35 page)

‘Or someone planted them there in an effort to undermine the peace talks,’ suggested Chaloner.

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ acknowledged the Earl. ‘But I do not like the notion of my papers in Dutch hands – not even ones
about horses.’

‘I doubt any harm has been done. The minutes expose the Privy Council as ill-informed and stupid, and will lull the Dutch
into a false sense of security. That can only benefit England.’

The Earl gaped at him. ‘Men have been hanged for making less acerbic remarks! Besides,
I
am on this committee, and
I
am not ill-informed
or
stupid.’

Chaloner was inclined to think he was, if the transcripts were anything to go by. He watched the Earl continue to leaf through
them, and said no more.

‘But what is this?’ demanded his master, stopping suddenly. ‘Not notes from the Council.’

Too late, Chaloner realised he probably should not have included the letter about the Lady, but it was too late to take it
back, and he watched the Earl’s eyes widen in horror as he read it.

‘Is this your idea of a joke?’ he demanded. ‘To embarrass me with ribald missives?’

‘I am sorry, sir. It was in the cheese with the other documents, and—’

Clarendon flung it back at him. ‘I assure you, it has nothing to do with me. It is disgusting!’

‘I will burn it, then,’ said Chaloner, going towards the hearth and reaching for a tinderbox.

‘Wait! If what it says is true, then it shows the Lady in a terrible light, does it not? To take a garment of deep devotional
significance and turn it into lewd underwear?’

Chaloner turned towards him. ‘It does not flatter her, certainly.’

The Earl held out his hand. ‘Then we shall put it in a safe place. It might come in useful.’

‘You would use it to …’ Chaloner stopped himself from using the word blackmail, but only just.

‘To encourage her to acknowledge certain points of view,’ finished the Earl smugly.

‘Well, do not leave it anywhere it might be stolen again,’ advised Chaloner, thinking his master was making a big mistake.
‘It might be more trouble than it is worth.’

‘What do you mean by “again”?’ demanded the Earl. ‘This was
never
in my possession. The thief must have stolen the intimate papers of others, as well as my own.’

‘Then it cannot have been Hanse. He did not have had access to Lady Castlemaine’s quarters.’

Clarendon pursed his lips, not liking to be proven wrong. ‘Have you found his killer yet? No? Then you had better go and do
so. Perhaps it will help to persuade Downing of your innocence.’

As Chaloner left White Hall, he found himself studying the people he passed, to assess whether one might be Falcon in disguise.
He noticed that Sir Alan Brodrick moved more stiffly than was his wont, and that Kicke’s luxurious mane was probably a wig.
He began to feel overwhelmed. How was he supposed to stop whatever was being planned when he did not know what it entailed,
or even what its perpetrator looked like?

He forced himself to concentrate on other lines of enquiry, in the hope that answers regarding Falcon might come if he was
not straining so desperately for them. He decided to visit the Savoy, to see if he could prise some truth from Kun. He walked
there too quickly, so when he arrived he was breathless, sweaty and tense. Before he could approach the gate, his shoulder
was grabbed and he was swung around roughly. He found himself facing Killigrew.

‘You have a damned nerve, coming here,’ snapped the Master of the Savoy Hospital angrily. ‘Downing says you are a spy, and
I should have guessed it when you were
so quick to defend Kun and Zas after they were attacked by that mob.’

‘I said they had no choice but to accept the King’s invitation to St James’s Park,’ objected Chaloner. ‘That was not defending
them – it was an explanation.’

‘So you say,’ sneered Killigrew. ‘But you speak their language. It is damned sinister.’

‘You speak French,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Does that make you a French spy?’

‘Of course not!’ snapped Killigrew testily. ‘But I am above reproach, whereas you work for the Lord Chancellor – a man who
itches for peace. And do not think you will be safe inside the Savoy, either, because I am going to tell Downing where you
are.’

He strode away, all righteous indignation. Chaloner considered running after him, but doubted Killigrew would listen to reason.
Aware that he had better hurry if he was to be gone before the envoy arrived, he stepped up to the gate and asked to see Kun.
There were more soldiers on duty than usual.

‘You cannot come in,’ Ruyven said coldly. ‘I have tightened security, because Downing claims to have found those stolen papers
in one of our vases. But none of us put them there, so they must have been planted by someone who wants to damage the peace
talks.’

‘Who?’

‘Someone who is underhand and disreputable. Someone like you, in fact.’

Nettled, Chaloner went on the offensive. ‘How long have you and Jacoba been lovers?’

The blood drained from Ruyven’s face. ‘What? How do you … How
could
you …’

‘I suspect Hanse knew, and that was why he turned to drink in the last few—’

Ruyven shoved him against a wall, glancing around uneasily to make sure they could not be overheard. ‘This is none of your
business. And if you breathe one word to anyone, I will kill you.’

‘Is that what you did to Hanse? Killed him when he found out?’

‘No! There was no need, because he did not care. All
he
cared about was peace.’

‘Oh, I think he cared,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘Everyone here noticed his increased drinking.’

Ruyven could not meet his eyes, and released him abruptly. ‘Well, perhaps he did turn to the barrel. But he never tried to
stop us, and Jacoba needed more than the occasional kiss from a distracted husband. Besides, our affair is over now, and if
you do not believe me, ask her.’

Chaloner stared at him. Ruyven had changed over the last twelve years. He was heavier, darker and his eyebrows were thicker.
Moreover, the old Ruyven had been quick to lose his temper, and quicker still to draw his sword – Chaloner would have been
battling for his life if he had made such remarks to the man he had known in Amsterdam. Was this the real Ruyven, or was it
Falcon?

‘I need to speak to Kun,’ he said, not sure what to think.

‘Well, you cannot. I am not having you regaling my colleagues with accusations about—’

‘Accusations that happen to be true,’ Chaloner flashed back. ‘But your secret is safe with me; I have no wish to hurt Jacoba.
However, I still want an audience with Kun.’

‘I could not oblige, even if I wanted to,’ snapped Ruyven. ‘Because he is missing.’

Chaloner recalled the discussion he had overheard the previous night, when Zas had assured van Goch that Kun had found himself
a secluded corner, in order to think. Was Kun still thinking? Or had he gone the same way as Hanse?

‘Perhaps you will help us locate him,’ came a voice from behind. Chaloner had heard Zas’s soft-footed approach, but Ruyven
whipped around in alarm, clearly wondering exactly how much of the discussion the lawyer had overheard. ‘He went out after
Downing found those stolen papers in the vase yesterday. He said he was going to prove our innocence.’

‘Did he say how?’ asked Chaloner, aware that if Kun was dead, the peace talks would founder for certain; van Goch could not
be expected to overlook the murder of a second diplomat.

‘No,’ replied Zas. ‘And we are all very worried. We are virtual prisoners in the Savoy now, and we need someone we can trust
to search outside—’

‘No,’ interrupted Ruyven. ‘
I
do not trust Chaloner. I do not want him involved in our affairs.’

‘Because you still smart over the woman he married?’ demanded Zas coldly. ‘She died years ago, man! Surely, it is time to
forget this ancient rivalry? And Kun may be—’

Ruyven’s face was white with fury. ‘My past is none of your concern!’

‘Perhaps not,’ snapped Zas. ‘But Kun is, and he is more important than your wounded pride.’

‘My pride has nothing to do with it,’ snarled Ruyven. ‘Has it occurred to you that Downing is unlikely to have
guessed
where those papers had been shoved, so someone must have told him? Chaloner is the Lord Chancellor’s man, and it was the
Lord Chancellor’s minutes that were stolen. In other words,
he
put them in the pot, then told Downing where to look. To cause trouble.’

‘But you told Heer van Goch that you accompanied him every moment he was in the Savoy,’ Zas shot back. ‘If that is true, then
how can he have slipped documents into vases?’

Ruyven regarded him with dislike. ‘Spies have their ways. And someone has been working against the negotiations from the start
– telling lies that make the two sides distrust each other, hiding documents that cause delays, killing our diplomats. I said
it was a waste of time to come to London, and I was right.’

‘I agree that there is a saboteur,’ said Zas. ‘But it is not Chaloner: he was not in London when the trouble started.’

‘So he claims,’ said Ruyven. ‘But why should we believe him?’

The argument went on for some time, with Chaloner fretting at the wasted moments. He could scarcely credit that the Dutch
and
the English suspected him of espionage, especially as it was the one time in his life that he was innocent. How had it happened?
Was it Falcon’s doing, to slow him down and prevent him from discovering what was going on?

‘Very well, then,’ shouted Ruyven, throwing up his hands in a theatrical expression of disgusted capitulation. ‘Let him in.
But do not come crying to
me
when he betrays you.’

‘Heer van Goch made a mistake when he appointed him to oversee our security,’ said Zas with rank disapproval,
watching Ruyven stalk away. ‘He is loyal, but the task is beyond his meagre abilities. But never mind him. Come with me to
the Brown Room.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner suspiciously.

‘Because I am worried about Kun, and I am prepared to accept help from any quarter to find him. No matter what Downing and
Ruyven say about you.’

It was hardly a resounding vote of confidence, and Chaloner followed him across the courtyard reluctantly. Several people
scowled at him as he passed, indicating that the irascible captain was not the only one ready to believe the envoy’s accusations.

‘Unfortunately, Ruyven is right,’ said Zas, as they went. ‘Downing
did
go straight to those papers last night – I watched him. And the only way he could have known they were there was if someone
had told him. In other words, we
do
have a spy in our midst.’

‘But I am not in your midst,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘I am an outsider.’

‘Quite.’ Zas smiled wryly. ‘And it makes you a more attractive candidate – no one likes the thought of being betrayed by a
friend. It is easier to blame the stranger.’

‘Will Heer van Goch postpone tomorrow’s convention?’ asked Chaloner, thinking that an atmosphere of doubt and mistrust would
do nothing to ensure a successful outcome.

Zas pursed his lips. ‘He said that would be playing into the saboteur’s hands, and is determined to go ahead, no matter what.
He says it is our last chance.’

Chaloner saw preparations were already under way. Food and wine were being carried to the kitchens, an army of cleaners was
at work, and van Goch’s ceremonial robes had been sponged down and were drying
outside his lodgings. The Savoy felt simultaneously industrious and uneasy.

They reached the Brown Room, where an immediate silence fell over the people who had gathered there. No one appeared to be
working, and the faces of all were tense and unhappy.

‘Chaloner has offered to help us find Kun,’ Zas announced, although Chaloner had done nothing of the kind. However, with upwards
of thirty men regarding him with open suspicion, he decided it was not the time to say so. ‘So tell him what we know.’

‘Kun is not in the Savoy,’ said Taacken. The burly sergeant spoke haltingly, clearly torn between his disinclination to cooperate
with a man who had been accused of espionage, and his desire to help the elderly secretary. ‘We have looked everywhere. So
he must still be out.’

‘Precisely.’ Zas looked around at his colleagues. ‘And as we cannot go to look for him ourselves, we must rely on local help.
Chaloner is Hanse’s kinsman, so better him than anyone else.’

The Brown Room’s occupants did not look particularly convinced, and Chaloner glanced at the door, wondering whether he could
reach it if they attacked en masse.

‘Kun said he was going to prove that we are innocent of stealing Clarendon’s papers,’ supplied Taacken, again speaking reluctantly.
‘He did not tell me how, only that he had an idea.’

‘He did not mention it to me,’ said a clerk with a big nose, while others muttered that Kun had not spoken to them, either.

‘If he has suffered Hanse’s fate, then we should leave this benighted country,’ said one of the lawyers. He glared at Chaloner.
‘We should not stay here to be picked off by clever foreigners.’

‘There is nothing to say Kun is—’ began Zas.

‘There is nothing to say he isn’t, either,’ countered the lawyer. ‘We are risking our lives by staying, and I want no more
to do with England or Englishmen. And I do not want their kind in the Savoy, either, no matter whose kin they claim to be.’

There was a general growl of agreement, and realising that prolonging the interview would serve no useful purpose, Zas declared
an end to it. Chaloner was relieved: he could not recall ever feeling so vulnerable, not even when he really had been spying
on the Dutch. They were almost at the gate when there was a shout, and Jacoba hurried towards them.

‘Have you learned anything new about Willem?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Is that why you are here?’

Chaloner was tempted to make a remark about her relationship with Ruyven, but that would have been ungentlemanly in front
of Zas, and he owed her some consideration. ‘Not really.’

‘He came to ask after Kun,’ explained Zas. ‘We are all anxious about him.’

‘We should be,’ replied Jacoba soberly. ‘He was very upset about Downing finding those papers, and he told me he was going
to Westminster to talk to Spymaster Williamson about them. I have heard rumours about that particular man, and apparently,
he is not very nice.’

Before Chaloner tackled Williamson, he went to the Tower, to see whether Edwards had returned. The same
yeoman was on duty, and informed him that the Assistant Keeper was still away, but that the message would be delivered the
minute he returned. Frustrated, Chaloner hurried to the Fleet Rookery, where he sought out Mother Greene. Keen to stay on
her good side, he took her a ham.

‘Your warning has been delivered to Fairfax’s favourite inn,’ she said, accepting the gift with an appreciative nod. ‘And
promises were made to get it to him. It is the best I can do.’

‘Then let us hope it reaches him,’ said Chaloner worriedly, supposing he would have to return yet again, because his vow to
Compton would not be fulfilled until he knew for certain that both men had received and understood the warnings.

When he arrived at Williamson’s office, hot and agitated, he hesitated. It was the last place he should go, given that he
was accused of espionage. But he desperately needed to interview Kun, and Williamson was the only person who might be able
to say what had happened to him. He racked his brains for other ways forward, but nothing came to mind, and he was in the
process of writing a note, asking Williamson to meet him in a nearby tavern, when the door opened and the Spymaster himself
stepped out. He had three stout men at his heels, clearly bodyguards. Wondering what he intended to do that warranted such
precautions, Chaloner began to follow.

They turned east, towards the river, and it did not take Chaloner long to guess their destination: the charnel house. When
they reached it, Williamson strode inside while his guards took up station by the door, ready to repel other visitors. Chaloner
climbed through
a window at the back, and heard Kersey entertaining his guest in the handsome parlour at the front of the building.

He crept towards them, a route that took him through the mortuary hall, where the stench of death was overpowering and the
buzz of flies was a constant hum. He soon saw why: every table held two occupants – victims of the unseasonable heat. Most
were thin, pathetic bundles under their covers, but one stood out as bulky. Was it Kun? Chaloner took a deep breath to steel
himself, and raised a corner of the sheet. But it was not the Dutchman who stared back at him, it was Nisbett, lank ginger
hair framing his waxen face, and bulbous eyes beginning to glaze.