The Body in the Thames (6 page)

‘You mean did I find the Privy Council papers he stole from Clarendon, so that when our two countries go to war, he will have
given the States-General an advantage over us?’ enquired Kersey archly.

Chaloner regarded him in horror, aghast that a charnel-house keeper should know about a matter that should have been contained
within the Earl’s household.

‘It is common knowledge,’ said Kersey defensively, when he saw Chaloner’s shock. ‘Everyone knows Worcester House was burgled
the day that Hanse and Ambassador van Goch visited it.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, more appalled than ever. ‘Are you saying Hanse had the papers, then? Where are they?’

‘I did not find them. The body was stripped by the time it came to me.’

Chaloner winced. ‘By the people who found him?’

‘No, they said he was naked when they stumbled across him. I believe them, because they often bring me bodies from the Thames,
and they have never undressed one before.’

Chaloner stared at him. Was this evidence of murder? That Hanse’s killer had removed his victim’s clothing to
hinder identification? Or perhaps to inflict some final humiliation on him?

‘The only thing left was a stocking,’ Kersey went on. ‘And that was tied on so tightly that I needed a sharp knife to remove
it.’

Chaloner’s pulse quickened. Hanse had owned a peculiar habit of securing valuables in his hose, and kept them tight around
his knees to prevent money and papers from spilling out. ‘Do you still have it? May I see?’

Kersey’s eyebrows went up. ‘I threw it away. An odd stocking is of no use to me, and I cannot imagine his next-of-kin wanting
it. It will be with the other rubbish outside. Why?’

Chaloner shrugged, feigning indifference. ‘If it is all that is left, then I had better examine it.’

Chaloner left the pungent building with relief, and went to rummage in the pile of refuse behind it. Most did not bear too
close an inspection, and the feasting flies he disturbed buzzed in an angry cloud around his head. The stocking was near the
bottom, recognisable by the high quality of its wool and an intricate design that rendered it unmistakably Dutch. It was unmistakably
Hanse’s, too, because he had always prided himself on his immaculate footwear. It had been slit near the top, presumably by
Kersey to allow it to be pulled off, but was otherwise undamaged.

Chaloner glanced around carefully before picking it up, but the lane was deserted. The proximity of the Thames with its sun-baked
cargo of sewage and rubbish, along with Kersey’s odoriferous domain, meant the alley was not a pleasant place to be, and anyone
who lived nearby had taken themselves off to more conducive surroundings. He was definitely alone.

He sat on a crate and turned the stocking over in his hands. Hanse had harboured an especially strong horror of robbers, and
his family had always been amused
by his habit of secreting valuables in his hose – he spurned pockets in coat or breeches, on the grounds that thieves knew
how to find those. To ensure the stockings did not slide down, he took needle and thread each morning, and sewed them tight.
The fact that the sock had resisted attempts to remove it – by whoever had stripped his body and later by Kersey – suggested
it had been anchored very firmly. And that meant there was something within that Hanse had deemed worthy of protection.

But Chaloner’s hopes were soon dashed – it contained nothing. Disgusted, he flung it away, but as it landed, it caught the
sun, and he saw silver thread had been used to sew a pattern near the top. If the design had been on the outside, he would
have thought nothing of it, but it was on the inside, where it would never be seen. Puzzled, he bent down and picked it up
again. Two letters, an S and an N, had been embroidered, but the material was too filthy to allow any more to be made out.

He went to a water butt – almost empty because of the recent drought, but containing enough for a rinse – and inspected it
again. He was able to make out a word:
Sinon
.

He frowned. Sinon was the original spy who had persuaded the Trojans to take a wooden horse into their city, so that the Greek
soldiers hiding inside could emerge after darkness and destroy it. His name was synonymous with deceit, and was often used
to describe plots involving traitors. It was hardly original, and Chaloner had lost count of the times he had taken part in
‘Operation Sinon’ through the years. But what did it mean now? Was Hanse suggesting there was a traitor in the Dutch delegation?

He examined the hose again, and found more words embroidered opposite the first. They were difficult to read, as if Hanse
had been hurrying, and indeed, the last letter was incomplete:
Bezoek Nieuwe Poort
.

Chaloner translated it in his head.
Visit new gate
. But knowing its meaning did little to illuminate matters. What new gate? Or did it refer to Newgate, one of the gate-houses
that had been built to protect the medieval city from attack? Chaloner hoped not. Newgate was also a prison, and harrowing
experiences in such places, especially one in France had taught him to hate them intensely.

Eventually, realising that staring at the stocking was not going to provide him with answers, he left that grim little pocket
of Westminster, aiming for the open squares and wider streets that would take him to White Hall. He needed to tell Clarendon
that Hanse was found, so the Dutch ambassador could be officially informed. And then there was Hanse’s wife. Chaloner stopped
walking abruptly. Clearly, it was his duty to tell her first. The Earl would have to wait.

When Ambassador Michiel van Goch had arrived in London for the talks he hoped would avert a war, he had requested lodgings
that would allow all his retinue to be together under one roof. It was a tall order, given that he had brought with him some
two hundred diplomats, clerks, lawyers, servants and guards, plus several ship-loads of luggage, and the government had been
obliged to commandeer the Savoy Hospital to accommodate them all.

The Savoy had once been a palace, but currently served as a charitable foundation for the poor. It comprised not only a hall,
chapel, kitchens, stables and
dormitories, but a number of fine mansions that were usually leased to nobles and high-ranking clergy. The precinct was self-contained,
with secure courtyards in which vulnerable foreigners could take the air without fear of being attacked by those Londoners
who thought the delegation should never have come in the first place.

Its master, Dr Henry Killigrew, had not been pleased when he had been told what was going to happen – the Dutch were to pay
no rent, which meant he would lose revenue for as long as they remained – but the Court was happy. The Savoy was near enough
to be convenient for negotiations, but not so close that the visitors would impinge on the revelries for which White Hall
was famous. As he walked there, Chaloner recalled that Killigrew had been at his wedding – it had been the master’s wife whose
dress had been stained by Alden’s blood.

He dragged his feet as he made his way up King Street, not relishing the prospect of informing his first wife’s sister that
she was now a widow. He traversed Charing Cross slowly, and turned into The Strand, which was carpeted in a thick layer of
manure impregnated with discarded scraps of food, rotting vegetables, urine and copies of the many broadsheets – usually rabid
and ill-informed rants on politics and religion – that kept London’s printers busy. The blazing sun baked all, and the resulting
stench was enough to make his eyes smart.

The Savoy was located about a third of the way along, protected from the outside world by a fortified gate-house. It was guarded
by soldiers, English ones in buff jerkins with stripy sleeves, and Dutch ones in sleek uniforms of black. Anyone wanting to
enter the hospital
complex was obliged to explain himself twice, once to each nationality.

Chaloner was disinclined to tell anyone his business, so, as Worcester House, where Clarendon lived, was next door, he entered
that, then climbed over the wall that divided them. The Dutch had pickets prowling the grounds, but they represented no challenge
to a man of his experience, and it was not many moments before he reached the hospital’s main door.

The man in charge of the delegation’s security was a burly, humourless officer named Captain van Ruyven, whom Chaloner had
met before, some twelve years earlier, when he had been on his first assignment in the United Provinces. They had fallen in
love with the same woman, and Chaloner had been somewhat surprised to learn that Ruyven had still not forgiven him for winning
Aletta. When Hanse had dragged Chaloner to the Savoy the previous week, Ruyven had glowered and sulked through the entire
encounter.

‘How did you get in?’ Ruyven demanded coldly.

Chaloner realised he should have braved the guards, because it would not do to admit that he was skilled at breaking into
houses. No one in the Dutch delegation had the slightest inkling that he had spent years spying on them. As far as they were
concerned, he had been a minor diplomat in the service of the British ambassador.

‘I have come to see Jacoba,’ Chaloner replied in Dutch – Ruyven’s English was poor – deftly avoiding the question.

‘The sister-in-law you have neglected for so long?’ asked Ruyven nastily. ‘When Aletta died, you disappeared within a week
of burying her, and seldom bothered to visit afterwards.’

It had not been Chaloner’s idea to leave Amsterdam so abruptly, but his Spymaster had decided that a grieving man was too
great a liability, and had ordered him to France instead. Five years later, Chaloner had been posted back to the United Provinces,
but to The Hague, where Aletta’s family rarely ventured. He had always felt guilty about abandoning Jacoba at such a time.

‘Jacoba will not want to see you,’ Ruyven went on. ‘She told me only last night that you remind her too painfully of Aletta.’

Chaloner felt the same way about Jacoba, especially after his recent visit to Amsterdam. He saw Ruyven was expecting some
sort of response, but did not know what to say, and the Dutchman turned to other matters when the resulting pause had extended
long enough to be uncomfortable for both of them.

‘Envoy Downing came this morning. Apparently, some documents have been stolen from Worcester House, and he told us the general
belief is that Hanse is responsible – that he took the papers and has disappeared with them. Do you know anything about this
horrible tale?’

‘Only that it is circulating.’

At that moment, the door opened and someone else stepped out, taking deep breaths and rolling his shoulders, as if he had
spent too long at work. It was Peter van der Kun, an elderly, mild-mannered gentleman with a friendly face and a scholar’s
stoop. He was van Goch’s secretary, and Chaloner was glad the cause of peace had a gentle, careful man like Kun fighting its
corner.

‘Thomas Chaloner,’ he smiled. ‘The man who shares his name with the regicide who fled to our country and
died there two years ago. You translated some documents for us the other day.’

‘It was unnecessary, though,’ replied Chaloner, declining to address the issue of his relationship to one of the men who had
signed the old king’s death warrant. His flamboyant uncle was not someone to boast about in Restoration London. ‘Your English
is perfect.’

‘You are too kind.’ Kun’s expression turned eager. ‘Do you bring a message from your Earl? He was going to address the Privy
Council today, urging them to look favourably on the convention to be held here next Sunday evening.’

‘I doubt he will succeed,’ said Ruyven bitterly. ‘Our two countries do not trust each other enough to agree on anything, and
these peace talks are a waste of time.’

‘You are wrong: we
will
have a truce,’ countered Kun stoutly. Then he grimaced. ‘But you are right about the mutual distrust. As soon as I disprove
one set of lies about us, another appears. Maligning us is some villain’s way of hindering progress.’

‘The English do not have the wit for such tactics,’ said Ruyven, shooting Chaloner a challenging glare. ‘Their idea of damaging
the talks is far less subtle. Such as refusing to bow to Heer van Goch at banquets, and calling the rest of us names.’

Kun’s pained expression said he was sorry for Ruyven’s hostility. ‘What is your master’s message?’ he asked keenly. ‘Is it
good news?’

‘Actually, I have come to visit Jacoba,’ replied Chaloner.

‘Oh,’ said Kun, disappointed. ‘Well, perhaps your company will take her mind off—’

‘No,’ interrupted Ruyven. ‘
I
control who enters the Savoy, and I do not trust this man. He called himself
Tom Heyden in Amsterdam, but now we learn his real name is something else entirely.’

Most intelligencers used aliases when working overseas, and the practice did sometimes backfire. But Chaloner was ready with
an explanation, just as he had been when Hanse had been startled to learn from an inconveniently garrulous Clarendon that
his brother-in-law did not hail from a Bristol mercantile family, but was the youngest son of a country squire in Buckinghamshire.

‘I had debts in Holland. I had no choice but to use a different name there.’

‘So you say,’ snarled Ruyven. ‘But spies—’

‘Chaloner is not a spy,’ said Kun firmly, while Chaloner thought it ironic that Ruyven should think so now, when he was
not
gathering intelligence, but had never raised an eyebrow when he had been doing little else. ‘Let him pass. Jacoba will be
pleased to see him.’

In resentful silence, Ruyven conducted Chaloner to the quarters that had been allocated to Hanse and his wife for the duration
of their stay in London. They comprised a pair of comfortably furnished rooms near the chapel, both pleasantly cool after
the burning sunlight outside. Their size and location underlined the high esteem in which Hanse had been held by his ambassador
– space was in short supply at the Savoy, and most envoys only had one.

Jacoba was sitting at a harpsichord when Chaloner arrived, although her playing was lacklustre, and he could tell her heart
was not in it. She was a small, dark haired woman with a neat figure and a regal bearing. For a moment, with the sun in his
eyes, Chaloner mistook her
for Aletta, and his stomach lurched. But Aletta had been twenty-two when she had died, and Jacoba was approaching forty: he
forced himself to acknowledge that they were nothing alike.

‘Tom!’ she exclaimed, abandoning the instrument and coming to take his hand. ‘Is there any word of Willem?’

Chaloner nodded, and then spoke quickly, unwilling to prolong the agony for her. ‘He is dead, Jacoba. I am so sorry.’

‘Why did you not tell me this immediately?’ cried Ruyven, shocked. ‘And why break the news in so brutal a fashion? What is
wrong with you? It is—’

Jacoba’s wail of grief cut through his tirade, and was loud enough to bring Kun and several others running to see what was
happening. A maid rushed to comfort her, while Ruyven glowered at Chaloner, fists clenched. The knife Chaloner always carried
in his sleeve slipped into his hand.

‘Easy, Ruyven,’ said Kun, coming to lay a hastily soothing hand on the captain’s shoulder. ‘We cannot afford to be seen as
ruffians, no matter what the provocation.’

‘I would not be itching to punch him if he had spoken more gently,’ said Ruyven between clenched teeth.

‘Unfortunately, there
is
no gentle way to impart such terrible tidings,’ said Kun quietly. ‘And I am sure he did not mean to be unkind.’ He turned
to Chaloner. ‘Where is he?’

‘In the Westminster charnel house. I will arrange for him to be brought here later.’

‘How did he die?’ demanded Ruyven, white-faced. ‘He was fit and healthy, so his death cannot have been natural.’