Williamson came bustling down the stairs. ‘Mottershead. What the devil brings you here during the day? I see you’ve met Mr Hill.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Mottershead, ‘I ’ave. Did you want me to speak in front of Mr ’Ill, or shall we be private?’
Not a man to mince words, thought Thomas. I wonder what he does.
‘Both, I think,’ said Williamson. ‘May we use your room, Thomas? Do join us.’
‘Of course,’ said Thomas, holding the door for them, and thinking, Now I shall find out.
Mottershead did not stand on ceremony. ‘Copestick’s dead, sir. ’E’s at the coroner’s. I came at once, soon as I ’eard.’
Williamson’s face was black. ‘What do you know about it?’ he growled.
‘Not much, sir. ’E was found in the river a little upstream from the bridge. A wherryman pulled ’im out.’
‘Did he drown?’
‘Don’t know, sir.’
Williamson stared at the floor. ‘The devil’s balls,’ he said so quietly that Thomas barely heard him. ‘Another one.’ He looked up. ‘We’d better go straight to the coroner’s office before that fool Manners does something stupid again. He made an impossible mess of poor Winter before I got to him. Every shred of evidence destroyed. Drunken clod. Come with us, Thomas. We can talk on the way.’
Thomas was unsure. ‘Is that wise? I have work to do here.’
‘Nonsense. Another pair of eyes can’t hurt.’
They were soon loaded into Williamson’s carriage and trundling over the cobbles up Ludgate Hill towards Moorgate, where the coroner’s office was located.
Williamson was visibly agitated. He rubbed his hands together nervously and tapped his foot on the floor of the carriage. ‘This is very bad,’ he said. ‘Henry Copestick worked for me in the Post Office. His job was to look out for suspicious behaviour and to report privately to me on the conduct of his colleagues. If he too was discovered, we are in grave danger.’
‘And what do you do, Mr Mottershead, if I may ask?’ enquired Thomas.
Williamson replied as if the little man was not there. ‘Mottershead is employed by me to gather intelligence. He’s adept at judging the mood of the common man and reports anything he hears which has to do with our national security. His face is well known in the alehouses and taverns of London, is it not, Mottershead?’
‘It is, sir, although only you know my real purpose in being there. I make sure no one else knows where I live or ’ow I earn my living.’
‘Does no one ever ask?’ enquired Thomas.
‘If they do, sir,’ replied Mottershead with a lopsided grin, ‘I wink and do this.’ He rubbed his finger and thumb together in the sign for money. ‘They think I’m a thief and leave me be. It suits me that way.’ Copestick’s murder seemed to have affected him rather less than it had Williamson. In his line of work, he would have become accustomed to violent death.
‘John Winter,’ went on Williamson, ‘performed much the same service as Mottershead but at a different level. Coffee houses and barbers’ shops were his milieu.’
‘So now we have four deaths,’ Thomas observed. ‘Sir Montford Babb, whom nobody seems to care much about, Matthew Smith, John Winter and Henry Copestick – all employees of yours, sir. It seems your concern was justified.’
‘It is not a matter of caring, Thomas. I simply cannot see a connection between Babb’s death and those of the others. Babb did not work for me in any capacity. He was an elderly man who kept his own company.’
‘Yet, like Smith, he was found with his throat cut in Pudding Lane.’
‘A coincidence, nothing more. Smith, Winter and Copestick were connected. Babb was not.’
Sensing that Mr Williamson was in no mood for further discussion, Thomas let it go.
When their carriage pulled up outside the coroner’s office, Mottershead jumped out and rapped on the door with his stick. It was opened by an ancient clerk who peered suspiciously at them. ‘Mr Joseph Williamson to see Mr Seymour Manners on a matter of urgent business,’ said Mottershead, standing up to his full five feet.
The clerk looked down his nose at Thomas. ‘And this gentleman?’
‘Mr Hill is a senior member of my staff,’ replied Williamson, ‘and must be admitted with me. Mr Mottershead will remain with the carriage until our business is concluded.’
‘Very well, gentlemen. I will see if the coroner will admit you. Kindly wait here.’
After five minutes on the doorstep, Williamson had had enough. ‘Hand me your stick, Mottershead, if you please. We’ll see if we can wake the drunken oaf.’ Taking the stick, he hammered so hard on the door that Thomas thought he might break it.
The door opened and the clerk appeared again. ‘The coroner is engaged, but asks you to wait inside.’ He held the door open for them. Thomas and Williamson entered, leaving Mottershead to keep an eye on the carriage. They were shown into a small antechamber.
‘Engaged, my liver,’ muttered Williamson. ‘Lying in a drunken heap, more likely.’
It was twenty minutes before the door opened and the coroner appeared. Seymour Manners had packed eighty years’ worth of drinking into his fifty years on earth and it showed. Thomas assessed him from the top down – medium height, straggly hair to his shoulders, bulbous nose, broken veins, red eyes, black teeth, protruding stomach, stork’s legs and a limp – and knew at once that Williamson’s opinion of the man was justified. What was more, he smelt like an alehouse.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ croaked the coroner. ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting. My stomach is troublesome today. How may I be of service?’
‘We understand that you are holding the body of Henry Copestick. We wish to see it. That is, if you haven’t already had it cut into small pieces.’ Williamson’s voice was brimming with distaste.
‘And why, pray, would you wish to do that?’ Manners’ eyes narrowed.
‘Henry Copestick worked for me.’
‘Did he now? And what exactly did he do, sir?’
‘That is none of your concern, Manners.’
‘It is, sir, if you wish to see the body. I cannot allow just anyone to come in off the street and insist on seeing a body.’
‘I am not just anyone, Manners,’ thundered Williamson, ‘I am employed by the secretary of state and, as such, I have every right to examine the body of a member of my staff found in the river.’
‘And by whom was this right bestowed? I know of no law granting it.’
Williamson’s temper snapped. ‘Enough, Manners. We will see the body now or you will shortly be explaining yourself to the king. His Majesty will wish to know why you obstructed one of his officers and why you reeked of drink during working hours.’
Manners shrugged. ‘If you are so anxious to see the body of a drowned man, sir, I will permit it. It is intact. Follow me.’
He led them down a passage towards the back of the building and across a small courtyard, where he unlocked the door to what might once have been a storehouse. Inside, Henry Copestick was lying on a low table, only his face showing from under a dirty sheet that covered his body. They approached it gingerly. Manners turned back the sheet. Copestick’s clothes had been removed and no doubt the pockets had been checked for anything valuable. The body was pale and bloated, its eyes had gone and there was no mistaking that it had spent some time in the river. Thomas swallowed hard and took out his handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose. Williamson swore under his breath.
‘Here he is, gentlemen,’ said Manners smugly. ‘Quite comfortable and waiting for a decent burial.’
Thomas squirmed at his tone. Despite the state of the body, he could tell that Copestick had been a handsome man, well made and by the look of him more than capable of taking care of himself.
‘Thank you, Manners,’ said Williamson. ‘You may leave us to carry out our inspection.’ Manners stifled a protest, left the room and shut the door.
There had been no incisions, so Manners had not bothered
to check for signs of drowning. They walked slowly around the table, looking for anything unusual. ‘He must have been a strong man,’ observed Thomas. ‘He would not have been easily overcome.’
‘He was. And he seldom drank. I cannot think that he would have fallen into the river.’
‘What are these?’ asked Thomas, pointing to a row of puncture wounds on his arms.
Joseph peered at the wounds. ‘It’s hard to say. If they were made by a weapon it was an unusual one.’ They turned Copestick on to his front. The hair on the back of his head was thick and matted. When Thomas carefully parted it they could see a deep lacerated wound stretching from his crown to the nape of his neck. The dead man had been hit from behind with a heavy, rough-edged weapon and would have been dead before entering the water.
‘Even Manners must have seen this,’ said Williamson. ‘Let’s see what he’s got to say about it. Fetch him in, Thomas, please.’
Manners was waiting in the courtyard. ‘You noticed this, of course, Manners?’ asked Williamson, indicating the wound.
‘Naturally. I inspect all bodies brought to me.’
‘And what did you make of it?’
‘The wound is consistent with the deceased having hit his head on a rock or other sharp object when falling into the river. It probably killed him. If it didn’t, he quickly drowned.’
Thomas and Williamson both stared at Manners. Could he be serious? This wound could only have been made by a blow with a sharp, heavy weapon. It was not made by a rock. ‘Is that your opinion?’ demanded Williamson.
‘It is, sir. I saw no reason to suspect a crime.’
‘Did you examine the wounds on his arms?’
‘Of course. I could make nothing of them.’
‘And what of his clothing? Did it show any traces of a struggle?’
‘None. The clothing has been disposed of.’
There was no point in continuing the discussion. Manners was wholly incompetent.
‘Then we shall bid you good day,’ said Williamson brusquely, and marched back across the courtyard and down the passage to the front door. Thomas followed him. Mottershead was waiting with the carriage and opened the door for them.
‘Why in the name of all that’s holy is that man still a coroner?’ exploded Williamson as soon as they were on their way. ‘He should have been removed years ago.’
‘Why would he choose to ignore what is obvious to us?’ asked Thomas.
‘Indolence. Plain indolence. If he suspects a crime he has to investigate it. That means work. Manners hates work. It interferes with his drinking and whoring. That’s why, if he can get away with it, he reports every suspicious death as an accident. The man’s a dangerous idiot.’ Williamson’s lazy eye had come to life and was fixed on Thomas. ‘I cannot get rid of Manners, nor can I force him to investigate Copestick’s death. Three of my agents have been murdered and he has not a single clue as to who murdered them. We shall have to make our own enquiries.’
‘We?’
Williamson ignored the question. ‘Mottershead, redouble your efforts. Visit every alehouse and brothel in London. Discreetly, of course, but fast. I want the culprit caught and questioned.’
‘Count on me, sir.’
‘Thomas, will you also keep your eyes and ears open? Visit coffee shops and barbers’ shops. They’re the places for gossip. See if you can find out anything.’
‘Mr Williamson, I agreed to act as cryptographer for you while Dr Wallis is away. I did not agree to anything more, yet now I find myself inspecting bodies and being asked to stand in for a murdered man. With respect, you’re not being entirely fair. You have agents all over London. Could you not find someone else for this?’
Williamson looked put out. ‘Of course, if you’re not of a mind to assist I cannot force you to. A man must live with his own conscience. I shall find someone else. He will not be as suitable as you, as few have your perception and experience, and his face will be better known than yours. He might even be a traitor. Still, if you would prefer not to serve at this sensitive time, that’s an end to it. Will you be good enough at least to carry on with the intercepted correspondence? And please call me Joseph.’
Thomas was trapped. Agree to Williamson’s – Joseph’s – request or be made to feel disloyal. Shame and flattery. Twin blades in the hands of a very capable swordsman. He gave up. ‘Very well, Joseph, if you put the matter like that I will do as you ask. No more, mind. I will simply watch and listen and report anything I learn to you. Nothing more.’
‘Excellent. Whoever murdered Matthew Smith, John Winter and Henry Copestick knew or guessed that they were agents of mine and has managed to leave not a clue as to his identity or the source of his intelligence. Between the three of us we must find him.’
‘There is something else,’ said Thomas. ‘My instinct is still that Montford Babb’s murder was connected to those of the others. I would like to find out.’
‘I disagree, but in the circumstances I can hardly refuse you. My cousin Madeleine is acquainted with Lady Babb. I will ask her to arrange for you to meet her. Would that be a good start?’
I can think of none better, thought Thomas. ‘Thank you. That will do well enough.’
That evening Thomas faced Mary’s ire. ‘How could you, Thomas?’ she demanded. ‘You promised me it would be no more than some simple work on codes, yet now you tell me that you have inspected the body of another murdered man and are to act as intelligencer for Joseph Williamson. What in the name of heaven are you thinking of?’
‘I could hardly refuse,’ replied Thomas. ‘Joseph made it plain that in his eyes to do so would make me little better than a traitor.’
‘And in my eyes, Thomas, you are little better than a fool. Why not go home to Romsey and carry on just as you were before?’
‘Surely you are being a little over-dramatic, Mary? I am not being asked to take up a sword and slay a dragon, merely to gather information for Joseph.’
‘You have a habit, Thomas, of putting yourself at risk. Oxford, Barbados and now London. I despair of you. Just don’t come to me with a bloody nose and broken bones, even if you did save my life.’
‘Mary, I assure you that there will be neither bloody noses nor broken bones. May I continue to stay here while I am carrying out the work?’
Mary shook her head and for a moment Thomas thought she was going to refuse. ‘Very well. Stay here and keep out of trouble. I do not wish to see you hurt.’
‘Thank you. I shall take care.’
CHAPTER 9
THREE DAYS LATER, Thomas was tucking into his breakfast when Smythe handed him two letters. The first was from Madeleine Stewart, requesting that Thomas call for her at ten o’clock the following morning when she would escort him to meet the recently widowed Lady Babb.
The second was from Lemuel Squire, inviting him to the Post Office to see the new copying machine in action. Squire mentioned that Sir Samuel Morland was away and suggested that an early visit would thus be wise. Thomas had planned a walk to Cornhill to take a cup or two of Turkish coffee at one of the coffee houses there. It would be his first effort at intelligence gathering. Armed with Squire’s invitation, he would go to Cloak Lane on his way back.
The coffee house he chose this time was on the corner of Cornhill and Finch Lane. Two large windows on either side of the door allowed passers-by to see into a panelled room with one long table in the middle and several smaller ones around the walls. Chairs had been set at each one. In mid-morning it was very busy and he had to wait until a table became free. He did not want to sit at the long ‘common table’ for fear of having to answer questions about himself. From where he sat he could read a news sheet, observe the room and hear much of what was said. He did not expect to learn much, if anything at all, but at least he was doing as he had been asked. He ordered a small dish of coffee from the dame de comptoir, a fearsome lady in an enormous wig and a flowing green gown, and looked about. A dozen well-dressed men sat around the common table,
some talking business, others declaiming about the state of the country. News-sheet readers occupied the smaller tables. All were drinking coffee and many were smoking long clay pipes.
Their conversations were hardly the stuff of spies and traitors – complaints about the state of the roads and the price of corn, and gossip about friends and enemies. Thomas heard a young man talking about the problems of finding adequate stabling for his horses and an older one expressing the hope that he would never again be called upon to sit on one. He picked up a few remarks about the new king. His youth was a concern to some, his mistresses to others. But that was it. Gossip and banter only. Not a treasonable word.
Thomas was about to leave when Chandle Stoner arrived. When he saw Thomas he came over immediately to greet him. Stoner was in excellent spirits.
‘Why, Thomas Hill if I’m not mistaken. And what brings a scholar to this place of vulgar commerce and common merchants?’
Thomas rose to shake Stoner’s hand. ‘I thought merely to sample the pleasures I have heard about. “Coffee, conversation and comfort” is how Charles Carrington described these new houses.’
Stoner laughed. ‘Did he now? An admirable fellow, Carrington, and the lovely Mary, of course. Now, may I buy you another cup? I don’t care for the common table today.’
‘That would be most agreeable.’
Stoner ordered the coffee and took a seat at Thomas’s table. ‘And how have you been occupying yourself in London, Thomas, since we last met? Are you fond of the theatre?’
The King's Return: (Thomas Hill 3) (Thomas Hill Novels) Page 6