‘Help!’ Jones gurgled in a voice that was full of water. ‘Help me!’
Instinctively, Chaloner moved towards him, intending to direct one of the flailing arms towards the weed-encrusted pillar, so Jones could keep himself afloat. But the fat man grabbed him, and they both went under. Chaloner tried to punch his way free, but Jones’s grip was made powerful by terror. The spy’s feet touched the river’s sticky bottom a second time, and he was aware of mud sucking at his ankles.
He fought harder, and felt his knuckles graze against something hard: it was one of the pier’s legs. He grasped it, and used it as an anchor to tear free of Jones’s panicked clutch. The move seemed to weaken Jones, enabling Chaloner to spin him around, to prevent him from grabbing his rescuer a second time, then kick upwards, keeping a firm grip on the man’s collar as he did so. It was like dragging lead, and there was a moment when he thought Jones was just going to be too heavy for him – that he would have to let him go. But then he glimpsed light shimmering down through the black water, and seeing it so close gave him the strength he needed to swim the last few feet.
‘There!’ snapped the train-band leader, as spy and Yeoman of the Household Kitchen surfaced at last and took great gasps of sweet air. ‘Shoot him!’
Immediately, something zipped past Chaloner’s face. They were using a crossbow, presumably because the discharge of firearms on government property would attract unwanted attention.
‘Save me!’ screamed Jones, oblivious to the danger. ‘I cannot swim!’
‘Quickly,’ hissed the leader. ‘Make an end of this before someone hears.’
Jones was thrashing furiously, creating great spumes of foam that made it difficult for Chaloner to see. He lunged for the spy again, but missed. Was this what had happened to Swaddell? He had been ensnared by a drowning man, and had been unable to escape? Suddenly, there was a crack as the crossbow was fired again, audible even over Jones’s noisy splashes. Then the fat man was gone. Silence reigned, broken only by the sound of lapping water and the distant barking of dogs.
‘It is done,’ said the leader eventually. ‘You two stay here, on the chance that he escaped and is waiting to climb out. The rest can go home.’
While he talked, Chaloner forced himself underwater, groping in the darkness for Jones, but he soon gave up. The tide had just turned, and the current had almost certainly swept the hapless Yeoman downstream. It tugged at Chaloner as he clung to the pillar, and made the seaweed undulate. He saw a ladder leading up to the quay, but he had lost his sword, and he could not fight the two remaining guards without it. He realised he was going to be trapped in the water until either they left or the tide went out, allowing him to walk to safety along the beach.
He knew he should concentrate on devising a solution to his predicament before the icy river sucked away his life, but his mind kept wandering. He thought about the fact that the pier was provided with a lantern, even though coal was unlikely to be landed at night. Ergo, it was used to light some other activity. Then he considered the train-band. They had appeared very suddenly, and were determined that he would not escape. Of course, the leader had mentioned the ring, which meant they knew it was him they had met in the Painted Chamber. And after he had jumped, they had referred to him in the singular. He could only assume that they thought he and Jones were one and the same – that the feeble lamplight had not allowed them to see two men in the water. Three, counting Swaddell.
His grip on the pillar was starting to loosen, and he was aware of a warm lethargy taking hold of him. It would be easy to close his eyes and sleep, but something deep within him stirred, and he felt his resolve begin to strengthen. He could not climb this ladder, but there were other public stairs. All he had to do was let the current take him. He would have to ensure it did not sweep him to the middle of the river, because then he would never escape its frigid embrace, but he could stay near the edge. Without giving himself too much time to think, he took a deep breath, let himself slide under the water, and gave himself to the pull of the tide.
He stayed submerged until his lungs felt as though they would burst, then surfaced with a gasp that sounded deafening to his ears. He glanced behind him and saw the lamp, but he had been carried beyond the point where the soldiers would be able to see him. He was safe – or as safe as he could be in a fast-flowing river in the dark. He could see the Westminster Stairs a short distance ahead, so he struck out towards them. But the current was too strong, and carried him past.
He swallowed water, and began to cough. Then he saw lights ahead, and knew they were his last chance, because the cold was now seriously weakening him. Mustering every last ounce of his strength, he swam towards them. Were they closer, or was he imagining it? He closed his eyes, summoning reserves of energy he did not know he had. Then he felt something solid beneath his feet, and could hear the lap of waves on stone. Struggling to make his limbs obey, he clambered out of the water, and collapsed in an exhausted heap at the top of a flight of steps. He was not sure how long he lay there, but it was enough to bring back the warm lethargy. He forced himself to stand.
He knew, from the number of lights, that he was at White Hall, but he was not on the main pier. His heart sank when he realised he had fetched up on the Privy Stairs, which led to the rooms used by the King and his Queen. Now what? he thought. He was not inclined to jump back in the river and aim for a more suitable landing spot, so he supposed he would just have creep through the royal apartments without being seen. It would not be easy, but his cold-numbed mind was failing to come up with any other options. With water squelching in his boots and weighing down his clothes, he picked the lock at the top of the stairs, and let himself inside.
It was a relief to be out of the wind, although the little chamber in which he found himself could hardly be described as cosy. He climbed more steps, then picked a second lock, to find himself in the Shield Gallery with its long line of statues, ghostly sentinels faintly illuminated by the light of the lamps in the alley outside. Happier now he was in familiar territory, he stumbled along it, aiming for the door that led down to the lane. From there, he could reach the Earl’s offices, where there would be a fire – the Earl liked his rooms permanently heated on account of his gout, and kept blankets to hand for the same reason. Chaloner would thaw himself out, then go home. Or better still, visit Hannah, who would know how to banish the aching chill from his bones.
He had almost reached the end of what felt like an inordinately long chamber, when a door opened. Instinctively, he dodged towards a statue, aiming to hide behind it, but his legs would not do what his brain suggested, and he did not move nearly quickly enough. Light from a powerful lantern flooded the chamber, and there was nothing he could do to prevent himself from being caught.
Chaloner waited for the yell of outrage that would see soldiers racing to arrest him. Then he would be bundled into some dismal cell until the Earl rescued him, which was likely to be hours, given that they would be loath to disturb the great man until morning. Chaloner hated gaols with a passion, and did not relish being locked up when he was soaking wet. Briefly, he considered fighting his way free, but he was in no condition to do battle with anyone – especially without his sword.
‘Thomas?’ came a voice full of astonishment. ‘Is that you?’
Chaloner blinked against the light. It had sounded like Hannah. Footsteps clattered towards him.
‘It is your lover?’ The question was asked in heavily accented English, and Chaloner was horrified to recognise Queen Katherine. He tried to bow, but was too cold to move properly, and Her Majesty was lucky he did not topple into her arms.
Soldiers immediately seized him, and he resigned himself to a night in prison. He hoped the Earl would not arrive too late for work the following day – or worse, decline to take responsibility for him, because it would be an easy way to dispense with his services. Being caught near the Queen’s bedroom was not something that could easily be explained away, and he saw he was in very grave
trouble.
‘My friend,’ corrected Hannah primly. ‘The Earl charged him to investigate the King’s missing statue, which I imagine is what he is doing here.’
‘Let him go,’ ordered the Queen, addressing the guards. She was not long recovered from a serious illness, and her small, delicate face was far too pale.
‘That would be unwise, ma’am,’ said the captain, stepping forward to prevent his men from doing as they were bid. He pointed at the water that had gathered in a pool around Chaloner’s feet. ‘I do not believe he is investigating the theft, because he would have used the door from the lane, like any normal person. But he came via the river, suggesting he plans to steal something himself.’
‘Steal what?’ demanded Hannah archly, gesturing at the large paintings and heavy sculptures that surrounded them. ‘Some of these? How? By swimming off with them? He is not a fish!’
‘My husband’s statue was stole at night,’ said the Queen slowly. ‘It is recreating the crime.’
‘Of course!’ cried Hannah in delight. ‘How exciting! We shall help you, Tom – Her Majesty cannot sleep, and this will be much more fun than walking up and down until she wears herself out.’
‘She should not be here anyway,’ muttered the captain. ‘The roof was damaged in the last storm, and it has not been mended yet. It may not be safe.’
‘I play this game,’ said the Queen, smiling. ‘But not here. Too cold. My chambers has fire.’
With open unease, the soldiers escorted her, Hannah and Chaloner to the room in question. Once there, they did not close the door all the way, but stayed to peer through the crack, ready to dash in the moment there was any hint of a threat. Chaloner was pleased they took their duties seriously, because the Queen was the one person at Court whom he thought was worth protecting.
Hannah handed him a blanket, and the Queen gestured he was to sit opposite her, by the fire. As he warmed up, he began to shiver, almost uncontrollably, and it was difficult to keep his teeth from chattering. Hannah knelt between them, poking the flames with a stick, while the Queen studied him with dark, sad eyes. Politely, he waited for one of them to speak first.
‘We shall use my language,’ the Queen said in Portuguese. ‘I do not have the opportunity very often, now the King has sent my tiring women home. Incidentally, I never thanked you for travelling to Spain on my behalf this summer, or for sending me all those intelligence reports. My brother the king was able to make good use of them, and the result is a cessation of hostilities.’
‘But an uneasy one, ma’am,’ replied Chaloner in the same tongue. He saw Hannah regarding him in astonishment, and supposed he had never mentioned his skill with languages. ‘It will not last.’
‘I pray that it will,’ said the Queen, crossing herself. ‘Now, what were you really doing in the Shield Gallery? It was nothing to do with locating my husband’s bust, because there are no clues to be gained from studying an empty room, especially so long after the original theft. And your explanation does not account for the fact that you are soaking wet.’
Chaloner was not sure how much to tell her. ‘The investigation led to a skirmish that saw me fall in the river,’ he replied, not about to admit that the ‘investigation’ he had been following had nothing to do with statues.
‘Well, I am glad you are safe, because there is something I want you to do for me.’
Chaloner experienced a lurch of alarm. The Earl had almost dismissed him the last time he had accepted a commission from the Queen, and had made it clear that he would not countenance it happening again. Of course, that was before the Earl had appointed a rival investigator. Perhaps this time he would not care.
The Queen interpreted his silence as acquiescence. ‘My marriage contract stipulated that I was to have forty thousand pounds a year for my household expenses. The money was deposited in the Treasury, and I was to apply for funds as and when I needed them. I am not extravagant, like … like other women. My expenditure for this year amounts to less than four thousand pounds.’
It was common knowledge that ‘other women’ – namely Lady Castlemaine – could go through that in a single night. Chaloner waited for her to continue, wishing he could stop shivering. Meanwhile, Hannah frowned; the rapidly spoken Portuguese was excluding her from the discussion.
‘I should have thirty-six thousand pounds left, but when I requested funds to travel to Bath – to partake of the healing waters – I was told it had all gone.’
‘What happened to it, ma’am?’ Thirty-six thousand pounds was a staggering sum to go adrift.
‘That is what you must find out. All I know is that the money has disappeared, and I am prevented from accessing the waters that may help me conceive.’
She looked away, and Chaloner’s heart went out to her. He recalled the rumour that she was barren, and could not do the one thing the King demanded of her: provide him with an heir.
‘This is important to me,’ she continued softly. ‘I want you to find out what happened to my money, and then I want enough of it back to let me go to Bath.’
‘I am not qualified for this task, ma’am,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘You need someone to go through records and other expenditures. If your lost money was in silver pieces, then I might be able to hunt it down for you, but this is a crime of embezzlement, and will only be solved by someone skilled at interpreting complex accounts.’
The Queen’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘No one wants to help me. I have appealed to the King and the bishops, but they all hate me, because they think I am infertile. But when I offer to immerse myself in stinking water – a desperate remedy, but I will do anything to fulfil my duty – the government refuses to advance me the money. What am I to do?’
Chaloner felt wretched. ‘I would help if I could, but it would be like asking Hannah to translate the Bible into Portuguese. She does not have the necessary skills, despite her devotion to you. It would be beyond her – and identifying accounting errors is beyond me.’
The Queen wiped her eyes, and attempted a smile. ‘And I imagine you are busy with the missing statue anyway, and have no time to devote to a trifling matter like mine. You served me well once, and I suppose it is unreasonable to expect more. But I can do something for you.’
‘You can?’ Chaloner hoped it was not arresting him for declining to do as he was told.
‘Your master would like to find the bust, but Williamson is determined to reach it first. However, the Earl has always been kind to me, whereas Williamson is cold and aloof. I want the Earl to win this race, so I shall tell you something that might bring about a result that will please me.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘Williamson is vindictive and ruthless, and you should not risk his wrath for any reason. Keep your secret – do not become involved in his affairs.’
‘No one else would decline free information on the grounds that it puts me in danger,’ said the Queen bitterly. ‘But I am going to tell you anyway. I trust you not to tell Williamson the source.’
Chaloner wished he was more alert, because he could not think of a way to stop her. He opened his mouth, but she raised her hand to prevent him from speaking.
‘My servants gossip in front of me, in the mistaken belief that I cannot understand a word they say. I overheard one mention that my husband’s statue has been offered for sale to a clerk called Greene.’
Chaloner gaped at her, forgetting himself as his thoughts whirled. ‘Who offered to sell it to him?’
‘They did not seem to know. Then they went on to say that he declined in horror, and so the same proposal was made to a woman named Margaret Symons. Will this information help you?’
‘It might,’ said Chaloner gratefully. ‘Thank you.’
Chapter 6
When the Queen declared she was tired at last, and was ready to try sleeping again, Hannah was released from her duties. Chaloner escorted her home, and she invited him to stay. He accepted partly because her house was always warm, but mostly because he felt a nee
d for human companionship. The Queen’s painful loneliness had upset him, and he wished there was something he could do to help her.
‘What was she telling you?’ asked Hannah, when they lay in bed a little later. He was still chilled to the bone, and was holding her more tightly than was comfortable for either of them. ‘I had no idea you could speak Portuguese.’
Her profile was etched against the light from the fire, and Chaloner gazed at it. ‘I had no idea you could not. How can you serve her, if you do not know her native tongue?’
‘She is Queen of England, Tom. She must forget her old language and customs, and embrace the new ones – unless she wants people accusing her of spurning things English. And she has enough hatred directed at her already, for not getting pregnant. She cannot afford more.’
‘Poor Katherine,’ said Chaloner softly, his heart going out to her.
‘Did you hear her household allowance has gone missing?’ asked Hannah, full of indignation. ‘She tried to impress everyone with her frugality, using a mere fraction of what she is entitled to take, only to find someone has stolen the rest. I suspect Lady Castlemaine, personally. She probably ran up some gambling debts, and the Queen’s thirty-six thousand pounds was used to pay them off.’
‘You may be right.’
‘Did she ask you to find it? She has been petitioning everyone she knows, although she has had scant success so far. You see, until she produces an heir she has no influence, so no one is willing to waste his time by doing her favours.’
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 17