‘We will not forget what you did to us on Saturday, Chaloner,’ hissed Kicke in a low, threatening voice as he approached. ‘And you will pay for it.’
‘He helped you get promoted,’ countered Bulteel. ‘You owe him your gratitude and—’
Kicke turned suddenly, and Bulteel’s eyes widened in alarm at the fury in his face.
‘Leave him,’ ordered Chaloner, stepping between them. ‘He has no quarrel with you.’
His back was towards Nisbett, but he ducked when he heard the man lurch forward, and the punch went wide. Then he whipped around and shoved him while he was still off-balance. Nisbett went sprawling.
Kicke drew his knife, but the one from Chaloner’s sleeve was already in the palm of his hand, and he moved fast. It thudded into the wall near Kicke’s head, and by the time Kicke had recovered from his shock, Chaloner had grabbed the one from his boot and held it ready.
‘I will not miss next time,’ he said softly. ‘But the King does not approve of brawling, so I suggest you help your friend to his feet, and we go our separate ways before we are all arrested.’
Nisbett was clearly ready to risk a spell in White Hall’s cells to exact revenge on the man who had dared to assault him, because he surged to his feet with murder in his eyes, but Kicke was no fool. He jerked his companion away.
‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘We will deal with him another day. We have plenty of time.’
‘I will set Spymaster Williamson on them,’ vowed Bulteel shakily, when the pair had gone. ‘He and I are not friends, exactly, but he might be prepared to do me this one favour.’
‘Do not try it,’ advised Chaloner. ‘It is better just to stay away from them.’
‘He is right,’ said Griffith, holding his lace to his nose, as if Kicke and Griffith had left a disagreeable smell behind. ‘They will soon slip up, and then the Court will not be so accommodating.’
Bulteel sniffed. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that Hanse is innocent of stealing the Earl’s documents, and that the real culprits are them. They are thieves, after all.’
Chapter 3
Chaloner left White Hall, but had not taken many steps towards Drury Lane when he saw two familiar figures. He glanced around, but there was nowhere to hide, and he was reluctant to go back the way he had come, lest it was seen as a retreat – and he did not want the men who were striding towards him to think he was frightened of them. Or worse, that he had something to hide.
Spymaster Williamson, tall, aloof and haughty, was clad in well-tailored clothes that boasted an inordinate amount of ribbon. He blamed Chaloner for the death of a friend, and had proved himself to be a dangerous enemy. He was with Sir George Downing, a large, florid man in a coat that was too tight for his paunch. Downing was a decade older than Chaloner, and his eyebrows had turned grey. Perhaps his hair had, too, but it was concealed under a sumptuous black wig. Uncharitably, Chaloner wondered whether the two men were together because no one else wanted their company.
‘I thought you would be dead by now,’ said Downing, regarding Chaloner in distaste as their paths converged. ‘You led a very precarious life when you worked for me.’
Downing was a deeply repellent individual. He had changed sides with greasy aplomb when the Common wealth fell, and in order to prove himself to his new masters, had kidnapped three of his own friends – regicides, who had signed the old king’s death warrant – and smuggled them back to England to face the horrors of a traitors’ death. His self-serving actions had shocked even Royalists, although Downing had genuinely failed to understand why.
Williamson gave one of his ambiguous smiles. ‘He leads a precarious life here, too. Why, only two days ago, he solved the White Hall thefts. My people have been investigating those since April, but with no success. Yet Chaloner comes to London and has the culprits exposed within a fortnight.’
Chaloner could tell, from the malignant gleam in Williamson’s eye, that he was seething. It was not the first time he had exposed the ineptitude of the intelligence services, and Williamson would certainly resent it. But, he thought, if Williamson did not want his people revealed as deficient, then he either needed to invest more money in their training, or hire more capable ones.
‘I had nothing to do with that,’ said Downing, very quickly. ‘It was not my fault they forged the testimonials that convinced me to hire them as stewards. Indeed, I am as much a victim as anyone.’
‘Of course,’ Williamson went on, ignoring him, ‘it is a pity Chaloner trapped them in a way that earned them instant popularity. My intelligencers would not have made that mistake.’
‘No,’ acknowledged Chaloner, suspecting that Kicke and Nisbett would have been quietly dispatched, to save the country the expense of a trial.
Williamson looked down his long nose at him. ‘So what task has your Earl assigned to you now the thieves are caught? This business of blackmail?’
‘Blackmail?’ asked Chaloner, not understanding.
‘You do not know?’ Williamson’s expression was smug. ‘I thought you were a decent spy – that nothing happened in White Hall without your knowledge.’
‘Much as it pains me to admit it, he was the best intelligencer I ever had,’ said Downing before Chaloner could reply. ‘He is cunning, resourceful, brave and daring, and nothing was beyond him.’
‘Why did you dismiss him, then?’ asked Williamson. ‘And do not say it was because he was committed to serving the Commonwealth, because my researches suggest he was nothing of the sort. Like many men, he owns a loyalty to his country, not to any particular faction.’
Chaloner did not know he had been the subject of ‘researches’, and was astonished that the Spymaster should deem him sufficiently important for what was probably a costly exercise.
‘If you say so,’ said Downing. He chuckled suddenly. ‘Did I tell you about the time he burgled Grand Pensionary de Witt’s bedchamber? The place was heavily guarded, because de Witt was asleep in it at the time. Well, he is the Dutch head of state, so of course they are protective of him.’
Chaloner could scarcely believe his ears. Downing knew it was bad form to chat about the past exploits of intelligencers – treaties between countries had been torn up for less. Then there was the danger to the spy himself, although Downing would not care about that.
‘This is not a story for—’ he began, trying to mask his horror.
‘He evaded all the guards, and crept past the slumbering de Witt,’ Downing went on, smirking. ‘Then he stole the key to the strongbox where de Witt kept his most secret papers. He opened that box, emptied its contents into a sack, and brought them to me. I had an hour to read them, after which he put all back as he had found it. The Dutch never knew he had been.’
Williamson raised his eyebrows. ‘You had better hope this tale does not find its way to the Savoy, Chaloner, because I doubt the Dutch delegation will find it very amusing.’
‘No,’ agreed Downing slyly. ‘They might have him assassinated. And good riddance! It will teach him to embarrass me by arresting two of my stewards. Why could he not have dealt with the matter discreetly? He did not have to do it in front of the whole Court.’
Chaloner had not really considered the implications for Downing when he had tackled Nisbett and Kicke, not that he would have acted any differently if he had. As far as he was concerned, it was Downing’s own fault for hiring villains.
‘I do not care if he is executed by the Dutch,’ said Williamson. ‘But I do care about the peace talks. Please do not share this tale of de Witt’s bedchamber with anyone else.’
‘Peace!’ sneered Downing. ‘There is no hope of that.’
Williamson regarded him in surprise. ‘I thought you were summoned back from The Hague to assist with the negotiations – to help avert needless hostilities.’
Downing winked at him. ‘I was summoned back. Let us leave it at that.’
Williamson’s expression was dark. ‘War with the States-General is not a good idea. It will cost a
lot of money, for a start – money we do not have. I am hoping for an amicable solution.’
‘Well, I am not,’ declared Downing baldly. ‘As Envoy Extraordinary, I will be able to claim a much higher income if I am stationed in hostile territory.’
Williamson’s jaw dropped. ‘You would put personal gain above duty to country?’
Downing raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, come, Williamson! You are as unscrupulous a rogue as I have ever met, so do not pretend you are full of lofty principles.’
‘You mentioned blackmail,’ said Chaloner, when Williamson did not seem to have an answer. And while Chaloner was amused by his discomfiture, it seemed prudent to steer the discussion to other matters.
‘Several high-ranking courtiers have received letters,’ explained Williamson, although he continued to stare at Downing. ‘They demand large sums of money in exchange for silence about delicate secrets. Obviously, I cannot disclose names, but the victims are extremely distressed.’
Downing sniggered. ‘I imagine so! I have heard that one is being threatened with the exposure of an unmarried sister’s pregnancy, while another had a duel in which he killed an opponent. These are not tales “high-ranking courtiers” will want bandied about.’
‘How do you know?’ demanded Williamson, rounding on him. ‘These gentlemen came to me in confidence, and no one else is supposed to be party to the details of their transgressions.’
‘I have my spies, just as you have yours,’ replied Downing, tapping the side of his nose in a way that was calculated to irritate. ‘But do not worry: these courtiers’ misdeeds are safe with me. I shall not reveal your department as the source of scurrilous gossip.’
Chaloner could tell by the fury in Williamson’s eyes that Downing had just earned himself an enemy. Downing was a fool, he thought – the Spymaster had all manner of ruthless villains at his disposal, and was not above making nuisances disappear.
Downing doffed his hat, grinning malevolently. ‘I must bid you good day, gentlemen. I am expected at the Savoy, so I had better make an appearance. We cannot offend the Dutch, eh?’
He swaggered away. Chaloner was tempted to broach the subject of the Sinon Plot – Williamson was, after all, one of those who knew about it – but the Spymaster’s dark, angry expression suggested it would not be a good time.
‘I am beginning to understand why so many people hate him,’ Williamson said between gritted teeth. ‘No wonder he was posted to the States-General. It was to keep him out of London!’
Relieved to be away from two of the most odious men in the city, Chaloner strode towards Drury Lane. The afternoon was so hot that even the pigeons were wilting, and the air was thick with dust. By the time he arrived, he felt sweaty and soiled, and sooty smudges covered his clothes. He wiped his face on his sleeve, brushed himself down as well as he could, and knocked on Compton’s door.
A maid conducted him to a large, pleasant parlour overlooking the street. All the windows had been flung open in an attempt to catch a breeze, but the room was stifling even so.
Sir William Compton, Master of Ordnance and Member of Parliament for Cambridge, was a devoted Royalist, but was honourable enough to be popular with Parliamentarians, too. That afternoon, he was slumped in a cushion-filled chair, a damp cloth on his forehead and his eyes closed. Chaloner glanced uncomfortably at the maid, sure she should not have admitted him while her master was so clearly indisposed.
‘It is all right,’ said Compton, looking up tiredly. ‘I am not dying.’
Chaloner was not so sure, because Compton looked terrible. He was an unhealthy greenish colour, and his eyes were sunken. Sweat dampened his hair, and a bowl had been placed near his head.
‘If you are unwell, I can come back another time.’ Chaloner was eager for information, but was not so ruthless as to pester a sick man for it. Spy he might be, but he had his scruples.
‘It is just the heat,’ said Compton. ‘And you are doubtless here on the Lord Chancellor’s behalf. As I said the last time you visited, I applaud his efforts to broker peace with the Dutch, and if I can do anything to assist him, I am at your service.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I confronted Kicke,’ Compton went on. ‘About his forging a testimonial from me in order to acquire himself a post with Downing. I had dismissed him for theft, if you recall.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He denied writing the report himself. I pressed him, and eventually he claimed that if there was a character reference from me, then it was penned by someone who wished him ill.’
‘Someone who wished him ill would not have produced such a fulsome recommendation.’
‘I know he was lying,’ said Compton wryly. ‘Just as he was lying when he professed to have the good of White Hall at heart when he stole. Lady Castlemaine is a fool to hire him, because he will cheat her. But he is no longer our concern, thank God. How may I help you this time?’
‘Clarendon sent me to ask questions about the Sinon Plot.’
Compton regarded him in horror. ‘I cannot talk about that! I swore a sacred vow never to break my silence, and I take such matters seriously.’
Chaloner hesitated, but then forged on, wanting Compton to know why it was important. ‘A Dutch diplomat was murdered on Friday.’
Compton struggled upright in his chair. ‘What Dutch diplomat?’
‘Willem Hanse. He left a message mentioning Sinon, along with an instruction telling the recipient to visit Newgate.’
‘Did he?’ Compton was aghast. ‘But the only people who are supposed to know about Sinon are the perpetrators, the Privy Council, Spymaster Williamson, and me.’
‘And the gaolers at Newgate,’ added Chaloner, thinking it a substantial list. The Privy Council comprised a dozen men, few of whom were noted for their discretion.
Compton gave a humourless bark of laughter. ‘Hardly! Williamson has an arrangement with Newgate’s Keeper. One wing, deep underground, is for his exclusive use, and his wardens never go anywhere near it. That is where the would-be perpetrators of the Sinon Plot are being held.’
‘Did they have a trial?’ said Chaloner uneasily. ‘In a court of law?’
‘The Privy Council did not want the affair made public. The culprits were quietly incarcerated, and there they will remain until they die.’
Chaloner could not help but shudder. The notion that such a place existed was bad enough, but the admission that its inhabitants comprised people who had been denied an opportunity to prove their innocence was appalling.
‘I really cannot talk about this,’ warned Compton. ‘I took a vow.’
‘I appreciate that, but Hanse is dead, and it seems he thought the Sinon Plot was important – he left several messages about it. He was a good man, and I would like to bring his killer to justice. But I cannot, unless I know more about this business.’
Compton looked troubled. ‘Then ask your questions. Perhaps I shall be able to answer without breaking my oath.’
‘Why does the Privy Council want the matter kept quiet? It is only the theft of a few jewels.’
‘A few jewels?’ echoed Compton, shocked. ‘These are the crown jewels, man! They cost more than twelve thousand pounds. Cromwell sold off the old ones, if you recall, so we had to commission a new set. Have you ever seen them?’
‘No. I was out of the country when the King was invested.’
Compton smiled. ‘Actually, I was asking whether you had visited them in the Tower. You can buy a viewing for a few pennies, and it is well worth the expense. I think they are magnificent.’
‘How far had the plot gone before you discovered it?’ asked Chaloner, hoping he could avoid the experience. The Tower was a prison, as well as a repository for the King’s baubles.
‘The culprits had befriended the Assistant Keeper of the Jewels, drawn up plans of the Tower, and hired a carriage in which to escape. Unfortunately for them, I overheard their discussion in the Feathers tavern on Cheapside. I reported it to your Earl, and we
went together to the Spymaster. Williamson spent several days investigating, then gave the order for the culprits’ arrest.’
‘Did he investigate thoroughly?’ asked Chaloner, thinking it would not be the first time a busy spymaster had ordered the detention of suspects based on poor, erroneous or partial evidence.
‘I believe so – I accompanied him on some of his fact-finding missions. Then, when we were both satisfied that these plotters posed a genuine threat, I took four of my men and arrested them.’
‘You did? Why? It should have been Williamson’s doing, not the Master of Ordnance’s.’
‘That is what I said. But Williamson and his creatures are unpopular in London, and the last time they tried to arrest a party of villains, they were attacked by a mob – and their suspects got away. The Sinon plotters could not be allowed to escape, so I agreed to apprehend them for him.’
‘What are their names?’ asked Chaloner. Compton was right: Williamson and his henchmen were unpopular among the people.
‘Swan, Swallow and Falcon.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘And they met in the Feathers?’
‘Yes,’ replied Compton. ‘I know it does not sound very likely, but those are their real names.’
Chaloner did not believe it, and sighed unhappily when he saw he was going to have to visit Newgate, and speak to the trio himself. Compton seemed to guess what he was planning.
‘Do not even think of trying to interview them, Chaloner. It will be more than the Keeper’s life is worth to let you in. Williamson has some sort of hold over the fellow, and I have been told that not even promises of fabulous wealth can weaken his resolve.’
Chaloner nodded, but did not say that the Keeper’s character and wishes were irrelevant to him – he had made a career out of entering places that wanted to keep him out, and he would visit the felons if he felt it necessary. The difficulty, of course, would be in leaving again.
The Body in the Thames: Chaloner's Sixth Exploit in Restoration London (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 8