The Body in the Thames: Chaloner's Sixth Exploit in Restoration London (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘I have heard that Downing will not pay for clothes that fit, because he is too mean,’ whispered Hannah in Chaloner’s ear, following the direction of his gaze. The spy had managed an admirable job of pretending to be astonished when she had announced she was taking him to hear the music that evening, so Bulteel’s hope to cause a spat had been thwarted. ‘He hates parting with cash.’

  Chaloner knew it, because although Thurloe had paid his spies regularly and well, the money had gone through Downing, and Downing had not always been willing to pass it on. He tried to steer Hannah away when he saw their path was going to cross the envoy’s, but she did not understand what he was trying to do, and resisted. And then it was too late. Downing eyed her salaciously.

  ‘Is this your new wife, Chaloner? Perhaps you would introduce me. I am always eager to meet pretty ladies, even ones married to reprobates.’

  The open lust on his face made Chaloner want to punch him, and a curt rejoinder was on the tip of his tongue, but Hannah was there first.

  ‘My husband is not a reprobate, sir,’ she said icily. ‘Moreover, I do not consort with low-mannered men, so please remove yourself from my presence. The Queen is watching, and I will not have her thinking badly of me.’

  Downing’s jaw dropped. ‘I assure you, madam, she holds me in the highest esteem, and—’

  ‘The Queen is a lady!’ interrupted Hannah haughtily. ‘And her esteem is reserved for those who deserve it. She does not deign to pass judgement on the loathsome.’

  Chaloner regarded her uneasily, wondering whether she had gone too far, but Downing merely bowed and moved away. Hannah watched him go.

  ‘What a revolting creature!’ she declared. ‘He has no place in a genteel gathering like this.’

  ‘The King likes him, and it is unwise to make an enemy of such a man. You should not have—’

  ‘He was my enemy long before I put him in his place. First, because he was nasty to you. And second, because he is a lecher. No decent woman should give him the time of day, and I am not having my reputation sullied by simpering at him.’

  Chaloner experienced a surge of affection as he looked down at her determinedly jutting chin and flashing eyes. Her fierce opinions were one of the reasons why he had married her.

  Hannah had agreed to meet some friends in the park, and among her little party were Killigrew, his wife Judith and Charles Bates, the sad-faced man with the copper wig. While Killigrew and Judith chatted to Hannah in French – a Court affectation to let everyone know they were civilised – Bates started to thank Chaloner for saving his hairpiece, but then stopped abruptly, and backed away.

  Chaloner turned to see the Earl approaching, Griffith mincing at his side. Clarendon beamed at Hannah, for whom he felt a fatherly affection, although the fondness was not reciprocated. Hannah disliked him on two counts: the irritating delight he took in being a killjoy, and the shabby way he treated her husband. As she seemed to be in a feisty mood, Chaloner braced himself for trouble.

  ‘You look well, my dear child,’ said the Earl, taking her hand and patting it paternally.

  She smiled pleasantly enough as she pulled it away. ‘Thank you, My Lord. You look terrible.’

  ‘Your wife has a discerning eye,’ said the Earl to Chaloner, who was holding his breath for fireworks. ‘I do feel terrible. But my spirits have been lifted by my old friend Colonel Griffith. He always did know how to make me forget my troubles with laughter.’

  Griffith effected an elegant bow, all waving lace and bobbing wig. ‘The pleasure of diverting you is all mine, sir.’

  ‘Such fine manners,’ said the Earl admiringly, watching him flounce away. ‘Do you know why Bulteel took him into his home, by the way? So that Griffith can transform him into a such a beau ideal that we will all fall helplessly at his feet.’ He sniggered at the notion.

  ‘Not even Griffith is equal to that task,’ said Hannah. ‘Of course, Bulteel has never had anyone decent to emulate, given where he works.’

  The Earl regarded her uncertainly, then smiled. ‘You refer to White Hall as a whole, and you are quite right, my dear. The rakes of Court do not set a good example.’

  ‘I meant—’ began Hannah, although she faltered when Chaloner shot her an agonised glance. While he admired her independence of thought, it would be unfortunate if it saw him dismissed.

  ‘Of course, Griffith has changed since the wars,’ the Earl went on, blithely unaware of the attempt to insult him.

  ‘You mean he is older?’ asked Chaloner, relieved when Hannah returned to the Killigrews, openly disgusted that her barbs had failed to hit their target.

  ‘Well, obviously he is older.’ The Earl shot him an irritable glance. ‘The wars started more than twenty years ago. But I do not recall him prancing so. And his face was thinner in those days.’

  Chaloner imagined the Earl’s had been thinner, too, because he was gaining weight at a rate of knots. And his gout was not helping: it meant he was often immobile, but still ate a lot.

  ‘Yet he still has the ability to make me laugh,’ said the Earl fondly. ‘I had forgotten how amusing he can be. Escort me back to the Bishop, Chaloner. The Lady keeps looking my way, and I do not like it. However, she will not do anything untoward if I am with him.’

  By the time Chaloner had obliged, the musicians had tuned their instruments, and were ready to start. Immediately, a hush fell over the assembled guests.

  The first strains of an air by Matthew Locke drifted towards them. One bass viol was joined by another, the melodies intertwining, delicate and light on the still evening air. Then the treble came in, soaring above them. In the distance, a blackbird sang, as if in answer. The four watermen poled the barge slowly up and down the Canal, and its changing position, along with the hint of a breeze, played with the notes, so they were sometimes loud and sometimes soft, but always exquisite.

  Eventually, the sun began to dip, turning the trees in the distance into dark silhouettes against a blaze of orange-gold. Bats flitted, feasting on the insects that proliferated in the hot weather. The air was full of the scent of scythed grass and scorched earth, overlain lightly with the odour of still water. Then, as the light faded further, lanterns were lit on the barge, which created shimmering paths of silver on the darkening Canal.

  The last piece had been written specially for the occasion by the French composer Louis Grabu. It began with a lively dance, with all the musicians playing together, but gradually evolved into a haunting fugue. This time, when the barge was punted into the gloom, it did not return, and the music grew ever softer, until just a single bass viol was left. Its notes hung in the air, sad and sweet. Then, one by one, the lamps were doused. The last flickered, matching the viol’s fading melody. And finally, the music diminished into nothing and the light winked out. There was a brief pause, then rapturous applause.

  Chaloner did not join in. He had been moved by the performance, and the sudden clamour of hands and voices seemed somehow sacrilegious. He sat with his head bowed, trying not to lose the magic of the last moments. No one else seemed to share his sensibilities. The King shot out of his chair and aimed for his carriage, the Lady hot on his heels; doubtless, they had more lively entertainment planned for the rest of the night. The Queen lingered to exchange pleasantries with Ambassador van Goch, Secretary Kun and the fox-faced Zas, then she left, too.

  Once the royals had gone, there was a concerted move towards the gates. People clambered inelegantly to their feet, and servants hurried to gather up the blankets on which they had been sitting. Bates claimed that nightdew had seeped into his joints, and he had to be hauled to his feet. Nearby, Griffith was declaring to his companions that the performance had moved him to tears.

  ‘Damned milksop,’ muttered Killigrew. ‘He was made a colonel during the wars, just because he minded Prince Rupert’s dog. But he never saw any real action. I, of course, saw several battles.’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Chaloner, feigning polite interest.

  ‘Mostl
y from a distance, I admit,’ Killigrew elaborated. ‘But I saw them even so. They looked very nasty. How about you? No, you would have been much too young.’

  Chaloner was spared from having to reply, because Hannah interrupted: not everyone at Court would be impressed to learn that his regicide uncle had enrolled him in Cromwell’s New Model Army when he was just fifteen. He had taken part in several major battles, the last of which was Naseby, when he had been injured by an exploding cannon. His leg had never fully mended, and he still walked with a limp when he over-exerted it.

  ‘Judith has offered to take Tom and me home in your carriage,’ said Hannah, smiling at Killigrew. ‘It is kind, because I do not feel like walking. It is too hot.’

  But Chaloner did feel like walking, and was more than happy to give up his place to Bates, who was claiming that sitting on the ground for so long had done him irreparable damage.

  ‘Do not be long,’ warned Hannah. ‘Or I shall be asleep when you come in, and there are things we need to discuss.’

  Chaloner was not sure he liked the sound of that, but promised he would hurry. He said his farewells, and slipped away from the crowds, wanting time alone to reflect on the music, and to replay some of the more inspired sections in his mind. He aimed for the gate near Charing Cross, relishing the growing silence as he left the Court behind.

  But it was a short-lived peace, because the moment he left the park, he found himself in an area that was thick with taverns. The patrons that spilled out of them were rowdy, and heat and large quantities of ale made them feisty, too. One apprentice collided with him as he passed, clearly in the hope of starting a fight, but Chaloner jigged away, ignoring the challenging jeers that followed.

  There was a lot of traffic, too, much of it from St James’s Park, as courtiers travelled home in private coaches or hackney carriages. One had had a mishap. It stood at a precarious angle, a wheel missing, and it was obvious that its driver had failed to negotiate one of the drainage channels that ran along the side of the road. A crowd had gathered, and there was a lot of shouting and shoving. Chaloner began to skirt around the mêlée, but stopped when he heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Please!’ It was Secretary Kun, and he sounded frightened. ‘We do not want trouble.’

  ‘Do you not?’ sneered one onlooker. ‘Well, I am afraid you have found it.’

  With a sigh, Chaloner saw that whatever Hannah had wanted to discuss would have to wait.

  The man taunting Kun had disguised himself by donning the kind of face-scarf intended to shield the wearer from London’s foul air, but his voice and posture revealed him as Kicke. Chaloner looked around quickly, and saw a second figure that was the right size and shape to be Nisbett.

  ‘We do not want trouble,’ Kun said again, pleadingly. He had dressed for an evening with royalty, and although Dutch fashions were not as flamboyant as those of the English Court, his clothes were still fine. To the mob that was gathering, which comprised mainly the poorer kind of tradesmen, apprentices and the unemployed, they were like a red rag to a bull.

  ‘We want only to go home.’ It was Zas, similarly attired – and similarly alarmed by the situation.

  ‘Home?’ echoed Kicke. ‘Do you mean the Savoy? Why should sly Dutchmen live in a grand palace, while honest Englishmen are forced into mean tenements, like animals?’

  There was a rumble of approval from the crowd. Chaloner edged forward, careful not to jostle anyone who might use it as an excuse to fight him.

  ‘You are probably spies, too,’ Kicke went on. ‘Stealing secrets, so you can cheat when hostilities break out. The tale is all over London that you stole documents from the Lord Chancellor.’

  There was another growl from the onlookers, and this time there was anger in it. Chaloner wondered what Kicke thought he was doing: if van Goch’s secretary was killed by a mob, the peace talks would stall for certain. Or was he acting under orders from the Lady, because she was one of those who itched for war?

  ‘You look as though you are planning to intervene,’ came a low voice at Chaloner’s shoulder. He turned quickly, and saw Griffith, his elegant clothes hidden by a plain dark coat. His silent servant was at his side. ‘Do not try it. Nisbett is an excellent swordsman, and will cut you to pieces.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Chaloner, glancing around hopefully. Perhaps other courtiers were to hand, and would help him extricate the diplomats from their predicament.

  Griffith made a moue of distaste. ‘There was no room for me in my friends’ coach, so I was obliged to walk. And I was forced to borrow Lane’s coat, to conceal my finery.’ He lowered his voice. ‘He was not very nice about it, either. I cannot abide the fellow, and will dismiss him as soon as I can find a replacement. How dare he—’

  ‘How many English babies have you roasted on a spit?’ Nisbett’s voice was loud as he taunted his victims, and drew Chaloner’s attention away from Griffith’s tirade. ‘And how many honest English merchants have you cheated, you piece of Dutch—’

  The rest of his sentence was lost as the mob surged forward with a furious roar. Kun screamed, and Chaloner whipped his sword from its scabbard.

  ‘No!’ cried Griffith, grabbing his arm. ‘You cannot win against so many. Not alone.’

  ‘He is not alone,’ said Lane, the first words Chaloner had heard him speak. There was a grim smile on his face as he drew his weapon. It was an expression Chaloner had seen before, and told him Lane was a warrior, probably one who had cut his teeth during the civil wars.

  Another howl from Kun, audible even over the vengeful yells of the mob, made Chaloner turn quickly and begin beating a path towards him, careful to use the flat of his blade. He had no wish to kill, not even men who were behaving like animals. It was not easy, though. People were pressed tightly together, and there was not enough room to wield any weapon effectively. He was aware of Lane at his back, similarly handicapped.

  When he finally managed to reach Kun, the elderly secretary was on his knees, clothes torn and bloody. He was praying, and Nisbett was holding a dagger against his neck.

  ‘Cut his throat!’ yelled a butcher. ‘Do it now!’

  Chaloner stepped forward and knocked the dagger from Nisbett’s hand. Furious that they were to be deprived of a show of blood, the onlookers began a chorus of boos and hisses.

  ‘You!’ exclaimed Nisbett, recognising him. Then his expression turned vengeful, and he raised his voice. ‘Here is a traitor who wants to protect cheese-eaters! Will you let him do it? Tear him limb from limb, in the name of England and St George!’

  Cheering patriotically, several apprentices leapt forward to oblige, but fell back when Chaloner proved he could defend himself. Meanwhile, Lane had reached Zas, and was standing over him protectively. Griffith hovered nearby. He had drawn his sword, but made no attempt to use it.

  ‘Kill the traitors!’ screamed Kicke, launching himself at Lane. There was an ear-shattering clash as steel met steel, followed by an appreciative bellow from the crowd.

  ‘Run him through!’ shrieked the butcher, almost beside himself with delight at the spectacle. He was, however, careful to stand well back as the weapons began to flash.

  Watching them almost cost Chaloner his life, because Nisbett attacked him while his attention wavered, and it did not take many moments for the spy to see he was in the presence of a master. Chaloner was accomplished, but Nisbett was better, and Chaloner was forced to give ground again and again.

  Grinning malevolently, Nisbett began to toy with him. In a display that had the mob baying its approval, he performed a fancy manoeuvre that scored a gash down Chaloner’s forearm. While the spy staggered, Nisbett strutted at the edge of the crowd, doffing his hat to their compliments.

  Then there was a collective groan of disappointment. Lane had managed to disarm Kicke, who was cowering on the ground. At that point, Griffith minced forward, all effete flourishes and elegant footwork. Some of the onlookers started to laugh, causing the colonel to glare at them.
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br />   Piqued by the loss of attention, Nisbett attacked his opponent anew. This time, he came in earnest, and it was not long before Chaloner’s sword was wrenched from his hand. The dagger in his sleeve fell to the ground at the same time. He managed to twist away from one blow, but he knew it was only a matter of time before he was skewered. The crowd began to chant for Nisbett to finish him, and with glittering eyes, the thief stepped forward to oblige.

  Suddenly, there was an urgent clatter of hoofs, and horsemen bore down on the crowd, swords flailing. Chaloner recognised Buckingham and Sir Alan Brodrick among the riders, and understood at once what was happening: a gaggle of courtiers, at a loose end after the music in St James’s Park, was looking for entertainment. And tackling a mob fitted the bill perfectly. Clearly afraid of being unmasked, Kicke and Nisbett joined the frantic horde that scattered in all directions.

  Chaloner leaned against the broken carriage and watched. Whooping and shrieking, the horsemen pursued the panicking throng, jabbing wildly with their blades. Zas knelt next to Kun, a comforting hand on his shoulder, while the secretary wept his relief.

  ‘Did you recognise the two men who started all this?’ Chaloner asked, when Lane and Griffith came to join him.

  Griffith regarded him askance. ‘How could we? Their faces were covered by scarves. Damned villains! Parrying with them has put dust all over my best stockings.’

  Chaloner’s heart sank. He could not accuse Kicke and Nisbett without another witness – it would look like sour grapes on his part, and would probably make them more popular than ever.

  ‘I think they were courtiers,’ said Lane helpfully. ‘They fought too well to be common men.’

  ‘You do say some curious things,’ said Griffith, gazing at his servant with wide eyes. ‘And you cannot be right, because Buckingham would not have attacked them if they had been from White Hall.’

  ‘He might, if he did not know who they were,’ Lane pointed out.