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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘No,’ said Williamson immediately. ‘I have given orders that no one will ever speak to them again. The affair is over, so let it alone.’

  ‘Were Swan, Swallow and Falcon the only ones involved? Or did they have accomplices?’

  ‘They said not, and I believe them,’ replied Williamson curtly.

  ‘Then what about witnesses? Did anyone other than Compton overhear what they were plotting?’

  Williamson scowled. ‘No, because they would have come forward to tell me.’

  ‘Unfortunately, not everyone sees you as a benevolent soul,’ said Swaddell, when Chaloner did not grace that claim with a response. ‘Having Londoners afraid of you is good in some ways, but it does make them reluctant to confide. Chaloner may be right: a witness may well have blathered, and we might be wrong to blame the Privy Council for gossiping.’

  ‘Then find him,’ said Williamson to Swaddell. ‘Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention, Chaloner. You may go now. But before you do, let me issue a warning: do not dabble in this matter any further. You will not look for this witness, and you will stay away from Newgate. Is that clear?’

  ‘Clear enough,’ said Chaloner, although he had no intention of complying.

  ‘Disobey me, and you will be sorry.’ Williamson’s eyes bored into Chaloner’s. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘There is no need for threats,’ said Bulteel reproachfully. ‘Thomas will do as you say.’

  Chapter 6

  Far from discouraging Chaloner, Williamson’s threat had convinced him that a quiet word with Falcon, Swan and Swallow might be extremely useful, and he decided he would use Surgeon Wiseman to gain access to Newgate the following day. It would be risky – and certainly unpleasant – but he had faced far greater dangers in the past.

  He returned to White Hall with Bulteel, and was just crossing the Great Court to report to the Earl, when Hannah waylaid them. A man was with her, arm extended to escort her over the cobbles. He appeared to be in his mid fifties, with a face that was lined and worn from a life outdoors. He was surprisingly clean shaven, though, and his uniform was smart. Bulteel made Hannah a graceless obeisance that caused him to stumble, and scurried away when she started to smirk.

  ‘Are you feeling better now, Tom?’ she asked sweetly, thus indicating that she considered their earlier spat his fault, not hers. ‘You were sadly out of sorts this morning.’

  ‘Probably the heat,’ said her companion sympathetically. ‘It is affecting us all.’

  ‘This is Daniel Cotton,’ said Hannah, in response to Chaloner’s questioning look. ‘My first husband’s brother – or one of them. There are also Josias and William, and all three hold Court appointments. Daniel is a Yeoman Cartaker, which means he looks after the King’s carriages.’

  Chaloner bowed, thinking Daniel held the same relationship to him that Hannah held to Jacoba. Did it make them kin, or was the tie too tenuous?

  ‘I have a bit of a problem,’ said Daniel, bowing in return. He had a curious, gravelly voice. ‘But Hannah says you have a way with problems, and may be able to help.’

  Chaloner suppressed a sigh. There were not enough hours in the day for yet another enquiry. ‘It is not a good time …’

  ‘Because we are about to go to Hanse’s funeral?’ asked Hannah. ‘I have not forgotten. I assume you are here to collect me?’

  ‘It will not take a moment to tell you,’ said Daniel. ‘And then you can be on your way.’

  ‘Daniel has the same difficulty as another of my friends,’ explained Hannah. She grabbed Chaloner’s hand and jerked him towards her, so she could whisper in his ear. ‘Charles Bates is being blackmailed, and now Daniel is similarly menaced. You explore nasty happenings in White Hall, so …’

  ‘Not this nasty happening,’ Chaloner whispered back. ‘I have other cases to solve.’

  ‘Please, Tom,’ said Hannah quietly. ‘This is important to me.’

  ‘We shall talk here,’ determined Daniel, when Chaloner could think of no excuse, and Hannah indicated that the Yeoman Cartaker should begin his tale. ‘It is in the blazing sun, but we will see anyone coming, and I cannot afford to be overheard. You may wait in the shade, Hannah. What I am about to say is too delicate for the ears of ladies.’

  Chaloner’s heart sank, and he hoped he was not about to be regaled with anything too risqué.

  ‘I shall leave you to it, then,’ said Hannah, rather resentfully. ‘Afterwards, we shall attend this funeral, and then Tom can take me to the Banqueting House, where the King is putting on a play.’

  ‘I am not sure where to begin,’ said Daniel, when she was out of earshot. Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and spoke in a blurt. ‘I am pregnant. There! It is out.’

  Chaloner regarded him warily. ‘Are you?’ Daniel’s only response was a curt nod, and the spy was clearly expected to say something else, so he added, ‘Does your wife know?’

  ‘I am not married,’ snapped Daniel. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘It was an immaculate conception, then, was it?’ asked Chaloner unable to help himself.

  Daniel glared at him. ‘Of course not. A man is involved – a fellow named John Nisbett. I know I should not have bedded him, but these things happen, and we were both drunk at the time. He has since confessed that he does not recall what happened. Thank God!’

  Chaloner tried to understand why anyone – of either sex – should want to bed Nisbett. ‘So you are a woman, then?’

  ‘Of course I am a woman! I would not be pregnant if I were a man, would I?’

  Chaloner felt it was unreasonable of her to bark at him. ‘You must forgive me, madam, but it is not every day that a Yeoman Cartaker confesses to being a lady.’

  ‘Well, perhaps not, but this is White Hall, so you should be used to the unexpected. Of course, Hannah does not know I am a sister-in-law, and I would be grateful if you did not enlighten her.’

  ‘Her first husband, Nathan, was he a woman, too?’

  ‘Do not be ridiculous! It is only me, William and Josias who are of the fairer sex. Well, we had to do something to earn a crust, given that none of us are pretty enough to be ladies-in-waiting. And I am an excellent manager of His Majesty’s carriages. Far better than any man.’

  ‘I am sure you are,’ asked Chaloner weakly.

  ‘We have all done extremely well at White Hall, and we have made the name of Cotton highly respected. However, that will change should my secret emerge. It would hurt Hannah, too.’

  Chaloner supposed it would. ‘So, can I assume that someone found out about your … your condition, and is threatening to expose you?’

  ‘Precisely! I shall disappear to the country to “visit kin” when my time comes, as I have done in the past, so no one should know anything about it. But some wretched villain found out, although I cannot imagine how. All I can think is that someone must have overheard me talking to my sisters.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who?’

  ‘If I did, I would call the villain out. I may be a woman, Mr Chaloner, but I am more than a match for most of these fops who strut about Court.’

  Chaloner was sure she was. ‘How does the blackmailer communicate?’

  Daniel handed him a sheet of paper, on which the writer informed the reader in a bold roundhand that the cost of concealing the pregnancy would be fifty pounds. It was to be paid by the end of the month, which was about two weeks hence.

  ‘I do not have fifty pounds,’ she said. ‘It is more than I earn in a year. Yet I cannot have my family exposed to ridicule. People will say Nathan was a woman, too, and it explains why his marriage was childless. But he was a perfectly normal man, and it was just unfortunate that he and Hannah were never blessed with brats.’

  ‘Not nearly as unfortunate as the fact that you are,’ muttered Chaloner. ‘All I can promise is to listen for rumours regarding his identity. And I will look into the matter when my current cases are closed, and I have more free time.’

  Daniel sighed her relief. ‘Thank
you. Is there anything I can do for you in return?’

  ‘Yes. You can take Hannah to this play in the Banqueting House.’

  ‘So you can pursue your other work?’ asked Daniel.

  So I do not have to take her to Hanse’s funeral, thought Chaloner. He nodded.

  ‘Very well,’ said Daniel. ‘I will do a great deal to secure your help, even sit through a play.’

  For convenience, Hanse was going to be laid to rest in St Martin-in-the-Fields, no longer rural, but still possessed of a decent sward of grass for burials. Aware that a large gathering of Dutchmen was likely to attract unwanted attention, Ambassador van Goch had permitted only a few of his staff to attend. All had been instructed to don clothes that would not reveal them to be foreigners.

  There was a smattering of English mourners besides Chaloner. Bulteel was there as the Earl’s representative, and he had asked Griffith to join him. Bulteel had not bothered to change, and his pale-green coat was inappropriate. By contrast, Griffith had taken considerable care with his appearance, and every item of clothing was black. Chaloner could see him berating his cousin for his insensitivity, although Bulteel appeared bemused, not understanding what he had done wrong.

  Chaloner wore a black coat for the occasion, and felt the sun burning through it as he stood at the graveside, listening to the priest drone the all-too-familiar words. Inevitably, he thought of his first wife and child, especially when Jacoba came to cling to his arm, as she had done at Aletta’s funeral. It was a dismal occasion, and upset him more than he liked to admit.

  Afterwards, everyone was invited to the Savoy for wine, biscuits and the distribution of mourning rings. Being sociable was the last thing Chaloner felt like doing, but Jacoba said she wanted him there, and it would have been churlish to refuse. Reluctantly, he climbed into one of the waiting carriages, and found it already occupied by Bulteel, Griffith and the Killigrews.

  ‘Thank God that is over,’ said Griffith, flapping his piece of lace and leaning back against the upholstery with a gusty sigh. ‘I detest funerals. All that weeping and wailing …’

  ‘I do not mind,’ said Bulteel blithely. ‘I am not asked to many, so it makes for a pleasant change. But I do not want to go to this post-burial reception. I hate the Savoy.’

  ‘Do you?’ asked Killigrew coldly. ‘And why is that, pray?’

  ‘It is not the place itself,’ gabbled Bulteel, seeing he had offended. ‘It is its current residents. I do not like being among Dutchmen when they are so unpopular. It makes me fearful for my life.’

  ‘I can agree with you there,’ said Judith. ‘I cannot wait to see the back of them.’

  ‘You amaze me,’ said Griffith. ‘I have always found the delegates extremely mannerly.’

  ‘Oh, they are mannerly,’ acknowledged Killigrew. ‘But that does not mean we must like them. Besides, they are not all well behaved. That Ruyven is downright uncouth.’

  ‘Hanse was the best of them,’ said Judith sadly. ‘And I am sorry he is the one who died. He was nothing but smiles and cheerful conversation.’

  ‘I do not believe he stole those papers from Clarendon,’ said Killigrew. ‘Not him. Well, not any of them, if you want the truth. They are not thieves. Not even Ruyven.’

  ‘Yet someone made off with them,’ said Bulteel unhappily. ‘And I hope to God they turn up soon. I shall not rest easy until I know what has happened, because the notion of someone breaking into Worcester House and helping himself to important documents does not bear thinking about.’

  Chaloner felt guilty when it occurred to him that he had done virtually nothing about retrieving them, but then told himself that the Earl had only himself to blame. How could the theft be investigated when Chaloner had no notion as to what kind of person the papers might appeal?

  When the coach drew to a standstill outside the Savoy, Griffith’s servant, Lane, was waiting to help the occupants out. As usual, he was dour and silent, although the briefest of smiles cracked when he contrived to make Bulteel stumble. Griffith berated him soundly for his lack of care, although Lane did not seem to take the reprimand to heart. Or perhaps he did – it was difficult to tell with such a taciturn character.

  ‘How is your arm?’ he asked Chaloner, the last to alight. ‘Nisbett fought like a scoundrel the other night. True gentlemen do not taunt their opponents.’

  ‘I never thanked you for standing with me,’ said Chaloner. ‘I hope it did not see you in trouble.’

  ‘It did, but there we are. I am glad you picked Nisbett, because I would not have lasted two minutes with him. Kicke, on the other hand, is all bluster. I wish I had slit his throat.’

  And with that venomous remark, he bowed, and turned away to help the driver with the horses.

  ‘I swear he just said more to you than he has uttered in three months to me,’ said Griffith, who had been watching from the shade of the porch. ‘He is a desperately uncommunicative rogue.’

  ‘Is he given to fighting?’

  Griffith raised his eyebrows. ‘No, or I would not have hired him! But there is something odd about him. Something sly. I shall dismiss him the moment I find a suitable replacement.’

  Chaloner recalled what Temperance had said about Griffith. ‘I understand you have been listening to rumours about Hanse, and have learned that he drank in taverns with strangers.’

  Griffith nodded. ‘It is amazing what one overhears in the Spares Gallery. And my cousin ordered me to keep my ears open, in the hope that I might learn something to help you locate the villain who made off with Clarendon’s papers. Unfortunately, I heard nothing useful about those, but I did catch a few whispers about Hanse.’

  ‘What, exactly?’

  ‘Just that he visited the Sun tavern and sat with four men, although no one seems to know their names. As far as I am concerned, that is peculiar behaviour for a foreign diplomat, so perhaps there is truth in the rumour that he stole the Earl’s documents.’

  The reception for Hanse was being held in the State Room, where were gathered many people who had wanted to attend the funeral, but who had been forbidden to do so by van Goch. They comprised not only every member of the ambassadorial delegation, but a large number of London-based Dutch merchants, too. The ten or so British guests formed a distinct minority, and stood together looking acutely uncomfortable. All except one.

  ‘He was not invited,’ Bulteel whispered in Chaloner’s ear, pointing to where Downing was making a nuisance of himself with the women. Most fled before he could corner them, but Kun and Zas were obliged to rescue others who were less fleet of foot.

  ‘Then why did he come?’ asked Chaloner. A funeral was the last occasion he would gatecrash.

  ‘For the funeral gifts,’ explained Bulteel. ‘And the free food.’

  Chaloner regarded him in amused surprise. ‘I hardly think—’

  ‘I am right,’ asserted Bulteel. ‘His meanness is legendary, and he will do anything to avoid spending money. The food and wine served here will save him the cost of his dinner.’

  Chaloner was about to argue when he saw Downing grab a handful of biscuits, eat half as quickly as he could, and slip the rest in his pocket for later. Bulteel nodded his satisfaction at this proof that he was right, then wandered away to admire the paintings, evidently trying to put Griffith’s art lessons to good use. Chaloner went to pay his respects to Jacoba.

  ‘You should not have come,’ said Ruyven, standing protectively at her side. ‘Your time would have been better spent hunting for the killer.’

  ‘I wanted him here,’ said Jacoba. Her face was pale: the occasion was a strain. ‘It made me feel as though Aletta was with me. Have one of these biscuits, Tom. Ruyven has just told me that they are very good. And here is the funeral ring I would like you to have, to remember Willem by.’

  Clearly disgusted that such honour should be bestowed on his old rival, Ruyven left abruptly, shouldering his way through the mourners so bullishly that they staggered and spilled their wine. Chaloner gazed at the b
iscuit in his hand. It was embossed with Hanse’s family arms, as was the custom on such occasions, and he could not bring himself to eat it. He pushed it in his pocket, along with the ring, hoping no one would see and assume he was like Downing, storing treats for later.

  ‘Ignore Ruyven,’ said Jacoba, misunderstanding the reason for his lack of appetite. ‘He is distressed, and does not mean to be rude.’

  ‘It does not matter.’ Chaloner looked up as someone approached. It was Bulteel.

  ‘Are you the widow?’ asked Bulteel baldly. ‘Then I have a message for you: Clarendon sends his congratulations … I mean his condolences on your tragic loss, and says that he hopes you will not blame England for the fact that Hanse was drowned and left naked on the banks of the Thames.’

  While Chaloner gaped at the tactless choice of words, Bulteel took Jacoba’s hand and started to bow, but someone jostled him, and he only retained his balance by hauling on her arm. She staggered, and Chaloner was obliged to catch her before she fell. She started to acknowledge the Earl’s message – although, mercifully, her poor English meant she had not understood most of it – but Bulteel turned and fled with obvious relief. Jacoba stared after him in astonishment.

  ‘What a curious little man!’

  ‘This is a sad day,’ said Kun, arriving at Jacoba’s side with Zas at his heels, and saving Chaloner from the need to reply. ‘I already miss Hanse. I found myself thinking to ask his opinion about a treaty I read this morning, and it will be a long time before I am used to his absence.’

  ‘Have you found his killer yet?’ asked Zas. His bright little eyes were everywhere as he spoke, and Chaloner had the sense that he was a man who missed nothing – that he was quite capable of holding a conversation with one set of people, while watching the interactions between others. He was paying especially close attention to Killigrew and Judith. Chaloner wondered why.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You will,’ said Kun, patting Chaloner’s shoulder encouragingly, although it was clear from his eyes that he was disappointed. ‘And if there is anything we can do to help, then do not hesitate to ask. We are all eager for this villain to be brought to justice.’