But as far as Chaloner was concerned, the investigation had reached a dead end, and there was no more he could do unless someone gave him new information. Even learning the contents of the papers had not helped, because they were too wide-ranging to permit identification of relevant suspects. Virtually anyone might have taken them. Even, he thought caustically, the ladies of the Queen’s bedchamber, eager to know what was being said about the size of their busts.
‘I have every confidence that you will prevail,’ said Bulteel, seeing his friend’s disheartened expression. He looked around quickly, then lowered his voice. ‘And if Clarendon threatens you with dismissal, I shall borrow a copy from someone else, and duplicate them for you to give him.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘That would be underhand.’
Bulteel blushed furiously. ‘Yes it would, but I do not like the way he treats you. It is not right.’
‘Perhaps I will have better luck with the other investigation – Hanse’s murder. He may overlook his missing documents if I solve that.’
‘Do you have any leads?’ Bulteel tried to sound interested, but it was clear he considered the papers more pressing. ‘I have been listening for rumours, but have heard nothing yet.’
‘I do have one clue: Hanse met a surgeon named Ned Molins in the Sun tavern. Wiseman is taking me to meet him this afternoon.’
‘Then you may be in luck,’ said Bulteel, smiling. ‘Surgeon Molins is a disreputable, peculiar fellow who might well be involved in something untoward.’
‘You think Hanse was untoward?’
‘Well, I am convinced that he stole the Earl’s documents. I know you disagree, but who else could it have been? No one else visited Worcester House that day except him and van Goch. And I doubt an ambassador would sully his hands with theft, so that only leaves one candidate.’
‘But Clarendon says the documents went missing between six and eight o’clock on Friday night. Hanse has an alibi for then, because I was with him. He is not the thief.’
Bulteel sniffed and changed the subject, clearly unwilling to admit that his suspicions might be unfounded. ‘I have never liked Molins. He is opinionated, loud and arrogant, and—’
They both turned as Griffith and his servant arrived. Bulteel’s cousin was clad in a suit of pale pink, with enough ribbon to supply a maypole, while Lane was in his usual dowdy browns. Griffith minced towards them, and sank gracefully on to a chair, fanning himself with his lace.
‘God’s blood!’ he exclaimed. ‘Will this heat never end? I am all but overcome. Is there any wine? Fetch me some, will you, Lane? And quickly, because I think I am about to expire.’
Although Lane’s expression remained faultlessly neutral, he gave the distinct impression that he would not mind too much if that happened. Wordlessly, he bowed, and moved away.
‘We were talking about Surgeon Molins,’ said Bulteel. ‘Do you know him, cousin?’
‘I met him once,’ replied Griffith, fanning vigorously and closing his eyes. ‘I found him rather uncouth, and he smelled of pilchards. But he is an ardent Royalist, so he has his virtues.’
Lane returned with the wine, which Griffith swallowed as if it were medicine, wincing and cringing all the way to the bottom of the cup. Lane watched impassively, and it occurred to Chaloner that the fellow was actually rather sinister.
‘Right,’ said Griffith, when he had finished. ‘Are you ready, John, dear? Where shall we do it?’
‘Library,’ muttered Bulteel, blushing red and not looking at Chaloner.
‘Really?’ asked Griffith, with an exaggerated moue of distaste. ‘Can we not go to the Spares Gallery? I like that room, and it will be cool and empty at this hour of the day.’
‘It will not,’ countered Bulteel. ‘Bates will be loitering there – he always is these days. Personally, I would rather do it in my Chelsey house, because that really is a long way from prying eyes, but I suppose no one will see us here.’
‘No one will see them doing what?’ asked Chaloner of Lane, after they had gone.
‘Dancing lessons,’ replied Lane, still with the same inscrutable expression. ‘It is their third this week. The colonel maintains that light feet are the sign of a true gentleman.’
Chaloner passed the library on his way out, and, out of idle curiosity, peered through a crack in the door. Griffith was leading Bulteel around the room in a dance known as a courant, although Bulteel’s stumbling and shuffling made it difficult to tell. The secretary’s face was a mask of desperate concentration, but it was clear he was one of those men who would never be elegant, no matter how much time was invested in his training.
‘This is hopeless!’ he cried, pushing Griffith away from him in sudden despair. ‘I move like a hippopotamus! No wonder Tom’s wife did not want me at their wedding. They had a ball afterwards, and she was probably afraid I would take to the floor.’
‘Nonsense,’ countered Griffith good-naturedly. ‘It just requires practise and patience.’
Bulteel took the proffered hands and they began to circle again. Chaloner left thinking the effete colonel was an incurable optimist, because Bulteel was right: there was something of the hippopotamus in his gyrations. Moreover, Hannah’s dislike went a lot deeper than his abilities on the dance floor, and it would take more than mastering a courant to persuade her to like him.
Sorry that it was Hannah who was responsible for putting Bulteel through such torments, Chaloner went to White Hall, and divided his time between questioning Privy Council members about the Earl’s missing papers and asking about Falcon. Neither enquiry yielded fruit: none of the Privy Council had sensible suggestions to offer regarding possible culprits for the theft, and were quite happy to believe the Dutch were responsible; and all he learned about Falcon was that those who had met him considered him enigmatic and frightening, and their descriptions of him were contradictory. As Chaloner had feared, the man was going to be very difficult to track.
Later, simultaneously frustrated and despondent, he went to meet Wiseman.
‘I am afraid my ruse to gain access to Newgate will bring you trouble,’ he said apologetically. ‘Williamson is suspicious of your so-called assistant.’
‘I know,’ said Wiseman grimly. ‘I was subjected to an extremely unpleasant interview in his Westminster den yesterday. In order to extricate myself as quickly as possible, I told him the truth.’
‘You did?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
Wiseman nodded. ‘Yes. Which is that talented young surgeons queue up by the dozen, asking me to take them on, but that they rarely last more than a week. So I no longer bother to check their credentials. The Master of my Company tells me it is because I am abrasive, but he cannot be right.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I am not abrasive. Temperance says so, and I trust her judgement.’
Chaloner fell into step at the surgeon’s side as they walked along Fleet Street. People gave Wiseman a wide berth, and those who did not ran the risk of being shunted out of his way. There were a few resentful remarks, but nothing overt. It would be a brave and reckless fellow who picked a quarrel with the mighty Wiseman.
Ned Molins lived on Shoe Lane, an important thoroughfare that ran between Fleet Street and Holborn. It suffered from being near the Fleet River, and several unsavoury-looking lanes led off it, dark, uninviting slits that were used as dumps for all manner of refuse. The evil-smelling piles, combined with the eye-watering reek from the river, meant that not everyone who ventured down these alleys could expect to return.
‘Ned lives here with his son Joseph,’ said Wiseman as they approached a fine yellow-brick house. ‘Joseph is a hopeless surgeon, but an excellent barber. His shaves are a true delight.’
‘You say you chopped off Molins’s leg,’ said Chaloner, reaching out to stop Wiseman from knocking. ‘Are you sure he will want to see you? Perhaps I should visit him on my own.’
Wiseman glared. ‘Of course he will want to see me! The break was a dirty one, and i
t festered – I saved his life by whipping off his foot. Besides, although I was the one to perform the surgery, many of our colleagues were present, and they all agreed that amputation was the only recourse.’
The door was opened by a man with a Cavalier moustache, a black wig and simple but expensive clothes. When he saw Wiseman, he lurched forward with a shriek of anguish, hands scrabbling for the surgeon’s throat. Chaloner braced himself to intervene, but Wiseman fended him off with ease, then grabbed the fellow by the collar, holding him at arm’s length while the man howled unintelligible words and tried his damnedest to land a punch.
‘Really, Joseph,’ said Wiseman, when his captive’s fury had subsided into shuddering sobs. ‘Your behaviour is most unedifying, and people are looking at us. What in God’s name is the matter?’
‘How dare you come here,’ wept Joseph, trying to slap him again. ‘You have no right!’
‘I have every right,’ declared Wiseman indignantly. ‘Your father is my patient.’
‘My father is dead,’ howled Joseph. ‘And you killed him, you wretched butcher!’
Joseph’s wails brought another man running. It was John Knight, a fierce bantam of a man with a bristling moustache, who was the current Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons. Chaloner had met him on several occasions, and had found him pedantic, small-minded and unfriendly.
‘Knight,’ Wiseman nodded a wary greeting. ‘What seems to be the problem?’
‘The problem,’ Knight replied coldly, ‘is that Molins is dead.’
Wiseman shot him a withering glance. ‘So Joseph has just declared, but I was hoping for more detailed information from you. Such as what killed him.’
‘You did,’ sobbed Joseph. ‘Your surgery.’
‘Rubbish!’ declared Wiseman uncompromisingly. He turned to Knight. ‘You observed the procedure, and you said it was the most elegant amputation you had ever witnessed.’
‘Actually, you said that,’ countered Knight. ‘But I had reservations, and I was right. Poor Molins passed away an hour ago, from a poorly secured skin flap.’
‘Nonsense!’ declared Wiseman, although his face was pale. ‘My flap was perfect.’
‘It looked well immediately after the cutting,’ acknowledged Knight. ‘But it must have deteriorated. And you applied a plaister that you said should not be removed for a week, which meant that no one else was able to inspect it.’
‘You killed him, Wiseman,’ wept Joseph. ‘Just as surely as if you plunged a dagger into his heart. The wound should have been inspected regularly, not left for days.’
‘Poking about in new wounds encourages them to fester,’ stated Wiseman angrily.
‘You are wrong,’ snapped Knight. ‘And poor Molins has paid the price for your arrogance.’
‘How dare you!’ shouted Wiseman, affronted. ‘ I am the King’s personal surgeon!’
‘Only because you marched to White Hall and informed him that you were taking the post,’ Knight yelled back. ‘But you are deeply unpopular there and in our Company. Everybody hates you, and your fall from grace will be spectacular and catastrophic.’
‘What fall from grace?’ demanded Wiseman dangerously.
Sensing he was skating on thin ice, Knight turned to Joseph, pointing at Chaloner as he did so. ‘Here is one of Clarendon’s gentlemen ushers. I imagine the Earl heard Molins was dead, and sent Chaloner to discover what villainy is at work.’
‘How dare you imply—’ spluttered Wiseman.
‘Actually, I came to speak to Molins,’ said Chaloner, interrupting before blood was spilled. He was cursing himself for agreeing to wait for Wiseman’s introduction. If he had visited Molins the previous day, as his instincts had told him he should, he might have had some answers about Hanse.
‘Where is the body?’ demanded Wiseman, shaking with fury. ‘I want to inspect it.’
‘Upstairs,’ sniffed Joseph. ‘Follow me. You, too, Mr Chaloner. I want you to tell the Lord Chancellor exactly what this rogue has done to my beloved father.’
Chaloner started to decline, loath to become involved in such a matter, but Wiseman gripped his arm and hauled him inside, muttering that he needed the support of a man he trusted. Chaloner tried to resist, but the surgeon was far too strong.
Molins had died in a first-floor chamber that overlooked the street. Wiseman whipped the covers from the corpse, revealing a neat bandage that swathed what was left of the patient’s left leg. Chaloner stared at the body, recalling the description that Landlord Waters at the Sun had given: Molins was elderly, and did indeed have a birth-stain on his neck. He also saw that the dead man’s clothes had been tossed to one side, as if death had come quickly – breeches, stockings, waistcoat, gloves and hat lay in an untidy pile on a chair.
‘The cause of death is obvious,’ said Knight quietly. ‘The broken ankle released evil vapours into the vital organs, and bad surgery finished the business.’
Joseph gulped and darted from the room when Wiseman began to remove the dressing. The surgeon took a long time to examine the wound, while Chaloner and Knight watched in silence.
‘The flap is inflamed,’ Wiseman acknowledged eventually. His face was whiter than that of the corpse. ‘Of course, redness and swelling are to be expected after surgery, so it is not certain that the procedure is to blame for his death, but …’
‘Removing the foot should have saved his life,’ said Knight harshly. ‘It was as clear cut a case as I have ever seen. Young Molins is right: it was your plaister that killed his father.’
Uncharacteristically, Wiseman had nothing to say. He stared disconsolately at Molins, twisting his scarlet hat in his powerful hands. Knight watched him for a while, then announced that he was going to Chyrurgeons’ Hall, to tell their colleagues what had happened – and no doubt use the opportunity to blacken Wiseman’s name into the bargain.
‘I honestly thought Molins would live,’ said Wiseman in a low, strained voice, as he and Chaloner made their way down the stairs after him. ‘In fact, I was certain of it. I have dealt with many such cases in the past, and I know I removed all the rot. I did not botch the operation.’
‘Then perhaps there was an ingredient in the plaister that—’
‘It came from a batch I used on three other people, all of whom are alive and well.’
Chaloner was thoughtful. Was it innocent chance that one of the men Hanse had met in the Sun was dead? Or had someone given Molins a push towards the grave? If the latter, then it meant Molins was the ninth person to die in connection with Hanse, Falcon and the Sinon Plot, and yet again, Chaloner was seized with the sense that something dark and deadly was unfolding.
‘Could he have been poisoned?’ he asked, whispering so Knight would not hear.
Wiseman stared at him. ‘Why would anyone poison a man recovering from surgery?’
‘Just answer the question.’
‘There are no indications of it that I saw. And Knight may be a buffoon, but he would not have missed them, either. So I would say not.’
‘I am going to talk to Joseph.’
Hope filled Wiseman’s eyes. ‘You are going to look into the matter? To prove me innocent?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Chaloner uncomfortably. ‘But it is strange that Molins should die when—’
Wiseman clutched his hand in a grasp that threatened to break fingers, and Chaloner was horrified to see tears glittering. ‘Thank God! You are a good friend, Chaloner. I will not forget this.’
Chaloner was alarmed, and wished he had held his tongue. ‘Do not be too optimistic. It may be that there is no explanation, other than clumsy surgery.’
‘You will not find that,’ declared Wiseman with utter conviction. ‘Because it would not be true. There will be answers to why this happened, and I feel a lot better now I know you are going to find them. God bless you, Chaloner. I shall always be in your debt.’
Raising his head and straightening his shoulders, Wiseman strode down the rest of the stairs and sailed into th
e street.
Joseph Molins was sitting in a parlour at the back of his house. For some reason, every scrap of wall had been covered with the mounted heads of dead animals, and the place reeked of whatever compounds had been used to preserve them, although some had evidently been unsuccessful because an aroma of decay lurked beneath the chemicals. A few beasts had been furnished with eyes fashioned from shells or beads, and the effect was a curiously disturbing sense of being watched by creatures who deeply resented what had been done of them.
‘My father loved this room,’ sniffed Joseph. ‘He killed all these specimens himself. Take that enormous rat, for example. He caught that in the Anatomical Theatre in Chyrurgeons’ Hall.’
‘Did he?’ Chaloner felt slightly ill when he reflected on the probable nature of the rodent’s diet.
‘He wanted me to inherit his hospital posts,’ said Joseph, fresh tears falling. ‘But I think I shall decline. It sounds girlish, but there is something about blood that makes me swoon.’
‘I imagine that is true for most people,’ said Chaloner consolingly.
‘Yes, but most people have not been trained as surgeons,’ Joseph pointed out. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘I am sorry for my display earlier. It was unseemly, but I could not help myself. I know people often die after amputations, but a dozen medici watched Wiseman, and one of them should have said something if they thought his technique was lacking.’
‘It may not be his fault. Sometimes, men just die.’
‘I know that,’ said Joseph bitterly. ‘Of course, none of it would have happened if some low villain had not attacked my father last Friday.’
‘Friday?’ asked Chaloner, more sharply than he had intended. Friday was the day Hanse had gone missing. Had there been two victims that night?
‘It happened at the Devil tavern on Fleet Street,’ Joseph went on. ‘Although I cannot imagine what he was doing there. It is a rough place, and he had told me he was going out to see a patient.’
‘Perhaps the patient was in the tavern,’ suggested Chaloner.
‘Not according to the owner – Barford said my father was there for a drink with four friends. My father later said the same, too, although he declined to tell me who had demanded his company at such an hour.’
The Body in the Thames: Chaloner's Sixth Exploit in Restoration London (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 25