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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘He will do. Your master should have someone of quality with him, lest there is business he wants to complete before he sinks too far. And servants are hardly the thing.’

  ‘Should we send for his brothers, then?’ asked the maid, ignoring the slight.

  ‘Yes,’ said the physician urgently. ‘And someone should hurry Wiseman along, too.’

  ‘What is wrong with Compton?’ asked Chaloner, shocked by the doom-laden words.

  ‘It is too complex a matter to explain to laymen,’ declared the physician haughtily, suggesting he probably did not know. ‘Come with me. Quickly!’

  Thoroughly alarmed, Chaloner followed him up the stairs and into a darkened chamber. Compton lay in a bed with a cloth on his head. Like Molins, his clothes had been tossed to one side – hat, gloves, stockings, breeches and coat.

  ‘It is not the heat ailing me now,’ he whispered, smiling wanly as he recognised his visitor. ‘I am dying. I said I had a sense of impending doom, and I was right.’

  ‘You cannot be dying!’ declared Chaloner, although he was aware from the physician’s grim expression that he might be right. ‘I saw you yesterday, and you said you were fit and well.’

  ‘But today, God has seen fit to call me to Him,’ breathed Compton, his face serene. ‘Will you stay until my brothers arrive? And if I am unable, tell them … tell them our problem is resolved. They will know what I mean.’

  He lapsed into silence, and Chaloner wondered what to do. He was not so ruthless as to pump a dying man for information, but he was also aware that Compton would take his secrets to the grave unless questions were asked. Fortunately, he was spared from having to make a decision when the Master of Ordnance broached the subject himself.

  ‘How goes your enquiry?’ he whispered. ‘Did you visit Newgate?’

  ‘I did, but Falcon had escaped, and Swan and Swallow were murdered.’

  Compton gaped at him. ‘Falcon is on the loose? No! It is not possible!’

  ‘He has probably been free for the last two weeks. When did the first of your men die, exactly?’

  Compton swallowed hard. ‘Twelve days ago. You must help me, Chaloner. Go to the Fleet Rookery and warn Fairfax. Four of us are gone; there cannot be a fifth.’

  ‘You think your illness is Falcon’s doing?’

  ‘I am sure of it – his curses are very powerful. Will you do as I ask?’

  ‘Of course. As soon as your brothers come.’

  Compton closed his eyes in relief. ‘My soldiers are important to me. All my people are.’

  ‘Will you tell me something?’ Chaloner began tentatively. ‘You met four men in two London taverns. One was Hanse, who is dead. Another was Ned Molins, and he is dead, too.’

  Compton’s expression was agonised. ‘Molins? But Wiseman said he had saved him!’

  ‘He thought he had.’

  ‘Lord God!’ Compton’s face was a mask of despair. ‘I lied to you, Chaloner, when you asked about the Sinon Plot. I did it to protect you and them, because … Visit the last two men … tell them they are in terrible peril. We should have known it was too hazardous a … You must help them!’

  ‘Lied to me about what, exactly?’

  ‘No! It is far too dangerous! Warn the other two. Please! Promise me you will do it.’

  ‘It may be more dangerous not knowing what is going on,’ said Chaloner, becoming frustrated.

  Compton gripped Chaloner’s hand with unexpected strength for a man on the verge of expiring. ‘I misled you specifically to keep you out of Falcon’s clutches. If we could not stop him, with all our combined resources, then how can one man expect to prevail? I will not see you dead, too. He is even beyond Williamson’s skills …’

  ‘I can look after myself. And to be blind to the risks is far more—’

  The physician came to pull him away, seeing his presence was agitating the patient, but Compton tightened his hold on Chaloner’s wrist, and it was the medicus who was obliged to retreat.

  ‘I can tell you that the crown jewels were just a beginning,’ Compton whispered, once the physician was out of earshot. ‘They were needed to finance Falcon’s real work – the Sinon Plot.’

  ‘What is the real Sinon Plot?’ pressed Chaloner urgently.

  ‘Warn the last two members of our group,’ ordered Compton. His voice was weakening, and perspiration stood out on his forehead ‘One is Talbot Edwards … of the Tower. Go to him …’

  The ‘fat, sweaty, ordinary’ man, thought Chaloner, recalling his own encounter with Edwards the previous evening: the rotund Assistant Keeper of the Jewels had perspired heavily under his unremarkable clothes. ‘And the last one is a vicar,’ he prompted.

  ‘Yes. He is Edw …’ The rest of the sentence was spoken too softly for Chaloner to hear.

  ‘Enough,’ said the physician sharply, stepping forward again when Compton’s eyes closed and he slumped back, exhausted. ‘Let him rest, or he will die before his family arrives.’

  The agitation had gone from Compton’s face, and Chaloner saw he thought his message had been delivered – that his companions were going to be safe. He started to shake him awake, to ask for the last name to be repeated, but the physician shoved him back.

  ‘Do you want him dead?’ he hissed. ‘At least give his brothers a chance to say their farewells.’

  But Chaloner thought the dying man would probably sooner save the life of a friend, and reached for Compton’s shoulder again. Ignoring the physician’s objections, he shook it, lightly at first and then harder, but the patient was past rousing.

  It was not many moments before the floor was flung open, and two men raced in. Chaloner recognised Compton’s brothers from Court. The older one was the Earl of Northampton, and the younger was Charles. Northampton immediately took command, firing questions at the physician and issuing orders to the servants. Both reeled with shock when informed that Compton was dying.

  ‘He wanted me to tell you something,’ Chaloner said, eager to deliver the message and be away to fulfil their sibling’s last wishes. ‘Your problem has been resolved.’

  Northampton bowed his head in relief, still ashen from the physician’s grim prognosis. ‘Thank God! He doubtless explained it all to you? About Penelope, our sister?’

  ‘No,’ replied Chaloner. ‘He just—’

  ‘She fell in love,’ Northampton interrupted wretchedly. ‘And gave herself to a man. There was a child. We thought we had kept the matter quiet, that her reputation was intact, but …’

  ‘But someone found out and is demanding money for his silence?’ Chaloner was not surprised: the White Hall blackmailer seemed to know secrets about virtually every family at Court.

  Northampton swallowed hard. ‘Our honour is at stake, so we had no choice but to pay. My brother did it yesterday. As you no doubt know, that was the meaning of his message to us.’

  In Chaloner’s experience, once blackmailers had profited from their work, they tended to come back for more, and Compton’s capitulation was likely to mark the beginning of the problem, not the end. But it was no time to say so. He became aware that Northampton was staring at him.

  ‘Why did my brother confide in you? He has never mentioned you as a particular friend before.’

  Chaloner did not want to distress him further by telling him that Compton had confided nothing, and that it had been Northampton himself who had just let the family skeleton out of its closet. It was understandable enough: the poor man was in shock.

  ‘He trusted me,’ replied Chaloner simply, meeting his eyes. ‘And so may you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Northampton gruffly, seeming to sense his sincerity.

  ‘Your brother met four men in different London taverns,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether Northampton could help him out with answers, given that Compton was no longer in a position to do it. ‘They included Willem Hanse, Ned Molins and Talbot Edwards. Could he have been meeting them in connection with this blackmailer, do you think?’

  Nort
hampton looked bewildered. ‘I doubt it. Edwards sometimes consulted my brother on security for the crown jewels, while Molins acted as surgeon to his troops. I had no idea he knew any Hollanders though. But you said four men. Who is the last?’

  ‘Does he know any vicars?’

  ‘Lots – he is a devout man. But I doubt they are the sort to gather in alehouses, and—’

  He broke off when Wiseman exploded into the room. The surgeon dropped to his knees beside Compton, but it was clear the patient was past earthly help. He shook his head at the brothers’ hopeful gazes. Northampton began to sob, so Chaloner left, to give them privacy. He was walking down the stairs, aiming to execute his promise to Compton straight away, when Wiseman came after him. The surgeon was pale.

  ‘I thought it was the heat, so I recommended rest and plenty of water. How can he be dead?’

  Chaloner had no answer, although it was the second time that Wiseman had misdiagnosed Compton. ‘Could he have been poisoned? Falcon cursed him and his men for putting him in Newgate. Now four of the five are dead. That cannot be coincidence.’

  Wiseman stared at him. ‘I can take samples and test them on a few rats.’

  ‘Do that,’ said Chaloner. ‘And let me know what you find.’

  With the sense that time was of the essence, Chaloner left Drury Lane, and ran towards the Fleet Rookery, an area of tiny lanes, filthy runnels, creaking tenements and seedy yards. It was home to thousands of people, crammed twenty or thirty to a room, and the stench of sewage, poverty and filth that pervaded it that sultry June evening was enough to take his breath away.

  It was no place for a man wearing Court clothes, and Chaloner, still clutching the cheese and its hidden papers, was obliged to fend off several attacks as he tried to learn where he might find Fairfax. He was beginning to think he might have to give up, when he remembered that Mother Greene lived nearby.

  Mother Greene, a sprightly old lady with opinions, had helped him before. She owned a small but spotlessly clean house on Turnagain Lane, and claimed she had once been married to a wealthy actor. Her home was full of herbs and potions, and Chaloner was fairly sure she was a witch. She was pleased to see him, although her expression grew guarded when he explained what he wanted.

  ‘I do not know Fairfax.’ Fleet Rookery residents did not talk about their own.

  ‘It is vital that I pass him a message. His life may be in danger, and he needs to know it.’

  ‘Then tell me this message,’ she ordered. ‘And I will see what I can do.’

  ‘Sir William Compton is dead, and so are three of the four soldiers who went with him to arrest a thief named Falcon. With his dying breath, Compton warned Fairfax to be on his guard.’

  ‘Sir William is dead?’ Mother Greene was dismayed. ‘Then I am sorry. He was a good man – generous with alms for the poor, and kind to his servants. And young, too. How did he die?’

  Chaloner wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. ‘I am not sure.’

  ‘That cheese smells nice,’ she remarked, after a short silence during which they both reflected on the man who had been so widely admired for his integrity and courage. ‘Did you bring it for me? It is a pity you have scoured out the middle, but I suppose beggars cannot be choosers.’

  There was no reason not to let her have it – the Earl would not thank him for bringing something that reeked into his offices, not even to see how cleverly the documents had been concealed. He retrieved the papers, shoved them inside his shirt, and stood to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ said Mother Greene, climbing stiffly to her feet. ‘I will go with you to the edge of the rookery. It will be dark soon, and you should not be unaccompanied at this time of night.’

  ‘There is no need,’ said Chaloner, reluctant to accept the services of an old lady as a bodyguard. ‘And I am in a hurry.’

  ‘In a hurry to die?’ she asked archly. ‘Let me walk with you. To repay you for the cheese.’

  Biting back his impatience, he matched her stately pace as she led him towards Fleet Street. But then the hair on the back of his neck rose in the way it always did to warn him of danger, and he had the sense that he was being watched. He glanced around uneasily, and thought he saw shadows flitting in the doorways they had passed. Mother Greene was right: the Fleet Rookery was no place for an outsider after dark. Thus he was surprised to see a familiar figure materialise in the gloom ahead. It was Sir George Downing, a dozen thickset louts at his heels.

  ‘Chaloner!’ he exclaimed. ‘I hoped I might run into you at some point. Of course, I did not expect it to be here – I thought you had more class than to frequent this sort of area. But then again, you always were an unsavoury villain.’

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Chaloner, forbearing to mention that it was no place for an Envoy Extraordinary, either, and the King would certainly disapprove.

  ‘I was doing well in London,’ said Downing sourly. ‘But then you arrived. First, you expose two of my stewards as thieves, and it has been difficult to persuade people that I had nothing to do with their crimes. And then you steal something that belongs to me.’

  Chaloner regarded him blankly, trying to imagine what it was that the envoy thought he had taken. He could feel the malice wafting from Downing in waves, and glanced uneasily at Mother Greene, wishing she was not there. It would be difficult to defend her if Downing’s men attacked.

  ‘What have I stolen?’ he asked.

  ‘Certain documents,’ replied Downing coldly. ‘Ones that show my expense accounts may not be entirely accurate. They are missing from my lodgings, and I know it was you who took them.’

  ‘How can you think I would waste my time so?’ asked Chaloner in disgust. ‘I have better—’

  ‘Of course it was you!’ spat Downing. ‘I have not forgotten your talents in that direction. So, you will give them back, or my friends here will find a way to persuade you.’

  Chaloner did not grace the threat with a reply. He put his hand on Mother Greene’s shoulder, and began to steer her through the watching ruffians, aiming to have her safely out of the way before the fighting – which he sensed was inevitable – began. Obediently, she began to walk, and he was surprised but relieved when the men shuffled aside to let them pass.

  ‘What are you doing?’ shouted Downing, gaping at his louts in disbelief. ‘Stop him! Make him say what he has done with my property.’

  Chaloner braced himself for an assault, but nothing happened, and Mother Greene continued to hobble forward, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Chaloner whipped around when Downing drew his sword, but Mother Greene grabbed his arm and pulled him on.

  ‘You are not interested in them, sir,’ he heard one of the hirelings say. ‘Let them go.’

  ‘I certainly shall not!’ cried Downing, outraged. ‘If those documents ever see the light of day, I will lose everything, and you will not get paid. So either stop him, or get out of the way so I can.’

  There was no reply, and when Chaloner glanced around a second time, it was to see Downing deprived of his sword and fuming impotently behind a solid wall of men.

  ‘You damned scoundrels!’ he was howling. ‘I will see you all hanged for this!’

  ‘That fellow is not in his right wits,’ murmured Mother Greene. ‘It is hardly wise to make that sort of threat in the hearing of fathers, brothers, cousins and friends. He is asking to be dispatched.’

  ‘I am not quite sure what just happened,’ said Chaloner, when they reached Fleet Street. He had resigned himself to a trouncing – or worse – and was amazed to find himself in one piece.

  ‘Downing hires local lads from time to time,’ replied Mother Greene vaguely. ‘For protection and for the occasional spot of rough work. Doubtless, he will be looking for replacements now these have defied him.’ She chuckled to herself.

  ‘But why did they defy him?’ pressed Chaloner. ‘Was it because of you?’

  Mother Greene smiled enigmatically. ‘Me? Why should I have such authority? Incidentally, next tim
e you come, bring me a ham. I prefer meat to cheese.’

  Chaloner flagged down a hackney, and climbed in wearily. Mother Greene might have saved him this time – probably because Downing’s hirelings had not wanted to be turned into toads – but the envoy was likely to try again if he thought Chaloner was in possession of documents that showed him to be corrupt. He sighed. It was a distraction he could do without when he had so much to do – and so much to think about, too, after Compton’s disclosures. And how was he to fulfil his promise to Compton when he had not caught the name of the last man he was to warn? All he could hope was that Edwards would tell him. Aware that time was of the essence, he yelled for the driver to make for the Tower with all possible speed.

  It was not long before they arrived. The Tower was foreboding and eerie in the half-darkness of the balmy summer night, all thick walls, jagged crenelations and lowered portcullises. Fighting down a wave of nausea at the sight, Chaloner forced himself to bang on a gate until a yeoman came.

  ‘I need to speak to Mr Edwards,’ he said urgently. ‘It is very important.’

  ‘Perhaps it is, but he is not here,’ replied the yeoman. ‘And I would not let you in anyway, not at this time of night. We have our security to think about, and I do not know you.’

  Chaloner sagged when he recalled Edwards saying he was going to visit kin in the country. He cursed himself, knowing he should have remembered.

  ‘Where has he gone?’ he demanded, supposing he could ride through the night if necessary.

  ‘He did not say,’ replied the yeoman. ‘But he has family in Chatham, Hampstead and Dorking, so I expect it will be one of those. Or perhaps Essex. He has an uncle there, I believe.’

  It was hopeless – they were places in completely different directions. ‘Is there anyone who might know?’ Chaloner asked desperately. ‘A friend here, or in the city?’

  The yeoman shook his head. ‘He might have told his guard, Brown, but Brown died of a fever recently, and Mr Edwards is a private kind of man. He always keeps his travels to himself.’

  ‘Then will you give him a message when he returns?’ asked Chaloner, defeated.