The Body in the Thames (18 page)

Chaloner was appalled. Had his kinsman been dying in front of him all evening, and he had not noticed? Hanse
had
complained of stomach ache. Yet Wiseman had not mentioned poison …

‘I can show you, if you like,’ offered de Buat, misreading Chaloner’s dismay for scepticism. ‘Then, when he was dead or dying,
his killer stripped off his clothes and tossed him in the river.’

‘Why do that?’ asked van Goch in distaste. ‘It seems unnecessarily brutal.’

‘Because removing anything of value would make us think he was attacked by common robbers,’ explained de Buat. ‘It was all
part of a plan to conceal what really happened.’

‘He is not the only member of my retinue to die, either,’ said van Goch, when, still horror-struck, Chaloner remained silent.
‘I have not made it public, because I suspect it is just another way to disrupt the negotiations, but I lost a maidservant,
too. Oetje was also poisoned.’

Chaloner found his voice. ‘By the same substance?’

‘It is impossible to say for certain,’ replied the physician. ‘But yes, I think so.’

‘What kind? If it is an unusual one, I might be able to trace who bought it.’

‘There are many such compounds, and London is a big city,’ replied de Buat. ‘I doubt that avenue of enquiry will bring you
answers. You will be wasting your time.’

‘Oetje was …’ The ambassador sighed. ‘There is no point in eulogising. She was a bitter, sharp spinster, whom I wished I could
have left behind. But my wife argued
that she possessed a unique talent with wigs, so, suffice to say, she joined my retinue.’

‘Once here, she began to behave oddly,’ de Buat went on. ‘She kept strange hours, and went out alone. I believe she was a
spy.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘What made you reach that conclusion?’

‘Hanse liked to walk of an evening,’ said de Buat. ‘And I saw Oetje follow him several times.’

So Killigrew and Judith had been right, thought Chaloner. They
had
seen a woman pursuing Hanse. ‘Why would she do that?’

De Buat shrugged. ‘Heer van Goch and I questioned her at length, but she had answers for everything. She said it was coincidence
that she had left at the same times as Hanse. So unfortunately, we have no idea what she was doing.’

‘Could
she
have taken Clarendon’s papers?’ asked Chaloner.

Van Goch shook his head. ‘I doubt she could have infiltrated his household – she spoke poor English. Besides, as I have already
said, none of my people took those documents.’

‘Why are you telling me all this – about Oetje and your suspicions?’

‘Because it is probably pertinent to Hanse’s death,’ replied van Goch. ‘And it may help you to identify his killer. He and
I were friends for years, and I want his murderer brought to justice. Clarendon tells me you have a talent for solving complex
cases, so solve this one.’

‘You are our only hope,’ added de Buat. ‘None of
us
can go out and ask questions. We are foreigners, unfamiliar
with your ways, and it would be dangerous – not just for us, but for peace.’

‘Besides, Jacoba informs me that you married her sister,’ said van Goch. ‘That makes you kin, so I know you will do your best
to find the culprit. For her, if not for Hanse.’

The bodies of Hanse and Oetje were being stored in the Savoy chapel until they could be buried, and de Buat insisted on showing
Chaloner why he thought they had been poisoned. Chaloner would have been content to take his word for it, but the physician
was adamant. He begged a few moments to prepare a tonic for van Goch’s headache first, so Chaloner went to wait for him in
the dusty courtyard, thinking of all he had learned.

What manner of spy had Oetje been? One who had grown suspicious of Hanse’s curious meetings with foreigners in taverns? But
then why not tell van Goch so when he had asked? Or had her intentions been more sinister, and she had followed Hanse with
the intention of harming him? Van Goch and de Buat certainly seemed to think so, while Killigrew and his wife had both noticed
the peculiar behaviour of the woman who had dogged Hanse’s footsteps.

Chaloner stood in the shade of a porch, gazing absently across the scorched yard. Downing had not yet left the precinct, and
was making a nuisance of himself with two pretty serving maids. They giggled nervously at his attentions, not sure what to
make of him. Then Ruyven approached, and said something curt that made them scamper away. He and Downing began to talk, although
it was clear they were having trouble understanding each
other – neither spoke the other’s language well enough for an easy conversation.

Chaloner watched them. What were they discussing? The raid on de Witt’s bedchamber? Surely, even Downing would have the sense
to understand that was not a wise subject to pursue when he was likely to implicate himself? But the envoy was complex and
unfathomable, and Chaloner had no idea what games he might play. All he hoped was that Thurloe had kept the evidence that
would ‘prove’ his spy had been in Middelburg when de Witt had been burgled.

There was a sudden flurry of activity near the gates, which were flung open to admit Clarendon’s private carriage. The driver
drew up outside the State Room, and Chaloner went to help when he saw his master was having trouble climbing out – the steps
were narrow, and the Earl could not see them over the bulk of his stomach.

Bulteel was there, too, his face hot and red beneath his hat. He was staggering under the weight of a portable writing desk,
pens and ink, and several boxes of documents. When Chaloner started to take some from him, the Earl scowled and held out his
arm, indicating that his gentleman usher was to escort him inside the building and let the secretary fend for himself. Bulteel
tried not to look resentful at the brazen disregard for his welfare, but did not succeed. Chaloner did not blame him.

‘I assume you are here looking for my missing papers,’ the Earl said, as Chaloner assisted him up the steps. ‘Have you found
them?’

‘Not yet.’

The Earl sighed irritably. ‘How much longer will you take? I told you it was urgent.’

‘I am working as fast as I can, sir.’

‘Are you, indeed! Because it looked to me as though you were lounging in the shade when I arrived, and that is
not
working fast. Do not lie to me.’

Chaloner started to protest his innocence, but the Earl waved him to silence. Once inside the hall, a number of Dutch retainers
hurried forward to greet the new guest. They were all smiles and polite concern, offering wine to wash away the dust of his
journey – although as the Earl lived next door, the distance was hardly significant – and a cool cloth to mop his face.

‘They always fuss over him,’ remarked Bulteel to Chaloner. ‘They do not fawn over Downing, Buckingham or the Lady, though.
They
are taken straight in, with no genial welcome.’

‘They know he is committed to peace, I suppose,’ said Chaloner.

‘I hate it here,’ said Bulteel, looking around with a shudder. ‘I feel unsafe, as if I am entering the lair of a lion. I much
prefer it when van Goch comes to White Hall.’

‘I imagine you are safer here. White Hall is full of people who dislike Clarendon.’

‘It is full of people who dislike
me
, too. No, do not deny it, Tom. I know the truth. But at least there I know my enemies. Here, I cannot tell friend from foe.
I do not like that Ruyven, for a start. What do you think he is saying to Downing?’

‘God knows,’ muttered Chaloner.

‘Well,
you
may feel at ease here, but I am terrified. Someone may decide to murder an Englishman in revenge for Hanse. Clarendon is
too important, so they will pick on me.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Chaloner. ‘You just said they fuss over
him, so they will not risk his goodwill by depriving him of his secretary. You are perfectly safe.’

‘Only as long as he remains their friend. But the moment he declares for war, I am a dead man.’

Chaloner laughed. ‘Then you will live a very long time, because he is deeply opposed to any form of conflict with the States-General.’

Bulteel sniffed. ‘I hope you are right, Tom. I really do.’

There was a flurry of trumpets as the Earl began to walk towards the ambassador, head held high. Bulteel stepped behind him,
and Chaloner’s jaw dropped when the secretary effected an elaborate mince. It was grotesque, and he could only assume that
Griffith had given him a lesson in courtly walks – one that had badly misfired. He could not bear to watch, afraid that at
any moment Clarendon would turn around and see what was happening. And then there would be trouble, because he would assume
that Bulteel was mimicking his stately waddle. He followed de Buat out of the hall and towards the chapel with considerable
relief.

The chapel was spacious and light. It was also hot, and Chaloner immediately became aware that it was home to two corpses.
According to de Buat, Oetje had died the day after Hanse, which meant three or four days in searing heat. The stench permeated
the whole building, which was a pity, because it was rather lovely with its spectacular ceiling and carved pews.

It did not take Chaloner long to see that de Buat was right about the poison. The marks were obvious on Oetje, but they were
clear on Hanse, too, when he knew what he was looking for. He wondered how Wiseman could have missed them.

‘Where was Oetje found?’ he asked.

De Buat was leaning over the bodies, inspecting their eyes. When the physician did not answer, Chaloner touched his hand,
and repeated the question when de Buat looked at him.

‘On the Savoy’s private wharf. Well, I say
private
wharf, but anyone can moor a boat there. It is thus a place that can be reached from both the hospital complex and the river.’

‘In other words, Oetje may have been murdered by someone in the Savoy, or by an outsider who came by water,’ surmised Chaloner.
‘Were you able to glean any other clues from her body?’

‘No, but I found this on the pier.’

De Buat reached into the bag that was hanging over his shoulder, and produced the smallest firearm Chaloner had ever seen.
It was no longer than the length of his hand, and so tiny that he wondered whether it would be effective. He was sure of one
thing though: it would have been extremely expensive, and a maidservant’s salary would not have covered the cost.

‘Is it hers?’ he asked. ‘Or do you think her killer dropped it by mistake?’

The physician shrugged. ‘There is no way to know. But keep it – it may help you unravel what is going on, and it is no use
to me. I do not have any ammunition, for a start, and I can hardly go out and buy some. It would finish the negotiations for
certain!’

When de Buat looked back to the corpses, Chaloner touched his arm a second time, to regain his attention. ‘How long have you
been deaf?’ he asked, once the physician’s eyes were on his face.

De Buat gave a crooked grin. ‘It takes most people
rather longer to guess, by which point they have either yelled at me for ignoring them, or accused me of being impolite. It
happened during your civil wars, as a matter of fact. I served under General Fairfax, fighting for Cromwell.’

‘You did? Why embroil yourself in another country’s troubles?’

‘Because I was young, idealistic and stupid, and fighting for a republic seemed a good idea at the time. But a cannon exploded
near me, and I have been deaf ever since.’

Chaloner nodded his sympathy. He knew all about exploding cannons. ‘But you read lips.’

‘I do now.’

Chaloner turned the subject back to the victims. ‘Do you know anyone who wanted Hanse or Oetje dead?’

De Buat smiled ruefully. ‘Well, Hanse disliked his every move being dogged by Oetje, but he died first, so he cannot be responsible
for what happened to her. And he was not a man who would have resorted to violence anyway. Not even when he drank too much.’

‘He drank too much?’

‘I thought his consumption had increased over the last few weeks, and drunkenness can turn gentle men into demons. But Hanse
was not one of them. Rather, he became introspective and sad.’

‘Then do you think Oetje brought about Hanse’s death somehow, and was killed in revenge?’

De Buat considered. ‘No. Both died from poison, which suggests a single culprit.’

‘Then we are left with a puzzle. Hanse enjoyed solitary walks, and he often met four men in a tavern. Oetje spied on him,
which suggests she was reporting his activities
to someone else. Hanse may have been killed to bring an end to these clandestine meetings, but then why murder Oetje?’

‘Perhaps it was to ensure she would never reveal what she had been doing to anyone else. Or for whom she had been doing it.’

‘Who in the Savoy was uneasy enough about Hanse’s wanderings to recruit Oetje?’

De Buat shook his head slowly. ‘I really cannot say. Perhaps someone who does not think peace between our nations is a good
thing.’

Ruyven did not want peace, Chaloner thought as he took his leave. Could
he
have set Oetje to follow Hanse, then poisoned them both? He sighed, feeling his time in the Savoy had raised more questions
than answers. One thing was clear, though: Hanse had been involved in something that had cost him his life and Oetje hers.
So now what? He rubbed his head tiredly when he saw what he had to do next: take the bull by the horns and visit Spymaster
Williamson, to find out exactly what
he
knew about the Sinon Plot.

Because Williamson’s dislike of Chaloner ran deep, it would be suicide to walk into his lair without taking precautions, so
he went to St Martin’s Lane first, where a gun shop was operated by three brothers named Edmund, George and William Trulocke.
As his previous dealings with them had not been congenial, he bought an old hat and coat from a rag-seller, and trusted the
inside of the shop would be shadowy enough to prevent the trio from seeing his face. He also purchased a bone.

The Trulockes’ domain was seedy. The sign above their door was so faded as to be unreadable, and the
whole place was ill-kept and dirty. Its window shutters were closed, and a snarling dog was tethered outside, to ensure pedestrians
kept their distance. Chaloner tossed it the bone, and walked past unchallenged when the animal put stomach before duty. As
the door opened, a bell clanged, and three hulking men immediately materialised from the workshop at the back. The place
was very dark, and all Chaloner could see was a trio of bald-headed silhouettes.