The Body in the Thames (19 page)

‘We are closed,’ said the largest.

‘I want ammunition for this,’ said Chaloner, setting Oetje’s little dag on the counter.

The eldest Trulocke gestured to tell his siblings that he would deal with the matter; they nodded back and returned to their
workshop. Within moments a metallic clattering began, along with a lot of hissing. The place reeked of smoke and oil: gun
manufacture was a noisy, smelly process.

‘Three shillings,’ said Trulocke, beginning to count paper-wrapped metal balls into a little tin. ‘Expensive, you may say,
but the bore is unusual, and that costs.’

‘Does it work?’

Trulocke picked up the dag and began to prime it. Immediately, the dagger in Chaloner’s sleeve dropped into the palm of his
hand.

‘You think it is too small to be effective,’ surmised the gunsmith, handing it over with a grin. ‘Well, I understand your
reservations, but they are groundless. Shoot at that matting on the far wall. Do not worry about the noise. Our neighbours
are used to it.’

The matting had patterns painted on it, so Chaloner selected a red circle, took aim and fired. There was a sharp report, and
the ball thudded neatly into the centre
of the blob. He was impressed. Its accuracy was excellent, and it was more than powerful enough to stop a man in his tracks.

‘Who bought it from you?’ he asked.

Trulocke placed the tin and a packet of gunpowder on the counter. ‘Never seen it before.’

‘Your name is engraved on the barrel, and you carry its ammunition,’ said Chaloner mildly. ‘So who bought it from you?’

‘I ask no questions and get told no lies,’ said Trulocke. ‘Do you want the shot or not?’

Chaloner put the money on the counter, then moved fast when the gunsmith started to take it. Before Trulocke realised what
was happening, he was pressed against the wall with a knife at his throat. He opened his mouth to yell to his brothers, but
Chaloner applied pressure to the blade, and the mouth snapped closed again.

‘I will ask you one last time,’ he said softly. ‘Who bought it?’

‘I cannot say!’ gasped Trulocke. ‘I
will
not say! I am more frightened of him than of you.’

Chaloner pushed harder, and a dribble of blood began to ooze down Trulocke’s neck. ‘Who are you more frightened of now?’

‘But he will kill me if I talk! Me
and
my brothers. And he can do it, too. He has more villains at his disposal than any man in London, although you would not know
it to look at him, fine gentleman that he seems.’

‘Williamson,’ said Chaloner heavily, a sinking feeling in his stomach. If the Spymaster had commissioned Oetje to watch Hanse
– or had dropped the weapon when he had killed her himself – then the investigation had just taken a decidedly sinister turn.
‘This is his gun?’

‘No! I never said that!’ Trulocke was appalled at himself. ‘You misunderstood.’

Chaloner sighed. ‘It seems a pity to kill you, but if you will not cooperate, then …’

‘Wait!’ cried Trulocke. ‘Please! Williamson buys a number of these small pieces, because his spies often need dags that are
easy to conceal. Sometimes, when they have done their work, it is necessary to dump the things. Then they find their way into
circulation among a certain kind of … That is why I did not ask how
you
came by it.’

Chaloner put the gun and ammunition in his pocket, still keeping the blade at Trulocke’s throat. ‘Will you tell him I was
here?’

‘Christ, no! He does not take kindly to men who reveal his secrets. And if
you
tell him, I shall deny it. He and I have done business for months now, and he will believe me over some villain who bursts
into an honest man’s property and starts brandishing daggers.’

Chaloner gave him a shove that saw him trip over a stack of muskets. Trulocke immediately started to bawl for help, but long
before his brothers came racing to his aid, Chaloner had disappeared into the crowds outside.

Discarding the coat and hat in the nearest available alley, Chaloner left St Martin’s Lane in a thoughtful frame of mind.
Had Williamson hired Oetje because Hanse had found out about the Sinon Plot? And then killed both to be sure of no loose ends?
Chaloner supposed he now had even more reason to interview the Spymaster.

After a short walk in the blazing late-afternoon sun, he reached Charing Cross, which was full of lethargically moving people.
Near the stump of the medieval
monument – a cross raised by Edward I in memory of a beloved queen – a man keeled over suddenly, stone dead. The interest
from passers-by was short-lived: the heat was causing the old and weak to drop like flies, and sudden deaths were becoming
increasingly commonplace as the heatwave dragged on.

Two men lingered though, prodding the corpse with their feet, and exchanging remarks that said they found the victim’s demise
entertaining. Chaloner was not surprised to recognise Kicke and Griffith, both resplendent in the new livery Lady Castlemaine
had provided.

‘This could be you,’ said Kicke with a nasty grin, stepping in front of Chaloner to prevent him from passing. ‘People die
inexplicably all the time these days.’

‘They do,’ agreed Nisbett, coming to stand behind Chaloner, thus trapping him between them. ‘Especially ones that bleat about
what they think they have seen. How is your arm, by the way?’

‘Was it your idea to kill defenceless Dutchmen?’ asked Chaloner archly, safe in the knowledge that they could hardly commit
murder in such a public place. ‘Or did someone hire you to do it?’

‘If you had run him through last night, instead of flaunting your skill with the sword, we would not be having this stupid
conversation,’ Kicke snapped at his accomplice.

‘So you have said,’ retorted Nisbett with affected weariness. ‘
Ad nauseam
. But he will not escape me next time.’

Chaloner supposed he would just have to stay out of their way, because he had no intention of fighting them again. He eased
to one side, then jigged quickly the other way when they both moved to block him. The manoeuvre saw him free.

‘You are living on borrowed time, Chaloner,’ hissed Kicke. ‘Or you could save yourself by leaving the city tonight. It is
your choice. However, bear in mind that we do not appreciate men who accuse us of theft and murder, so consider the offer
carefully if you want to live.’

He started to walk away, but Nisbett was less inclined to leave the encounter unresolved. He drew his dagger, and Kicke exclaimed
his alarm when he saw his friend prepare to lunge.

‘Not here!’ he grated, knocking the weapon down and then looking around quickly to see if anyone had noticed. ‘If we are caught
killing him, people will say we lied over the White Hall thefts – that we silenced him because we have something to hide.’

Chaloner raised his hands in the air. ‘The Court chose to believe you over me, but that is its prerogative. The matter is
over, as far as I am concerned.’

‘Well, it is not over for me,’ declared Nisbett. ‘You have caused us too much trouble. Kicke may be willing to let you escape,
but I plan to slit you open like a pig and dance in your blood.’

Kicke hauled him away before he could add anything else, glancing uneasily over his shoulder as he did so. Chaloner turned
to see why, and saw Wiseman approaching. In deference to the heat, the surgeon had dispensed with his normal clothes and wore
a bizarre gown of flowing red silk. It accentuated the solid muscles of his chest and arms, and gave him the appearance of
an extremely powerful prostitute.

‘Charming,’ Wiseman said, having heard Nisbett’s parting remark. ‘I assume they are still vexed because you showed them to
be villains?’

‘It would seem so.’ Chaloner supposed he should ask Wiseman why he had failed to notice that Hanse had been poisoned, but
he was tired, hot and did not feel equal to another confrontation.

‘You have accrued a lot of enemies of late,’ Wiseman went on. ‘That pair issue wild threats, while George Downing is not enamoured
of you, and neither is Spymaster Williamson.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I am always listening for rumours that affect my friends, and I eavesdropped on a discussion between Downing and Williamson
only this morning. The bit of their discourse regarding you was none too flattering. These are dangerous men, Chaloner. You
should take care.’

Wiseman was hardly someone to be dispensing such advice, given that he had accumulated a list of detractors that comprised
virtually everyone at Court. Chaloner nodded acknowledgement of the warning, and started to walk away. The surgeon followed,
falling into step at his side.

‘But there is a reason for Downing’s hostility,’ he chattered on. ‘He is being blackmailed. And blackmail is especially dreadful
for him, because he is so indescribably miserly, and does not want to pay what the extortionist is demanding.’

That secured Chaloner’s attention. ‘Blackmailed about what?’

Wiseman shrugged. ‘I overheard him tell Williamson that he had received a letter demanding payment in return for silence over
some past misdeed. Williamson tried his best to find out what, but Downing was not saying. Personally, I suspect it is some
dalliance with
another man’s wife – the fellow is a shameless and unrelenting lecher.’

‘He is, but he does not care who knows it.’ Chaloner recalled the envoy’s improper advances to Jacoba and Hannah. ‘I cannot
see him paying to keep his indiscretions quiet.’

‘He might, if the husband is in a position to do him harm,’ countered Wiseman. ‘He is ambitious, and will not want a casual
affair to spoil his chances of advancement. Anyway, whatever he has done, a blackmailer is demanding fifty pounds to keep
it secret. And Downing is deeply concerned – it is what has turned him so petulant and spiteful.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. Downing was always petulant and spiteful, although he supposed it was possible that worry had
made him worse. ‘Does Williamson know the identity of this blackmailer? Other nobles are being held to ransom, too, so he
will want him caught quickly.’

‘He does not. And he is mightily embarrassed about it.’

‘How did you come to overhear this discussion?’

Wiseman grinned sheepishly. ‘I was asleep in a yew thicket, and they started talking right next to me. I suppose decency should
have compelled me to cough and advise them of my presence, but I do not like them, and what they were saying intrigued me.
Besides, you do it all the time.’

‘Yes, but I know what I am doing, whereas such behaviour by you is asking for a dagger between the ribs. But your explanation
begs another question: why were you asleep in a yew thicket?’

‘I rarely drink to excess, but Temperance and I have quarrelled.’ An expression of abject sorrow filled
Wiseman’s face. ‘So I let myself become intoxicated and I collapsed there. The spat was about my wife, who is incarcerated
in Bedlam, as you know. She is quite out of her wits.’

‘Who? Temperance or your wife?’

Wiseman glared at him. ‘My wife. But then Temperance said
she
was mad, too, to have accepted me as her lover. Do you think she meant it? I could not bear it if she did.’

Chaloner had never understood what had possessed Temperance to take up with Wiseman, and was inclined to believe it
had
been during a moment of insanity. But he could see her remark had hurt the surgeon, and had no wish to make matters worse.

‘She can be unkind,’ he said, thinking of all the cruel remarks she had made to him since she had abandoned her Puritan lifestyle
and turned to brothel-keeping. ‘But she is often sorry afterwards.’

‘Will you talk to her?’ Wiseman looked uncharacteristically pitiful. ‘It will not take long, and I would be very grateful.
In fact, if you oblige, I will break one of the cardinal rules of being a
medicus
and let you into a secret about one of my patients – one that may save your life.’

Chaloner supposed his confrontation with Williamson could wait until the following day, and it would be good to have information
that might allow him to steal a march on one of the many people who meant him harm. He nodded agreement. Relieved, Wiseman
squeezed his shoulder in a gruff gesture of appreciation, and began to talk.

‘Nisbett is a superb swordsman, but he has a major weakness: his left knee is very easily dislocated, leaving
him in agony and all but defenceless. If you do fight him, make him stumble. It might even the odds a little.’

It might, and Chaloner was grateful for the information.

It was early for the gentleman’s club in Hercules’ Pillars Alley, and although its doors were open, most patrons would come
later, after carousing in White Hall or the Fleet Street taverns. Only a handful of men were present so far, listening to
a consort of players from the King’s Private Musick, or conversing quietly with the
filles de joie
who had draped themselves around the room.

In the centre of the main parlour sat Temperance North, a large woman recently turned twenty-one. Her exquisitely elegant
clothes were a statement of how wealthy the establishment had made her. Unfortunately, they could not disguise the fact that
the fine fare available to her on a nightly basis was going directly to her middle, and her friends should have told her that
the delicate bodices designed for slender souls like Lady Castlemaine did not suit those with fuller figures.

She had recently acquired the habit of smoking a pipe, too, which had darkened her teeth and roughened her complexion. To
disguise this, she had smeared her cheeks with white paste, aiming for a fashionable pallor, and her black face-patches were
stark against it – three of them, all star-shaped. She also wore a wig of yellow curls, although her own chestnut locks were
far prettier.

‘Thomas,’ she said with a marked lack of enthusiasm. ‘What brings you here? Some investigation, and you want to know what
gossip we have heard about it? I cannot imagine why else you have deigned to grace us with your presence.’

The brusque remark reminded Chaloner that although they had been close once, they had grown apart. She considered him too
staid, while he did not like what she had become. ‘I wanted to see you,’ he replied coolly. ‘Although I can leave if it would
make you happy.’