The Body in the Thames (20 page)

‘Come now, children,’ chided Maude, the matronly woman who was Temperance’s helpmeet. ‘There is no need to be nasty to each
other.’

‘I was not being nasty,’ retorted Temperance sullenly. ‘I was being honest. And he is the one always rattling on about the
importance of telling the truth.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows in surprise, sure he had never done anything of the kind. Spies lied as a matter of course, and
he was not such a hypocrite as to demand from others what he failed to do himself.

‘Wiseman asked me to visit,’ he said, deciding to state his business and leave before they quarrelled. ‘You have upset him,
and he wants to know how badly he is out of favour.’

‘Actually, he upset
me
,’ said Temperance sulkily. ‘I want to visit his wife in Bedlam, but he will not let me. All I want is to
see
her, to know what manner of lady captured his heart.’

‘I doubt that is the woman you will find there,’ predicted Chaloner. ‘Illness will have changed her. And such an encounter
is likely to distress everyone involved, but especially her.’

Temperance stared at him. ‘She is insane. You cannot distress the insane.’

‘I imagine you can. How would
you
feel, if you were locked away, your mind tormented, and your husband brought people to gawp at you? Wiseman is right to refuse.’

Temperance sniffed. ‘You think he is acting out of compassion? Not because she might be prettier than me, and he does not
want me to know it?’

‘He once told me that you were the loveliest woman alive.’ Chaloner did not add that he had thought the surgeon was joking,
because even to his brotherly eyes, Temperance was plain.

Slowly, she began to smile. ‘He said that? You are not making it up?’

‘No,’ he replied truthfully. ‘He really did.’

‘Thank you, Tom,’ she said, the smile turning to a beam. ‘You have brought me great peace of mind. I should have known never
to doubt him, wonderful man that he is.’

She reached up to scratch her head – wigs were hot, rough and attractive to lice, so itching was an occupational hazard. Chaloner
felt his jaw drop when her fingers dislodged the hairpiece, and it fell to the floor, revealing the bald pate underneath.

‘What have you done?’ he gasped, unable to help himself. ‘Your hair …’

Temperance bent to retrieve the curls. ‘Everyone shaves their heads these days.’

‘Some men do,’ he acknowledged, unable to take his eyes off the spectacle. ‘Women do not.’

‘Perhaps not yet, but they will. It is what fashion dictates.’

‘Christ!’ Chaloner sincerely hoped she was wrong. He was relieved when she replaced the wig, and wondered whether he had been
right to repeat Wiseman’s remark about her beauty. Perhaps the surgeon had revised his opinion when he went to bed and found
bristle on the pillow beside him.

‘Are you investigating the murder of that Dutch diplomat?’ asked Maude, before they could debate the matter further. ‘Willem
Hanse? There is a rumour about him.’

‘Is there?’ asked Chaloner, forcing himself to sound disinterested. He did not want Temperance to accuse him of visiting purely
for the purpose of eliciting information again.

‘It is said that Hanse was different from the other Hollanders,’ Maude went on. ‘He went out alone, and he visited taverns.
Kicke and that foppish Griffith had an argument about it here the other night. Kicke said Hanse was murdered by another Dutchman,
but Griffith disagreed.’

‘I like Kicke,’ said Temperance warmly. ‘He is a handsome, charming man. But I cannot take to Colonel Griffith. I do not know
why he bothers coming here, because he is not interested in girls.’

‘What reason did Griffith give for disagreeing with Kicke?’ Chaloner asked of Maude.

She frowned. ‘I think it was something to do with Hanse meeting Englishmen in taverns, and plotting with them. Griffith said
that he was murdered for it.’

Chaloner went home after he had taken his leave of Temperance. He was tired after sleeping badly the night before, and his
arm hurt. He declined to play his viol when Hannah informed him that he might do so for half an hour while she was in the
kitchen, and he could not bring himself to eat the stew she had prepared. It comprised lumps of undercooked meat in a grey,
watery gravy, and he felt sick just looking at it. After forcing down two mouthfuls at considerable risk to his health, he
retired to bed while it was still light.

Hannah was solicitous of him the following morning, and sent out to a cookshop for a pie when he said he was hungry. He was
grateful, because the stew had developed a hard plate of grease across the top, and smelled rancid.

‘You are unwell,’ said Hannah kindly. ‘You have not said a word since you woke.’

‘Willem Hanse’s funeral is today,’ said Chaloner, saying what had been on his mind since he had first opened his eyes. ‘I
liked him.’

She laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘Then I shall come with you.’

‘No!’ He had not meant to sound sharp, but it would not be a good idea to bring Hannah into contact with the Dutch delegation
when so many Londoners meant them harm. Moreover, he was not sure how he felt about her meeting Jacoba, either. It would be
too much like introducing her to Aletta, and he was eager to keep those two parts of his life separate, although he could
not have said why.

Hannah drew back, hurt. ‘I thought you would appreciate my support.’

‘I do,’ he said quickly. ‘Very much. But …’

He knew he should tell her that his first wife’s sister was in the city, and he also knew that there was no time like the
present. He took a breath, but then was not sure what to say. Why did he find such matters so difficult? Surely, it could
not be entirely attributable to his life as a spy? He was angry with himself, because Hannah deserved better. Moreover, he
would have liked to regale her with affectionate remarks – the kind he imagined most men murmured to their wives on a regular
basis. So far, he had not managed one, and his inadequacy both annoyed and exasperated him.

‘Well,’ said Hannah, when the silence had extended for some time, ‘I think I
had
better come. It is what spouses are expected to do, and I do not want to be seen as uncaring. You can collect me from White
Hall half an hour before it starts. Now eat the pie while it is warm.’

The pie was past its best, too, because hot weather spoiled food fast. He ate a little, and tried again to tell her about
Jacoba, but she interrupted with a tale about Kicke’s improper fascination with Charles Bates’s wife. He let her talk, feeling
cowardly for ducking the issue.

‘The Duke has invited us to a soiree,’ said Hannah brightly, once she had exhausted the topic of the Bates’s marital hiccups.
‘A week on Monday.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner without enthusiasm. The Duke’s parties tended to involve a lot of drinking and lewd behaviour, and he
was always surprised when Hannah enjoyed them. Moreover, there was rarely any decent music. ‘You go. I may be working.’

‘Working!’ spat Hannah in disgust. ‘That wretched Earl demands far too much of you. In fact, he sees you more than I do, and
it is hardly fair. We are newly wed!’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner. Was he being unreasonable by declining to accompany her? He decided he was, and that he should make
an effort, regardless of what he thought about the Duke and his hedonistic companions. ‘But I am sure I can arrange to—’

‘Do not bother,’ said Hannah huffily. ‘I will have more fun without you.’

Chaloner had no wish to quarrel. He smiled, and tried to make amends. ‘Perhaps we could go to the theatre today. I understand
Worse and Worse
is playing at the Duke’s House.’

Hannah glared at him. ‘It is, and I asked you to see it with me last week. But you were too busy trying to learn who killed
that dirty old spy during our wedding, so I went with Charles Bates and the Killigrews instead. I told you it was boring,
but apparently, you did not listen.’

Chaloner could not recall her saying a thing about it, and supposed he had neglected to pay attention, as often happened when
he was preoccupied with murder and she was prattling on about something he did not find very interesting.

‘My friends warned me that I had nothing in common with you,’ said Hannah, when there was no reply. ‘But I thought it would
not matter, because we love each other. Do you think the storm at our wedding was an omen? That God was trying to tell us
we were making a mistake?’

She was not the first person to suggest a supernatural significance for the events of that day: Bulteel had, too, although
mostly because he had been hurt by not receiving an invitation. Chaloner had spotted him lurking by the church door, but had
not understood why he had failed to join the celebrations until the situation had been explained to him the following day.
He wished he had known sooner, because Hannah had invited a lot of people
he
did not like, and he did not see why she should have had everything her own way.

‘No, of course not,’ he said, when he saw it was one of the rare occasions when Hannah
did
expect an answer, and was prepared to wait until she had one. ‘It meant nothing more than that you chose a month notorious
for its turbulent weather.’

‘I will be late if I stay chatting here,’ said Hannah, standing abruptly and reaching for her hat. ‘And the
Queen will be wondering where I am. I will see you later. For Hanse’s funeral.’

Chaloner left Tothill Street feeling unsettled and confused, and was relieved to push Hannah to the back of his mind and consider
the day ahead instead. His first task was to tackle Williamson, so he set off towards Westminster, where the Spymaster had
been allocated a suite of rooms from which to conduct the sordid business of espionage. He had Oetje’s gun with him, and made
sure there was a dagger in his sleeve, in his boot and in his belt. And he stopped at White Hall to collect Bulteel, too.

‘Why do you want me with you?’ asked the secretary, trotting along at his side. ‘I know nothing about murdered Dutchmen. Or
about the Earl’s lost papers, although I wish I did. I worry about those.’

‘Williamson likes you,’ explained Chaloner. ‘He will be nicer to me if you are there.’

Bulteel smiled. ‘He and I do spend the odd evening together. We share a number of interests, you see, such as a dislike of
music and exclusive soirees. Not that we are ever invited to any, of course. However, that will change when I complete my
training with Griffith.’

‘About that,’ began Chaloner, feeling it incumbent on him as a friend to warn Bulteel that the outcome he was anticipating
might not come to pass. Then he hesitated, not sure how to put it.

‘He has been working on my gait this week,’ Bulteel went on happily. ‘He says I have not
quite
mastered a courtly bearing yet, but urges me to practise as often as possible.’

‘Not here,’ said Chaloner hastily, as Bulteel began the
bizarre mince he had affected in the Savoy the previous day. It attracted the attention of passers-by, who gazed at him warily.
‘It is better done in the privacy of your own home.’

‘Griffith said the same,’ confided Bulteel, reverting to his normal walk. ‘Although I cannot imagine why. Surely, all practise
is good?’

Chaloner was spared from answering when something struck him on the shoulder. Immediately, he dropped into a defensive stance,
ready to repel an attack. But it was only hail. Pieces of ice the size of musket balls began to fall, and Bulteel yelped when
one bounced off his head. Chaloner pulled him into the shelter of a doorway.

The hailstones grew harder and larger, causing pedestrians to scatter in alarm. A hackney driver abandoned his carriage and
dived for cover in St Margaret’s Church. His passengers peered out of the windows in alarm when they heard the staccato rattle
of ice-balls on the roof, and Chaloner saw they were van Goch and Kun. Ruyven was accompanying them on horseback, with several
well-armed soldiers at his heels. Van Goch called an order, but it was only reluctantly that they left him and went to wait
out the barrage with the driver.

‘Look!’ exclaimed Bulteel, reaching out to retrieve one of the missiles. ‘It is
huge
! What a pity it will melt. No one will believe us when we say it was the size of a hen’s egg.’

The flurry stopped as quickly as it had started. There was one grey cloud in an otherwise azure sky, and Chaloner wondered
what had caused it to release its burden so abruptly. Doubtless the street-prophets would have answers. They always did.

‘No rain, though,’ said Bulteel. ‘And we could do with some. Are you ready to go?’

Chaloner watched Ruyven gather his troops and surround the ambassador’s coach again. The captain railed at the driver for
abandoning his duties, but the man only pretended not to understand. Eventually, the cavalcade clattered away.

‘Tom,’ prompted Bulteel. ‘I cannot be gone too long, or the Earl will complain. If you want me to accompany you to Williamson’s
office, then we must go now.’

Chaloner nodded assent, but they had not gone far before they were intercepted by White, the friendly, smiling vicar of St
Margaret’s Church. He was not smiling that morning, however.

‘My ceiling does not cope well with this kind of weather,’ he remarked unhappily. ‘As you no doubt remember from your wedding.’

‘
I
do not,’ said Bulteel bitterly. ‘
I
was not on the guest list. Incidentally, I heard those tales about Cromwell – how he excavated the bodies of Westminster
Abbey’s dead kings, and swapped them all about. You were his chaplain at the time, so you must have seen him doing it.’

Chaloner winced. Clearly, Griffith’s lessons in gentility and tact had some way to go.

‘I assure you, there is no truth in those accusations,’ said White stiffly. ‘Cromwell was a religious man, not in the habit
of despoiling graves. Good day to you both.’

Bulteel watched him stalk away. ‘Do you think I offended him?’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘You suggested that he stood by and watched while the King’s ancestors were desecrated, so
yes, I would say he considers himself insulted.’