The Body in the Thames (23 page)

Wiseman snorted his disdain for the advice. ‘His Majesty would not deprive himself of the best surgeon in London – nay, in
England and perhaps the world. He knows quality when he sees it. He is an observant man.’

‘Unlike you,’ retorted Chaloner, deciding to tackle the subject he had postponed the day before. ‘You told me Hanse had drowned,
but the cause of his death was poisoning.’

‘I suppose you refer to the blisters in his eyes and
mouth. Yes, he certainly came into contact with a toxic substance before he died. But the actual cause of death
was
drowning. There was froth in his lungs, and you do not get that when a corpse goes in a river – the water needs to be inhaled,
you see.
Ergo
, although Hanse
was
poisoned, it is not what killed him.’

Chaloner sighed in exasperation. ‘And it did not occur to you to tell me all this?’

‘I did not want to upset you. Kersey told me that Hanse was your friend.’

Chaloner was appalled. ‘You withheld vital information in an effort to be kind?’

‘I did,’ replied Wiseman, unrepentant. ‘It is one thing to probe the grisly deaths of strangers, but another altogether to
do it with folk you know. For example, I did not like anatomising my brother-in-law. It made me feel quite disconcerted.’

Chaloner took an involuntary step away. Conversations with Wiseman were often unsettling. ‘You sliced out the entrails of
a kinsman?’

‘My wife’s sibling,’ nodded Wiseman. ‘He was a lunatic, too, and also a resident of Bedlam. It was decided to dissect him,
to see whether we could learn anything about the nature of insanity.’

‘And did you?’

‘Not really. His brain looked the same as every other one I have excised. I keep it in a bottle on the shelf in my study,
and I shall show it to you when you are my lodger.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Chaloner in revulsion, backing away farther. ‘I will find other accommodation, thank you. I do not want to
share a house with your relatives’ body parts.’

‘Only his brain. And it is an item of scientific interest. But I cannot stand here chatting with you when the King needs relief.
Are you still coming to Newgate with me tomorrow?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘And if you need to introduce me, say I am called John Crane.’ Then if word did get back to Williamson that
someone had interviewed the men he had incarcerated for life, the bird name might throw him off the scent.

‘Until the morning, then,’ said Wiseman. ‘Eight o’clock sharp.’

When Wiseman had gone, Chaloner realised he had forgotten to ask about the surgeon with the birth-marked neck who had met
Hanse in the Sun. What was wrong with him, that he could not remember to put his questions? Was he losing his touch? He started
to run after Wiseman, but the man had already entered the royal apartments. Chaloner waited a while, but soon saw he was wasting
his time: Wiseman might be with the King for hours, and there was nothing he could do about the matter that night anyway.
He decided to leave it until the following day.

He was tired when he reached Tothill Street, but not so weary that he did not notice someone moving in the shadows opposite
his house. He froze, and slipped into an alley to watch. It did not take him long to see that his home was under surveillance.
But by whom, and why?

He eased forward, aiming to lay hold of the fellow and demand some answers, but the ground was crisp with withered leaves,
and a stealthy approach was impossible, even for him. The shadow heard him coming and fled. Chaloner followed, but the night
was dark and his quarry had too great a start. Moreover, there was a
veritable labyrinth of places to hide. He prowled the streets for some time afterwards, but was too tired to be effective,
and eventually gave up. He entered his house, and lay fully clothed on the bed, his senses on high alert even as he slept.

A curious sound snapped him awake the following day, and he was off the bed with a dagger in his hand before he was fully
cognisant. It was just past dawn, and the streets were full of grey shadows. The roaring grew louder.

‘It is a hailstorm, Thomas,’ said Hannah crossly, jostled awake by his sudden movement.

Muttering an apology, he went to check that the strands of thread he had left on the stairs were still in place. They were,
telling him that no one had passed. As he stared at them, he knew it was time to find a bolthole, because if he felt unsafe
enough to set traps for intruders, then he had no business staying with Hannah. He would never forgive himself if anything
were to happen to her.

‘What are you doing?’ she demanded.

‘Looking for leaks,’ lied Chaloner, as the thunder of hail on the roof intensified.

‘Our roof does not leak, as you would know if you ever spent any time here.’

‘I would have been home sooner, but you sent me on an errand,’ he said defensively.

‘You volunteered to help,’ she shot back. She was rarely amiable first thing in the morning, something he had learned only
after they were married. ‘And you took a lot longer than I expected.’

‘Did I wake you when I returned?’ he asked, trying to sound conciliatory.

‘I felt you flop beside me, all clammy and hot.’ She
glanced upwards, as the hail came down harder than ever. ‘Did you hear that yesterday’s storm was so violent it broke the
cupola in the King’s Theatre? It caused a terrible panic as glass showered down on the audience below. It is a good thing
I did not allow you to take me
there
when you suggested it.’

‘The street-preachers claim it was a sign that God does not approve of the stage,’ said Chaloner, recalling what had been
whispered in White Hall the night before. ‘But the Court maintains that God just does not like Ben Jonson, and wants the actors
to perform something else.’

This coaxed a reluctant smile. ‘Buckingham put that tale about. He is a great one for fun. And it was good to have something
to laugh about, because I had a terrible day yesterday. There were Charles and Daniel upset, you being awkward about Hanse’s
funeral, and on top of all that, someone sent the Queen some baby clothes. She was distraught, and I spent hours calming her.’

Chaloner was puzzled. ‘Is she with child at last, then?’

‘It was a prank – if such an act of malice can be called such. Do you know there are tales that she made herself barren deliberately,
as part of a Catholic plot to deprive England of its heir?’

Chaloner nodded. It was common street gossip.

Hannah bit her lip and stared at the bedcovers. ‘I am assuming, from your ominous silence on the matter, that Kicke
did
seduce Ann last night. That vile scoundrel! If I were a man, I would call him out and put a musket ball through his black
heart.’

‘Most people duel with swords or handguns,’ Chaloner said absently. ‘Not muskets.’

Hannah regarded him oddly. ‘I shall not ask how you come to be party to such information. Sometimes, you
are a stranger to me, Thomas, and I wonder whether I know you at all.’

While she continued in this vein, Chaloner donned a thin vest – a collarless tunic with skirts to the knees, gathered at the
waist by a belt – and an old pair of breeches. Both had seen better days, but were suitable apparel for what he planned to
do that day. Hannah stopped berating him to stare.

‘You cannot go out dressed like that! You will never get past the Court Gate.’

‘I am not going to White Hall today.’ He saw her eyebrows draw together in annoyance at the enigmatic answer, and hastened
to elaborate. ‘I am meeting Wiseman.’

The scowl lifted. For reasons Chaloner failed to understand, she liked the bombastic surgeon. Then the dark expression returned.
‘I hope you are not leading him into anything dangerous.’

‘He will be doing the leading,’ Chaloner assured her. ‘But the current case
is
transpiring to be troubling, and it might be better if I do not come home until it is resolved. It will be safer for you,
because I could not bear it if …’

‘If what?’ asked Hannah, when he trailed off. ‘It is perfectly all right to tell your wife that you harbour protective feelings
towards her, you know. I appreciate the fact that you deplore admitting to anything that vaguely resembles a human emotion,
but we
are
married.’

‘I harbour protective feelings towards you,’ mumbled Chaloner uncomfortably.

Hannah started to laugh. ‘Very romantic! But it is a start, and who knows? Maybe one day, you might even manage to say you
love me. I assume you do, but I have never had it confirmed.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner. He took a deep breath to oblige. And when he had made his long-overdue declaration of affection, he would
tell her about Jacoba. ‘I—’

But a sudden increase in volume from the hail made further conversation impossible. Then there was a crack as a windowpane
broke. By the time he had replaced it with a panel of wood, all talk of love and other unsettling subjects had been forgotten.
By him, at least.

‘When will I see you again?’ asked Hannah, as he made for the door. ‘I know we are hardly star-struck youngsters in the throes
of first love, but we are still newly-weds, and I am not happy to hear that you intend to disappear for an undisclosed period
of time. I shall miss you.’

‘Is there a friend you can stay with for a while?’ He saw her horrified expression. ‘I am probably worrying over nothing,
but I do not like the notion of you being here alone.’

‘I have been here alone for two years,’ Hannah pointed out. ‘While you have lived here on a permanent basis for less than
three weeks. And who am I supposed to ask for refuge? Buckingham? I can imagine what the Court gossips would make of that!’

The sun was bathing London in a pale gold light when Chaloner began the long trudge from Tothill Street to the complex of
streets near Pye Corner, where Newgate Gaol was located. But it was not yet six o’clock, and far too early to meet Wiseman,
so he stopped at the Rainbow Coffee House.

‘What news?’ called James Farr. He had just burned his beans, and the place was thick with brown smoke. It covered everything
in an oily pall, and Chaloner started to cough.

‘The cupola in the King’s Theatre cracked during a hailstorm,’ he said, when he had caught his breath. No one looked impressed.

‘We already knew that,’ said Farr disdainfully. ‘But here comes Rector Thompson. Perhaps he can do better. What news, Thompson?’

‘The Dutch have just put sixty ships to sea,’ replied Thompson, going to sit next to Chaloner. ‘What are they thinking? We
shall have no peace if they make that sort of gesture.’

‘We can beat them,’ declared Stedman dismissively. ‘One of our ships is worth ten of theirs, and one of our sailors is worth
fifty Dutchmen.’

There was a patriotic cheer from the dozen or so men who had gathered for an early-morning dose of coffee and conversation.

‘Actually,’ said Chaloner, recalling what he had heard at White Hall the previous night, and hoping to alleviate Thompson’s
concerns, ‘they put
forty
vessels to sea, and of those, only fifteen are warships, which are needed to protect the rest of the fleet from … from pirates.’

He stopped himself from saying ‘English ships’, on the grounds that it was likely to lead to accusations of disloyalty. But
he wished he had not spoken when Stedman regarded him warily.

‘You are always defending the cheese-eaters. Why? Are you secretly on their side?’

‘Do not speak nonsense, man!’ chided Thompson. ‘He is reporting a fact, as Farr asked him to do when he requested news.’

‘Well, some facts are more acceptable than others,’ sniffed Stedman. ‘Or are you suggesting we greet all
intelligence with equal enthusiasm? That smacks of despotism, such as we had when the tyrant Cromwell was in power.’

‘Facts are facts,’ argued Thompson. ‘Regardless of what
you
think of them. The disciples did not appreciate some of the Lord Jesus’s teachings concerning the Holy Spirit, but that did
not give them the right to tell him to talk about something else.’

Stedman was silent, as were most sane men once the Holy Trinity had entered the equation. Chaloner took a copy of
The Intelligencer
, and pretended to be engrossed in an advertisement for a paste that could repair brown and broken teeth, to deter the printer
from attempting to resume the discussion concerning his views on the Dutch. Then he read about the plague that still raged
in Amsterdam, which made him think of Aletta. To take his mind off her, he asked Thompson whether he knew of any rooms for
rent in the area.

‘I thought you were just married,’ said Stedman nosily. ‘Is your union in difficulties already?’

‘Hailstones damaged our roof,’ lied Chaloner.

‘There is nothing available that I know of,’ said Thompson apologetically. ‘The weather is causing crops to fail in the country,
you see, so people are flocking to London for work, and living quarters are in short supply. But if you are desperate, you
may lodge with me for a few days.’

Chaloner took him to one side. ‘Will you take my wife instead? I am … in a little trouble, and I do not want her to stay at
home.’

Thompson regarded him in alarm. ‘You have not done anything illegal—’

‘No!’ Chaloner thought fast. ‘I helped expose two
thieves at White Hall, and they are angry with me. I am worried that they may strike at me through Hannah.’

‘Kicke and Nisbett?’ asked Thompson. ‘Their arrest was your doing? In that case, of course you may bring her. I detest that
pair almost as much as I detest their erstwhile master, Sir George Downing. And my wife will enjoy Hannah’s company. But that
does not really help
you
, does it?’

‘Actually, it does,’ said Chaloner relieved and grateful. ‘It helps enormously.’

When Chaloner left the Rainbow, it was late enough that the first rush of traffic had eased. The street vendors were already
at their pitches, and he stopped to buy some early strawberries that had been picked from the fields near Islington. They
were still slightly yellow, and could have been left to ripen a little longer, but they were the first he had eaten that year,
and he supposed the unseasonably hot weather was good for something at least.