The Body in the Thames (27 page)

There was an awkward silence. It was not an admission Williamson should have made.

‘We have commissioned at least two dozen of those,’ said Swaddell eventually, nodding at the weapon. ‘And a number have been
lost.
Ergo
, its presence in connection to Hanse’s murder is not a reliable clue, because anyone might have come into possession of it.
And that includes Dutchmen.’

‘You think Hanse was killed by one of his own people?’ asked Chaloner.

‘It is possible,’ replied Swaddell. ‘They present a united
front to outsiders, but our spies tell us that divisions are rife. Hanse was frantic for peace, and was willing to offer
generous terms to get it. But not every Hollander thought he was right to be so accommodating.’

Chaloner said nothing, but inwardly he groaned. It would not be easy to investigate the residents of the Savoy, and they would
certainly resent any questions that looked as though he was going to lay the murder at their door.

‘Better the culprit is a Dutchman than an Englishman,’ said Williamson fervently. ‘I have high hopes for the convention on
Sunday, but the talks will fail if one of
us
killed Hanse.’

‘What do you care about peace?’ asked Chaloner, sufficiently disheartened by their revelations to let his bitterness show.
‘The rest of the country does not.’

‘The rest of the country does not have access to intelligence reports,’ retorted Williamson. ‘Ones that tell me to delay hostilities
until we have at least a sporting chance of victory. At the moment, we have none. And if it is revealed that an Englishman
killed Hanse, the Dutch will go home and we will be at war within weeks.’

‘They will go home if they learn he was murdered by one of their own, too,’ Swaddell pointed out. ‘They will claim that our
spies put the culprit up to it, regardless of whether or not it is true.’

‘Well, one side or the other must have done it,’ said Chaloner, exasperated. ‘Unless you suspect a third party – the French,
perhaps, to prevent two Protestant countries from forming an alliance.’

‘Now there is an idea!’ exclaimed Williamson, eyes gleaming. ‘I may put that tale about, no matter who transpires to be the
villain.’

‘Keeper Sligo came to our offices earlier,’ said Swaddell to Chaloner. ‘He told us how Wiseman’s assistant, Crane, made a
horrible discovery in Calais.’

‘Calais?’ asked Chaloner innocently.

‘It is where I deposit undesirables,’ said Williamson smoothly. ‘Men who are a nuisance.’

‘Is that legal?’ asked Chaloner, hoping the Spymaster would never learn about his mortal terror of prisons, because it would
certainly be used against him.

‘I am above the law,’ said Williamson smugly. ‘Spymasters are, where national security is concerned.’

‘Crane uncovered an alarming fact,’ Swaddell went on, while Chaloner regarded Williamson in distaste, thinking that Thurloe
would never have made such an arrogant claim. ‘Namely that two of the men incarcerated for plotting to steal the coronation
regalia are dead, while the other escaped.’

‘Dead of gaol-fever?’ asked Chaloner. ‘I heard it is rife in Newgate.’

‘Murdered, according to Sligo. We have set guards on Falcon’s Cheapside house and his known haunts, but there is no sign of
him yet. He remains at large. And that is a problem.’

‘Because he might make another attempt on the jewels?’ asked Chaloner.

Swaddell shook his head. ‘Because he is a very dangerous individual. We did not make the decision to put him in Calais lightly.’

‘In what way is he dangerous?’

Swaddell grimaced. ‘He seems to have a certain power about him. And he curses.’

‘Lots of people curse,’ said Chaloner. ‘Especially when their plans are foiled.’

‘Yes, but this is different,’ said Swaddell. ‘I am not a sensitive man. Indeed, I imagine I am less susceptible than most
to this sort of thing – you cannot be too concerned about divine vengeance in my line of work, or you would never get anything
done. But he unnerved me.’

Chaloner raised his hands in a shrug. ‘I still do not understand.’

‘There is a power about him,’ snapped Williamson impatiently. ‘It happens sometimes in those wholly dedicated to their cause.
God knows, there were enough of them during the Commonwealth. You know what I mean – men who are so convinced of their rectitude
that they are blind to all else.’

‘A fanatic?’ asked Chaloner.

‘The term will serve,’ said Williamson. ‘He has curious eyes that …
burn
. Swan and Swallow were terrified of him. He unsettled Compton and his soldiers, too, and they are sensible sorts.’

‘Three of those are dead,’ said Chaloner. ‘Two crushed by a speeding cart and one drowned.’

Williamson and Swaddell exchanged a glance that showed they were shocked by the news.

‘Falcon represents a considerable risk to London and Londoners,’ said Williamson. ‘So if you hear rumours pertaining to his
whereabouts, I would appreciate being told immediately.’

‘Of course,’ said Chaloner, although the Spymaster would only be told once Falcon had been thoroughly questioned about Hanse’s
murder, because Chaloner had no intention of visiting Calais a second time to secure an interview.

‘Good,’ said Williamson with his reptilian smile. ‘And now let us return to Crane. We would like to speak to
him, but the Company of Barber-Surgeons has no one registered under that name.’

‘Crane,’ mused Chaloner. ‘A bird. Do you think he was another of Falcon’s accomplices?’

‘He had Swan and Swallow,’ snapped Williamson. ‘He did not have any one else.’

‘But yet he must have done,’ reasoned Swaddell. ‘Because, according to Sligo, one came dressed up as a warden, and rescued
him.’

Williamson did not deign to acknowledge the point. ‘Wiseman is in trouble, though. It was his assistant who discovered what
had transpired in Calais – a place this Crane should not have been.’

‘Wiseman is lazy,’ said Chaloner, alarmed that the surgeon might suffer on his account. ‘He probably did not bother to check
Crane’s credentials, so he cannot be blamed for—’

‘Crane was his responsibility,’ said Williamson coldly. ‘So we can blame him for whatever we choose. But we will find Crane,
because Sligo is drawing a picture of him as we speak. And then we shall put
him
in Calais, since he was so eager to see it.’

The hot summer day suddenly seemed cold to Chaloner as he walked away, and he shivered.

Hannah was released from her duties early that evening, because the Queen expected to be at the Banqueting House until late
and Judith Killigrew had offered to wait up for her.

‘We shall go out together,’ she announced, when Chaloner came to collect her. ‘If we are to live separately for a while, then
you can compensate by taking me somewhere pleasant now.’

Chaloner nodded absently, although his thoughts were still on Falcon, a man so clever and dangerous that his escape had disconcerted
even the Spymaster. Had Falcon somehow learned about the message Hanse had left in his stockings, and the surveillance on
Tothill Street was
his
doing? Given what had happened to Swallow and Swan, Chaloner knew he had to do everything in his power to keep Hannah as
far away from the man as possible.

‘Joseph Thompson has offered you a bed in his house.’ He passed her the bag he had packed. ‘You must stay there tonight, because
Tothill Street is no longer safe.’

‘But it is my home, Tom!’ cried Hannah, distinctly unimpressed.

‘I know. But it will not be for long. Please, Hannah. I would not ask if it were not important.’

Hannah stared at him. ‘Will it always be like this? You will cross deadly villains, and I will be bundled off to some rectory
until you have eliminated the threat they represent?’

‘Not once I find different rooms,’ said Chaloner, although he knew that even this would not entirely eliminate the problem.
‘I should have done it sooner. This is my fault, and I am sorry. I think I have dragged Wiseman into hot water, too.’

‘He will not be pleased,’ predicted Hannah. ‘And neither am I. You really should be more careful. But I have decided it will
be the last one anyway.’

‘The last what?’ asked Chaloner warily.

‘The last case like this. Sir William Compton has offered you a post – he told me. You will take it, and be done with that
horrible old Earl.’

Chaloner smiled. ‘I imagine the work Compton has
in mind will be just as risky. He is Master of Ordnance, and you do not encounter saints trying to steal weapons.’

Hannah put her face in her hands. ‘I cannot bear this. I have seen one husband in his grave. Am I to be deprived of another?
You have no idea what it is like to lose someone you love.’ Then her head jerked up and she looked at him in dismay. ‘But
you do, of course. Your first wife …’

‘Aletta,’ said Chaloner, forcing the name out. As he did so, he realised how rarely he spoke it aloud. He hesitated, but then
forged on. It was now or never. ‘Her sister is in London with the Dutch delegation. It is … unsettling, because Jacoba reminds
me … they look like …’

He was expecting anger for not confiding sooner, so was startled when Hannah took his hands in hers, and regarded him with
compassion. ‘Poor Tom! That cannot have been easy for you.’

‘No,’ he agreed fervently. He looked at his feet, not sure what more to say.

‘I will go to Thompson,’ said Hannah gently. ‘But you must agree to two things in return: talk to Compton, and take me out
somewhere now. It is a lovely evening, and we should spend it together.’

‘Have you seen the crown jewels?’ He had intended to visit them anyway, to assess for himself how secure they were, and there
could be no harm in taking Hannah. Or could there?

‘It is not quite as romantic as the cherry trees at Rotherhithe,’ said Hannah, beaming. ‘Which I was going to recommend. But
it will certainly be more interesting.’

But Chaloner was having second thoughts. ‘Or better yet, we could see whether Brodrick has any music planned. I have not played
my viol in—’

‘The jewels,’ said Hannah firmly, leading the way towards the gate. ‘Listening to you sawing and scraping is not my idea of
doing something nice.’

As it was such a fine evening, they decided to walk to the Tower. They met Temperance and Maude on Fleet Street, out to take
the air before things got going at the club. Fortunately for Chaloner, life at Court had made Hannah refreshingly liberal-minded,
and she did not object to his friendship with the mistress of a bordello, as most respectable ladies would have done.

‘Buckingham told me that Downing plans to visit us tonight,’ said Temperance, after greetings had been exchanged. ‘But I have
ordered Preacher Hill to turn him away.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner worriedly. ‘You do not want him angry with you, because he is vindictive. Let him in. He will not return
once he learns how much everything costs.’

‘Yes, I have heard he is miserly,’ said Maude. ‘Did you know he is being blackmailed?’

‘No,’ said Hannah, intrigued. ‘What about?’

Maude grinned. ‘Apparently, he has been tampering with his expense accounts – making claims for money that was never spent.
I heard it from Mr Gardner, who works in the Accompting House, so it is certainly true.’

‘If his secret is out, then there is no need for him to pay his blackmailer,’ said Chaloner.

‘There is evidence, apparently,’ elaborated Maude. ‘Documents. Until they are produced, the tale is just rumour, and the King
is inclined to dismiss it. However, His Majesty will be forced to revise his opinion if he is shown papers
proving
what his Envoy Extraordinary has done.’

‘The King is blind where Downing is concerned,’ said
Temperance in disgust. ‘The man is a rogue, and everyone can see it except His Majesty.’

‘The blackmailer claims he has these documents,’ said Maude. ‘And Mr Gardner says Downing will do just about anything to get
them back.’

The Tower of London was a formidable place, a great, squat fortress surrounded by high walls and protective gates. There was
also a moat, but much of the water had evaporated in the heat, leaving a stinking sludge that steamed in the evening sunlight.
Hannah gagged as they crossed the drawbridge, overwhelmed by the reek of sewage, refuse and even dead animals that festered
below.

‘They should dredge it,’ she gasped, bunching a scarf under her nose. ‘It is horrible!’

Chaloner started to tell her about Amsterdam’s moat-canals, which were kept far cleaner, when there was a strange, undulating
cry. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.

‘It is just an animal in the royal menagerie,’ said Hannah, laughing at his momentary confusion. ‘Did you not know that the
King keeps lions, tigers and other exotic beasts here?’

Chaloner did know, because he had encountered one rather more closely than was pleasant the last time he had visited, but
it had slipped his mind. He resumed walking, acutely aware that much of the complex was
given over to housing prisoners, and it took considerable willpower to knock on the gate and ask to be admitted. Two gaols
in one day was taxing the limits of his endurance, and he heartily wished they had gone to Rotherhithe instead. Hannah frowned
as they waited for a yeoman to escort them to the Martin Tower, where the jewels were kept.

‘Are you unwell? You are very pale.’

‘I do not like places like this,’ he replied, looking up at the sturdy grey walls and trying to suppress a shudder. Even after
his wash and clean clothes, he fancied he could still smell Newgate.

‘It was your idea to come,’ she pointed out. ‘But here comes the yeoman. Oh, look! Reverend White is with him. How nice! I
am
very
fond of him.’

‘Mr and Mrs Chaloner!’ White smiled. ‘I have had a long and difficult day, and the brightest part is seeing two people I recently
married looking so happy in each other’s company.’

Chaloner was not happy, but he smiled politely, while Hannah regarded the old man in concern.

‘Are you still worried about your roof? I recall that you would not join us for our wedding feast, because you were so distressed
by the damage that storm caused.’

‘I
am
upset about the roof,’ said White gloomily. ‘But what
really
grieves me are these rumours about Cromwell. He did
not
excavate the royal tombs. The current Court is far more likely to indulge in that sort of thing than him, for a jape, or
some bizarre quest for scientific knowledge.’

‘Please do not say that to anyone else,’ said Hannah soberly. ‘It may be taken amiss.’

White rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘Lord! You are
right. I am not myself this evening – a combination of the heat and these dreadful lies.’

‘Perhaps you should have stayed at home,’ said Hannah unhelpfully. ‘Or did you think that viewing the jewels or the royal
menagerie would take your mind off your concerns?’

‘I came to dine with my friend Talbot Edwards. But he had invited other guests, too, and they would not believe me when I
said Cromwell was no grave-despoiler. And now I do not feel well.’

‘May we take you home?’ offered Chaloner, more than willing to postpone the jewels.

‘Thank you, but that is not necessary,’ replied White. ‘I shall visit my sister in the country tomorrow. A spell in cooler
air will put me right.’

‘It would be no trouble,’ said Chaloner, a little desperately.

White patted his hand. ‘I would rather you spent the evening with each other. Have you come to see the jewels? Tell Edwards
that you are friends of mine, and he will give you a special tour. He is terribly short-sighted, though, so watch he does
not blunder into you and knock you from your feet.’

‘And he is in charge of the coronation regalia?’ asked Chaloner. ‘A man who cannot see?’

‘He can see well enough to polish them,’ said White. ‘But I had better go, because I am growing more weary by the moment.
Good evening to you both.’

‘Poor old fellow,’ said the yeoman, leading Chaloner and Hannah through a series of locked and barred doors that made Chaloner
feel queasy. ‘He should just say Cromwell
did
do those terrible things, and let the rumours die a natural death. It is his fervent denials that keep them alive.’

Unfortunately for White, Chaloner suspected the yeoman was right.

Because the Assistant Keeper – the man charged with the daily care of His Majesty’s jewels – did not earn a large salary,
he had been given permission to exhibit them to the general public, and to charge a fee for the privilege. They were a popular
attraction, and the yeoman who escorted Chaloner and Hannah to meet Talbot Edwards said they were shown off several times
a week.

‘Is he not afraid someone will steal them?’ asked Chaloner.

Hannah jabbed him with her elbow, apparently thinking that this was an inappropriate question, and one that might see him
arrested.

But the yeoman laughed. ‘This is the Tower, sir! No one makes off with anything from here.’

Chaloner thought that he could: the Tower’s locks were not state of the art, and he could pick them easily. Then it would
be child’s play to shove a sceptre under his coat and walk out the way he had come.

‘Here you are, Mr Edwards,’ said the yeoman genially, as the Assistant Keeper emerged from his domain with several courtiers
at his heels. Chaloner assumed they were the folk who had so distressed White. ‘Two more visitors for you. The gentleman seems
to think our jewels are not very safe, so you had better watch him, or he might try to make off with them.’

Edwards, a portly fellow in his seventies, shared the yeoman’s guffaw, laughing so hard that sweat beaded his forehead and
ran down his face. He removed a cloth from the pocket of his overly tight coat, and dabbed at
it, while Chaloner wondered whether he would have been quite so amused had Falcon’s plan succeeded.

‘Come,’ Edwards said, once the courtiers and the yeoman had gone, and he was alone with Chaloner and Hannah. ‘You did not
come to entertain me. You came to
be
entertained.’

‘You will show us around by yourself?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘Are you not afraid someone will knock you over the head
and steal your treasure?’

‘And do what with it?’ asked Edwards with a shrug. ‘There is no great market for stolen crowns in London. And between you
and me, the regalia is not even that valuable. Most of the so-called precious stones are nothing of the kind, because the
best ones have been prised out and put in a safe place. The ones you will see are coloured glass.’

Chaloner regarded him askance, wondering whether that constituted fraud, given that people paid to see them. ‘But, even so,
they still must be worth something.’

‘Oh, they are,’ Edwards assured him. ‘Just not as much as everyone thinks. Yet I
was
concerned about security at first, and consulted Sir William Compton on the matter. He is Master of Ordnance, and knows better
than most how to keep things safe. He recommended that I hire a guard.’

‘Then where is he?’

‘Brown died of a fever last week, and I have yet to replace him. But enough chatter. Come.’

He began to walk away in entirely the wrong direction, and only after colliding with the Brick Tower did he realise he was
well off course. With cool aplomb, he turned right, chatting gaily all the while about Cromwell’s antics in Westminster Abbey.
When he reached the
Martin Tower, he ran his fingers over the door until he located the keyhole. Keeping one finger on it so he would not lose
it again, he fumbled for the key that hung on a chain around his waist, and unlocked it with a flourish. Chaloner watched
with mounting horror. Surely, sharp eyes should be a requisite for such a post? Thieves were noted for their sleights of hand,
after all.

Smiling genially, Edwards beckoned his guests into a low, dark chamber. There were no windows, and there was nothing in the
room except a chest atop a table. He used a second key to unlock it, then stood back so his visitors could admire its contents.
Half expecting it to be empty, Chaloner stepped forward.

The so-called Crown of England was the largest piece, a mass of sparkling colour in a frame of gold. Then there were the sceptre
and orb, and various other head-pieces and accoutrements. Chaloner gave them no more than a cursory glance – he had never
been very interested in such items – but Hannah cooed appreciatively.

‘May I hold the sceptre?’ she asked, adding when Edwards looked wary, ‘We are friends of Reverend White, and he—’

‘Why did you not say?’ cried Edwards, handing it to her. ‘White and I have known each other for years. He is a lovely man,
although I wish he were not so vocal about these rumours concerning Cromwell. It is not a good idea to say nice things about
the Old Tyrant in this day and age. I know White was one of Cromwell’s chaplains, but even so …’

Hannah took the sceptre to the door, so she could admire it in the light, while Chaloner thought it would not need a cunning
Falcon to make off with the King’s treasure – anyone could do it.

‘You chose a good time to visit,’ Edwards said amiably, addressing the place where she had been standing. ‘I am going to see
kin in the country tomorrow, so had you left it a day later, you would have been disappointed.’

‘No one shows the jewels off while you are away?’ asked Chaloner.

‘No. Visitor fees are my prerogative, and I do not see why I should share them with anyone else. But I shall not be gone long
– a night or two, perhaps. The King sometimes likes to try his crown on, and it would not do to be away when he calls for
it.’

‘I understand there was a recent plot to make off with it,’ said Chaloner, deciding to take the bull by the horns. ‘A man
called Falcon—’

‘Falcon!’ sneered Edwards, showing no surprise at the mention of the affair. ‘He pretended to befriend me, but I saw through
his antics in an instant. He stood no more chance of stealing the regalia than he has of flying to the moon. Spymaster Williamson
arrested him in the end.’

‘Did you know he has escaped?’ asked Chaloner, watching Hannah return the sceptre to the box and turn her attention to the
orb. ‘And his accomplices have been murdered?’

Edwards’s jaw dropped in disbelief. ‘But that is impossible! No one ever leaves Calais.’

‘Well, Falcon has. Do you think he might make another attempt on—’

‘No!’ declared Edwards vehemently. ‘He will not chance his arm here again. He would not dare.’

‘What does he look like?’ asked Chaloner, before realising that he was asking the wrong man.

Edwards answered anyway. ‘He always came dressed
as an affluent middle-aged cleric, which Compton said he is. I did not see him after his arrest, but the yeomen did, and they
said he seemed younger, stronger, and rather secular. They claim they have never known a fellow able to change his appearance
so completely, and declared it uncanny and sinister.’

‘Will you take additional precautions with the jewels, now you know he is at large?’

Edwards nodded. ‘And so will the yeomen, who are as robust and reliable a corps as you could ever hope to meet. But Falcon
will not come here – he is not a fool.’

It was difficult to prise Hannah away, and when Chaloner finally did manage, she enthused about the jewels all the way to
Thompson’s house. Only when their journey came to an end, and they were standing in the rectory garden, Chaloner scanning
their surroundings for any evidence that they were being watched, did she turn to face him.

‘You have barely said a word all evening. Did you not think the regalia fine?’

‘Very fine,’ replied Chaloner. ‘And also very vulnerable. Stealing them would be easy.’

‘You had better not say that to anyone else,’ she said with a grin, ‘because if they do go missing, you will be the prime
suspect.’

Curious to know whether he had overreacted by taking Hannah to a place of safety, Chaloner walked to Tothill Street. It did
not take him long to see that he had made the right decision. The men watching his house were smoking pipes or sipping ale
outside the tavern opposite, and might have gone unnoticed. But Chaloner knew what to look for. There were six of them, stationed
at the front
and the rear, and all were alert and vigilant. They became more so as dusk approached and the shadows lengthened and deepened.

He wondered what they wanted. Were they there to monitor his movements, or was their remit to lay hold of him? Regardless,
he was not inclined to tackle so many in order to secure answers, so turned around and walked back the way he had come.

He took a carriage to Cheapside, where it was easy to identify Falcon’s home – Swaddell and a companion were watching it,
rather obviously, from the nearby Feathers tavern. Chaloner went to the side of the house, where he gained access via a badly
secured window.

It was not very large, and had probably been neat and clean before Williamson had been through it. There was a huge stock
of clothes and face-paints, suggesting the tales were true about the vicar’s love of disguise. Chaloner stood in the house
as darkness fell outside, and tried to gain a measure of the man. He found he could not do it. And even if he could, he doubted
whether it would have helped: Falcon would already have assumed a new identity.

He sat on a chair and tried to think of ways to unmask him, because he was sure about one thing: Falcon was not the kind of
person to accept defeat and slink away. He would be close at hand, plotting revenge on those who had foiled him. Or perhaps
even working to resume the Sinon Plot, whatever that might entail.

Chaloner frowned. As a master of deception, it would be easy for Falcon to infiltrate White Hall, which was a transient place,
always full of newcomers and visitors. And if he had, he might be anyone, even someone Chaloner had met. The spy rubbed his
eyes wearily. The
task of exposing the fellow seemed impossible, but he knew he would have to try, especially if, as he was beginning to suspect,
Falcon had killed Hanse.