The Body in the Thames (28 page)

There was no more to be gained from sitting in a deserted house, and Chaloner had the strong sense that the cleric had no
intention of ever returning there, so he took his leave and went to the Golden Lion on Fetter Lane. The landlord was noted
for his discretion: he did not ask why Chaloner wanted a room for the night, and Chaloner did not tell him.

Chaloner slept badly, waking each time there was a creak or a groan, and as the building was old, there were plenty of them.
When he did doze, his dreams were plagued by muddled situations involving Newgate, Aletta and the Crown of England. He woke
from one nightmare clutching a dagger, although he did not recall drawing it. Wryly, it occurred to him that Hannah was indeed
safer with Rector Thompson, if her bed-mate was going to lay hold of sharp implements in his sleep.

When the stars began to fade and the first glimmer of dawn showed in the east, Chaloner rose and went to sit by the window.
Opposite was a gap in the line of houses. He had lived there until recently, but the building had collapsed. Somewhere in
the rubble that still littered the ground were his second-best viol, a cracked mirror that had been Aletta’s, and a little
jug his mother had given him. He wished he still had them, especially the mirror.

A sudden, vivid image of Aletta filled his mind, the clarity of which he had not experienced in years. He was honest enough
with himself to know that theirs had not been a match made in heaven – all their friends had advised against it, on the grounds
that the differences in
their characters would lead to quarrels and an eventual cooling of affection. But passion and youth had won out, and they
had wed anyway. Plague had taken her before the predictions could come to pass, but he suspected that he and Aletta would
not have been happy together in the long run.

Since then, he had stumbled through a series of hopeless relationships, mostly because he seemed incapable of choosing suitable
partners. There had been a lady in Spain who might have been different, but circumstances had conspired against them enjoying
a future together. And then there was Hannah. He believed he loved her, but the emotion was so different from what he had
felt for Aletta that it was impossible to be sure. One thing was certain, though: the notion of her being in danger because
of his work for the Earl filled him with a deep and all-consuming horror, and he knew he would do anything to protect her.
Perhaps
that
was love.

To take his mind off matters that were so far beyond his understanding, he turned his thoughts to his investigations. He still
had more questions than answers. How had Hanse learned about the Sinon Plot, and
was
Falcon responsible for his murder? Had Falcon killed Compton’s soldiers? Why had Hanse met Surgeon Molins in the Sun tavern,
and why had Hanse started drinking more heavily? Could Falcon be the mysterious vicar who met Molins and Hanse in the Sun?
Who had stolen the Earl’s papers? Who was holding half the Court to ransom with demands for money in return for keeping embarrassing
secrets? And, right at the bottom of the list, was poor, forgotten Alden. His murderer had caught a lucky break, because Chaloner
had not spared him a thought in days.

As soon as it was light, Chaloner walked to Lincoln’s
Inn. It was already blisteringly hot, and the piles of rubbish that were usually washed along the drains at the sides of the
road had grown so large that it would take a deluge of Biblical proportion to dislodge them. Most leaked a poisonous green-black
slime that was treacherously slick, and undulated with maggots and flies.

He scaled a wall to enter Lincoln’s Inn – he knew no one was following him, but was unwilling to take risks where his friends
were concerned. As usual, Thurloe was in the garden, but Chaloner’s heart sank when he saw he was not alone: a fellow bencher
named William Prynne was with him.

Prynne was a pamphleteer, who liked to make scurrilous attacks on everything from religion and fashion, to playhouses and
politics. He had been punished for his vitriol, though – no matter what the weather, he wore a woollen cap with long cheek-flaps,
to conceal the fact that his ears had been lopped off and he had been branded. Unfortunately, not even that draconian measure
had taught him to moderate his opinions, and he was a man most decent people tried to avoid.

‘Tom!’ exclaimed Thurloe, as the spy materialised next to him. He sounded relieved. ‘You will want to tell me about your wife’s
health in private, so we shall retire to my rooms immediately.’

The removal of his ears had done nothing to impair Prynne’s hearing, and he scowled his anger and disappointment at Thurloe’s
suggestion. ‘But I was giving you my judgement on the Dutch delegation! You
must
be interested – you had dealings with them yourself during the Commonwealth.’

Thurloe looked pained. ‘Your views are … enlightening, Prynne. Thank you. But Tom is—’

‘
You
will be interested, too,’ said Prynne, addressing Chaloner. ‘You work at White Hall, so you will find this fascinating, although
most courtiers are sinful heathens, who fornicate with Satan’s—’

‘Does your wife need one of my tonics, Tom?’ asked Thurloe desperately. ‘Shall I prepare it
now
?’

‘As soon as possible,’ agreed Chaloner.

‘Secretary Kun is sly and deceitful,’ Prynne went on, unfazed by Thurloe’s transparent efforts to escape. ‘A double-tongued
viper, who pretends to be affable but who is actually full of wickedness. The lawyer named Zas looks like a fox, and owns
that creature’s cunning viciousness, so he cannot be trusted. And Ruyven, the soldier who protects them all, has a dark and
deadly secret.’

‘What secret?’ Chaloner turned back suddenly, resisting Thurloe’s attempts to pull him away.

‘One of which he is deeply ashamed, but that he cannot help but pursue,’ replied Prynne, pleased to have secured Chaloner’s
interest. ‘I can smell it on him, and it is what makes him the man he is. I usually like Hollanders, but the ones in the Dutch
delegation are agents of corruption and vice, and their women bear the badge of prostituted strumpets who ramble like harlots
to—’

‘No,’ snapped Chaloner, knowing there was no point in arguing with a committed bigot like Prynne, but unable to overlook insults
to Jacoba. ‘Do not make such—’

Prynne overrode him. ‘They revel in pernicious and intolerable corruptions—’

‘Enough!’ barked Thurloe, fixing Prynne with a furious glare. He rarely raised his voice, but when he did, wise men took heed,
and Prynne, for all his faults, was not stupid. He bowed a hasty farewell and scurried away,
muttering something about a pamphlet that needed his attention.

‘I am sorry, Tom,’ said Thurloe. ‘He had no right to make those remarks. Come and sit in this arbour with me. We can talk
in peace now he has gone.’

The arbour boasted a chamomile bench, and when they sat, it released a sweet, soothing odour.

‘I had forgotten that you know some of Heer van Goch’s delegation,’ said Chaloner, breathing in deeply. ‘You played host to
them when you were Secretary of State.’

‘I knew some rather well, and Kun has been to visit me here since he arrived this time. Prynne has a point, though: there
is
something hard and determined under that affable exterior.’

The same might be said of Thurloe himself, Chaloner thought. ‘You do not like him?’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘It is not a case of like or dislike. He just has hidden depths.’

‘What about Zas? Did you meet him?’

‘Yes. He
does
look like a fox, but I never found him vicious. Cromwell was fond of him.’

Chaloner was not sure the approbation of a military dictator said much that was positive. ‘What did Prynne mean about Ruyven?
What dark secret does he hold?’

‘I have no idea, but I would not place too much faith in it. Prynne loves to cause trouble.’

Chaloner supposed he was right. ‘Do you still have the receipts that prove I was in Middleburg when de Witt’s bedchamber was
burgled?’ he asked, after a moment.

Thurloe’s eyebrows went up. ‘Why? Do not tell me you need them after all these years? I thought everyone
had agreed that that particular exploit would never be solved.’

‘Downing has other ideas. He has mentioned it twice now, including once in the Savoy. I thought it was going to see me arrested.
So did he, I imagine.’

‘What is wrong with the man?’ exclaimed Thurloe, shocked. ‘Can he not see that the incident will reflect as poorly on him
as on the spy who performed the deed? I know I told him I needed that information, but I never imagined he would order you
into such a dangerous situation. It was bad enough telling you to steal the papers, but to then force you to put them back
again …’

‘They would have been no use to you if de Witt had known their contents were comprised. Downing was right about that.’

‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Thurloe reluctantly. ‘But the whole escapade was reckless and stupid, and would have caused untold
damage had you been caught. You should have refused.’

‘I did refuse, but he threatened to shoot Aletta’s maid unless I did as I was told. He may have been bluffing, but I could
not take the chance.’

‘I will find those receipts today,’ promised Thurloe. ‘And if I have misplaced them, I shall arrange for more to be produced.
Downing will
not
use this to hurt you.’

Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn glad he had a friend like Thurloe.

It was now a full week since the Earl’s papers had been stolen, so Chaloner spent the first half of the morning in Worcester
House, questioning the staff – again – about what they had seen or heard the evening the documents had gone missing. He did
not expect anything new to
come to light, and nor did it – the thief had slipped in and out without being seen by a single witness. Even Bulteel, who
was more observant than most, had failed to notice anything amiss.

‘Are you
sure
they are stolen?’ Chaloner asked, exasperated. ‘He has not mislaid them?’

‘They have gone,’ said Bulteel grimly. ‘I checked very carefully, believe me. Is there
nothing
to help you trace them? This is important. I do not like the notion of them being in the wrong hands.’

But as far as Chaloner was concerned, the investigation had reached a dead end, and there was no more he could do unless someone
gave him new information. Even learning the contents of the papers had not helped, because they were too wide-ranging to permit
identification of relevant suspects. Virtually anyone might have taken them. Even, he thought caustically, the ladies of the
Queen’s bedchamber, eager to know what was being said about the size of their busts.

‘I have every confidence that you will prevail,’ said Bulteel, seeing his friend’s disheartened expression. He looked around
quickly, then lowered his voice. ‘And if Clarendon threatens you with dismissal, I shall borrow a copy from someone else,
and duplicate them for you to give him.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘That would be underhand.’

Bulteel blushed furiously. ‘Yes it would, but I do not like the way he treats you. It is not right.’

‘Perhaps I will have better luck with the other investigation – Hanse’s murder. He may overlook his missing documents if I
solve that.’

‘Do you have any leads?’ Bulteel tried to sound
interested, but it was clear he considered the papers more pressing. ‘I have been listening for rumours, but have heard nothing
yet.’

‘I do have one clue: Hanse met a surgeon named Ned Molins in the Sun tavern. Wiseman is taking me to meet him this afternoon.’

‘Then you may be in luck,’ said Bulteel, smiling. ‘Surgeon Molins is a disreputable, peculiar fellow who might well be involved
in something untoward.’

‘You think Hanse was untoward?’

‘Well, I am convinced that he stole the Earl’s documents. I know you disagree, but who else could it have been? No one else
visited Worcester House that day except him and van Goch. And I doubt an ambassador would sully his hands with theft, so that
only leaves one candidate.’

‘But Clarendon says the documents went missing between six and eight o’clock on Friday night. Hanse has an alibi for then,
because I was with him. He is not the thief.’

Bulteel sniffed and changed the subject, clearly unwilling to admit that his suspicions might be unfounded. ‘I have never
liked Molins. He is opinionated, loud and arrogant, and—’

They both turned as Griffith and his servant arrived. Bulteel’s cousin was clad in a suit of pale pink, with enough ribbon
to supply a maypole, while Lane was in his usual dowdy browns. Griffith minced towards them, and sank gracefully on to a chair,
fanning himself with his lace.

‘God’s blood!’ he exclaimed. ‘Will this heat never end? I am all but overcome. Is there any wine? Fetch me some, will you,
Lane? And quickly, because I think I am about to expire.’

Although Lane’s expression remained faultlessly
neutral, he gave the distinct impression that he would not mind too much if that happened. Wordlessly, he bowed, and moved
away.

‘We were talking about Surgeon Molins,’ said Bulteel. ‘Do you know him, cousin?’

‘I met him once,’ replied Griffith, fanning vigorously and closing his eyes. ‘I found him rather uncouth, and he smelled of
pilchards. But he is an ardent Royalist, so he has his virtues.’

Lane returned with the wine, which Griffith swallowed as if it were medicine, wincing and cringing all the way to the bottom
of the cup. Lane watched impassively, and it occurred to Chaloner that the fellow was actually rather sinister.

‘Right,’ said Griffith, when he had finished. ‘Are you ready, John, dear? Where shall we do it?’

‘Library,’ muttered Bulteel, blushing red and not looking at Chaloner.

‘Really?’ asked Griffith, with an exaggerated moue of distaste. ‘Can we not go to the Spares Gallery? I like that room, and
it will be cool and empty at this hour of the day.’

‘It will not,’ countered Bulteel. ‘Bates will be loitering there – he always is these days. Personally, I would rather do
it in my Chelsey house, because that really is a long way from prying eyes, but I suppose no one will see us here.’