The Body in the Thames (32 page)

‘Chaloner!’ he exclaimed. ‘I hoped I might run into you at some point. Of course, I did not expect it to be here – I thought
you had more class than to frequent this sort of area. But then again, you always were an unsavoury villain.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Chaloner, forbearing to mention that it was no place for an Envoy Extraordinary, either, and the
King would certainly disapprove.

‘I was doing well in London,’ said Downing sourly. ‘But then
you
arrived. First, you expose two of my stewards as thieves, and it has been difficult to persuade people that I had nothing
to do with their crimes. And then you steal something that belongs to me.’

Chaloner regarded him blankly, trying to imagine what it was that the envoy thought he had taken. He could feel the malice
wafting from Downing in waves, and glanced uneasily at Mother Greene, wishing she was not there. It would be difficult to
defend her if Downing’s men attacked.

‘What have I stolen?’ he asked.

‘Certain documents,’ replied Downing coldly. ‘Ones that show my expense accounts may not be entirely
accurate. They are missing from my lodgings, and I know it was you who took them.’

‘How can you think I would waste my time so?’ asked Chaloner in disgust. ‘I have better—’

‘Of course it was you!’ spat Downing. ‘I have not forgotten your talents in that direction. So, you will give them back, or
my friends here will find a way to persuade you.’

Chaloner did not grace the threat with a reply. He put his hand on Mother Greene’s shoulder, and began to steer her through
the watching ruffians, aiming to have her safely out of the way before the fighting – which he sensed was inevitable – began.
Obediently, she began to walk, and he was surprised but relieved when the men shuffled aside to let them pass.

‘What are you doing?’ shouted Downing, gaping at his louts in disbelief. ‘Stop him! Make him say what he has done with my
property.’

Chaloner braced himself for an assault, but nothing happened, and Mother Greene continued to hobble forward, her eyes fixed
straight ahead. Chaloner whipped around when Downing drew his sword, but Mother Greene grabbed his arm and pulled him on.

‘You are not interested in them, sir,’ he heard one of the hirelings say. ‘Let them go.’

‘I certainly shall not!’ cried Downing, outraged. ‘If those documents ever see the light of day, I will lose everything, and
you
will not get paid. So either stop him, or get out of the way so I can.’

There was no reply, and when Chaloner glanced around a second time, it was to see Downing deprived of his sword and fuming
impotently behind a solid wall of men.

‘You damned scoundrels!’ he was howling. ‘I will see you all hanged for this!’

‘That fellow is not in his right wits,’ murmured Mother Greene. ‘It is hardly wise to make that sort of threat in the hearing
of fathers, brothers, cousins and friends. He is asking to be dispatched.’

‘I am not quite sure what just happened,’ said Chaloner, when they reached Fleet Street. He had resigned himself to a trouncing
– or worse – and was amazed to find himself in one piece.

‘Downing hires local lads from time to time,’ replied Mother Greene vaguely. ‘For protection and for the occasional spot of
rough work. Doubtless, he will be looking for replacements now these have defied him.’ She chuckled to herself.

‘But
why
did they defy him?’ pressed Chaloner. ‘Was it because of you?’

Mother Greene smiled enigmatically. ‘Me? Why should I have such authority? Incidentally, next time you come, bring me a ham.
I prefer meat to cheese.’

Chaloner flagged down a hackney, and climbed in wearily. Mother Greene might have saved him this time – probably because Downing’s
hirelings had not wanted to be turned into toads – but the envoy was likely to try again if he thought Chaloner was in possession
of documents that showed him to be corrupt. He sighed. It was a distraction he could do without when he had so much to do
– and so much to think about, too, after Compton’s disclosures. And how was he to fulfil his promise to Compton when he had
not caught the name of the last man he was to warn? All he could hope was that Edwards would tell him. Aware that time was
of the essence, he
yelled for the driver to make for the Tower with all possible speed.

It was not long before they arrived. The Tower was foreboding and eerie in the half-darkness of the balmy summer night, all
thick walls, jagged crenelations and lowered portcullises. Fighting down a wave of nausea at the sight, Chaloner forced himself
to bang on a gate until a yeoman came.

‘I need to speak to Mr Edwards,’ he said urgently. ‘It is very important.’

‘Perhaps it is, but he is not here,’ replied the yeoman. ‘And I would not let you in anyway, not at this time of night. We
have our security to think about, and I do not know you.’

Chaloner sagged when he recalled Edwards saying he was going to visit kin in the country. He cursed himself, knowing he should
have remembered.

‘Where has he gone?’ he demanded, supposing he could ride through the night if necessary.

‘He did not say,’ replied the yeoman. ‘But he has family in Chatham, Hampstead and Dorking, so I expect it will be one of
those. Or perhaps Essex. He has an uncle there, I believe.’

It was hopeless – they were places in completely different directions. ‘Is there anyone who might know?’ Chaloner asked desperately.
‘A friend here, or in the city?’

The yeoman shook his head. ‘He might have told his guard, Brown, but Brown died of a fever recently, and Mr Edwards is a private
kind of man. He always keeps his travels to himself.’

‘Then will you give him a message when he returns?’ asked Chaloner, defeated.

‘Write it down, then. One of us will see he has it the moment he returns.’

‘When might that be?’

‘Tomorrow or the day after. He does not like to be gone for too long. Here is pen and paper.’

Chaloner took them, and wrote a note informing Edwards that Compton, Molins and Hanse were dead. He did not add that the Assistant
Keeper should be on his guard, because it should be obvious, and he did not want to compromise the man, should the missive
fall into the wrong hands. He gave the yeoman some coins for his trouble, and turned back towards the city, supposing he would
have to revisit both Tower and Fleet Rookery the following day, to ensure his warnings had been received – and to ask Edwards
for the name of the last member of his curious cabal. His own promise to Compton would not be discharged until he was sure
the three men understood the danger they might be in.

The hackney carriage that had taken him to the Tower was still waiting, so he asked its driver to ferry him to the Devil tavern
on Fleet Street, thinking to interview the landlord about the five men who had gathered there. But when he arrived, it was
to find the place closed and shuttered for the night. He hammered on the door until an angry neighbour informed him that Barford
was away, and was not expected back until the following evening.

Chaloner closed his eyes in despair. From having a number of leads, he was now reduced to one – and it was too late to interrogate
Kun at the Savoy. Exhausted, he started to walk home, but then remembered that his house was being watched, and it would not
be safe to sleep there. He would not endanger Thurloe or
Temperance by foisting himself on them, so he was effectively homeless.

With nothing else to do, he prowled, a silent shadow in the dark streets. The other London was awake now. Robbers and thieves
roamed, ready to pounce, and prostitutes flounced in twos and threes, scantily clad in the sweltering heat. Court rakes travelled
in carriages or on horseback, carousing in those taverns that catered to late-night patrons. Chaloner saw Kicke and Nisbett
in a boisterous, belligerent throng. Whores followed them, hopeful for business.

He reached The Strand, and was padding past the maypole – demolished by Cromwell and replaced by the King – when he decided
to visit the Savoy anyway. If the elderly secretary objected to being woken in the middle of the night, then he should not
have dabbled in espionage.

Knocking on the front gate was out of the question – no guard would admit casual visitors after dark – so he went to Worcester
House, and entered the Savoy’s garden by scaling the wall that divided them. The night was clear but moonless, and he had
no trouble evading the sentries.

As he drew near the State Room, he saw a soiree was in progress. Lights blazed, and its windows were thrown open in the hope
of catching a breeze. The sound of civilised society drifted out: music, the clink of goblets against decanters, and the buzz
of genteel conversation. The language was Dutch, and he surmised that a reception was being held for ex-patriot merchants.
It was a relaxed affair, and people were enjoying themselves. Except three: van Goch, Zas and de Buat were standing by a window,
speaking in low, strained voices. Chaloner edged closer.

‘… no idea where he is,’ the physician was saying. ‘Ruyven has been searching all evening.’

Van Goch looked as though he might be sick, and Zas patted his arm. ‘The Savoy is a big place, sir. Kun will have found himself
a quiet corner somewhere, to sit and think quietly about how best to counter Downing’s most recent effort to damage relations
between our countries.’

‘Then let us hope he is successful,’ said van Goch worriedly. ‘The convention is in two days, and we cannot afford yet another
obstacle in the path of peace.’

‘To which obstacle do you refer?’ asked de Buat. ‘The one that says the Duke of York has set to sea with thirty warships?
Or the business with the vase?’

Van Goch sighed unhappily. ‘Buckingham says the tale about the boats is a canard, and perhaps he is right. Such an action
would be tantamount to declaring war, and I do not think the King would be so insensitive as to launch an armada while we
are still in the country.’

‘Clearly, this rumour is a ploy to create suspicion and mistrust,’ said Zas. ‘Like Downing’s so-called discovery in the vase.
We must ignore them – refuse to let them influence us.’

They moved away, leaving Chaloner wondering what Downing had found and whether he should search the precinct for Kun. He glanced
around, then sagged in defeat: Zas was right when he said the place was huge, and he could not do it thoroughly, at night
and on his own. It would be a waste of time.

Supposing his questions would have to wait until morning after all, he prowled until he reached Jacoba’s lodgings. A lamp
burned, showing she had declined to join the party in the State Room, but had not yet gone
to sleep. He raised his hand to knock on her door, then let it drop when he heard the rumble of conversation through one of
the open windows. Loath to disturb her when she had company, he started to leave, but then stopped when he recognised one
voice as Ruyven’s.

‘… appreciate your position,’ the captain was murmuring. ‘But you
said
you loved me.’

‘I do love you.’ Jacoba’s voice was unsteady. ‘But Willem is dead, and I cannot escape the feeling that it is my fault – that
I am being punished for betraying him. So, as I told you the last time we talked, I
cannot
see you again. Not ever. Now please leave, before someone sees you.’

‘I will wait for you to change your mind,’ declared Ruyven softly. ‘Even if it takes years, you will be mine again.’

Chaloner hid in the shadows as the captain crept past, then leaned against the wall and stared up at the sky. So, he thought,
poisonous old Prynne had been right: Ruyven
did
have a dark secret. Had Hanse known? Chaloner was inclined to suspect he had, and that it was the reason why he had turned
to excessive drinking. But what did it say about Hanse’s death? That
Ruyven
had poisoned him and pushed him half-dead into the river? Unpleasant though it would be, Chaloner knew he would have to find
out.

The Golden Lion was too busy for Chaloner’s liking, so, in the absence of anywhere else to go, he found a quiet spot under
a tree in Lincoln’s Inn’s Fields. The night was warm, and it had not rained for so long that there was no dew to chill him.
Moreover, the vegetation was dust dry, and anyone approaching could not do so without crunching, cracking or rustling, sounds
that would rouse him. But no one came, and he woke just as the night sky was beginning to turn a lighter shade of blue.

He lay for a while, looking up at the fading stars, and inhaling deeply of air that was scented with seared earth and baked
leaves. He thought about his investigations, wondering why Hanse had met Compton, Molins, Edwards and the still-unidentified
vicar. Compton’s reluctant admission – that the Sinon Plot was more than an attempt to steal the crown jewels – made him certain
that the five men had met to discuss it. But
what
was it, and had they been aiming to stop it or further it?

Still, at least he could conclude that the mysterious vicar was not Falcon – Compton would have noticed if the man he had
arrested was the same individual he had met in taverns.
Ergo
, it was another cleric who needed to be warned of the danger he was in.

Worriedly, Chaloner pondered the enigma that was Falcon. Compton believed Falcon was responsible for the deaths of his men,
and Chaloner strongly suspected that he had had a hand in what had happened to Hanse and Molins, too. Williamson and Swaddell
had remarked on how dangerous he was, and what a threat he represented to London and Londoners, so hunting him down was a
matter of urgency. But
how
was it to be done when no one could say what he looked like?

Staring at the sky was bringing no answers, so Chaloner stood, brushed himself down, and began to make his way towards the
road. Shadows moved in the trees ahead, so he slowed and inched forward carefully. In the predawn light, he could see a rough
table on which weapons had been laid: a duel was about to take place. He started to move away, but stopped when he recognised
one of the combatants. Charles Bates looked white and sick under his copper wig.