The Body in the Thames (36 page)

Chaloner lifted more of the blanket, and recoiled in distaste when he saw that the man’s throat had been cut from ear to ear.
Whoever had inflicted the wound had used a very sharp knife and a considerable degree of force. It was the work of someone
who had wanted to ensure that his victim was dead. Chaloner replaced the sheet, and began to tiptoe towards Kersey’s parlour
again.

‘… dispatched,’ Williamson was saying. He was sitting in Kersey’s best chair, and the charnel-house keeper was standing behind
him, setting small honey-biscuits on a little silver platter. ‘And this is an excellent vintage, by the way. French?’

‘Italian, actually,’ replied Kersey. ‘I keep it for guests with discerning palates. Such as yourself.’

Chaloner winced. Kersey was not normally sycophantic.

‘In that case, I shall take a cask with me when I go,’ said Williamson. ‘My palette is more discerning than
anyone else you are likely to entertain here, and it would be a pity to waste it.’

‘Are you
sure
Nisbett was the blackmailer?’ asked Kersey, glaring at the Spymaster’s back and clearly resenting the effrontery. ‘The wretched
fellow bled me all but dry with his demands, and I shall rest easier tonight if I can be certain my problems are over.’

‘We are sure,’ Williamson assured him. He took another sip of the wine. ‘Well, we are sure he was
one
of the despicable criminal consortium who so suddenly decided to extort money from people. There are others – as yet unidentified
– but I think Nisbett’s fate should make them think twice about what they are doing.’

Chaloner recalled Daniel Cotton’s predicament, and supposed he should have guessed that Nisbett was complicit in threatening
to expose her. Nisbett had claimed to remember nothing about the frolic the following day, but he would have had to have been
very
drunk not to notice that the rough Yeoman Cartaker he had bedded was actually a woman.

‘I am taking quite a risk, you know,’ said Kersey uneasily. ‘I am not in the habit of disposing of corpses surreptitiously.
For a start, Surgeon Wiseman is often here, looking for specimens. Nisbett’s is a nice cadaver, and if he sees it, he will
want it for his researches.’

‘Well, do not let him have it,’ ordered Williamson, alarmed. ‘We had an arrangement – I relieve you of your blackmailer, and
you get rid of the evidence. Swaddell’s work is well known, and people will guess he is the culprit if they see Nisbett’s
throat.’

‘I will see to it. And Wiseman will probably stay away from work matters today, anyway, because he is out of sorts.’

‘Upset, because he has been accused of incompetence,’ scoffed Williamson. ‘I would not mind Swaddell cutting
his
throat in a dark alley one day, and neither would anyone else at White Hall.’

‘
I
would mind,’ said Kersey, a little coldly. ‘I happen to like Wiseman.’

‘Let us drink a toast to our success,’ said Williamson, after a brief and uncomfortable silence. ‘You no longer need to fear
exposure for dispatching your predecessor, and I have struck a major blow against these villains. It was courageous of you
to insist on delivering the blackmail money in person, thus allowing Swaddell to do his business. We must work together again.’

‘Actually, I would rather not,’ said Kersey, making no effort to conceal his distaste. ‘I did not like your men loitering
in my domain day and night. They have no place in a decent establishment like this. I do not mean to offend, but I speak as
I find.’

‘Very well,’ said Williamson stiffly. ‘Now, you promised me a cask of claret. Will you fetch it yourself, or shall I ask one
of my assistants to oblige? I have three of them outside.’

‘I will go,’ said Kersey, equally cool. ‘You stay here.’

When Kersey had disappeared into his cellar, Chaloner emerged from his hiding place and went to stand behind Williamson. The
Spymaster was lounging contentedly in his chair, pleased with what he considered to be a job well done, and when Chaloner
spoke, he leapt so violently that the wine flew from his goblet.

‘So you ordered Swaddell to murder Nisbett. I hope you had good evidence.’

‘The best kind,’ said Williamson, recovering quickly. ‘He was caught in the act. And he admitted to his crime
once we had him. Poor Kersey’s secret left him vulnerable to such vultures, you see.’

‘Was the accusation true? Did Kersey really murder his predecessor?’

‘He says it was self-defence. But the old man was a vile wretch, and no one mourned his passing. No one will mourn Nisbett’s,
either. He was a criminal, as you, of all people, should know.’

‘Did Nisbett tell you about the White Hall thefts, too?’ asked Chaloner. ‘That he and Kicke had an accomplice – someone who
immediately stepped in to rescue them when they were caught, and who had helped them to steal by staging distractions? One
example was in St James’s Park, when a diversion by the Canal allowed them to work without being noticed.’

‘He did mention a certain arrangement with Lady Castlemaine,’ acknowledged Williamson. ‘She has debts and expensive tastes,
so is always eager for money. Nisbett and Kicke were in Downing’s service at the time, but that did not stop her from recruiting
them. How long have you known?’

‘Since about an hour after I began investigating. But I am not such a fool as to point fingers at the King’s mistress. I hoped
they would betray her themselves, in an effort to save their own necks, but she extricated them before awkward questions could
be asked.’

‘Bulteel told me you were remarkably sanguine about her interference with the course of justice,’ mused Williamson. ‘Now I
understand why: you felt you had risked her wrath far enough.’

‘She is a formidable adversary, and too strong for me. But she is not the blackmailer, lest you think to accuse her.’

Williamson steepled his fingers, and settled back in the chair. ‘No? How do you know?’

‘Because I discovered a document that was written to extort money from her – some of her underwear has fallen into the wrong
hands. Obviously, she is not blackmailing herself.’

‘You are right,’ acknowledged Williamson. ‘The Lady is innocent of that affair. But before he died, Nisbett told Swaddell
that he and Kicke are now in the pay of
two
masters – Lady Castlemaine and one other. Can you guess the identity of the second?’

‘Not really,’ said Chaloner tiredly.

‘Falcon,’ announced Williamson with a flourish. ‘Swaddell is looking for Kicke as we speak, to ask whether
he
knows the location of the villain’s lair.’

Chaloner supposed it was possible: Kicke and Nisbett were greedy and unscrupulous, and exactly the kind of men Falcon might
recruit. ‘What was wrong with trying Nisbett in a court of law? Was it really necessary to dispatch him on the sly?’

‘Yes, it was,’ said Williamson firmly. ‘Because none of his victims would make a formal complaint – not when they have spent
a fortune to keep their peccadilloes quiet. A public trial would ruin them, and they are upright men of good standing.’

‘Not all are decent. Take Downing, for example. He has been paying to ensure inconsistencies in his expense accounts do not
come to light.’

‘I knew he was a victim, but not the nature of his secret,’ admitted Williamson. ‘Although I cannot say I am surprised by
it. But, of course, you
would
seek to malign him. He has accused you of being bought by the Dutch, and now there is a warrant for your arrest.’

‘Have you stationed men outside my house, to execute it?’

‘Of course not! I am not such a fool as to believe you can be cornered
there
. It would be a waste of my thinly stretched resources.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not sure whether to believe him.

‘But to return to our little problem in the mortuary, I did the right thing by letting Swaddell have Nisbett: he was an odious
brute, who did not deserve to live. Not even in Calais. And speaking of Calais, it
was
you who sneaked in after I expressly declared the Sinon Plot off limits. Do not deny it: Keeper Sligo described you.’

‘I did go to Newgate,’ conceded Chaloner. ‘But I did not speak to anyone connected with the Sinon Plot. How could I, when
Falcon had escaped, and Swan and Swallow were murdered?’

Williamson winced at the reminder that his most formidable prison had been found lacking. ‘Falcon is dangerous – perhaps the
deadliest adversary I have ever faced. I am not ashamed to confess that he unsettles me with his diabolical powers and fearsomely
devious mind.’

‘Diabolical powers?’ echoed Chaloner sceptically. It was unlike the Spymaster to make fanciful remarks.

Williamson regarded him oddly. ‘If you do not believe me, then look at what happened to Compton and his soldiers. All were
cursed, and now only one remains alive.’

‘Is that why you sent them to arrest Falcon instead of going yourself? You were afraid of—’

‘No!’ snapped Williamson, although the guilty flicker in his eyes suggested that was exactly what had happened. ‘Although
Falcon hates me regardless.’

For the first time, Chaloner saw the Spymaster was afraid, which no doubt accounted for the bodyguards
outside. Yet he was still prepared to attack Falcon by depriving him of Nisbett. Grudgingly, Chaloner acknowledged his courage.

‘It is imperative that he is caught as soon as possible,’ Williamson went on. ‘But he owns an unnatural talent for changing
his appearance, which means I cannot circulate his description among my men. If I do, he will just turn himself into someone
else.’

Clearly, Williamson had no more idea how to catch Falcon than Chaloner did, which was not a reassuring thing to hear a spymaster
admit. ‘I cannot help but wonder whether he is right under our noses,’ he said worriedly. ‘A servant, perhaps. Or a courtier.’

Williamson nodded wry agreement. ‘I find myself looking hard at everyone these days. Indeed, I noticed only this morning that
Griffith’s manservant, Lane, seemed darker and smaller than I remembered, while Charles Bates has undergone quite a transformation.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I spoke to him shortly before coming here, and he seemed younger and more confident. Or perhaps it was my imagination. I
rarely give him more than a passing glance.’

‘What time was this?’ asked Chaloner, recalling that Bates’s coach was to leave at nine.

‘Ten o’clock, or a little after,’ replied Williamson. ‘He told me he was leaving London because he feared the plague, and
he is taking his adulterous wife with him.’

Chaloner asked the question that had prompted him to follow the Spymaster in the first place. ‘Why did Secretary Kun come
to see you last night?’

Williamson’s eyes widened. ‘You
are
well informed! But the nature of our conversation was private, and if you
use violence to make me tell, I shall holler and my men will save me.’

‘You think they will be in time, do you?’ asked Chaloner, amused. ‘But the reason I ask is because Kun is missing, and he
was last seen going to visit you.’

Williamson smiled unpleasantly. ‘Is that so? Well, you will find that there is no one who can say whether he reached me or
not.’

‘You have just admitted to enjoying a tête-à-tête.’

‘Admitted it to you. I shall deny it to anyone else.’

‘Did you order Swaddell to cut
his
throat?’

‘What a low opinion you have of me! No, I did not. We had our little chat, and he left in perfect health. I heard he did not
return to the Savoy, but his disappearance has nothing to do with me.’

‘There are rumours of a traitor in the Dutch delegation. It is unlikely to be Kun – he would not have told Jacoba he was going
to see you, if it were. Did he confide his suspicions?’

‘I told you: our discussion was confidential.’ Williamson’s eyes gleamed suddenly. ‘But of course there
is
a traitor. There are several, in fact. It should not surprise you – it would be unthinkable for me
not
to recruit eyes and ears in a large foreign delegation like that.’

‘But there is a big difference between spies who watch and listen, and those who intervene,’ said Chaloner. ‘Such as by leaving
stolen papers in vases for Downing to find, and starting rumours that have the two sides at each other’s throats.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Williamson. ‘And I do not have any of those. Kun
did
express his concerns about that sort of conspirator last night, but I was unable to help him. Whoever this villain is, he
has nothing to do with
me. I
want
the talks to succeed, as I have told you before.’

‘What time did Kun leave you?’

‘Midnight, or thereabouts. I keep a discreet hackneyman for after-hours work, and I told him to take Kun wherever he wanted
to go. When I heard Kun was missing, I questioned the man. He said Kun had stopped him at Charing Cross, and said he wanted
to walk the rest of the way – it was hot, and he needed air. My driver was telling the truth; Kun probably was not.’

‘So you have no idea where he might have gone?’

‘None at all.’

Chaloner left the charnel house when he heard Kersey returning, but had only taken a few steps before Williamson emerged to
yell that there was a dangerous spy on the loose. The bodyguards gave chase, and he was obliged to race down a series of alleys
before he was able to lose them. He was not very pleased: it was too hot for such antics. But he supposed he did not blame
the Spymaster for trying: it would not look good if it later came to light that they had met, and Chaloner had been allowed
to walk free.

He was tired, but there was no time to rest. He needed to go to the Feathers on Cheapside, to see whether its landlord could
shed any light on Falcon. Then he had to visit the Devil tavern, to ask what had happened when Molins had been assaulted.
And
he was obliged to return to the Tower and the Fleet Rookery yet again, to ensure that his warnings had been delivered.

He went to the Feathers first, because it seemed the most urgent. The landlord, a Mr Benson, told him with
an exaggerated shudder that he was glad Falcon no longer visited his establishment.