The Body in the Thames (37 page)

‘Swan and Swallow are nice,’ he said. ‘But Falcon is horrible. I think he might be insane.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because he
looks
insane – eyes that blaze, and a way of cursing. He cursed one of my pot-boys, and the next day, the lad broke his arm. Now,
you may say it was coincidence, but I am not so sure.’

‘When was the last time you saw Falcon?’

‘Not since Sir William Compton came and took him away. I can tell you one thing, though: Williamson reckons that Falcon is
his real name, and that he is a canon in Canterbury Cathedral. But he is not.’ Benson pursed his lips, waiting for Chaloner
to ask him more.

Chaloner obliged. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because my brother is a verger at Canterbury, and he has been visiting me this week.
He
said there is no canon there called Falcon.’

‘Where is your brother now?’ asked Chaloner, intending to question the man himself.

‘Gone home,’ came the disappointing reply. ‘But we discussed it at length, and he is quite certain: there is
no one
called Falcon at the cathedral.’

‘What about a vicar named Pocks?’ asked Chaloner, suspecting that Williamson would be galled when he learned that his efforts
to ingratiate himself with the Church had been in vain. ‘Have you met or heard of him?’

Benson smirked. ‘Pocks? I must write that one down! My brother and I keep a list of amusing or embarrassing names, and have
done for years. I have never heard of any vicar called Pocks, though – and he has not either, because, he would have mentioned
it.’

Chaloner was beginning to be exasperated – not by Benson, whose testimony seemed sound, but by the lack of answers. ‘Tell
me about Falcon,’ he said. ‘Did you ever see him dressed as a vicar?’

Benson shook his head. ‘He wore different clothes every time he came here, and sometimes I did not recognise him until Swallow
and Swan arrived – they sat with him, which gave him away.’

‘You are talking about Falcon,’ said a man who had approached to have his ale jug refilled. He grinned, revealing himself
to be sadly bereft of teeth. ‘He was in Newgate.’

‘I know,’ said Chaloner, not without rancour.

‘I saw him in a cell there about a year ago,’ the man went on. ‘And then he sails in here, giving himself airs, when he is
actually nothing but a common felon. Mr Benson is right – he is no vicar. He did wear clerical garb on occasion, but he never
swore any holy orders.’

‘Are you certain?’ asked Chaloner.

The man nodded. ‘If I recall aright, he was in Newgate for stealing. He is just a thief, although not one
I
would want to cross. I am glad those soldiers came and took him away, and I hope I never set eyes on him again. Unless it
is with a noose around his neck.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Benson fervently.

Their declarations made Chaloner even more concerned for the men Compton had charged him to protect, so he went immediately
to the Fleet Rookery. He sighed his relief when Mother Greene assured him that Fairfax had received and understood the message.

‘Are you sure?’ he pressed.

She nodded. ‘Quite sure. I delivered it myself, and he told me to thank you. You can rest assured that Sir William Compton’s
last wishes have been fulfilled.’

He did not think she would lie to him, although he wished he could have spoken to the soldier in person. But there was no
more he could do if Fairfax declined to meet him, so he returned to Fleet Street, where he flagged down a hackney carriage
and told its driver to take him to the Tower. The same yeoman was on duty yet again.

‘Mr Edwards is back, and I gave him your note. Stay here. I will fetch him for you.’

Chaloner took a deep breath, feeling some of his anxieties recede. Edwards would tell him what Compton had declined to share,
and
how to reach the last member of their cabal. Once Edwards and the vicar – if he was still alive – had been warned, Chaloner’s
obligations to Compton would be complete. He rested his forehead against the stone wall, seeking coolness, but it was as warm
as blood in the heat of late afternoon.

Eventually, the door opened, and Edwards stepped out. He squinted around myopically until a cough from Chaloner made him turn
in the right direction. His expression was one of bemusement.

‘It was you who left me the note saying Compton, Molins and Hanse are dead?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Compton told me to warn you with his dying breath.’

Edwards continued to look bewildered. ‘Warn me about what?’

Chaloner had not spelled out that Edwards needed to be on his guard, because he had assumed it was obvious. ‘That your life
is in danger, and you should take additional care until Falcon is caught,’ he explained, a little impatiently.

‘My life?’ asked Edwards stupidly. ‘But Falcon did not
kill the others! Molins and Compton died of fevers, and Hanse drowned. I am deeply sorry, because they were good men, and—’

‘Hanse was murdered,’ interrupted Chaloner curtly. ‘The other deaths are suspicious, too, especially considering that Compton
lost three soldiers to “accidents”, and you lost one to sickness.’

Edwards blanched. ‘I do not believe you.’

‘You should – it might prevent you from joining them in their graves. Who was the last man in your group? The vicar? Is his
name Edward Pocks?’

Edwards’s face was ashen. ‘I do not know anyone called Pocks. The last man is Edward
White
.’

Chaloner stared at him in surprise. ‘He officiated at my wedding.’

Edwards blinked his bemusement. ‘Did he?’

Chaloner’s thoughts were a mass of confusion. So who was Pocks? And why was White’s name missing from Falcon’s list? Or had
it been on the section that had been burned off? But Edwards was peering around uneasily, clearly unwilling to be out when
killers might be at large, so Chaloner continued with his questions before the Assistant Keeper could scuttle back inside
the Tower.

‘What did you discuss when you met Compton and the others?’

‘I cannot tell you. I swore an oath never to reveal anything about it. We all did.’

Chaloner sighed. ‘People are dying, and more will follow unless this scheme – whatever it is – is thwarted. I know the Sinon
Plot is nothing to do with stealing the crown jewels—’

‘It
was
,’ whispered Edwards. ‘We believed Falcon wanted them to finance …’

‘Finance what?’ demanded Chaloner.

But Edwards shook his head stubbornly. ‘No. There are some things more important than the lives of individuals. You can ask
White, although I doubt if he will break his word, either. He lives on Fleet Street, near the Rainbow Coffee House.’

Chaloner leapt in a hackney carriage, and ordered the driver to take him to Fleet Street as quickly as possible. The city
was full of people who had abandoned work early, because of the heat, and he chafed at the delay caused by a snarl of vehicles
near Fish Street Hill, and then again by St Paul’s. But there was nothing he could do, and he doubted he could make better
time on foot.

To take his mind off the minutes that were ticking inexorably away, he thought about the last member of Hanse’s group. It
was a shock to learn that White was involved. But involved in what? He sincerely hoped White would not follow Edwards’s example,
and refuse to confide the real nature of the Sinon Plot. But White was an intelligent man – far more so than Edwards – and
would see that silence might be dangerous. Or at least, Chaloner hoped so.

Unfortunately, when he reached White’s home, there was no reply to his hammering. He clenched his fists in frustration when
he recalled their last encounter: the vicar had been feeling out of sorts, and had declared an intention to visit his sister
in the country. Was he still there? If so, how long would he be gone?

His mind teeming with questions, Chaloner hurried towards the Devil, but he had not gone far before a coach rattled to a halt
next to him, and several rough men piled out. Another figure alighted after them.

‘There is the spy!’ shouted Downing, jabbing a finger. Excitement made his voice shrill. ‘There is the man who has been selling
English secrets to Hollanders. Stop him! Bring him to me!’

The envoy’s face was vengeful, and Chaloner had the distinct sense that to be in his custody might prove fatal. He started
to run, but the street was crowded, and Downing’s accusing howls encouraged passers-by to snatch at him. He managed to slither
away from three apprentices, but they slowed him down, allowing one of the envoy’s louts to seize his coat. He used every
trick he knew to escape, but the odds were against him, and it was not long before he was overpowered.

‘Put him in my coach,’ Downing ordered, grinning victoriously. He turned to the crowd that had gathered, and addressed the
preening apprentices. ‘Spymaster Williamson will be grateful to you for apprehending such a deadly villain. Here are a few
coins for your trouble.’

‘Sixpence?’ asked one, regarding what had been dropped into his palm in disappointment. ‘Between three of us? We should not
have bothered!’

‘Williamson will give
him
six pounds,’ said Chaloner, as he was hauled to his feet.

‘He is lying,’ snapped Downing, shooting him an irritable look. ‘Ignore him.’

‘And a new horse,’ Chaloner went on. ‘And a set of silver spoons.’

‘He is playing games,’ declared Downing contemptuously. ‘Do not listen to him.’

‘
You
are the one playing games,’ shouted a member of the crowd. ‘These lads’ help was worth more than sixpence. So come on, pay
up!’

‘I most certainly shall not!’ cried Downing, miserly to the last. ‘You can all go to hell!’

It was no way to appease an indignant horde, and the apprentices surged forward angrily. Downing shrieked as fists began to
fly, and Chaloner used the opportunity to wrench away from his captors, and roll under the carriage. He was just emerging
on the other side when a boot caught him on the side of the head. He stumbled, dazed, then hands fastened around him and he
felt himself hoisted inside the coach. Downing leapt in on top of him and screeched for the driver to go. The coach lurched
forward, followed by a barrage of missiles.

When Chaloner’s senses cleared, his hands were tied, and he could feel blood oozing from a cut on his temple. Downing was
glaring at him. The envoy had a swelling under one eye, and his fine clothes were torn. There was a hired man on either side
of Chaloner, and another next to Downing. All had apparently been picked for size and strength, because they were enormous
and looked fit. However, they were also incompetent, because although they had relieved Chaloner of his sword and the dagger
in his sleeve, he still had a knife in his boot and the little gun in his belt.

‘You will pay for that trick, Chaloner,’ Downing snarled. ‘Williamson has places for men like you – dark, deep dungeons, from
which there is no escape. And do not expect Thurloe or Clarendon to save you, because they will never know where you have
gone.’

Chaloner feigned indifference, but his stomach lurched. Behind his back, he began to assess the rope that bound him. The knots
were tight, but manageable. The only question was whether he would be able to wriggle free of it quickly enough, because the
coach was rattling along
at a furious rate, and it would not be long before it reached Westminster. And then it would be too late.

‘You are losing your touch,’ Downing gloated. ‘You would not have been caught so easily in The Hague. I was right to dismiss
you in favour of better intelligencers.’

‘Such as the one who told you to look in the Savoy’s vases for Clarendon’s missing papers?’ asked Chaloner coolly.

‘I have my sources,’ said Downing smugly. ‘Ones that will live to serve me again, thanks to your sacrifice. You see, I have
fed Heer van Goch information that proves
you
are the spy, and your execution will stop him looking for the real culprit. And it will please me into the bargain.’

‘I am sure it will,’ muttered Chaloner, trying to intensify his struggles without the men on either side of him realising
what he was doing.

‘So will your wife’s. Call it repayment for her rude remarks to me in St James’s Park before that tedious music. No one calls
me “loathsome” and goes unpunished.’

Chaloner regarded Downing in shock, escape forgotten. ‘You would harm Hannah?’

Downing’s eyes gleamed when he saw the effect his words had had. ‘With the greatest of pleasure. And do not imagine she is
safe, because
I
know where you have hidden her. You see, she regaled Rector Thompson with a lot of Court gossip, and he repeated it in his
coffee house. My spies overheard, and we put two and two together. As soon as I have delivered you to Williamson, I shall
collect her. She will hang by your side.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Chaloner, appalled. ‘You
know
she is innocent. You cannot—’

‘Oh, yes, I can,’ countered Downing. ‘I know what people said about us in The Hague – that my success
derived from the intelligence
you
provided. Well, it is time to put the matter straight. I have outwitted you now, and it proves I was the better man all along.’

‘You are certainly more devious,’ acknowledged Chaloner, fingers now working frantically at the knots. ‘But not quite devious
enough. Have you forgotten the documents that show you have been cheating the government regarding your expenses? You accused
me of having them.’

Downing narrowed his eyes. ‘You told me you do not.’

‘You believed that, did you?’ taunted Chaloner. One hand came free.

‘Stop the carriage,’ ordered Downing, which was just the reaction Chaloner had anticipated.

The envoy managed to land two hard punches before Chaloner was able to wrench his other hand from the rope, but the moment
he was free, Chaloner moved fast. He incapacitated the guard to his left with an elbow to the nose, and the one to his right
with a backhanded blow to the jaw. The third, slow to react, was just drawing a dagger when Chaloner hauled the dag from his
belt. Downing gaped in horror as Chaloner indicated that he was to alight from the coach.