The Body in the Thames (42 page)

Kun put his head in his hands with a groan. ‘They have been found?’

‘When did you take them?’ demanded Chaloner. ‘I know Hanse did not do it.’

‘Actually, he did – when he and van Goch were visiting Worcester House that Friday morning. He saw them on
a table and slipped them in his bag. It was a blunder of monumental proportion.’

Chaloner recalled the Earl’s confession: that the papers had gone missing earlier than he had led everyone to think. But even
so, Chaloner still did not believe that his kinsman was a thief. He started to shake his head, but Kun overrode him.

‘He came straight to me, and told me what he had done. I was horrified, and ordered him to return them the very next day,
before Clarendon missed them. But he went out that night and never returned, so the problem devolved to me. I cannot tell
you what a strain it has been.’

‘So what did you do?’

Kun looked as if he might be sick. ‘I decided to send them back to Clarendon in a cheese, in the hope that the matter would
be quietly forgotten. But …’

‘But a rogue hackneyman whisked you down an alley and threatened you. He brought you home, but you were so frightened, you
ran, leaving them behind in your panic. Or some of them, at least.’

Kun slumped on to a chair. ‘Putting them in the cheese was harder than I anticipated, so half were still in my pocket. I hid
some in a vase, for want of somewhere safer. And look at the trouble that caused! The rest I managed to burn. But I wish to
God I had set fire to them all, instead of trying to be clever, and attempting to mitigate the damage.’

‘But why did Hanse steal them in the first place?’ Chaloner was appalled. ‘He wanted peace, and removing papers from a house
in which he was a guest was hardly the way to achieve it.’

‘He hoped they would reveal the identity of a traitor – a
man whose machinations are damaging the negotiations. It was a desperate measure taken by a desperate man. And to rub salt
into the wound, the papers were a lot of nonsense anyway – contradictory, irrelevant and misleading.’

‘It is a sorry mess,’ said Chaloner, disgusted. ‘Surely, you have professionals to manage this sort of thing? You and Hanse
did not have to dabble yourselves.’

‘But we do not know who to trust!’ cried Kun. ‘Because of the man called Falcon.’

‘You know about Falcon? How?’

‘Hanse told me. He described how he met four honourable Englishmen who are committed to thwarting him.
Falcon
is the one who has been sabotaging the negotiations, you see.’

‘What did Hanse tell you about the Sinon Plot? And do not deny knowing about it this time.’

Kun hung his head. ‘The Sinon Plot is Falcon’s final
coup de grâce
, a scheme that will destroy the friendship between our two nations for ever. Hanse also said he suspected Falcon was not
in Newgate, and was going to visit the place to find out. But he was murdered before he could go there.’

So he had left messages telling Chaloner to do it instead. Unfortunately, missives without explanations were useless, and
Chaloner had unravelled the mystery far too late.

‘I went to your Spymaster on Friday night,’ said Kun brokenly. ‘I told him Falcon was trying not only to sabotage the peace
talks, but to damage our governments, too. He listened politely, but I could tell he did not believe me. So I have been trying
to find this villain myself.’

‘Is that why you have been missing? Your friends have been worried about you.’

‘I dared not tell anyone what I was doing, lest I inadvertently confided in Falcon or his agents. The only person I trust
is Heer van Goch. He knows I am back, but no one else does.’

‘Falcon’s agents?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘Of course. He cannot have achieved all this on his own. Besides, the intelligence he has used to create confusion and distrust
comes from leaks at the very highest level. We are not talking about State-Room gossip here, but highly classified information.’

‘You do not think I am Falcon, then?’

‘You cannot be – you have not been in London long enough. He is either a Dutchman who travelled with us, or an Englishman
who was already here.’

‘He plans to make his move today,’ said Chaloner. ‘At the convention. You must tell van Goch, so he can be on his guard. Meanwhile,
I will try to—’

‘You two will not be doing anything,’ came a quiet voice from behind them.

Chaloner spun around. It was Ruyven.

Chaloner knew, from the expression of gloating malice on Ruyven’s face, that he was in serious trouble. The Dutchman held
a gun, and it was primed and ready to fire. Behind him were Zas and Taacken. Zas’s expression was troubled, while Taacken’s
was unreadable.

‘How much did you hear?’ demanded Kun uneasily.

‘Most of it.’ Ruyven shot Chaloner a disdainful smile. ‘This may come as a surprise, but Jacoba cares more for me than she
does for you. She told me what you forced her to do.’

Roughly, Taacken relieved Chaloner of sword, daggers and even the little gun. He tossed the latter to Ruyven, who regarded
it admiringly before slipping it into his own pocket.

‘You have been a fool, and so was Hanse,’ said Zas to Kun in disgust. ‘Playing such games when so much was at stake! How could
you have been so stupid?’

‘I did what I thought was right,’ said Kun with quiet dignity. ‘For peace.’

Zas rubbed his chin as he looked at Ruyven. ‘The best way forward is to execute Chaloner. The atmosphere in the Savoy will
lighten when people know he is dead, and it may buy us the time we need to catch the real traitor. Falcon, as Kun just called
him.’

‘I shall oblige you with pleasure,’ replied Ruyven with a grin.

‘No!’ cried Kun, appalled. ‘You cannot murder an innocent man!’

‘Consider yourself lucky that we do not shoot you, too,’ said Zas coldly. ‘Your actions have harmed our country, and that
makes you guilty of treason, as far as I am concerned.’

‘Kun, warn van Goch,’ called Chaloner urgently, as Ruyven started to manhandle him towards the door. ‘About Falcon’s plans
to—’

‘Stay here and make sure he does not escape,’ Zas ordered Taacken, treating the secretary to a look of utter disdain. ‘And
if he gives you trouble, kill him, too.’

‘How dare you—’ Kun’s outraged objections stopped abruptly when Taacken, unwilling to take chances, bundled him unceremoniously
into a closet and locked him in.

‘Please,’ Chaloner begged, appalled that van Goch
would go to the convention blithely unaware of Falcon’s intentions. ‘If you overheard us talking, then you will know that
Falcon plans to—’

Ruyven struck him with the butt of his gun, driving him to his knees, stunned.

‘Make sure Jacoba stays in her room,’ said Ruyven to Zas, grabbing Chaloner’s arm and hauling him upright again. ‘She will
not want this villain shot, regardless of what he has or has not done, and she will make a scene. That will be unpleasant
for everyone.’

‘It will,’ agreed Zas. ‘However, while I have no stomach for executions, I had better see this one through. It would not be
the first time a spy has survived this sort of situation.’

Ruyven laughed mirthlessly. ‘He will not escape from me. When you hear the gunshot, you will know it is done. Jacoba may guess
what has happened, so stop her from rushing to investigate. Her distress will distract Heer van Goch, and we need him at his
best this evening.’

Chaloner felt his last hope evaporate when Zas went to do as he was told. Ruyven had been waiting a long time to avenge himself
on his hated rival, and the chances of reasoning with him were non-existent. He reeled dizzily when he saw his battle against
Falcon was over, but made no attempt to right himself. Ruyven grunted with the effort of supporting him.

‘For God’s sake, Chaloner,’ he muttered. ‘Do you have to make this quite so difficult?’

Chaloner did not reply, and it was not long before they reached the wall that separated the Savoy’s grounds from Worcester
House. It was shielded from the hospital buildings by trees, and was the perfect place for an execution. Ruyven shoved him
against it, then stood back.

‘Can you climb over this wall unaided? Or must I help you?’

Chaloner regarded him suspiciously. ‘Why? So you can shoot me trying to escape? What purpose would that serve, other than
to salve your conscience?’

‘I do not have a conscience,’ replied Ruyven shortly. ‘I seduce the wife of my oldest friend, and I betray my country. For
money. Does that sound like a man with a conscience to you?’

Chaloner struggled to understand what he was being told. ‘
You
are a spy? Do not tell me you are Falcon, because I will not believe it. You are not nearly intelligent enough.’

Ruyven regarded him wryly. ‘You might at least
try
to phrase your remarks in a conciliatory manner, given that I am the one holding a gun. But no, I am not Falcon. I
am
a spy, though. I am surprised you did not guess. You saw me with my paymaster once.’

‘With Downing! In the Savoy’s yard. I assumed you were pumping each other for information.’

‘He was pumping me. It was I who told him that Clarendon’s papers were in the vase. Does it surprise you to learn we are on
the same side?’

Chaloner was more than surprised, he was dumb-founded. Ruyven was the last man alive he would have imagined corruptible. ‘And
you did it for money?’

Ruyven laid his gun in the grass. ‘For a pension, actually. I have never been paid enough to invest in one, despite risking
life and limb for the States-General since I was twenty.’

‘A
pension
?’ echoed Chaloner in disbelief. He had met many traitors in his life, but none who had been motivated by the chance to save
for the future.

Ruyven grimaced. ‘I asked Heer van Goch to raise my salary dozens of times, but he always palmed me off with excuses. Well,
there is only so far I am willing to be abused – passed over, while less worthy recipients are rewarded.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. He knew he should take advantage of the opportunity Ruyven had presented by setting down his
weapon, but he was too dazed by the captain’s startling revelations.

‘There are intelligencers galore in the delegation,’ Ruyven went on. ‘For example, Zas spies
for
Heer van Goch. Why do you think he wants you dead? Because he hopes you will be blamed for some of the things
he
has done. He does not know I am Downing’s man, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Chaloner weakly. ‘But if we really are on the same side, then warn van Goch to be ready for whatever Falcon
is planning. It is—’

‘He will not listen to me,’ interrupted Ruyven bitterly. ‘I am far too lowly.’

‘Then take me to someone who isn’t,’ said Chaloner desperately. ‘Or Falcon will succeed.’

‘Perhaps he will,’ agreed Ruyven with a sigh. ‘But I am unequal to stopping him, and so are you. Downing lied when he concocted
that tale about you and de Witt’s bedchamber. You do not have the mettle for espionage, and I am beginning to realise that
I do not, either. But hop over the wall, or Zas will catch us, and then I
will
have to shoot you.’

‘I have no idea what is happening,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Why are you letting me go? Especially now I know you are a spy.’

‘Because of Downing.’ Ruyven’s voice was resentful.
‘He has not paid me what he pledged, and I suspect he never will. In other words, I have squandered my principles for nothing.
Killing you will please him, and I am not inclined to do anything that will make him happy.’

‘He does have a reputation for reneging on promises.’

Ruyven smirked suddenly. ‘The only good thing to come out of this was hitting you just now – consider it revenge for winning
Aletta all those years ago. She is the only woman I have ever really loved. Jacoba is all right, but she does not have Aletta’s
courage or her intelligence. Besides, Hanse’s death has filled her with guilt, and she has ended our association.’

Impatiently indicating that they had talked enough, he made a stirrup of his hands. Chaloner stepped into it, and pulled himself
to the top of the wall. Ruyven tossed him the little gun, then pointed his own dag at a nearby tree and squeezed the trigger.
The resulting crack set a number of gulls to screaming their alarm.

‘Goodbye, Chaloner,’ he said softly. ‘We shall not meet again.’

Chaloner stumbled through the grounds of Worcester House in a daze, staggered by Ruyven’s revelations. Unfortunately, they
told him nothing that would help him trap Falcon, and the clocks were striking four. Surely, he would not be reduced to following
Edwards’s plan – of loitering at the convention in the hope of spotting something amiss? He had to find
something
to give him an edge.

‘Look!’ came a howl of disbelief as he stepped into The Strand. It was Killigrew, and he was jabbing a forefinger that shook
with righteous indignation. ‘There is the traitor!’

Chaloner cursed himself for forgetting that he no longer wore a disguise. He saw two ruffians immediately break into a run,
so he jigged to his left and, when they changed course to intercept him, shot off to his right, tearing eastwards.

It was not an easy journey. There was a lot of traffic, and drivers cursed him as he cut in front of their carts. A glance
behind told him that his pursuers were experiencing similar problems, but were gaining anyway. He
tried to run harder, but the street was too crowded. He reached Temple Bar, and shoved his way to the front of the queue that
had formed to file through it, earning himself kicked shins and a punch. But then he was past it, and into Fleet Street.

Unfortunately, his pursuers’ brutish appearance meant people jumped aside for
them
, and they burst through, hot on his heels. Aware that he needed to aim for quieter pastures if he wanted to escape, he ducked
down a lane that led towards the river. When they followed, he jigged left, along an alley that had the wall of the Inner
Temple’s garden to the south and its stately buildings to the north. There was a gate in the wall, and by miraculous chance,
it was open. He shot through it, and secured the other side with a bar. Moments later, it shuddered under the impact of a
kick. There was a brief silence, then a scraping sound told him that the wall was being scaled.

He looked around quickly. He was in a large arbour, as fine as the one in Lincoln’s Inn. Mature trees graced it, and it was
neatly dissected by paths and flower beds. It was brown from lack of rain, but well tended and clearly loved. Cut off from
the noise and bustle of the city, it was an unexpected pocket of stillness and tranquility.

His lame leg burning from overexertion, Chaloner hobbled to a compost heap and crouched behind it. The two men were soon over
the wall, and began hunting for him. He fingered the gun in his pocket, and supposed he could shoot one, but the discharge
in this quiet place would attract attention and make it difficult for him to escape afterwards.

Almost as if he could scent his prey, the larger of the two suddenly gazed directly at Chaloner’s hiding place.
He muttered something to his companion, and they started to walk towards it. Chaloner looked around desperately. There was
nowhere else to go, and he knew he could not scramble over the wall before they caught him. He waited until they were almost
on him, then leapt to his feet, gun in his hand. Both stopped dead in their tracks.

‘There is no need for that,’ the larger one said, raising his hands. ‘We just want a word.’

‘A word about what?’ asked Chaloner.

‘About Falcon. Stop your questions and your meddling, and stay away from him.’

‘Who is Falcon?’

The big man smiled without humour. ‘He ordered us to issue you with a kindly warning. Heed it; there will not be another.
He also told us to tell you that if you disobey, Hannah will die.’

‘Hannah is safe,’ said Chaloner, although he did not like the notion that these two brutes should know about her. ‘Even I
do not know where she is.’

‘No, but Falcon does,’ said the smaller man with a sly grin. ‘You should choose your friends more carefully, because Rector
Thompson is not very brave with a knife to his throat. He told us to leave a message mentioning rabbits with one John Thurloe
at Lincoln’s Inn.’

Chaloner’s stomach lurched. ‘No! You cannot—’

‘We already have.’

Chaloner stared at them, and suddenly, his wits were sharp and clear. Who had the contacts and resources to hire men such
as these – strong louts, but ones with a modicum of intelligence – and order them to deliver ultimatums? There was Downing,
but he wanted Chaloner dead or caught, not warned off. Nisbett was murdered;
Kicke, Lane and Bates were not sufficiently wealthy; and the Dutch would not know how to recruit gang members. And then there
was Williamson. Chaloner’s anger was a cold, hard knot. The Spymaster had crossed the line, and he would pay for it.

‘Where is Falcon now?’ he demanded, pointing the gun at the larger man’s head.

The fellow cringed, seeing he was in earnest. ‘We do not know! He issues us with orders through a captain – Abraham Kicke,
who works at White Hall. We have never met him in person.’

‘He is telling the truth,’ said the smaller man, smug grin gone. ‘And Falcon
does
have your wife. He sent someone to collect her the moment Thurloe dropped her off in Tothill Street.’

‘Thurloe thought all was well,’ added his friend. ‘But it is not, and Falcon will kill her if you interfere with his plans.’

There was a sudden shout, and Chaloner saw a gardener striding towards them, clearly angry that trespassers should dare to
set foot in his domain. His indignant yell alerted his fellows, who began to converge, all clutching a variety of tools that
could double as weapons. Chaloner swore under his breath. They were an inconvenience, but he did not want them hurt.

‘What now?’ asked the big man, confidence returning when he saw what was happening. ‘Will you kill us in front of witnesses?
Let us go, then make your own escape. It is your only option.’

Reluctantly, Chaloner conceded he was right. He lowered the weapon, and the two moved away quickly. He followed, aware of
the gardeners breaking into a run. The big man ripped the bar from the gate, and then he
and his companion were gone. Chaloner was not far behind them.

He knew they had been bluffing about ‘Falcon’ having Hannah, because Thurloe would not have taken her to Tothill Street –
he would have gone to Lincoln’s Inn, and not let her leave until Chaloner himself had arrived to collect her. But if Williamson
had sent a letter using Thurloe’s codeword, then he and Hannah would certainly be on their way home. Williamson might not
have Hannah yet, but it was only a matter of time before he did. And while Chaloner’s feelings towards his wife might be confusingly
ambivalent, he knew one thing for certain: that he did not want her in the Spymaster’s ruthless hands.

Chaloner’s breath came in agonised gasps as he sprinted towards Lincoln’s Inn, and he vowed that if Williamson had laid so
much as a finger on Hannah, the Spymaster would die.

Williamson’s men were out in force, not the soldiers in their buff uniforms, but the rough villains who shouldered their way
along, peering into the faces of passers-by. Chaloner kept his head down as he ran, bracing himself for trouble when one fellow
gave him a long, hard look. But the man was distracted by a prancing horse, and Chaloner was able to slip past unimpeded.

He cursed himself for not appreciating sooner that Falcon was someone with the resources to play deadly games – to dabble
in high-level espionage, spread misleading rumours, and kill those who tried to stop him. And how many had that been? Hanse,
Compton and his soldiers, White and his guard, Molins, Oetje, Swan, Swallow, Pocks. And who knew how many more names
had been written on the part of the death list that had been burned away?

But what was Williamson thinking? He claimed to want peace, so why was he trying to provoke a war – and damage two governments
into the bargain? For money? Chaloner supposed he should not be surprised. He had met many spies – Ruyven being the most recent
– who were not ashamed to admit they were driven by a desire for wealth.

He was breathless, limping and hot when he arrived at Lincoln’s Inn. But there was bad news. Thurloe had arrived with a woman
beside him, and a messenger had been waiting.

‘He told Mr Thurloe that he and the lady were to get into his carriage, and go with him to see Tom’s rabbits,’ said the porter,
shaking his head, perplexed. ‘Why would they want to—’

‘What did this man look like?’ Chaloner demanded, stomach churning.

‘I could not see. It was drizzling, and his hat was over his eyes.’

‘Then in which direction did they go?’

‘I did not look.’ The porter’s expression turned from bemused to anxious. ‘Is Mr Thurloe in danger?’

Chaloner was in an agony of despair, thickly overlain with guilt. It was bad enough that Hannah had been dragged into his
murky affairs, but to endanger Thurloe, too … He knew he would never forgive himself if anything happened to either.

But self-recrimination could come later: now he needed to force his fears to the back of his mind and think rationally. Where
had they been taken? To Newgate, where they could be incarcerated until they were quietly
dispatched? He did not think Williamson would be rash enough to take his prisoners to his Westminster lair – someone would
see them, and awkward questions would be asked. But the Spymaster was likely to be there himself. Chaloner set off at a run
again, ignoring the porter’s wails for answers.

Fortunately, Murdoch had parked outside Lincoln’s Inn, lounging with his feet up while he ate a pie. He hurled it away and
snatched up his reins when Chaloner yelled at him that Thurloe was in trouble, and they rattled at a furious pace towards
Westminster. It was quicker than running, and also served to keep Chaloner off the streets and away from anyone who might
recognise him.

‘Mr Thurloe is in there?’ asked Murdoch in horror, when they reached New Palace Yard and Chaloner alighted. Like all Londoners,
he knew what went on in Williamson’s domain.

‘Wait here,’ ordered Chaloner. There was no time for explanations. ‘I may need you to take me somewhere else when I have finished.’

His inclination was to storm the building with his sword flailing, but common sense told him that was unlikely to help Thurloe
and Hannah, so he forced himself to hide in the shadows of a nearby doorway while he studied the place, chafing at the passing
moments.

The front was protected by two guards – not the ones in uniform, but the ruffians. It did not look good to station members
of criminal gangs at the entrance, and Chaloner wondered whether the Spymaster had lost his mind. However, the building gave
the impression of being otherwise empty – Williamson’s clerks did not work on Sundays.

Unwilling to tackle the sentries in the street, lest cronies came to their assistance, Chaloner made his way to the
back door, which was locked but unguarded. He picked his way inside, and immediately tripped over a body. It was a man in
a buff uniform, and he had been stabbed. Confused and uncertain, Chaloner armed himself with the fellow’s sword and selection
of daggers, and made sure the dag was in a place where it could easily be reached.

The main chamber, where the clerks worked, was deserted with the exception of two secretaries. Both were dead. Chaloner stared
at them: something was badly wrong. He crept on, aiming for the Spymaster’s office on the upper floor.

Swaddell lay near the door. His eyes were closed, and there was blood on his face. Chaloner paused to put his hand on the
assassin’s neck. Swaddell was alive, and stirred when he was touched. There was a nasty gash on his head, and it was apparent
that he had been struck from behind. Had Williamson tired of his faithful henchman and ordered him dispatched? With infinite
care, Chaloner eased open the door to the Spymaster’s office, just enough to let him see inside.

Williamson was sitting at his desk, hands clasped in front of him. Kicke was in the centre of the room, pacing back and forth.
Two more men stood to one side, and the stains on their clothes indicated they had been responsible for at least some of the
killing.

Chaloner reviewed his options. The gun would eliminate Kicke, while a lobbed dagger would dispatch one lout and the other
could be finished with a sword. And Williamson represented no threat – while no coward, the Spymaster preferred to let others
do his fighting, and was not an accomplished warrior. The only question was whether there were more men who were out of sight.

He pushed the door open further, trying to see, but
Williamson chose that moment to look in his direction. Their eyes locked, and the Spymaster’s jaw dropped in astonishment.
Desperately, Chaloner began to haul the dag from his belt, knowing he
had
to win the confrontation, because it was not just his life in the balance, but Thurloe’s and Hannah’s, too.

‘How much longer will you and these four villains keep me prisoner in my own office, Kicke?’ Williamson demanded quickly.
‘I have no idea what you think you are doing, but holding me here against my will and slaughtering my people is extremely
unwise.’

Chaloner stared at him in confusion. What was going on? Kicke could not have worked out that Williamson was Falcon, because
he did not have the wits. Had Lady Castlemaine? That did not sound very likely, either. But, more to the point, how was Chaloner
going to demand Hannah’s whereabouts when Williamson was being guarded? The answer was obvious: Chaloner was going to have
to rescue him. Clearly, Williamson was expecting him to try, because he had passed him a message: that Kicke had two more
men who were not visible from the door.

Kicke strode towards the Spymaster and leaned menacingly across the desk. His expression was malevolent, and Chaloner could
see it was all Williamson could do not to flinch.

‘I will keep you prisoner until my master tells me otherwise,’ he snarled. ‘And do not expect to be saved by your minions:
you were very convincing when I forced you to tell them that Chaloner is Falcon, and not to show their faces until he is caught.
They will be ages looking for him, because if he has any sense, he will have fled London and will never be found.’