The Body in the Thames (44 page)

Williamson ignored him. ‘However, while de Buat supplies me with gossip and inconsequentialities, Griffith provides proper
information.’

‘Well, there you are then!’ said Chaloner, disgusted that the Spymaster should not have seen it sooner. ‘Falcon!
Providing high-level intelligence. But not just to you – to both sides.’

‘I suppose he might …’ acknowledged Williamson reluctantly.

‘We have a name at last,’ said Swaddell, suddenly all business. ‘So let us act on it, and save Chaloner’s wife and our reputations
before it is too late.’

Out in New Palace Yard, Williamson, Swaddell and Chaloner piled into Murdoch’s hackney, while de Buat was instructed to round
up any of the Spymaster’s troops who had escaped being killed by Kicke and his minions, and escort them to the Savoy with
all possible haste. Once they were on their way, Chaloner’s thoughts returned to Griffith.

‘Bates gave me Falcon’s death list,’ he said, furious with his failure to put facts together sooner. ‘He found it tossed on
the fire in the Spares Gallery, a place where Griffith likes to lurk.’

‘Listening for gossip to tell the Dutch,’ nodded Swaddell, clinging on for dear life as Williamson yelled for Murdoch to go
faster. It was not far to Bulteel’s house, and they would soon be there. ‘But how do you know the list was Griffith’s? Lots
of courtiers haunt the Spares Gallery.’

‘But lots of people do not have recipes for gingerbread,’ explained Chaloner. ‘It was written on the back. Bulteel likes to
cook, and Griffith must have used some scrap paper from his kitchen.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Williamson. ‘The clues were there, but we were all too blind to see them.’

Chaloner regarded the Spymaster in alarm when Murdoch turned north. ‘Where are we going? Bulteel’s house is in the opposite—’

‘We are not going to Bulteel’s house,’ said Williamson impatiently. ‘We are going to the Savoy.’

‘But Griffith is going to leave London today,’ shouted Chaloner. Hannah and Thurloe were not going to be in the Savoy, and
he was a lot more interested in rescuing them than in salvaging a truce that was in tatters anyway. ‘He will be packing his—’

‘He will be in the Savoy,’ snapped Williamson. ‘I am the Spymaster here, Chaloner. I do know something about my trade, and—’

‘But the meeting is not due to start for an hour!’ yelled Chaloner, desperately aware that every second was taking him farther
from the people he cared about. ‘He will not waste that time. He will be gathering his belongings, so he can make a quick
getaway.’

‘Enough!’ snarled Williamson. ‘I am in charge here, and … What are you doing?’

Chaloner threw open the door and jumped out. The coach was travelling fast, and he bounced and rolled painfully as he landed.
Williamson leaned out and made a gesture of anger, but Murdoch did not see and whipped his horses on. Yet Chaloner
knew
Williamson was wrong about the Savoy.

He scrambled to his feet and started to run, and had almost reached Old Palace Yard, when he saw Griffith. The man was ahead
of him, striding along confidently with two burly gang members at his heels. There was no sign of the mincing courtier now,
and even his effeminate clothes could not disguise the lean, efficient strength of his body. He turned down an alley, little
more than a dark slit even on the brightest of days, which was a shortcut to Bulteel’s home.

Chaloner drew his gun and set off after him, trailing
him and his companions until they were well out of sight of the main road, lest some passer-by thought to interfere. Then
he made his move.

‘Put your hands in the air,’ he ordered softly. ‘Or I will shoot.’

Griffith whirled around, and his eyes widened in shock when he saw the dag. ‘Chaloner! What do you think you are doing? You
should have left London hours ago. What is wrong with you? Do you
want
to be hanged as a spy?’

One of the ruffians started to edge away, so Chaloner threw one of the knives he had taken from Williamson’s dead guard. It
entered the man’s thigh, causing him to curse vilely as he slid to the ground, both hands clutching the wound.

‘Stay where you are,’ he told the other villain. The man saw he meant it, and quickly raised his hands. Chaloner turned back
to Griffith. ‘I want my wife back.’

‘Your wife?’ echoed Griffith. The mince was back in his movements, but Chaloner was not deceived. ‘What makes you think I—’

Chaloner darted forward and pressed the gun against Griffith’s temple. ‘I am not interested in a debate. Tell me where she
is.’

‘Wait!’ cried Griffith in alarm. ‘If you kill me, you will never find her.’

Chaloner took the gun from Griffith’s head and aimed it at his middle instead. ‘Tell me.’

Griffith paled. As a soldier, he knew what it meant to be gut-shot. ‘Is this about my little lie? That I am not Griffith,
and do not hale from Buckinghamshire? I can explain!’

‘I am not interested. Where are Hannah and Thurloe?’

‘The real Griffith died in my arms years ago, after
regaling me with tales of his escapades in the wars. I admit to that deception. And I will even admit to organising the watch
on your home – my “cousin” brays about your skills constantly, so keeping you under observation seemed a wise precaution.
I searched it to look for any reports you might have written for the Earl—’

Chaloner’s finger tightened on the trigger. ‘Hannah and Thurloe.’

‘It was me who slipped into Newgate, too,’ Griffith went on, a little desperately. ‘I am good at disguises. I pretended to
be a warden, and getting into Calais was easy.’

‘I am sure it was, but did you have to murder Swan and Swallow so horribly?’

Griffith looked away, and Chaloner was surprised to see the incident haunted him. ‘It was not my idea, it was Falcon’s. He
said we needed to make people see he is not someone to be crossed.’

Chaloner narrowed his eyes. ‘Do not lie.
You
are Falcon.’

‘Me?’ Griffith started to laugh. ‘I am merely his servant. I was—’

‘I do not believe you,’ snapped Chaloner. ‘So, for the last time, where are they?’

‘Stop!’ shouted Griffith, when Chaloner began to squeeze the trigger. ‘I am Williamson’s spy, working for England against
the Dutch. Kill me, and you damage your country. My lies have been for England, and are a necessary part of my disguise.’

Chaloner was not sure what happened next, only that the man he had injured had hauled the dagger from his leg and lobbed it.
He ducked instinctively and it missed, but Griffith’s reactions were frighteningly fast. He
whipped his sword from its scabbard, and while Chaloner’s attention was on him, the second ruffian knocked the gun from his
hand.

Chaloner managed to evade Griffith’s first swipe, but the wounded man grabbed his foot, causing him to fall. Then the second
ruffian produced a cudgel, and struck him an agonising blow on the leg. Griffith moved in for the kill. Chaloner tried to
struggle away, but it was hopeless.

Suddenly, there was a deafening report. The lout with the club dropped to the ground and lay still. Griffith dropped to a
fighting stance, gazing around wildly.

‘Step away from him, Griffith,’ ordered Lane. There was anger in his usually impassive features. ‘You and your kind are not
killing anyone else.’

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Griffith furiously. ‘I told you to pack my—’

He did not finish, because Lane charged at him. Both crashed to the ground. Chaloner hobbled towards them, but it was too
late. Blood seeped through Lane’s clothes, although he still clawed furiously at his opponent. Griffith punched him away,
scrambled to his feet and fled. Chaloner tried to follow, but Griffith was fast, and Chaloner’s injured leg meant there was
no chance of catching him. He limped back to Lane.

‘Do not waste time with me,’ Lane gasped. ‘Find Griffith and stop him before he does any more harm. My master would wish it.’

‘Your master?’ Chaloner’s mind reeled. ‘But Griffith is—’

‘Do you think I would demean myself by working for that villain? My master was a great man, and I am proud to have served
him.’

‘Compton?’ suggested Chaloner tentatively, his thoughts in chaos. ‘Did
he
ask you to monitor Griffith? Because he suspected something amiss?’

Lane nodded, his face white with pain. ‘He ordered me to stop when his other men died, because he said it was too dangerous.
But when he became a victim, I decided to disobey him for the first time in my life, and bring his killer to justice. I am
usually good at keeping Griffith in my sights, but I lost him today in the traffic around Charing Cross. And it almost cost
you your life!’

‘You are Fairfax!’ exclaimed Chaloner in understanding. ‘You did not let me give you Compton’s message in person, because
I would have recognised you.’

‘Lane’ gave a wan smile. ‘I appreciated your efforts to protect me. But do not linger here. Go!’

Chaloner thought about his promise to Compton. ‘I cannot leave you—’

‘I have friends here, and my injury is not fatal. Stop this evil, or it will all have been for nothing.’

Chaloner stumbled down the lane, aiming for Bulteel’s house. It felt like an age before he arrived, gasping for breath, with
sweat stinging his eyes and his leg aching viciously. The building sat small and pretty, with roses growing around the door
– a small haven of peace and colour in the dirty metropolis. It was difficult to believe that a monster lodged there.

Common sense prevented Chaloner from staging a frontal assault, and forced him to go around the back. The gate was barred,
so he scrambled over a wall and dropped silently down the other side. The garden was full of the herbs that Bulteel liked
to use in his cooking, and bees buzzed among them. Chaloner reached the
kitchen door and listened hard. He could hear someone inside. It was Bulteel, standing at his table as he rolled pastry. He
was humming, happy and content.

Chaloner felt sick. Bulteel was cooking, something he had been unable to do while Griffith was staying with him. Did it mean
Griffith had already gone? He opened the door and stepped inside, raising his finger to his lips when Bulteel looked up in
surprise.

‘Where is Griffith?’ he whispered.

‘He arrived in a terrible fluster a few moments ago, and is upstairs, packing. I am fond of him, but it will be good to have
the house to myself again. I am baking him a pie for the journey to—’

‘Did he mention Hannah and Thurloe?’ asked Chaloner desperately. ‘Falcon has them.’

‘Falcon?’ echoed Bulteel, confusion suffusing his face. Chaloner felt like grabbing him by the throat. Could he not see that
it was an emergency? He took a deep breath, to calm himself.

‘Yes,’ he managed to reply. ‘Have you seen them?’ ‘No,’ said Bulteel. ‘But I can ask my cousin. Wait here while I fetch him.
You—’

‘No! Do you have a cellar?’

Bulteel gaped at him. ‘A cellar? Why do you—’

‘John, please!’ begged Chaloner. ‘Where is it?’

‘This way,’ said Bulteel, regarding him in concern. ‘And then you had better sit down, because you look terrible.’

Chaloner followed him along the corridor, to where a low door led to a place where coal and firewood could be stored. A stout
bar was placed across it.

‘Here,’ said Bulteel. ‘I keep it locked because I had rats last year. Do you want to see inside?’

Chaloner did not answer. He removed the bar and
peered into the blackness within. The familiar fear of cell-like places gripped him as he took one step down the stairs, and
then another. It was dank, cold and smelled of decay, like a prison. The notion distracted him, and by the time he realised
something was amiss, it was too late. He heard Bulteel’s shriek of alarm before the door was slammed closed, plunging him
into pitch darkness.

Chaloner was not alone. He could hear snuffling farther inside the chamber, and he stumbled down the uneven steps towards
it. His groping fingers encountered hair and a face, wet with tears. He tugged off the gag.

‘Tom!’ sobbed Hannah. ‘Oh, thank God! We received a message from you that it was safe to come home, but it was a trick, and
we have been locked in this miserable place for days.’

‘Hours,’ corrected Thurloe, when Chaloner removed the gag from him, too, and set about sawing through the ropes that bound
their hands and feet. ‘But we must escape. Now. I overheard talk of plans to disrupt the conference – plans that will end
any hope of peace for a very long time.’

‘What plans?’ demanded Chaloner.

‘I am not sure,’ confessed Thurloe. ‘But I do know they will be devastating, and we
must
stop them, no matter what the cost to ourselves.’

‘He has been trying to spoil the negotiations for months,’ added Hannah. Her voice shook, although she tried to keep it steady.
‘Ever since the Dutch arrived.’

‘Who has?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Griffith, who is not Griffith at all, but Falcon?’

‘Griffith is not Falcon,’ said Thurloe grimly. ‘He has been receiving orders, not giving them. Falcon is someone
else – someone who holds a respected post at Court, and has access to powerful men. I have two suspects. Killigrew of the
Savoy occupies a unique position to cause trouble …’

‘And his other suspect is Charles Bates, although he is loath to say so in front of me,’ said Hannah in a choked voice. ‘Because
of Charles’s sudden departure from London, which means no one expects him to be here, so he is free to move about unfettered.
But whoever it is means to cause untold damage. It is his revenge.’

‘His revenge for what?’ asked Chaloner.

‘On the many good, brave men who have tried to stop him,’ explained Thurloe. ‘They are mostly dead, so it is up to us now.’

Chaloner groped his way up the cellar steps and began inspecting the door. He pushed on it, but it was immovable. Fear washed
through him. Griffith would kill Bulteel and abandon them there. It would be every bit as bad as Calais. Worse, because Hannah
and Thurloe would be beside him. He saw a shadow flit across the bottom of the door.

‘John?’ he called softly. ‘John, are you there?’