The Body In The Thames

Book 6: Adventures of Thomas Chaloner

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Mystery; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

In the dilapidated surroundings of the Savoy, a delegation from the Netherlands is gathered in a last ditch attempt to secure peace. Thomas Chaloner is horrified at the violent aggression shown to the Dutch by ordinary Londoners, but is more worried by the dismissive attitude with which they are greeted by the King's officials. Then the body of his former brother-in-law is found in the Thames, and Chaloner discovers enigmatic clues to a motivation for his murder. These may be linked to a plot to steal the crown jewels, or perhaps to a conspiracy to ensure that no peace is secured between the two nations. Whichever it proves to be, Chaloner knows he has very little time to decipher the clues…(web)

Release date: January 20, 2011

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 474

Sample

Early June 1664

The marriage of Thomas Chaloner to Hannah Cotton in St Margaret’s Church, Westminster transpired to be an occasion few of
their guests would ever forget. It was not because the ceremony took place during one of the fiercest storms in living memory,
raining so hard that the roof was unequal to it and began to leak. Nor was it because the ship bringing the bridegroom home
from Holland was a week late, and he arrived at the church with only seconds to spare. Rather, it was because Philip Alden
was murdered during it.


Alden was a man down on his luck. He had been a Royalist spy during the Commonwealth, and at the Restoration the King had
rewarded him handsomely for his courage. Unfortunately, Alden loved to gamble, and the money had slipped through his fingers
like quicksilver. Now, four years on, he could not remember when he had last eaten and he had no proper home. He was cold,
hungry and feeling very sorry for himself as he slouched past St Margaret’s. Then he happened to overhear the name of the man who was to be married there that day.


He could scarcely believe his luck! Chaloner had also been an intelligencer, albeit one who had worked for the opposition,
but even so, he would not see a brother officer starve. He would invite Alden to the wedding feast, and perhaps even slip
him a few shilling afterwards, to see him back on his feet. Grinning in anticipation of his problems being solved, Alden brushed
himself down, pulled back his shoulders and marched boldly into the church.


The wedding was a grand affair, far grander than Alden would have expected for a reticent, unassuming fellow like Chaloner,
but eavesdropping soon explained why: Hannah was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and she had invited not only Her Majesty,
but a number of high-ranking courtiers, too – such as the Duke of Buckingham, the Earl of Clarendon and members of the Privy
Council. Alden’s spirits rose further still: with such august guests, the feast was likely to be sumptuous.


Afraid his shabby clothes might see him expelled before he could corner the bridegroom, Alden selected a seat at the very
back of the nave, and settled down to watch and to wait.


Sitting a few rows in front of him were a wealthy brothel-keeper named Temperance North, and Richard Wiseman, the Court surgeon.
They were an unlikely pair, but Alden had seen them together on several occasions – although no longer active in espionage,
old habits died hard, and he made it his business to know who was sleeping with whom. To pass the time, he listened to their
conversation.


‘There was no sign of Tom’s ship again this morning,’ Temperance was saying. ‘Do you think it will arrive in time? Or do you
think he has had second thoughts, and has paid the captain to be late deliberately?’


‘No!’ exclaimed Wiseman, clearly shocked by the notion. ‘The ship is late because of these terrible storms. I cannot tell
you how many patients I have tended because of them – broken limbs from being blown over, cuts and bruises from flying objects
…’


‘It has been windy,’ agreed Temperance, and as if to give credence to her words, the bright sunlight that had been streaming through
the windows was suddenly dimmed as black clouds scudded across the sky. The inside of the church grew dark.


And then it began to rain. At first, it was just a light patter, but it quickly became a roar, and water splattered furiously
to the ground outside from overtaxed gutters. The racket it made drowned out the discussion between Wiseman and Temperance,
but it did not matter, because a sudden flurry of activity at the door heralded the bridegroom’s eleventh-hour arrival.


There was a collective sigh of relief from the congregation when he took his place at the altar rail, although Hannah only
smiled serenely, as if she had known all along that raging seas and gale-force winds would not keep him from her that day.


As soon as Chaloner was in position, Rector White began the service, eyes fixed firmly heavenwards, although it had nothing
to do with piety – he was concerned for his roof. His was not a wealthy parish, and could not afford costly repairs.


‘—and keep her in sickness and in health,’ he bellowed, struggling to make himself heard over the storm. ‘And, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?’


Any response Chaloner might have made was lost amid a rippling roll of thunder.

‘Did he say he would?’ asked Temperance of Wiseman.

The surgeon shrugged. ‘The vicar is asking him to repeat himself.’

Next, it was the roar of rain that drowned out Chaloner’s reply. There was a sharp squeal as some hapless lady found herself
standing directly under a leak, and Alden smirked. This was far better entertainment than the gaming houses! Rector White
indicated Chaloner was to try again.


‘I will,’ shouted Chaloner for the third time.

Unfortunately, his yell coincided with a lull in the storm, and his words reverberated around the building like a challenge.
Hannah beamed at him, then prodded White, who reluctantly dragged his attention away from his ceiling and back to the Book
of Common Prayer. The respite did not last long, though, and the elements were soon battering the church with renewed ferocity.


A loud crack from above had the congregation gazing upwards in alarm, and almost immediately, water began to ooze through
the ancient timbers. People edged towards the aisles, and the shuffle turned into a stampede when there was a second snap
and the trickle became a deluge. The scene was illuminated by an eye-searing flicker of lightning, and Alden laughed openly
at the sight of elegant courtiers making an undignified scramble for shelter.


Rector White continued valiantly, but the storm was directly overhead, and the thunder now sounded like crashing booms from a whole field of cannons. Alden noticed that Chaloner’s hand was on the hilt of his sword – an instinctive
reaction from a man who had seen more than his share of fighting. The racket was so intense that Alden doubted the bridal
couple could hear the vicar’s words, while their guests were more interested in staying dry than in the ceremony.


Alden was so diverted by the spectacle that he did not sense the presence of the killer behind him until it was too late.
There was a searing pain in his back, and he started to topple forward, but strong hands fastened around him, holding him
upright. They continued to support him until his heart finally stopped beating, and then they arranged him so he was slumped
in the pew with his hat over his eyes.


The storm abated the moment White hollered a final blessing. Immediately, sunlight shafted through the stained-glass windows,
painting a mosaic of bright patterns on the wet floor. The rector gripped the newlyweds’ hands in a sincere but brief gesture
of congratulation, and then dashed away to inspect the damage to his tiles.


Dodging the ribbons of water that continued to flood through the roof, Hannah and Chaloner made their way up the aisle. When
they passed Alden, Chaloner paused, frowning. The battered hat and grubby coat were in stark contrast to the finery worn by
the rest of the guests.


‘I did not invite him,’ said Hannah, regarding the shabby figure in distaste. ‘I was careful to keep the guest-list respectable,
because the Queen is here. He must be a vagrant.’


One of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, Judith Killigrew, had been leaning idly against the pew in which Alden was slumped,
but when she straightened, there was a vivid blot of red against the pale yellow of her gown. She gazed at it in horror, then
screamed. Her husband regarded the mess dispassionately: as Master of the Savoy Hospital, Dr Henry Killigrew was used to bloodstains.
He touched Alden’s neck, to feel for a life-beat, but shook his head.


‘Dead,’ he announced to the people who were hurrying to see what was happening. ‘But there appears to be a letter pinned to
his back by a knife. How very peculiar!’


There were exclamations of revulsion when he grabbed the dagger and tugged it out. Then he removed the paper from the sticky
blade, and scanned it quickly before passing it to Chaloner.


‘“Do not interfere”,’ Chaloner read, looking around to assess whether the message might mean something to one of the guests,
but he was met by blank stares and puzzled frowns. And it could not be for him, because he had been in the country for less than an hour after an absence of four months – he had not had time to do anything
to warrant grisly warnings.


‘Interfere with what?’ asked Hannah unsteadily. ‘And who is he, anyway?’

‘His name is Philip Alden,’ supplied Killigrew. ‘Onetime Cavalier spy and inveterate gambler. He has been loitering around
my hospital recently, begging for money. A bit of a scoundrel, but not one who should warrant execution.’


‘He must have been killed during the ceremony,’ declared Wiseman. ‘I am a surgeon, and I am good at spotting corpses – he was certainly not dead when I saw him earlier.’


‘Did anyone see or hear anything suspicious?’ asked Chaloner, although without much hope: the storm had provided a perfect
diversion for the crime.


There were shaken heads all around.

‘This will be the work of fanatics,’ said Killigrew with a grimace. ‘Throw their damned note away, Chaloner, because I refuse
to waste time considering it. Especially when we have a feast waiting for us at White Hall.’


But one man stared in open-mouthed horror at the corpse and its grim warning. Rector White knew exactly at whom the communication
was aimed and what it meant. He staggered to a pew, feeling terror and nausea wash over him in alternate waves. Something dark and deadly
was about to be unleashed, and he was not sure whether he – or anyone else – could stop it.


Ten days later

Willem Hanse carried a terrible secret, and had no idea what to do with it. He was a stranger in a foreign land, and did not
know whom he could trust – not among his fellow Dutchmen, who had travelled to London with him in a final, desperate attempt
to avert a war with Britain, and not among his English hosts. He was also unwell, suffering from an unsettling, gnawing ache
in his innards. He pulled off his gloves – stupid things to wear when the city was in the grip of a heatwave, but they had
been a gift from a friend and it comforted him to don them – and wiped sweat from his eyes.


He glanced behind him as he walked, pretending to gaze across the river at the twinkling lights of Southwark, but really looking
for the malignant Oetje. His heart sank when he saw she was still there: he had not managed to lose her, despite his best
efforts. She had followed him out of his lodgings at the Savoy Hospital – the rambling Tudor palace that had been lent to
the Dutch Ambassador and his staff for the duration of their stay – and then she had lurked outside the Sun tavern while he
had spent the evening with his friend, Tom Chaloner.


Poor Chaloner had been exhausted. He had spent the ten days since his wedding desperately trying to solve Alden’s murder,
while simultaneously struggling to pay court to a new wife and serve a demanding master. He had wanted to go home, but Hanse
had detained him with idle chatter, hoping Oetje would tire of her vigil and leave. Unfortunately, her patience appeared to
be infinite, because she had stood in a doorway all evening, silent and watchful.


Eventually, Chaloner had fallen asleep at the table, which had relieved Hanse of the burden of pretending all was well when
it was not – the vicious murder in St Margaret’s Church attested to that. Hanse had let him doze for a while, then had reluctantly
shaken him awake when he knew he could dally no longer, and would have to leave the safety of the tavern – Oetje or no Oetje.


Chaloner had wanted to accompany him back to the Savoy – London was unsafe for Dutchmen, and one out alone at such an hour
would be an attractive target for English ‘patriots’ – but Hanse, unwilling to embroil him in such a deadly matter, had refused.
In the end, they had compromised: Hanse had taken a hackney carriage, instead of walking as he had planned. Chaloner had not been happy
with the arrangement, but had been too tired to argue. He had seen Hanse into the coach, tried one last time to accompany
him and, after being shoved away firmly, had turned towards home.


Once he had gone, Hanse had made a spirited effort to lose Oetje, directing his driver on a tortuous journey through a maze
of narrow alleys. In a particularly dark spot, he had scrambled out and paid the man to keep going without him. Then he had
visited several crowded taverns, entering through front doors and slipping out through the back ones, but all to no avail
– Oetje had stuck to him like glue. Now he was all alone in a particularly dangerous, squalid part of the city.


Hanse believed, with all his heart, that the business he had undertaken was worth his life, and he was prepared to do anything
to see it through. Of course, he thought grimly, as he broke into a trot, he could not complete what he had started if he
was killed. Pushing such macabre thoughts from his mind, he blundered on.


A figure materialised ahead, so Hanse jigged down the alley to his left, but there were footsteps everywhere, echoing in his
aching head. Clutching his stomach, he began to run, unease blossoming into full-blown fear as his pursuer gained on him.
Then he tripped over a pile of rubbish in the darkness. He knew he was near the Thames, because he could hear its gentle lap
on the muddy shore. He tried to climb to his feet, but his limbs were like lead. Someone came to stand over him.


‘Please!’ he whispered. ‘Do not—’

His adversary issued a low, mirthless chuckle that turned Hanse’s blood to ice, despite the heat of the summer evening. ‘You
should not have interfered.’


Saturday 18 June 1664

St James’s Park was a pleasant place to be on a hot day. It stood upwind of the steaming, stinking, crowded metropolis that
was London, and smelled of scythed grass and summer flowers. High walls kept the general populace out, which allowed the King
and his Court to lounge in indolent splendour, and to swim in the newly created stretch of water known as ‘the Canal’. They
were enjoying its cool waters that morning, laughing and shrieking as they frolicked.


A short distance away, in the shade of some elms, sat the Earl of Clarendon. He was England’s Lord Chancellor, a short, fat,
fussy man who favoured expensively frothy clothes and large wigs, neither of which were suitable for heatwaves – and London
was currently enduring some of the driest, most sultry weather anyone could remember. His chubby face was shiny with sweat,
and he was acutely uncomfortable. It was also clear, from his black scowl, that he was in a very bad mood.


He had accumulated many enemies during his four years in office, so he and his staff – a secretary, four soldiers and a gentleman usher – had positioned themselves well away
from the rest of the company. Not only did he feel safer when he was not among folk who itched to see him dead or disgraced,
but the Court preferred it that way, too – the King’s lively debauchees did not want their fun spoiled by his critical glares.


‘The Lady emits some very uncivilised guffaws,’ he remarked waspishly. So intense was his dislike of the King’s mistress that
he could never bring himself to say her name: the Countess of Castlemaine was always just ‘the Lady’. ‘I imagine they can
hear her uncouth hooting in Chelsey.’


His staff exchanged wary glances behind his back, but held their silence. He had not wanted to join the royal party that day,
and was itching to vent his spleen on someone for having been forced to do so. He had planned to spend the time writing letters
to avert a war with the Dutch Republic. Unfortunately, most Englishmen thought that a fight with Holland was a very good idea,
and his efforts to prevent one were regarded with irritation. The King, perhaps in a subversive attempt to keep him from such
work, had informed him that a morning in the sunshine would do him good, and when the Earl had demurred, the invitation had
become an order.


‘It is too hot to loll about here,’ Clarendon snapped, swabbing his forehead with a piece of lace. ‘It is an omen, you know.’

‘An omen, sir?’ asked Secretary Bulteel nervously, when no one else spoke.

The Earl glowered at him. John Bulteel was a small, unattractive man with bad teeth and gauche manners. Clarendon treated
him abominably, despite the fact that his loyalty, devotion and talent for administration made him almost indispensable.


‘Yes!’ the Earl snarled. ‘The weather is an omen for evil to come – probably this damned war everyone seems so determined
to have. Where is Chaloner? I have a question for him.’


Thomas Chaloner stepped forward. He had been a gentleman usher for exactly two weeks – the post had been the Earl’s wedding
gift to him. The promotion had not entailed a change in his duties, though. He was still an intelligencer, with a remit to
protect his master from harmful plots and to investigate any matter Clarendon deemed worthy of attention.


He was in his thirties, of medium height and build, with brown hair and grey eyes. The sword at his side was more functional
than ornamental, but there was nothing else remarkable about him. This was a deliberate ploy on his part – he had not survived
more than twelve years in espionage by standing out from the crowd.


‘Your question, sir?’ he asked politely.

‘Is it as hot as this in the States-General?’ demanded Clarendon, using the popular name for the seven provinces that had
united to form the Dutch Republic.


He scowled dangerously, suggesting there would be trouble no matter how the question was answered. Chaloner had been in his
service for eighteen months, but was still not fully trusted. Perhaps it was because espionage was considered a distasteful
occupation for gentlemen, or perhaps it was because Chaloner had been employed as a spy by the Parliamentarian government
before he had come to the Earl. Regardless, his master always gave the impression that he did not like him, and employed him
only because he needed to stay one step ahead of his enemies.


The antipathy was wholly reciprocated: Chaloner heartily wished he was hired by someone else. Unfortunately, opportunities
for ex-Commonwealth intelligencers in Restoration London were few and far between, so he had no choice but to continue working
for Clarendon.


‘Well?’ the Earl barked, when he thought Chaloner was taking too long to respond.

‘It varies from year to year, sir,’ replied Chaloner warily, not sure quite what his master was expecting to hear.

Clarendon sighed peevishly. ‘I do not care about the time you spent there spying for Cromwell. I want to know what the weather
was like when you visited the place for me. You have been skulking there since February, after all, and only deigned to return two weeks ago.’


Chaloner regarded him askance. The remark suggested that it had been his idea to linger in Amsterdam, when the reality was that he had written several times to say that Lord Bristol – the enemy
he had been ordered to hunt down – was not there. It was only at the beginning of June that the Earl had finally accepted
that his quarry must be elsewhere, and Chaloner had been given permission to come home.


‘You told me it was much cooler, Tom,’ said Bulteel helpfully, seeing his friend struggle for a polite response.

Clarendon nodded his satisfaction. ‘I thought so! The omen is intended for England only. The Dutch will win if we go to war,
and we shall look foolish for taking them on in the first place.’


Avoiding conflict with the United Provinces was one of few things upon which he and Chaloner agreed – both knew it was a fight
Britain was unlikely to win.


‘Is it true that the whole of the States-General is ravaged by plague?’ asked the Earl, kicking off his fashionably tight shoes and waggling his fat little toes in relief.


‘No, sir,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Just Amsterdam.’

The Earl regarded him uneasily. ‘ You were in Amsterdam. Did you see evidence of the disease?’


Chaloner nodded, but did not elaborate because the subject was a painful one for him. When he had first been sent to spy on
Holland, some twelve years before, he had married a Dutch lady, but had lost her and their child to plague. It had not been
easy to see the same sickness at work in the same place, and he had been unsettled by the intensity of the memories it had
stirred.


‘But you stayed away from sufferers?’ Pointedly, Clarendon held the piece of lace over his nose.

‘Of course.’

The Earl regarded him coolly. ‘You are taciturn today, even by your standards. What is wrong? Are you concerned that you have
made no headway on the cases I ordered you to investigate – these White Hall thefts and that missing Dutch diplomat? Or is
married life not to your liking?’


‘I have identified the thieves, sir, while married life is …’ Chaloner trailed off. Two weeks was hardly long enough to tell,
although it had occurred to him that he had made a mistake – spies made for poor spouses, and Hannah had already started two
quarrels about the unsociable hours he kept.


‘You have the culprits?’ pounced the Earl eagerly. ‘Why did you not say so? They stole my wig, you know. I set it down on
a bench next to me, and when I turned around, it had gone.’


‘Unfortunately, the evidence is circumstantial as yet,’ replied Chaloner. ‘The only way to ensure a conviction will be to catch them in the act of stealing, and—’


‘Then why are you not watching them?’ the Earl demanded. ‘Now? At this very minute?’

‘Because you ordered him to accompany you here, sir,’ explained Bulteel, when Chaloner hesitated, not sure how to respond
without sounding insolent. ‘You wanted him to brief you on his investigation into that vanished Dutchman – Willem Hanse.’


‘Oh, yes.’ The Earl mopped his face with the lace again. ‘Well, he has finished telling me about his lack of progress there,
so there is no need for him to linger. Go and catch the thieves, Chaloner. At once. How dare they lay sticky fingers on my property!’


Chaloner regarded him unhappily, sorry he should consider a wig more important than a man’s safety, and sorrier still that
tracking thieves would take time away from his search for Hanse. He had not told the Earl – or anyone else, for that matter
– but his first marriage meant he and Hanse were kinsmen. And Chaloner was extremely worried about him.


He took his leave of Clarendon, but did not go far, because the two men he suspected of committing the White Hall thefts –
a pair of courtier-stewards in the service of a diplomat named Sir George Downing – had just arrived and attached themselves
to the royal party. He would far rather have resumed the hunt for Hanse, but he knew he would have no peace from the Earl
until the thieves were under lock and key. With a sigh, he forced himself to concentrate on them.


The case had not been difficult to solve; interviews with victims and the application of basic logic had quickly pointed to them as the culprits. Moreover, discussions with their previous employers – Downing had only hired them recently
– told him that they had not been honest in the past, either, and had probably forged the testimonials that claimed them to
be men of good character. Unfortunately, he needed more than that to confront them. They were reputed to be cunning, and would
wriggle out of any accusations made without hard evidence.


He crouched behind a bush, and watched. Abraham Kicke was a tall, handsome fellow with luxurious blue-black hair and a confident
swagger. His accomplice, John Nisbett, was shorter and bulkier, with lank ginger locks and bulbous blue eyes. Both were said
to be skilled swordsmen, although Chaloner had no intention of finding out whether that was true – while perfectly able to
hold his own in a skirmish, he saw no point in taking unnecessary risks.


He winced when a particularly loud shriek rent the air. The Earl was right: Lady Castlemaine did have a piercing voice. He glanced towards her, and could not help but notice that she was by far the most scantily clad of
the cavorting crowd – her dress was made of some thin, filmy stuff that turned transparent in water. She had borne three children,
but her clothing showed she had retained her perfect figure. No one was quite sure how, and there were rumours that the Devil
was involved.


Meanwhile, shy, lonely Queen Katherine watched her with haunted eyes. Two years of marriage had not provided her with a baby, despite fervent prayers and visits to spas. Her inability to conceive meant she was shunned by the Court, and
Chaloner’s heart went out to her when he saw her ladies-in-waiting had abandoned her and she sat alone. Then one appeared, and distracted her with a barrage of merry chatter. He smiled when he saw the kindly Samaritan
was Hannah.


Dragging his attention back to his duties, Chaloner watched Kicke and Nisbett pause by the edge of the Canal, ostensibly to
marvel at His Majesty’s new parterres. He braced himself, sure they were about to indulge their penchant for other people’s
property.


Suddenly, there was a roar of manly appreciation: the Lady had left the water to perform a series of exercises. They had the
immediate effect of drawing every eye towards her, the men to ogle the display, and the women to regard it rather more critically.
Chaloner glanced at the Earl, and saw that even he was transfixed, although he at least had the decency to pretend to be reading.


While people were distracted, Kicke and Nisbett aimed for the nearest bundle of clothes. A brief rummage saw them emerge with
a copper-coloured wig that would have cost its owner a fortune. It was distinctive, and Chaloner recognised it as belonging
to a courtier named Charles Bates. Kicke shoved it down the front of his shirt. In the next pile, Nisbett found a purse, which
he slipped into his pocket. And so they continued.


‘Hey!’ Chaloner yelled, when he felt they had stolen enough to condemn themselves. ‘Thieves!’

Kicke and Nisbett froze in horror, and in the Canal, heads whipped around towards them. Lady Castlemaine stopped her gyrations
with a glare: she hated not being the centre of attention.


‘Thieves!’ Chaloner yelled again, pointing to Kicke and Nisbett.

Kicke held a necklace in his hand, and an expression of panicky guilt crossed his face as he dropped it. Nisbett spun around quickly, but thought better of making a bid for escape when he saw his way barred by the Earl’s soldiers. Several
younger, fitter members of Court, led by the Duke of Buckingham, splashed out of the water and trotted towards the commotion;
some even had the sense to collect swords en route. But Kicke was jabbing his thumb at Chaloner.


‘We are not the felons here,’ he declared, injecting indignation in his every word. ‘ He is.’


Accusations of criminal behaviour were not uncommon in White Hall, and most courtiers lost interest once they had assured
themselves that their own belongings were safe. One by one, they drifted back to the water. Part of the reason for their departure
was because the Earl was waddling towards them – they often expressed their dislike by refusing to be in his company – but
also because the Lady had resumed her exercises. Buckingham was among the few who remaine