The Body in the Thames (11 page)

‘Did he investigate thoroughly?’ asked Chaloner, thinking it would not be the first time a busy spymaster had ordered the
detention of suspects based on poor, erroneous or partial evidence.

‘I believe so – I accompanied him on some of his fact-finding missions. Then, when we were both satisfied that these plotters
posed a genuine threat, I took four of my men and arrested them.’

‘
You
did? Why? It should have been Williamson’s doing, not the Master of Ordnance’s.’

‘That is what I said. But Williamson and his creatures are unpopular in London, and the last time they tried to arrest a party
of villains, they were attacked by a mob – and their suspects got away. The Sinon plotters could not be allowed to escape,
so I agreed to apprehend them for him.’

‘What are their names?’ asked Chaloner. Compton was right: Williamson and his henchmen
were
unpopular among the people.

‘Swan, Swallow and Falcon.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘And they met in the Feathers?’

‘Yes,’ replied Compton. ‘I know it does not sound very likely, but those
are
their real names.’

Chaloner did not believe it, and sighed unhappily when he saw he was going to have to visit Newgate, and speak to the trio
himself. Compton seemed to guess what he was planning.

‘Do not even
think
of trying to interview them, Chaloner. It will be more than the Keeper’s life is worth to let you in. Williamson has some
sort of hold over the fellow, and I have been told that not even promises of fabulous wealth can weaken his resolve.’

Chaloner nodded, but did not say that the Keeper’s character and wishes were irrelevant to him – he had made a career out
of entering places that wanted to keep him out, and he would visit the felons if he felt it necessary. The difficulty, of
course, would be in leaving again.

‘Hanse seemed to think an interview with them would be a good idea,’ he said. ‘Do you know why?’

Compton shook his head. ‘Perhaps he heard Sinon mentioned by one of the Privy Council – they are apt to assume foreigners
speak no English, and are always babbling incautiously in front of them – and was afraid it might adversely affect the peace
process.’

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the hall outside, as someone thrust his way past the indignant servants and made his way
towards Compton’s parlour. Chaloner winced, recognising the strident tones of Surgeon Wiseman, the most arrogant, opinionated
and conceited man in London.

Richard Wiseman had been appointed Surgeon to the Person at the Restoration, and loved the adulation the post had brought
him. He was huge man, and never
wore any colour except red. His detractors – and his acerbic tongue meant he had a lot of them – said it was to conceal the
spilled blood of his victims, but Chaloner suspected the flamboyant
medicus
just liked to be noticed.

That day, he wore a scarlet long-coat, breeches of a paler crimson, and his boots were maroon. His thick hair fell in vibrant
auburn curls down his back. He followed a curious regime of lifting heavy stones each morning, which gave him the muscles
and physique of a wrestler. He was a very powerful man, and Chaloner pitied anyone unfortunate enough to be treated by him.

‘Chaloner!’ Wiseman exclaimed in genuine pleasure, thrusting aside a maid, when she tried to prevent him from bursting in
on what was a private meeting. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘He was talking to me,’ said Compton coolly. ‘Would you mind waiting outside until we have finished? We will not be long,
and you can tend me afterwards.’

‘Absolutely not,’ declared Wiseman, striding towards him. ‘I am a busy man, and you are clearly in need of my services. Besides,
Chaloner and I are old friends. He will not mind me being here.’

Chaloner minded very much, and he minded people being told he was Wiseman’s friend, too. He owned a grudging respect for the
surgeon, but Wiseman’s universal unpopularity meant it was not sensible for a man who liked to stay in the shadows to admit
friendship with such a man. Moreover, Wiseman’s abrasive manner meant it was difficult to like him much of the time.

‘Surely
I
have some say in the matter?’ said Compton. ‘And I would like you to wait outside.’

Wiseman crouched next to him and peered into his
eyes. ‘That would be unwise. You are gravely ill, and need my expertise immediately.’

‘I have a mild fever brought on by riding without a hat. All I want is a draught to relieve the pain in my temples. My brother
said you gave him one that set him to rights within moments.’

‘True,’ said Wiseman, preening. ‘But
his
sore head resulted from too much wine. Yours requires surgery, to relieve pressure on the brain. I have invented a new implement
to remove small parts of the skull, and you shall be the first to have it tested … to
benefit
from it.’

Compton was aghast. ‘You will not touch me! Chaloner, remove this madman from my house!’

‘You are a fool,’ declared Wiseman, flouncing out before Chaloner could oblige. ‘But I shall wait in the street for a few
moments to give you time to reconsider. If you come to your senses, I
may
deign to save your life.’

‘Lord Christ!’ breathed Compton, when the surgeon had gone. ‘Is he always like that?’

Chaloner nodded.

‘Is he good at his trade?’ asked the Master of Ordnance worriedly. ‘Should I be concerned, do you think?’

Chaloner would not have let Wiseman near
him
with a surgical implement, because the man was known to experiment. However, despite his natural antipathy towards the medical
profession in general, he was forced to concede that Wiseman did know his business. ‘A second opinion might be a good idea,’
he hedged.

Compton lay back. ‘Then I shall send to Chyrurgeons’ Hall for another butcher. If he concurs with Wiseman, I shall consent
to be examined. But I am not letting either saw my head off !’

* * *

Chaloner left with his thoughts full of how Hanse could have become aware of a plot to steal the British crown jewels. Was
Compton right, and he had overheard an indiscreet remark made by a Privy Council member? Or had he, like Compton, overheard
Swan, Swallow and Falcon plotting? Hanse had liked taverns, so it was not inconceivable that he had visited the Feathers.
Then, being a foreigner, he would not have known to whom to report the information. Of course, it did not explain why he had
sewn messages in his hose. Or why he had not mentioned the matter during the evening he had spent with Chaloner in the Sun.

Chaloner had not gone far when he felt his shoulder grabbed. He was about to knock the hand away when he saw it belonged to
Wiseman. And he rarely manhandled the surgeon lest the surgeon did some manhandling back.

‘You should have supported me in there,’ Wiseman said accusingly. ‘You know I am right.’

‘Perhaps you are. But you cannot go around sawing people’s heads off. It is unethical.’

‘So is letting them die. But no matter. It was his choice to reject me, and on his head be it.’

‘At least he still has one,’ muttered Chaloner. ‘Which he would not, if you had had your way.’

Wiseman stared blankly at him for a moment, then released a bellow of laughter that brought Drury Lane to a standstill. He
clapped Chaloner on the back in what was probably intended to be a friendly gesture, but that almost knocked the spy from
his feet.

‘Where are you going now?’ he asked, once he had controlled his mirth. ‘To see Temperance?’

Temperance North was Chaloner’s friend and
Wiseman’s mistress. She ran a high-class bordello in Hercules’ Pillars Alley, just off Fleet Street.

‘Not today. Hannah is expecting me home.’ Chaloner brightened when he recalled that she had arranged for him to hear the King’s
Private Musick that evening.

‘Rent yourself some separate lodgings,’ advised Wiseman. ‘Then you will have more freedom.’

‘I would, but I have not had time to—’

‘There is a spare garret in my house in Fleet Street. You may lease that, if you like.’

‘You live in Fleet Street? I thought you had rooms in Chyrurgeons’ Hall.’

‘The Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons suggested I move out, because my experiments were upsetting the other residents.
But I do not mind: Fleet Street is closer to Temperance. As my friend, you may have the attic for a very reasonable price.’

Chaloner would rather sleep in an alley than lodge with the surgeon. For a start, Wiseman might conduct unpleasant procedures
there, and the screams of his victims would be unsettling.

‘Well, I must be off,’ said Wiseman cheerfully, when Chaloner did no more than nod cautious thanks. ‘There is an increase
of gaol-fever in Newgate, and I have been asked to look into it.’

‘May I come with you?’ Chaloner heard himself say. He rubbed his eyes. The last thing he felt like doing was visiting a prison
– and he might be late for the concert. He had had scant opportunity for music since returning from Holland, and its absence
from his life was beginning to depress him. He
needed
to hear the performance that night.

Wiseman stared at him. ‘Why? I thought you hated gaols.’

‘I have to do something there for the Earl,’ replied Chaloner vaguely.

‘You cannot come today, because the Keeper will not admit you without prior warning,’ replied Wiseman. ‘But I can arrange
for you to accompany me on my next visit, which is on Thursday. I shall tell everyone that you are my assistant. Just remember
to wear old clothes.’

Chaloner was tired and dispirited as he walked down Drury Lane. Despite all he had learned, he still did not know why Hanse
had been murdered.
Was
it connected to the Sinon Plot? Or because a lot of people wanted Ambassador van Goch to go home without negotiating a treaty?
In which case, had Hanse been killed by an Englishman or a Dutchman? And was it wise to delay interviewing the Sinon Plot
conspirators until Wiseman could sneak him inside Newgate? Perhaps he should go sooner. He shuddered at the thought, and told
himself that he could gather a lot of intelligence in three days, and with luck, he might not have to go at all.

Still deep in reverie, he joined the stream of carts and pedestrians lining up to pass through Temple Bar, an inconvenient
gate that divided Fleet Street from The Strand. It restricted the flow of traffic, and he narrowly missed being kicked when
a horse, alarmed by the press, began to buck. It was such a common occurrence that no one paid it any heed, and the conversations
around him continued as though nothing had happened.

‘Our fleet can be ready in eight days,’ a merchant was saying to his companion. ‘I say we declare war on the cheese-eaters
and be done with it. There is no question that we will win.’

‘The newsbooks agree with you,’ the friend replied
worriedly. ‘But Samuel Pepys of the Navy Board – who knows what he is talking about – told me they are wrong.’

‘Pepys is an old woman,’ sneered the merchant. ‘He is no better than Clarendon with his wailings for peace. Peace be damned!
Let us show these devils who is master of the oceans.’

Chaloner walked on, his spirits sinking further still. Why were people so keen to inflict damage on a country that had done
them no harm? Had the King forgotten the kindness showed to him by the Dutch when he was in exile? Moreover, the United Provinces
were Protestant, which alone should have ensured some sort of bond between the two nations.

Without conscious thought, he turned up Chancery Lane and headed towards Rider’s Coffee House, a dimly lit, smoky little establishment
sandwiched between two much larger buildings. Coffee houses were springing up all over London, and were popular with men –
women were not allowed – who gathered to enjoy a dish of the beverage and to discuss politics, religion and current affairs
in an atmosphere of amiable gentility. It was not uncommon for nobles to rub shoulders with apprentices, and anyone had the
right to express an opinion.

He pushed open the door and walked inside, peering through the oily brown smog created by roasting coffee beans, his eyes
smarting. He smiled when he spotted the man he wanted to see.

John Thurloe was sitting in the shadows near the back, reading a newsbook. Newsbooks were twice-weekly papers –
The Intelligencer
on Mondays, and
The Newes
on Thursdays – that were supposed to keep the public abreast of domestic and foreign affairs. The reality was that their
editor believed it was undesirable for the general populace
lace to know what its government was up to, so news of any description was in frustratingly short supply.

Thurloe had been the Commonwealth’s Secretary of State and Spymaster General, and there were those who said Cromwell would
not have clung to power for as long as he had, were it not for his quietly efficient and loyal first minister. Thurloe had
been dismissed at the Restoration, and now lived in peaceful retirement, dividing his time between Lincoln’s Inn and his home
in Oxfordshire. He was slightly built with brown hair and blue eyes, and his mild manners had led more than one would-be traitor
to underestimate him and live to regret it. He was the most ethical man Chaloner had ever met, but there was a core of steel
in him that explained why he had risen to such power.

‘I heard you caught the White Hall thieves, Tom,’ he said, looking up. ‘And the culprits have been punished by being given
lucrative posts in Lady Castlemaine’s retinue.’

Chaloner was not surprised to learn that Thurloe knew what was happening in White Hall. His old spies still supplied him with
gossip, and although he had taken a definite and final step away from politics, he was still one of the best informed men
in London. Of course, given that there were a lot of people who thought his severed head should be on a pole outside Westminster
Hall next to Cromwell’s, he was wise to keep himself abreast of current affairs.

‘I cannot imagine what she thinks she is doing,’ said Chaloner. ‘They might steal from her.’