The Body in the Thames (8 page)

Before he went to White Hall, he stopped at his house in Tothill Street to inspect the stockings Hanse had given him. They
were lying on a bench in the parlour, where he had tossed them when he had arrived home on Friday night, too tired to think
of putting them away.

They were thin summer ones, obviously intended to be worn while the weather was warm. Was that significant? It did not take
him many moments to see that it was. There were words sewn into the finer of the two pairs – the ones he was most likely to
have used first. They were:
Sinon
and
Bezoek Nieuwe Poort
again. So Jacoba had been right: Hanse’s message
had
been intended for him.

Hanse had often praised his brother-in-law’s sharp mind, and Chaloner could only assume that Hanse had left him the riddle
because he believed him to be capable of solving it. Uncomfortably, he suspected Hanse had overrated his abilities, because
he had no idea how even to start unravelling what it meant. He stared at the stockings for a long time before standing reluctantly
and going to tell the Earl of Clarendon that the missing diplomat was dead.

* * *

The Palace of White Hall was a sprawling, chaotic affair, said to contain more than two thousand rooms. It boasted elegant
halls that rubbed shoulders with laundries and coal sheds, and was a maze of twisting lanes, cobbled yards and covered walkways.
Because it was the King’s main London residence, it was always busy, and that Monday morning it thronged with servants, courtiers,
nobles and clerks. Many had ridden there, or travelled in carriages, so there was a lot of traffic, too.

White Hall was not just home to the King, his Queen, his mistress and the immediate members of his family. It was also a seat
of administrative power, and some of His Majesty’s most important ministers had offices there. These included the Lord Chancellor,
who had been provided with a suite of rooms overlooking the manicured elegance of the Privy Garden.

Bulteel occupied a small, windowless room at the top of the great marble staircase. Its stone walls meant it was frigid in
winter, and cool in summer. Chaloner stepped inside gratefully, relishing the sudden drop in temperature after the blistering
heat of outside.

‘Have you found the Earl’s papers yet?’ the secretary asked. He wore a coat, and blew on his fingers to warm them as he sat
back to smile a greeting at Chaloner.

‘Not yet. It would help – a lot, I imagine – if I knew what was in them. For example, there is a rumour that Hanse stole them,
but if they pertain to agricultural policy in Wales, then I doubt he would have been very interested.’

‘Apparently, the rumour that Hanse is to blame was started by Sir George Downing. And I wish I
could
tell
you what is in them, but I cannot, because Clarendon says they are sensitive.’

‘Does that mean you think they are not?’

‘Stop!’ ordered Bulteel nervously. ‘There is nothing I would like more than to answer your questions, but he has forbidden
me, so my hands are tied. I cannot disobey him.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, disappointed. Bulteel was nothing if not obedient.

‘I was going to make knot biscuits this morning,’ said Bulteel unhappily, in the silence that followed. ‘My cousin tends to
rise late, so I thought I could bake a batch before he was awake. But he must have heard the pantry door open, because he
came down while I was measuring out the flour, and I had to concoct a tale about lending it to a neighbour.’

Chaloner was sorry. Bulteel’s cakes were often the only pleasant thing about visiting White Hall. ‘How much longer will Griffith
be staying with you?’ he asked, mostly out of self-interest.

Bulteel looked pained. ‘My lessons are taking rather longer than we expected, and he says it will be at least another month
before I am converted into a proper courtier. I want my kitchen back, but I want to be respected and admired more. It will
be worth the inconvenience in the end.’

‘He cannot think badly of you for cooking,’ said Chaloner, resisting the urge to flinch at the desperate hope in Bulteel’s
eyes. If he had known how to say it without causing hurt, he would have advised his friend to stop wasting his time.

‘He says I should expend all my spare energy in learning to dance, and he is right, of course. I dislike
dancing, but it is an art I
shall
master.’ Bulteel’s small face was full of grim determination.

‘Are you sure this is a path you want to follow?’ asked Chaloner gently. ‘It is not—’

‘I have no choice,’ said Bulteel shortly. ‘I do not want to be a secretary for the rest of my life, because I am capable of
much greater things. But never mind me. Griffith is with the Earl at the moment. He spied for him during the Commonwealth,
you see, and they often reminisce together. You should be glad, because Clarendon is usually in a good mood when they have
finished.’

‘Is it true?’ asked Chaloner. He could not imagine Griffith being subtle enough for espionage. ‘He really was an intelligencer?’

‘Oh, yes. He and Clarendon have dozens of stories to tell about their exploits. I think I have heard them all now, thank God,
but for a while, they insisted that I sat and listened. My cousin is a lovely man, but he can be very long-winded. I pity
his valet, having to wait hours while he gabbles.’

Bulteel lowered his voice as he pointed to the antechamber at the far end of the hall, where the soberly clad manservant sat.
The man was so still that Chaloner wondered if he was asleep, but he saw them looking, and raised a hand in greeting. He did
not smile, though, and Chaloner did not think he had ever seen a more impassive visage.

‘Roger Lane,’ said Bulteel in a whisper. ‘I cannot say I like him. In fact, he makes me uneasy.’

‘Why?’

‘I cannot explain – it is just a feeling. Perhaps it is because he so rarely speaks.’

‘Your cousin makes up for his taciturnity.’

Bulteel grinned, revealing his sadly decayed teeth. ‘Yes, he does.’

Both turned when a door opened, and Griffith stepped out. He was followed by a roar of laughter and some jovial farewells,
and was beaming as he minced towards them, lace kerchief flapping back and forth. Immediately, Lane came to his feet and followed,
treading as silently as a cat.

Griffith turned to him. ‘Summon a carriage, if you please. It is too dusty for walking, and I have been invited to watch His
Majesty and the Duke of Buckingham play tennis at noon.’

‘Surely, it is too hot for that sort of thing?’ remarked Bulteel, watching as Lane slunk away to do as he was told. ‘Tennis,
I mean.’

Griffith fanned himself theatrically. ‘Gentleman do not allow a mere inconvenience like the climate to prevent them from doing
what they like. Besides, the King has invited the Dutch ambassador to watch, and he will not want
him
disappointed.’

Chaloner doubted van Goch would mind a cancellation, and he would certainly have more profitable things to do than sit in
a stuffy room and watch two sweaty Englishmen run about.

‘But first, I shall visit the Spares Gallery,’ Griffith declared. The Spares Gallery, so named because it was a repository
for duplicate or unwanted pieces of art, was a long hall used by courtiers and minor nobles as a common room. Chaloner often
eavesdropped in it, because it was a great place for gossip. ‘Where I shall enjoy a refreshing glass of ale.’

‘I will join you,’ said Bulteel, removing his coat in anticipation of a walk outside. ‘And while we drink, I
shall recite the romantic poem you suggested I write. It is called “Reflections on a Stale Biscuit”. Keep looking for those papers, Tom. Do your best to find them.’

Chaloner was astonished when he opened the Earl’s door to find fires lit within. His master suffered from gout and hated the
cold, but he should not have been chilly when all London wilted, and plants had turned brown and crunchy under an unrelenting
sun. He felt himself break into a sweat as he went from the hall to the oven-like atmosphere of the main office.

The Earl had endured great privation during the Commonwealth, when he had gone into exile with the King, and was busily making
up for lost time. His offices were crammed to the gills with fine works of art and exquisite pieces of furniture, while the
rugs on the floor were the best money could buy. Personally, Chaloner found the chambers vulgar, and thought they would have
been more pleasant with less ostentatious wealth.

‘There you are,’ said Clarendon. He scowled, suggesting the good temper arising from Griffith’s visit had already evaporated.
‘Where have
you
been? The Dutch ambassador met the Privy Council this morning, and I wanted you there, to ensure there was no trouble.’

‘You were afraid the Privy Council might assault him?’ asked Chaloner. He had not imagined the King’s inner circle of ministers
would stoop to those sorts of depths, but at Court, nothing could be taken for granted.

The Earl’s scowl deepened. ‘Do not be ridiculous! I wanted you there to prevent fighting among the minions. Some of the soldiers
in his retinue are very feisty, and our own guards love nothing more than a skirmish.’

‘I am sorry, sir. I have been—’

‘Have you retrieved my stolen papers yet?’ demanded the Earl. ‘Is that why you came? To tell me you have them?’

‘It is difficult to know who might have taken them, sir, when I do not know what they contain.’

‘Why should that make any difference?’

Chaloner strove for patience. ‘Because it will allow me to identify potential suspects.’

‘But I
cannot
tell you what is in them. They pertain to matters of national security.’

‘National security?’ pounced Chaloner. ‘Do you mean statistics for naval—’

‘I said I cannot tell you,’ snapped the Earl. ‘So do not try to trick me with guesses. All you need to know is that I want
them back.’

‘But they have been missing for three days now,’ said Chaloner unhappily. ‘Even if I do recover them, their contents will
be compromised. They will have been read by—’

‘That is for
me
to worry about,’ interrupted Clarendon. ‘Not you. I discussed the matter with Sir George Downing last night, and he told
me I am right to suspect Hanse. He says he has met the man on several occasions, and considers him sly, because he is always
smiling.’

Chaloner was disgusted. ‘Unfortunately, Downing then went to the Savoy and said the same thing there. He has dealt the peace
talks a serious blow, because no diplomatic mission likes to be accused of theft. Moreover, the rumour seems to be circulating
in White Hall, too.’

The Earl regarded him in horror. ‘Downing shared our conversation with others? But he is Envoy
Extraordinary to the States-General – an expert on Dutch affairs, and a man who should be working for peace between our two
nations! It is why he was recalled from The Hague, after all. What was he thinking? I spoke in confidence!’

Suspecting Clarendon would not take kindly to being called a fool for airing such a sensitive matter with the duplicitous
Downing, Chaloner made no comment.

‘Hanse went missing the same night that the crime was committed,’ the Earl said after a moment. ‘So of course he is the guilty
party, although I wish the Dutch delegation did not know I think so.’

‘There is no evidence to link the loss of your papers with his disappearance. And he has been murdered, anyway. His body was
found in the Thames last night.’

Clarendon gazed at him. ‘Really? Did you visit the corpse and retrieve the papers?’

‘There were no papers, sir.’ Chaloner wondered whether the Earl was being irritating on purpose.

‘Then you must scour the river bank and locate them, even if they are waterlogged and illegible. They are far too important
to be left for just anyone to peruse.’

‘Most of Hanse’s clothes were missing, and I suspect his killer removed them.
Ergo
, if there had been documents on his person, they would have been taken, too. But Hanse did not—’

‘So Hanse was drowned by someone who wanted my papers?’ asked Clarendon, bemused.

Chaloner struggled to suppress his exasperation. ‘I have no idea why he was killed, but he did
not
steal your documents.’

The Earl’s eyes narrowed. ‘You seem very sure of this. Why?’

Chaloner decided it was time to be open: Downing knew about Aletta, so it was only a matter of time before he told the Earl
that his gentleman usher was related to Hanse by marriage.

‘Because I was with him when your documents went missing. We met at six o’clock, and we were together in the Sun tavern until
dusk. He had no papers with him – I would have noticed – and he could not have taken them
after
we parted company, because you had noticed them missing by eight o’clock, and he was with me for at least half an hour beyond
that.’

‘Then he
hired
someone else to burgle my house,’ persisted Clarendon. ‘It
must
have been him, Chaloner. He and van Goch were the only ones who visited me that day.’

‘No,’ insisted Chaloner doggedly. ‘He was not a thief. And nor was he a spy. I know, because we were kin. He was my brother-in-law.
Married to my wife’s sister.’

Clarendon frowned. ‘Hannah has no siblings – she is an only child. What nonsense is this?’

‘My first wife. Aletta. She died of the plague twelve years ago.’

The Earl’s jaw dropped. ‘Aletta? But that is a Dutch name! Are you saying you wed a
Hollander
? Why in God’s name did you do that? To allow you to blend into their society, so you could be a better intelligencer?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner stiffly. ‘I married her because … well, she was dear to me, and …’

Clarendon softened at the confidence, such as it was. ‘Then I am sorry for your loss. But I had no idea you are kin to a Dutch
spy! This could be awkward for me, if the tale gets out.’

‘There is no reason for anyone to accuse me – or you – of anything untoward. There are plenty of Anglo-Dutch marriages. And
mine did end twelve years ago.’