The Body in the Thames (7 page)

‘He drowned,’ replied Chaloner. ‘In the river, apparently.’

‘You mean he fell in?’ asked a man with a sharp, pointed face, small teeth and russet hair. The combination made him look
like a fox, and Chaloner recalled Hanse saying his name was Gerbrand Zas, one of the ambassador’s most talented lawyers. ‘How
in God’s name did that happen?’

‘He would not have
fallen in
,’ spat Ruyven scathingly. ‘He was not stupid! Someone must have pushed him. He was
murdered
!’

Chaloner kept his voice and expression neutral, knowing the peace talks would be doomed for certain if the Dutch delegation
accused England of assassinating one of its number. And that was the last thing Hanse would have wanted.

‘It is unclear what happened,’ he replied truthfully.

‘It is not unclear to me,’ snarled Ruyven. Chaloner was surprised to see tears glinting in his eyes – he did not remember
the captain as a sentimental man. ‘It is obvious! He was pushed in the Thames in the expectation that his body would be washed
away and never seen again. And why? Because of this rumour that says he stole Clarendon’s papers! Someone wants
him
blamed for the theft, even though we all know the tale is nothing but a slanderous lie!’

Kun raised his hand to prevent him from saying more. ‘Before jumping to wild conclusions, let us review what we know of his
movements that last day,’ he said with quiet reason. ‘He went with Heer van Goch to Worcester House on Friday morning. He
worked here all afternoon, and left a few minutes before six o’clock for his rendezvous in the Westminster tavern with Chaloner.’

‘It is a pity you enticed him there,’ said Ruyven accusingly.

‘It was his idea,’ countered Chaloner, recalling how he had tried to postpone the occasion to a time when he might not have
been so tired. Hanse had chosen the Sun, too, whereas
he
would have picked somewhere quieter. ‘He mentioned stomach ache, but was not otherwise anxious or uneasy.’

‘In other words, he did not look like a man who had made off with a great stack of sensitive papers,’ concluded Zas.

‘He did not,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘We arrived at the Sun at about six o’clock, and stayed until half past eight, during which
time he did not stop talking. I am afraid I fell asleep.’

‘He did enjoy holding forth,’ acknowledged Kun with a fond smile. ‘And a weary companion would have been an irresistible temptation:
tired men are less likely to interrupt with their own opinions. His behaviour with you sounds reassuringly familiar.’

‘He woke me as the daylight began to fade,’ Chaloner continued. ‘He said Jacoba would be worried about him, so we left the
tavern—’

‘And you abandoned him, despite the fact that London is full of men who would relish the opportunity to shove a Dutchman in
the river,’ concluded Ruyven coldly.

‘He would not let me in the carriage,’ said Chaloner, trying to keep the guilt from his voice. He did not need Ruyven to tell
him he should have insisted.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ declared Ruyven. ‘It was unthinkable to let an unarmed diplomat travel alone. Especially
with darkness approaching.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Chaloner bleakly. ‘And I shall regret it for the rest of my life.’

The maid was still struggling to quieten Jacoba, and Chaloner was not sure what to do. There were no words he knew to comfort
her, and it was possible that his presence might exacerbate her distress – he had, after all, gone home to sleep, rather than
ensuring that her husband arrived safely at the Savoy. But he was loath to slink away until he was certain there was nothing
she wanted from him.

But Jacoba was a strong-minded woman, like her sister had been, and once the initial shock had worn off, she dismissed the
maid and indicated that she wanted to speak to him alone. Ruyven was reluctant to leave her, and Kun and Zas were obliged
to pull him away. None went far, though, and Chaloner knew they were hovering just out of earshot, lest they were needed again.

‘I knew Willem was dead the moment I realised he was missing,’ Jacoba said, when the door had closed. ‘We were married for
fifteen years, and wives just
feel
these things. But it was still a terrible thing to hear even so. Do you know how it happened?’

‘He drowned. Ruyven and the others think it was murder.’

‘Do you?’

‘I will look into it, and if they are right, I will find his killer. I promise.’

She shot him a wan smile. ‘Thank you. I suspect you are his sole hope of justice. Ruyven is brave and determined, but he is
a stranger here – he will fail if
he
tries to investigate.’

‘He is brave and determined,’ agreed Chaloner, recalling that these were the qualities Aletta had admired. Of course, Ruyven
was also surly, feisty and bore grudges.

‘He is not the hot-tempered youth you knew,’ Jacoba went on. ‘He has learned how to be gentle, although Willem says … Willem
said
he is dangerous, and would not like him as an enemy.’

‘Did he?’ asked Chaloner. Ruyven was one of those Dutchmen who thought a pact with Britain was a mistake. Could
he
have drowned a man whose death would deal peace a heavy blow?

‘Ruyven did not hurt Willem,’ said Jacoba quickly, seeing what he was thinking. ‘He liked Willem and considered him a friend.’

‘Did Willem make any enemies while he was here?’ Chaloner asked, thinking he would make up his own mind about what Ruyven
might or might not do.

‘Well, there are three hundred thousand Londoners who do not want a truce. Your countrymen itch for war, although it will
cost them dear – in money and well as lives.’

‘Not all of us are spoiling for a fight,’ objected Chaloner. ‘Clarendon wants peace, and so do—’

‘Clarendon is a bumbling old man whom everyone ignores,’ Jacoba interrupted bitterly. ‘Heer van Goch is wasting his time here.
And my poor Willem has wasted his life.’

‘Does “Sinon” mean anything to you?’ asked Chaloner, after a short and uncomfortable silence.

Jacoba frowned. ‘No, why?’

‘Willem had the word sewn into his stocking, along with “Visit new gate”.’

Jacoba’s eyes filled with tears. ‘That would have been a message for you. You are the only one who knows about his habit of
hiding valuables in his hose.’

Chaloner did not believe that. ‘There must be others who were aware of—’

‘No,’ interrupted Jacoba. ‘It was a family secret. And they are all dead now, except you and me. If he sewed words in his
stockings, then
you
were the one he wanted to communicate with.’

‘Or you,’ Chaloner pointed out.

Jacoba smiled rather sadly. ‘He did not trust women with business matters. But he trusted you. He told me so the night before
he went missing.’

Chaloner regarded her unhappily. Did this mean Hanse had anticipated that he would die, and had worn those particular hose
in readiness? And if so, had there been more messages in the other stocking? But then he thought about Hanse’s last evening:
he had not behaved like a man on the brink of death.

‘May I see his other hose?’ he asked eventually.

Jacoba stared at him. ‘You think he might have embroidered more words into them?’

‘It is possible. I recall he had a strange habit of changing them every day, and—’

‘And he would not have worn that particular set unless he knew he was going to die,’ finished Jacoba. ‘They
were
clean on that morning. I remember him stitching them up.’

She left the room, and returned a few moments later with her arms full. They inspected the hose together, but there were no
other messages. Hanse had, however, given Chaloner two pairs when they had been arguing about who should ride in the hackney
coach. It had
been done casually, and Chaloner had not looked at them closely. Clearly, he would have to do so when he went home.

‘Did he mention anything that was worrying him?’ he asked.

‘No. He was uneasy in the few days before he went missing, but he was a foreigner in a hostile city, so that is not surprising.
Besides, if he had been really concerned, he would have told you.’

‘Jacoba, we were not close,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘We met too infrequently to stay firm friends.’

Jacoba sniffed in a way that said she did not believe him. ‘You know he did not steal those papers, do you not? That horrible
Downing accused him … but Willem was
not
a thief.’

‘I know. He was with me when these documents were said to have disappeared.’

‘It is a tale put about to discredit our delegation,’ declared Jacoba tearfully. ‘And Downing picked on Willem, because he
is not here to defend himself.’

‘Very possibly,’ acknowledged Chaloner. ‘But to return to Sinon—’

‘I never heard Willem or anyone else mention it,’ said Jacoba firmly. ‘What does it mean?’

‘Then do you know of any new gate in the Savoy?’

‘There is nothing “new” about this place. It is falling to pieces!’

She could add nothing more to help him, so Chaloner took his leave, promising to keep her appraised of his progress.

As he left the hospital complex, Ruyven at his heels to make sure he really went, Chaloner met Henry Killigrew.
He had been cornered by the Master of the Savoy at his wedding, just after the speeches, and had been compelled to spend a
long time listening to the man’s complaints about the cost of maintaining a lot of elderly buildings. Killigrew, it seemed,
was more interested in profit than in the wellbeing of his residents.

‘And housing these damned Dutchmen is not helping,’ he grumbled when their paths converged, as if the conversation had not
suffered a two-week break. Uninvited, he fell into step at Chaloner’s side and began to walk with him towards the gate. ‘They
are costing me a fortune. Not only do they live here rent-free, but they are very demanding. One even asked me to empty the
latrines, which had overflowed into the room where he was sleeping.’

‘How very unreasonable,’ murmured Chaloner.

Ruyven strained forward. ‘What is he saying about us?’ he demanded in Dutch. ‘All he ever does is make disparaging remarks.
Personally, I think
he
might be a spy, too.’

‘And he is the worst,’ spat Killigrew, jerking a thumb towards Ruyven. ‘Always criticising my security arrangements and carping
on about hygiene. He does not even speak English, the ignorant pig! If he cannot converse in our language, then he should
not have come here.’

‘I suspect him of being Catholic,’ said Ruyven, not understanding Killigrew’s words, but guessing they were offensive. ‘He
has that look about him – devious, scheming and greedy.’

‘Is there a new gate in your hospital?’ asked Chaloner of Killigrew.

‘No, why?’ said Killigrew suspiciously. ‘Did that butter
eating lout just tell you that I am going to install one? Well, I am not! He claims the back door is flimsy, but I am not
made of money, and if he is so worried, then why does he not go out and buy one himself? With his
own
silver!’

‘I did
not
break the brazier in the State Room,’ snapped Ruyven, scowling as he tried to follow Killigrew’s rapid sentences. ‘And you
can tell him so, because I know that is what he is carping about. I was nowhere near it when it fell. Go on, tell him.’

‘Ruyven did not break the brazier,’ obliged Chaloner in English.

Killigrew narrowed his eyes. ‘I never thought he did, but now he denies it, I begin to wonder. Could it be his conscience
speaking? Between you and me, I suspect him of being Catholic, and you know what
they
are like with guilt.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, reaching the gate with relief.

Ruyven caught his arm before he could step through it. ‘It is best if you do not come here again. Your presence will only
distress Jacoba.’

‘But she has asked me to look into what happened to Willem,’ said Chaloner. ‘And she wants reports on my progress.’

Ruyven stared at him. ‘Then you can give them to me. I shall also be investigating.’

‘I would not recommend it. You are right in that London is hostile to Hollanders, especially ones who cannot speak English.
You are likely to land yourself in trouble.’

‘Is that a threat?’ demanded Ruyven.

‘It is friendly advice. You are unlikely to succeed, and
a second suspicious death in the ambassador’s retinue would ruin the negotiations for certain. Hanse would not want that.’

‘No,’ conceded Ruyven reluctantly. ‘Very well. I shall not interfere. But I want you to keep me abreast of your findings.
I am in charge of security here, so I am within my rights to ask.’

Chaloner inclined his head, although he had no intention of obliging. Not until he was sure Hanse’s killer was not a Dutchman,
at least.

‘I had no idea Hannah was marrying a fellow who spoke Hollandish,’ said Killigrew, watching Ruyven stride away, and then turning
to glare accusingly at Chaloner. ‘It is not seemly, man. Not in this day and age.’

‘Where is the nearest new gate that you know of?’ asked Chaloner. He suspected Killigrew was not alone in his convictions,
and wondered what chance there was for a treaty when there was so much dislike between the two countries. And it was not even
a dislike he understood. Both were Protestant nations, and they had been allies in the past.

Killigrew regarded him askance. ‘What is this obsession with new gates? Are you sun-touched?’

‘I am thinking of replacing the one at home,’ lied Chaloner, supposing he had better furnish an explanation. Killigrew was
inclined to gossip, and he did not want it put about that he was short of wits. Or that his familiarity with Dutch was leading
him into suspicious activities regarding doors.

‘And you want to inspect a few before you make a final decision? Well, why did you not say so?’ Killigrew frowned in thought.
‘No one around here has brought one recently. In fact, the only “new gate” I can think of
is Newgate itself, and you will not want one of those in your garden!’

He roared with laughter as he stepped out of the hospital precinct and turned right along The Strand, leaving Chaloner staring
after him thoughtfully.
Did
Hanse’s message refer to the prison? But Hanse had known nothing about Chaloner’s career as a spy, so had no reason to expect
him to unravel cryptic clues. So why had he left one for him? Or was Jacoba wrong, and the words sewn in the hose were intended
for someone else?