‘You think Jones was unlawfully killed?’ asked Chaloner uncomfortably. He hoped no one had seen him follow Jones — and Swaddell — into the alley, because fending off accusations of murder would not be easy. He did not think anyone had been watching him, but could not be certain.
Kersey jerked a thumb towards the dark recesses of his odoriferous hall, where Surgeon Wiseman could be seen hovering over a corpse like a massive red bird of prey. ‘That is the kind of question you should be asking him. Were you telling the truth when you said the Earl sent you to offer Jones’s kin his condolences? Because if you are actually here to admire the corpse, it will cost you threepence.’
Chaloner handed over the coins, which Kersey added to a bulging purse. Then the spy walked with soft-footed tread to stand behind Wiseman.
‘Damn it, Chaloner!’ cried Wiseman, whipping around in alarm at the cough so close to his shoulder. ‘That is not a wise thing to do when a fellow is holding a scalpel.’
Chaloner looked in distaste at what the surgeon was doing. ‘I thought permission to make off with parts of Jones had been denied.’
‘This is too good an opportunity to miss.’ Wiseman’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Look at the size of him! I would be negligent to let him go to his grave without furthering medical research, and I am doing no harm.’
‘I am not sure Jones would agree,’ said Chaloner uneasily. He thought, but did not say that Wiseman represented no mean specimen himself, with his height and muscular bulk. ‘You will be hanged if you are caught chopping up courtiers without the permission of their relatives. There are those who think anatomy is a dark art, and you take too much pleasure in it.’
‘There is nothing wrong with enjoying the pursuit of knowledge,’ declared Wiseman, lending a grandeur to his actions Chaloner felt was undeserved. ‘Would you like to see something interesting?’
‘Not if it has anything to do with his innards.’
‘He drowned.’ The surgeon leaned on Jones’s chest and pushed down, pointing to the foam that began to ooze from the corpse’s mouth. ‘You only ever get that when the lungs are waterlogged. And they are only waterlogged if a man is trying to breathe underwater.’
‘He was found in the river. Of course he drowned.’
‘But he did not go easily.’ Wiseman picked up a hand. ‘Look at these broken nails — he fought violently to save himself. And there is a hole in his shoulder that may have been made by a crossbow bolt.’
Chaloner already knew all this. ‘I imagine most men who fall in the Thames struggle.’
Wiseman gave his superior smile. ‘But here is the interesting part: he could have struggled all he liked and still never clawed his way to safety. He sank like a stone. And do you want to know why?’
He unbuttoned Jones’s coat and pulled aside the left-hand flap to reveal a number of pockets in the lining. Each pocket held a purse, and each purse contained ten gold pieces. Then the surgeon opened the right-hand flap, and repeated the process until a mound of bright discs lay on the table.
‘Is this interesting enough for you?’ he smirked.
Chaloner picked up a coin and weighed it in his hand. It was heavy, and he imagined it was worth a significant amount of money. ‘It is unexpected,’ he said, in something of an understatement.
The surgeon chuckled. ‘Then what about this?’
Jones was wearing a vest under his coat, and Chaloner gaped when Wiseman revealed a second lair of hidden pockets. He went to lock the door, not liking the notion that someone might come in and find them with such vast riches, then joined the search for more. There were secret pouches in Jones’s breeches, boots, the sash that held his sword, and even in the lace at his throat and wrists.
‘I am surprised he could move,’ Chaloner said when they had finished. ‘No wonder he was so heavy when I … No wonder he sank.’
‘No wonder indeed. How much do you think it is worth?’
Chaloner shrugged. ‘Thousands of pounds. What are you going to do with it?’
‘Me?’ Wiseman was alarmed. ‘I want no part of it! I wager anything you like that he did not come by this legally, or he would not have felt compelled to carry it about on his person. It is lucky you happened by, because I was in a quandary regarding what to do.’
‘You would not confide in Kersey? You must have some kind of understanding with him, because I doubt anyone else would let you stay in here unattended, knowing what you are likely to do.’
‘He gives me access to interesting corpses, and I invite him to dine at Chyrurgeons’ Hall on occasion — as you know, the Company of Barber-Surgeons puts on some very sumptuous feasts. That is the nature of our arrangement. However, he is not a man I would approach for advice about large sums of money.’
‘Well, this belongs to Jones’s sons, just like the jewellery that was removed from his corpse.’
‘Only if he acquired it honestly, which I seriously doubt. Besides, it would be unkind to foist this kind of fortune on those hapless bumpkins — it is likely to see them killed.’
‘Then I will give it to Bulteel to look after until we can identify its rightful owner. He has safe places for treasure, and can be trusted not to steal it — which cannot be said for many clerks at White Hall. Of course, I will have to ask him not to mention it to Williamson.’
‘Yes, we do not want him near it,’ agreed Wiseman. ‘He is an avaricious devil, and fearfully dishonest. It is hard to see him as a fellow intellectual.’
Chaloner looked around, and his eye lit on a pile of sacks — roughly made bags used for storing a corpse’s personal effects. He took one and began loading the gold into it. ‘Have you heard of anyone else being washed up by the river today? Swaddell is missing, and Williamson wants me to find him.’
‘I usually look at what the river spits out — I am always alert for decent specimens — but there was no Swaddell. Of course, Father Thames does not always relinquish his catches immediately. It might be weeks before Swaddell appears — if ever. What makes you think he drowned?’
‘He and Jones ate in the same cookhouse on Tuesday,’ replied Chaloner vaguely.
‘Perhaps Swaddell knew how Jones padded out his already-rotund figure,’ suggested Wiseman. ‘I would not put it past the little weasel. Now there is a corpse I would not touch with a bargepole. Who knows what might come slithering out once you had it open.’
It was an unsettling image, and told Chaloner that he had had enough of the surgeon’s company for one day. He left him to his illicit anatomising, and lugged the sack to the Earl’s offices, praying that the material would hold and that a fortune in gold would not suddenly burst all over the street.
Bulteel was aghast when he saw what the spy wanted him to hide. ‘Are you insane?’ he hissed angrily. ‘God alone knows how Jones laid hold of all this, but it cannot have been legitimate.’
‘No one knows we have it except Wiseman. He can be trusted to say nothing.’
Bulteel nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes, he can, but my office is no longer the safe haven it was, not with Haddon prowling around. He often has his dogs with him, and one might sniff out this hoard.’
‘I think they prefer the scent of food to precious metals, and will be more likely to lead him to one of your wife’s cakes.’ Chaloner looked around hopefully. It had been a while since breakfast.
But Bulteel’s attention was on the money. ‘I wonder if Jones was drowned deliberately — someone knew he had a fortune and wanted him dead, so he could get it for himself.’
‘If that were the case, the killer would have removed the purses before abandoning the body,’ said Chaloner, choosing his words with care.
Bulteel gave a crafty smile and wagged a finger at him. ‘But that assumes the culprit knew where Jones kept them, and you must admit that carrying such a vast sum in hidden pockets is an odd thing to do — you cannot blame a killer for not thinking to search the corpse. Or perhaps the weight of the gold meant Jones sank so fast that the killer had no chance to grab him.’