thread had been used to sew a pattern near the top. If the design had been on the outside, he would
have thought nothing of it, but it was on the inside, where it would never be seen. Puzzled, he bent down and picked it up
again. Two letters, an S and an N, had been embroidered, but the material was too filthy to allow any more to be made out.
He went to a water butt – almost empty because of the recent drought, but containing enough for a rinse – and inspected it
again. He was able to make out a word:
Sinon
.
He frowned. Sinon was the original spy who had persuaded the Trojans to take a wooden horse into their city, so that the Greek
soldiers hiding inside could emerge after darkness and destroy it. His name was synonymous with deceit, and was often used
to describe plots involving traitors. It was hardly original, and Chaloner had lost count of the times he had taken part in
‘Operation Sinon’ through the years. But what did it mean now? Was Hanse suggesting there was a traitor in the Dutch delegation?
He examined the hose again, and found more words embroidered opposite the first. They were difficult to read, as if Hanse
had been hurrying, and indeed, the last letter was incomplete:
Bezoek Nieuwe Poort
.
Chaloner translated it in his head.
Visit new gate
. But knowing its meaning did little to illuminate matters. What new gate? Or did it refer to Newgate, one of the gate-houses
that had been built to protect the medieval city from attack? Chaloner hoped not. Newgate was also a prison, and harrowing
experiences in such places, especially one in France had taught him to hate them intensely.
Eventually, realising that staring at the stocking was not going to provide him with answers, he left that grim little pocket
of Westminster, aiming for the open squares and wider streets that would take him to White Hall. He needed to tell Clarendon
that Hanse was found, so the Dutch ambassador could be officially informed. And then there was Hanse’s wife. Chaloner stopped
walking abruptly. Clearly, it was his duty to tell her first. The Earl would have to wait.
When Ambassador Michiel van Goch had arrived in London for the talks he hoped would avert a war, he had requested lodgings
that would allow all his retinue to be together under one roof. It was a tall order, given that he had brought with him some
two hundred diplomats, clerks, lawyers, servants and guards, plus several ship-loads of luggage, and the government had been
obliged to commandeer the Savoy Hospital to accommodate them all.
The Savoy had once been a palace, but currently served as a charitable foundation for the poor. It comprised not only a hall,
chapel, kitchens, stables anddormitories, but a number of fine mansions that were usually leased to nobles and high-ranking clergy. The precinct was self-contained,
with secure courtyards in which vulnerable foreigners could take the air without fear of being attacked by those Londoners
who thought the delegation should never have come in the first place.
Its master, Dr Henry Killigrew, had not been pleased when he had been told what was going to happen – the Dutch were to pay
no rent, which meant he would lose revenue for as long as they remained – but the Court was happy. The Savoy was near enough
to be convenient for negotiations, but not so close that the visitors would impinge on the revelries for which White Hall
was famous. As he walked there, Chaloner recalled that Killigrew had been at his wedding – it had been the master’s wife whose
dress had been stained by Alden’s blood.
He dragged his feet as he made his way up King Street, not relishing the prospect of informing his first wife’s sister that
she was now a widow. He traversed Charing Cross slowly, and turned into The Strand, which was carpeted in a thick layer of
manure impregnated with discarded scraps of food, rotting vegetables, urine and copies of the many broadsheets – usually
have thought nothing of it, but it was on the inside, where it would never be seen. Puzzled, he bent down and picked it up
again. Two letters, an S and an N, had been embroidered, but the material was too filthy to allow any more to be made out.
He went to a water butt – almost empty because of the recent drought, but containing enough for a rinse – and inspected it
again. He was able to make out a word:
Sinon
.
He frowned. Sinon was the original spy who had persuaded the Trojans to take a wooden horse into their city, so that the Greek
soldiers hiding inside could emerge after darkness and destroy it. His name was synonymous with deceit, and was often used
to describe plots involving traitors. It was hardly original, and Chaloner had lost count of the times he had taken part in
‘Operation Sinon’ through the years. But what did it mean now? Was Hanse suggesting there was a traitor in the Dutch delegation?
He examined the hose again, and found more words embroidered opposite the first. They were difficult to read, as if Hanse
had been hurrying, and indeed, the last letter was incomplete:
Bezoek Nieuwe Poort
.
Chaloner translated it in his head.
Visit new gate
. But knowing its meaning did little to illuminate matters. What new gate? Or did it refer to Newgate, one of the gate-houses
that had been built to protect the medieval city from attack? Chaloner hoped not. Newgate was also a prison, and harrowing
experiences in such places, especially one in France had taught him to hate them intensely.
Eventually, realising that staring at the stocking was not going to provide him with answers, he left that grim little pocket
of Westminster, aiming for the open squares and wider streets that would take him to White Hall. He needed to tell Clarendon
that Hanse was found, so the Dutch ambassador could be officially informed. And then there was Hanse’s wife. Chaloner stopped
walking abruptly. Clearly, it was his duty to tell her first. The Earl would have to wait.
When Ambassador Michiel van Goch had arrived in London for the talks he hoped would avert a war, he had requested lodgings
that would allow all his retinue to be together under one roof. It was a tall order, given that he had brought with him some
two hundred diplomats, clerks, lawyers, servants and guards, plus several ship-loads of luggage, and the government had been
obliged to commandeer the Savoy Hospital to accommodate them all.
The Savoy had once been a palace, but currently served as a charitable foundation for the poor. It comprised not only a hall,
chapel, kitchens, stables anddormitories, but a number of fine mansions that were usually leased to nobles and high-ranking clergy. The precinct was self-contained,
with secure courtyards in which vulnerable foreigners could take the air without fear of being attacked by those Londoners
who thought the delegation should never have come in the first place.
Its master, Dr Henry Killigrew, had not been pleased when he had been told what was going to happen – the Dutch were to pay
no rent, which meant he would lose revenue for as long as they remained – but the Court was happy. The Savoy was near enough
to be convenient for negotiations, but not so close that the visitors would impinge on the revelries for which White Hall
was famous. As he walked there, Chaloner recalled that Killigrew had been at his wedding – it had been the master’s wife whose
dress had been stained by Alden’s blood.
He dragged his feet as he made his way up King Street, not relishing the prospect of informing his first wife’s sister that
she was now a widow. He traversed Charing Cross slowly, and turned into The Strand, which was carpeted in a thick layer of
manure impregnated with discarded scraps of food, rotting vegetables, urine and copies of the many broadsheets – usually
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