St James’s Park was enclosed by high walls, and was accessible through a number of gates, all of which were guarded to exclude undesirables. However, Chaloner entered unchallenged that morning, the sentries evidently having decided that no one was likely to venture into their domain on a day when the wind was bitter and snow was in the air. Unfortunately, the men who tended the plants and birds had apparently thought the same – the place was deserted, and there was no one to question about what had happened to the ducks.
The grass was white with frost, and the Canal – the wide, straight body of water that formed the park’s centrepiece – had frozen over. A number of disgruntled fowl stood along its fringes or in irritable confusion on its iron surface, fluffed up against the chill. Chaloner walked around it in its entirety, bending to inspect the banks every so often, but he discovered nothing useful. He shivered. Perhaps the birds had just died of cold. Many were from warmer climes, after all, and would not appreciate such frigid weather.
He stood for a while watching them, impressed by their variety and colours. There were several kinds of swan and goose, countless ducks, two cranes, including one with a wooden leg, a flock of penguins and a glorious pinkish creature that he believed to be a flamingo, a species he had read about but had never seen.
Other birds were kept in cages, and he had been told in the past that the two white ravens were a gift from the King of Denmark, the parrots were from wealthy members of the East India Company, the hawks had come from the Queen Consort of Poland, and the pelicans were from the Tsar of Russia. He was not surprised that His Majesty felt obliged to protect his collection.
He lingered until the cold bit harder still, and when one of the drakes released a sound that was uncannily like a mocking laugh, he decided to go home. He had almost reached the King Street gate when he saw a conscientious gardener struggling to cover a plant with a piece of material. The wind kept catching it, and the fellow was red-faced and irritable, but his expression brightened when he saw Chaloner.
‘Excellent! Would you be so kind as to help me? The cover has blown off my bananas, and unless I replace them quickly the frost will have them and the King will be vexed.’
‘I thought bananas only grew in hot countries,’ said Chaloner, wondering if the man was making sport of him.
The gardener beamed. ‘I was given some seeds. Three plants are now in the Inner Temple, which is where I usually work, and two are here – His Majesty heard about my success and asked for a pair, you see. However, they do not like the cold, and they will die unless I protect them.’
Chaloner was somewhat startled to note that the bananas were going to be swathed in a generous length of best quality worsted. It meant they would be far better clad than most Londoners, who would give their eye-teeth for such luxury.
It was easy to wrap the plants with two pairs of hands, and the gardener soon had his charges bundled up the way he wanted. He was older than Chaloner, with a brown, lined face that indicated a life spent outdoors. He said his name was Seth Eliot, and that he had been a gardener at the Inner Temple for twenty years.
‘Do you know what happened to the birds that died?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Only that they were found by the Canal,’ replied Eliot. ‘Why? Have you been charged to look into the matter? Edward Storey will be pleased. He is Curator of Birds, and was beginning to think that no one cared.’
‘The Earl of Clarendon does. God only knows why.’
‘Because he wants to curry the King’s favour,’ replied Eliot promptly. ‘All London knows his star is fading, and that he will leap at any opportunity to ingratiate himself. If he finds whoever killed the birds, His Majesty might be more kindly disposed towards him.’
Although Chaloner knew the King no longer treated Clarendon like a favoured confidant, it was disconcerting to hear it from a gardener. ‘Where might I find Edward Storey?’ he asked, eager to change the subject.
‘He lives in Post House Yard, off Dowgate Hill. You cannot miss his cottage – it has a pelican carved on the door.’
‘Is it near the General Letter Office?’
Eliot nodded. ‘His house adjoins it: they are neighbours.’
Chaloner thanked him, and resumed his walk towards the gate. Was it coincidence that his enquiries should take him to the one place in London where Gery had forbidden him to go? Regardless, if he wanted answers about the birds, he would have to visit Storey. And if he happened to learn a little about the Post Office at the same time, then so be it.
It was not a pleasant trek to Dowgate, because the wind cut through his clothes and more snow was in the air. He tried to walk quickly, in the hope that exercise would warm him, but the streets were too crowded and ice underfoot made speed impractical. He was obliged to slow down even further when his second skid caused him to collide with a cleric, who responded with a stream of startlingly unholy curses.
He arrived at Post House Yard and stared at the General Letter Office, wondering what was happening inside it that Knight had said was so dangerous to the country’s stability. The square was busy, because noon on Thursdays was the deadline for domestic mail – letters received after twelve o’clock would have to wait until the next post, which was not until Saturday. Wise people handed in their missives as late as possible, in the hope that the government’s spies would not have enough time to open them before they were sorted and sent. Hence, there was an air of quiet industry as people hurried up and down the marble steps.
Those who had finished their business loitered to exchange greetings with friends and acquaintances, getting in the way of those who still had to take their letters inside. A musician was plying his trade near the mansion on the left, and had attracted a small crowd. He was not very good, but flamboyance made up for his lack of talent, along with the fact that he had chosen to play popular tunes that his audience knew. Some were singing along, and Chaloner saw a black-garbed servant emerge from the house and whisper in the performer’s ear. He was ignored.
‘It is disrespectful,’ Chaloner heard one woman say to another. ‘Mary Wood lived there, and she died this morning. People should do their caterwauling somewhere else.’
Hannah had mentioned that Wood and his wife owned a mansion near Dowgate, and Chaloner studied it with interest. It was spacious and elegant, indicating that her report of Wood’s handsome salary had not been exaggerated. As was the custom for a house in mourning, there was a black wreath on the door and all the window shutters were closed.
Chaloner turned his attention to the brightly painted cottages opposite, and quickly identified Storey’s with its carved bird. He was about to knock when his eye was caught by a cart. Vehicles tended to avoid Post House Yard, because the alley into it was narrow and they ran the risk of getting jammed – at which point there would be trouble, because there was no other way in or out. The cart was not very wide, but it was tall, and piled high with firewood. There was no horse in its traces, and it had every appearance of being abandoned.
Chaloner frowned. Fuel was expensive, especially in winter, so why was no one guarding it? Moreover, it was oddly stacked, with logs laid at peculiar angles. Then he saw a wisp of smoke curl from inside the heap and caught the distinctive reek of gunpowder. In a flash, he knew exactly what was about to happen.
‘Run!’ he yelled, so suddenly and loudly that it stilled the clatter of conversation in the entire square. ‘The cart is going to explode!’
There was a momentary silence, followed by pandemonium. Terrified screams tore through the air as people raced for the safety of Dowgate Hill, shoving aside those who moved more slowly. Several fell and were trampled underfoot. Two beggarly boys trotted towards the cart, and Chaloner could only assume they meant to snag some of the wood before the lot was lost.
‘No!’ he cried desperately. ‘Stop!’
One glanced at him, but the attention of the other was on the log he had grabbed. The smoke from the fuse was thicker now, and Chaloner knew there was not much time. He sh
outed again, his voice cracking as he tried to make himself heard over the shrieks of the escaping crowd. Those who had been knocked over in the stampede were struggling to stand, while two exceptionally large postal clerks were waddling away far too slowly. Meanwhile, the servant from the Woods’ mansion was gaping stupidly, apparently too shocked to join the exodus.
And then the cart blew into pieces with a roar that shook the ground.
Chapter 2
Chaloner opened his eyes to a confusion of noise and smoke. For a moment, he did not understand why he was lying on his back in the open air or why his ears rang, but then his mind snapped clear. Someone was looming over him, a bulky silhouette against the grey sky. The shape was familiar, and he recognised Temperance North, a young woman he had known for two years, although their friendship had cooled when she had made a somewhat unexpected transition from Puritan maid to brothel-keeper. He was still fond of her, though, despite the fact that the affection was rarely reciprocated and they often quarrelled.
‘Thank God!’ she whispered as he sat up. ‘I thought you were dead.’
Tendrils of smoke wafted over a sizeable crater, and all that remained of the cart were jagged fragments blown into the far corners of the square. A crowd had gathered, talking in excited voices, and several bodies had been covered with coats. Other people were sitting on the ground, being tended by friends or passers-by. Among the ministering angels was Temperance’s beau, Richard Wiseman, Surgeon to the King.
Chaloner turned his gaze towards the Post Office. Its walls were pock-marked and several window panes had been smashed, but it was otherwise unscathed. Its front doors were open, and people were still moving in and out with letters, indicating that the explosion had done nothing to impede business. Wood’s mansion and the cottages had also escaped major damage, although Storey’s carved pelican had been obliterated by flying debris.
Still befuddled, Chaloner struggled to understand what purpose such an attack might serve. As an assault on a government institution, it was a failure, because neither the Post Office nor the services it offered appeared to have been affected.
He stared at the hole where the cart had been. Its size told him that a generous amount of gunpowder had been used, yet the vehicle had been left more or less in the middle of the square, where its impact on buildings would be minimal. Had the perpetrators been afraid to go closer, lest they aroused suspicion? Had they been novices, who did not know how blasts worked? Or had their intention been rather to kill and maim? He thought of Knight’s conviction that something terrible was underway at the Post Office. Was this the sort of thing he had envisioned? Chaloner supposed someone would have to visit Newgate and ask him.
‘Richard and I were on our way to dine in the Crown,’ Temperance was saying in the same shocked whisper. ‘But he wanted to bring a letter here first. We were just coming out of the Post Office when you started to shout and …’
‘And what?’ asked Chaloner, when she trailed off. ‘What did you see?’
‘A cart flying up into the air on a fountain of flames,’ replied Temperance shakily. ‘And you tossed backwards like an old pillow.’
‘Did you notice anyone loitering before the explosion? Or running away after it happened?’
‘Yes! A great many people took to their heels once you began yelling. And thank God they did, or we would have been knee-deep in corpses.’
‘But did you see anyone acting suspiciously?’ Chaloner pressed. ‘Looking as though they were waiting for the blast to happen? Or positioned so that they could watch without being harmed themselves?’
‘I could not tell.’ Temperance swallowed hard. ‘There was chaos afterwards, and the alley to Dowgate Hill was crammed with folk trying to escape, all battling against those who were still coming to post letters. I did not notice much else. I was too worried about you.’
Chaloner was surprised and touched by the expression of concern. He had not known she still cared for him, although he was sorry it had taken gunpowder for her to show it.
‘Who could have done such a wicked thing?’ she went on, more to herself than to him. ‘Someone who does not like the way the postal service is run? Well, who does? We all know about its dishonest practices – charging for letters that never arrive, Members of Parliament sending mail free for their friends, drunken postmen …’
‘Are there any other buildings of note in the square?’ Chaloner did not know why he had asked, because he could see for himself that there were not. He supposed he was still dazed.
‘Not really. Sir Henry Wood owns the mansion to your left. The cottages on the right belong to him, too, but he refuses to rent them, lest one of the tenants decides to grow carrots – he is rather odd, and a passionate dislike of vegetables is just one of his peculiarities. The only other resident is Edward Storey, who has the house nearest the Post Office.’
‘Do you know him?’
Temperance nodded. ‘He is a patient of Richard’s and a decent man. I sincerely doubt this atrocity was aimed at him. Besides, all he does is look after the birds in St James’s Park, which is hardly a controversial occupation.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner, although it occurred to him that there might be a link between the dead birds and an explosion near their guardian’s home. Or had he been in espionage too long, and was seeing connections where there were none?
When Chaloner stood, his legs were like rubber. Temperance gripped his arm tightly, and continued to hold it long after he had regained his balance and her help was no longer needed. He glanced at her. She was wearing a wig of golden curls, which was far inferior to her own chestnut locks – or would have been had she not shaved them off in the interests of fashion – and her clothes were the best money could buy. Unfortunately, they failed to disguise the fact that she was a very large young woman, almost as tall as he, but considerably wider.
However, she was positively petite compared to Surgeon Wiseman, who was vast and added to his impressive bulk with a peculiar regime of lifting heavy weights each morning. He said it was to improve his general well-being, but it had given him the physique of a prize wrestler. Chaloner pitied his patients, not only because they would be powerless to fend him off once he had decided on a course of treatment, but because he liked to experiment and his massive form alone would intimidate his ailing charges into acquiescing to his unorthodox remedies.
It was not just Wiseman’s size that made him an imposing figure, but the fact that he never wore any colour except red; even his hair was auburn, a thick mane that was the envy of wigmakers all over London. His detractors said it was to conceal the excessive amounts of blood he spilled during surgery, although Chaloner suspected it was just because he liked to be noticed.
Chaloner’s feelings towards him were ambivalent. Like most sane men, he was wary of the medical profession, which was notorious for doing more harm than good. Moreover, Wiseman was arrogant, insensitive, overbearing and brash. On the other hand, he was principled, honest and loyal to those he considered worthy of his respect. At first, Chaloner had resisted his overtures of friendship, but he was beginning to yield, worn down by the surgeon’s dogged persistence.
Wiseman grasped his shoulder and peered into his eyes. ‘Headache?’
Chaloner nodded warily.
‘It will ease. You are fortunate – I thought you were dead when I saw you fly through the air.’
Chaloner wondered whether Wiseman was as brusque with the King when he was unwell, and if so, why he continued to be employed at White Hall. Wiseman vigorously maintained that he was the best medicus in the country, but it was not an opinion shared by most of his colleagues.
‘How many dead?’ asked Temperance in a small voice.
‘Five,’ replied the surgeon. ‘And a dozen injured. It would have been much worse if Chaloner had not yelled his warning.’ He shot the spy a suspicious glance. ‘I assume it was by chance that you happened to be here – that you had nothing to do with the blast?’
Chaloner
was offended that Wiseman should think he might play a role in perpetrating such an atrocity. ‘No, of course not. I came to visit Edward Storey.’
‘About the three dead ducks in St James’s Park?’ asked Temperance. She saw Chaloner’s surprise and hastened to explain. ‘It was mentioned at the club last night.’
She was referring to the brothel – although she preferred the term ‘gentleman’s club’ – that she owned in Hercules’ Pillars Alley, an exclusive establishment that catered to the needs of the very wealthy. It was patronised by members of Court, and gossip overheard there had helped Chaloner with a number of investigations in the past.
‘Surely Clarendon has not ordered you to explore those?’ said Wiseman in disbelief. ‘How can he squander your talents on so trivial a matter?’
‘How indeed?’ murmured Chaloner.
Temperance’s expression hardened. ‘I suppose that horrible Gery is given all the interesting cases now. Such as looking into what is going on at the Post Office.’
‘The Post Office?’ asked Chaloner, surprised a second time. ‘Is it common knowledge that trouble might be unfolding there?’
‘I suppose it is,’ replied Temperance. ‘At least, several people have told me that something untoward is going on. Unfortunately, no one seems to know exactly what.’
‘The Earl should have asked you to look into it, Chaloner,’ said Wiseman. ‘And I told him so when I was tending his gout the other day. Gery does not have your wits.’
Chaloner was taken aback by how much this vote of confidence meant to him. ‘What did he say?’
‘That I should cure his sore foot and leave decisions pertaining to state security to him. He was rather rude, actually, which is unlike him.’
Death in St James's Park: 8 (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 4