‘He is a truly great man,’ the curator said in a whisper. ‘The King of France has appointed him as grand over-seer of all the royal parks, and he is going to design a garden of unusual splendour and opulence for the new palace at Versailles.’
Chaloner was unimpressed, preferring the simple beauty of the open countryside to the contrived precision of landscaped estates. ‘I see.’
‘And he deigned to visit me,’ Storey went on in the same hushed tones. ‘What a gentleman! What did he tell you when he spoke his native tongue? I have never learned French.’
Chaloner was reluctant to say that le Notre had recommended stealing a clock; it seemed shabby to shatter the curator’s illusions. ‘He just remarked that it is cold outside today.’
‘It is, and you must be chilled to the bone,’ said Storey, smiling genially. ‘So sit by the fire, and allow me to pour you a cup of hot water. It is most refreshing, and my storks love it.’
‘Water?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether to point out that he was not a stork. He watched Storey ladle something into two goblets with swans painted on them.
‘What is good enough for our feathered friends is good enough for us,’ declared Storey, handing one to Chaloner and taking a hefty gulp from the other.
Chaloner followed suit, but more cautiously, and was startled to discover it really was water, and not a euphemism for something stronger and probably illegal. However, while he was happy to drink milk in the face of common prejudice, he drew the line at water. He had seen men die from it during the wars, filled as it was with dangerous diseases. He held the cup in his hands, enjoying the warmth that seeped from it, but declined to swallow any more.
‘Of course, not even le Notre can design something that will keep out foxes,’ said Storey, speaking as if this was a theme they had discussed before. ‘The cold weather has encouraged these vermin to hunt for prey in St James’s Park this year. They are an abomination, and have no place in God’s universe. I assume the devil created them. What do you think?’
‘I have no idea.’ Chaloner was unwilling to be drawn into a debate that might be considered heretical. One never knew who might be listening, and the maid had the look of a Puritan about her.
‘They are worthless carnivores that serve no purpose other than to spread misery, pain and terror,’ said Storey firmly. ‘And I should like to kill every last one of them.’
‘You do not know Sir Henry Wood, do you?’ asked Chaloner, recollecting the courtier’s peculiar diatribe against vegetables. Perhaps all residents of Post House Yard were lunatics.
‘He is my neighbour. Just lost his wife, poor man. He does not like foxes either. He saw one near Chelsey last week, and killed it with a musket. It made a terrible mess.’
‘I came to ask about your birds,’ said Chaloner, to bring the discussion back on track before it ranged too far into the surreal. ‘The dead ones.’
‘Harriet, Eliza and Sharon,’ sighed Storey, and Chaloner was embarrassed to see tears glitter. ‘Two Indian runners and a Swedish. Beautiful creatures.’
‘Ducks?’ asked Chaloner, confused.
Storey regarded him askance. ‘Of course they were ducks, man! Poor Harriet was the first, and it was particularly distressing because she had been ill. At first, I thought a fox … but then I realised there was something even more sinister. I am glad someone is taking my concerns seriously at last, by the way. The King is fond of his birds, and so am I.’
‘How did they die? And when?’
‘Take some more hot water, Mr Chaloner,’ said Storey, all grim seriousness. ‘And make yourself comfortable. My explanation will take some time.’
* * *
The explanation did not take long at all, because Chaloner kept it on course with questions and prompts, and did not allow Storey to vent as he had evidently intended. Unfortunately, he managed to distil only three facts: that the birds had been killed at night, that footprints indicated more than one culprit, and that scattered feathers suggested the swans had been involved.
Chaloner regarded him in alarm. ‘Another bird is the guilty party? Christ! The Earl will dismiss me for certain if I tell him that!’
‘A swan did not kill my ducks,’ said Storey irritably. ‘People did. What I am telling you is that the villains tried for a swan first. But swans are fierce creatures. They do not put up with nonsense.’
‘I see. And when did these attacks happen?’
‘The first was on a Monday, eighteen days ago. The second was four days later, and the third was the day before yesterday – a Wednesday.’
There was no pattern that Chaloner could see. ‘Do you know what killed them?’
Storey beckoned him out of the parlour and into a small cupboard-like room, where the three victims were covered with neatly sewn pieces of black satin, heads visible at the top. They looked as though they were lying in state, an image Chaloner found strangely unsettling.
‘I could not bury them,’ Storey whispered. ‘To smother their beautiful feathers in cold earth. So I thought I would stuff them. Unfortunately, I cannot bring myself to make the necessary incisions. I do not suppose you …’
‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly.
Storey sighed. ‘Well, the weather is very cold, so I have a little longer before the matter becomes pressing.’ Personally, Chaloner thought it was pressing already.
‘Inspect the poor beasts, Mr Chaloner, and see what you think. It is my contention that they were murdered.’
Chaloner had seen enough people dead before their time to recognise poisoning, and he saw it in the birds: blood in their beaks told him that they had been given something caustic. He was angry. The ducks were doing no harm, so why should anyone hurt them?
‘You are right: they have been murd— fed a toxin,’ he said. ‘Do you have any suspects?’
Storey pursed his lips. ‘I have no evidence to accuse anyone, if that is what you are asking, but I have my opinions. The villain will be someone wealthy and influential.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because no one else has access to the park.’ Chaloner, who had climbed over its walls on innumerable occasions, sometimes for no other reason than because it represented the quickest way home, regarded him sceptically, and Storey hastened on. ‘And toxins are expensive. The poor have more urgent things to spend their money on, like food, clothing and fuel.’
Chaloner was unconvinced. People – rich or otherwise – did all manner of peculiar things for reasons that defied logic and common sense. ‘Then which wealthy and influential people do you think might be responsible?’
Storey covered his ducks carefully, then led the way back to the parlour, where he sat for several minutes in unhappy silence. ‘My birds are more important to me than the fools at Court, so I shall share my suspicions with you. But please do not say you had these names from me.’
Chaloner nodded acquiescence, and Storey took a deep breath.
‘Samuel Morland is at the top of my list, because I saw him strolling around the park on the very day that poor Harriet died. And he is a vile individual.’
Although Chaloner was gratified to hear the name of a man he so despised singled out for such a disagreeable crime, he was reluctant to believe the accusation. What reason could Morland have for dispatching birds? Moreover, the secretary was more used to causing harm with his tongue than with weapons, and Chaloner had never known him target animals before.
‘Who else?’
‘George Gery, Clarendon’s new marshal. I once saw him try to kick a goose, and he unnerves me with his cold, unsmiling face. Then there is Controller O’Neill, who told me that he hates birds because of the mess they make. But birds cannot help the way they—’
‘Le Notre does not like birds either.’ Chaloner interrupted before they could become sidetracked. ‘He just said so.’
‘Yes, but he is a landscape architect,’ countered Storey, clearly of the belief that this was enough to exonerate anyone. He continued with his li
st. ‘Clement Oxenbridge is an evil villain. Do you know him? He looks like a spectre with his white face and peculiar eyes.’
‘Why is he a suspect?’
‘Because he is so deeply sinister.’ Storey sounded surprised that Chaloner should need to ask. ‘He has no home and no obvious employment, yet he is clearly wealthy and appears whenever there is trouble. Rather like the devil.’
‘Right.’ Chaloner was beginning to realise that he was wasting his time.
‘He comes to the park sometimes, and I have seen him looking at my birds.’ Storey made it sound very disturbing. ‘How dare he! His Majesty’s fowl are not for the likes of him to gawp at.’
‘Is there anyone else?’
‘Well, there is a vicious-tempered postal clerk named Harper. And my neighbour Sir Henry Wood often gets odd ideas into his head. He may have mistaken a duck for a radish.’
Chaloner stood, loath to waste more time listening to unfounded speculation. ‘Thank you. You have been very helpful.’
Storey trailed him to the front door. When he opened it, he ran his fingers over the disfigured carving. ‘It was a terrible thing that happened yesterday,’ he said softly. ‘Two pigeons were killed, and God only knows how many sparrows.’
‘I understand you were out when it happened.’
Storey nodded. ‘I should have been in the park, but it was so cold that I spent the day in a coffee house instead, talking about the comet and the effect it is having on starlings.’
‘Two of the victims – humans, I mean – were coming to visit you.’
Storey nodded again, sadly. ‘Yes, Harold and Henry Yean. I promised them a few flamingo feathers. Have you ever seen a flamingo, Mr Chaloner? Beautiful creatures. Not afraid of foxes either.’
‘What do you know about the boys?’
‘Cousins from the Fleet Rookery,’ replied Storey, referring to an area of tenements and dirty alleys that was the domain of London’s poor. The forces of law and order did not venture there, and it was a city within a city, with its own rules and leaders. ‘I hired them to run errands for me.’
‘They seem an odd choice. Do you not have apprentices or assistants for that sort of thing?’
‘I do, but the Yean lads were excellent at trapping foxes.’ Storey’s face became oddly vindictive. ‘And I take any opportunity to teach those murdering, thieving vaga-bonds not to set their filthy vulpine eyes on birds.’
The following day was colder than ever, and Chaloner woke before dawn to find that Hannah had taken all the bedcovers. He tried to retrieve some, but she tightened her grip in a way that told him she would wake if he persisted, and the sour temper that always assailed her first thing in the morning meant he was unwilling to risk it. He climbed off the bed and dressed in the dark, using the clothes that had been laid in a pile for him by the footman the night before, not because he liked the man making such decisions for him – he did not, and resented someone else rummaging in his wardrobe – but because lighting a candle would disturb Hannah.
He tiptoed downstairs, hoping it would be too early for the servants to be up, and that he could warm some ale over the embers of the kitchen fire. Unfortunately, it was washing day, when water had to be fetched from the well, lye and soap had to be measured out, and a veritable arsenal of boards, bats and dollies had to be assembled for beating the laundry clean. Thus he opened the kitchen door to find his household in the grip of frenzied activity, all conducted in almost total silence – he was not the only one who tried to avoid igniting Hannah’s maleficent morning wrath.
Joan sat at the table, issuing low-voiced orders that were obeyed with such a sullen lack of enthusiasm that Chaloner wondered how his wife had contrived to select so many disagreeable retainers. Nan the cook-maid was spiteful; Ruth the lady’s maid was lazy and probably dishonest; Robert the footman was arrogant; and Ann the scullion was downright unsavoury.
‘Yes?’ Joan asked frostily when she saw Chaloner. ‘What do you want?’
‘Nothing I cannot fetch myself,’ he replied, longing suddenly for his family home in Buckinghamshire, where the kitchen was a haven of laughter and good humour. There, he would have been offered cakes fresh from the oven, and regaled with news from the village and amusing tales about the neighbours.
‘Yes, drink cold milk,’ he thought he heard her mutter. ‘It is time the mistress was rid of you.’
‘Speaking of poisons, have you heard about Mary Wood?’ gossiped Nan, as she mixed ashes with lye in a basin. ‘The Queen’s dresser? Well, she was fed a toxic substance and—’
‘The mistress said she died of the small-pox,’ interrupted Joan. ‘Who told you otherwise?’
‘Dick Joyce, who was Mary’s favourite servant,’ replied Nan, her superior smile telling Joan whose source was likely to be more reliable.
‘Joyce?’ asked Chaloner. ‘He was killed in the explosion outside the Post Office.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Joan disapprovingly. ‘Were you there? The clothes you wore on Thursday were certainly in a sorry state, and I am not sure we shall get them clean today.’
The eyes of the others brightened at the prospect of a new tale about the capricious eccentricity of their employer, but the gleams faded to disappointment when he declined to reply.
‘What did Joyce say, exactly?’ he asked of Nan.
Nan was delighted to be the centre of attention. ‘I met him an hour after his mistress died. He was terrified that he would be blamed for her death, as he was looking after her at the time – everyone else was out, apparently. Unfortunately, we were interrupted before he could say more, but I am not surprised that something untoward happened. Her husband is very odd.’
‘Did Joyce imply that Wood had harmed her, then?’
Nan pursed her lips. ‘No, but Wood is insane, so it stands to reason. Last week he told everyone that he was made of glass, and said that no one was to touch him lest they left finger-marks.’
Chaloner laughed.
As the cold milk had chilled him, Chaloner went to the Rainbow Coffee House on Fleet Street for a warming brew, walking there in the pitch dark because dawn was still some way off. He did not particularly like the Rainbow’s clientele and its coffee was unpalatable, so he was not sure why he patronised the place. He could only suppose it was because it was predictable and unchanging, and constancy was something that was markedly absent from the rest of his life.
As usual, the owner, James Farr, had burned his beans, so the shop was full of reeking, oily smoke. It was busy, though, even at that hour, as customers stopped off for a dose of the beverage before work. As Farr’s infusions tended to be more potent than those available anywhere else, he had a regular and devoted following, and there were many who claimed they could not begin their duties without a shot of Farr’s best inside them.
‘What news?’ called Farr, the traditional coffee-house greeting. Such establishments prided themselves on being up to date with domestic and foreign affairs, and their patrons were invariably informed of important events long before they could be printed in the government’s newsbooks.
‘Three ducks died in St James’s Park,’ supplied Chaloner, supposing the Rainbow was as good a place as any to learn if there were rumours about them.
‘That is not news,’ said a young printer named Fabian Stedman, who spent so much time in the Rainbow that Chaloner sometimes wondered if he ever went home. ‘Who cares about ducks?’
‘I do,’ said Farr. He and his clients rarely agreed. ‘They always sound as though they are laughing, and the noise they make gladdens my heart.’
‘Not the ones in St James’s Park,’ countered Stedman. ‘I went to see them once, and all they did was stand around and look miserable.’
‘So would you if you had been torn away from Russia and carted here,’ retorted Farr.
‘If they hail from Russia, then they will be delighted to be in London,’ averred Stedman. ‘Because we all know about that particular country.’ He shuddered theatrically.
‘Do we?’ Chaloner thought disconsolately about the Earl’s plan to send him there.
‘Of course,’ replied Stedman loftily. ‘It snows all the time, its Tsar is a tyrant, its people do not believe in God, and there are no alehouses.’
‘No alehouses?’ cried Farr, shocked. ‘But where do people drink?’
‘In filthy, squalid kitchens,’ replied Stedman. ‘Tell him, Speed.’
Samuel Speed was a relative newcomer to the Rainbow, having moved into the area when Chaloner had been in Sweden. He was a hook-nosed bookseller of indeterminate age, famous for purveying tomes that no one else carried. Because his wares were frequently deemed scandalous, seditious or heretical, he also sold medicines to help his readers recover afterwards.
‘He is right,’ obliged Speed. ‘I have a report about Russia, if you are interested – Voyages and Travels of the Ambassadors by Adam Olearius. It tells what the envoys of Holstein made of the Tsar and his people. Would you like to buy it?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Chaloner unenthusiastically.
‘I shall bring a copy, then,’ said Speed, pleased. ‘But you will not like what you learn, so I recommend you purchase some of Mr Grey’s lozenges to go with it. They have relieved many thousands in case of extremity, and are also an antidote against pestilent diseases.’
‘Is he likely to catch some from perusing this text, then?’ asked Farr uneasily.
‘No, of course not,’ replied Speed impatiently. ‘I am just saying that Mr Grey’s lozenges are good for more than easing a severe shock.’
‘Russia must be a terrible place,’ mused Farr soberly, ‘if even reading about it is perilous.’
‘Oh, it is,’ Speed assured him. ‘It is full of barbarous peasants, whose idea of fun is a game of chess that ends with a brawl. There are no surgeons or physicians, and the cure for everything is a spell in a sweating house. If they are too poor to afford one, they climb in an oven instead.’
Death in St James's Park: 8 (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 9