‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner as Wood scuttled away, leaving a startled Palmer holding the reins of the donkey. ‘Should he be in Bedlam?’
‘There are plenty who would like to put him there,’ replied Palmer. ‘But the King remembers his loyalty during the Commonwealth, and turns a blind eye to his eccentricity. Wood is harmless, though, unlike many who haunt this palace.’
‘I am not a regicide,’ said Chaloner, not sure whether the remark was directed at him.
Palmer laughed. It was a pleasant sound, a far cry from the jeering brays of his wife and her friends. ‘You are one of Clarendon’s ushers. I saw you in his retinue earlier this week – and again yesterday in Post House Yard.’
‘You did?’ Chaloner was uneasy, wondering why he should have been noticed.
‘Your wife pointed you out the first time,’ explained Palmer. ‘I had spent the afternoon with the Queen, you see, and they mentioned that you know Portuguese. So do I.’
He had begun speaking that language halfway through his explanation. He was not very fluent, but Chaloner imagined the Queen would be pleased, regardless. She appreciated any opportunity to converse in her native tongue.
‘I understand you will publish a book next week, sir,’ said Chaloner politely.
Palmer nodded keenly. ‘An apology for Catholicism. I cannot abide bigotry, and London is rather full of it at the moment. My treatise describes our beliefs, and explains why we do not itch to see any country in flames. I hope it will help to eliminate mistrust and suspicion.’
Unfortunately, Chaloner suspected he was harking after a lost cause. England had been happily persecuting Catholics for decades, and it would take a lot more than a book to make it stop.
When the clot of courtiers around the gate cleared, Chaloner started to walk towards it. It was still too early to visit Newgate, so he decided to go to St James’s Park first, to question the gardeners. Palmer abandoned the donkey to a passing groom, and fell in at his side.
‘Your wife tells me that you are hunting the villain who killed the King’s birds,’ he said. ‘I hope you succeed. I cannot abide people who mistreat animals. Do you have any suspects?’
‘Not yet.’ Chaloner wished Hannah would not gossip about him.
‘No act of depravity surprises me in this vile city,’ said Palmer bitterly. ‘I already long to leave. For the last two years, I have served in the Venetian navy, which is full of rational, intelligent men. But duty called, and I felt obliged to come home. However, I cannot tell you how much I miss sensible conversation and civilised behaviour.’
‘What duty?’ asked Chaloner, and then wished he had not spoken when it occurred to him that Palmer might refer to reining in his shameless wife.
‘The Dutch conflict,’ replied Palmer, to Chaloner’s relief. ‘I am an experienced sea-officer and cannot sit back while my country goes to war. But my troubles are a rather less immediate worry than these poor ducks. How will you go about solving such a discreditable crime?’
Chaloner glanced sharply at him, but there was no hint of mockery in Palmer’s face, only interested concern. ‘I was going to walk around the Canal again,’ he hedged, unwilling to share his real plans with a man he barely knew, even if it was one who seemed at pains to be congenial.
‘Then we shall do it together,’ determined Palmer. He smiled. ‘And practise our Portuguese at the same time. Do you mind?’
Chaloner did mind, but it was hardly his place to reject the company of an earl. However, Palmer quickly proved himself to be a witty and agreeable companion, even when struggling in a foreign language. He also transpired to be interested in music, and confided that William Lawes was one of his favourite composers. Chaloner also loved Lawes’ work, and he felt himself warm to Palmer even more when they discovered a shared appreciation for the bass viol.
‘We had better look to your birds,’ said Palmer, after a lengthy debate about the best places to buy strings. ‘Or the King is still going to be wondering who killed them next week.’
Reluctantly, as he had been enjoying the discussion, Chaloner led the way to the Canal, but had not taken many steps along its bank before they discovered a sad bundle of black and white feathers. Chaloner turned it over with his foot and saw the familiar bloody beak.
‘Pity,’ said Palmer. ‘It was a handsome thing – a kind of northern penguin, I believe, otherwise known as a great auk. It is probably one of the flock that came from Iceland. They are quite rare.’
With Palmer at his side, Chaloner walked around the Canal in its entirety, but there was nothing in the way of clues – no footprints because the mud was frozen, and no indication as to how or where the bird had been caught. Moreover, the day was so cold that there was not a gardener in sight, so there was no one to question either.
‘Clearly, the penguin was killed during the night,’ surmised Palmer, ‘or it would have been found yesterday. Ergo, the scoundrels must have climbed over a wall, because the gates are locked at dusk. Shall we explore the perimeter, to see if we can find their point of entry? Perhaps we shall discover something useful there.’
It was a good idea, and Chaloner knew from his own incursions that there were only two or three places where the walls could be easily scaled, so he led the way to the nearest and most likely.
‘Hah!’ Palmer stabbed his finger. ‘Look – someone was sick here.’
Chaloner bent to inspect the mess, then began to search the surrounding area. Nearby were two dead pigeons. He knew for a fact that pigeons were not averse to eating vomit, because he had seen them doing it at White Hall. He prodded them with a twig, revealing a pair of bloody faces.
‘But if the toxin was in the sick, it means a person ingested it first,’ said Palmer, grimacing in disgust. ‘Indeed, it was probably what made him lose his dinner in the first place.’
Chaloner nodded, and pointed to where marks in the grass showed where something heavy had been dragged. They followed the trail to an area of wilderness, then to a mound of leaf litter and twigs. Carefully, Chaloner brushed them away to expose a body.
‘Poisoned?’ asked Palmer softly, crossing himself.
‘Yes. You can see blood in his mouth, the same as the birds.’
‘He is wearing a hooded cloak – the kind of attire a villain might don for committing despicable acts under cover of darkness. I would say he is certainly one of your culprits.’
Chaloner agreed. ‘And he somehow fell victim to his own poison, which was careless. He died before he could leave the park, and an accomplice must have hidden him here.’
‘It looks to me as if he has been dead for some time, possibly since the first duck, which you say was dispatched nearly three weeks ago. He is beginning to rot, despite the icy weather.’
Chaloner nodded. ‘In which case his accomplice is extraordinarily ruthless – the terrible fate of his companion has done nothing to stop him from killing more birds.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Palmer. ‘What will you do now?’
‘Make a sketch of this man’s face, and set about identifying him.’
‘I can save you the trouble,’ said Palmer. ‘I know him. He works at the General Letter Office.’
Chaloner stared at him. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, and I can even tell you his name. It is … it was Andrew Leak. We used to exchange polite greetings when he served me in the Letter Hall.’
Chaloner’s thoughts were a tumble of confusion. Why should a Post Office employee kill the King’s birds? Donning gloves, he examined the body quickly, and although he was no medicus, he had seen enough dead men to know what to look for. There was no evidence of a struggle, which would have indicated that Leak had been forced to swallow whatever had killed him, but there was a phial in one of his pockets. It was empty, but marks on the stopper suggested that he had removed it with his teeth.
‘I imagine it would have taken more than that to make an end of him,’ he said, looking around to see if another, larger bottle had been tossed into
the undergrowth.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Palmer. ‘I have spent the last two years in Venice, a city with more than a nodding acquaintance with poisons, and I can tell you for a fact that there are substances so potent that the merest drop can kill. Leak pulling off the top of that little pot with his mouth might well have been enough to claim his life.’
Chaloner set it down quickly. ‘I see.’
The next hour or so was taken up with arranging for Leak’s body to be removed to a charnel house, and burying the birds and vomit to ensure they harmed no other wildlife. Then Chaloner caught a hackney to Newgate, where he learned that the gaol was closed to visitors that day because it was being cleaned; the prisoners were doing the work, but the turnkeys were so afraid of a mass break-out that they were refusing to open the gates.
Not sure whether to be relieved or frustrated, Chaloner walked to Post House Yard, where he marched purposefully into the Letter Hall. It was busy, because it was nearing the deadline for inland mail, but he demanded an audience with the Controller anyway, safe in the knowledge that Leak’s death gave him a perfectly valid excuse for doing so, should Gery happen to appear.
‘Chaloner!’ exclaimed O’Neill, when he came to see who wanted him. ‘If you are here to ask whether you can send parcels for free now we are acquainted, then I am afraid the answer is no. It would be dishonest, and I run a law-abiding operation here.’
‘Perhaps we can talk inside,’ suggested Chaloner, keen for an opportunity to enter the back rooms legitimately.
O’Neill’s eyebrows went up, but he nodded agreement, and conducted him to the Sorting Room, where a dozen clerks were tossing letters into untidy piles. These were then whisked away to the Clerks of the Road, where they were arranged in geographical order.
Meanwhile, another official prowled watchfully. Every so often, he would swoop on a missive and read the name of the intended recipient. Most were dropped again, but some were slipped into the bag he carried at his side. Chaloner could only suppose he was the Spymaster’s agent, selecting items to open. Chaloner glanced at O’Neill, who had denied that such practices took place, but the Controller was waxing lyrical about the quality of some new mailbags he had bought, and Chaloner was unable to decide whether he was shockingly ignorant or a masterful bluffer.
He recognised a number of clerks he had seen before, either after the explosion or the following day around the crater, although Smartfoot and Lamb were not among them. He watched their labours with a critical eye, seeing immediately that it was not an efficient operation – piles of letters were moved for no apparent reason, and some clerks repeated tasks already completed by others. Perhaps the Post Office’s detractors were right to disparage O’Neill’s directorship, he thought.
One clerk did not seem to have any particular function. He sat at a paper-strewn table, but his hands were folded in front of him and his attention was on his colleagues. He had the hungry look of a predator, and he made his workmates uncomfortable – they turned clumsy and fumble-fingered when they sensed his gaze upon them.
‘Well, now,’ said O’Neill eventually, once he had exhausted the topic of how his sacks were superior to the rubbish purchased by Bishop. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I have just found Andrew Leak in St James’s Park,’ said Chaloner. ‘Dead.’
He had not spoken loudly, but the Sorting Room suddenly went silent and work stopped.
‘Dead?’ echoed O’Neill in disbelief. ‘You must have the wrong man. He has been ill, because he has not been to work for the last three weeks or so, but he will not be dead.’
Chaloner watched him carefully. He was clearly shocked, but why? Because Leak had been doing his bidding when he had died, and he had hoped the corpse would never be found? Or because he was a compassionate employer who cared for his people?
‘Is that when you last saw him?’ Chaloner asked. ‘Three weeks ago?’
O’Neill nodded numbly, then turned and beckoned to a burly fellow with eyes that were a curious and not altogether attractive shade of taupe. ‘Rea, come here. You and Leak were particular friends. Did you hear what Chaloner said? Leak is dead.’
‘I have not seen him since late December,’ said Rea, stepping forward with obvious reluctance. ‘I suppose I should have gone to his home, to ask after his welfare, but we have been so busy here …’
‘Did he have other work, besides being a postal clerk?’ asked Chaloner.
‘He told me he ran errands for someone in the evenings,’ replied a different clerk. ‘He said it was well paid, which is why he mentioned it – to gloat. I tried to press him for details, but he claimed it was a secret.’
‘Was he married?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Perhaps he told his wife.’
‘He was not,’ said Rea. He glared at the other clerk. ‘And he never told me that he had another job, and I was his closest friend. He was probably spinning you a yarn.’
‘Where did he live?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Elbow Lane,’ replied Rea sullenly. ‘Why?’
‘Take Mr Chaloner there,’ instructed O’Neill briskly. ‘Perhaps a search will reveal the truth.’
Chaloner was conducted to a small but neat cottage a stone’s throw from Post House Yard. He assessed every inch of it for evidence that Leak had consorted with poisoners, but discovered nothing. Indeed, it was so clean and tidy that he suspected someone had been there before him.
He returned to the General Letter Office and questioned every one of Leak’s colleagues, but although all seemed shocked – and some were even distressed – none could tell him what the clerk might have been doing in the park. Chaloner did not mention poison or the King’s fowl, and neither did anyone else. Was he to assume that Leak had been approached with an offer of work by someone unconnected with the Post Office, and it was coincidence that one of its officials had been a killer of birds? Somehow, Chaloner did not think so.
* * *
Although he rarely discussed his investigations with anyone else, Chaloner felt like doing so that day, so he aimed for Lincoln’s Inn, one of the great foundations in London with the authority to license lawyers. It was home to John Thurloe, Cromwell’s erstwhile Spymaster and Secretary of State. Thurloe had abandoned politics at the Restoration, and now lived in quiet retirement.
Chaloner cheered at the prospect of meeting his friend, and his step lightened as he walked down Ludgate Hill. As he went, he saw a dozen apprentices standing on the bridge that crossed the Fleet River. They were from the Guild of Skinners, and formed a glowering impediment to traffic. Carters and riders yelled at them to move, but they remained where they were, obstinately defiant.
More from habit than any real concern that he was being followed – Thurloe still had enemies, and Chaloner was always careful when visiting him – he ducked into the porch of the Rolls House on Chancery Lane. As he peered out to survey the street, he saw Morland.
There was a moment when he thought the secretary’s appearance was coincidental, but that notion vanished when Morland looked around wildly and stamped his foot in petulant frustration. After standing for a moment with his hands disgustedly on his hips, Morland began to walk back the way he had come. Chaloner set off after him, noting as he did so that the secretary wore an exquisitely tailored suit. As the Earl tended to be mean with salaries, he wondered how Morland could afford to dress himself with such princely elegance.
‘Were you looking for me?’ he asked, speaking softly and watching Morland jump.
The secretary scowled. ‘You startled me. When you disappeared—’ He stopped abruptly and glanced at Chaloner to see if he had noticed the inadvertent admission.
Chaloner had, of course. ‘Why were you tailing me?’
‘Because Gery told me to,’ confessed Morland reluctantly. ‘He thinks you consort with the wrong kind of people. Thurloe, for example. I assume you are on your way to see him now?’
‘I am going to buy a hat for my wife,’ lied Chaloner. ‘Not that it is any of your affair.�
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‘I should like a new hat, too. Shall we visit the milliner together?’
‘And have you reporting Hannah’s tastes to Gery?’ asked Chaloner archly. ‘I do not think so! He might read something sinister into her preference for wool over silk.’
Morland laughed uneasily. ‘Very possibly. Wool is a wicked Parliamentarian fibre, far inferior to Cavalier silk. But we are both old hands at this, Tom – too old for games. Tell me what you plan to do today, and we can both be about our business unfettered.’
‘Very well.’ Chaloner was willing to agree to anything if it saw him rid of Morland. ‘After I have bought the hat, I shall interview the St James’s Park gardeners about the ducks.’
‘I see.’ Morland grinned slyly. ‘Is there a milliner near here? I do not know of any.’
Chaloner pointed to a shop behind them, not such an amateur as to be caught telling a tale he could not substantiate. Morland gestured that he should lead the way towards it, and Chaloner obliged so as not to give the secretary the satisfaction of exposing a lie. He opened the door to reveal a display of such wildly extravagant creations that he wondered who would have the courage to wear them.
‘So many feathers,’ he remarked, looking around in dismay.
‘Feathers are fashionable,’ explained the owner as he bustled forward. ‘Unfortunately, I have to import most of mine, because Storey, who has care of the King’s birds, refuses to sacrifice any. He sends two grubby boys with ones that have been shed naturally, but I need more than that.’
Chaloner frowned. Was that the answer – the ducks had been killed for their exotic plumage? But none had been plucked. Or did someone aim to raid the corpses after Storey had had them cleaned and stuffed?
‘Feathers fetch a good price, then, do they?’ asked Morland keenly. ‘It is worth finding you a few?’
The milliner beamed. ‘Yes. So if you hear of a flamingo that wants a good home, let me know. I have ideas for a magnificent hat, which—’
Death in St James's Park: 8 (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 11