‘The fact that O’Neill has ordered his people not to talk to anyone suggests that he is party to whatever is unfolding,’ he said. ‘Or do you think he is the innocent dupe of a cleverer mind?’
‘You must ask the Major.’ Thurloe grimaced. ‘He is an extremely valuable asset, and Clarendon is a fool to put him at risk by dragging him to White Hall. He should be interviewed in the Tower, where he will be safe from assassins.’
Chaloner did not say that the Earl rarely made good decisions where such matters were concerned, because Thurloe already knew it. After a while, during which their feet crunched on the frozen gravel as they walked, he described what had happened when the cart had exploded.
‘Poor Joyce,’ said Thurloe softly. ‘Sir Henry Wood was a “person of interest” during the Commonwealth, and I paid Joyce to monitor him. I was suspicious of Wood’s eccentricity, you see, along with the fact that he insisted on buying the mansion and all the houses near the Post Office.’
‘That is suspicious. Did you ever ask him for an explanation?’
‘I did. He told me it was the only square in London that is unpopular with lettuces. I never did decide whether he was a harmless lunatic or a dangerous dissident.’
‘He is the one who took the Major’s initial report to Clarendon.’
Thurloe winced. ‘Then I imagine the Major was horrified by his choice. I would not want Clarendon in charge of any investigation that my freedom depended on.’
‘You suggested earlier that the trouble at the Post Office might result in the Earl’s execution,’ said Chaloner worriedly. ‘And Williamson told me that his enemies on the Privy Council have made him responsible for the place. How? It should have nothing to do with the Lord Chancellor.’
‘No,’ agreed Thurloe. ‘But they outmanoeuvred him, and he agreed to oversee an enquiry before grasping its ramifications – which are that if it fails, he will be accused of incompetence or complicity. Either will see him ruined – or worse – which is why you must ignore his orders and do all you can to save him.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Chaloner. ‘I will try, but—’
‘You will succeed or look for a new employer,’ said Thurloe harshly. ‘But to return to Wood, were you aware that Joyce was the second member of that household to die on Thursday?’
‘Yes. Mary Wood had the small-pox. Although there is gossip that she was murdered.’
‘Ask Surgeon Wiseman to look at her body,’ instructed Thurloe.
‘He has already offered, but not until Tuesday – three days’ time.’
‘Then Tuesday it must be. So let us summarise what we know. Something deadly is unfolding at the Post Office, and we suspect it is connected to the unrest that is currently afflicting much of the country. Wood lives next door: his servant was killed in the blast, and his wife is said to have been murdered.’
‘The Post Office’s other neighbour is Storey, whose ducks have been poisoned.’ Chaloner took up the tale. ‘And a postal clerk named Leak was one of the culprits. There is another connection, too: the Yean boys, who ran errands for Storey, were also killed in the explosion.’
‘And the last victims of the blast are the Alibond brothers, also postal clerks. We must see what we can learn about them. Perhaps they threatened to expose what is happening, and paid the price.’
‘They tried to run when I shouted, but they could not move fast enough. I am disturbed by a French landscape architect named le Notre, too. He was in Storey’s house when I went to ask about the dead birds. He has been hired to design fabulous new gardens at Versailles – gardens for which you say Morland has invented fountains.’
‘Morland,’ said Thurloe grimly. ‘Yes, we must not forget him. Nor Clement Oxenbridge, a man with no home and no employment that I can discover. He is a mystery, and not a particularly nice one either. There is something deeply unpleasant about him.’
‘Temperance said he was friends with John Fry. But he must live somewhere. I will find—’
‘I already have a man looking into it, and I do not want you falling over each other,’ said Thurloe crisply. ‘Leave him to me, please.’
‘What shall I do, then?’
‘Speak to the Major – in the Tower, if necessary. Then go to Newgate and talk to Knight.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, not liking the notion of braving two prisons in quick succession.
‘But first, you must find that musician, and ascertain whether he drew a crowd to increase the number of victims. Start on Cheapside. Street entertainers are rife there.’
Chaloner went to Cheapside immediately, and eventually managed to establish that a flageolet player who wore a red cloak, blue hat and yellow breeches lived in the dangerous, unsavoury area around St Giles-in-the-Fields. He took his life in his hands by entering seedy alehouses that did not welcome strangers, but the trail petered out as the clocks were striking ten. He was too tired to start again by following the lead Wiseman had given him – the surgeon had mentioned that one of those injured in the blast, a postal clerk named Copping, might be able to tell him more about the musician – so he traipsed home on foot, having spent all his money on bribes.
As he passed Long Acre, he was tempted to go to the rooms he rented there, sure Hannah would not miss him. But he had no coal for a fire, and there was nothing to eat. At least Tothill Street would be warm, and Nan the cook-maid baked fruit pies on Saturdays.
He opened the door to his house, and was greeted by the rank stench of burning, which told him both that Hannah was home and that he would not be enjoying anything edible that night. As the kitchen was a perilous place when her culinary experiments did not go according to plan, which was most of the time, he went to the drawing room instead, grateful to find the fire lit. He had done no more than stretch his frozen hands towards it when the door opened and Hannah strode in.
‘You are uncommonly filthy,’ she remarked, looking him up and down in distaste. ‘What have you been doing? No, do not tell me! It is probably better for me to remain in blissful ignorance. I wish you had come home sooner, though. I made pheasant stew, and it was delicious. Shall I fetch you some? It has cooled off, but I imagine it will still taste all right.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Chaloner hastily. Her stews were barely edible when hot, and cold did not bear thinking about. Her eyes narrowed, so he added, ‘I had something in a cook-shop.’
‘Very well. Incidentally, I am not inviting O’Neill to my next soirée. He broke our clock.’
‘How do you know it was him?’ asked Chaloner guiltily.
‘Monsieur le Notre told me.’ Hannah smiled rather dreamily. ‘He really is the most charming fellow. Do you think he will design us an orangery?’
‘An orangery?’ Chaloner was alarmed. The house they rented was far larger than was necessary for the two of them, but it was still not big enough for such a grand feature. And how would they pay for such a ridiculous extravagance?
‘All the best homes have them,’ Hannah went on. ‘I think I shall see what he says. Do not look so disapproving, Tom. It is cheaper than having a baby, and will go some way to compensating me for not being a mother.’
Chaloner could not see how, but knew better than to say so. However, the remark reminded him of something he wanted to ask.
‘Why did you tell Freer about …’ He faltered, unwilling to speak the name of his dead child, even after so many years. ‘About my last family.’
Hannah came to take his hand. ‘I am sorry, Tom. It just slipped out. He was chatting to me about the Earl’s desolation over his loss, and I said that you would understand grief better than that hard-faced lout Gery. Everyone at Court was sorry when the news came about young Edward – he was a nice fellow and only nineteen. Did you ever meet him?’
Chaloner nodded, although he had found the youth rather wild and extremely arrogant.
‘Since he died, people have turned him into a saint, of course,’ she went on. ‘They have done the same for Mary. No one liked her when sh
e was alive, but now they praise her to the heavens. What hypocrites we all are.’
She went on in this vein for some time, and seeing he was not expected to answer, Chaloner let his mind wander. It snapped back to the present with one remark, however.
‘What did you say?’
‘That the country will be spared the expense of a trial now that the fellow who cheated the Post Office is no longer with us. Knight was found dead in his cell in Newgate Prison this afternoon. He had hanged himself.’
Chapter 5
Chaloner slept badly that night, racked by guilt. Knight had said that Newgate would be a death sentence, but Chaloner had arrested him anyway, even though he had been far from certain that the clerk had done anything wrong. Lying next to Hannah, he stared into the darkness. Should he attempt to clear Knight’s name, to make amends for his part in the tragedy? He decided he would try. Perhaps it would relieve the remorse that weighed so heavily on his mind.
‘If you cannot sleep, go downstairs,’ came Hannah’s irritable voice. ‘You are shifting and turning like a man in a fever, and every time I doze off, you jostle me awake.’
Chaloner mumbled an apology, and to stop himself from dwelling on Knight he began to make plans for the day ahead. It was a Sunday, and the Post Office would be closed, so it was a good time to search it for clues. Then he would go to Newgate and ask after Knight, followed by a visit to the Tower to see what the Major was prepared to tell him. Then there was the injured clerk Jeremiah Copping, who might have information about the musician.
Another line of enquiry was Oxenbridge, whom Knight had said lay at the heart of the Post Office trouble. Temperance had called him dangerous, and thought he might be helping John Fry with his rebellion; Storey had included him on his list of potential bird-killers; and Thurloe was sufficiently concerned that he had sent someone to investigate him. Thurloe had asked Chaloner to leave Oxenbridge alone, but the man represented an important lead, so Chaloner decided he would ask questions if the opportunity arose. And then there was the mysterious Bankes, who was paying for information about—
‘Thomas, please!’ snapped Hannah. ‘I had a difficult day yesterday, because the Queen was upset over Mary Wood, and I must attend Mass just after dawn. I need to sleep.’
‘It is almost dawn now,’ said Chaloner, relieved that the night was over at last. He climbed out of bed and set about lighting a candle. ‘Shall I walk with you to White Hall?’
Hannah hauled the bedcovers over her head with a groan. ‘Go away! But please do not play that wretched viol. It disturbs the neighbours.’
Chaloner knew the neighbours could not hear him through the thick walls, and resented her lie. He said nothing, though, and had almost finished dressing when she sat up.
‘I cannot go back to sleep now that I am awake. I told you not to drink that cold milk before we went to bed – that is why you were restless all night. Or is it an investigation devised by your horrible Earl that has you so disturbed? What has he ordered you to do this time?’
‘Explore the death of some ducks in St James’s Park.’
‘Ducks?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Have you fallen out of favour with him, then?’
‘I have never been in favour.’
Hannah sounded worried. ‘I know I often tell you to look for another master, but do not annoy this one until you have something else lined up. We cannot manage without your salary.’
They would have been able to manage perfectly well on what he could have saved if she had not moved to a larger house and hired staff they did not need, but he kept the thought to himself.
‘You would have to sell your viols,’ she continued. ‘To tide us over until—’
‘No,’ he said firmly. He had very few personal belongings – a spy’s life was necessarily nomadic, and he had lost count of the times he had been forced to abandon all he owned at a moment’s notice – but his viols were sacrosanct, along with a book given to him by his first wife.
Hannah was silent for a moment. ‘Is anything wrong, Tom? You have been remarkably taciturn since Sweden, even by your standards.’
Nothing, he thought bitterly, except a master who despised him, enquiries that were likely to prove dangerous, the fact that he had been instrumental in sending a man to his death, and a wife who itched to hawk his viols. But Hannah’s voice had been gentle, and he knew she was trying to bridge the rift that had opened between them. He went to sit on the bed, and although he thought she would be safer knowing nothing about the Post Office, he did tell her about the birds.
‘The poor things,’ she said when he had finished. ‘Perhaps you should hide in the park, and see whether you can catch these villains in the act. They will certainly strike again, given that they did not stop even when one of them fell victim to his own poison.’
‘That might take days.’
‘Not necessarily. You say the ducks died last Wednesday, three Fridays ago, and the Monday before that, while the penguin was killed the night before yesterday. The King was entertaining in the Banqueting House on all four of those occasions. And he is due to do it again on Tuesday. Try waiting for these rogues then.’
Chaloner stared at her. ‘Why would they strike during a revel?’ He answered his own question. ‘Because any noise made by agitated birds would be drowned out by the sounds of merrymaking.’
‘It makes sense to me, and it is worth a try.’
Chaloner smiled, heartened. ‘Thank you.’
‘I have some bad news, Tom. I was going to tell you last night, but you seemed oddly out of sorts after I told you about the suicide of that clerk, so I decided to wait. The Queen is going to Epsom next week, for the waters. I am to ride there before her to make everything ready.’
‘So what is the bad news?’ asked Chaloner, wondering if she expected him to accompany her. If so, there would be trouble, because the Earl was unlikely to let him go.
Hannah’s expression hardened. ‘That I am going to Epsom and you will be without me.’
‘Oh.’ Chaloner saw he had hurt her feelings, and hastened to make amends. ‘I shall miss you.’
She regarded him coolly. ‘I should hope so. I miss you when you are away, although I confess you are gone so often that I am growing rather used to it. The sooner you abandon that Earl and find someone who will keep you in London, the better.’
‘Can we send the servants to visit their families?’ asked Chaloner, trying not to look too eager at the prospect of having the house to himself. ‘I doubt I will be here much if you are away.’
‘That is a kind thought, Tom, but how will you manage without them?’
‘With the greatest of difficulty, I imagine,’ said Chaloner solemnly.
Once he was outside, Chaloner realised he had been mistaken about the hour; it was not nearing dawn at all, but still the middle of the night. However, it was an excellent time to see what answers could be found in the General Letter Office, so he went there immediately, walking as no hackneys were available. He did not blame their drivers for declining to be out – it was bitterly cold again, and he was half-tempted to return to his warm bed himself.
When he reached Post House Yard, he slipped into the shadows cast by Wood’s mansion, and settled down to watch, unwilling to break in until he was sure the place was not under surveillance by another investigation. It was not long before his caution bore fruit – a flicker of movement under some trees indicated that someone was there. Silently, he inched towards it.
He was still some distance away when Morland stepped out of his hiding place to stamp his feet and slap his arms, complaining about the weather and his life in general. As one of the most basic rules of surveillance was silence, and even novices knew not to chatter, Chaloner wondered what the secretary thought he was doing. Morland was answered in monosyllables by a companion whose voice Chaloner recognised as Freer’s.
‘I should not be engaged in such demeaning work,’ Morland grumbled. He was wearing a richly embroidered cloak to ward o
ff the chill. ‘I shall complain to the Earl tomorrow.’
‘Do that,’ said Freer.
‘I was assistant to a Secretary of State,’ Morland railed on. ‘I was privy to great secrets, all of which I passed to His Majesty. I should not be out here like a common watchman. I deserve better.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is this the way loyalty is repaid? I risked my life by betraying Thurloe, who is as deadly a villain as you could ever hope to meet. Yet here I am, reduced to skulking in the shadows with the likes of you. It is not to be borne!’
‘No.’
‘You must feel the same way, so why not mention it to the Earl? Then he will dismiss Gery, and appoint me as marshal instead. I will not order you to spend all night in the cold, you can be sure of that.’
Freer did not reply, and Chaloner thought Morland’s wits must be addled if he expected his companion to agree to such a suggestion. The Earl would probably do nothing other than report the discussion to Gery, at which point Freer would find himself without a job. And Morland? His cunning tongue would doubtless see him absolved of mutiny.
But listening to the slippery secretary’s litany of complaints was hardly productive, so Chaloner turned his attention to the Post Office. Entering through the front door was obviously out of the question, so he walked to the back instead. Unfortunately, this comprised a tall brick wall that would be impossible to scale without a ladder. Thus the only other possibility was to break into Storey’s cottage and enter the General Letter Office via their shared courtyard.
He picked the lock on the curator’s door and padded soundlessly through the house to the parlour. There was a faint but unpleasant smell, and he could only suppose that Harriet, Eliza and Sharon still lay beneath their satin covers. He opened the window and scrambled into the yard beyond, frozen weeds crackling beneath his feet.
He stood in the shadows for a moment, watching the building he was about to invade. It was in darkness, and the only sound was a dog barking several streets away. One of its windows had a crooked shutter, so he crept towards it, and had prised it open and climbed through in less than a minute, although speed had its price – he tore his coat on a jagged piece of wood. Once inside, he listened carefully. Timbers creaked as they contracted in the cold, and there was a skittering of small claws. Mice.
Death in St James's Park: 8 (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 13