Death in St James's Park: 8 (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner)

by Gregory, Susanna

  Intrigued, Chaloner forgot his decision not to break in and followed, picking the lock and entering the cavernous Letter Hall, which was as still and silent as a tomb. It was in darkness, and deserted except for Morland, who was just disappearing through the door that led to the offices beyond. Chaloner picked that lock, too, and trailed the secretary to the disused wing, moving with more than his usual caution, because Morland was openly uneasy in the shadowy emptiness of the building, and kept glancing behind him.

  The secretary said something to the soldier on duty by the door, and whatever it was made the man hurry back towards the Letter Hall. Swearing under his breath, Chaloner ducked behind a mound of mailbags, and was relieved but not particularly impressed when the soldier passed within touching distance without noticing him. Had Morland sent the man on a genuine errand? Or did he just want him out of the way?

  Chaloner had his answer when Morland waited until the guard’s footsteps had receded, then took another key and unlocked the door. He did not secure it behind him, suggesting he did not intend to be inside for long. Chaloner followed, and watched him go straight to the room with the secret chamber. Had he discovered it during his work with Gery, and had come to explore it at a time when the Post Office was devoid of vigilant clerks?

  Chaloner was cold, tired and frustrated with his lack of progress that day. His patience snapped. It was time he had answers, and Morland was going to provide them. He strode forward, watching the secretary leap in alarm at his sudden appearance, almost dropping the lantern.

  ‘Christ!’ Morland gulped, hand to his chest when he recognised Chaloner. ‘You should not be here. There will be hell to pay when Gery finds out.’

  ‘He will only find out if you tell him.’

  ‘Then it will be our little secret.’ Morland attempted to hide his disquiet with a sickly smile.

  ‘It is not—’ Chaloner whipped around when he heard a sound behind him, and only his instinctive duck saved him from the blow that would have shattered his skull. Morland gave a screech of horror when the cudgel scored a heavy dent in the wall.

  ‘You!’ exclaimed Lamb, staggering off balance. He turned accusingly to his companion – Smartfoot. ‘I told you he was a spy.’

  ‘This is going to be awkward,’ said Chaloner in Dutch. ‘I should have stayed outside after all.’

  ‘You speak English,’ blurted Morland, bewildered. ‘So why gabble in—’

  ‘You see?’ cried Lamb, raising his cosh. ‘He lied when he pretended to be French.’

  Chaloner assessed his situation. It was not good. Lamb and Smartfoot were heavily armed, and could probably summon reinforcements. Moreover, they had him hemmed against the wall, where it would be difficult to use his sword.

  ‘Wait,’ cried Morland, as Lamb took aim with his bludgeon. ‘The Earl of Clarendon will not want him harmed. Give me a moment to—’

  ‘Piss off!’ snapped Smartfoot. ‘Unless you want a trouncing, too.’

  Morland’s eyes went wide with fear, and he turned and scurried away without another word. The moment he had gone, Lamb lashed out with his stick. Chaloner deflected the blow with his arm, but before he could reach for a weapon of his own, Smartfoot had grabbed him by the throat and shoved him against the wall.

  ‘You can tell us what you are doing willingly or we will make you talk,’ he said, eyes glittering at the prospect of violence. ‘The choice is yours.’

  Chapter 7

  In the shadowy silence of the Post Office’s disused wing, Smartfoot held Chaloner against the wall and nodded for Lamb to advance with his cudgel. Chaloner did not give him the opportunity to use it. He whipped the dagger from his belt, and it was embedded in Smartfoot’s arm almost before the man had turned back to him. Smartfoot shrieked and reeled away, blood oozing between his fingers.

  Lamb reacted quickly, flailing with his stick and never giving Chaloner the chance to draw his sword. There followed a savage scuffle, during which both demonstrated that they had learned their skills in gutters as well as military camps, and included kicks, punches and even a bite. When Smartfoot recovered enough to join in, Chaloner knew he had to do something fast, or he was going to be killed. He pulled the bottle that the Major had sent Thurloe from his pocket.

  ‘This contains a deadly poison,’ he declared, holding it aloft. ‘It kills anyone it touches, and if you do not back off, I am going to throw it at you.’

  ‘It does not,’ said Lamb disdainfully. ‘Such a substance does not exist.’

  ‘It might, though,’ said Smartfoot uneasily. ‘Leak mentioned a deadly toxin when we were in the Crown once.’

  ‘I do not believe you,’ said Lamb to Chaloner, but there was doubt in his eyes now, and neither he nor Smartfoot tried to stop the spy as he backed away. Chaloner locked the door behind him, and had left the Post Office long before anyone heard their outraged yells and came to release them.

  The moment he was sure he had not been followed, he flagged down a hackney and asked the driver to take him to Tothill Street. Then he changed his mind and alighted in Fleet Street instead, where he made his way to Wiseman’s house.

  Wiseman employed a number of servants, all of whom were missing body parts, although Chaloner had never mustered the courage to ask whether their losses were a result of the surgeon’s ministrations. The one-legged footman opened the door, and conducted him to the parlour at the back of the house, where Temperance had evidently been at work, because its decor was rather more vulgar than her lover would have selected for himself, and included plush chairs and wallpaper – a frivolous extravagance decried by Puritans, but much in demand by Royalists.

  There were also shelves along one wall containing white, yellow and reddish items in glass jars. Chaloner was careful not to look at them, having once been told that Wiseman was not above collecting bits of his family and storing them for their scientific value. There was also a strange smell, which he supposed was the preservatives that kept the specimens from rotting.

  Despite its unconventional furnishings, the room was cosy and a fire blazed in the hearth. Temperance was there, already dressed for an evening at the club; she lounged on a bench with the surgeon’s ginger cat in her lap. Although she did not make herself available to patrons personally, she still looked the part, with thick face-paints and a low-cut bodice. Meanwhile, Wiseman had donned the peculiar scarlet mantle he wore while relaxing. Neither he nor Temperance smiled when Chaloner walked in.

  ‘I am angry with you,’ said the surgeon coldly. ‘I know we do not always agree with each other, but that is no reason to put me in danger.’

  ‘I am more than angry,’ said Temperance, eyes flashing with a rage Chaloner had not seen before. The cat promptly made itself scarce. ‘And if I had a gun, I would shoot you.’

  Chaloner looked from one to the other in confusion. ‘Why? What have I done?’

  ‘The poison,’ said Wiseman stiffly. ‘You left a note asking me to test it.’

  Chaloner was none the wiser. ‘You have done it before. Was there a problem?’

  ‘Yes, there was a problem!’ exploded Wiseman. ‘It is the deadliest toxin I have ever encountered. The merest crumb killed a rat almost instantly, and I dread to think what would have happened if I had touched it with my hands. You should have warned me.’

  ‘You do not wear gloves when you examine such compounds?’ asked Chaloner. It was one of the first things he had learned when he had embarked on a life of espionage.

  ‘Of course I do, but that is not the point. I deserved to be warned.’

  ‘I am sorry. But the stuff was used to kill birds. It cannot be as deadly as you say.’

  ‘Obviously, you are involved in something more sinister than you led us to believe,’ said Temperance tightly. Her fists were clenched, and he knew she wanted to punch him.

  He shook his head. ‘It is just a few dead birds. I swear it.’

  But then a thought struck him. Smartfoot had backed down very quickly when Chaloner had threatened to lo
b a phial of poison, and had mentioned discussing such substances with Leak – who would certainly have known what they could do, given that he had used some on the King’s birds. Guiltily, he saw Wiseman and Temperance were right to be angry and suspicious.

  ‘Such a potion is unethical,’ said Wiseman stiffly. ‘And I decline to have any more to do with it. Please do not ask me to help you with anything else.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Chaloner, pulling Thurloe’s bottle from his pocket. ‘Because here is a—’

  ‘Damn you, Thomas!’ cried Temperance. ‘Go away, and take your nasty bottles with you.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Wiseman, as Chaloner turned to leave. The surgeon shrugged at Temperance’s immediate outrage. ‘He might come to harm if we let him do it himself.’

  ‘Good,’ said Temperance sullenly.

  ‘No,’ said Wiseman sharply. ‘I have not forgotten his kindness last year, when everyone else condemned me and he alone fought to prove my innocence. Put the bottle on the table, Chaloner. I shall examine it tonight and tell you my findings at the charnel house tomorrow.’

  ‘You mean when you examine Mary Wood?’ asked Temperance. ‘There are more rumours than ever that say she was murdered, and I am glad you will soon be able to say whether they are true.’

  ‘I doubt they are,’ said Wiseman. ‘There is a lot of the small-pox around at the moment. The Earl’s son was another recent victim.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Temperance. ‘I was sorry, because he was a promising young man.’

  ‘He was.’ Wiseman shot Chaloner a sheepish glance. ‘He was strong and healthy, so I confess I wondered why he had succumbed so quickly. To set my mind at rest, I examined him very carefully.’

  ‘You mean you anatomised one of the Earl’s sons?’ Chaloner was horrified.

  ‘Not anatomised,’ averred Wiseman, although his expression was distinctly furtive. ‘Just made one or two judicious incisions. But my concerns were groundless. Young Edward died of the small-pox without the shadow of a doubt.’

  It was strange to arrive at Tothill Street and find the house empty. The banked fire and a half-packed bag in the kitchen told Chaloner that one or two servants were still around, but whoever it was had gone out. Relishing the solitude, Chaloner took bread, apples and cheese from the pantry, and washed them down with the sweet ale that Joan generally kept for herself. It was the most wholesome meal he had eaten in days, and afterwards, pleasantly replete, he went to the drawing room where he played his viol until weariness drove him to bed.

  He slept soundly and awoke refreshed and invigorated just as dawn was breaking, although his happy enthusiasm for the new day faded somewhat when he remembered that he would have to visit Newgate and the Westminster charnel house, neither excursions that appealed.

  They were not the only tasks he had, either. Most urgent was cornering Morland, to demand an explanation for his antics the previous night. Chaloner was inclined to do the same with Harper, too, because he would certainly have answers. Then he should find Ibson, although if the man had been Thurloe’s ‘jackal’, as Widow Smith claimed, then the chances were that he had already told the ex-Spymaster all he knew. Thus Ibson was low on Chaloner’s list, much lower than asking after Bankes and seeing what could be learned about Oxenbridge and John Fry.

  As it was Tuesday, he would have to be in St James’s Park at dusk, to see if the bird-killers appeared. He was confused about the culprits. Seth Eliot’s testimony suggested they were courtiers, and Storey certainly thought so, while all the attacks had occurred during noisy revels, indicating that the perpetrators were privy to the King’s social calendar. So why had Leak been involved? Had courtiers hired him, but then been obliged to do their own dirty work when he had died?

  But which courtiers? Chaloner thought about Storey’s list, which included men who had aroused his interest for other reasons – Gery, Morland, O’Neill, Oxenbridge, Wood and Harper. None were pleasant, and Chaloner could see any of them dispatching birds. He was also inclined to add le Notre, because there was certainly something about the Frenchman that was not quite right.

  But lying in bed was not going to bring answers, so he took a deep breath, to brace himself for the chill of an unheated and rather damp room, and flung back the blankets. He hurried down to the kitchen, not surprised to discover that the remaining servants were making the most of Hannah’s absence – no one had risen to stoke up the fire or to fetch water to heat over it. He washed and shaved in cold, then raided the pantry for more bread, cheese and apples, which he ate standing up, as it was too icy in the kitchen for sitting. He left the house before anyone else was astir.

  He went to White Hall first, supposing he had better report to the Earl. And if Morland was there, then so much the better. It was another bitingly cold morning, with frost hard and white on the rooftops, and coated thickly on the needles of churchyard yews. It was even on the cobwebs above the Great Gate, transforming gossamer strands into hefty strings of white that would not deceive even the most inattentive of prey.

  He was just crossing the Pebble Court when he saw two figures gliding through the shadows, and everything about them said they did not wish to be seen. He stepped into a doorway and waited for them to pass. A lamp caught their faces as they came closer, and he was astonished to recognise Oxenbridge’s oddly white visage and Gardner’s bushy yellow hair. Why were they in each other’s company? And more to the point, why were they at White Hall? Were they the ‘courtiers’ who were killing birds? He decided to find out.

  The pair slunk around the edge of the Great Court, and aimed for the jumble of buildings that housed the palace’s minor officials. It was a maze, but Chaloner knew it well, and trailing people was his profession. However, they backtracked and zigzagged in a way that told him they knew they were being followed, and eventually he rounded a corner to find them vanished. He whipped around fast, but not fast enough. A blow sent him spinning backwards, and he heard running footsteps. By the time he had regained his wits, Oxenbridge and Gardner had gone.

  The Earl’s offices were warm, and lamps and a roaring fire cast a welcoming amber glow. Chaloner walked across the thick Turkey carpets and waited until his master deigned to glance up at him.

  ‘Well?’ the Earl asked. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and a piece of damp linen on the desk showed he had been crying. Chaloner suddenly felt sorry for him.

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you, sir?’ he asked kindly. ‘Other than catching the bird-killers?’

  The Earl stared at him, and a desperate, yearning hope flared in his eyes. Then it faded. ‘No. Just find whoever is dispatching these wretched ducks as soon as you can. Incidentally, Gery tells me that you disobeyed my orders and went to the Post Office again. Is it true?’

  ‘I was mailing a letter to my brother,’ lied Chaloner. ‘Or would you rather I did not write to my family until Gery exposes whatever is happening there? It might be a while.’

  It was a painfully crude way of informing him that the marshal was incapable of solving the case very soon, if ever, but it was the best Chaloner could manage on the spur of the moment.

  ‘No!’ exclaimed the Earl, his expression bleak. ‘A man’s kin are his heart and soul, his very reason for living, so you must communicate with yours as often as you can. Do you ever think of the ones you lost to the plague in Holland?’

  The question was so unexpected that Chaloner gave an involuntary start. He opened his mouth to reply, but then was not sure what to say. As it happened, they had been in his mind of late, but it was not something he was inclined to reveal to anyone else. Yet at the same time, he did not want to dishonour their memory by denying them.

  ‘It does not matter,’ said the Earl, when the silence became awkward. ‘It is just that I find myself thinking about my children a lot these days, especially Edward. My enemies say grief is affecting my judgement, and that I should resign as Lord Chancellor.’ He sighed, and gave a wan smile. ‘But perhaps they will stop hounding me when I present
the King with the villain who is attacking his fowl. So off you go now, Chaloner.’

  Chaloner turned to leave, but stopped when he was at the door. ‘Do not let them oust you, sir. England cannot afford to lose the only Privy Councillor who does any work.’

  The Earl sighed gloomily. ‘If only a few more people thought like you.’

  Chaloner was walking down the marble staircase when he met someone coming up. It was the Major, with two yeomen in tow. His shoulders were slumped and he moved with the defeated shuffle of a prisoner who was low on hope. He was pale, and he looked as though he had not slept in days. His clothes were rumpled, too, although he had brushed his hair and shaved in an effort to smarten himself up for his audience with the Earl.

  ‘I do not know how much longer I can keep doing this,’ he whispered to Chaloner as they passed, speaking softly so his guards would not hear. He need not have worried: Lady Castlemaine’s voice was booming in the courtyard below, and they were gazing out of the window at her in transfixed admiration. ‘How much longer will Gery’s enquiry drag on?’

  ‘Tell me what you have learned,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘That will expedite matters.’

  ‘How many more times must I say it?’ The Major looked pained. ‘There is nothing I would like more, but they made me swear to keep silent, and I dare not defy them – I have too much to lose. So do you: several investigators have died exploring this case, and you do not deserve to be one of them. The Earl has excluded you from the matter, so do not rail against it. Be thankful.’

  Chaloner nodded, but his resolve to meddle only strengthened. ‘Do you have new information to report?’ he asked.

  The Major nodded. ‘But as I have said before, Clarendon and Gery ignore any intelligence they do not understand or that they deem irrelevant. I am deeply concerned …’

  So was Chaloner. ‘If you think the matter is not being properly investigated, you must confide in someone else. You decline to talk to me, but what about a friend? Palmer, perhaps? Or Bishop?’