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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘I cannot endanger them.’ The Major sighed miserably. ‘You seem competent, and I wish Clarendon had chosen you over Gery, although not as much as I wish Wood had taken my message to another member of the Privy Council. Buckingham, perhaps; he is a man of action. Or even the King. But what is done is done, and I must make the best of it.’

  ‘Surely you can give me some indication of what is amiss?’ Chaloner was reluctant to let him go without learning at least something useful. The Major’s misgivings about Clarendon’s selective handling of intelligence had alarmed him anew, and he began to wonder whether his master’s enemies were right: perhaps grief was robbing him of his reason. ‘Just a hint?’

  The Major’s voice was so low as to be almost inaudible. ‘Certain abuses will occur in any postal service – clerks “accidentally” losing prepaid letters, letting passengers ride the post horses so there is no room for mailbags, drunken postmen. But there is a question of magnitude …’

  Chaloner nodded impatiently. ‘Of course, but the trouble goes far deeper than mere chicanery. There are tales that the Post Office is behind the unrest that is sweeping across the country, which is a far more serious problem. What do you know about that?’

  The Major took a step away. ‘Lord! You must have a death wish to speak so boldly.’

  ‘Is O’Neill involved?’ pressed Chaloner.

  ‘I hope so,’ replied the Major with a rueful smile. ‘His lies put me in the Tower, and I would love to see him fall from grace. But the truth is that I do not know. Now please leave me alone. We cannot be seen gossiping. It will endanger both our lives.’

  ‘There are rumours that someone will be assassinated soon, and that you might be the victim,’ said Chaloner, desperate enough to use harsh tactics. ‘You saw the message on the stone that came through Palmer’s window. So, you are endangering your life, but because you will not talk to me. Gery has been investigating for weeks and has made no headway. It is time to trust someone else.’

  A stricken expression crossed the Major’s face. ‘Do you think I do not know that? Clarendon imagines that bringing me here before dawn will keep me safe, when the reality is that empty streets and darkness only make it easier for killers to strike. And I do not want to die …’

  ‘Then talk to me,’ urged Chaloner.

  The Major stared at him, and Chaloner saw his resolve begin to crumble. He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment, a door opened, and Gery’s voice could be heard echoing beneath them. The Major shot Chaloner an agonised glance and stumbled away.

  Chaloner’s thoughts whirled as he left the Earl’s offices. When he had been sent to arrest Knight and Gardner, he had overheard them discussing a murder. Somewhat unconvincingly, Gardner had denied involvement. Could Knight have been referring to the spies that Thurloe and Williamson had lost, presumably the same men as the ‘investigators’ to whom the Major had just referred? Chaloner supposed he would have to add finding Gardner to his list of tasks, especially now he knew the clerk kept company with Oxenbridge.

  When he reached the Great Gate, someone was waiting for him, shivering and stamping his feet against the cold. It was Vanderhuyden. Chaloner regarded him in surprise.

  ‘Thurloe said you are often here early, so I came in the hope of catching you,’ Vanderhuyden explained. His usually jovial face was sombre, and Chaloner’s stomach lurched.

  ‘Thurloe? Is he …’

  ‘He is well,’ Vanderhuyden assured him quickly. Then his expression turned rueful. ‘Other than extending affection to men who do not deserve it.’

  ‘Do you mean me?’

  ‘No, of course not. I mean Dorislaus.’ Vanderhuyden took a deep breath, and his next words emerged as a gabble. ‘I have a terrible fear that he is sending intelligence reports to Holland, and that the Dutch are behind the unrest that grips our country. A rebellion will make England weak and vulnerable, and may tip the balance in the war we shall soon fight.’

  ‘I thought you and Dorislaus were friends,’ said Chaloner, not revealing his own suspicions about the man. ‘So how can you make such a terrible accusation?’

  ‘We are friends.’ Vanderhuyden’s tormented wail drew the attention of several passing tradesmen. ‘And this is not easy, believe me. I have agonised about it for days. Should I turn a blind eye or put the interests of my country first? It is the hardest decision I have ever made.’

  ‘On what grounds do you suspect him?’

  ‘He holds clandestine meetings with peculiar people – O’Neill, le Notre and Gery. Why does he pursue an acquaintance with O’Neill, who sacked him from the Post Office? Meanwhile, le Notre is almost certainly a French spy, while Gery hates old Roundheads, so Dorislaus should have no reason for joining him in shadowy taverns late at night.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Because once my suspicions were roused, I made it my business to monitor him as often as possible. It is difficult, because I have to go to work, but even my occasional surveillance has convinced me that he is a …’ Vanderhuyden trailed off and looked away miserably.

  ‘Have you told Thurloe?’

  ‘He would not listen; you know how loyal he is to his friends. That is why I decided to come to you – you must have encountered this sort of thing in the past.’ Vanderhuyden’s voice was thick with misery. ‘I thought I would feel better once I had confided in someone else, but I feel worse. Like the lowest kind of worm.’

  Chaloner nodded understandingly. ‘But your duty is clear: you must take your tale to Williamson. He will uncover the truth.’

  ‘I was afraid you would say that,’ gulped Vanderhuyden. ‘And I shall, but not yet.’

  ‘Waiting might allow Dorislaus to do something even more damaging. It may even see you accused of treason yourself, for not stopping him sooner.’

  ‘Then it is a risk I shall have to take, because I refuse to do it without proper proof – written evidence of his perfidy, as opposed to what I have now, which amounts to little more than a series of odd encounters. I shall redouble my efforts. Will you help me?’

  ‘Only if my path happens to cross his. I am too busy to do more.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Vanderhuyden, disappointed. ‘Then I shall have to ask O’Neill for a few days’ leave. I will have to lie, tell him my wife is unwell …’

  ‘Speaking of the Post Office, what can you tell me about Harper?’

  Vanderhuyden looked surprised, but answered anyway. ‘O’Neill hired him to prevent harmful chatter. And it has worked: no one gossips about Post Office business now.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘However, there are tales that the place does a lot more than deliver letters, and keeping quiet about that is dangerous.’

  ‘You mean these claims about our corruption?’ Vanderhuyden shrugged. ‘The Foreign Office, where I work, is reasonably honest, but the Inland Office is much bigger and some of its clerks probably are abusing the system. But I imagine O’Neill is working to stamp it out.’

  ‘Actually, I was referring to the rumours that say something deadly is in play there.’

  Vanderhuyden shook his head impatiently. ‘That is a lot of nonsense, as I have told you before. I suspect someone like Bishop is behind those silly stories, to cause trouble for O’Neill.’

  Chaloner could only suppose that Vanderhuyden was so intent on Dorislaus’s antics that he had failed to see what was unfolding under his nose. He changed the subject, thinking that if the Major would not reveal what his contacts had said, then he would visit them himself.

  ‘The Major has friends in the Foreign Office. Who are they?’

  Vanderhuyden stared at him. ‘Are you suggesting that the Major is behind these silly tales? Because O’Neill was responsible for locking him in the Tower and getting Bishop dismissed? I doubt the poor fellow would have the nerve! He seems singularly lacking in spirit, and I find it very hard to believe that he once gave fiery speeches.’

  ‘Well, he did,’ said Chaloner. ‘So which clerks were his particu
lar friends?’

  ‘I do not know: I was not employed there when Bishop was in power. But if you help me with Dorislaus, I shall find out. I shall ask about this so-called plot, too. No one in my department will be able to help, but I have one or two acquaintances in the Inland Office.’

  ‘Please do not,’ said Chaloner tiredly. Vanderhuyden was not a spy, and did not possess the requisite skills; he would be discovered and killed. ‘It is too risky.’

  ‘It is not, because there is no plot. Do not worry, I shall be discreet. And asking sly questions of my colleagues cannot be more distasteful than spying on Dorislaus.’

  Chaloner watched him leave, unable to shake the conviction that he was letting him walk to his doom. But how was he to stop him? Knock him on the head and lock him up? Bargain with him by saying that he would investigate Dorislaus if Vanderhuyden left the city? But he did not have the time, and Vanderhuyden was no coward, so was unlikely to agree to such terms. He felt the pressure on him mount as he realised there was only one thing he could do to protect his friend: expose the Post Office plot as quickly as possible.

  It was still not fully light when Chaloner began to walk up King Street, and as it was too early to go to Newgate, he decided to visit the Rainbow. He did not need a draught of Farr’s poisonous brew, because his mind was already sharp with anxiety, but it was better than loitering in the cold, waiting for the gaol to open.

  He was almost at Charing Cross when he saw Morland, strutting like a peacock in his splendid clothes. Chaloner strode towards him, grabbed him by the lace that frothed at his throat, and whisked him behind a booth that sold cabbages. The stall shielded them from the road, while above their heads was a large tarpaulin, heavy-bellied with an icy slush of snow and rain. It was somewhere they would not be disturbed.

  ‘You are alive!’ A gamut of emotions flashed across Morland’s small face, the most obvious of which was astonishment; relief and pleasure were certainly not among them. ‘Thank God! I feared they had not listened when I urged clemency, and I am glad I had a hand in saving your life.’

  Chaloner released him abruptly. There was something so unpleasantly greasy about Morland that he was disinclined to touch him. ‘What were you doing at the Post Office last night?’

  ‘I was on an errand for Gery. We are investigating the place, you know.’

  ‘What goes on in that secret chamber?’

  Morland scowled. ‘I was on the verge of finding out when you appeared. Your antics brought Smartfoot and Lamb running, so I had to leave. You were a nuisance, to be frank.’

  Chaloner had no idea whether he was telling the truth, and was not sure how to find out, so opted instead to pursue a subject that might stand a better chance of producing reliable answers.

  ‘What do you know about Clement Oxenbridge?’

  Morland’s eyes widened fractionally. ‘No one knows anything about him. He just appears when he pleases, and then vanishes again. He is a sinister devil, though.’

  ‘What is his connection with White Hall?’

  ‘Well, he is friends with Monsieur le Notre. More than that I have not discovered.’

  Le Notre again, thought Chaloner. ‘What is—’

  He turned quickly when he sensed someone behind him. It was Gery and Freer, both holding handguns. With a squeak of relief, Morland slithered towards them.

  ‘He was quizzing me about the Post Office,’ he bleated. ‘He asked dozens of questions, but I told him nothing. At least, nothing that is true. However, he represents a serious nuisance, so lock him in a dungeon until this matter is over. It is for the best.’

  ‘Or I could shoot him,’ said Gery, the barrel of his gun unwavering.

  ‘In King Street?’ asked Chaloner archly. ‘At its busiest time of day? Even the Earl will not be able to protect you from the noose if you commit murder in so public a place.’

  Gery gestured with his free hand. ‘You chose to bully Morland somewhere that is concealed from the road. When witnesses arrive, Freer’s dag will be in your hand, and he and Morland will back my claim that you drew first. I shall be feted for saving London from a lunatic.’

  Chaloner shrugged. ‘Then we must make sure there is some truth in it.’

  Slowly and deliberately, he drew his sword. Gery frowned uncertainly, but although his finger tightened on the trigger, he did not pull it. For all his hot words, an innate sense of honour demanded that Chaloner should make at least some hostile move before being gunned down. Morland fled, unwilling to see how the confrontation resolved.

  ‘What are you doing, Chaloner?’ cried Freer in alarm. ‘Disarm yourself, man! Morland is right: we can lock you in a dungeon for a few days. There is no need for suicide.’

  Chaloner held the sword high, knowing that Gery would not fire until he lunged. He stood that way for a moment, then jabbed upwards, at the canvas above his head. There was an immediate cascade of sleety water. Gery jerked the trigger, but nothing happened, and by the time the marshal had dashed the droplets from his eyes, Chaloner was nowhere to be seen.

  It was easy to disappear among the teeming masses in King Street, and Chaloner knew that Gery would not catch him. He was disgusted with the encounter, though – he had learned nothing from Morland, and now Gery would hate him more than ever. He entered the familiar, fuggy warmth of the Rainbow, trailing water.

  ‘What news?’ called Farr. His jaw dropped. ‘Why are you wet? It is not raining.’

  ‘A vindictive apprentice,’ mumbled Chaloner.

  There was an immediate sigh of sympathy. Farr poured him some hot coffee, Speed the bookseller wrung out his coat, and Stedman gave him a handkerchief to wipe his face.

  ‘Apprentices have been causing far too much trouble of late,’ said Farr. ‘The tailors fought the soap-makers last night. What has got into them all?’

  ‘The tailors had a letter from Bristol yesterday,’ explained Speed, ‘in which they were urged to rise up against the wildness of the Court, the Lady’s gambling debts, the King’s favouring of papists—’

  ‘The King cuckolds one of England’s most prominent Catholics,’ interrupted Farr, laughing. ‘If that is favouring them, then I should not like to catch his eye.’

  ‘Speaking of Catholics, Palmer’s treatise goes on sale next week,’ said Speed happily. ‘You have not ordered a copy yet, although I am sure you will all want one.’

  ‘Have you heard the rumours about Mary Wood?’ asked Farr, changing the subject in a non sequitur that was typical of discussions at the Rainbow and neatly avoiding being obliged to part with some money at the same time. ‘The Queen’s dresser. It is said that she did not die of the small-pox, but was murdered.’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Speed. ‘Everyone knows it, but no one from Court is investigating.’

  ‘Probably because they are too busy worrying about the Post Office,’ said Stedman. ‘I heard some of my apprentices talking about it last night.’

  ‘What did they say?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘That something is brewing,’ came the unhelpful reply.

  ‘Something has been brewing ever since Bishop was ousted in favour of O’Neill,’ said Speed. ‘Have you heard that John Fry was seen last night, by the way?’

  ‘What, again?’ asked Farr. ‘That makes five times in the last three weeks.’

  ‘He has come to lead the revolt,’ said Speed darkly. ‘He tried to organise one eight years ago, but he was either murdered or died of flux – or perhaps he did not die at all – so he decided to wait for a more opportune time. And that time is now, apparently.’

  ‘I should not like to meet him, dead or alive,’ averred Farr. ‘He is a fanatic, and I dislike these rumours that he is going to assassinate someone important – the King, Lady Castlemaine, Clarendon, Buckingham, Controller O’Neill, le Notre or the Major.’

  Stedman grimaced. ‘Why would anyone want to kill the Major? He is in the Tower with no hope of release, and it is said that he is quite broken. It serves him right for executing the old King.
We all know that he was the one who struck off the royal head.’

  ‘His imprisonment is illegal, though,’ said Speed. ‘He has not been charged with anything, and he is continually denied a trial. He will die there, alone, forgotten and crushed in spirit. And talking of crushed spirits, I have Olearius’s Voyages for you, Chaloner. It makes for grim reading, I can tell you! You should have ordered some of Mr Grey’s pills, because you will need them when you peruse these pages.’

  Chaloner’s heart sank when, leafing through it, the first sentence he saw confidently informed him that Russians were ‘brutish, doing all things according to their unbridled passions and appetites.’ Farr invited him to read aloud, and when he declined, Stedman obliged, choosing a section about the peasants’ love of squalor and the tyranny of their leaders. Chaloner slipped away, suspecting he might have been wiser not to try to prepare himself for the ordeal ahead.

  The church bells were ringing for the eight o’clock services when Chaloner reached Newgate. The prison was a formidable structure, and he kept his head down as he approached, knowing that if he looked up at the bleak, soot-stained walls with their tiny barred windows, he would lose courage and walk away. It took considerable willpower to step inside and ask to see Keeper Sligo. His gorge rose at the familiar stench of rotting straw, unwashed bodies, slops and burned gruel.

  ‘You,’ said Sligo, when Chaloner was shown into his office. He was a cadaverous man, with a drinking habit. ‘When we met last year, you pretended to be someone you were not, and it saw me in serious trouble. I should take the opportunity to lock you in my darkest cell.’

  ‘Do not try it,’ advised Chaloner coldly, although the threat sent horror spearing through him. ‘I am on Williamson’s business today.’

  ‘How do I know you are telling the truth?’ asked Sligo suspiciously. ‘You lied before.’

  And he was lying now. ‘Write and ask him. I do not mind waiting.’

  Sligo reached for his pen, but then reconsidered, as Chaloner knew he would. ‘No, I want you gone as soon as possible, not looming over me while we wait for a reply.’ He sighed mournfully. ‘Today has brought me nothing but trouble. First there was that letter, and now there is you.’