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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Chaloner stood hastily. ‘There is nothing wrong that an early night will not cure.’

  Unfortunately an early night was not on the agenda for Chaloner. He arrived at Tothill Street to find Hannah entertaining. He tried to sneak upstairs without being seen, but she had heard the front door open, and came to intercept him. She was unsympathetic when he told her about the explosion, and he was left with the sense that she thought he had been caught in it for no reason other than reckless bloody-mindedness.

  Once he had changed into respectable clothes, he went to the drawing room and did his best to play the gracious host, but he was exhausted and his head ached. Moreover, he was not naturally loquacious, and hated the vacuous frivolity of Hannah’s courtly friends. The only person there of remote interest was Daniel O’Neill, although only because of his connection to the Post Office. O’Neill was with a woman who looked uncannily like him – elfin, dark and with brightly interested eyes. When Chaloner approached, O’Neill introduced her as his wife Kate.

  Kate held a very elevated opinion of herself, and immediately set about informing her listeners – at that point comprising Chaloner, her husband and an infamously debauched courtier named Will Chiffinch – that her embroidery was the best in London. Chiffinch quickly grew bored, and asked O’Neill about the Post Office blast instead. An agonised expression crossed O’Neill’s face, and Chaloner studied him closely, thinking that here was the man accused of having the Major imprisoned and Bishop dismissed. Were the tales true? And was his distress at Chiffinch’s question genuine, or was he just an extremely able actor?

  ‘It was dreadful,’ O’Neill replied. ‘Five dead, including the Alibond brothers, who were two of my best clerks. Fortunately, there was very little damage to the General Letter Office itself.’

  ‘The news is all over White Hall that two of your men are accused of corruption,’ said Chiffinch. ‘And that one is now in Newgate Gaol. Do you think the other left the gunpowder in revenge for being exposed?’

  There was a flash of something hard and unpleasant in O’Neill’s eyes. ‘It is possible, because I inherited that pair from Bishop. I should have followed my instincts and dismissed them, as I did the rest of his staff, but they begged me to be compassionate, and like a fool I capitulated.’

  ‘I would not have given in,’ declared Kate. ‘When Bishop became Postmaster at the Restoration, he re-hired a lot of old Parliamentarians, on the grounds that they knew how to run the place. But it is better to have inept Royalists than efficient Roundheads.’

  Chaloner did not agree. He and others like him had been sent home from Holland because the new Spymaster had decided to replace them with untried Cavaliers, and intelligence on England’s most serious enemy had suffered a blow from which it had never recovered. And now it seemed the same narrow-minded principles were being applied to the Post Office. He supposed it explained why the service had gone downhill once the more enlightened Bishop had been ousted.

  ‘I have nothing against a little ineptitude,’ Chiffinch was saying. ‘Indeed, I am prone to it myself on occasion. However, the service you provide is a disgrace, and I cannot tell you how many of my letters have gone astray since you became Postmaster.’

  ‘Controller,’ corrected O’Neill tightly. ‘I decline to use the same title as that rogue Bishop. And there is nothing wrong with my service. If your missives failed to arrive, then it is because you addressed them incorrectly.’

  Chiffinch bristled indignantly. ‘I assure you I did not. And you were wrong to expel Bishop’s people, because their experience would have helped to—’

  ‘One does not need experience to be a postal clerk,’ interrupted O’Neill contemptuously. ‘All they do is accept letters and shove them in bags to be delivered.’

  Even Chaloner knew the work was more complex than that, and O’Neill had just displayed a woeful ignorance about the foundation he was supposed to be running.

  ‘Put me in charge,’ suggested Kate. ‘I will turn it into a decent venture. And there will be no Gardners and Knights to steal our profits either, because I shall hire honest men.’

  ‘And how will you do that, madam?’ asked Chiffinch archly.

  ‘I can tell a good man from a rogue,’ declared Kate, glaring first at Chiffinch and then Chaloner in a way that said she thought they might well belong to the latter category. ‘I can distinguish between Papists and Anglicans at a glance, too. I would certainly not have any of them working in the Post Office.’

  ‘Any of whom?’ asked Chaloner, bemused. ‘Catholics or Protestants?’

  ‘Pope lovers,’ hissed Kate, eyes glittering. ‘They are an evil force in our country, and I applaud the laws that suppress them. I only wish we could burn them at the stake, too, because that would make them think twice about plotting against us.’

  Chaloner had no particular religious affiliation, but Hannah did, and he objected to her being insulted in her own home. ‘There is no Catholic plot to—’

  ‘There are dozens of them.’ O’Neill cut across him sharply. ‘And anyone who does not believe it is a fool. Bishop is Catholic, of course, which is why he tried to ruin the Post Office – as a covert act of treason.’ He turned crossly to his wife. ‘And the Post Office is profitable. I make princely sums every week, and the King was very kind to have appointed me to such a lucrative position. I deserved it, of course. There was no one more loyal than me when he was in exile.’

  Kate was about to reply when the door opened, and another guest arrived. Chaloner did not know him, although an immediate chorus of impressed coos suggested that everyone else did. The newcomer minced into the room waving a lace handkerchief and wearing a silk suit so tight that it had to be uncomfortable. His face was smeared in white paste, and his red-dyed lips and cheeks were stark against it. Much was explained when the language of the gathering immediately switched to French for his benefit – London fashions were outrageous, but Paris had contrived to take them to new levels of absurdity.

  ‘Monsieur le Notre,’ gushed Hannah, hurrying to greet him. ‘I am so pleased you could come.’

  ‘He is a landscape architect,’ explained Kate in an undertone, seeing Chaloner’s mystification. ‘Hired to design stunning new gardens at the palace that is currently being built at Versailles. However, our King has invited him to London first, to see what can be done about St James’s Park. It is a coup for Hannah to claim le Notre as a guest.’

  ‘What is wrong with St James’s Park?’ asked Chaloner, a little indignantly.

  Katherine regarded him pityingly. ‘Well, nothing, if you like boring swathes of grass.’

  ‘Perhaps we can dispense with those dreadful birds, too,’ added O’Neill. ‘They make a terrible mess by the Canal, and I dislike their raucous honking. They should all be shot.’

  ‘Three of them were killed recently,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether the Controller and his wife were responsible. They certainly seemed unpleasant enough.

  ‘We heard,’ said Kate. ‘The King is vexed, and Clarendon has promised him a culprit. Foolish man! The villain will never be caught – he will be long gone by now. Ah, Monsieur le Notre. How lovely to meet you.’

  Finding himself alone, Chaloner stepped into the hallway for a respite. Wafts of conversation drifted towards him. Mary Wood’s death was one of the main topics, along with speculation as to whether it would lead her husband to lose what scant wits he still possessed. There was also a lot of discussion about the Post Office explosion, and it was generally agreed that supporters of Parliament were responsible.

  ‘There is a rumour that John Fry is in the city,’ O’Neill was informing a group of horrified listeners. ‘Fomenting a rebellion that will destroy the monarchy for ever. It will begin with the assassination of a famous person, apparently. I sincerely hope I am not the intended victim.’

  ‘But John Fry is dead,’ said Hannah, puzzled. ‘Eight years ago. It was in the newsbooks.’

  ‘The newsbooks!’ spat Kate. ‘You cannot believe anythin
g you read in those. Personally, I am of the belief that it is Fry who has been agitating the apprentices. The King should let me lead a party of militia to root him out. Then we could hang, draw and quarter him in Smithfield, as a warning to other would-be traitors.’

  Chaloner shuddered, feeling there had already been too much blood shed for politics. Reluctantly, he re-entered the affray, where he was immediately accosted by a drunken courtier with foolish opinions about the Dutch. Time passed so slowly that he went to the clock Hannah had recently purchased at great expense, and shook it, to see whether it had stopped working. Something dropped out on to the floor, and there was a metallic twang as pieces sprang loose inside.

  ‘I should set it down and disavow all knowledge, if I were you.’

  The speaker was le Notre, his eyes bright with amusement. Chaloner did not want to do as he was told, but unless he intended to hold the clock all night, he had no choice but to put it back on the table. He did so carefully, wincing when its face tilted at a peculiar angle inside the case.

  ‘When Hannah notices, tell her O’Neill did it,’ le Notre continued. His French had a lazy, aristocratic drawl that suggested he was rather more than a designer of gardens. ‘She should not pursue a friendship with him anyway. Or his wife.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Chaloner, taken aback by the presumptuous advice.

  ‘Because they hate nonconformists, and will make bad enemies if they discover her religion.’

  Chaloner was uncomfortable. It was not illegal to follow the Old Faith, but it was strongly discouraged, and Hannah would find herself barred from all manner of places and occasions should her conversion become common knowledge. ‘She is not—’

  ‘The Queen invited me to her private chapel this morning, and I saw Hannah accept the Host from the priest,’ interrupted le Notre. ‘But do not worry, I am not a man to betray a fellow Catholic. However, you should warn her against the O’Neills.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether she would listen. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Your King promised religious tolerance when he reclaimed his throne, but it has not come to pass. Indeed, I read in your government’s newsbook – The Intelligencer – this morning that he has ordered his country to dispense with Lent this year. Dispense with Lent! Whatever next?’

  ‘On what grounds?’ asked Chaloner, who had not had time for reading that day.

  ‘The article did not say. It merely reported that the King “doth for good reasons think that in this present year, no proclamation do issue forth for the strict observance of Lent”. I imagine these “good reasons” are so that it does not curtail his merry lifestyle.’

  Chaloner made no reply, loath to engage in treasonous discussions with foreigners.

  ‘Lord Castlemaine will put him right, though,’ le Notre went on. ‘He has written a book, an apology for Catholics, which will be published next week. Will Hannah purchase a copy?’

  ‘Will you?’ Chaloner was not about to answer a question that might see his wife in trouble.

  Le Notre smiled. ‘Yes. Palmer is an intelligent man, and will have sensible things to say. But I must not monopolise you, Monsieur Chaloner. Good evening. I hope our paths cross again.’

  Chaloner did not. The Frenchman was far too outspoken for him.

  Hannah’s soirée finished very late, and for once Chaloner was grateful that they had a large body of servants, because there was a lot to clean up. Unfortunately, they did so noisily, and although Hannah seemed oblivious to the racket, it kept him awake well into the small hours. He supposed he could have ordered them to be quiet, but it seemed unreasonable to demand silence so that he could sleep when he imagined they would like to be abed themselves.

  He had his revenge the following morning, though, waking long before dawn and clattering in the kitchen until Joan the housekeeper appeared. She was a grim-faced woman whose loose black clothes and beady eyes always put him in mind of a crow. She had given up treating him respectfully months before, when she had realised that the high regard in which Hannah held her meant she was immune from dismissal, and that any disagreements were put down to Chaloner’s irascible temper and not her own. She regarded him coldly.

  ‘May I help you with something? If so, please wait in the drawing room.’

  It was a none too subtle reminder that Chaloner was trespassing in the domain she considered to be her own. Chaloner did not agree. The kitchen was by far the most comfortable room in the house, and the warmest, too, with a fire burning all day. He also liked the pleasing aromas of baking – unless Hannah happened to be plying her culinary skills, in which case wild horses would not have dragged him there. His wife’s inability to cook was legendary, and it was fortunate that the servants prepared most of their meals, or they would have starved.

  ‘I can manage, thank you,’ he replied shortly.

  ‘Manage with what?’ Joan demanded. ‘If it is food you want, I shall see what is available. Some fish-head soup, perhaps. Or boiled vegetable parings, which are very wholesome.’

  ‘Some milk will suffice,’ said Chaloner, sure Hannah was not offered such unappealing fare when she visited the kitchen.

  He saw the instant glee on Joan’s face: she believed cold milk was poisonous. She went to pour him some, handing him a far larger cup than he would have taken for himself. He sipped it gingerly, supposing it was sour and she intended to make him sick, so he was astonished to discover that it was sweet and creamy. He nodded his thanks, and left the house as the first light began to steal across the city’s grey streets.

  It was too early to visit Storey and expect to be civilly received, so Chaloner wandered rather aimlessly, thinking about Hannah’s penchant for people with whom he had nothing in common. Why in God’s name had he married her? Was it because they had both been lonely, and it had been an act of desperation? Head bowed, deep in gloomy thoughts, he walked east.

  It was another frigid day, and although it was not snowing, the wind was sharp. He skidded frequently on ice, especially at the sides of the roads where water had frozen in the gutters. Like the previous morning, the city was slower to wake than normal, with people reluctant to leave their fires and warm beds. It was quieter, too, with street vendors saving their voices for the crowds they hoped would come later, and there were fewer carts and carriages on the roads.

  He passed St Paul’s Cathedral, the majestic but crumbling Gothic edifice that was loved by everyone except architects, who itched to replace it with something of their own devising. It dwarfed the surrounding buildings, even without the lofty spire that had been damaged by lightning a century before. What caught Chaloner’s attention that day, however, was not its grandeur, but the fact that a large group of youths had gathered outside it, talking in low voices.

  He stared at them as he passed. Their clothes suggested they were apprentices from several different guilds, including ones that were traditional enemies. He was uneasy – apprentices were an unruly, volatile crowd, and unrest among them often presaged greater trouble elsewhere. He wondered what they were doing together. Was it anything to do with the rumours that the political agitator John Fry was in the city – that they expected him to lead them in some sort of rebellion? Chaloner hoped not. London had seen far too much trouble over the past two decades, and it was time for a little peace.

  He continued walking, threading through the tangle of lanes between Watling Street and Dowgate Hill, and to kill time, he entered the fuggy warmth of the Antwerp Coffee House, hoping a dose of the brew would sharpen his wits. The shop was busy, and the odour of burning beans mingled with the reek of a dozen tobacco pipes and the sharper tang of a badly vented chimney.

  He sat at an empty table, and opened the latest news-book – twice-weekly publications in which the government gave people its versions of domestic and foreign affairs. He learned with some bemusement that le Notre had been right about the King’s decision to ignore the strictures of Lent, and His Majesty had indeed issued a proclamation saying that
everyone could ignore it that year. He also learned that two Quaker meetings had been raided in Ross for no reason other than bigoted intolerance, and that the French Court was eagerly awaiting the Grand Ballet.

  As he flicked through the rest of the paper, he became aware that the conversation at the next table was about Lady Castlemaine, who had amassed massive gambling debts and expected the King, via the taxpayer, to settle them. It occurred to him then that Temperance had decried the Antwerp for being the haunt of disgruntled Parliamentarians, and he was on the verge of leaving when someone mentioned the comet that was currently blazing across the heavens, and the conversation moved to less contentious issues.

  He relaxed a little, and sipped his coffee. It had a pleasantly nutty flavour, quite unlike the bitter concoction that was served in the place he usually frequented. He still did not like it, but at least it allowed him to understand why others did. It was probably a good deal more palatable with sugar, but he never took that, as a silent and probably meaningless protest against the way it was produced on plantations.

  He had just started to browse a list of all the goods that had been imported through Plymouth the previous year – the government’s idea of entertaining reading – when two men approached. He glanced up warily, hoping they had not come to berate him for sitting alone. Coffee houses were not places for solitude, and he had broken an unwritten rule by taking a seat at an empty table.

  ‘Tom Chaloner,’ said one softly. ‘I thought you would have been dead by now.’

  It took a moment for Chaloner to recognise the man who had spoken, because Isaac Dorislaus had aged in the year or so since they had last met. What little hair Dorislaus still possessed was grey, and there were lines of strain and worry around his eyes and mouth.

  He and Chaloner had much in common. First, they shared the misfortune of having kinsmen who had been involved in the execution of the first King Charles: Dorislaus’s father had helped prepare the charges of treason, while Chaloner’s uncle had signed the death warrant. Second, they had both worked for Cromwell’s intelligence service, Chaloner as a spy and Dorislaus in the Post Office. And third, they both spoke flawless Dutch – Dorislaus’s father had been a Hollander, while Chaloner had lived in The Hague and Amsterdam. However, Chaloner had never been quite sure of Dorislaus’s loyalty to the Commonwealth, and when several of his reports to Spymaster Thurloe had mysteriously gone missing, he had suspected that it was Dorislaus who had ‘lost’ them.