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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Farr, wide-eyed. ‘I do not like the sound of that.’

  ‘And no one in that entire benighted nation knows Latin,’ added Speed in a hushed voice, as if he considered this a far more serious deficiency. ‘Except perhaps their Secretary of State.’

  ‘I shall not go,’ determined Stedman, although the chances of him receiving an invitation were slim. ‘And these ducks should be grateful to be in London – the finest city in the world. Do you not agree, Chaloner?’

  ‘The ones who were killed probably would not,’ replied Chaloner.

  ‘Such a vile, cowardly deed will be the work of fanatics,’ stated Farr. ‘And speaking of fanatics, there is talk of a rebellion bubbling in Hull.’

  ‘No, it is in Sussex,’ countered Stedman. ‘One of my customers told me about it.’

  ‘It was Hull,’ said Farr firmly. ‘I read it in a government newsbook, so it must be true.’

  No one remarked on the rank fallacy of this statement.

  ‘Actually, it may be both,’ said Speed. ‘Because the whole country is on the verge of revolution at the moment. Word is that John Fry has risen from the dead – if he was ever dead in the first place – and is writing letters telling people to prepare for the better society that he will usher in.’

  ‘There are also rumours that someone important will soon be assassinated,’ said Stedman. ‘I have heard it from several different sources, so I am inclined to believe it.’

  ‘Who will die, then?’ asked Farr with ghoulish interest.

  ‘Probably Monsieur le Notre, the French landscape architect,’ replied Stedman. ‘Or if not him, then the Duke of Buckingham or the Earl of Clarendon.’

  ‘Well, I heard it would be the Major,’ said Speed, while Chaloner regarded Stedman in alarm, not liking his master’s name on such a list. ‘The poor fellow who has been locked in the Tower for the past eighteen months without an opportunity to prove his innocence in a trial.’

  ‘The Major!’ spat Stedman in distaste. ‘He was an officer in Cromwell’s army, and anyone who supported that villain deserves to die. Moreover, it is said that he was the executioner who chopped off the old King’s head.’

  ‘If that were true, he would not have tried to blow up Cromwell a few years later,’ argued Speed. ‘And he spent ages in prison for that particular crime. Surely that proves his loyalty to the current regime?’

  ‘I have also heard that His Majesty might be the victim of this pending assassination,’ said Stedman, ignoring the bookseller’s point. ‘Just because he likes the occasional party.’

  ‘His “occasional parties” are wild debauches that occur with shocking regularity,’ said Speed sternly. ‘He should learn to control himself, because his people do not approve.’

  ‘It is none of their business,’ declared Stedman, the blindly loyal Royalist. ‘And I am not listening to any more of this talk. It is sedition, and we want no more of that.’

  ‘No, we do not,’ agreed Farr soberly. ‘However, the King should not have dispensed with Lent this year. There is nothing wrong with a period of self-denial. It is good for the soul.’

  ‘Good for the Catholic soul perhaps,’ countered Stedman sullenly. ‘But we Anglicans do not need it.’

  ‘Lord Castlemaine will publish a book about Catholics next week,’ said Speed brightly. ‘I shall sell it in my shop. And speaking of him, he was blown off his feet by that explosion at the Post Office. I saw him myself, all dusty and dishevelled, when I arrived there shortly afterwards.’

  ‘I do not suppose you saw a musician, too, did you?’ asked Chaloner. He shrugged when everyone regarded him curiously. ‘I heard one was entertaining when the blast occurred.’

  ‘I did, as it happens,’ replied Speed. ‘He was running like the devil, clutching a flageolet. He was wearing a faded blue hat, yellow breeches and a reddish cloak.’

  ‘Was the Post Office attacked because it is so corrupt?’ asked Farr. ‘We all know that everyone who works there is a thief. And that includes Controller O’Neill.’

  ‘True,’ nodded Speed. ‘The only honest man was Mr Knight – and he is arrested.’

  Chaloner winced, and supposed he would have to visit Newgate as soon as possible, not just to find out what Knight knew, but also to see whether there was anything the clerk needed. Clean clothes, decent food and a visitor who believed in him might make his imprisonment easier to bear.

  Chapter 4

  Chaloner stepped outside the Rainbow Coffee House to find that dawn had brought snow, tiny nodules so hard and dense that they danced across the frozen streets and showed no inclination to melt. Ice formed slick patches on which pedestrians, horses and even carts skidded precariously.

  He turned west along Fleet Street, supposing he should report to the Earl before he did anything else. Afterwards, he would go again to St James’s Park, although he suspected he was wasting his time given that he had already looked for clues without success. Then he would turn his attention to the Post Office, questioning its employees and suppressing his hatred of prisons to speak to Knight in Newgate. And finally, when the short winter day was over and the General Letter Office was empty, he would break in and see what a systematic search would reveal.

  White Hall was deserted when he arrived, and the Great Court looked as though it had hosted a riot. Windows were smashed, the heads of statues had been knocked off, and the ground was strewn with discarded clothing. It was the aftermath of one of the Court’s infamous debauches, which explained why the palace was so quiet – the revellers had only just gone to bed, and the other residents were catching up on the sleep they had missed while the party was in progress.

  The Earl was at his desk, though. He had not been invited to join the carousing, and would not have gone if he had, being strongly disapproving of such behaviour. Even so, his face was pale, and he had the look of a man who had slept badly. Chaloner wondered why, when his fine new mansion in Piccadilly should have been too far away to have been disturbed by White Hall’s excesses. The Earl scowled as his intelligencer approached.

  ‘You went to the Post Office yesterday, after I expressly forbade it,’ he snapped. ‘Why?’

  Chaloner wondered whether it had been Gery, Morland or Freer who had told tales. ‘Actually, sir, I went to visit Edward Storey. He lives next door.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Curator of Birds at St James’s Park.’

  ‘Oh.’ The glower lifted. ‘Have you come to report what happened to the poor beasts? The King will be pleased when I expose the culprit.’

  ‘They were poisoned. I plan to interview the park’s gardeners and assistant keepers today.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ demanded the Earl, cross again. ‘Go and speak to them at once. This is important, Chaloner. I promised His Majesty a solution, and he is expecting one.’

  ‘I shall do my best.’ Chaloner hesitated, not sure how to phrase what he wanted to say. ‘I am concerned about the General Letter Office, sir. Knight said something untoward is unfolding there, and then that explosion claimed five lives …’

  The Earl eyed him coldly. ‘Yes, and Gery is looking into it. You have other duties.’

  ‘There are also rumours that someone will be assassinated, and London is full of tales about famous agitators waiting to lead the country in a violent rebellion. I cannot shake the conviction that the Post Office plot is related to all this, and—’

  ‘No,’ declared the Earl firmly. ‘You have allowed yourself to be swayed by Knight’s silly ramblings. But the man is a liar, and you should not believe anything he said.’

  ‘What did he say, sir? He refused to tell me until he had spoken to you, but then Gery sent me to fetch the palace guards, and I did not hear what—’

  ‘He spouted a lot of nonsense,’ interrupted the Earl briskly. ‘Suspicions without evidence. But Gery will investigate regardless, so there is no need for you to worry about it.’

  Chaloner nodded, but decided to visit Newgate the mome
nt he left the palace, even more certain that something was seriously amiss. He longed to ask why the Earl had appointed Gery, and why he himself was being deliberately excluded from whatever was going on, but he could tell by the determined set of his master’s mouth that he would be given short shrift if he did.

  ‘Go and find this bird-killer,’ the Earl went on sternly. ‘And leave the Post Office alone. I do not want you impeding Gery’s enquiry with one of your own. Do you hear?’

  Chaloner tried one last time. ‘But I might be able to help. Whatever is happening there involves murder as well as insurrection and corruption, and Gery—’

  ‘You will stay away! I mean it, Chaloner. Do as you are told.’

  Chaloner regarded his master worriedly. ‘Is anything wrong, sir?’

  ‘Wrong?’ demanded the Earl shrilly. He would not meet Chaloner’s eyes. ‘Nothing is wrong.’

  ‘Tell me how I can help,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘No one else need know.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong!’ Twin spots of anger glowed on the Earl’s plump cheeks. ‘Now go and catch the villain who is killing ducks. And if I hear you have disobeyed me, you can look for another appointment, because there is no place in my household for unruly retainers.’

  Although the Earl had threatened him with un-employment before, Chaloner was under the distinct impression that this time he meant it. There was no more to be said, and Clarendon had already turned back to the papers on his desk. It was a dismissal, and he did not even glance up as Chaloner bowed and took his leave.

  Chaloner closed the door and stood for a moment, thinking. It seemed Dorislaus had been right to urge him to defy his master on the grounds that Gery was a sinister influence – and the Earl was definitely upset about something. Was it the recent death of a son, as Williamson thought? Yet Clarendon seemed more frightened and worried than grief-stricken.

  ‘Did he holler at you again?’ came a soft voice from the shadows.

  It was Freer. Chaloner glanced around for Gery and Morland, but the soldier appeared to be alone. He nodded.

  ‘Do not take it amiss.’ Freer patted his shoulder kindly. ‘He mourns his dead child.’

  ‘So I have been told.’

  ‘You must know how he feels,’ Freer went on quietly. ‘Hannah told me that you lost one to sickness in Holland some years ago.’

  Chaloner nodded again, but was appalled that Hannah should have revealed such an intimate detail to a relative stranger. What else had she said? That he was incapable of expressing his feelings, which was one of the things she had come to deplore in him? Unfortunately, it was true, although he was sure he had had no trouble doing it when he was younger.

  ‘You are at work early,’ he said, abruptly changing the subject.

  ‘Actually, I am here late – I have been guarding Clarendon. There is a rumour that someone will be assassinated soon, so Gery has ordered him watched at all times. Last night was my turn.’

  ‘You think he will be the victim?’

  ‘Not really. According to popular rumour, the murder will have repercussions, but our Earl’s death will not cause many ripples, given his waning popularity. Personally, I suspect the target will be someone like the Duke of Buckingham, who has followers. Or O’Neill from the Post Office. Or Monsieur le Notre, because that will cause friction with France. Or even the Major.’

  ‘Others have said the Major might be the target, too,’ mused Chaloner. ‘But I cannot see why. He was a fiery speaker once, but he seems broken now.’

  ‘Well, that is hardly surprising after eighteen months in the Tower. However, his death will have serious consequences for Clarendon – if he is murdered, our Earl will be blamed.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Because he is in the habit of summoning him to White Hall, a journey that renders him vulnerable?’

  ‘Precisely. The poor fellow is dragged here two or three times a week. I think the Earl should visit him in the Tower instead, but he declines to go, on the grounds that he does not like it.’

  Chaloner did not like the Tower either, yet even he thought it unwise to put a man’s life in danger for the sake of personal convenience. ‘Who would want the Major dead? I doubt anyone remembers him now.’

  ‘On the contrary, he is popular because he advocates that any political change must be brought about slowly, gently and peacefully. The death of a committed pacifist will certainly ignite bad feeling.’

  Chaloner supposed it might. ‘Why does the Earl confer with him so often?’

  ‘Because he is the one who first heard that all is not well at the Post Office. He managed to tell Sir Henry Wood, who happened to be in the Tower pretending to be a lion. And Wood reported it to Clarendon. Obviously, the Earl cannot use Wood as an intermediary – the man is barely sane – and he is reluctant to trust anyone else. So the Major is brought to White Hall.’

  ‘A prisoner learned about trouble at the Post Office?’ asked Chaloner sceptically. ‘How?’

  ‘Because the Major was a frequent visitor to Post House Yard when his friend Bishop was in charge, and several of its clerks still write to him. Thank God he is loyal to the Crown, because O’Neill has erected a wall of silence around the place, and the Major’s contacts represent a vital conduit of information. We would know nothing were it not for him. He is extremely valuable.’

  Chaloner frowned. ‘But O’Neill dismissed all the clerks that Bishop hired, and replaced them with men of his own. The Major cannot still have friends in the General Letter Office.’

  ‘O’Neill made a clean sweep of the Inland Office, but he left the Foreign Office alone because it is much smaller and – in his view – far less important. The two departments are separate, as I am sure you know, but its clerks chat to each other, and it is the Foreign Office men who pass the Major his intelligence.’

  ‘Intelligence about what, exactly?’

  ‘I cannot tell you more,’ said Freer apologetically. ‘Gery would dismiss me if he knew I had revealed this much, and I like working here. However, I can say that in return for his help, the Earl has promised to arrange the Major’s release. I hope he does not renege. The disappointment will kill the Major if he does.’

  As Chaloner walked towards the palace gate, courtiers spilled out of the sumptuous apartment that belonged to Lady Castlemaine, where they had evidently gone to round off their night of fun. She was resplendent in a scarlet gown that hugged the sensuous curves of her body, a body that had cost the King a good slice of his popularity with his people. Her face showed the ravages of good living, though – her skin was puffy, her eyes bloodshot, and there was an unhealthy pallor in her cheeks.

  Chaloner was reluctant to thread his way through a lot of people who hated his Earl, lest one of them was drunk enough to start a fight, and he did not want to skewer anyone if it could be avoided. He stepped into a doorway to wait until they had gone, where he discovered that he was not the only one loath to risk an encounter. Two others were already there: Thomas Kipps was the Earl’s cheerful, friendly Seal Bearer, while Mrs Chiffinch was unhappily married to the Court rake who had chatted to Chaloner and the O’Neills at Hannah’s soirée the other night.

  ‘It is a pity the villains who tried to blow up the Post Office did not target White Hall instead,’ said Kipps, uncharacteristically acerbic. Chaloner could only suppose he was resentful because he had not been invited to the Lady’s party – he was a great admirer of her thighs, and was even willing to endure Court debauches for a glimpse of them. ‘None of these villains would be missed.’

  ‘No, but it almost deprived us of him.’ Mrs Chiffinch pointed to Roger Palmer, fresh and fit, who was emerging from the Queen’s private chapel where Mass had just ended. ‘He was caught in that blast, and his death would have been a waste of an intelligent, decent man.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Kipps. ‘He is worth ten of any other courtier, present company excluded.’

  ‘His family warned him against marrying her,’ Mrs Chiffinch went on. ‘They said s
he would make him the unhappiest man alive, and so she has. She will service any man who asks.’

  ‘Not any man,’ said Kipps regretfully. ‘But she is a beauty! Just look at her lovely—’

  ‘A whore’s figure,’ interrupted Mrs Chiffinch. ‘And not worth our attention. Have you heard the rumours that say a courtier will be assassinated, by the way? Who will it be, do you think?’

  ‘Buckingham?’ suggested Kipps. ‘The King? Clarendon? Unfortunately, all refuse to change their plans, saying they would never get anything done if they panicked every time there is a threat to their lives. It means that everyone else is obliged to do the same, or risk being accused of cowardice.’

  ‘You two must look after Clarendon,’ ordered Mrs Chiffinch. ‘He is the only member of the Privy Council with morals, and we cannot afford to lose him.’

  Just then, Sir Henry Wood arrived, sitting astride a small donkey. It was a peculiar sight, and Lady Castlemaine and her cronies burst into hoots of mocking laughter. Wood tried to dismount, but found he could not do it, so Palmer went to assist. Wood promptly flung his arms around Palmer’s neck, causing him to stumble, which caused another outburst of hilarity.

  The cobbles were icy, and unwilling to see Palmer suffer the indignity of a tumble in front of such an audience, Chaloner hurried to help. It was not long before they had Wood standing on his own two feet, and there was a collective sigh of disappointment from the onlookers.

  ‘I know you,’ said Wood, fixing Chaloner with his bright amber eyes. ‘You are Chaloner the regicide, and you agreed with me that radishes were responsible for the attack on that dangerous abomination that calls itself the Post Office. Or did you argue for cabbages? I cannot recall now.’

  ‘Neither,’ objected Chaloner, unwilling to be associated with Wood’s peculiar theories. Or to be confused with his uncle in a place like White Hall, for that matter. ‘And I am not a—’

  ‘I cannot talk,’ Wood interrupted sharply. ‘I must paint myself green as a defence against the comet. Did you know that its presence in our sky is harmful? However, it is very fond of trees, so colouring myself like one should allow me to evade its malevolent attentions.’