When he saw he would have to break through a thick plate of ice to draw water from the barrel in the hall, Chaloner dispensed with washing and shaving. He donned a white shirt that was damply chill against his bare skin, and the black breeches and dark-grey long-coat he had worn the night before. He replaced the dagger he had lobbed in the General Letter Office the previous day, choosing one that was small enough to slip up his sleeve without being obvious, and then was ready to face whatever the day might bring. He met Stokes as he was walking down the stairs.
‘Did that fracas keep you awake last night?’ the veteran asked. ‘It was the printers’ apprentices, full of hubris because they threw stones at the Castlemaine coach yesterday. It was empty, so no one was harmed, although I imagine the horses had a fright, poor creatures.’
Chaloner wondered whether Oxenbridge had put them up to it, and had arranged for rocks to be hurled at Palmer’s windows when the first assault had failed.
‘I detest Castlemaine,’ Stokes went on. ‘He turns a blind eye while his whore-wife makes a cuckold of him, and he will soon publish a tract telling us that we have nothing to fear from Catholics – to lull us into feeling safe before they slit our throats as we sleep.’
‘When you read it, you will see that is not the case,’ said Chaloner, feeling obliged to defend the man whose hospitality he had enjoyed the night before.
Stokes’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I shall not read it, and I recommend you do not either. It will be seditious, and if you are caught with a copy … well, suffice to say that such charges are easily made, but not so easily disproved. And I do not want to visit Newgate to hear your viol.’
‘I doubt—’
‘London has a dangerous feel at the moment,’ Stokes interrupted severely. ‘And I urge you to stay away from any whiff of treachery – which includes poring over Catholic pamphlets.’
Chaloner was tempted to say he would pore over what he liked, but Stokes was well-intentioned, and he did not want an argument. He gave a noncommittal nod.
‘Come with me to Will’s Coffee House,’ the veteran said, clapping a friendly arm around his shoulders. ‘Our fractured night means we could both do with a medicinal draught.’
Will’s had been Chaloner’s favourite coffee house before he had grown to regard the Rainbow with such affection. However, when he entered its pleasantly smoky interior, which smelled of roasted beans, rather than burned ones, and where the tobacco used by the patrons seemed sweeter and less pungent than that favoured by Farr’s clients, he wondered why he had been seduced away.
While Stokes responded to Will’s ‘What news?’ with an account of the brawl, Chaloner picked up a copy of The Intelligencer, fresh from the printing presses that morning, and sat down to read it. He was bemused to learn that the government’s idea of headline news was that the wind was from the east in Deal. He was about to toss it away in disgust when a notice caught his eye:
Whereas many frauds and abuses have been committed by intercepting letters, and Bills of Exchange; and upon inquiry, one Knight (now a prisoner in Newgate) is detected to have had a hand therein. And whereas one Lewis Gardner lately imployed in the Letter Office, being of known intimacy with the said Knight, and since his seizure absenting himself, is more than suspected to have been a principal in the business. Be it known that the said Gardner is of middle stature, bushy hair’d, of a yellowish flaxen, round-faced, well-complexioned, and aged betwixt 20 and 30. Whosoever shall apprehend him shall have 501 from Mr Joseph Williamson for his peyns.
Chaloner stared at it in astonishment. Fifty pounds was a colossal sum, so why was the Spymaster willing to pay so much? Or was the prize merely indicative of the seriousness with which the government viewed such charges? Regardless, it was recklessly generous, and Williamson would be inundated with information, most of it bogus, from people determined to have the money. It would take him an age to sort the genuine clues from the false ones.
He glanced up when Stokes approached, a companion in tow. The newcomer was another elderly ex-military man, with baggy grey eyes that looked as though they had seen too much. Like Stokes, he carried himself ramrod straight, and sported a large, old-fashioned moustache.
‘This is James Cliffe,’ said Stokes. ‘A comrade from Naseby.’
‘Where we fought bravely,’ said Cliffe sourly. ‘Only to see our country run by men who have one aim in life: to debauch themselves into oblivion, and to get rich without doing any work.’
That sounded like two aims to Chaloner, but he stopped himself from saying so, suspecting that Cliffe was not the kind of man to appreciate levity when he was griping.
‘White Hall is a den of iniquity,’ agreed Stokes. ‘The Court sleeps all day, and only stirs itself in the afternoons when there are parties to attend.’
‘It is Lord Castlemaine’s fault,’ said Cliffe venomously. ‘If he kept his wanton wife in order, she would not be free to bewitch the King and distract him from affairs of state. I did not endure having three toes shot off at Naseby to see my country run by reprobates. It is a vile state of affairs.’
Chaloner stood abruptly. It was hardly sensible to engage in seditious talk in public places.
‘Sit down, man,’ ordered Stokes irritably. ‘You know we speak the truth. And we are not alone in our convictions. All London is appalled by the way the Court comports itself.’
‘Palmer should do the decent thing and take her off to Rome with him,’ Cliffe railed on. ‘Once her hold over the King is broken, all will be well again. His Majesty will see the sorry state of his realm, and will take steps to remedy the matter.’
Chaloner had started to aim for the door, but Cliffe’s remarks made him stop and gape his disbelief. He had heard some naive opinions in his time, but this one outranked the others by a considerable margin.
‘He is right.’ Stokes nodded earnestly. ‘She is ruthlessly greedy, and her gambling debts alone are costing more than the Dutch war. She lost ten thousand pounds in a single night, a bill the King paid with public monies. Palmer should rein her in before she bankrupts the entire country.’
‘Oh, damnation!’ exclaimed Cliffe, as the door opened and a man strolled in. ‘It is that horrible Spymaster again. I am not staying if he is here.’
He left with such haste that Williamson’s eyes narrowed. Other patrons glanced up to see what had agitated Cliffe, and when they spotted the Spymaster, there was a general race for the door that had the owner gaping his dismay and Williamson’s expression hardening further still.
‘The wretched man has taken to coming here of late,’ explained Stokes to Chaloner, pulling his hat low over his eyes as he prepared to follow. ‘But I wish he would find somewhere else – it is a nuisance having to dash off every time he appears.’
Chaloner sat down with a sigh, feeling that to join the exodus would arouse Williamson’s suspicions, and he had enough to worry about without a spymaster thinking he was up to no good.
Pulling The Intelligencer towards him, he ordered more coffee. One serving was more than sufficient to set his heart racing, but it would have looked peculiar to sit with an empty dish. And vile though coffee was, it was more palatable than tea, which tasted of dead vegetation, while chocolate was just plain nasty with its bitter flavour and oily texture.
He scowled when Williamson came to perch next to him – no one liked to be seen fraternising with a man who was universally hated, feared and distrusted, and he resented the presumption of familiarity. The fact that he was the only customer left, and it was considered poor etiquette to sit alone in coffee houses, was beside the point.
‘You are up early,’ said Williamson, brushing a few snowflakes from his coat. ‘And it is a bitterly cold morning, when most men would prefer to be in bed with their wives. I know I would rather be with mine. Marriage is a wonderful institution.’
He was newly wed to a woman he loved, but Chaloner did not want to discuss matrimonial bliss, acutely aware that his own situation was rather less satisfactor
y.
‘It will never catch on,’ he said. The Spymaster regarded him askance, and Chaloner gestured to the mixture in his dish. ‘Coffee. We drink it because it is fashionable, not because it is pleasant, and the moment something better comes along, we shall abandon it.’
‘I beg to differ. It has become a necessity to most of us, although I am not so sure about coffee houses. They are full of seditious chatter, and I would suppress the lot of them if I could. Especially the Antwerp. And its neighbour the Crown, come to that.’
‘The Crown is a tavern, not a coffee house. Besides, it is popular with Royalists.’
‘Yes,’ said Williamson grimly. ‘But the fanatical kind, who want to kill every man, woman and child who sided with Parliament. What were you discussing just now, by the way? Your companions raced away as though they were on fire when they saw me.’
‘You do have that effect on people.’
Williamson regarded him coolly. ‘Cliffe and Stokes were officers in Cromwell’s army, so they are persons of interest to me. Were they advocating a return to republicanism?’
‘Actually, they were bemoaning the fact that Lady Castlemaine is transpiring to be more expensive than war with the Dutch.’
‘It is not true,’ said Williamson. Then he grimaced. ‘But she is doing her best to remedy the matter. She lost another five hundred pounds at cards last night, and her royal bastards are costing a fortune in earldoms and estates. Not to mention her appetite for clothes, jewellery, fine art …’
‘Speaking of money, was it wise to offer such a large reward for Gardner’s arrest?’
Williamson’s jaw tightened. ‘That was Clarendon’s idea. I advised him against it – said we would be swamped with misleading information from unsavoury individuals determined to have the cash – but he is determined to see Gardner in custody. To answer for his crimes.’
‘What crimes?’ Chaloner was uneasy. Why had the Earl insisted on such a foolish measure?
‘Allowing friends and relatives to send letters free of charge.’
Chaloner’s disquiet intensified. ‘For fifty pounds, I could send three thousand letters to Dover and two thousand to Bristol. The reward is vastly in excess of the offence.’
Williamson frowned. ‘I had not done the arithmetic, but you are right. Does this mean your Earl has learned more about the Post Office than he is telling me?’
Chaloner wished he knew. ‘Perhaps he suspects Gardner of setting Thursday’s blast. That would explain the huge reward. I did not see him there, but my memory of the whole event is hazy.’
Williamson’s expression was bleak. ‘I cannot tell you how difficult it is to acquire information about the place. None of O’Neill’s clerks will talk to me, and I have used every trick in the book – bribes, blackmail, flattery. My men have even whisked them down dark alleys and put knives to their throats, but they either claim to know nothing or Harper rescues them before they can speak.’
‘Surely you have spies among them? You told me you did the other day.’
‘Of course I do, but they are worse than useless.’ Williamson sounded disgusted and dispirited in equal measure. ‘And I should be Postmaster anyway. It goes hand in hand with running the intelligence services, and not having control of the mail is a serious hindrance.’
Chaloner imagined it was: Thurloe had been given the Post Office when he had been Spymaster, and it was partly why he had been so very good at his job.
‘What about Gery? Has he learned anything that might help you?’
Williamson gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Him? I doubt it. And even if he did, he would not understand its significance. I admire his persistence, though – he refuses to be discouraged by blank stares and polite refusals, and even declines to be daunted by Harper. He spends a lot of time there.’
Chaloner’s thoughts whirled. Was it just tenacity that saw Gery persevering where Williamson had conceded defeat, or did he have another reason for loitering?
‘Do you know Clement Oxenbridge?’ he asked, changing the subject abruptly.
A pained expression crossed Williamson’s face. ‘Yes, in that we have exchanged words on several occasions. And no, in that I can tell you nothing about him. I have set my best agents to learn where he lives and how he makes his living, but they have failed. Fatally, in two cases.’
‘Can you prove he killed them?’
‘No, or I would arrest him – which I would love to do, believe me. There is something unpleasantly eerie about that man, and when he appeared at a soirée that my wife and I were attending the other day, I took her home. I did not want her in the same room as him.’
It was a bad sign when even the Spymaster was intimidated, thought Chaloner.
Most of that day was an exercise in futility. Chaloner arrived at Newgate to learn it was still closed, because the cleaning was taking longer than expected. He was not disappointed to be spared the ordeal of stepping inside, although he knew he was only postponing the inevitable. He went to a tavern for wine to quell his roiling stomach, and asked questions about John Fry and Oxenbridge when several apprentices there claimed to know them. Unfortunately, it took some time to discover that they had never met them, and the brag was a lie intended to impress their fellows.
Next he managed to corner Harper in a Cheapside tavern, but his efforts to engage him in conversation over a pie and ale were repelled, and he was obliged to beat a hasty retreat when Lamb arrived. He went to the Post Office afterwards, to see if he could persuade a clerk to talk, and was making headway with Rea – Leak’s friend with the taupe eyes – when Gery, Morland and Freer arrived. Gery stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Chaloner, and shook his head in disbelief.
‘Do you want to be dismissed? And do not say you are sending another letter, because you are too late – the post has gone.’ Gery rounded on Rea. ‘What were you telling him?’
‘Nothing,’ bleated Rea. ‘But he threatened to break my fingers if I tried to walk away.’
It was untrue, but Chaloner knew there was no point in saying so.
‘Arrest him, Gery,’ advised Morland, eyes bright with malice. ‘His interference may damage our investigation.’
‘Please do not,’ said Freer wearily. ‘Or Clarendon might order us to solve those bird murders, and I am not grubbing about by the sides of frozen lakes. Not in this weather.’
‘True,’ said Gery in distaste. ‘I hate ducks.’
‘Enough to poison a few?’ asked Chaloner coolly.
Gery stared at him. ‘What would be the point of that? It would render them unsafe to eat. And now you can answer some questions. What were you doing in the Antwerp yesterday?’
It was not surprising that a Parliamentarian stronghold should be monitored, and Chaloner supposed he would have to be careful if he went there again. ‘Drinking coffee.’
Gery’s expression was triumphant. ‘With Isaac Dorislaus, a man dismissed from the Post Office for being a Roundhead.’
Gery had asked Thurloe about Dorislaus, too, thought Chaloner, regarding him with interest. He had overheard part of the conversation at Lincoln’s Inn himself. Did the marshal know that Dorislaus had been helping Thurloe with an investigation into the Post Office, and the question to Chaloner aimed to show that Gery had guessed that the ex-Spymaster still dabbled in matters that should not concern him? If so, it was worrying, because Stokes’s recent remark was true – accusations of sedition were easy to make but difficult to disprove.
‘I distrust Dorislaus intensely,’ Gery went on when Chaloner did not reply. ‘There is a whisper that he is a Dutch spy. However, he is a less immediate problem than you. Morland is right: it would be unwise to leave you free to meddle, so you can spend a few days incarcerated in the—’
‘Is that you, Chaloner?’ came an amiable voice, just as Chaloner was debating whether to make a run for it or stand his ground. It was O’Neill, Kate at his side. ‘Have you come for the post, or is this a social call? I should like to think we are friends now t
hat we have been guests in your home.’
‘I came to ask when the post leaves for Spain,’ blustered Chaloner. ‘Rea was about to tell—’
‘Spain?’ drawled Morland. ‘I do not believe you. But show us the letter you have written, and I shall apologise for doubting your word.’
‘No.’ O’Neill raised his hand to prevent Chaloner from obliging – not that he could have done. ‘We do not inspect the private correspondence of others at the Post Office. How many more times must I say it?’
‘I hear Hannah has gone to Epsom,’ said Kate, while Chaloner studied O’Neill, trying yet again to decide whether the man was a total fool or a very cunning schemer. ‘Will you be holding soirées in her absence? If so, perhaps you would bear us in mind for an invitation. We did so enjoy meeting Monsieur le Notre.’
‘Charming man,’ nodded O’Neill. ‘I might ask him to do something about the courtyard at the back of this building. Bishop allowed it to decay, you see, and now it is very seedy.’
‘You should let me see to it,’ said Kate. ‘However, I shall not plant any tulips. They are Dutch, and it would be unpatriotic. I think we should not exchange post with the United Provinces either. We are virtually at war, and a continued service will only aid their spies.’
‘There was only one spy in the Letter Office and I dismissed him,’ said O’Neill. ‘Isaac Dorislaus, a scoundrel who was almost certainly sending secrets to his Dutch masters. He was one of Thurloe’s minions so—’
‘No,’ said Chaloner sharply, unwilling to see Thurloe maligned in front of the fanatical Gery. ‘Thurloe no longer associates with Dorislaus, and has not done for years.’
‘I doubt you know either villain,’ said O’Neill, patting his shoulder. Chaloner fought the urge to shove him away, disliking both the liberty of contact and the disparaging of Thurloe. ‘Hannah would not tolerate it. She is a lady of integrity and good judgement.’
Death in St James's Park: 8 (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 17
