‘What letter?’ asked Chaloner politely.
‘The one from John Fry, informing me that if I release all the political prisoners in my care, the whole country will call me a hero. Here. Read it for yourself.’
Chaloner did, impressed by the elegant turn of phrase and handsome writing. It had been scribed on expensive paper, and there was a distinctive purple seal that lent it a sense of gravity. It was signed Your unalterable freinde and servant, Jno. Fry. He handed it back.
‘If you do as he suggests, you are likely to end up incarcerated yourself.’
Sligo sighed again. ‘I know, and it is a pity, because I should like to be a hero. So would every gaol-keeper in London – Fry sent the same message to all of us, even the Tower.’
‘Do you think anyone might be tempted?’ asked Chaloner, suspecting the unrest would gain considerable momentum if all London’s rebels and malcontents were freed en masse.
‘Some might. It is not easy being a keeper, you know. First, there is the challenge of feeding a lot of people on a very small budget; and second, there is the delicate business of deciding who goes in which cell. One must be careful, or there are mishaps.’
Chaloner did not understand and was not sure he wanted to, but Sligo was warming to his theme, and was already explaining.
‘It would not do to put Levellers and Fifth Monarchists in the same room, because they fight. The same goes for Anabaptists and Catholics, while Quakers have to be kept separate from everyone, because they are universally unpopular but are too nice to hit anyone back.’
‘Knight,’ said Chaloner, eager to ask his questions and leave. ‘He was brought here last Thursday, but he died.’
‘Yes. He claimed he was innocent, but most do when they first arrive.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘I put him in a cell on his own, but it was a mistake because he hanged himself. I should have put him in with a lunatic, because they can be entertaining and would have kept his spirits up. Would you like to see his corpse? No one has claimed it, but we are obliged to keep it a week before passing it to Chyrurgeons’ Hall. Wiseman wants it. It is a nice specimen – well fed.’
‘He cannot have Knight,’ said Chaloner sharply. ‘I will arrange his burial.’
Sligo’s pallid face broke into a grin when Chaloner placed several coins on the table. He scooped them up, then led the way through a series of doors, humming under his breath. With each one, Chaloner felt there was less breathable air. He struggled not to cough, afraid he might not be able to stop once he started. Eventually, they reached the dismal little chamber near the kitchens that was used for housing the dead. Chaloner did not know which was worse, the cloying aroma of decay or the stench of the prisoners’ dinner.
He knelt and searched Knight’s body. There were no valuables of any description, and the clerk was missing his hat, cloak, stockings and shoes. However, the thieving gaolers had left the letter that was tucked inside his shirt. Chaloner was about to read it when he happened to glance at Knight’s throat. There were two parallel abrasions. The thicker, higher one had been caused by the rope that was still knotted around his neck; the other was thinner and deeper.
‘He was garrotted!’ he cried angrily, shoving the letter in his pocket to study later. ‘And then strung up as though he had hanged himself. How could you fail to notice such an obvious ploy?’
Shocked, Sligo started to argue, but even he could see the spy was right, and turned abruptly to send for the warden who had discovered the body. It was not many moments before the man arrived, a sullen, unshaven fellow with lice so abundant that they were like snow in his hair. He was startled but defensive when Sligo pointed at the wounds and demanded an explanation.
‘We were busy that day with a lot of drunks,’ he bleated. ‘We never had time to think—’
‘What kind of drunks?’ interrupted Chaloner. ‘Apprentices?’
‘Old soldiers, probably. We released them the next morning, when someone paid their fine.’
‘Did Knight have any visitors?’ demanded Chaloner.
‘A vicar. Although none of us had seen him before …’
‘What did he look like?’ Chaloner was struggling to control his rising temper, aware that the warden’s careless ineptitude had cost Knight his life.
The man gulped. ‘I don’t rightly remember. Your size, I think. Brown hair and the kind of broad-brimmed black hat that clerics like. But he was decent – gave us money to drink the King’s health. It wouldn’t have been him what murdered—’
‘Who, then?’ snapped Chaloner. ‘Another turnkey? You?’
‘No!’ The warden was growing frightened. ‘So I suppose it must have been him. But he seemed so genteel. Polite, like.’
‘You should have been suspicious when Knight “committed suicide” with a rope,’ said Chaloner to Sligo, disgusted. ‘Obviously, he did not bring one with him, and its inexplicable appearance should have raised the alarm.’
Neither Sligo nor the gaoler could answer the charge, and Chaloner left with guilt weighing on him more heavily than ever. He took a hackney to the Westminster charnel house, which allowed him to read the note he had found in Knight’s shirt. It informed one Rachel Upton of Scalding Alley that he was innocent of the charges that had been brought against him, and finished with a request for her to post the letters under the bed. Chaloner supposed he would have to locate her – and the bed – as soon as he had finished with Wiseman.
The charnel house did nothing to raise his spirits. It was a dismal building, located between a storage facility for coal and a granary. Caring for the dead was a lucrative business, because its owner, John Kersey, was immaculately attired in a fine woollen suit that Chaloner suspected had been made by a Court tailor. His mortuary was a busy place, and not just with corpses: it attracted interested visitors, and the money he earned from showing off cadavers, along with the small display of artefacts he had gathered over the years, earned him a very respectable living.
‘You are late,’ he said, as Chaloner entered. ‘Wiseman is waiting.’
Wiseman was indeed waiting, and was cross about it. He scowled as Chaloner walked in, but it quickly turned to a frown of concern. ‘Are you ill? You are very pale.’
‘It has been a difficult day, not made any easier by you laying claim to the body of that Post Office clerk,’ replied Chaloner shortly. ‘Knight.’
‘Why should I not have him?’ asked the surgeon indignantly. ‘No family has come forward, and his is a nice corpse, much better than the scrawny felons I usually get from Newgate.’
Chaloner glared. ‘How can he be a felon? He was not tried in a court of law, so his guilt was never proven. Besides, he said he was innocent.’
‘Show me a villain who does not,’ challenged Wiseman. Then he relented. ‘But I would not have bagged his remains had I known you wanted them. However, I shall be vexed if you sell them to another surgeon. I did see them first.’
‘No one will have them,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘I will arrange for them to be buried in St Mary Bothaw. It was their … it was his parish, I believe.’
‘No, leave it to me.’ Wiseman bristled at Chaloner’s immediate suspicion. ‘The rector is my patient, and I have prevailed upon him with this sort of request before. The ceremony will take place late tomorrow afternoon.’
Chaloner did not ask how he knew the minister would be available then – few men were equal to denying the bombastic surgeon and any patient would never dare risk it. He nodded his thanks, and gestured that they should make a start on Mary Wood. Wiseman led the way to a table, on which lay a woman of middling years. Her eyes were closed, and her body was covered in whitish vesicles. Chaloner instinctively stepped back, noting that Wiseman was clad in a thick leather apron and wore gloves.
‘The small-pox,’ the surgeon explained. ‘Not the malignant form, as I was led to believe, but the milder kind, from which most people recover. Mary would have been alive today if someone had not fed her poiso
n. The rumours were right: she was murdered.’
He gestured to her face, where four small but distinct contusions lay in a line along her jaw.
‘Finger-marks,’ said Chaloner. He glanced at the surgeon. ‘Does it mean that someone held her head and forced her to swallow a toxin?’
‘It appears that way.’ Wiseman began to take samples from inside her mouth.
‘Why did you not notice the day she died? You said you were summoned to tend her.’
‘Yes, but she was dead when I arrived, so I did no more than give her a cursory glance. This is the first time I have examined her properly. I imagine the Earl will ask you to investigate, because she was a courtier, and we cannot have those dispatched with gay abandon. Not even her.’
‘You knew her, then?’
‘Yes. She had a spiteful tongue and sticky fingers,’ replied Wiseman, reiterating what Hannah had said. ‘Her husband will have to be told the sorry news, of course. Unfortunately, he went to Chelsey this morning, and will not be home until tomorrow.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I did not want him bursting in on me while I examined his wife, so I made some enquiries about his plans.’
‘Perhaps we should ride there and tell him. He has a right to know.’
But Wiseman shook his head. ‘She died last Thursday, and it is now Tuesday. Delaying a few hours will make no difference, and I am not eager to shatter his peace of mind.’
‘He cannot be that distressed by her death, not if he is gallivanting about the countryside.’
‘I imagine you will find out when you visit him. I cannot do it – I am too busy.’
Chaloner was not happy to be allotted such a task, but supposed there might be an advantage in breaking the news. Wood was sufficiently lunatic that he might well be the culprit, and if the Earl did order an investigation, Chaloner would have a head start. He watched Wiseman go to a bench in a corner, and begin to test his samples on some hapless rodent.
‘Did you analyse that potion I gave you last night?’ he asked.
Wiseman nodded. ‘It is Epsom Water – full of natural salts that promote good health. It is expensive, and the phial is crystal, not glass. A handsome gift. Come here. Quickly!’
Chaloner did not move. ‘Why?’
Wiseman turned to face him, and Chaloner was alarmed by his sudden pallor. ‘It is too late – the rat is dead. I wanted you to see it, because the sample I have just taken from Mary produced exactly the same symptoms as the toxin in the bread you gave me – the stuff that killed the birds.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘Is it readily available then?’
‘It is not,’ said Wiseman with conviction. ‘In fact, I have never encountered it before, which means it has either been imported from abroad, or some reckless lunatic has been experimenting.’
‘An apothecary?’ asked Chaloner.
‘I sincerely doubt it. They tend to devise remedies that cure their customers, not kill them. However, think of the repercussions of this vile toxin on your investigation. It means you do not have two separate cases here, Chaloner. You have one.’
Chapter 8
Chaloner accepted the offer of wine in Kersey’s sitting room, because he was bemused by the connection Wiseman had made, and wanted to mull it over while the surgeon was available for questions. Wiseman settled his vast red bulk in Kersey’s best chair, and began to describe the examinations he had conducted on the victims of the Post Office explosion. Kersey listened with the interest of a fellow professional, while Chaloner thought about Mary and the King’s fowl.
Other than the poison, what tied them together? The bird-killers were either courtiers or had access to White Hall, while Mary had been a courtier and so was her husband. Wood was also on Storey’s list of suspects. Could Wood have taken against the royal collection for lunatic reasons of his own, and then used the same toxin on his wife? Or was the culprit someone with a grudge against the monarchy, who wanted to deprive the Queen of a dresser and the King of his ducks? Did it mean Gery and Wood could be discounted, because of their Royalist convictions?
‘I have not had much previous experience with blast injuries,’ Wiseman was telling Kersey with ghoulish delight. ‘So I learned a great deal from the Post House Yard incident.’
‘It must have been a huge discharge to mangle the Alibond brothers,’ said the charnel-house keeper. ‘They were large men. Did you examine those two boys, by the way? Poor little mites.’
‘I did, but they were not boys – they were stunted men in their twenties. They should have been agile enough to run, and I do not understand why they lingered.’
‘They were going to steal logs.’ Chaloner had a vague recollection of a hand reaching out to grab one, and Temperance had seen it, too. ‘The cart was full of firewood.’
‘A tempting target for the poor,’ sighed Kersey. ‘Especially this weather.’
‘But there was money in their pockets,’ said Wiseman. ‘A lot of it. Why filch logs when they had enough to buy a coppice? You are wrong, Chaloner: they were not interested in wood.’
Chaloner was bemused. ‘Then what else would they have been doing?’
‘Who knows?’ shrugged Wiseman. ‘Your warning was perfectly clear, and everyone else ran away. They, on the other hand, moved towards the cart. I saw them myself.’
‘Maybe it was they who made the thing explode,’ suggested Kersey.
‘No, there was a fuse,’ said Chaloner. ‘I saw the smoke, and I smelt it, too. It was burning long before they reached the vehicle.’
‘Then perhaps they underestimated the danger, and wanted a ringside seat.’ Kersey moved to another subject. ‘Is it true that the Company of Barber-Surgeons is
dissatisfied with the King, Wiseman? I hear they joined the butchers in a riot last night.’
‘Our apprentices have always been unruly,’ replied Wiseman stiffly. ‘Which is why I never take them on as pupils. I do not mind lecturing or allowing them to watch me conduct anatomies, but I refuse to have them trailing after me while I deal with patients.’
‘So is your Company rebelling or not?’ asked Kersey impatiently.
Wiseman regarded him coolly. ‘Only the students. Their masters have more sense.’
When they left the charnel house, Wiseman invited Chaloner to share a hackney to Fleet Street. As Chaloner intended to visit the Fleet Rookery to find out why the Yeans had died with a fortune in their pockets, he was happy to accept. However, he was not happy when the coach trundled past Wiseman’s house and continued down Ludgate Hill.
‘We are going to the Crown,’ explained Wiseman, reaching forward to stop him from banging on the ceiling to tell the driver to stop. ‘Where Temperance will be waiting. No, do not scowl! A decent meal will rebalance your humours, and I do not like the pallor that hangs about you.’
‘I doubt Temperance will be pleased. Not if she is expecting a romantic occasion for two.’
‘We are never romantic in public; it would not be seemly,’ declared the surgeon, leaving Chaloner to wonder exactly what he understood by the word.
Unwilling to jump out of a moving carriage, Chaloner sat back and watched the buildings flash by – Ludgate, St Paul’s, Cutlers’ Hall – until they arrived at Dowgate Hill. He alighted reluctantly, aware that he was again wearing clothes that were un-Cavalier, and that might see him in trouble somewhere like the Crown.
He felt even more uncomfortable when the first people he saw there were Gery, Morland and Freer. Gery stopped eating to gaze at Chaloner with open hatred, and the spy was sure he would have attacked had they been in a less public place. Freer offered the marshal another slice of pie, which resulted in the dish being dashed from the table with a furious sweep of the arm.
The clatter silenced the rumble of conversation in the tavern, although Wiseman did not seem to notice, intent as he was on meeting his lover. He thrust his way through the crowd, not caring whom he shunted, and Chaloner followed, grateful for the speed with which th
ey were moving away from Gery. However, it was not long before he sensed someone close behind him. He whipped around, anticipating an attack, but it was only Freer.
‘Gery sent me to tell you to leave London.’ Freer’s expression was apologetic. ‘You had better do it, Tom – he will not forgive that prank with the icy water. Go while you can.’
‘The Earl plans to send me to Russia when the bird-killer is caught,’ replied Chaloner, not without rancour. ‘So I will not be here for much longer, anyway.’
Freer nodded. ‘I will tell him, but be careful. He is a very dangerous man.’
As Chaloner had predicted, Temperance was not pleased to learn that her intimate dinner was to be shared, although she struggled to mask her disappointment when Wiseman shot her an admonishing glance.
‘I have ordered woodcock,’ she said. ‘And gherkins. I am not sure what gherkins are, but they are expensive, so they must be good. Followed by chicken and quail.’
‘Birds,’ said Chaloner unhappily.
‘Dead ones,’ said Wiseman cheerfully, and launched into an account of what had happened to Mary Wood. Temperance listened with rapt attention, while Chaloner supposed he must be growing squeamish, because the grisly monologue deprived him of any appetite he might have had. Wiseman packed some of the food in a cloth, and made him put it in his pocket for later.
At that point, several patrons began a loud-voiced discussion about what they would do to any Roundhead who still approved of Cromwell. They were vicious and uncompromising, and Chaloner was shocked by the depth of their passion. He left as soon as he could do so politely, aiming for the back door to avoid passing them.
He was almost outside when he saw a man sitting alone wearing a thick cloak and a wide-brimmed hat that shielded his face. The disguise did not extend to his hands, though, and Chaloner recognised them immediately: they had played a viol in Palmer’s house. Not far away were two yeomen, laughing and chatting with the landlord.
Death in St James's Park: 8 (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 21
