‘Oh, it is you,’ whispered the Major, as Chaloner slid on to the bench next to him. His face was shiny with sweat, and his frightened eyes were everywhere. ‘You startled me.’
‘What are you doing?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Surely not spying? That would be reckless.’
‘It is not my idea, I assure you,’ said the Major miserably. ‘But Gery said I would never be released unless I help him monitor potential rebels.’ His hand shook as he shoved a piece of paper across the table. ‘So here is my report. Give it to Clarendon.’
‘But everyone in here is a Royalist,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘The government has nothing to fear from them. They are all like Gery, fanatical in their loyalty.’
‘Yes, but they itch to fight Roundheads, so they are a threat to the King’s peace,’ explained the Major. ‘Why do they not understand that violence begets nothing but more violence?’
‘If I am to be your messenger-boy, tell me why the Post Office—’
‘Chaloner, please!’ groaned the Major. ‘I cannot talk to you, so why do you insist on hounding me? However, if you must meddle, then investigate the threat on my life – this assassination that is the talk of all London. I should hate to be cut down the moment I have won my freedom.’
Chaloner stood. ‘You might be safer if you did not spy in places like the Crown. Some folk here will remember that you were in the New Model Army.’
The Major swallowed hard, and Chaloner saw he was on the verge of tears. ‘So were you, according to Gery, although you must have been very young. Did we ever meet?’
‘Not that I recall,’ lied Chaloner. The Major might never trust him if reminded of the arrogantly precocious brat who had barracked him before the Battle of Naseby.
Chaloner hesitated when he was outside, pondering what was more urgent – investigating Oxenbridge, cornering Harper, tracking Gardner, delivering Knight’s letter, or asking after the Yeans. He was still weighing up his options when the door opened and the Major stepped out. His yeomen were not with him, and Chaloner wondered whether he was making a bid for escape.
He did not go far. Glancing around with such obvious unease that it attracted amused smirks from passers-by, the Major entered the Antwerp Coffee House. Curious, Chaloner followed, settling in a smoky recess at the back of the room where he pretended to read a newsbook. The Major opted for a seat in a corner, which made it plain that he was there to monitor what was going on. Chaloner cringed when he began to make notes. Did the man want to be caught?
Fortunately for the Major, the Antwerp’s customers were too interested in bawling their opinions to notice. Their debate was essentially the same as the one in the Crown, the only difference being that it was Cavaliers cast in the role of villain. Landlord Young was busy with his coffee jug, and Chaloner recognised several leading army officers from the wars. His elderly neighbour Stokes was among them, Cliffe at his side, although they took no part in the discussion, and seemed dismayed by the braying antagonism.
The Major did not stay long. Once outside, he cornered an urchin, and paid him a penny to take his report to White Hall. Chaloner caught the lad before he had scampered too far, and offered him sixpence for it. The boy handed it over with a delighted grin.
Chaloner returned to the Crown just in time to hear the Major assure his agitated guards that he had only gone to look for a latrine. His voice shook almost uncontrollably, and one of them took his arm, apparently afraid he might faint. They believed the lie – or were too relieved by his reappearance to argue – and the three of them climbed into a hackney bound for the Tower.
Chaloner hailed a hackney of his own, and read both messages as it conveyed him to the Fleet Rookery. The first was just what had been claimed: a summary of the rabid railings in the Crown with a list of the loudest speakers. The second did the same for the Antwerp, with several patrons named as being particularly bellicose. Chaloner was glad Stokes and Cliffe were not among them.
He stared out of the window, and wondered why Gery was putting the Major through such torments; he could only suppose it was revenge for his Parliamentarian past. It was vindictive, petty and ignoble, and Chaloner saw that Freer had been right to warn him to be wary of the man.
The Fleet Rookery was a jumble of narrow alleys and tiny yards. Its buildings were dilapidated, and people were packed tightly inside them, sometimes as many as thirty to a room. Families often slept in shifts, one group evacuating the beds as another came to rest, and the area was rife with disease, crime and poverty. There were no trees or flowers, and its streets were an unbroken monotony of mud, rotting plaster and decaying timbers.
The forces of law and order rarely set foot there, and any number of dangerous felons had taken refuge inside. Gangs prowled, jealously guarding their territory, and intruders were not tolerated. Chaloner was left alone partly because it was clear he would be no easy victim, and partly because he had a friend there, an old woman who had taken a liking to him. He suspected she was a witch, and that the louts who roamed in undisciplined packs were frightened of her.
He sensed unseen eyes on him as he walked down the first of the seedy lanes that would take him to her cottage in Turnagain Lane, and the hair on the back of his neck rose in the way it always did when he was in danger. But he did not look around. Eventually, he reached Mother Greene’s door, where he knocked politely.
‘I thought you must have left the country,’ she remarked as she opened it. A waft of warm air drifted out, carrying with it the scent of mint and fresh bread. ‘It has been months since you visited.’
‘Sweden,’ he replied, handing her the parcel Wiseman had packed.
She opened it eagerly. ‘Gherkins! How thoughtful. And all the way from Sweden, too!’
She had turned and hobbled back inside the house before he could explain. When he was sitting next to her fire, relishing its warmth and the scent of burning fir cones, she presented him with a cinnamon cake and a cup of milk from the ass that she kept in her yard. The milk was still warm and had a slightly soapy flavour; he drank it only because he did not want to offend her.
‘Your wife does not look after you properly,’ she said, regarding him critically. ‘That is what comes of hiring too many servants: they all think you are someone else’s responsibility and you end up being shamefully neglected.’
Chaloner laughed, amused by the notion that any of his staff might be even remotely interested in his welfare, then listened to her talk. It was mostly inconsequential and probably largely untrue; she was merely taking advantage of someone who did not interrupt with stories of his own.
‘Why did you come?’ she asked eventually. ‘I am sure it was not just to bring me gherkins.’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Did you know Harold and Henry Yean? They were killed in the explosion outside the Post Office last week.’
‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘Along with two fat clerks and Sir Henry Wood’s servant. I imagine a great deal of fuss has been made about them, but you are the first to enquire after the Yeans.’
Which was hardly surprising, thought Chaloner, given that the Fleet Rookery did not encourage visitors who asked questions. ‘What can you tell me about them?’
‘They were scamps,’ she replied with a fond smile. ‘They lived outside the law, and were thieves, of course. But they were good to their mother, and that counts for a lot.’
‘I understand they ran errands for the Curator of Birds at St James’s Park.’
‘Yes. Mr Storey hates foxes, and paid them to bring him dead ones. They hunted the things as far afield as Hampstead and Islington.’
‘What else did they do for him?’
‘Gathered feathers to take to the Court milliners. They were reliable but dull-witted, and if they had stayed with what they knew, they would still be alive.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They became embroiled in something dark, and were out of their depth. They came to me for protective charms, but the evil in which they had enmeshed themselves
was too powerful for me.’
Chaloner stared at her. ‘What are you saying? That their deaths in the explosion were not a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?’
‘I doubt it. Unfortunately, they were too frightened to tell me much, although they did mention wicked men – military fellows – who were the root of all their trouble.’
‘Did they tell you any names?’ She shook her head, so Chaloner made some suggestions. ‘Gery, Freer or Morland? Oxenbridge? Harper, Lamb or Smartfoot? Gardner? Le Notre? O’Neill?’
‘No. I have never heard of any of them. Except Oxenbridge.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘That he is Satan’s spawn. He has no home and no roots, and he just appears whenever evil is afoot, as if by magic. You would be wise to leave him alone.’
Chaloner changed the subject, not because of the ridiculous shiver that ran down his spine, but because he knew from the stubborn jut of her chin that she would not elaborate. ‘When they died, the Yeans had a large sum of money with them. How did they come by it?’
‘I have no idea. But it was a large sum, because that nice Surgeon Wiseman sent it to their mothers. However, it was far in excess of what they could have earned from Storey, so it must have come from these dangerous military men. It was a godsend, though. There is fever here, and people are dying for want of food and warmth. Of course, we still need more …’
Chaloner gave her all the coins he had, then flinched when she tossed the contents of a small pot over him. She made no explanation, but he suspected he had just been doused with a protective charm. Wryly, he hoped it would be more effective than the one she had given the Yeans.
His next stop was Scalding Alley, to find Rachel Upton. It was where live birds were taken from the Poultry Market to be prepared for the table, and was characterised by hissing boilers, the reek of burned feathers and an unpleasant sludge underfoot that comprised droppings and bloody mud. Crates holding terrified birds were stacked along the sides, and the air was full of piteous clucks.
From the outside, Rachel’s house looked as shabby and disreputable as the rest of the lane, but inside it was clean, with bunches of sweet-smelling herbs hanging from the ceiling. A door of exceptional thickness eliminated most of the racket, and when her landlord – a man named Morgan – led Chaloner to a set of rooms at the back of the house, the place was almost eerie in its silence.
He introduced a woman in her thirties with a pleasant face and clothes that were darned but of good quality. She was holding a shirt, and Chaloner saw more of them stacked by the window; she eked a living from mending and sewing. When she spoke, her diction was refined, and he supposed she was a gentlewomen fallen on hard times, no doubt as a result of the wars.
‘I have a message for you from Joseph Knight,’ he began. ‘He—’
‘He killed himself in Newgate Gaol,’ she interrupted harshly, and started to turn away.
‘He was innocent,’ he said quickly, to stop her from shutting him out. ‘He told me so himself, and I believe him. Moreover, he did not commit suicide: he was murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ she whispered, aghast. ‘But that is worse – sordid and dirty. And to think we were to have been married next summer!’
‘He was going to leave Post House Yard and weave baskets instead,’ explained Morgan.
‘We would not have been wealthy, but we would have been comfortable,’ Rachel went on. ‘He hated the General Letter Office, although he was happy there when Bishop was in charge.’
‘But things changed after O’Neill took over?’ probed Chaloner.
Rachel nodded. ‘He said it grew full of vice. He refused to condone it, which was brave, considering that one of the men pressing him to participate was Clement Oxenbridge. Have you ever seen Oxenbridge? He looks like a demon with his white face and black eyes.’
‘He does,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘Did Knight ever mention John Fry?’
‘Once, to say that he thought Oxenbridge might be helping him. He wanted to add more, but I stopped him. I did not want to hear anything involving such terrible people.’
Chaloner was sorry, suspecting Knight might have been glad to unburden himself. He handed her the letter, and watched her read it. She frowned, then looked up in bewilderment. ‘He says there are letters under my bed, but there are not.’
‘Do you mind if I look anyway?’
She stood aside reluctantly, and he entered a room that was clean, neat and that had been made homely with cushions and hand-sewn rugs. It did not take him long to discover that one of the floorboards by the bed was loose. He prised it up to reveal a recess that contained a wad of papers.
‘I did not know,’ gulped Rachel, watching Chaloner sort through them. She reached out and snatched the one bearing her name. ‘You may have the rest. I do not want anything to do with things that result in prison and murder.’
Once out in the lane, Chaloner inspected what he had found. There were twenty or so letters, addressed to such people as Bishop, Wood, Palmer, Clarendon, Morland, Kate O’Neill, and various other courtiers and members of the Privy Council. He was tempted to open them then and there, but common sense prevailed. Nothing would be gained by advertising the fact that they had been read before they were delivered – he needed a hot knife to slit the seals and matching wax to repair them afterwards. Thurloe would have the necessary equipment, so he decided to visit him later, to do it together.
However, he did not mind invading Morland’s post, and opened the one addressed to the secretary without hesitation. The message was short and had obviously been written in a hurry:
I begg leave to informe you that a Great Evill will soone unfold in our Faire Citie. Look to Clemente Oxenbridge and Jno Fry, who will set it aflame with their tonges and plotts amonge the apprentices. I hear Fry rooms at the Angell Inn in St Gyles Fields. You must silence him before London is aflame and we are at warre again. Your Most Humble Servant, Jos. Knight
Chaloner shoved the documents in his coat and began to run towards Lincoln’s Inn. He would collect Thurloe and they would go at once to corner Fry, returning to open the remaining letters afterwards. Unfortunately, when he reached the Fleet Bridge, breathing hard and with his lame leg burning as it always did after strenuous exercise, he saw the Earl’s carriage. Clarendon spotted him at the same time and called him over. Pretending not to hear would have been too risky, so Chaloner had no choice but to go and see what his master wanted. He hoped he would not be delayed too long, impatient now to hear what Fry had to say.
‘Where are you going in such a hurry, Chaloner? I assume it is something to do with the dead birds. After all, you have no other enquiry at the moment.’
His cool tone warned Chaloner that it would be unwise to admit that he had disobeyed orders. The spy was even more determined to say nothing when he saw Clarendon was not alone; Morland was in the coach, too, comfortably ensconced in the shadows to one side.
‘I am going to St James’s Park,’ Chaloner lied.
‘Good,’ said the Earl, and the coach door swung open. ‘Climb in. We shall take you as far as Charing Cross.’
‘And you can tell us what is so urgent as we go,’ added Morland, slyly challenging.
‘It will be quicker on foot at this time of day,’ hedged Chaloner, backing away. ‘And—’
‘Nonsense,’ interrupted the Earl. ‘The traffic is unusually light today. Now get in.’
Chaloner swore under his breath as he did as he was told, struggling to conceal his frustration.
‘So, Tom,’ said Morland with a nasty smile once they were rattling along. ‘I am sure My Lord Clarendon is eager to hear what progress have you made.’
‘Quite a bit,’ replied Chaloner. He was careful not to look at the entrance to Chancery Lane as they sped past it, lest the secretary noticed and guessed where he had really been going.
‘Good,’ said the Earl. ‘But that is hardly an informative answer. Will you elaborate?’
‘No
t yet, sir.’ To forestall accusations of impertinence, Chaloner trotted out an excuse that Gery had once used. ‘I have set traps, and talking out of turn may cause them to misfire.’
He expected some kind of remonstration, and was surprised and a little concerned when the Earl only nodded and turned to stare out of the window. Morland promptly began an ingratiating monologue about the ‘significant inroads’ he and Gery had made into the Post Office enquiry, carefully attributing all their success to his own efforts. Yet it was hollow chatter, and Chaloner was left with the impression that they knew even less than he did.
‘I shall expect a solution to this bird affair tomorrow,’ said the Earl, coming out of his reverie as the carriage rolled to a standstill when their destination was reached. ‘It would be a pity if someone else exposed the culprits to the King first. Please do not fail me.’
Chaloner alighted from the Earl’s coach, and was immediately wary when Morland did likewise. Did the man intend to accompany him to see the birds, to make sure he actually went? Or had he indeed surmised that it had been something else that had set him racing west with such urgency? Chaloner aimed for the park’s main gate, feeling he had no choice but to continue the charade.
‘I met our friend Thurloe earlier,’ said Morland, falling into step beside him.
Chaloner stopped walking. ‘I doubt that is how he sees you. Friends do not betray each other.’
‘That is water under the bridge and it was for the best.’ Morland gave one of his sly smirks. ‘We now have our King back, and I am proud of my role in bringing it about. I am sure you are also delighted that we have a monarchy again. Are you not?’
Chaloner disliked the secretary trying to entrap him. ‘Leave Thurloe alone. Do you hear?’
‘I never did him any harm – and I could have done, given the secrets I knew. But he is nothing now, although I did do him a favour today. William Prynne, his fellow bencher, was bitten by a horse, and its owner has threatened to sue. It will make Lincoln’s Inn a laughing stock, so I advised Thurloe to intervene. The affair will take him hours to settle, but better that than the alternative.’
Death in St James's Park: 8 (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 22
