He was in luck. Wiseman was not only home, but ensconced in his cosy parlour in front of a roaring fire with his ginger cat on his knees. Chaloner moved towards the blaze gratefully, while Wiseman locked the tainted crumbs in a stout box. When he had finished, the surgeon insisted that they both scrub their hands thoroughly with a foul-smelling abrasive. Only when he was sure they were poison-free did he invite his guest to share a plate of food that Temperance had sent – elegant, expensive delicacies that had been left over from some event at the club.
Afterwards, they sat by the hearth, Chaloner silent and withdrawn as he tried to piece together what he had learned. Wiseman used the opportunity to indulge in a self-serving monologue about a public anatomy he had performed for the King.
‘Have you told anyone else that Mary Wood was poisoned?’ asked Chaloner, cutting into the tale so abruptly that the surgeon scowled his irritation.
‘Just Temperance – in the Crown earlier, when you were with us. But neither of us will talk about it until Wood has been informed. I assume you will visit him tomorrow?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘As soon as he is home from Chelsey. Do you know who started the rumours that she died from something other than the small-pox?’
‘Well, according to Temperance, they originated with an ex-postal clerk – a plump little fellow with a Dutch name that now eludes me …’
‘Isaac Dorislaus?’
‘The very same! He claims to have seen Mary’s body the day she died, and suspected then that something was amiss. He is lying, of course. The servants did not spot anything, so why should he? And what would he have been doing in the Woods’ mansion at such a time, anyway? Or do you think he fed the toxin to her?’
‘If he had, then why draw attention to the murder by starting tales about it? Why not let everyone believe that she died of natural causes?’
‘God only knows,’ sighed Wiseman. ‘The criminal mind is beyond me. However, I should like to rectify the matter, so if you have cause to dispatch him, perhaps you would be kind enough to bring me his head. It would make for an interesting study.’
Chaloner winced at the notion, suddenly assailed with the uncomfortable thought that the surgeon would probably like parts of him in his quest for scientific wisdom, too. There were many reasons for not wanting to be dead, but the notion that he might end up on Wiseman’s mantelpiece was certainly one of them.
‘What would happen if that powerful poison entered someone via a wound?’ he asked, changing the subject again, although not to one that was any less comforting.
Wiseman considered. ‘It would take longer to work, but death would occur eventually. Why?’
‘Because I think that is what happened to Smartfoot. And it was my fault.’
Wiseman regarded him warily. ‘Who is Smartfoot?’
‘A man I came to blows with in the Post Office last night. I wounded him in the arm with my dagger. He was trying to kill birds in the park this evening, but he was unsteady on his feet, and he fought dismally. Unlike yesterday, when I was lucky to escape.’
‘What makes you think you are responsible? It is more likely that he poisoned himself when he was preparing the stuff to feed to the royal fowl.’
‘Because I used that particular dagger to pick up the first batch of contaminated bread, and I did not wipe it off. There must have been a residue.’
‘Give it to me,’ ordered Wiseman. ‘Carefully, if you please.’
Chaloner obliged, and while the surgeon busied himself at the table, he stared idly at the fire, recalling how fast Smartfoot had backed away when informed that Thurloe’s little phial contained poison. Now he knew why: the clerk had known exactly what contact with it could do.
‘There are residues on your blade,’ said Wiseman, breaking into his morbid reflections. ‘And if you plunged it into Smartfoot, then you probably are responsible for his death. It would have taken longer to react, of course, as the toxin seems to be most effective when ingested.’
Chaloner experienced a range of conflicting emotions. He had never liked killing, and poison was a coward’s weapon. On the other hand, Smartfoot had tried to dispatch him, and was probably involved in murdering a sick woman and slaughtering the King’s birds.
‘I have encountered poisons before,’ he said, watching the surgeon scrub his hands again. ‘But none that are this virulent. You said at the charnel house this morning that no apothecary would have contrived such a substance.’
‘Not the ones I know,’ said Wiseman drily. ‘They aim to furnish their customers with remedies and tonics, not potions that kill. And those who are unscrupulous enough to experiment with deadly compounds will never admit it, so do not waste time trawling their shops.’
‘Do you know what is in it?’
‘I analysed what we discovered in Mary, and it contained a number of dangerous ingredients, all of which have been concentrated to an unusual degree – monkshood, henbane, arsenic, some sort of lye. It would not be difficult to manufacture, although one would have to be very careful.’
‘You said earlier that it might have been imported.’
‘Yes, but it could have been produced here just as easily. You do not need me to tell you that anything can be bought in London, and that includes obscenely potent toxins.’
‘And all to kill birds, which seems rather excessive.’
Wiseman’s expression was sombre. ‘Yet it sends a clear message – that whoever is dispatching these ducks has access to a terrible substance and is not afraid to use it. Perhaps that is why chatter from the Post Office has suddenly dried up – people are afraid of being given a drop of this stuff. Here is your dagger. I have scoured it as well as I can, and it should be safe now.’
Chaloner refused to take it.
Because he was too tired to walk home, Chaloner accepted Wiseman’s offer of a bed for the night, and immediately fell into an uneasy sleep that teemed with images of poisoned birds, Russia and Newgate Gaol. It was hardly restful, so when the surgeon’s servants began clattering about in the kitchen below, he rose and dressed with relief. It was still dark, but they made no concession to the fact that the other occupants of the house might be asleep.
He walked downstairs, intending to slip out without being seen, but the stairs creaked, and the footman intercepted him. Chaloner knew from past visits that Wiseman’s people loved to gossip, and as their master seldom entertained, any guest was seized upon with alacrity. He found himself gripped by the hand and towed into the kitchen, where the other two were eating warm oatmeal.
‘Two men died in a fight outside the New Exchange last night,’ began the one-eyed groom with salacious glee, handing Chaloner a bowl and ladling some of the glutinous sludge into it. Despite its unappetising appearance, Chaloner ate, not sure how much opportunity there would be for food later. ‘The unrest grows worse almost by the hour.’
‘It is the same in Yorkshire and Sussex,’ put in the cook, who had lost an arm. ‘And we are all waiting to see which important person will be assassinated. I think it will be the Major, because he has renounced his principles and become a lily-livered pacifist.’
‘No, it will be Controller O’Neill,’ predicted the footman. He was missing the lower part of one leg, which lent a grim aptness to his chosen profession. ‘Because he is sly and corrupt.’
‘It is a bad state of affairs,’ sighed the groom. ‘And not set to improve when the Court is only interested in enjoying itself and spending money. We should make them live in a wooden palace, like the Tsar of Russia. That would teach them to behave.’
‘I shall never go to Russia,’ declared the cook. ‘I have heard that the only drink available is a powerful tonic made from vegetable parings, and a fellow cannot buy ale for love nor money.’
‘They do not have money in any case,’ said the footman with considerable authority. ‘They barter, so if you want to purchase something, you have to pay with gherkins or beetroot.’
‘Gherkins,’ said the cook with a shudder. �
�Surgeon Wiseman brought one home from the Crown yesterday, and it reminded me of the things he keeps in jars on his shelves.’
‘Speaking of unsavoury specimens, Lady Castlemaine’s husband was dismayed when he returned from his foreign travels to find his family increased by two babies,’ chuckled the groom. ‘She told him they were begot by an angel. The whole Court laughed, but all he did was bow and leave. He is a fool to let her treat him with such rank disrespect.’
‘She is beginning to lose her looks,’ said the footman. ‘I saw her in the street the other day, and she looked as old and used as a Southwark whore.’
Chaloner eventually managed to escape, wondering how the King expected to be taken seriously when his private life was so brazenly scandalous. Not for the first time, he felt a wave of sympathy for Palmer, and for Queen Katherine, too. Both deserved better from their spouses.
Fleet Street was strangely deserted as Chaloner began to walk along it, and he wondered why. It was a Wednesday, so should have been busy. Then a bellman’s mournful call told him it was four o’clock, and he realised that the servants had woken him ridiculously early.
Yet he did not mind. He had a great deal to do that day – inform Wood that his wife had been murdered; confess to Thurloe about losing the letters; attend Knight’s funeral; see what Vanderhuyden had learned about Dorislaus; ask questions about Oxenbridge, Fry, Gardner, Bankes and Harper; corner a clerk and interrogate him about the disused part of the Post Office; waylay Lamb and ask about Smartfoot; and, if there was time, speak to Ibson. Unfortunately, it was too early to do any of it. Except Thurloe. His friend would not mind being woken up.
He climbed over Lincoln’s Inn’s back wall, and was a silent, almost invisible shadow as he made his way across Dial Court and up the stairs to Chamber XIII. Reluctant to disturb Thurloe’s neighbours by knocking, he picked the lock and let himself in. Not surprisingly, the rooms were in darkness and the curtains were drawn around the bed. Chaloner called out softly, then lit a lamp, to give the ex-Spymaster a few moments to gather his wits. When he set his hand to the draperies and a knife slashed at him, he supposed he should have announced himself more clearly.
‘Thomas!’ exclaimed Thurloe, lowering the weapon. ‘Did no one ever tell you that it is impolite to wander about in other people’s bedrooms uninvited? You gave me a fright.’
‘One you repaid in full,’ retorted Chaloner ruefully. ‘You almost stabbed me.’
‘I thought it was Prynne, and I am angry with him. A horse tried to eat that horrible old hat he always wears, and he was bitten in the battle to get it back. I wasted an entire evening convincing him not to sue the owners, and the owners not to sue him.’
‘Was it Morland who came to tell you what had happened?’
‘Yes, along with half a dozen others. Their intention was to save Lincoln’s Inn from embarrassment; his was to put me in a situation that was demeaning.’
While Thurloe lit a fire, Chaloner told him all he had discovered since their last meeting. The ex-Spymaster regarded him doubtfully when he mentioned Wiseman’s contention that it was Dorislaus who had been spreading rumours about Mary’s death.
‘Isaac would not do that – he and the Woods are friends. He could have spied on them during the Commonwealth, when Wood was a person of interest to me, but he never did. He likes them.’
Chaloner was inclined to see that as evidence that Dorislaus had not been as loyal to Parliament as Thurloe believed. He started to mention Vanderhuyden’s suspicions, but changed his mind: Vanderhuyden had tried and had been given short shrift, and he was unlikely to fare any better.
‘Isaac has been of incalculable value to me over the past few days,’ Thurloe went on. He spoke coolly, as if he had read Chaloner’s reservations about the man. ‘He managed to prise some excellent intelligence from his former colleagues at the Post Office – before Harper was employed to prevent such gossip.’
‘What did he tell you, exactly?’
‘Unfortunately, what he learned is confusing and contradictory. Indeed, I am beginning to wonder whether there might be two plots unfolding there, not one.’
‘Two?’ Chaloner already suspected as much, but it was good to hear it confirmed.
Thurloe nodded. ‘One involving dishonest practices, and one rather more dangerous. We shall know soon, because Isaac has befriended a clerk named Smartfoot, who becomes indiscreet when drunk. Isaac plans to take him to a tavern today, and ply him with ale.’
‘Oh,’ said Chaloner guiltily, and summarised his adventures in St James’s Park.
‘For heaven’s sake, Thomas!’ cried Thurloe in exasperation. ‘Not only have you eliminated a promising source of information, but that is the second batch of documents you have managed to lose. If you happen across any more, please try a little harder to keep hold of them.’
‘I doubt they were important,’ said Chaloner defensively. ‘The one to Morland said John Fry was at the Angel, but it was untrue – Knight just reported an unsubstantiated rumour. There is no reason to assume the other letters were any different.’
‘They were important enough that they were what he wrote about in gaol. And I imagine the one to Morland was the least significant, because Knight could not have been sure of his loyalty to Gery. Indeed, I suspect these reports might have provided the key to this entire affair.’
Chaloner shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Why do you think the bird-killers took them?’
‘The answer is obvious. They kept their faces concealed but you did not: they almost certainly knew who you were, so of course they were interested in papers dropping from your clothes.’
‘The letters were also addressed to Clarendon, Wood, Bishop, Palmer, Kate O’Neill and various members of Court and the Privy Council. Knight had not met the Earl before last Thursday, and I suspect he did not know the others either. Except perhaps Kate. Why choose them?’
‘Because they are influential people who would be able to act on the information he provided,’ replied Thurloe shortly, making no effort to mask his continuing irritation.
‘Do you want me to look for them?’
‘I would, if we had any idea where to start. It is a wretched shame they have gone.’
* * *
Chastened, Chaloner left, and it was only when he was out in Chancery Lane that it occurred to him that he should have asked Thurloe about his ‘jackal’ Ibson. He considered returning, but Thurloe’s displeasure was hard to bear, and Ibson was not an important line of enquiry anyway.
It was still too early to begin the other tasks he had set himself, so he walked the short distance to Temperance’s club in Hercules’ Pillars Alley, aiming to see whether there had been any gossip that might help him. He arrived to find the last of the guests being loaded into hackneys or private coaches, while an army of cleaners moved in to tackle the mess. The weary filles de joie climbed the stairs towards beds in which, this time, they would do nothing but sleep.
A few patrons lingered on the steps or in the garden at the front of the house, bidding farewell to Temperance, while her doorman, Preacher Hill, loomed pointedly to remind them that it was time to go home. Hill was a nonconformist fanatic, who earned his keep in the brothel at night, and held forth about the perils of sin during the day. He and Chaloner had never seen eye to eye.
Le Notre was one of the stragglers, thanking Temperance effusively for a delightful evening. The powder on his cheeks was so thick that Chaloner wondered whether he was actually in disguise, and appeared as someone else when he was not parading as a French landscape architect with outrageous tastes in fashion.
After a moment, Oxenbridge appeared. He was also as white as chalk, although not from cosmetics, and there was something distinctly unearthly about the contrasting blackness of his eyes. He was limping slightly. Had he been fighting in the park the previous night or had he strained something in a frolic with the girls? He bowed to Temperance, who shrank away.
It was the perfect opportunity to waylay him, so Chal
oner stepped forward. Recognition burned in Oxenbridge’s disconcerting eyes – the skirmish outside Palmer’s house had apparently not been forgotten – and he gripped the hilt of his sword.
‘Good morning,’ said Chaloner pleasantly, as the knife from his sleeve slipped into the palm of his hand. ‘The Lord Chancellor sent me to ask about your association with the Post Off—’
‘I do not answer to him,’ snarled Oxenbridge. ‘Or to you. Now, if you value your life, get out of my way.’
‘If you are busy now, I can come to your house later,’ said Chaloner, declining to move.
‘Stay away from me,’ hissed Oxenbridge. ‘I am not a doll, to be pulled this way and that by grand lords and their spies.’
He shoved Chaloner away with considerable force. Normally, Chaloner would have stood firm, or perhaps grabbed him and put the knife to his throat, but he did neither. He told himself that Oxenbridge would not have answered his questions anyway, and pursuing the discussion was a waste of his time, but the truth was that the word ‘doll’ had flustered him. Logic told him there was nothing sinister about it, and that he was a fool for letting himself be so disconcerted – he should go after Oxenbridge and try again.
He watched as Oxenbridge drew level with le Notre, who linked arms with him, gabbling merrily in French. Chaloner suspected that Oxenbridge did not speak the language, and le Notre was having fun at his expense, although it seemed reckless to make sport of such a fellow. Unless they were friends, of course. But if that were true, then why had Oxenbridge lobbed stones at Palmer’s house when le Notre was in it?
He did not want to tackle Oxenbridge with le Notre as a witness, so he trailed them to the lane, where le Notre climbed into a coach that was emblazoned with the Castlemaine coat of arms, leading Chaloner to wonder whether Palmer would have lent it had he known where the borrower intended to travel. It appeared as though he would ride away alone, but Oxenbridge suddenly jumped in with him, and the driver whipped the horses into a brisk trot.
Chaloner ran after it, aiming to flag down a hackney on Fleet Street and follow, but he arrived to find not a one in sight. There was no traffic at that early hour, so the driver gave the horses their head. Chaloner did his best to keep up on foot, but it was hopeless, and it was with a sense of enormous frustration that he staggered to a halt and watched it rattle out of sight.
Death in St James's Park: 8 (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 24
