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

by Gregory, Susanna

  He returned to the club, which was still disgorging members. Next out was Bishop, lapdog in one hand and some lady’s undergarment in the other. He also thanked Temperance for an exquisite occasion, and tottered down the steps into the courtyard, setting his pooch gently on the ground where it immediately squatted and began to water the plants. Chaloner ducked behind a shrub when it snuffled towards him, more so that Bishop would not see him if he needed to boot it away than to conceal himself, although the move did render him invisible.

  On Bishop’s heels came O’Neill, who seemed taller and more imposing without his wife in tow. His voice was more forceful, too, as he informed Temperance in a penetrating whisper that allowing the likes of Bishop inside the club had lowered its tone.

  ‘He is a liar and a cheat,’ he stated uncompromisingly. ‘And his vile little rat-dog stinks.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ she admitted. ‘However, it bit Oxenbridge, which more than compensated for its lack of personal hygiene. And I will hear nothing bad about Bishop. He is a gentle soul, and everyone here loves him for his generosity and thoughtfulness.’

  ‘Ban him,’ urged O’Neill, slipping a fat purse into her hand. ‘You will not regret it, I promise. And I will let you send free letters for the rest of your life if you poison his dog. I cannot abide the thing. It is worse than birds for its filthy habits.’

  Behind the bush, Chaloner frowned. Was this proof that O’Neill did engage in nepotistic practices at the Post Office, despite his assurances to the contrary? And was his dislike of animals enough to see him use his clerks to dispatch ducks? When O’Neill aimed for the lane, Chaloner left his hiding place and began to follow, but this time Temperance saw and darted forward to stop him.

  ‘No, Tom,’ she said warningly. ‘I do not want you harrying my patrons, even the ones I do not like.’

  ‘You do not like O’Neill?’

  ‘Not particularly. He is a—’

  She was interrupted by a shout from Hill – O’Neill and Bishop had met in the lane, and were engaged in fisticuffs. Bishop had his dog under one arm and was whirling the other around like a windmill, while O’Neill had taken the traditional pose of a boxer, but did not seem to know what to do next. The dog yapped with irritating intensity.

  Bishop lunged, but while his fist missed its target, the manoeuvre brought the dog’s sharp little teeth within nipping distance, and they fastened on to his opponent’s sleeve. Outraged, O’Neill jerked away, but the dog held on, and both men fell to the ground, where they rolled about, pulling each other’s wigs and trading clumsy slaps. Hill tried to separate them, but fell back with a yelp when the dog bit him. Chaloner watched in astonishment.

  ‘Too much to drink,’ said Temperance disapprovingly. ‘Pull them apart, Tom. We do not allow unseemly behaviour outside the club. What will the neighbours think?’

  Chaloner doubted a fight would horrify the neighbours, who were used to very much worse, but obligingly went to lift Bishop off O’Neill. Meanwhile, the dog continued to worry at Hill’s ankles, and in desperation, the preacher turned and fled towards Fleet Street. The sight of a pair of heels sent the creature into paroxysms of delight, and it shot after its quarry with a frenzy of excited yips.

  ‘Come back!’ cried Bishop in dismay, O’Neill forgotten as he hared after it. ‘My darling!’

  ‘I am here on official business,’ blustered O’Neill when he recognised Chaloner. His face was scarlet with mortification. ‘I did not come for the ladies while my wife is visiting her mother.’

  ‘I shall believe you,’ said Chaloner. ‘If you answer a few questions about the Post Office.’

  O’Neill regarded him in dismay. ‘But I never discuss it with outsiders – it would be unethical. Betray me to Kate, then. But if you do, I shall tell Hannah that you were here, too.’

  He stalked away, and Chaloner could not help but notice that he was very light on his feet and moved with a compact grace that made a lie of his ridiculous scuffle with Bishop. Had he gone to poison a few birds before enjoying a few hours of leisure at the club?

  * * *

  ‘That was a dismal attempt at blackmail, Tom,’ said Temperance, wryly, when the last of the guests had gone and she and Chaloner turned to enter the club. ‘Are you losing your touch?’

  ‘It would seem so,’ sighed Chaloner. ‘In more ways than one.’

  Inside, the mess was appalling. Food was splattered on the walls, and there was more wine on the floor than he consumed in a month. He gazed around in horror, but the cleaners were undaunted, and chatted happily among themselves as they set to work. All would be pristine again by the evening, when the cycle would begin afresh.

  ‘I am exhausted,’ said Temperance, leading the way to her private parlour. She flopped into a chair, removed her wig and tossed it on the floor. Hairpieces were both expensive to buy and to maintain, and in that one careless gesture, she revealed how obscenely rich she had grown.

  She reached up to the mantelpiece, and took down her pipe. Once it was lit, she poured two dishes of thick black sludge and passed one to Chaloner. He took it, but had no intention of drinking. It had been made by Maude, her formidable helpmeet, and was coffee so potent that it was rumoured to have killed healthy men. Besides, Chaloner liked having teeth.

  ‘I was surprised to see Oxenbridge here,’ he said. ‘You told me after the explosion that he was not one of your patrons.’

  ‘Tonight was his first time, and I hope to God it will be his last. I did not see him come in, and neither did Hill. We just looked around, and there he was. It was rather eerie if you want the truth.’

  ‘You could have asked him to leave.’

  ‘I started to, because he was unsettling my other guests, but when he turned those glittering black eyes on me, my nerve failed. I started gabbling silly questions at him instead.’

  ‘I do not suppose you asked him where he lives, did you?’

  ‘I did, as a matter of fact, but do you know what he said? That he lays his head wherever the fancy takes him. What am I supposed to make of that? And when I asked if he had any family, he said they are an encumbrance that he has never deemed necessary.’

  ‘Le Notre seemed to like him.’

  Temperance smiled. ‘Dear le Notre. He is a lovely man, and likes everyone.’

  He had not liked O’Neill, thought Chaloner, recalling how he had warned against furthering a friendship with the Controller and had arranged for him to be blamed for breaking Hannah’s clock.

  ‘He had a very nasty experience yesterday,’ Temperance went on. ‘His carriage was attacked, and he was lucky to escape with his life. Well, it was not his carriage, it was Palmer’s. The public mood is against Palmer, but it is his own fault. He should not be planning to publish Pope-loving texts. Were you at Tothill Street last night, by the way? I hear there was a riot.’

  ‘There are riots most nights. Too many taverns.’

  ‘I do not suppose you could secure me a crane, could you?’ asked Temperance after a while. ‘Lord Rochester has expressed a desire to have one roasted.’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly. ‘And do not try to poach one from St James’s Park, because they are very well guarded. You will be caught.’

  ‘Anything can be bought in London, if one has enough money. Anything at all.’

  ‘Not a crane,’ begged Chaloner. ‘Or any other exotic bird. It would break Storey’s heart.’

  Temperance softened. ‘Well, if you put it like that … Incidentally, what did Hannah say when you told her you were caught in that explosion?’

  ‘Nothing much. Why?’

  ‘In other words, she did not care. I wish you had not married her, Tom. She is a nice lady, but you are woefully ill-matched.’

  ‘Have you heard any more rumours about the Post Office?’ asked Chaloner, changing the subject very abruptly. He was not sure what he disliked more: the fact that Temperance felt free to make such remarks, or the fact that they were true.

  Temperance patted his knee i
n sympathetic understanding, then answered his question. ‘There have been plenty more tales, but I do not know if they are accurate. It is said that O’Neill has hired additional clerks, so that every piece of mail can be read before it is sent.’

  ‘I doubt that can be right. The task would be impossible.’

  ‘Then there is a story that abuses are on the increase – mailbags “lost” and business letters sold to rival concerns. And there is a report that something is being built there. It involves Morland.’

  ‘Samuel Morland?’

  ‘I detest him. He slithers about like a snake, and I have no idea whether he is loyal to the King or not. He tried to come here, but I told Hill to toss him out. He was furious, but I was not having the likes of him near my guests when they are too drunk to be sensible.’

  Chaloner determined to corner Morland as soon as possible, and this time there would be no rescue from Gery. ‘Wiseman wants me to visit Sir Henry Wood this morning, to tell him his wife was murdered. It will not be a pleasant task.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Temperance. She was thoughtful. ‘Wood says some very peculiar things, but only to those who do not matter. When he is with important people, like the King, he is perfectly sane. Personally, I think he just likes to see folk wrong-footed.’

  ‘Do you think it is possible that he killed Mary?’

  Temperance started to say no, but then stopped and was silent for a while, considering. ‘I would like to think not,’ she said eventually. ‘But there is a ruthless streak in him. He slaughtered dozens of Roundheads during the wars, including women and children.’

  ‘Wiseman said you heard it was Dorislaus who started the tales about Mary being poisoned.’

  Temperance relit her pipe, while Chaloner studied her shaven head, stained teeth and portly features, and wondered what it was about her that the surgeon found so utterly irresistible.

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Dorislaus is a sly villain, and probably a Dutch spy as well. However, I have no evidence, and only repeat whispers. And there is another rumour about Mary, too, which I heard from the Duke of Buckingham.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘His chambermaid was intimate with one of the Woods’ servants, a lad named Joyce. Well, according to Joyce, Mary had had a mysterious visitor just before she died – one who was most insistent that he should speak to her.’

  ‘I doubt it is true. Why would he let guests pester his mistress when she was ill in bed?’

  ‘She was on the mend and was bored, apparently – the small-pox is infectious, so no one had been to see her. The caller was well-dressed and told Joyce that he was a friend.’

  ‘Do you know the chambermaid’s name?’ asked Chaloner, supposing he would have to ask her about the story, given that the hapless Joyce was not in a position to oblige.

  ‘Nancy, but she is a saucy piece, who will whisk you into her bedchamber just as soon as look at you. She wanted to work here, but I considered her too wanton.’

  Chaloner left, bemused to learn that someone could be deemed too wanton for a brothel.

  Dawn was only just breaking as he walked towards Buckingham’s house, but despite the early hour, he saw two men he knew. They were Stokes and Cliffe, marching with backs erect and shoulders back, grey moustaches bristling with military precision.

  ‘We saw Spymaster Williamson join you after we fled Will’s Coffee House the other day,’ said Stokes in distaste. ‘I did not know you were acquainted with that sort of person.’

  ‘I did not invite him to sit with me,’ objected Chaloner, unwilling to be considered one of Williamson’s toadies. ‘He did it because everyone else had disappeared.’

  ‘I always run away when he arrives,’ said Cliffe loftily. ‘I do not care for such company.’

  ‘Well, it looked suspicious,’ said Chaloner. ‘As though you had something to hide.’

  ‘We did have something to hide,’ averred Cliffe. ‘We had just been discussing the licentiousness of Court. There are some who would consider that treason.’

  ‘Although there are many more who agree with us,’ said Stokes. ‘Especially now Palmer aims to publish books urging us all to love the Pope. Rebellion is bubbling in Yorkshire, Sussex, Nottingham, Bristol and God knows where else. The whole country will be in flames soon.’

  ‘Williamson is next to worthless at quelling trouble,’ grumbled Cliffe. ‘And he is a fool. Did you know that he is offering fifty pounds for the arrest of that postal clerk? It is a ridiculous sum.’

  Stokes’s expression was wistful. ‘I wish I knew where Gardner was. I would love fifty pounds.’

  ‘I am not surprised Gardner is in trouble,’ said Cliffe acidly. ‘I know him, because he always dealt with my enquiries in the Letter Hall. He looks like a harmless yokel, but I always thought there was something untoward about him. Not like poor Knight. I doubt he did anything wrong, and the villains who took him to Newgate should be strung up themselves.’

  ‘You are up early,’ said Chaloner, immediately uncomfortable. ‘It is barely light.’

  ‘We have been to church,’ explained Cliffe. ‘St Dunstan’s does a pre-dawn service.’

  ‘Some of them should try it,’ remarked Stokes, nodding to where a coach was rattling past, full of courtiers. They were bawling a tavern song, and one of them hurled an empty decanter out of the window. It smashed against a wall, a sound that elicited drunken cheers.

  ‘Brutes!’ declared Cliffe angrily. ‘Their behaviour is disgraceful.’

  ‘She was in that coach,’ said Stokes, lips pursed in furious disapproval. ‘Lady Castlemaine. In company with men of dubious character – Sir Alan Brodrick, Will Chiffinch, Lord Rochester. All are dissipated scoundrels who should be locked away.’

  ‘But her husband is nowhere to be seen,’ added Cliffe. ‘Doubtless he is on his knees in front of the Virgin Mary, muttering in Latin. He should concentrate on bringing his whore-wife to heel, and leave religion until he has time for it.’

  Chaloner walked away, thinking that Cliffe could never have been married, or he would know that such advice was easy to dispense, but a lot harder to put into action.

  As Temperance had promised, Nancy was indeed a saucy piece, which was doubtless why she had been hired – the Duke liked a romp, and it was clear that Nancy would be a ready and willing partner. She leaned against a bureau in the Duke’s best parlour, more than happy to shirk her duties and answer questions put by Hannah’s husband.

  ‘Yes, Dick Joyce told me about the stranger who visited Lady Mary before she died,’ she purred. ‘Perhaps it was as well that Dick was blown to pieces, because if he was alive, he might have been held responsible for the fact that she was poisoned. And she was, you know – all London is talking about it.’

  ‘What did he tell you, exactly?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘That Mary was bored, lying in bed alone, so when this stranger came and said he wanted to speak to her, she told Dick to let him in. An hour later, when Dick went to take her a tonic, the visitor had gone and she was dead.’

  ‘Did he say what this person looked like?’

  ‘He did better than that – he pointed him out to me.’ Nancy adjusted her ample bosom in a way that ensured Chaloner’s eyes would be drawn towards it. ‘The fellow happened to be passing when we were chatting. It was what prompted Dick to tell me the story in the first place.’

  ‘Where were you when this happened?’

  ‘Outside the Wood mansion in Post House Yard. The villain was on his way to the General Letter Office. To post a package, I suppose.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘He was about your height, with bushy yellow hair and a round pink face.’

  Gardner, thought Chaloner, whom Knight had asked about a murder, but which had been denied unconvincingly. Was killing Mary the crime Knight had been talking about? Chaloner supposed he would have to find out.

  It was still too early to visit Wood, so Chaloner went to the Rainbow Coffee House, hoping a dish of the beverage wo
uld sharpen his wits; Farr’s charred beans were a lot safer than the toxic sludge Temperance had offered him.

  ‘I would like to invite you all to my shop the day after tomorrow,’ Speed was announcing. ‘For the first sales of Palmer’s book. I promise it will be an interesting event.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Stedman archly. ‘We are not interested in Catholic rubbish.’

  ‘It is not rubbish,’ snapped Speed. ‘Palmer is erudite and insightful. He is a good Royalist, too, despite what the King has done to his marriage, so there will be nothing seditious either.’

  ‘Speaking of Royalists, how was your visit to the Crown yesterday, Stedman?’ asked Farr conversationally. ‘It is known to be full of Cavaliers, so you must have felt at home.’

  ‘And so I might,’ replied the printer sourly, ‘had Clement Oxenbridge not been lounging by the fire. He is so sinister that I could not bring myself to stay.’

  ‘I do not blame you,’ said Speed with a shudder. ‘There is something disconcertingly spectral about that man, and no one knows anything about him – of his family, his home, his life. It is almost as if he were a ghost. And he spreads trouble like a disease.’

  ‘My apprentices believe he is the devil come to walk among us,’ said Stedman in a low voice. He glanced around uneasily, as if he imagined Oxenbridge might suddenly appear and hear him.

  ‘The King held a terribly loud party last night,’ said Farr, after a short silence; Stedman’s words had unsettled everyone. ‘With all his courtiers dressed as Romans. It raised complaints from as far away as Charing Cross, and I have been told that the racket sparked a riot in Tothill Street.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Stedman. ‘The King’s soirée had nothing to do with that: a letter from John Fry did. He wrote to the Printers’ Guild – on costly paper sealed with fine purple wax – to ask why we pay such a high tax on ink. It set our apprentices alight with indignation.’