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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘John Fry,’ sighed Speed. ‘He has become a nuisance with his feisty opinions.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Stedman. ‘But my fellow printers consider him a Messiah, and marched off to tackle the ink factory near Tothill Street. I had nothing to do with it, of course. I am no rebel.’

  ‘Complaining about taxes is not rebellion,’ said Farr. ‘I shall join a demonstration myself later today – one in which coffee-house owners express their disapproval over the increased revenues on sugar. Chaloner is my only customer who does not use it, and it is expensive.’

  ‘Chaloner does not take sugar?’ Stedman eyed Chaloner in wary disbelief. ‘Why not?’

  ‘He is practising for when he visits Russia,’ supplied Farr, patting the copy of Olearius’s Voyages, which showed signs of having been thoroughly pawed. ‘Sugar is not available there.’

  A little later that morning, Chaloner knocked on the door to Wood’s mansion, and was conducted to a sitting room on the first floor that afforded a fine view of Post House Yard. Bookshelves lined the walls, their tomes about subjects as diverse as cartography, natural history, mathematics and philosophy. However, it was not Wood’s choice of reading material that caught Chaloner’s eye as much as the fact that he already had visitors: Dorislaus and Vanderhuyden were with him.

  ‘Tom!’ exclaimed Dorislaus. He smiled without warmth. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘Do not loiter there like a cabbage,’ snapped Wood. He was standing on a table with a spoon in his hand. ‘Come in, where I can see you. Hah! It is Chaloner the regicide. Have you come to conspire with Dorislaus? He is another who worked to see the old King dead.’

  Dorislaus stood up and reached for his hat. ‘I must be away. I have much to do.’

  He bowed and had taken his leave before Chaloner could ask why he had started the rumours that Mary had been poisoned, or why he held clandestine meetings with the likes of Gery, le Notre and O’Neill. Then the spy’s attention was taken by Wood, who was scrambling over the furniture with a remarkable agility for a man his age.

  ‘He is chasing a moth,’ explained Vanderhuyden, adding in a whisper, ‘God knows why.’

  Chaloner sat next to him and lowered his voice, taking the opportunity to confer while their host was busy. ‘I was hoping to meet you today. Have you found evidence against Dorislaus yet?’

  ‘No, but you saw how quickly he escaped just now. I think he knows I have taken time away from work to monitor him and it has made him uneasy. Should I go after him?’

  ‘Not yet – it will confirm his suspicions. Leave it for a while, then try again. But please be careful. There is little more dangerous than a cornered spy.’

  ‘I am afraid I have not yet asked about the Major’s contacts in the Post Office,’ said Vanderhuyden apologetically. ‘Dorislaus has taken up too much of my time.’

  ‘Good,’ said Chaloner, relieved he had not been dabbling in business that might see him killed. He added a lie to keep it that way. ‘Dorislaus is much more important. Concentrate on him.’

  ‘Very well, if you are sure. He is—’

  ‘Hah!’ exclaimed Wood, breaking into their muttered discussion. He held up his hand, and they saw he had caught the moth. He inspected it carefully, then ate it.

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. Vanderhuyden winced, but did not seem surprised.

  ‘I have just returned from Chelsey,’ declared Wood, coming to sit next to them. ‘I went to arrange for Mary to be buried in the churchyard. The vicar agreed, so Dorislaus and Vanderhuyden collected her from the charnel house for me, and we put her in the earth at midnight.’

  ‘Did she hail from Chelsey?’ asked Chaloner, wondering how to broach the subject of murder.

  ‘She had never been there,’ replied Wood airily. ‘But it is blissfully free of leeks, and she would not have wanted to spend eternity near those. The vicar was very understanding.’

  ‘Especially once he had been paid twenty pounds,’ muttered Vanderhuyden.

  ‘Do you ever drink ass’s urine mixed with powder of worms, Chaloner?’ Wood asked conversationally. ‘Mary used to mix me a draught every morning, and insisted I took it, even though I detested the taste. She said it would strengthen my bowels.’

  Chaloner wondered if this had prompted him to dispatch her. ‘Speaking of Mary—’

  ‘She was murdered,’ interrupted Wood calmly. ‘Swallowed poison, poor soul.’

  ‘No, she died of the small-pox,’ said Vanderhuyden, kindly patient. ‘I cannot imagine who started those nasty rumours, but he deserves to be shot for his malicious tongue.’

  ‘Oh, they are true,’ said Wood, and suddenly there was a gleam in his eye that was a long way from lunacy. ‘There was blood in her mouth. I inspected her corpse, you see.’

  ‘What?’ asked Vanderhuyden in horror.

  ‘I inspected her corpse,’ repeated Wood blithely. ‘She was my wife, and I wanted to make sure someone had not replaced her body with a parsnip. London is a very peculiar city.’

  ‘Then why did you not tell someone at once?’ demanded Vanderhuyden, shocked. ‘How will we catch her killer now? She died days ago, and witnesses will have forgotten what they saw.’

  ‘The culprit was clever,’ said Wood slyly. ‘He waited until I took everyone away to hunt for carrots in Southwark, and then he struck. It was a pity – Mary was recovering well from her illness.’

  ‘It is more than a pity!’ cried Vanderhuyden, leaping to his feet in agitation. ‘It is a terrible crime, and I am going to report it. I shall see the bastard caught, Wood, do not worry. I shall demand an audience with the Lord Chancellor himself.’

  He left before Wood could respond, and Chaloner saw him emerge in Post House Yard a few moments later, racing towards Dowgate Hill, and yelling for a hackney to take him to White Hall. What would the Earl say when he arrived? Would Vanderhuyden be given short shrift, like Knight, or would Mary’s name open the necessary doors?

  ‘Do not look out of the window,’ hissed Wood, dragging Chaloner away. His grip was powerful and it, coupled with his nimble acrobatics across the furniture, led Chaloner to wonder whether he might be skilled at wielding swords in dark parks, too. ‘The General Letter Office is out there, and you do not want that to spot you. There are onions growing all along its roof, and they are the deadliest vegetables in the world.’

  ‘Who killed your wife?’ asked Chaloner, declining to let Wood’s eccentricities distract him.

  Wood shrugged. ‘There are many strange and vicious people in London.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner, thinking that Wood was one of them. ‘But does anyone in particular come to mind? Vanderhuyden is right: it is a terrible crime, and you must want it solved.’

  ‘Why? It will not bring her back. Besides, vengeance is for celery, which is a vindictive plant.’

  ‘It is not about vengeance, it is about justice. Someone fed your wife a caustic substance while she lay recovering from a serious illness. The culprit cannot be allowed to stay free.’

  Wood stared at him. ‘But we do not know the culprit. Joyce admitted a stranger, one who did not give his name. And now Joyce is dead, too. We shall never know the killer’s identity.’

  ‘Do you not think that Joyce’s death so soon after Mary’s is a suspicious coincidence?’

  Wood raised his eyebrows. ‘Why would I? She died of poison, he was blown to pieces.’

  Chaloner was becoming exasperated. ‘Why did you take virtually your entire household to Southwark when your wife was unwell?’

  ‘Because we cannot have carrots rampaging about, man! Do you not know how much damage they can do? And Mary was almost better anyway. She was happy for us to go.’

  Chaloner could not tell if it was the truth. ‘Do you know a man named Lewis Gardner?’

  ‘Of course. He is the villain who has been cheating the Post Office, and there is a bounty on his head. Do you knew where he is? If so, I shall fetch my musket and come with you to arrest him.’ Wood did a pecu
liar little dance by tapping his toes on the wooden floor. ‘Fifty pounds!’

  ‘Has he ever been to your house?’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ asked Wood, although there was a sly cant to his eyes.

  ‘There is reason to believe that he visited Mary the day she died. A witness said—’

  ‘Onions. I told you they were dangerous. Onions paid Gardner to come here and murder Mary.’

  ‘An interesting concept,’ said Chaloner, watching him intently. ‘Hiring a killer.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wood, meeting his gaze steadily. ‘But I hope you do not suspect me of the crime. I am not an onion. Or a regicide, for that matter. Is that why you are so interested in the onions? You think they might help you to behead another King?’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner, coldly. ‘I am not interested in onions. Only in savage, unprincipled brutes who murder sick women in their beds.’

  Chapter 10

  An interview with the Earl could be postponed no longer, although Chaloner dragged his feet as he walked to White Hall, not liking to imagine his master’s displeasure when told that the bird-killers were still at large. He arrived to find the Earl in conference with the King, something that happened so rarely that all appointments had been cancelled for the rest of the day. The Earl had left him a message, though – a stern reminder that if he interfered with the Post Office enquiry in any way, he could expect instant dismissal.

  In churlish defiance, Chaloner went to Post House Yard, where he spent several hours asking questions about Oxenbridge, Fry, Harper, Gardner, Lamb and Bankes, although he met with no success. He managed to waylay five different clerks, but none would confide in him – the first four claimed with convincing bemusement that nothing untoward was happening, and the fifth refused to speak at all. Chaloner was about to see whether a knife would loosen his tongue when Harper appeared with two henchman. Chaloner considered demanding answers from them instead, but decided to be sensible when all three drew swords.

  He ran, but they followed, and although he was adept at losing pursuers, Harper proved to be unusually dogged. Thus Chaloner was hot, tired and irritable when he finally escaped and made his way to St Mary Bothaw for Knight’s funeral.

  He had walked past the little church hundreds of times, but had paid it scant attention. It was a simple building, with a low tower and a nave lit by lancet windows. Inside, it was dark and very cold. He heard voices in the chancel, and walked towards them to find Wiseman with Rector Basset, who was a small man with a thin face and long grey hair. They had the coffin lid open, and Chaloner wondered uneasily what they had been doing.

  ‘I thought you might like to be sure we are burying the right person,’ said Wiseman, adding archly, ‘Given our difference of opinion about what should happen to the corpses of felons.’

  ‘Knight was not a felon,’ said Chaloner, guilt flooding through him as he looked down at the man he had arrested.

  ‘No,’ agreed Basset. ‘I always thought him decent and honest. However, he became oddly withdrawn of late, and his fiancée is probably wise to keep her distance from him today.’

  ‘She is not coming?’ asked Chaloner, sorry for it.

  ‘He wrote her a letter explaining his recent actions,’ replied Basset. ‘But she was hurt and angry to learn that he had squandered their happy future together for the sake of exposing a plot. She thought he should have turned a blind eye, like all the other clerks.’

  So Knight had been a brave man, thought Chaloner unhappily, prepared to risk all for his principles. It made the spy even more determined to catch whoever had murdered him.

  The service was brief, but even so, the gravedigger had gone to a tavern by the time they emerged, and there was no one to carry Knight to his final resting place. Chaloner grabbed one end of the coffin, and indicated that Wiseman was to take the other. Basset led the way to the grave, which was shielded from the road by yews. They cast deep shadows, and as it was nearing dusk, they rendered the cemetery dark and eerie. Chaloner and Wiseman set the casket on the ropes that had been laid ready, and began to manoeuvre it into the hole.

  ‘Stop!’ came a stentorian voice. Chaloner and Wiseman started in alarm, and the coffin jiggled precariously. ‘Or we will open fire.’

  Chaloner twisted around to see a party of men approaching. All carried muskets. Basset squeaked in alarm, while Wiseman treated Chaloner to a weary look, immediately assuming that he was responsible for whatever was about to happen. The coffin was about halfway down the grave, so was not easy to hold, and Chaloner hoped they would not be expected to keep it there for long.

  He assessed the gunmen quickly. There were five of them, all swathed in cloaks and wearing scarves to conceal their faces. However, glittering button-black eyes told him that the speaker was Oxenbridge, and suddenly it seemed bad luck that the cemetery was not visible from the street.

  ‘We are laying someone to rest,’ objected Basset unsteadily. ‘Will you wait until we finish?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Oxenbridge, as Chaloner and Wiseman started to lower the coffin again. Chaloner felt a musket dig into the small of his back. ‘All of you will stand still or I shall kill you.’

  ‘Please,’ begged Basset. ‘This is not seemly. It will not take a moment to—’

  He yelped when Oxenbridge struck him. Chaloner tensed, but there was nothing he could do when his hands were full of rope and there was a musket jabbing at his spine. His arms began to burn with the strain of keeping the casket suspended.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Wiseman. He sounded calm, but Chaloner could see the outrage in his eyes, and hoped he would not do anything rash.

  ‘The letters you took from Knight’s woman,’ said Oxenbridge to Chaloner.

  ‘What letters?’ asked Chaloner, then staggered when the man behind poked him hard with the gun. Several inches of rope skidded through his hands. Wiseman compensated, but the coffin swayed violently regardless. It steadied, but only just.

  ‘The letters you found under her bed,’ hissed Oxenbridge. ‘She just told us about them, and suggested we come here.’

  ‘I hope you did not harm her,’ said Chaloner, meeting Oxenbridge’s eyes with a level stare. It was easier to look at him when most of his face was concealed.

  Oxenbridge nodded to one of his men, who began to search Chaloner’s pockets. Chaloner assessed his chances of survival if he dropped the ropes, whipped out his sword and went on the offensive. They were slim, but they were worse for Wiseman and Basset, who were unarmed. And he fully believed Oxenbridge would do as he had threatened and shoot them.

  ‘Where are they?’ demanded Oxenbridge, when the soldier finished and shook his head.

  ‘I posted them,’ replied Chaloner. ‘As Knight had instructed.’

  ‘Liar! You were too late for yesterday’s mail, and there is none today. It is Wednesday.’

  Chaloner cursed himself for making such a basic mistake. ‘They were all to Londoners,’ he blustered. ‘The Post Office does not accept letters for the capital, so I hired private carriers to—’

  ‘Pull it up,’ interrupted Oxenbridge sharply. ‘The coffin. Haul it up.’

  ‘What?’ blurted Wiseman, startled. ‘Why?’

  ‘So I can see whether you are burying who you claim,’ snapped Oxenbridge. ‘And then your friend will tell us where he has hidden the letters, or you and the rector will die.’

  Chaloner and Wiseman had no choice but to obey. Chaloner pretended the coffin was too heavy for him, and the business took so long that an exasperated Oxenbridge eventually ordered two of his men to take the ropes instead. Chaloner seized the opportunity it provided. The moment their hands were full, he spun around and chopped Oxenbridge as hard as he could in the neck with the side of his hand. Even before Oxenbridge had crumpled, Chaloner had lashed out with his dagger to send the guard behind him reeling away with a slashed face.

  Wiseman also reacted with impressive speed. He jerked the ropes savagely, which pulled the two startled soldiers off bal
ance. The casket dropped, and one man tumbled into the grave after it. While his crony gaped in horror, Chaloner clubbed him into the hole, too. He turned to

  deal with the last soldier only to find himself looking down the barrel of a musket. He thought fast.

  ‘The rector is armed. Shoot me, and he will kill you. Look, if you do not believe me.’

  Rashly, the fellow did, which gave Chaloner the split second he needed to snatch the weapon from his hands. Fear flared in the taupe eyes above the scarf that swathed his face. Chaloner recognised their unusual colour immediately.

  ‘Rea,’ he said flatly. ‘It seems you will answer my questions after all.’

  Rea gulped, and glanced to where Oxenbridge was beginning to stir. Meanwhile, the pair in the grave were testing Wiseman by trying to climb out, and the guard with the slashed face had disappeared, probably to summon help. Chaloner did not have much time.

  ‘Give me the letters and leave the city,’ whispered Rea. ‘Leak is dead, Knight is dead, Smartfoot is dead … If you have one jot of sense, you will disappear before you join them.’

  ‘Leak and Smartfoot died killing the King’s birds,’ said Chaloner. ‘And Mary Wood was murdered with the same toxin. What does the Post Office gain from these cowardly acts?’

  Rea gaped. ‘You should not have made those connections. My masters will not—’

  ‘Who are your masters?’ demanded Chaloner, although he was now hopelessly confused. Rea and Oxenbridge could not been involved with dispatching the ducks, or they would not be asking for the letters, given that the bird-killers had taken them. Were there rival factions at work within the Post Office, then? Thurloe had mentioned two separate plots …

  ‘Men who will kill me if I betray them. So do not think that musket will make me talk.’

  ‘You were ready to speak to me the other day.’

  ‘No – I was ordered to spin you a tale that would send you to a place where you could be quietly dispatched, but Gery interrupted. Who are you working for? It is not Clarendon, because Gery is doing his bidding. Is it Bankes? Jeremiah Copping said you were …’