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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Copping?’ pounced Chaloner when Rea faltered, clearly having let something slip that he should not have done. ‘What did he—’

  But at that moment, Wiseman yelled a warning. Oxenbridge had regained his senses and was climbing to his feet. Chaloner aimed the musket and fired at him, intending to do enough damage to render him harmless but not enough to kill, knowing he himself was not the only one who had questions for Oxenbridge to answer. His deep mistrust of firearms was borne out when the weapon failed to discharge, and nothing more happened than an impotent click.

  ‘You should not have dallied,’ said Rea, suddenly gloating. ‘Now you will see what—’

  Chaloner swiped at him with the musket butt, then leapt towards Oxenbridge, shoving him into the grave on top of the two men already there. There came the sound of splintering coffin and cries of revulsion. Tossing the useless gun away, Chaloner grabbed the terrified rector by the hand and ran, shouting for Wiseman to follow.

  ‘Go home, collect Temperance and leave the city,’ he ordered once they were in the street. ‘Do not return until I send word to the Stag Inn in Chatham. Take Basset with you.’

  ‘I cannot!’ Wiseman was horrified. ‘I have duties here – patients. The King.’

  ‘I know.’ Chaloner was sorry he had dragged the surgeon into such dark business. ‘But Oxenbridge may think you have these damned letters. You will not be safe here.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Wiseman reluctantly. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Lead them away so you can escape. Hurry. You do not have much time.’

  Moments later, Oxenbridge appeared. He released a bellow of triumph when he saw Chaloner, who then took him and his men on a merry chase, allowing them to come recklessly close to ensure they did not lose interest. Twice they almost outfoxed him by splitting up, and once Oxenbridge even managed to grab his coat. Only when they reached Wapping did Chaloner vanish into the shadows. Then he broke into a steady run, aiming for Scalding Alley.

  Rachel’s door hung drunkenly on its hinges, and her cosy, neat lodgings were in chaos. There was no sign of her, and a frightened neighbour said she and Landlord Morgan had left London together. Chaloner hoped they would have the sense not to come back.

  As Chaloner felt he could not go to Tothill Street or Long Acre that night, he took a room in an anonymous tavern on Cheapside. He was too restless to sleep well, and it was still dark when he left to visit Thurloe, skidding frequently on the ice that lay in slick sheets across the streets. The city was quieter than usual, although an inordinate number of apprentices were out, gathering in sullen gangs. Respectable traders were keeping their premises closed, and many houses had boarded up their windows. London felt much as it had done during the uneasy truces between the civil wars, when no one was sure what was going to happen next.

  Chaloner was just walking across Dial Court when he saw a familiar figure. As usual, Prynne’s hat was pulled down to conceal his lack of ears, although loose threads indicated that it had not emerged unscathed from its encounter with the horse’s teeth.

  ‘You are up early,’ said the pamphleteer with keen interest. ‘Is trouble afoot? Is Man again hugging his pleasurable sins? Alas, how far are Christians now degenerated from what they were in ancient times; when as that which was their badge and honour heretofore is now become their brand and shame. Quantus in Christiano populo honor Christi est, ubi religio ignobilem facit?’

  Chaloner regarded him sourly, wondering why the man could not find it within himself to speak plain English. ‘I am not sure I want to talk to you, given your recent antics.’

  Prynne scowled. ‘It was not my fault that wretched horse took a liking to my—’

  ‘I meant what you did last Saturday – taking Gery to Thurloe’s rooms.’

  ‘I had no choice,’ Prynne pouted resentfully. ‘He threatened to chop off my nose unless I obliged. I could see he was in earnest, and I cannot afford to lose any more bits of my face.’

  ‘Have you heard any rumours about the Post Office?’ asked Chaloner, supposing he may as well take advantage of the opportunity the encounter provided. Prynne was fond of gossip.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied the pamphleteer gleefully. ‘Half the clerks are defrauding the government, and the other half are engaged in treachery and treason.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because that is why the comet appeared – to warn us about them. And because, as Keeper of Records, I receive the Post Office’s quarterly accounts. The corruption and thievery are obvious, and I am surprised that O’Neill puts up with it.’

  ‘What about the “treachery and treason”?’

  The vengefully fanatical expression on Prynne’s face faded. ‘Now there I cannot help you. The Major knows – I sometimes meet him in the Tower when he is allowed out of his cell for air – but he declines to discuss it. He has contacts in the Foreign Office, and spends half his life writing letters begging for information. He is terrified, poor man. Wood did him a great disservice.’

  ‘By taking his story to Clarendon?’ Chaloner supposed he should not be surprised that Prynne knew about something that was meant to be secret.

  ‘Yes. He should have used me as a messenger. I would not have gone to Clarendon, because he is blinded by grief for his son. He will not stop what is unfolding, and when the matter explodes, he will lose what little power he has left. And the Major will spend the rest of his life in captivity.’

  ‘Then persuade him to confide in someone else,’ urged Chaloner, wondering whether Wood had selected Clarendon precisely because he was distracted – that he wanted him to fail.

  ‘I have tried,’ replied Prynne gloomily. ‘But Gery has him far too thoroughly intimidated.’

  * * *

  Chaloner was in an unsettled frame of mind when he reached Chamber XIII, and was not pleased to discover that Thurloe already had a visitor. It was Dorislaus.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you yesterday,’ Chaloner said, unable to keep the unfriendliness from his voice. ‘But you left Wood’s house rather abruptly.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Dorislaus, equally cool. ‘Thurloe and I have reason to believe that Vanderhuyden is a traitor, and I had kept him company for hours. Then you arrived, and I decided you could take a turn. Spying on one’s friends is never pleasant, although I imagine you are used to it.’

  Chaloner ignored the jibe and turned questioningly to Thurloe.

  ‘We have been wary of Vanderhuyden for some time, Tom,’ explained Thurloe quietly. ‘There is evidence that he has been sending national secrets to the Dutch.’

  ‘We have not told Williamson yet,’ said Dorislaus, his expression unreadable. ‘We must be absolutely certain, given that it will result in Vanderhuyden’s execution. Of course, Williamson is so swamped by reported sightings of Gardner that he cannot deal with spies anyway.’

  ‘Why did you start the rumours that Mary Wood was murdered?’ asked Chaloner. He was repelled by Dorislaus’s perfidy – only very ruthless men sacrificed friends to save themselves. He was aware of Thurloe’s disapproval at his curt tone, but he did not care.

  ‘Because she was murdered,’ replied Dorislaus. ‘It would have been unethical to keep silent when I knew something was wrong, so I spoke out. And I am glad I did, because it prompted Surgeon Wiseman to look at her, and my suspicions have been officially confirmed.’

  ‘How did you know?’ asked Chaloner, unconvinced by the tale. ‘Did you examine her?’

  ‘Yes, although I am not a medical man, so it did scant good. However, I guessed there had been foul play when Joyce told me about her mysterious visitor.’

  ‘Her killer is probably Gardner from the Post Office,’ said Chaloner, wondering how Thurloe could be deceived by Dorislaus; the ex-Spymaster was usually an excellent judge of character. ‘Do you think he poisoned her on Wood’s orders?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Dorislaus impatiently. ‘Wood is not sufficiently sane.’

  ‘I suspect he is not as fey-witted as you thin
k,’ said Chaloner, recalling the flashes of sly intelligence he had seen in the courtier’s eyes. Temperance had also remarked on it.

  ‘Of course he is!’ snapped Dorislaus. ‘I am fond of him, but even I cannot claim he is rational. Indeed, I am surprised the King keeps him at Court, where he could do more damage with a careless insult to an ambassador than Vanderhuyden could ever do with his betrayals.’

  ‘You have been seen in conversation with dubious people,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject abruptly. ‘Gery, O’Neill, le Notre—’

  Dorislaus flushed a deep red, and Chaloner had the sense that he controlled his temper only with difficulty. ‘Surely, you have better things to do than spy on me? However, if you must know, I met those particular men as part of my enquiries for Thurloe.’ He turned to the ex-Spymaster. ‘If there is nothing else, John, I shall be on my way. I have much to do today.’

  He bowed curtly and took his leave. Chaloner trailed him down the stairs to make sure he had really gone, then returned.

  ‘He saved your life at the Post Office last Sunday,’ said Thurloe warningly, knowing what was coming. ‘He told me. That is not the act of a man who is involved in unsavoury dealings.’

  Unless the entire episode had been staged, thought Chaloner, and the ‘rescue’ had been arranged to convince him that Dorislaus was trustworthy. If so, then it had failed.

  ‘Gery suspects him of something,’ he said, disinclined to say that Vanderhuyden did, too. ‘At least, he was asking you about him when I came here on Saturday.’

  ‘Gery!’ spat Thurloe. ‘A fool, whose patriotism does not equal his wits.’

  ‘Will you tell him that Dorislaus was here?’

  ‘I do not betray my friends, Thomas. And I trust Isaac with my life.’

  ‘As you once trusted Morland?’

  Thurloe’s eyes became twin points of steel. ‘That was a low blow.’

  It was, but Chaloner had not known how else to make his point, yet he could see there was no point in pursuing the discussion. ‘Would you like to know what I have learned since we last met?’

  ‘If you believe it will help us move forward,’ replied Thurloe icily.

  Chaloner stifled a sigh. He had not intended to alienate the only friend he had left in London, and half wished he had kept his suspicions to himself.

  ‘Mary’s murder, the King’s ducks and the business at the Post Office are connected, although I do not understand why. Copping knows more than he would tell me, and Knight’s letters – the ones I lost – almost cost Wiseman and Basset their lives, because Oxenbridge wants them very badly.’

  Thurloe’s expression softened slightly. ‘It seems you have had an eventful time. Sit by the fire and eat some bread and boiled eggs. Then we shall see if we can make sense of it together.’

  In the event, they made sense of nothing, except to underline their certainty that some deadly affair was heading for a dénouement, and they had to work quickly if they were to stop it.

  ‘A witness will arrive in the next few moments,’ said Thurloe. ‘You should be here when he does. Meanwhile, one of my contacts intercepted this yesterday.’

  He handed Chaloner a letter. It was from a man named Jonah McPiperige, and it was addressed to Mr Bankes of the Swan on Cornhill:

  You sente a Generuss Summe for Detayles of the Divers Plotts in the Domus of Nuntius. The one is Greede, the other is the Devill’s Worke. The Greede you knowe. The Corpse and Kronos’s mate are Satan’s spawn. I feare to write More. My Affections to your Father.

  ‘Well?’ asked Thurloe. ‘What do you understand by it?’

  ‘Domus is Latin for house, and nuntius means letter, so I assume it refers to the Post Office. However, McPiperige is no scholar, or he would have used the genitive—’

  ‘No pompous asides, please, Thomas. We do not have time. Besides, I had reasoned this much for myself. What else?’

  ‘It confirms that two plots are unfolding at the Post Office, as you thought. The first is corruption: “Greede”. The second, “the Devill’s Worke”, is more invidious and has McPiperige frightened. He names Oxenbridge and Rea as perpetrators, calling them “Satan’s spawn”.’

  Thurloe nodded slowly. ‘Oxenbridge is the “Corpse”, a reference to his appearance …’

  ‘And Rhea – Rea – was the consort of Kronos in Greek mythology,’ said Chaloner, for once glad of his Classical education. ‘Bankes’s “Father” must be whoever is paying him to investigate.’

  ‘I have come across Bankes’s name on a dozen occasions, always asking for information. But he is clever, and I have never met anyone who has seen him. Who is he?’

  ‘O’Neill, trying to ascertain what is known about his operation?’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Morland, who is clever enough to gather intelligence without it leading back to him? Wood, who is not as lunatic as Dorislaus believes? Le Notre, who has been a sinister presence from the start?’

  At that moment, there was a tap on the door, and Thurloe’s expected visitor was ushered in. Chaloner recognised the faded red cloak and blue hat immediately. The musician started in alarm when Chaloner shot to his feet, but Thurloe spoke quickly.

  ‘It is all right, Robin. We only want the answers to a few questions, and then you may go.’

  ‘How did you find him?’ asked Chaloner of Thurloe.

  ‘Isaac did,’ replied Thurloe pointedly. ‘With patience and a lot of footwork.’

  Unwilling to pursue that discussion, Chaloner turned to the entertainer. ‘You were near the cart when it exploded. What were you doing there?’

  ‘A lot of people had gathered for the noonday post,’ replied Robin, although not until Thurloe had nodded to tell him to speak. ‘It seemed a good opportunity to earn a few pennies.’

  ‘No one paid you to stay? Or suggested it as a good place to perform?’

  ‘No, I happened on it by chance. I usually work outside the Royal Exchange, but it was windy that day, and I wanted somewhere more sheltered.’

  ‘Was the cart in the yard when you arrived?’

  ‘It was driven in a few minutes later. I remember, because it blocked me off from potential customers, and I was annoyed. Two men were on it. One unhitched the horse and took it away, but he soon came back, and then they both started to fiddle with the firewood.’

  ‘Describe them.’

  ‘Small and scruffy. Like beggar boys.’

  ‘The Yeans.’ Chaloner glanced at Thurloe. ‘Someone must have paid them to do it – Wiseman found a lot of money with their bodies. But why did they run towards the cart when I warned everyone to move away, especially if they knew what was going to happen?’

  Thurloe shrugged, and turned back to the musician. ‘Did you notice anyone else loitering?’

  ‘Yes – a lot of people, all listening to me. But there was one fellow … He was leaning against a wall some distance away, and I think he was monitoring the Post Office.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ asked Chaloner.

  Robin considered carefully. ‘Drab clothes and a hat with a fake yellow flower. He ran away when you started shouting, as did we all. He did not go far, though, and I saw him after the explosion, watching the General Letter Office again.’

  Chaloner nodded his thanks and Robin left. So there had been no attempt to encourage people to stay in a place where they would be harmed, and he had wasted his time by hunting the musician.

  ‘I know a man who wears a hat with an artificial yellow flower,’ said Thurloe. ‘He was one of my spies in the Post Office, and survived there as a clerk until O’Neill ejected him eighteen months ago. His name is Ibson.’

  ‘Your jackal?’ blurted Chaloner.

  Thurloe regarded him coolly. ‘That was Widow Smith’s name for him. It was unkind.’

  ‘She suggested I speak to him days ago, but it looked like an unpromising line of enquiry, so I ignored it. It seems I was wrong.’

  ‘We shall visit him immediately,’ determined Thurloe, reaching for his coat. ‘He will not ta
lk to you, but he will certainly have time for me.’

  Thurloe quickly ascertained that Ibson’s current address was a ramshackle tenement in an alley off Holborn. It was a dirty building, which reeked of burned cabbage and poverty. Each room housed a different family, while other folk had paid to inhabit the stairs, so Chaloner and Thurloe had to pick their way across recumbent bodies to reach Ibson’s lair on the second floor. His door was closed, although the one opposite was open, home to a small boy who had been given a bone whistle. He blew on it enthusiastically, ignoring his mother’s slurred appeals for him to stop. Chaloner wondered how the other residents could bear the incessantly shrill din.

  Thurloe knocked on Ibson’s door, using a pattern of raps that Chaloner knew could not be random. It swung open, and Thurloe entered. Chaloner followed, but stopped abruptly when he felt the cold touch of a gun against his neck.

  ‘It is all right, Ibson,’ said Thurloe quietly, closing the door. ‘He is with me.’

  ‘I have been expecting you, Mr Thurloe,’ said Ibson. He had a large, pointed face and a lot of long yellow teeth, so that Chaloner thought Widow Smith’s nickname was uncannily apposite – not that he had ever seen a jackal, of course, and his knowledge of them was confined to what he had read in books. He found himself wondering whether there were jackals in Russia.

  ‘We have just learned that you witnessed the explosion outside the Post Office,’ Thurloe was saying. ‘Will you tell us about it? There is no need for guns, by the way.’

  ‘I beg to differ.’ Ibson perched on a table and kept the weapon trained on Chaloner. ‘I have not survived these last few weeks by being careless. I trust you, but I do not know him.’

  ‘As you wish. Will you tell us what you know? Quickly, please. Time is of the essence.’

  ‘Two lads from the Fleet Rookery did it. I saw them light the fuse. God only knows why they ran back towards the cart, though. Stupid beggars – victims of their own villainy!’