‘Did you see anything else?’
‘No, my attention had been on the Post Office. Mr Bankes pays well for good information, and since losing my job as a postal clerk, I am obliged to make ends meet any way I can.’
‘Bankes?’ asked Thurloe sharply.
Ibson shrugged. ‘I have never met him. He sends money here if he likes my reports.’
‘And what have your reports told him?’
‘That the apprentices are close to exploding into violence. That John Fry has written dozens of letters that encourage Londoners to rebel. That someone will soon be assassinated.’
‘What have you learned about the Post Office?’
‘Very little, although I suspect O’Neill is at the heart of the evil. He hired Harper to prevent his clerks from gossiping, and he is suspiciously mum himself. I will monitor the place no more, though, not even for you, Mr Thurloe. My contacts there are dead, and I have no wish to follow.’
‘The Alibond brothers?’ asked Chaloner.
Ibson regarded him sharply. ‘Who told you that? Jeremiah Copping? He is an oily devil, and cares for nothing except money. I should have put a knife in his gizzard years ago.’
‘You say O’Neill is at the heart of the evil,’ said Thurloe. ‘But what evil, exactly?’
‘First, there is the corruption that everyone knows about, although it is on a massive scale, and will shock the nation when – if – it is exposed. Second, there is something much darker and more wicked. Its perpetrators are using the corruption as a screen.’
‘Yes, but a screen for what?’ pressed Thurloe, a little impatiently.
‘Something that has attracted Oxenbridge like a maggot to rotting meat,’ replied Ibson. ‘And his helpmeets Rea and Gardner. All are rogues, who want terrible things to happen.’
‘Have you ever seen Oxenbridge in the Post Office?’ asked Chaloner, thinking that Ibson knew no more about the real plot than anyone else; he was just repeating suspicions and rumours.
Ibson nodded. ‘In the disused wing. I got near a window once, and heard him talking to his cronies. Unfortunately, I made a noise and they almost caught me. I was lucky to escape.’
‘Storey’s parlour overlooks that building,’ said Chaloner to Thurloe.
Ibson spat. ‘It is no good asking Storey whether he has noticed anything untoward. His only concern is the ducks that are dying in St James’s Park.’
‘Precisely,’ said Chaloner, still to Thurloe. ‘Birds poisoned, so he will not care about strange lights and sounds from a part of the Post Office that is supposed to be abandoned.’
‘Of course!’ Ibson stared at him. ‘That makes perfect sense. Why did I not see it?’
‘And Mary?’ asked Thurloe. ‘Is that why she was killed, too?’
Chaloner shook his head. ‘The disused wing cannot be seen from her home. However, her death is Post-Office related. Gardner poisoned her, and he is a clerk.’
‘Gardner did?’ Ibson frowned. ‘I suppose he might have done. He is a ruthless bastard. He led Knight into turbulent waters, and left him to drown without a backward glance.’
‘That implies Knight was involved,’ said Thurloe.
Ibson shook his head. ‘He was being used. However, he was a clever man, and understood what was happening. He told me the night before he was arrested that he was on the verge of exposing the whole affair, although he had not learned the identities of most of the perpetrators. He had written everything down in a series of letters to important people.’
Chaloner groaned.
‘What else?’ asked Thurloe urgently. ‘Tell us all you know, no matter how trivial it seems.’
‘A Dutch spy is using the postal services to correspond with his masters in The Hague – I intercepted one of his reports. I also have papers that prove the corruption of several clerks, and will give them to Williamson when they are arrested.’
‘Why not before?’ asked Chaloner.
Ibson smiled without humour. ‘Because I do not want these villains as enemies until they are safely under lock and key.’
‘Thank you,’ said Thurloe, standing. ‘You have been most helpful.’
‘There is one other thing, Mr Thurloe. The Major is also desperately trying to learn what is happening. Talk to him.’ Ibson glanced at the window. ‘He can often be found in the Crown or the Antwerp at this time of a morning, spying on fanatics for Clarendon.’
Chaloner and Thurloe went to the Catherine Wheel on Cheapside first, but were informed by the guards that Copping and his sister had gone shopping, and would not be back until late afternoon. Chaloner wanted to wait – and search the place while he did so – but Thurloe insisted there were more important things to do, such as questioning the Major.
‘But he refuses to talk.’ Chaloner followed the ex-Spymaster back towards Dowgate. ‘He has taken a vow to report only to Clarendon, one he will not break because he is frightened of Gery.’
‘Then we must reason with him,’ said Thurloe determinedly. ‘The Crown first.’
‘You cannot enter a tavern full of Cavaliers. They will string you up!’
‘Fetch him out, then,’ said Thurloe impatiently. ‘I will wait here.’
The Crown was busy, and there was an atmosphere of quiet menace that Chaloner had not sensed there before. Patrons wore ludicrously large feathered hats to demonstrate their allegiance to the King, and had donned the kind of ugly, bucket-topped riding boots that had been favoured by Prince Rupert during the wars, despite the fact that most of them had arrived on foot.
‘Have you heard that rebels are plotting in Sussex and Hull?’ one was asking. ‘His Majesty should give me a few cavalrymen. I would go down there and sort them out.’
His foppish appearance and drink-reddened nose made Chaloner suspect he would be incapable of sitting on a horse, let alone fighting from one.
‘We should gather the names of all those who fought for the New Model Army and hang them,’ declared another. ‘They are a danger to our country’s stability as long as they live.’
‘I am a devoted Royalist,’ the taverner muttered, more to himself than to Chaloner as he served the spy with ale. ‘But I wish my customers would lower their voices. The Roundheads in the Antwerp might hear, and I do not want my windows smashed.’
The Major was not among the Crown’s malcontents, so Chaloner did not stay long. He collected Thurloe, and they entered the Antwerp together, both careful to shield their faces as they did so, lest the place was being watched. The moment they stepped across the threshold, they were surrounded by conversations in which loud-voiced men bemoaned the lost republic. Chaloner saw Stokes and Cliffe there, although the two veterans seemed more alarmed than inspired by the rebellious talk, and left when Landlord Young expressed the hope that it would be the King who would be assassinated by John Fry’s brave insurgents.
Thurloe nudged Chaloner, and nodded to where the Major was sitting alone, his face shadowed by a large hat. Chaloner might have missed him, but he was betrayed by his yeomen, who sat near the door reading the latest newsbook. Their uniforms were mostly covered by cloaks, but flashes of red and yellow could be seen around the neck. They tensed when Thurloe sat next to their prisoner, but relaxed when they recognised Chaloner. The Major closed his eyes wearily.
‘Not again! I cannot break my oath to Clarendon. How many more times must I tell you? For God’s sake go away, so I can complete my business here and leave. I thought I hated the Tower, but it is preferable to what I am charged to do outside it. Why does Gery order me to monitor these places? Why not ask one of his horrible henchmen?’
‘That is a good question,’ said Thurloe softly.
The Major glanced at him once, and then again. His jaw dropped. ‘Thurloe? My God! I did not recognise you. Why are you here? Not to encourage sedition? I thought you had more sense.’
‘He is here to thwart trouble, not to cause it,’ said Chaloner sharply.
‘So am I.’ The Major’s skin was grey with fatigue, a
nd his hands shook so badly that he had spilled coffee all over the table. ‘Although I have a bad feeling that no one will believe me if I am caught. Gery will deny sending me here to spy, and I shall hang. Perhaps that is what he wants, to spare Clarendon the inconvenience of letting me go.’
It was certainly possible, thought Chaloner, given Gery’s hatred for one-time Parliamentarians. There was a sudden roar of appreciation from near the hearth, where someone was advocating a second royal beheading. Eager to be gone, Chaloner tried again to make the Major see sense.
‘Gery is not making progress with the Post Office enquiry, no matter what Clarendon tells you. Please tell us what you have learned.’
The Major looked ready to cry. ‘I cannot. I gave my word.’
‘And that is more important than the security of your country?’ asked Thurloe sternly. ‘Or your freedom, which you will not win if the Post Office plot succeeds? Indeed, you may even be considered implicit in the affair, and end up being locked away for ever.’
A sickly green flush spread across the Major’s face. ‘Oh, God! If only Wood had taken my tale to someone else – the matter might have been resolved by now.’
‘Then talk to us,’ urged Thurloe. ‘We shall see this plot thwarted. And afterwards, I shall arrange your release. I may not have the power I once enjoyed, but I still own a certain influence.’
The Major swallowed hard. ‘Let me think about it. It is not a decision to be taken lightly.’
‘Then do not think too long,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Or you may be too late.’
‘I shall give you my decision tonight. But not here – the place will explode with violence soon, and we do not want to be caught in the middle. Meet me outside the Tower at ten o’clock.’
‘You will be allowed out then?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.
‘I shall be returning there after yet another foray to meet Clarendon at White Hall. Be prompt, though. I shall have only a few moments before I am shut away for the night.’
‘We may need longer,’ objected Chaloner.
The Major regarded him soberly. ‘No we will not. The business is deadly, but not complicated.’
* * *
Chaloner and Thurloe went their separate ways after leaving the Antwerp; Thurloe to see what could be learned from his other sources, and Chaloner to visit the Swan on Cornhill to ask about the letter Thurloe’s contact had intercepted, and then to check on the birds in the park. It did not take him long to learn what he needed to know from the tavern, after which he turned west, walking through a city where work was beginning to stop for the day and people were already hurrying home, eager to be out of the biting cold.
As he walked along Fleet Street, Chaloner stopped to buy a piece of gingerbread, which transpired to be a heavy slab of stodge that reminded him of army marching rations. He ate half, and was shoving the rest in his pocket for later when he met Maude, the formidable matron who kept Temperance’s bawdy house in order. She was pale, and carried a limp bundle.
‘I am glad Richard took Temperance away,’ she said. ‘This would have distressed her.’
‘Wiseman’s cat,’ said Chaloner, pulling the cloth away to reveal ginger fur. He looked at the hapless animal more closely and saw blood in its mouth. ‘Poisoned!’
‘I am going to take it to Long Acre for the kites, in case Richard boils it up and presents its skeleton to her as a gift. He is not very good at knowing what might win a woman’s heart.’ Maude handed him a piece of paper. ‘This was with it.’
It was a crude drawing of a man and a woman, hanging side by side on a gibbet. Chaloner’s only consolation was that the warning had missed its intended target, as his friends were safely away. He offered to dispose of the cat for her and continued towards the park, the sad bundle under his arm. He found Storey and Eliot in one of the sheds, bent over something lying on a bench. Chaloner’s heart sank.
‘Another swan?’
‘Not this time,’ replied Storey with triumphant glee. ‘A fox. Wood shot it with a musket near Chelsey. He is quite the marksman, although he was disappointed when I told him it was not a brassica. Lord! I hope that is not a bird you have wrapped in that cloth, Chaloner.’
‘A poisoned cat. Will you bury it? If the Long Acre kites feed on it, they will die, too.’
Storey nodded. ‘Give it to us. We shall ensure it does no harm.’
Chaloner turned to Eliot. ‘Do you have room in your house for a guest?’
‘Of course,’ replied Eliot warmly. ‘My Jane loves visitors. How long will you be staying?’
‘Not me – Storey. It is no longer safe for him to go home.’ Briefly, he explained his reasons, and recommended requisitioning palace guards to protect the birds.
Storey was pale. ‘But I did see lights burning in the disused bit of the Post Office! Do you think these villains saw me looking out of my window then? It was before poor Eliza was murdered …’
‘Perhaps it explains why your house was burgled last night, too,’ said Eliot.
‘I was here guarding my birds,’ explained Storey, seeing Chaloner’s questioning glance. ‘And went home at dawn to find that someone had made off with Eliza, Harriet and Sharon. For their beautiful feathers, I suppose. Milliners will pay handsomely for them.’
But Chaloner suspected that someone was tidying up – removing evidence that might tie dead ducks to a poisoned courtier and whatever else was unfolding in Post House Yard. And as Rea had been alarmed when he had learned that Chaloner had made the connection, it did not take a genius to guess the identity of the culprits.
‘Tell me about the lights you saw,’ he ordered.
‘Well, ten men or so were meeting there, and I recognised three of them – two clerks named Rea and Gardner, and that eerie Clement Oxenbridge, who looks like a barn owl with his white face and black eyes, although not as handsome.’
‘Did you notice anything else?’
‘Yes – two others attempting to spy on them. The first was that slippery Morland. He did not stay long, perhaps because it was raining and he did not like getting wet. He left, but it was not many moments before his place was taken by another.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘Not personally, but I have heard him addressed as Harper. It was amusing to see him press his face against the window as he aimed to hear what was being said, and I laughed uproariously.’
‘What happened then?’ asked Eliot, while Chaloner thought that Storey would certainly have been fed poison had the clerks known what he had witnessed.
‘The meeting ended, and Harper watched them leave. It was then that I saw the expression on his face. It was dark and rather frightening, like a fox about to kill a bird. It made me stop laughing, I can tell you!’
Chapter 11
It was nearing dusk by the time Chaloner left the park. The sky was pale blue, fading to a bright orange in the west as the sun set behind the winter-bare trees. The air was still, and smelled of frost and frozen mud. It was going to be another bitter night, although at least a dry one.
It was obvious to Chaloner what had to be done next: arrest Rea, and force him to reveal the whereabouts of Oxenbridge and Gardner. And when all three were in custody, raise the matter of the Post Office, the King’s fowl and Mary’s murder. But he knew that was not going to happen: the Earl had already promised to dismiss him if he investigated any matter other than the birds, and was unlikely to listen long enough to be told that they were all connected.
He sincerely hoped the Major would come to his senses. Until then, all he could do was return to the Catherine Wheel, and trust that Copping would agree to provide information. Cursing the fact that he had been burdened with such an intractable employer, he started to walk towards Lincoln’s Inn to collect Thurloe, but had not gone far before a carriage pulled up beside him. It was a fine one, although plain, and had been provided with thick curtains to keep its occupant warm. One was whisked aside to reveal Williamson.
‘It is good to be going home
to a loving wife,’ said the Spymaster, so smugly that Chaloner wondered whether he perhaps thought that Hannah had gone to Epsom not to prepare the way for the Queen, but to escape from her husband. White Hall was always full of malicious gossip, and Hannah might well have fuelled the rumour mill with some innocently incautious comment.
‘I am glad we met,’ said Chaloner, electing to ignore the remark. ‘You need to arrest Rea.’
Williamson indicated that he was to climb into the coach. It had the luxury of an internal lamp, and its amber glow showed the lines of exhaustion and worry etched into the Spymaster’s face.
‘I cannot arrest him, Chaloner. Your master will not give me a warrant.’
‘Such niceties do not usually stop you.’
‘No,’ agreed Williamson. ‘But half of London is interested in the Post Office at the moment, and I cannot be seen detaining its employees illegally. It would see me in the Tower.’
‘Rea will probably be able to tell you where Gardner is hiding,’ Chaloner pointed out.
‘Perhaps, but my hands are tied.’ Williamson sighed wearily. ‘I must have interviewed a hundred people about Gardner today. We have been hopelessly swamped since Clarendon insisted on offering that reward. It was a stupid idea, and I hope to God it bears fruit. I should not like to think that I have been wasting my time.’
Chaloner strongly suspected that he had.
‘If I were Postmaster, I would have had him in custody by now,’ Williamson went on bitterly. ‘I could have intercepted letters to and from his acquaintances, and learned where he is hiding. How can the government expect me to succeed with only limited access to the mail? People compare me unfavourably to Thurloe, but they forget that he controlled the Post Office.’
‘Perhaps the King will give you the position if O’Neill transpires to be corrupt.’
‘Perhaps.’ Williamson seemed to realise that he was revealing rather more of himself than was professional, and became gruffly businesslike. ‘Do you have anything to report?’
Death in St James's Park: 8 (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 28
