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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘You are not in a position to give me advice,’ snapped Gery. ‘And I am tired of talking. Have you finished the confession, Morland?’

  The secretary held out a piece of paper still wet with ink. ‘Yes, and he does not need to sign it, because I have done it for him.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gery, before Chaloner could point out that Morland could not possibly know how he wrote his name. ‘Now lock him up before he wastes any more of our time.’

  Chaloner was hard-pressed to control his panic when the cell door closed. His dungeon was pitch black, freezing cold, and he could hear from the murmur of conversation outside that his guards were alert and watchful. Moreover, his wrists were still tied. Escape would be impossible.

  He sank down on the damp, sticky floor. How long would it be before Gery put a garrotte around his neck and declared him a suicide? Part of him hoped it would be soon: he hated the thought of being incarcerated for days, even weeks, before the decision was made to dispatch him. But he had been trained to stay cool in desperate situations, and despair did not grip him for long. He began to think practically, and decided the first thing he needed to do was free his hands.

  Rubbing the rope against a wall until it frayed was more difficult than he had anticipated, because the only suitable stone was high enough to be awkward. He worked until his arms cramped, hearing the palace bell strike nine and then ten. Thurloe would be with the Major, and he hoped they would not need him. Eleven o’clock came and went, and the rope remained as tight as ever.

  Just when he was beginning to fear the task was impossible, there was a snap and he was free. He felt better once it was done. Now at least he could punch Gery – at the very least – when the marshal came to commit sly murder.

  He explored the cell by groping around in the darkness, discovering that there were no windows, the walls were solid stone and the sole item of ‘furniture’ was a pallet of straw that reeked of urine and mildew. He paced back and forth, trying to devise a plan. He had been relieved of his sword and knives, and the only thing he had left was the gingerbread he had bought earlier. He pulled it out and weighed it in his hand. It was heavy, but still no kind of weapon, so he ate it instead. The acid churning in his stomach eased, and he realised that he had been very hungry.

  The clock was striking midnight when he heard a sound outside the door. He scrabbled about for the rope, and slipped his hands through it – there was no point in exposing the slim advantage he held too soon. He stood against the farthest wall, and watched the door swing open.

  ‘Morland,’ he said flatly when he saw who stood there. ‘Gery will not kill me himself, then?’

  ‘Hush, Tom. I have sent the guards on a fools’ mission to St James’s Park – I wrote an anonymous letter saying that another duck was going to be poisoned, and they have gone to save it – but who knows who might be lurking? Now come with me. Hurry!’

  ‘Hurry where?’ asked Chaloner, not moving.

  ‘Please! I am risking a great deal by doing this.’

  ‘By doing what?’ Chaloner was confused and wary.

  ‘Helping you escape,’ snapped Morland. ‘But if you would rather wait for Gery to garrotte you, then tell me so and I shall leave you to it.’

  ‘Wait,’ called Chaloner, as the door started to close. ‘Sorry. I was not expecting rescue.’

  Morland gave a thin smile. ‘Life is full of surprises. Now follow me.’

  Chaloner stepped outside the cell, but remained deeply suspicious. ‘What happens if someone challenges us? Do you have any weapons?’

  ‘No, but it is midnight, and the only people awake are courtiers who are too drunk to be a problem. However, we shall keep your hands tied, so that I can pretend to be escorting you for further questioning should we encounter any difficulties.’

  He was wearing an old uniform coat, and a broad-brimmed hat shadowed his face. The disguise might have worked had he adopted a more military posture, but Morland looked like what he was: a clerk wearing the cast-off garb of a soldier. It would not deceive anyone who was sober and sane. Yet this was White Hall, where Chaloner had witnessed worse inefficiencies. Careful to keep the rope wrapped around his wrists, he followed Morland up the cellar stairs.

  ‘We are going to the river,’ the secretary explained, once they were at the top. He took Chaloner’s arm and directed him towards the Great Court. ‘I have a boat waiting, and I will cut you free when we reach it, so you can row yourself away.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Chaloner was still full of mistrust. ‘You owe me nothing.’

  ‘Knight,’ explained Morland tersely. ‘I did not know that Gery murdered him, and I was stunned when I heard him confess, as if an innocent man’s life was worth nothing.’

  Chaloner regarded him sceptically. ‘That is the only reason?’

  ‘Well, I would not mind if you repaid me by sharing all you have learned.’

  ‘Nothing you do not already know,’ lied Chaloner. He stumbled as he followed the secretary down the short tunnel that led to the Privy Gardens – frost covered the ground, the night was very dark, and it was not easy to balance with his hands behind him. ‘The only thing I have kept to myself is that whatever is unfolding will take place in the Crown tavern, not the Post Office.’

  Morland nodded his thanks for the information, and led the way around the edge of the garden, where the shadows were thickest. As they passed Prince Rupert’s lodgings, Lady Castlemaine’s distinctive voice could be heard tinkling within. It was followed by a roar of manly approval.

  They exited the palace through a tiny and little-used gate in the narrow lane called Cannon Row. Morland turned towards the Thames, where a flight of wooden steps descended to the shore. The tang of salt filled the air, and Chaloner supposed the tide was out, because he could hear the hiss of wavelets against mud and pebbles.

  ‘What do you know about Mary Wood?’ asked Morland, treading carefully as the stairs were slippery with seaweed as well as ice. ‘Am I to understand that the poison is the same as the stuff used on the birds, and that Gardner gave it to her?’ He must have sensed Chaloner’s suspicion, because he turned and shrugged. ‘Freer thinks Gery cannot be trusted to see justice done, and I agree. Tell me what you know, and Freer and I will try to act on it.’

  ‘Then arrest Oxenbridge. He will tell you all you need to know, if the right threats are made.’

  They reached the shore, which was dimly illuminated by the lanterns that blazed from Prince Rupert’s apartments above. The water was velvety black, with pinpricks of light gleaming in the distance from the Lambeth marshes. The hair on the back of Chaloner’s neck rose as it always did when he was in imminent danger, and he was suddenly sure they were not alone. He also saw there was no boat. Then there was a flare of light, and Gery appeared with two soldiers. The marshal held a lamp in one hand and a gun in the other.

  ‘Well?’ he asked of Morland. ‘What did he confide?’

  ‘Nothing of use,’ sighed Morland ruefully. ‘He thinks Oxenbridge is involved, and believes that any trouble will begin in the Crown tavern.’

  Chaloner regarded him in disgust. ‘Treachery! I might have known.’

  Morland shrugged. ‘Spying is a dirty game, Thomas. Surely Thurloe taught you that?’ He turned back to Gery. ‘He also admitted to lying about the birds. He did it to lead you astray.’

  Chaloner was alarmed as well as confused by this particular deception. ‘What are—’

  Morland whipped around and dealt him a slap that made his ears ring. It was all Chaloner could do not to free his hands and fasten them around the secretary’s throat.

  ‘We shall kill him here,’ determined Gery, while Morland wrung his smarting fingers. ‘Eyebrows will be raised if a second man connected with this case is found hanging in a cell. And if his body is ever found, we shall be able to say, quite truthfully, that Chaloner died trying to escape.’

  Chapter 12

  Smiling malevolently, Gery aimed the gun at Chaloner, and his fin
ger tightened on the trigger. There was nowhere to run, and Chaloner did not give him the satisfaction of trying; he only stood quietly, waiting for the inevitable. But Gery had reckoned without Morland who, puffed up with a sense of achievement, tried to lay hold of the spy himself. When the secretary stepped between him and the gun, Chaloner flung off the rope, grabbed Morland’s coat and butted him hard in the face. Morland screeched in pain and shock as Chaloner hurled him backwards into Gery, causing the marshal to drop both gun and lamp. Then Chaloner turned and ran.

  It was much easier to move with free hands, although a rock- and rubbish-strewn ribbon of silt was hardly the place for speed. There was one loud crack, and then another, although neither shot came close. He tried to run faster, but stumbled over a stone. He slowed, knowing it was better to move less quickly than to risk a tumble. He could hear Gery and the guards behind, Morland screaming at them to hurry. Chaloner grimaced. The fact that the secretary was still capable of speech meant he had not done as much damage as he had intended.

  He risked a glance behind him. It was too dark to see, but he could hear curses as his pursuers lurched and slithered. Then he reached a part of the foreshore that backed on to the old Palace of Westminster, which was never lit at night. The blackness was absolute.

  He stopped running, snatched up a handful of pebbly sludge, and took several steps up the bank, away from the water. Moments later, Gery lumbered past, followed by his two soldiers, with Morland bringing up the rear. When Gery ordered them to stop and listen, Chaloner hurled some of his muck. It dropped some distance ahead, and Chaloner sensed, rather than saw, the quartet surge towards the sound. When they paused a second time, he lobbed more, but harder than he intended, because it plopped into the water.

  ‘He is trying to swim!’ yelled Gery. His voice was accusing. ‘And I cannot see, because you made me drop the lantern.’

  Chaloner threw more mud, this time as far as he could.

  ‘He is swimming!’ Gery was almost beside himself with rage, and Chaloner heard him shoving his men forward. ‘Go after him, or he will tell everyone that we brought him here to be murdered.’

  ‘It will not matter if he does,’ said Morland nasally. ‘No one will believe him, especially when we report that he murdered Ibson. That will teach him for breaking my nose.’

  Chaloner felt matters were spiralling out of control. His mind reeling with questions and solutions in equal number, he left Gery trying to force Morland and the soldiers into the river, and stole back the way he had come. He crept silently through White Hall, and emerged on King Street, every nerve in his body alert for the yell that would tell him that his pursuers had guessed what he had done and had come after him.

  He went to Ibson’s tenement first, which was full of snuffles and snores as its many inhabitants slept. The door to Ibson’s room was unlocked, and he pushed it open to see the former spy lying on his bed, garrotted. As it was the same way that Knight had died, he could only assume that Gery was responsible – that the marshal had gone there with his henchmen, and had overwhelmed Ibson and his single gun.

  Chaloner closed the door and stared at the body. Ibson had claimed to possess documentary evidence against the Post Office, and as Chaloner did not believe he would have let such important items out of his sight, they had to be in his home. He lit a candle and began to search, suspecting from scratches and scuffs in the dirt that Gery and his soldiers had been there before him. Fortunately, none possessed his skills, and they had missed the fact that the back of one of the shelves had a slit hollowed out of it.

  He prised out the papers, and leaned against the wall to read them. There were accounts proving that money had been bleeding out of the Post Office at an appalling rate, and that Smartfoot and Lamb were involved. There was also evidence that said they were guided by a ‘director’ of considerable intelligence, although there was no indication as to who it might be. And finally, there were a large number of messages in cipher, which would have to be decoded.

  But Chaloner dismissed all these as insignificant when he read what else Ibson had found. There was a letter from John Fry to the Lord Mayor, penned on expensive paper and sealed with purple wax. And there was a series of messages purporting to be from guildsmen in Hull, Sussex and Bristol, urging their fellow tradesmen to rebel. The writing, paper and seals were identical, which meant, Chaloner saw with a shock, that Fry was the author of the lot of them.

  Was this what Copping had meant by the Devill’s Worke? Inciting rebellion? And did it mean that Fry was the mastermind who was using the Post Office’s penchant for corruption to screen a more deadly plot?

  The last page was in Dutch, and informed the recipient that the British would not be in a position to repel an invasion until summer. This damaging piece of intelligence was signed not with a name but with a crude drawing of a ship, and Chaloner understood its significance instantly: in Dutch, huiden could refer to the side of a boat, a play on Vanderhuyden. It meant Vanderhuyden was the traitor, and Dorislaus was innocent – that Thurloe had been right to defend his old friend from Chaloner’s accusations.

  The letter was dated ten days earlier, and Chaloner knew he had to discover, as a matter of urgency, whether it was a copy or the original – whether the Dutch really did know that a spring invasion would likely see them in London without too much trouble.

  Ibson’s sword was propped in a corner, so Chaloner buckled it around his waist and grabbed two daggers from the table. Carefully tucking the letters securely inside his shirt, he left the house at a run, aiming straight for Lincoln’s Inn. He was not about to lose a third set of documents before passing them to Thurloe.

  * * *

  He arrived to find Chamber XIII empty, although there was a letter on the table. It was addressed to him, and was in Thurloe’s writing. It informed him that the Major had been sent a message saying that he would never see the light of day again if he spoke to anyone else about his discoveries. It had not been difficult to terrorise a man already so near the end of his tether, and Thurloe had been unable to persuade him to break his oath and talk.

  The note went on to say that Thurloe was taking Dorislaus to make some enquiries of their own. Its tone was curt, and did not use the cipher he normally employed when he and Chaloner communicated. Chaloner regarded it in consternation. Should he be suspicious of it, because Thurloe was always punctilious of such matters? Or was it merely a sign that the spy was not yet forgiven for his amateurish bungling? He wrote a brief coded message in return, and hid the Post Office documents in a secret compartment inside Thurloe’s desk, where he knew the ex-Spymaster would find them. The one from the Dutch spy he took with him.

  It was not far to Vanderhuyden’s home. A light burned within, but there were no voices: Chaloner’s quarry was awake, but alone. He picked the lock, drew his sword and stepped inside. Vanderhuyden was in the process of stuffing clothes into a sack; he paled when he saw Chaloner.

  ‘Did Dorislaus send you? That was sly! He watched my house like a hawk all night, but when he left an hour ago, I really thought he had given up. Obviously, I underestimated his determination to catch me. Where is he? Waiting outside?’

  Chaloner held up the letter. ‘It is over, Vanderhuyden.’

  The Anglo-Dutchman closed his eyes. ‘Where did you get that? It should have been sent …’

  ‘More to the point, where did you get the information? No, do not tell me – someone on the Navy Board was rash enough to write it in a letter, and you intercepted it.’

  Vanderhuyden took a deep breath, opened his eyes and returned to his packing. ‘Dorislaus would see me dead before he let me go, but you will not harm a man whose life you once saved. Put up your sword, Tom. We both know you will not use it.’

  ‘You think I will look the other way while you escape?’ asked Chaloner coldly. ‘A spy who has damaged my country? You do not know me as well as you think!’

  ‘But I had no choice! I was forced into it – I received horrible letters saying tha
t my wife would die if I disobeyed. Of course I did what they ordered!’

  ‘Show me,’ ordered Chaloner.

  Vanderhuyden reached into his bag and produced a sheaf of documents. Chaloner glanced through them quickly, recognising the flamboyant writing and purple seal of John Fry, although they were unsigned. They were vicious and uncompromising, and did indeed threaten to execute Vanderhuyden’s wife if he did not do exactly as he was told. Chaloner put them in his pocket.

  ‘You should have asked for help. I would have obliged, and so would Thurloe. But by allowing yourself to be coerced, you may have done irreparable harm.’

  ‘And I would do it again,’ flashed Vanderhuyden. ‘So would you, to save Hannah. There is something nasty about Dorislaus, anyway – we were never friends, no matter what he might have told you – so I do not feel guilty about letting him take the blame for what I did.’

  ‘And what was that, exactly?’

  Vanderhuyden shrugged. ‘At first, just passing snippets of Court gossip to The Hague – silly, inconsequential stuff. But in the last few weeks …’ He nodded at the document in Chaloner’s hand. ‘I have been instructed to send reports like that.’

  ‘Is this the original or a copy?’

  Vanderhuyden inspected it. ‘The original. I can tell by the seal. How did you come by it?’

  ‘How many others like it have you sent?’

  ‘A few.’ The prickly defiance drained out of Vanderhuyden and he suddenly looked old, tired and defeated. He went to a cupboard and took out a jug of wine.

  ‘So Dorislaus was never a spy,’ said Chaloner. ‘Did you lie about the Post Office plot, too?’

  Vanderhuyden nodded resignedly. ‘Yes. There is something more serious afoot than petty thievery, but you can see why I was never in a position to admit it. My wife …’

  ‘Who are the Major’s contacts in the Foreign Office?’

  ‘I never tried to find out – it would have been too dangerous. Christ God, I need a drink!’