Chaloner watched him pour wine with a hand that trembled, but shook his head when Vanderhuyden offered him a cup.
‘Wait!’ he said suddenly, as Vanderhuyden raised the brimming goblet to his lips. ‘Have your rooms been searched today?’
‘Yes, but there is nothing here to incriminate me. I am not a total fool.’
He had taken a swig before Chaloner could stop him. He started to add something else, but then clutched his throat and staggered. Chaloner jumped forward to catch him, lowering him to the ground where he lay gasping for breath, his body convulsing violently. There was stark terror in his eyes, but there was nothing Chaloner could do except cradle him while his life ebbed away.
Shocked by the speed with which the poison had killed Vanderhuyden, Chaloner went to the conduit outside and scrubbed his hands until they were raw and aching from the cold. Then he ran to Lincoln’s Inn, but Thurloe was still out. He hid the report about the navy and the letters he had taken from Vanderhuyden in the secret compartment, and left. Dorislaus lived on Fleet Street, so he went there next, but his rooms were also deserted.
He knew he needed to tell someone all that he had learned, in case he fell foul of Gery, Morland or someone else who wanted him dead, but who? Williamson was unlikely to be at his office at such an ungodly hour, and Chaloner had no idea where he lived – not surprisingly, the spymaster had never invited him to his home. Meanwhile, Hannah, Temperance and Wiseman were gone, and Chaloner had no other friends in the city. There was only one person left: the Earl’s defences had almost crumbled the last time they had talked, and Chaloner believed he now knew the reason for his master’s recent peculiar behaviour.
He hurried to Piccadilly, hearing the bellmen call four o’clock. He was surprised that so little time had passed since his escape from the cell. He arrived to find Clarendon House in darkness, so he let himself in through a window with a loose catch and crept past Gery’s dozing guards. He aimed for the Earl’s bedchamber, sincerely hoping his master had not invited Lady Clarendon to join him that night.
He was in luck: the Earl lay in splendid isolation, snoring and rather comical in a tasselled nightcap. Chaloner lit a candle from the fire that still smouldered in the hearth, and touched him lightly on the shoulder, but the Earl only mumbled and turned over. Chaloner poked a little harder.
The Earl opened his eyes and blinked stupidly for several seconds. Chaloner said nothing, giving him time to gather his befuddled wits. Then the Earl sat up sharply, hauling the bedcovers around his neck like a virgin about to be ravaged by a particularly ardent suitor.
‘Chaloner?’ he gulped. ‘I thought you had gone to visit your family.’
‘Gery arrested me, sir, but I escaped.’
‘Then he did not do it with my blessing – I told him to let you go to Buckinghamshire. But why are you here? It is unconventional, to say the least.’
‘Yes, but something terrible is about to happen, and if it succeeds, you will bear the blame.’
The Earl frowned in confusion. ‘What will happen? And why should I be held responsible?’
Chaloner started to explain, but the Earl held up his hand and climbed out of bed, going to pour himself a goblet of claret. Apparently deciding that unusual circumstances called for unusual measures, he poured one for Chaloner, too, but having so recently watched Vanderhuyden die of contaminated wine, the spy shook his head.
‘Who told you your son was poisoned, sir?’ he asked softly.
The Earl gaped at him, and the colour drained from his face. ‘Edward was … But I told no one …’ He closed his eyes, and his voice became a whisper. ‘How did you guess?’
‘Because it must be expensive to hire Gery, Morland, Freer and their soldiers, and you do not usually squander money. Ergo, someone forced you to take them on. You are not a biddable man, so a particularly vicious method of coercion must have been used. And whenever your son is mentioned, you seem more frightened than grieved.’
The Earl swallowed hard, and when he spoke his voice was thick with misery. ‘It was put to me that if I did not employ Gery and allow him to explore the trouble at the Post Office as he saw fit, I might lose another member of my family. I tried to persuade Gery to work with you, but he hates you for your Parliamentarian past, so I had no choice but to order you to stay away.’
‘Who made this threat?’
The Earl’s face was ashen. ‘I received letters.’
Just like the hapless Vanderhuyden, thought Chaloner. ‘It is a lie. Your son was not poisoned, sir. He died of the small-pox.’
The Earl gazed at him, hope in his eyes. ‘But how did … are you sure?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘Surgeon Wiseman heard the rumours and examined him very carefully, to assure himself that no mistake had been made. And you know you can trust his judgement.’
‘Then why did he not tell me?’ The Earl’s wail was loud, and Chaloner winced, hoping it would not wake the guards. He could not afford to be caught now, when he was so close to winning Clarendon to his side.
‘Because he had no reason to know that you feared foul play. If he had, then of course he would have hastened to reassure you.’
A tear rolled down the Earl’s cheek. ‘But who would do such a dreadful thing?’
‘Someone who wants whatever is unfolding in the Post Office to succeed, and who does not care that you will be castigated for not stopping it. May I see the letters, sir?’
Wordlessly, the Earl went to the desk by the window. Some of the pile he handed over had been screwed into balls or torn into pieces, as their recipient had experienced fits of impotent rage, but all had been carefully repaired. Chaloner recognised the writing, the paper and the purple seal.
‘John Fry,’ he said, passing them back. ‘Who is determined to see London in flames.’
The Earl flopped into a chair and closed his eyes. Aware that time was short, Chaloner started to add more, but the Earl raised his hand to silence him. In an agony of tension, Chaloner watched the candle flicker, acutely aware that every moment lost was another one for Fry to bring his plans to fruition. It seemed like an eternity before the Earl opened his eyes. He was still pale, but he sat a little straighter.
‘Thank you for explaining all this. It eases the pain somewhat. No father likes to believe that he has been responsible for the death of a son, and thinking that poor Edward was murdered on my account has been almost unbearable. You have lifted a great burden from my soul.’
Chaloner nodded a little impatiently. ‘No matter what Gery claims, I did not flout your orders, sir. I followed a trail, and it led to the Post Office.’
‘Then you had better start at the beginning, and tell me all you know.’
Chaloner perched on the edge of the desk and began, explaining how the King’s birds had been killed to distract Storey, and how ‘Greede’ was being used to screen the ‘Devill’s Worke’, which had resulted in the deaths of Mary Wood, Leak, Smartfoot, Copping, Vanderhuyden and perhaps more. It had also prompted Gery to garrotte Knight and Ibson.
‘And John Fry is the ringleader?’ asked the Earl when he had finished. His voice was stronger now, and there was colour in his cheeks. He sipped more wine. ‘He is behind this diabolical plot?’
‘I believe so. But he is not working alone. One of his cronies is Clement Oxenbridge, which is why I wanted to arrest him earlier.’
‘Oxenbridge is like mist – you would never have caught him. But I am not surprised he is mixed up in it. There is something distinctly evil about him. Who else is involved?’
‘Postal clerks – Rea, Gardner, Harper and Lamb. And there are others who—’
‘O’Neill must be aware of what is happening in his domain,’ interrupted the Earl. ‘And I have recently come to realise that the tales he told to get Bishop dismissed as Postmaster were lies. He fabricated evidence that saw the Major incarcerated, too. Ergo, he is certainly the kind of man to launch sinister plots.’
‘How would rebellion profit him?’
That was certainly true, thought Chaloner. He continued with his list of suspects. ‘Then there is Monsieur le Notre, who seems to have arrived in London just as all this started. And Wood, who has been relieved of an inconvenient wife.’
The Earl was thoughtful. ‘So how shall we proceed?’
‘We need to arrest Fry, Oxenbridge and the four clerks as quickly as possible. I imagine they will answer questions in exchange for their lives once they are in the Tower.’ Chaloner stood. ‘If you prepare the warrants and lend me some soldiers, I will set about hunting them down.’
But the Earl shook his head. ‘I told you – Oxenbridge is like mist and you will not lay hold of him. Meanwhile, Gardner has evaded Williamson for a week already, and I doubt Fry will prove any easier. Unless you know where he lives?’
‘No, but—’
‘I think a bold stroke is called for,’ the Earl went on. ‘One that will smash this nasty plot once and for all. So I suggest we stage an armed raid on the Post Office, and seize every man in it. That will shake loose some secrets.’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘But some of the clerks are innocent, and such an attack will put them in danger. It is not—’
‘I am Lord Chancellor of England,’ declared the Earl, a deep, slow anger burning in his eyes. Rage was driving him now, along with determination to repay those who had manipulated him so cruelly. ‘And if I say we shall raid the Post Office, then consider it raided.’
‘Raided by whom? The palace guards will not be equal to the task, and Gery and his men have their own agenda – which will not include working with us.’
‘Williamson will provide troops,’ determined the Earl. ‘I shall send a guard to appraise him of the situation at once. It is time he did something useful. He has spent the last few days doing nothing but interview witnesses who claim to have seen Gardner.’
‘Was it your idea to offer such an enormous reward?’ asked Chaloner, a little pointedly.
‘Gery’s.’ The Earl was more interested in the task at hand. ‘Will Thurloe help us? Ask him immediately, then hurry to the Post Office and monitor it until I bring my army.’
‘Your army?’ The Earl was not a good strategist, and Chaloner was loath to see him head what might be a complex and dangerous operation.
‘Yes,’ replied the Earl crisply. He surged to his feet and reached for his clothes. ‘Now go and carry out my orders. When I arrive, you can provide me with a tactical report of the situation, and we shall attack together, swords in our hands.’
‘Oh, Christ!’ gulped Chaloner, wishing he had just asked for Williamson’s home address.
Stomach churning with apprehension, Chaloner hurried towards Lincoln’s Inn. Dawn was breaking, and he wondered what the day would bring. There was certainly something amiss on the streets: the shops of respectable traders were closed, and there were very few carriages or hackneys about. Gangs of youths prowled, many pointing at the comet and murmuring about the omen it represented, and there was an atmosphere of excited anticipation that was rarely felt so early in the day. The scent of trouble was thick in the air.
Chaloner arrived to find Thurloe still out, and the note he had left was unread. He scrawled another sentence on the bottom, describing the Earl’s sudden conversion into a man of action. He did not need to add that it was a worrying development: Thurloe would know without being told.
Because he was desperate to find the ex-Spymaster – Chaloner could not stop the Earl from doing anything reckless, but Thurloe might – he went again to Dorislaus’s rooms. He felt a surge of hope when he saw a light, but it was dashed when he opened the door to find the Anglo-Dutchman alone. Dorislaus jumped when Chaloner entered uninvited.
‘Have you come to see whether I am writing secret messages to The Hague?’ he asked coldly. ‘I know Vanderhuyden told you that I am the culprit, but any fool should be able to see it is him.’
‘Vanderhuyden is dead.’ Chaloner leaned tiredly against the wall. ‘But he confessed to being a spy first. God only knows what damage has been done.’
‘You killed him?’ asked Dorislaus uneasily, eyeing the sword at Chaloner’s side.
‘Someone decided he was no longer useful and left him toxic wine. Have you seen Thurloe?’
‘Not since last night. We went to the Tower together, where that cowardly Major decided his personal safety was more important than saving London. Then we visited some of our contacts, but they could not help us, so we separated. He left you a note in Lincoln’s Inn.’
Chaloner was beginning to be worried. Was the ex-Spymaster’s displeasure with his ineptitude the reason why he had not employed their usual code, or had he been forced to write against his will, so using plain English was a plea for help? And if so, was Dorislaus involved?
‘I need to find him,’ he said tersely. ‘Where is he?’
‘He said he was going to see a few old friends. I do not know who – you know how careful he is about such matters – so I have no idea where he might be. Why? What is happening?’
Chaloner was not sure what to do. He was desperately tired, his head throbbed with tension, and the bitter weather was making his lame leg ache, so it was difficult to think clearly. He decided to take a chance, although it was one he would have avoided, had there been a choice.
‘There will be a raid on the Post Office this morning,’ he explained. ‘I am supposed to monitor the place until an “army” arrives. I cannot do that and look for Thurloe. Will you—’
‘Gery is acting at last?’ pounced Dorislaus. ‘Good! It is about time he realised that asking questions of liars and cheats will get him nowhere.’
‘Hopefully, Gery will not be there. Williamson will.’
‘Even better.’ Dorislaus started to scribble on a piece of paper, but when Chaloner leaned over his shoulder, he saw it was in cipher. ‘No one but Thurloe will be able to translate this. I shall leave it here, so if he visits, he will know where to join us.’
‘Us?’ asked Chaloner warily.
‘Of course. You will need help if you are to present the Earl with an accurate report.’
‘One of us should look for Thurloe.’
‘How?’ asked Dorislaus reasonably. ‘We do not know where to start, and he might be anywhere. It is far more sensible for us both to go to Post House Yard.’
Chaloner nodded, but wished he could have read the message. He watched unhappily as Dorislaus propped it against a jug, then went to a cupboard where he withdrew a sword, three knives and a pair of handguns. Chaloner watched with mounting alarm.
‘I did not know you were a fighting man.’
Dorislaus shrugged. ‘I never used to be, but these are uncertain times, and I am cognisant of the fate of my father. I do not intend to be murdered by men purporting to be my friends.’
Interpreting it as a reminder that Dorislaus was as wary of him as he was of Dorislaus, Chaloner followed him outside. He shivered. It was another bitingly cold morning, and snow was in the air. He glanced up at clouds that were dark, heavy and sullen. He was not usually fanciful, but it seemed they held a message: that the day would bring suffering, danger and despair, and that at the end of it, good men would lie dead.
The Post Office should have been busy, because overseas mail was collected on Fridays, but the door was closed and there was a notice pinned to it. Dorislaus went to read it, while Chaloner lurked in the shadows, watching frustrated customers go away with their letters still in their hands.
‘Snowdrifts have closed all the main highways out of London,’ reported Dorislaus. ‘So no mail is being accepted until further notice.’
‘Blocked roads should not stop the clerks from taking post,’ said Chaloner, worried. ‘Indeed, they should be pleased, as it gives Williamson’s spies more time to read it.’
&nb
sp; ‘Yes, but O’Neill controls the General Letter Office, not Williamson,’ Dorislaus pointed out. ‘I imagine our Spymaster is delighted by what is unfolding here – either endemic corruption or a treasonous plot will see O’Neill disgraced. And then who will step into his shoes?’
Chaloner stared at him. Dorislaus was right: Williamson would benefit from trouble at the Post Office. Was that why he had allowed himself to be distracted by the hunt for Gardner? To ensure the plot succeeded? But rebellion was not in his interests either – as Spymaster, he was expected to thwart that kind of thing. Or was he confident that all blame would lie with the Earl for hiring the incompetent Gery to solve the case? Chaloner rubbed his head, trying desperately to think.
‘It might take Clarendon some time to raise an army,’ Dorislaus went on. ‘And we cannot wait here. Someone will notice us, and we should not squander the element of surprise by loitering – it may be the only advantage we hold. We need somewhere to hide until he comes.’
He was right again, and Chaloner cursed his sluggish wits for not seeing it first. He led the way to Storey’s house, where he picked the lock on the door. They entered, and Dorislaus whistled at the chaos within: the place had been thoroughly ransacked, presumably by whoever had been detailed to steal the dead ducks. Chaloner hurried to the parlour at the back.
‘No wonder they wanted Storey distracted,’ breathed Dorislaus, wide-eyed. ‘If I had known he had a view like this, I would have moved in with him!’
Lights glowed under the window shutters in the disused wing, and it was so obvious that something was about to happen that every nerve in Chaloner’s body thrummed with tension. Dorislaus began to chatter, an annoying buzz that prevented Chaloner from concentrating on the questions that tumbled through his mind.
‘Palmer’s book will go on sale today, at Speed’s shop on Fleet Street,’ the Anglo-Dutchman burbled. ‘I cannot see that calming turbulent waters, because no one likes Catholics, and London does not want to hear that they are the innocent victims of bigotry.’
‘Oh, God!’ Chaloner had forgotten that the nobleman’s entry into the world of publishing was scheduled for that day, and Dorislaus was right: it would cause trouble.
Death in St James's Park: 8 (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 32
