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

by Gregory, Susanna

  The flames blazed ever more fiercely as Oxenbridge advanced on the Earl and the Earl backed away. They sent sparks flying to the ceiling and filled the Sorting Room with dense, choking smoke. The Major watched the dance between the Earl and Oxenbridge with vengeful glee, while Rea left Chaloner to Gardner, and began to tend the fire, hurling handful after handful of letters on to its greedy tongues.

  ‘I shall kill Chaloner, then,’ said Gardner to no one in particular. The Major nodded assent, but did not look away from the Earl and Oxenbridge.

  Gardner did not bother with a sword, and drew a dagger instead. It was his second mistake, the first being to tie Chaloner’s hands in front of him rather than behind. The pen shot into his eye, and he reeled away with a howl of startled agony. He stumbled into the fire, where his screams intensified. Rea turned and fled when the burning man tottered towards him, while Oxenbridge and the Major gaped in horror. Chaloner grabbed the knife Gardner had dropped and surged to his feet.

  Oxenbridge snapped out of his paralysis. He abandoned the Earl, and there was something approaching madness in his white face as he drew his sword. A dagger was no match for a rapier, so Chaloner put his head down and charged like a bull. Oxenbridge was so taken aback by the unexpected manoeuvre that he was slow to react, and Chaloner slammed into him hard enough to send him flying. Oxenbridge crashed to the floor, where he released an unearthly shriek, while Chaloner’s momentum took him stumbling to the far end of the room.

  ‘What?’ yelled the Major in agitation. ‘What?’

  Very slowly, Oxenbridge raised his hand. Blood dripped from a deep gash, pieces of the phial jutting from it. Terror filled his eyes as he realised what was going to happen to him, but then hatred took the place of fear. He stood, eyes bright with the need for reprisal. Meanwhile, the Major lurched from the room, abandoning his only friend without a backward glance.

  Oxenbridge picked up his sword. A sheen of sweat coated his face, making it shine eerily in the light cast by the flames, and his eyes were unfathomable pools of blackness. Dispensing with any pretence at finesse, he held the blade like a spear, and began to race towards Chaloner, keening as he did so, a high-pitched wail that made the spy want to put his hands over his ears.

  As Oxenbridge thundered forward, a vivid memory sprang into Chaloner’s mind: it was the same sound that the doll had made when his father had thrown it on the fire so many years before. It rooted him to the spot, and he could only watch as Oxenbridge hurtled towards him.

  There was a sharp crack and Oxenbridge’s expression turned from fury to incredulity. He continued to advance, but ever more slowly, and when he reached Chaloner, it was only to collapse at his feet. Through the swirling smoke, Dorislaus appeared, holding a gun.

  ‘I discovered a hitherto unrealised talent for picking locks after you shut me in that secret chamber,’ he said coolly. ‘However, if you do it again, I shall shoot you.’

  But it was the man standing behind Dorislaus who caught Chaloner’s attention. It was Thurloe, gripping a frantically struggling Major. Williamson was with them, and he had brought soldiers. With quiet efficiency, they set about extinguishing the blaze.

  ‘Where have you been?’ croaked Chaloner to Thurloe. ‘I thought the Major had killed you.’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Thurloe in surprise. Chaloner did not have the energy to explain, so Thurloe continued. ‘I spent the entire night and much of the day writing letters. It—’

  ‘Letters?’ cried Chaloner. ‘For God’s sake! We are on the verge of a rebellion!’

  He shoved past Thurloe and reeled outside. The snow in Post House Yard lay deep and white, but it had stopped falling, and there was a hint of blue in the sky. Screams and howls echoed from Dowgate Hill, and he thought he could hear more in Thames Street. It was too late, he thought despairingly. The Major’s plan was already in motion and London would burn after all.

  Thurloe had followed him out. He grabbed Chaloner’s arm and pulled him across the square and out on to the street. It was full of people, and there was a battle in progress. However, it was not deadly missiles being lobbed, but snowballs.

  ‘My letters,’ explained Thurloe. ‘They have been delivered throughout the city since dawn. All sent in the name of John Fry, of course.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  Thurloe smiled. ‘His great battle is a snowball fight: apprentices versus the rest of London.’

  Numbly, Chaloner recalled the laughter he had heard along Thames Street earlier, as people had huddled in doorways with their missives.

  ‘There will be some trouble, of course,’ Thurloe went on. ‘A core of malcontents will do their best to cause mischief, but Williamson should be able to subdue it.’

  ‘You mean it is over?’ rasped Chaloner, slumping in relief.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Thurloe. ‘Do not worry. The Major has lost.’

  Epilogue

  The following week

  Events at the Post Office had been hushed up so efficiently that there was no sign of the fire that had threatened to consume it. Discreet workmen had been hired to repair the damage, while a coffee-seller had opened a booth in the square. Williamson had ensured that he was not a very good one, and the stench of his incinerated beans masked the residual aroma of Oxenbridge’s fire.

  Chaloner stood outside the General Letter Office with Thurloe, watching the usual bustle as people hurried to catch the noonday post. This time, there were no carts packed with gunpowder, and he found it difficult to believe that the entire episode had started less than two weeks before.

  ‘I am sorry Knight was murdered.’ He was still hoarse, and had used it as an excuse not to talk to anyone; Thurloe was the exception. ‘Although his letters would not have helped us. He had learned what was being planned, but not who was behind it.’

  ‘Yes, and it is ironic that the mastermind transpired to be the man who shared the hackney when you took Knight to White Hall to talk to the Earl,’ said Thurloe. ‘But some justice was served – the Yeans were killed by the very device with which they aimed to murder Palmer.’

  ‘Stokes and Cliffe did not escape, either – they froze to death on the Dover road. I am concerned about the Major, though. I suspect it is only a matter of time before he tries again.’

  ‘He has been transferred to a prison on the Scilly Isles, Tom. Even he cannot cause mischief from there. He was always dangerous and unpredictable, but he surpassed himself this time.’

  ‘He convinced everyone that he was a changed man,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘But his fanaticism is just as irrational now as it was at Naseby.’

  ‘Do you know what I found most distasteful? The way he preyed on Clarendon’s grief. And all the while, he wrote letters, working hard enough to exhaust himself, which convinced us that he was a suffering victim. There was no support from brother apprentices in Hull, Sussex or Bristol – all that came from his poisonous pen.’

  Chaloner grinned suddenly. ‘We made a nonsense of his family motto, though – nil admirari. He was certainly astonished to discover himself thwarted.’

  Thurloe smiled back. ‘Yes – he thought he was invincible.’

  ‘Can all his crimes be proved?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He and Oxenbridge communicated in code, and Ibson managed to acquire many of their letters – they were in the haul that you retrieved and left in my room. Everything is there: how the birds were killed to distract Storey; how Mary was murdered to frighten off Wood, who had started an enquiry of his own after carrying the message to Clarendon—’

  ‘It did frighten off Wood – he told me several times to stay away from the Post Office. And the Major did tell Wood to take his so-called intelligence to the Earl – he lied when he said he wished Wood had picked someone else.’

  Thurloe nodded and resumed his list. ‘—how “Fry’s” letters were given credence by sightings of him, all fabricated by his followers; how Vanderhuyden was coerced into spying for the Dutch; how rumours of assassination were started; how Bisho
p was cajoled into committing fraud to avenge himself on O’Neill; how Gery was manipulated.’

  ‘And all because the Major bears grudges – against Palmer and Bishop for failing to speak out against his imprisonment, against O’Neill for telling the lies that saw him arrested in the first place, and against Clarendon for keeping him in the Tower without a trial.’

  Thurloe was sombre. ‘He has a right to feel aggrieved. What Clarendon did was illegal.’

  Chaloner was silent for a while, his mind playing over the final confrontation in the Sorting Room. ‘Did you learn anything about Oxenbridge in the end? Such as where he lived?’

  ‘A rather dull little cottage in Stepney. He had a cat, was kind to his mother and played chess. I was astounded by the banality of the place and the man who had lived there. He was an apothecary, which is why he was able to concoct such a dreadful poison.’

  ‘You make him sound ordinary,’ said Chaloner. ‘He was not.’

  ‘He was, Tom. We were seduced into thinking him sinister by virtue of his looks and his ability to keep his personal life secret. He played on that.’

  Chaloner said nothing, because the sound that Oxenbridge had made before he had been shot continued to haunt him, and there was nothing Thurloe could say that would make him believe he had been a normal man. Absently, he watched people hurry in and out of the Letter Hall. The musician had arrived, and was piping a medley of popular tunes. One included a revolutionary song, but he prudently played something else when he saw Thurloe.

  ‘I misjudged Dorislaus,’ Chaloner confessed. ‘I thought at one point that he had harmed you.’

  Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘A portly fellow like him? Really, Thomas. Do you have no faith in my ability to look after myself?’

  ‘He armed himself very heavily when he came with me to watch the Post Office – sword, knives, guns. I suspect he is more used to combat than you think.’

  ‘He was just frightened, and wanted the reassurance an arsenal can provide.’

  ‘When you did not write to me in code …’

  Thurloe shot him an apologetic glance. ‘That was an oversight on my part. It did not occur to me that it might worry you. My mind was full of the letters I was going to compose, you see, and I was afraid there would not be time to send them all. Fortunately, Prynne came to the rescue.’

  ‘Prynne?’ echoed Chaloner in astonishment. ‘That bigoted old—’

  ‘Precisely! He is a pamphleteer with a talent for penning epistles that command attention. He also writes extremely quickly. I suspect that his words were far more effective than mine.’

  ‘Why not ask Dorislaus to help? You trust him.’

  ‘For the same reason I did not ask you – his talents lie in other directions. And if your next question is why did I not confide my plan to either of you, the answer is simple: it would not have worked if you had been captured and forced to talk.’

  It was ruthless, but Thurloe had been a Spymaster with the security of a nation in his hands, and he had not earned such a position by being sentimental.

  ‘What about Morland?’ asked Chaloner. ‘How has he emerged from this affair?’

  ‘He has Williamson’s protection, because he claims he is the only one who knows how to operate that letter-opening machine.’ Thurloe grimaced. ‘He is not, of course. I designed it during the Commonwealth – he stole my plans and built another.’

  ‘Then it is as well he is taking the credit. You cannot be associated with that sort of thing now.’

  ‘True,’ acknowledged Thurloe. ‘He claimed the fifty-pound reward for catching Gardner, too. He said it was his intelligence that allowed Gardner to be caught and killed.’

  ‘And Williamson believed him?’ Chaloner was disgusted.

  ‘No, but Morland petitioned the King, who ordered Williamson to pay. I doubt His Majesty believed it either, but he was enjoying his mistress – Morland chose his time well – and it was quicker to give him what he wanted than to argue. However, Morland has not escaped entirely.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Someone told Widow Smith that it was he, not the Major and Bishop, who was responsible for betraying her husband during the Commonwealth. And she is vengeful.’

  ‘Good. He can dodge her for the rest of his life.’

  ‘Unfortunately your plot misfired, Tom,’ said Thurloe mildly. ‘She went to confront him, but he employed his cunning tongue. They are now engaged to be married.’

  Chaloner gaped at him. ‘Is there no predicament he cannot escape? Christ God! He has more lives than a cat and the luck of Lucifer.’

  Chaloner did not want to visit Williamson in New Palace Yard, but the Spymaster had demanded a report, and the Earl had ordered him to provide one. He went there the following day, entering the elegant office with considerable reluctance. Williamson was gazing out of his window, looking at the line of traitors’ heads that were displayed in a grisly row outside Westminster Hall opposite.

  ‘I have a question for you, Chaloner,’ he said, turning and folding his arms. ‘Morland’s house was burgled last night, and a vast fortune was stolen. I do not suppose you know anything about it?’

  Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Morland had a vast fortune? How? He cannot earn much working for Clarendon, not even when a fifty-pound reward is taken into account.’

  ‘He declined to say how he came by it. However, every penny has gone, so he will have to rely on the generosity of Widow Smith to keep him in fine clothes now. And she is notoriously mean.’

  ‘Poor Morland.’

  ‘Poor Morland indeed. What do you think happened to the money?’

  Chaloner shrugged. ‘There is fever and hardship in the Fleet Rookery.’

  Williamson regarded him with a complete lack of understanding. ‘You could have used it to buy your way out of going to Russia. Or even to purchase employment with me. I am not averse to having my good graces invoked with gold.’

  ‘I shall bear it in mind for the future.’

  ‘Be sure you do. Incidentally, I had a message an hour ago. O’Neill is dead.’

  Chaloner stared at him in shock. ‘How?’

  ‘Something eroded his guts. Perhaps it was the strain of knowing that, although he lied and plotted to be made Postmaster, he was unequal to running an efficient operation. His wife has been appointed in his stead.’

  ‘Well, she did keep saying she could do a better job.’

  ‘Unfortunately, her husband’s death has undermined her confidence, so she has asked me to oblige in her stead. It is a burden, of course, but I have acceded to her request.’

  Chaloner’s mind raced. Was he to understand that Williamson had dispatched O’Neill to gain control of the Post Office?

  ‘No,’ said Williamson indignantly, seeing what he was thinking. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Yet I seriously doubt he died of natural causes. It is too convenient. Would you like me to investigate? It will delay my journey to Russia, but—’

  ‘There is no need. If you must know, Bishop sent him a gift of dried fruits as a peace offering. O’Neill was a fool to have eaten them, but there is nothing we can do about it now, and it is politically disadvantageous to make it known that one Postmaster has murdered another.’

  ‘Bishop is not the culprit,’ said Chaloner, thinking Williamson a fool for thinking so. ‘How could he send poisoned fruits from gaol? I imagine you have him well guarded.’

  Williamson frowned. ‘Well, yes, I do. So who is the culprit, then? The Major?’

  ‘Well, he was in the Tower for two days before being sent to the Scilly Isles, which would have given him ample time to organise deadly gifts. He has been a prisoner there long enough to know how to bribe his turnkeys.’

  Williamson shook his head slowly. ‘God save me from fanatics!’

  As it was a fine day, and the snow lay thick and pretty on the ground, the Court repaired to St James’s Park for the afternoon. Chaloner rode with the Earl in his private carriage. Foundations were being
dug for a new house near the grounds’ entrance, and as they passed, the Earl explained that it was for Storey. The curator’s experience with the poisoners had taught him that he needed to be nearer his charges, so he intended to leave his cottage in Post House Yard. The area around the new building was already being called Storey’s Gate by Londoners.

  They arrived at the Canal to find Lady Castlemaine entertaining everyone by designing a line of snowmen in lewd positions. The King stood with his hands on his hips, guffawing heartily, and his courtiers clustered around him to titter. With a prudish glower, the Earl hammered on the ceiling of the carriage to tell his coachman to drive on. Mocking laughter followed.

  ‘She becomes more disgusting every day,’ the Earl declared. ‘It is a pity the Major did not arrange to assassinate her. I cannot imagine how he convinced Stokes and Cliffe to aim for Palmer, who is more decent and honourable than the rest of Court put together.’

  ‘She is too well guarded,’ explained Chaloner. ‘But Palmer was an easy target, because he lives outside White Hall. Besides, there was the excuse of his book.’

  ‘I have read it. A gentle, erudite piece of work, with nothing to inflame. It will do no good, of course. Catholics are unpopular in England, and there is nothing he or anyone else can do about it.’

  As they passed the Canal, Chaloner saw the ducks, swans and geese in their usual haunt at the water’s edge. The crane with the wooden leg strutted among them, and a flamingo preened nearby. He was glad they were safe from the Major’s machinations.

  ‘Le Notre has gone home,’ said the Earl conversationally. ‘He left magnificent plans for Greenwich, but told the King that nothing can be done for this park. I do not suppose you discovered whether he was a French spy, did you?’

  ‘No, he was just what he appeared: an eccentric landscape architect. Morland tried to confuse me by saying he was Oxenbridge’s friend, but it was a lie.’

  ‘Morland,’ mused the Earl. ‘You may be pleased to know that he is no longer in my service. He had the temerity to inform me that I should reward him for the dangers he had suffered, so I told him he was no longer needed. He will leave for France tomorrow, to join his wife.’