Death in St James's Park (12 page)

He tiptoed downstairs, hoping it would be too early for the servants to be up, and that he could warm some ale over the embers of the kitchen fire. Unfortunately, it was washing day, when water had to be fetched from the well, lye and soap had to be measured out, and a veritable arsenal of boards, bats and dollies had to be assembled for beating the laundry clean. Thus he opened the kitchen door to find his household in the grip of frenzied activity, all conducted in almost total silence – he was not the only one who tried to avoid igniting Hannah’s maleficent morning wrath.

Joan sat at the table, issuing low-voiced orders that were obeyed with such a sullen lack of enthusiasm that Chaloner wondered how his wife had contrived to select so many
disagreeable retainers. Nan the cook-maid was spiteful; Ruth the lady’s maid was lazy and probably dishonest; Robert the footman was arrogant; and Ann the scullion was downright unsavoury.

‘Yes?’ Joan asked frostily when she saw Chaloner. ‘What do you want?’

‘Nothing I cannot fetch myself,’ he replied, longing suddenly for his family home in Buckinghamshire, where the kitchen was a haven of laughter and good humour. There, he would have been offered cakes fresh from the oven, and regaled with news from the village and amusing tales about the neighbours.

‘Yes, drink cold milk,’ he thought he heard her mutter. ‘It is time the mistress was rid of you.’

‘Speaking of poisons, have you heard about Mary Wood?’ gossiped Nan, as she mixed ashes with lye in a basin. ‘The Queen’s dresser? Well, she was fed a toxic substance and—’

‘The mistress said she died of the small-pox,’ interrupted Joan. ‘Who told you otherwise?’

‘Dick Joyce, who was Mary’s favourite servant,’ replied Nan, her superior smile telling Joan whose source was likely to be more reliable.

‘Joyce?’ asked Chaloner. ‘He was killed in the explosion outside the Post Office.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Joan disapprovingly. ‘Were you there? The clothes you wore on Thursday were certainly in a sorry state, and I am not sure we shall get them clean today.’

The eyes of the others brightened at the prospect of a new tale about the capricious eccentricity of their employer, but the gleams faded to disappointment when he declined to reply.

‘What did Joyce say, exactly?’ he asked of Nan.

Nan was delighted
to be the centre of attention. ‘I met him an hour after his mistress died. He was terrified that he would be blamed for her death, as he was looking after her at the time – everyone else was out, apparently. Unfortunately, we were interrupted before he could say more, but I am not surprised that something untoward happened. Her husband is very odd.’

‘Did Joyce imply that Wood had harmed her, then?’

Nan pursed her lips. ‘No, but Wood is insane, so it stands to reason. Last week he told everyone that he was made of glass, and said that no one was to touch him lest they left finger-marks.’

Chaloner laughed.

As the cold milk had chilled him, Chaloner went to the Rainbow Coffee House on Fleet Street for a warming brew, walking there in the pitch dark because dawn was still some way off. He did not particularly like the Rainbow’s clientele and its coffee was unpalatable, so he was not sure why he patronised the place. He could only suppose it was because it was predictable and unchanging, and constancy was something that was markedly absent from the rest of his life.

As usual, the owner, James Farr, had burned his beans, so the shop was full of reeking, oily smoke. It was busy, though, even at that hour, as customers stopped off for a dose of the beverage before work. As Farr’s infusions tended to be more potent than those available anywhere else, he had a regular and devoted following, and there were many who claimed they could not begin their duties without a shot of Farr’s best inside them.

‘What news?’ called Farr, the traditional coffee-house greeting. Such establishments
prided themselves on being up to date with domestic and foreign affairs, and their patrons were invariably informed of important events long before they could be printed in the government’s newsbooks.

‘Three ducks died in St James’s Park,’ supplied Chaloner, supposing the Rainbow was as good a place as any to learn if there were rumours about them.

‘That is not news,’ said a young printer named Fabian Stedman, who spent so much time in the Rainbow that Chaloner sometimes wondered if he ever went home. ‘Who cares about ducks?’

‘I do,’ said Farr. He and his clients rarely agreed. ‘They always sound as though they are laughing, and the noise they make gladdens my heart.’

‘Not the ones in St James’s Park,’ countered Stedman. ‘I went to see them once, and all they did was stand around and look miserable.’

‘So would you if you had been torn away from Russia and carted here,’ retorted Farr.

‘If they hail from Russia, then they will be delighted to be in London,’ averred Stedman. ‘Because we all know about that particular country.’ He shuddered theatrically.

‘Do we?’ Chaloner thought disconsolately about the Earl’s plan to send him there.

‘Of course,’ replied Stedman loftily. ‘It snows all the time, its Tsar is a tyrant, its people do not believe in God, and there are no alehouses.’

‘No alehouses?’ cried Farr, shocked. ‘But where do people drink?’

‘In filthy, squalid kitchens,’ replied Stedman. ‘Tell him, Speed.’

Samuel Speed was a relative newcomer to the Rainbow, having moved into the area
when Chaloner had been in Sweden. He was a hook-nosed bookseller of indeterminate age, famous for purveying tomes that no one else carried. Because his wares were frequently deemed scandalous, seditious or heretical, he also sold medicines to help his readers recover afterwards.

‘He is right,’ obliged Speed. ‘I have a report about Russia, if you are interested –
Voyages and Travels of the Ambassadors
by Adam Olearius. It tells what the envoys of Holstein made of the Tsar and his people. Would you like to buy it?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Chaloner unenthusiastically.

‘I shall bring a copy, then,’ said Speed, pleased. ‘But you will not like what you learn, so I recommend you purchase some of Mr Grey’s lozenges to go with it. They have relieved many thousands in case of extremity, and are also an antidote against pestilent diseases.’

‘Is he likely to catch some from perusing this text, then?’ asked Farr uneasily.

‘No, of course not,’ replied Speed impatiently. ‘I am just saying that Mr Grey’s lozenges are good for more than easing a severe shock.’

‘Russia must be a terrible place,’ mused Farr soberly, ‘if even reading about it is perilous.’

‘Oh, it is,’ Speed assured him. ‘It is full of barbarous peasants, whose idea of fun is a game of chess that ends with a brawl. There are no surgeons or physicians, and the cure for everything is a spell in a sweating house. If they are too poor to afford one, they climb in an oven instead.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Farr, wide-eyed. ‘I do not like the sound of that.’

‘And no one in that entire benighted nation knows Latin,’ added Speed in a
hushed voice, as if he considered this a far more serious deficiency. ‘Except perhaps their Secretary of State.’

‘I shall not go,’ determined Stedman, although the chances of him receiving an invitation were slim. ‘And these ducks should be grateful to be in London – the finest city in the world. Do you not agree, Chaloner?’

‘The ones who were killed probably would not,’ replied Chaloner.

‘Such a vile, cowardly deed will be the work of fanatics,’ stated Farr. ‘And speaking of fanatics, there is talk of a rebellion bubbling in Hull.’

‘No, it is in Sussex,’ countered Stedman. ‘One of my customers told me about it.’

‘It
was
Hull,’ said Farr firmly. ‘I read it in a government newsbook, so it must be true.’

No one remarked on the rank fallacy of this statement.

‘Actually, it may be both,’ said Speed. ‘Because the whole country is on the verge of revolution at the moment. Word is that John Fry has risen from the dead – if he was ever dead in the first place – and is writing letters telling people to prepare for the better society that he will usher in.’

‘There are also rumours that someone important will soon be assassinated,’ said Stedman. ‘I have heard it from several different sources, so I am inclined to believe it.’

‘Who will die, then?’ asked Farr with ghoulish interest.

‘Probably Monsieur le Notre, the French landscape architect,’ replied Stedman. ‘Or if not him, then the Duke of Buckingham or the Earl of Clarendon.’

‘Well, I heard it would be the Major,’ said Speed, while Chaloner regarded Stedman in alarm, not liking his master’s name on such a list. ‘The poor fellow who has been locked in the Tower for
the past eighteen months without an opportunity to prove his innocence in a trial.’

‘The Major!’ spat Stedman in distaste. ‘He was an officer in Cromwell’s army, and anyone who supported that villain deserves to die. Moreover, it is said that he was the executioner who chopped off the old King’s head.’

‘If that were true, he would not have tried to blow up Cromwell a few years later,’ argued Speed. ‘And he spent ages in prison for that particular crime. Surely that proves his loyalty to the current regime?’

‘I have also heard that His Majesty might be the victim of this pending assassination,’ said Stedman, ignoring the bookseller’s point. ‘Just because he likes the occasional party.’

‘His “occasional parties” are wild debauches that occur with shocking regularity,’ said Speed sternly. ‘He should learn to control himself, because his people do not approve.’

‘It is none of their business,’ declared Stedman, the blindly loyal Royalist. ‘And I am not listening to any more of this talk. It is sedition, and we want no more of that.’

‘No, we do not,’ agreed Farr soberly. ‘However, the King should not have dispensed with Lent this year. There is nothing wrong with a period of self-denial. It is good for the soul.’

‘Good for the Catholic soul perhaps,’ countered Stedman sullenly. ‘But we Anglicans do not need it.’

‘Lord Castlemaine will publish a book about Catholics next week,’ said Speed brightly. ‘I shall sell it in my shop. And speaking of him, he was blown off his feet by that explosion at the Post Office. I saw him myself, all dusty and dishevelled, when I arrived there shortly afterwards.’

‘I do not suppose you
saw a musician, too, did you?’ asked Chaloner. He shrugged when everyone regarded him curiously. ‘I heard one was entertaining when the blast occurred.’

‘I did, as it happens,’ replied Speed. ‘He was running like the devil, clutching a flageolet. He was wearing a faded blue hat, yellow breeches and a reddish cloak.’

‘Was the Post Office attacked because it is so corrupt?’ asked Farr. ‘We all know that everyone who works there is a thief. And that includes Controller O’Neill.’

‘True,’ nodded Speed. ‘The only honest man was Mr Knight – and he is arrested.’

Chaloner winced, and supposed he would have to visit Newgate as soon as possible, not just to find out what Knight knew, but also to see whether there was anything the clerk needed. Clean clothes, decent food and a visitor who believed in him might make his imprisonment easier to bear.

Chaloner stepped
outside the Rainbow Coffee House to find that dawn had brought snow, tiny nodules so hard and dense that they danced across the frozen streets and showed no inclination to melt. Ice formed slick patches on which pedestrians, horses and even carts skidded precariously.

He turned west along Fleet Street, supposing he should report to the Earl before he did anything else. Afterwards, he would go again to St James’s Park, although he suspected he was wasting his time given that he had already looked for clues without success. Then he would turn his attention to the Post Office, questioning its employees and suppressing his hatred of prisons to speak to Knight in Newgate. And finally, when the short winter day was over and the General Letter Office was empty, he would break in and see what a systematic search would reveal.

White Hall was deserted when he arrived, and the Great Court looked as though it had hosted a riot. Windows were smashed, the heads of statues had been knocked off, and the ground was strewn with discarded clothing. It was the
aftermath of one of the Court’s infamous debauches, which explained why the palace was so quiet – the revellers had only just gone to bed, and the other residents were catching up on the sleep they had missed while the party was in progress.

The Earl was at his desk, though. He had not been invited to join the carousing, and would not have gone if he had, being strongly disapproving of such behaviour. Even so, his face was pale, and he had the look of a man who had slept badly. Chaloner wondered why, when his fine new mansion in Piccadilly should have been too far away to have been disturbed by White Hall’s excesses. The Earl scowled as his intelligencer approached.

‘You went to the Post Office yesterday, after I expressly forbade it,’ he snapped. ‘Why?’

Chaloner wondered whether it had been Gery, Morland or Freer who had told tales. ‘Actually, sir, I went to visit Edward Storey. He lives next door.’

‘Who?’

‘The Curator of Birds at St James’s Park.’

‘Oh.’ The glower lifted. ‘Have you come to report what happened to the poor beasts? The King will be pleased when I expose the culprit.’

‘They were poisoned. I plan to interview the park’s gardeners and assistant keepers today.’

‘Then why are you here?’ demanded the Earl, cross again. ‘Go and speak to them at once. This is important, Chaloner. I promised His Majesty a solution, and he is expecting one.’

‘I shall do my best.’ Chaloner hesitated, not sure how to phrase what he wanted to say. ‘I am concerned about the General Letter Office, sir. Knight said something untoward is unfolding there, and then that
explosion claimed five lives …’

The Earl eyed him coldly. ‘Yes, and Gery is looking into it. You have other duties.’

‘There are also rumours that someone will be assassinated, and London is full of tales about famous agitators waiting to lead the country in a violent rebellion. I cannot shake the conviction that the Post Office plot is related to all this, and—’