Death in St James's Park (13 page)

‘No,’ declared the Earl firmly. ‘You have allowed yourself to be swayed by Knight’s silly ramblings. But the man is a liar, and you should not believe anything he said.’

‘What did he say, sir? He refused to tell me until he had spoken to you, but then Gery sent me to fetch the palace guards, and I did not hear what—’

‘He spouted a lot of nonsense,’ interrupted the Earl briskly. ‘Suspicions without evidence. But Gery will investigate regardless, so there is no need for you to worry about it.’

Chaloner nodded, but decided to visit Newgate the moment he left the palace, even more certain that something was seriously amiss. He longed to ask why the Earl had appointed Gery, and why he himself was being deliberately excluded from whatever was going on, but he could tell by the determined set of his master’s mouth that he would be given short shrift if he did.

‘Go and find this bird-killer,’ the Earl went on sternly. ‘And leave the Post Office alone. I do not want you impeding Gery’s enquiry with one of your own. Do you hear?’

Chaloner tried one last time. ‘But I might be able to help. Whatever is happening
there involves murder as well as insurrection and corruption, and Gery—’

‘You will stay away! I mean it, Chaloner. Do as you are told.’

Chaloner regarded his master worriedly. ‘Is anything wrong, sir?’

‘Wrong?’ demanded the Earl shrilly. He would not meet Chaloner’s eyes. ‘Nothing is wrong.’

‘Tell me how I can help,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘No one else need know.’

‘There is nothing wrong!’ Twin spots of anger glowed on the Earl’s plump cheeks. ‘Now go and catch the villain who is killing ducks. And if I hear you have disobeyed me, you can look for another appointment, because there is no place in my household for unruly retainers.’

Although the Earl had threatened him with un-employment before, Chaloner was under the distinct impression that this time he meant it. There was no more to be said, and Clarendon had already turned back to the papers on his desk. It was a dismissal, and he did not even glance up as Chaloner bowed and took his leave.

Chaloner closed the door and stood for a moment, thinking. It seemed Dorislaus had been right to urge him to defy his master on the grounds that Gery was a sinister influence – and the Earl was definitely upset about something. Was it the recent death of a son, as Williamson thought? Yet Clarendon seemed more frightened and worried than grief-stricken.

‘Did he holler at you again?’ came a soft voice from the shadows.

It was Freer. Chaloner glanced around for Gery and Morland, but the soldier
appeared to be alone. He nodded.

‘Do not take it amiss.’ Freer patted his shoulder kindly. ‘He mourns his dead child.’

‘So I have been told.’

‘You must know how he feels,’ Freer went on quietly. ‘Hannah told me that you lost one to sickness in Holland some years ago.’

Chaloner nodded again, but was appalled that Hannah should have revealed such an intimate detail to a relative stranger. What else had she said? That he was incapable of expressing his feelings, which was one of the things she had come to deplore in him? Unfortunately, it was true, although he was sure he had had no trouble doing it when he was younger.

‘You are at work early,’ he said, abruptly changing the subject.

‘Actually, I am here late – I have been guarding Clarendon. There is a rumour that someone will be assassinated soon, so Gery has ordered him watched at all times. Last night was my turn.’

‘You think he will be the victim?’

‘Not really. According to popular rumour, the murder will have repercussions, but our Earl’s death will not cause many ripples, given his waning popularity. Personally, I suspect the target will be someone like the Duke of Buckingham, who has followers. Or O’Neill from the Post Office. Or Monsieur le Notre, because that will cause friction with France. Or even the Major.’

‘Others have said the Major might be the target, too,’ mused Chaloner. ‘But I cannot see why. He was a fiery speaker once, but he seems broken now.’

‘Well, that is hardly surprising after eighteen months in the Tower. However, his
death will have serious consequences for Clarendon – if he is murdered, our Earl will be blamed.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Because he is in the habit of summoning him to White Hall, a journey that renders him vulnerable?’

‘Precisely. The poor fellow is dragged here two or three times a week. I think the Earl should visit him in the Tower instead, but he declines to go, on the grounds that he does not like it.’

Chaloner did not like the Tower either, yet even he thought it unwise to put a man’s life in danger for the sake of personal convenience. ‘Who would want the Major dead? I doubt anyone remembers him now.’

‘On the contrary, he is popular because he advocates that any political change must be brought about slowly, gently and peacefully. The death of a committed pacifist will certainly ignite bad feeling.’

Chaloner supposed it might. ‘Why does the Earl confer with him so often?’

‘Because he is the one who first heard that all is not well at the Post Office. He managed to tell Sir Henry Wood, who happened to be in the Tower pretending to be a lion. And Wood reported it to Clarendon. Obviously, the Earl cannot use Wood as an intermediary – the man is barely sane – and he is reluctant to trust anyone else. So the Major is brought to White Hall.’

‘A
prisoner
learned about trouble at the Post Office?’ asked Chaloner sceptically. ‘How?’

‘Because the Major was a frequent visitor to Post House Yard when his friend Bishop was in charge, and several of its clerks still write to him. Thank God he is loyal to the Crown, because O’Neill has erected a wall of silence around the place, and the Major’s contacts represent a vital conduit
of information. We would know nothing were it not for him. He is extremely valuable.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘But O’Neill dismissed all the clerks that Bishop hired, and replaced them with men of his own. The Major cannot still have friends in the General Letter Office.’

‘O’Neill made a clean sweep of the
Inland
Office, but he left the
Foreign
Office alone because it is much smaller and – in his view – far less important. The two departments are separate, as I am sure you know, but its clerks chat to each other, and it is the Foreign Office men who pass the Major his intelligence.’

‘Intelligence about what, exactly?’

‘I cannot tell you more,’ said Freer apologetically. ‘Gery would dismiss me if he knew I had revealed this much, and I like working here. However, I can say that in return for his help, the Earl has promised to arrange the Major’s release. I hope he does not renege. The disappointment will kill the Major if he does.’

As Chaloner walked towards the palace gate, courtiers spilled out of the sumptuous apartment that belonged to Lady Castlemaine, where they had evidently gone to round off their night of fun. She was resplendent in a scarlet gown that hugged the sensuous curves of her body, a body that had cost the King a good slice of his popularity with his people. Her face showed the ravages of good living, though – her skin was puffy, her eyes bloodshot, and there was an unhealthy pallor in her cheeks.

Chaloner was reluctant to thread his way through a lot of people who hated his Earl, lest one of them was drunk enough to start
a fight, and he did not want to skewer anyone if it could be avoided. He stepped into a doorway to wait until they had gone, where he discovered that he was not the only one loath to risk an encounter. Two others were already there: Thomas Kipps was the Earl’s cheerful, friendly Seal Bearer, while Mrs Chiffinch was unhappily married to the Court rake who had chatted to Chaloner and the O’Neills at Hannah’s soirée the other night.

‘It is a pity the villains who tried to blow up the Post Office did not target White Hall instead,’ said Kipps, uncharacteristically acerbic. Chaloner could only suppose he was resentful because he had not been invited to the Lady’s party – he was a great admirer of her thighs, and was even willing to endure Court debauches for a glimpse of them. ‘None of these villains would be missed.’

‘No, but it almost deprived us of him.’ Mrs Chiffinch pointed to Roger Palmer, fresh and fit, who was emerging from the Queen’s private chapel where Mass had just ended. ‘He was caught in that blast, and his death would have been a waste of an intelligent, decent man.’

‘True,’ agreed Kipps. ‘He is worth ten of any other courtier, present company excluded.’

‘His family warned him against marrying her,’ Mrs Chiffinch went on. ‘They said she would make him the unhappiest man alive, and so she has. She will service any man who asks.’

‘Not
any
man,’ said Kipps regretfully. ‘But she is a beauty! Just look at her lovely—’

‘A whore’s figure,’ interrupted Mrs Chiffinch. ‘And not worth our attention. Have you heard the rumours that say a courtier will be assassinated, by the way? Who will it be, do you think?’

‘Buckingham?’ suggested Kipps. ‘The King? Clarendon? Unfortunately, all refuse
to change their plans, saying they would never get anything done if they panicked every time there is a threat to their lives. It means that everyone else is obliged to do the same, or risk being accused of cowardice.’

‘You two
must
look after Clarendon,’ ordered Mrs Chiffinch. ‘He is the only member of the Privy Council with morals, and we cannot afford to lose him.’

Just then, Sir Henry Wood arrived, sitting astride a small donkey. It was a peculiar sight, and Lady Castlemaine and her cronies burst into hoots of mocking laughter. Wood tried to dismount, but found he could not do it, so Palmer went to assist. Wood promptly flung his arms around Palmer’s neck, causing him to stumble, which caused another outburst of hilarity.

The cobbles were icy, and unwilling to see Palmer suffer the indignity of a tumble in front of such an audience, Chaloner hurried to help. It was not long before they had Wood standing on his own two feet, and there was a collective sigh of disappointment from the onlookers.

‘I know you,’ said Wood, fixing Chaloner with his bright amber eyes. ‘You are Chaloner the regicide, and you agreed with me that radishes were responsible for the attack on that dangerous abomination that calls itself the Post Office. Or did you argue for cabbages? I cannot recall now.’

‘Neither,’ objected Chaloner, unwilling to be associated with Wood’s peculiar theories. Or to be confused with his uncle in a place like White Hall, for that matter. ‘And I am not a—’

‘I cannot talk,’ Wood interrupted sharply. ‘I must paint myself green as a defence
against the comet. Did you know that its presence in our sky is harmful? However, it is very fond of trees, so colouring myself like one should allow me to evade its malevolent attentions.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner as Wood scuttled away, leaving a startled Palmer holding the reins of the donkey. ‘Should he be in Bedlam?’

‘There are plenty who would like to put him there,’ replied Palmer. ‘But the King remembers his loyalty during the Commonwealth, and turns a blind eye to his eccentricity. Wood is harmless, though, unlike many who haunt this palace.’

‘I am not a regicide,’ said Chaloner, not sure whether the remark was directed at him.

Palmer laughed. It was a pleasant sound, a far cry from the jeering brays of his wife and her friends. ‘You are one of Clarendon’s ushers. I saw you in his retinue earlier this week – and again yesterday in Post House Yard.’

‘You did?’ Chaloner was uneasy, wondering why he should have been noticed.

‘Your wife pointed you out the first time,’ explained Palmer. ‘I had spent the afternoon with the Queen, you see, and they mentioned that you know Portuguese. So do I.’

He had begun speaking that language halfway through his explanation. He was not very fluent, but Chaloner imagined the Queen would be pleased, regardless. She appreciated any opportunity to converse in her native tongue.

‘I understand you will publish a book next week, sir,’ said Chaloner politely.

Palmer nodded keenly. ‘An apology for Catholicism. I cannot abide bigotry, and London
is rather full of it at the moment. My treatise describes our beliefs, and explains why we do not itch to see any country in flames. I hope it will help to eliminate mistrust and suspicion.’

Unfortunately, Chaloner suspected he was harking after a lost cause. England had been happily persecuting Catholics for decades, and it would take a lot more than a book to make it stop.

When the clot of courtiers around the gate cleared, Chaloner started to walk towards it. It was still too early to visit Newgate, so he decided to go to St James’s Park first, to question the gardeners. Palmer abandoned the donkey to a passing groom, and fell in at his side.

‘Your wife tells me that you are hunting the villain who killed the King’s birds,’ he said. ‘I hope you succeed. I cannot abide people who mistreat animals. Do you have any suspects?’

‘Not yet.’ Chaloner wished Hannah would not gossip about him.

‘No act of depravity surprises me in this vile city,’ said Palmer bitterly. ‘I already long to leave. For the last two years, I have served in the Venetian navy, which is full of rational, intelligent men. But duty called, and I felt obliged to come home. However, I cannot tell you how much I miss sensible conversation and civilised behaviour.’

‘What duty?’ asked Chaloner, and then wished he had not spoken when it occurred to him that Palmer might refer to reining in his shameless wife.

‘The Dutch conflict,’ replied Palmer, to Chaloner’s relief. ‘I am an experienced sea-officer and cannot sit back while my country goes to war. But my troubles are a rather less immediate worry
than these poor ducks. How will you go about solving such a discreditable crime?’

Chaloner glanced sharply at him, but there was no hint of mockery in Palmer’s face, only interested concern. ‘I was going to walk around the Canal again,’ he hedged, unwilling to share his real plans with a man he barely knew, even if it was one who seemed at pains to be congenial.

‘Then we shall do it together,’ determined Palmer. He smiled. ‘And practise our Portuguese at the same time. Do you mind?’