Death in St James's Park (16 page)

‘So he is dead? These stories about him wandering around London are a canard?’

‘I did not look inside the coffin; perhaps I should have done. However, it is because Fry’s letters wrought such havoc
then
that I am so concerned about what the Post Office might be doing
now
. Moreover, I dislike the fact that Clarendon has asked Gery to look into the matter.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the man is incompetent and will fail. Perhaps Clarendon’s judgement is impaired following the recent death of his son. I know I was prostrate with grief when I lost children …’

‘Williamson said the same. Yet the Earl seems more apprehensive than upset.’ Chaloner described his earlier encounters, and his conviction that all was not well. He also mentioned the Major’s visits to White Hall. Not surprisingly, Thurloe knew about them.

‘I imprisoned the Major for trying to murder Cromwell,’ he said. ‘But on good evidence. However, he is currently being held on what amounts to a whim, and my informants tell me that eighteen months in the Tower have all but destroyed him.’

‘He is a shadow of the man I remember from the wars,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘But I still do not understand why
he
smelled trouble at the Post Office when Williamson’s spies did not. I know Williamson has agents there, because I saw one choosing letters to open.’

‘I imagine either they have
been corrupted or they are incapable of interpreting what they see. However, the Major was deeply involved in the Post Office when Bishop was in charge, so I am not surprised that the Foreign Office clerks – you know they managed to survive O’Neill’s purge, do you? – still trust him more than anyone else.’

‘Even more than Bishop?’

‘Bishop was never as good at making friends. However, he was an excellent Postmaster, and the accusations made by O’Neill were patently false, as everyone should have seen when O’Neill promptly asked to be made Postmaster himself. You should encourage the Major to confide in you, Tom. It is in his interests to do so – his freedom depends on a successful outcome, which he is more likely to have with you than with Gery.’

‘I cannot visit him in the Tower,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Gery would find out.’

Thurloe was thoughtful. ‘Gery has kept you very busy since your return from Sweden. Other than the birds, what else has he ordered you to do?’

‘Find a missing coal shuttle, hunt down some stolen laundry, look into a few mislaid documents, investigate three servants he considered untrustworthy …’

‘So why does he waste your time with trivialities?’ mused Thurloe, more to himself than Chaloner. ‘Is it because he knows you are a better investigator than he, and does not want the competition? Or does he have a more sinister reason for his actions – such as that he is keen for whatever is unfolding at the Post Office to succeed?’

Chaloner regarded him doubtfully. ‘He is a fervent Royalist. I doubt he supports insurrection.’

‘He is a fanatic. Such men are rarely logical or sensible.’

‘Well, if he hoped the dead birds would
keep me away from the General Letter Office, his plan has misfired. One of the poisoners was a postal clerk.’

Briefly, Chaloner described his discoveries in the park.

Thurloe frowned. ‘It will not be a coincidence, you can be sure of that. Leak was a very minor official, and quite expendable – the perfect choice for a dangerous mission.’

‘Killing birds is hardly dangerous.’

‘I imagine Leak would disagree,’ said Thurloe drily. ‘However, it will be difficult to learn who else was with him. And someone was, because Storey saw several sets of footprints by the Canal, and you say Leak’s body had been hidden in undergrowth.’

‘Shall I waylay some clerks and hold them at knifepoint until one confesses?’

‘That has already been tried – by Williamson
and
by me. Our agents ended up with blades in their innards. And therein lies the root of the problem: the wall of silence erected around the Post Office by Controller O’Neill. He has even hired henchmen to ensure it is not breached.’

Chaloner had seen some of them himself – the pair called Smartfoot and Lamb, and the feral-faced fellow who had sat at a table and intimidated everyone by watching them. The Foreign Office clerks were brave to defy them and communicate with the Major regardless, he thought.

‘The fact that O’Neill has ordered his people not to talk to anyone suggests that he is party to whatever is unfolding,’ he said. ‘Or do you think he is the innocent dupe of a cleverer mind?’

‘You must ask the Major.’ Thurloe grimaced. ‘He is an extremely valuable asset, and Clarendon is a fool to put him at risk by dragging him to White Hall. He should be interviewed in the Tower, where
he will be safe from assassins.’

Chaloner did not say that the Earl rarely made good decisions where such matters were concerned, because Thurloe already knew it. After a while, during which their feet crunched on the frozen gravel as they walked, he described what had happened when the cart had exploded.

‘Poor Joyce,’ said Thurloe softly. ‘Sir Henry Wood was a “person of interest” during the Commonwealth, and I paid Joyce to monitor him. I was suspicious of Wood’s eccentricity, you see, along with the fact that he insisted on buying the mansion and all the houses near the Post Office.’

‘That
is
suspicious. Did you ever ask him for an explanation?’

‘I did. He told me it was the only square in London that is unpopular with lettuces. I never did decide whether he was a harmless lunatic or a dangerous dissident.’

‘He is the one who took the Major’s initial report to Clarendon.’

Thurloe winced. ‘Then I imagine the Major was horrified by his choice. I would not want Clarendon in charge of any investigation that my freedom depended on.’

‘You suggested earlier that the trouble at the Post Office might result in the Earl’s execution,’ said Chaloner worriedly. ‘And Williamson told me that his enemies on the Privy Council have made him responsible for the place. How? It should have nothing to do with the Lord Chancellor.’

‘No,’ agreed Thurloe. ‘But they outmanoeuvred him, and he agreed to oversee an enquiry before grasping its ramifications – which are that if it fails, he will be accused of incompetence or complicity. Either will see him ruined – or worse – which is why you
must ignore his orders and do all you can to save him.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Chaloner. ‘I will try, but—’

‘You will succeed or look for a new employer,’ said Thurloe harshly. ‘But to return to Wood, were you aware that Joyce was the second member of that household to die on Thursday?’

‘Yes. Mary Wood had the small-pox. Although there is gossip that she was murdered.’

‘Ask Surgeon Wiseman to look at her body,’ instructed Thurloe.

‘He has already offered, but not until Tuesday – three days’ time.’

‘Then Tuesday it must be. So let us summarise what we know. Something deadly is unfolding at the Post Office, and we suspect it is connected to the unrest that is currently afflicting much of the country. Wood lives next door: his servant was killed in the blast, and his wife is said to have been murdered.’

‘The Post Office’s other neighbour is Storey, whose ducks have been poisoned.’ Chaloner took up the tale. ‘And a postal clerk named Leak was one of the culprits. There is another connection, too: the Yean boys, who ran errands for Storey, were also killed in the explosion.’

‘And the last victims of the blast are the Alibond brothers, also postal clerks. We must see what we can learn about them. Perhaps they threatened to expose what is happening, and paid the price.’

‘They tried to run when I shouted, but they could not move fast enough. I am disturbed by a French landscape architect named le Notre, too. He was in Storey’s house when I went to ask about the dead birds. He has been hired to design fabulous new gardens at Versailles – gardens for which you say Morland has invented fountains.’

‘Morland,’ said Thurloe grimly. ‘Yes, we must not forget him. Nor Clement Oxenbridge, a man
with no home and no employment that I can discover. He is a mystery, and not a particularly nice one either. There is something deeply unpleasant about him.’

‘Temperance said he was friends with John Fry. But he must live somewhere. I will find—’

‘I already have a man looking into it, and I do not want you falling over each other,’ said Thurloe crisply. ‘Leave him to me, please.’

‘What shall I do, then?’

‘Speak to the Major – in the Tower, if necessary. Then go to Newgate and talk to Knight.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, not liking the notion of braving two prisons in quick succession.

‘But first, you must find that musician, and ascertain whether he drew a crowd to increase the number of victims. Start on Cheapside. Street entertainers are rife there.’

Chaloner went to Cheapside immediately, and eventually managed to establish that a flageolet player who wore a red cloak, blue hat and yellow breeches lived in the dangerous, unsavoury area around St Giles-in-the-Fields. He took his life in his hands by entering seedy alehouses that did not welcome strangers, but the trail petered out as the clocks were striking ten. He was too tired to start again by following the lead Wiseman had given him – the surgeon had mentioned that one of those injured in the blast, a postal clerk named Copping, might be able to tell him more about the musician – so he traipsed home on foot, having spent all his money on bribes.

As he passed Long Acre, he was tempted to go to the rooms he rented there, sure Hannah would not miss him. But he had no coal for a fire, and
there was nothing to eat. At least Tothill Street would be warm, and Nan the cook-maid baked fruit pies on Saturdays.

He opened the door to his house, and was greeted by the rank stench of burning, which told him both that Hannah was home and that he would not be enjoying anything edible that night. As the kitchen was a perilous place when her culinary experiments did not go according to plan, which was most of the time, he went to the drawing room instead, grateful to find the fire lit. He had done no more than stretch his frozen hands towards it when the door opened and Hannah strode in.

‘You are uncommonly filthy,’ she remarked, looking him up and down in distaste. ‘What have you been doing? No, do not tell me! It is probably better for me to remain in blissful ignorance. I wish you had come home sooner, though. I made pheasant stew, and it was delicious. Shall I fetch you some? It has cooled off, but I imagine it will still taste all right.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Chaloner hastily. Her stews were barely edible when hot, and cold did not bear thinking about. Her eyes narrowed, so he added, ‘I had something in a cook-shop.’

‘Very well. Incidentally, I am not inviting O’Neill to my next soirée. He broke our clock.’

‘How do you know it was him?’ asked Chaloner guiltily.

‘Monsieur le Notre told me.’ Hannah smiled rather dreamily. ‘He really is the most charming fellow. Do you think he will design us an orangery?’

‘An orangery?’ Chaloner was alarmed. The house they rented was far larger than was necessary for the two of them, but it was still not big enough for such a grand feature. And how would they
pay for such a ridiculous extravagance?

‘All the best homes have them,’ Hannah went on. ‘I think I shall see what he says. Do not look so disapproving, Tom. It is cheaper than having a baby, and will go some way to compensating me for not being a mother.’

Chaloner could not see how, but knew better than to say so. However, the remark reminded him of something he wanted to ask.

‘Why did you tell Freer about …’ He faltered, unwilling to speak the name of his dead child, even after so many years. ‘About my last family.’

Hannah came to take his hand. ‘I am sorry, Tom. It just slipped out. He was chatting to me about the Earl’s desolation over his loss, and I said that you would understand grief better than that hard-faced lout Gery. Everyone at Court was sorry when the news came about young Edward – he was a nice fellow and only nineteen. Did you ever meet him?’

Chaloner nodded, although he had found the youth rather wild and extremely arrogant.

‘Since he died, people have turned him into a saint, of course,’ she went on. ‘They have done the same for Mary. No one liked her when she was alive, but now they praise her to the heavens. What hypocrites we all are.’

She went on in this vein for some time, and seeing he was not expected to answer, Chaloner let his mind wander. It snapped back to the present with one remark, however.

‘What did you say?’

‘That the country will be spared the expense of a trial now that the fellow who cheated the Post Office is no longer with us. Knight was found dead in his cell in Newgate Prison this afternoon. He had
hanged himself.’

Chaloner slept badly that night, racked by guilt. Knight had said that Newgate would be a death sentence, but Chaloner had arrested him anyway, even though he had been far from certain that the clerk had done anything wrong. Lying next to Hannah, he stared into the darkness. Should he attempt to clear Knight’s name, to make amends for his part in the tragedy? He decided he would try. Perhaps it would relieve the remorse that weighed so heavily on his mind.

‘If you cannot sleep, go downstairs,’ came Hannah’s irritable voice. ‘You are shifting and turning like a man in a fever, and every time I doze off, you jostle me awake.’

Chaloner mumbled an apology, and to stop himself from dwelling on Knight he began to make plans for the day ahead. It was a Sunday, and the Post Office would be closed, so it was a good time to search it for clues. Then he would go to Newgate and ask after Knight, followed by a visit to the Tower to see what the Major was prepared to tell him. Then there was the injured clerk Jeremiah
Copping, who might have information about the musician.

Another line of enquiry was Oxenbridge, whom Knight had said lay at the heart of the Post Office trouble. Temperance had called him dangerous, and thought he might be helping John Fry with his rebellion; Storey had included him on his list of potential bird-killers; and Thurloe was sufficiently concerned that he had sent someone to investigate him. Thurloe had asked Chaloner to leave Oxenbridge alone, but the man represented an important lead, so Chaloner decided he would ask questions if the opportunity arose. And then there was the mysterious Bankes, who was paying for information about—