Death in St James's Park (2 page)

The second shook his head quickly. ‘Not if it is done properly, and the noise and commotion will work to our advantage. It means that our powder-laden cart is less likely to be noticed, which
will increase our chances of success.’

‘I do not like it.’

‘Neither do I, but the situation cannot be allowed to continue. You know this – we have talked of little else for the past four years. Look!’ The second man pointed at the sky. ‘It is the comet. It appeared on the very evening that we received our instructions, and it has grown steadily brighter ever since. It is a sign of God’s approval – what we are doing is
right
.’

The first man nodded, but he remained uneasy. In two days, the dead would litter Post House Yard, and London would never be the same again.

London, Thursday 12 January 1665

Because Dowgate Hill ran from north to south, it served
as a funnel for the wind, which was unusually bitter as it scythed towards Thames Street. Dawn was approaching, but London was reluctant to wake, and Thomas Chaloner, spy to the Earl of Clarendon, did not blame anyone for not wanting to leave their beds that day. He wished he was in his. Roofs shimmered white with frost, parts of the river had frozen over and snow was in the air.

Not for the first time, he wondered whether there was an easier way to earn a living. His Earl neither liked nor trusted him, even after two years of faithful service, and employed him only because he needed help to stay ahead of his many enemies. The Earl deplored the necessity, and had awarded him the title of ‘Gentleman Usher’ to disguise his true function. His master’s disdain for him and his skills meant Chaloner was regularly given duties that were dangerous, foolhardy or demeaning – such as lurking in filthy alleys on nights when not even a dog should be out.

Of course, it was the
civil wars that lay at the heart of the trouble. Chaloner’s family had sided with Parliament, after which he had been eagerly accepted into Oliver Cromwell’s intelligence service. But Cromwell had died, the Commonwealth had collapsed and Charles II had been restored to his throne, which meant opportunities for men like Chaloner were now few and far between. Thus he was not in a position to tell the Earl what to do with his dreary assignments, and was forced to be grateful that someone was willing to overlook his past and hire him.

Unfortunately, he was unsure how much longer even this dismal state of affairs would last – he had returned from a mission in Sweden the previous week to learn that his master had appointed a ‘marshal’, a man whose duties were disconcertingly similar to his own. George Gery was an intensely devoted Royalist, and Chaloner could only suppose that the Earl no longer wanted a former Roundhead in his retinue, and was manoeuvring to replace him.

Chaloner stamped his feet and blew on his fingers, fast reaching the point where, even if the two men he had been ordered to arrest did appear, he would be too cold to do much about them. Shoving his frozen hands inside his coat, he tried to forget his concerns for the future, and reflect on what little the Earl had told him about his quarry instead.

Joseph Knight and Lewis Gardner worked in the nearby General Letter Office. A postal service had been established the previous century, although it was notoriously unreliable – letters were opened by government spies, mailbags were ‘lost’, and charges were made for missives that were never delivered. Chaloner had been bemused when he had been
ordered to apprehend a pair of dishonest clerks: the Earl, who was also Lord Chancellor of England, did not usually trouble himself with such petty affairs.

Chaloner was on the verge of assuming that the culprits had somehow learned of the trouble they were in and were not going to come home, when two men appeared. One was small and nervous, while the other was stocky with bushy flaxen hair and a round, homely face. He looked like a country bumpkin, although he moved with a catlike grace that said he would be a formidable opponent in a brawl. They matched the descriptions the Earl had provided.

The small one, Knight, opened the door with a key, while Gardner stood with his back to the wall scanning the lane. Chaloner waited until they had gone inside, then slipped from his hiding place. The door had been secured again, but that was no obstacle to him; he was good at picking locks. Then he crept along a corridor to where he could hear voices. Twelve years in espionage meant eavesdropping was second nature, and he began to listen without conscious thought.

‘We are wrong to run,’ Knight was saying. ‘We should take our tale to Controller O’Neill.’

‘O’Neill will not listen,’ predicted Gardner. ‘Now gather what you need quickly. If we are caught, we will be hauled off to Newgate Gaol, never to be seen again.’

‘But taking flight will make everyone assume we are guilty.’ Knight’s voice was unsteady. ‘We should stay in London, and prove our innocence.’

‘No one is interested in our innocence. Now for God’s sake hurry!’

Personally, Chaloner thought Gardner was wise to be wary of the legal system. Miscarriages
of justice were frequent and brazen, and London’s prisons were vile places. He owned a deep and abiding horror of them, and would certainly have gone on the run to avoid a sojourn in one.

‘What about the other business?’ Knight swallowed hard. ‘The murder. Are you sure you had nothing to do with it?’

‘Of course,’ replied Gardner, although it was not the most convincing denial Chaloner had ever heard. ‘Why?’

‘Because it preys on my mind,’ explained Knight miserably. ‘The taking of a human life is rather different to the pilfering of a few pounds.’

Gardner gestured impatiently that Knight was to pick up his bag, while Chaloner frowned. Were they innocent of dishonesty but guilty of murder then? He sighed softly. Why did the Earl insist on sending him on missions armed with only half a story? Apprehending killers was hardly the same as snagging petty thieves, and he would have asked for assistance had he known. But the pair were preparing to leave, and it was rather too late to be questioning his orders now. He drew his sword and stepped through the door.

‘You are under arrest,’ he announced. ‘By the Lord Chancellor’s warrant.’

Knight issued a shrill shriek of terror, but Gardner was made of sterner stuff. He hauled a gun from his belt and took aim.

Chaloner had never liked firearms. They were unpredictable, took an age to prime and were noisy, something that was anathema to spies, who lived in the shadows. Moreover, he had been wary of gunpowder ever since he had been injured by an exploding cannon at the Battle of Naseby, damaging a leg that had never fully recovered. His mistrust was borne
out when Gardner’s weapon flashed in the pan, producing nothing more deadly than a puff of smoke.

Furious, Gardner hurled it at him with one hand, while hauling a second dag from his belt with the other. Knowing that both were unlikely to misfire, Chaloner grabbed Knight to use as a shield, confident that Gardner would not shoot when his friend might be injured. He was mistaken.

Gardner fired at Chaloner’s head, the crack of it deafening in the small room. Knight screamed again, and Chaloner was sure he felt the hot singe of the ball as it streaked past his ear. Swearing under his breath, Gardner drew his sword, forcing Chaloner to do likewise.

Firearms were not often discharged on Dowgate Hill, and the sound had attracted attention. Footsteps and muffled shouts indicated that residents in the neighbouring houses were astir, while a group of passing apprentices had paused in the street outside. Chaloner could see them through the window, edging forward in an uncertain semicircle, curiosity vying with the knowledge that it was dangerous to loiter in a place where shots had been discharged.

‘You cannot escape,’ he told Gardner firmly, still gripping Knight around the neck. ‘And fighting will only make your situation worse. No one will believe your innocence if you—’

With a roar of rage, Gardner leapt at him, and Chaloner only just managed to parry the murderous swipe. It was wild, but delivered with considerable strength, making him stagger, and giving Knight the opportunity to wriggle out of his grasp. Gardner struck a second time, at which point Chaloner decided he had better launch an offensive
of his own before he was skewered. He surged forward, blade flashing, although his frozen limbs rendered his movements disgracefully clumsy. Even so, he soon had his quarry retreating.

But he had reckoned without Knight, who seized a pot from a table and lobbed it. It caught him on the side of the head, dazing him just long enough to allow Gardner to dart past. He managed to grab the hem of the clerk’s coat, but his fingers were too cold to grip it properly, and the material snapped free. And then Gardner was gone, bellowing for Knight to follow.

Chaloner blocked the smaller clerk’s way. Terrified, Knight lashed out with his fists, but he was no warrior, whereas Chaloner had been trained to fight by Cromwell’s New Model Army. It was an unequal contest, and did not last long.

‘Enough,’ said Chaloner irritably, pushing his captive against the wall. ‘You will hurt yourself if you continue to wrestle with me.’

Knight stared at him, eyes wide with a combination of fear and resignation. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Let me go. I have done nothing wrong.’

It was not for Chaloner to judge. He took Knight’s arm, and pulled him along the hallway towards the door. Outside, the apprentices had swelled in number, and they watched in silence as he steered his prisoner through them. Their mood was sullen, their sympathies firmly with the man who was being taken into custody, and Chaloner sensed it would take very little for them to stage a rescue attempt. So did Knight, who began to shout.

‘Help! I am innocent of any wrongdoing. Please do not let him have me.’

Several lads stepped forward, but Chaloner still held his sword, and they fell back
when they saw he was prepared to use it. Knight in one hand and weapon in the other, he marched past them, aiming for Thames Street, where hackney carriages were available for hire.

‘No!’ wept Knight, still trying to pull away. ‘You do not understand! You sign my death warrant if you drag me off to gaol.’

‘Shall we go to White Hall instead, then?’ asked Chaloner acidly. Knight’s terror was making him feel guilty, which he resented. It was hardly his fault the man had involved himself in something unsavoury. ‘So you can tell the Lord Chancellor that there has been a mistake?’

‘Oh, thank God!’ breathed Knight in relief. ‘Yes, take me to Clarendon. I have a tale that will make his hair curl. I shall tell him everything.’

Although the suggestion had not been made seriously, on reflection Chaloner saw no reason why he should not oblige. He knew for a fact that the Earl would be at work, despite the early hour, as he was currently suffering from gout, which made sleeping difficult. He might even appreciate a diversion from his discomfort. Moreover, Chaloner would do a great deal to avoid setting foot in a gaol, even if it was only to deliver a prisoner to one.

Dawn had finally broken, although heavy clouds meant the morning might never be fully light, and the wind carried the occasional flurry of snow. The tiny white pellets danced across the frozen mud that formed the streets, and Chaloner wondered whether they would settle.

‘I am innocent,’ Knight said miserably, as he was bundled into a coach. ‘I swear it on my soul. But there is a deadly conspiracy unfolding
at the Post Office, and its perpetrators are eager to silence me. That is why they have contrived to have me arrested.’

‘They have committed murder already?’ Chaloner climbed into the hackney after him. There was ice on the seat, a result of the window shutters being removed so that the inside of the coach was exposed to the elements. He could only suppose that the driver did not see why his passengers should be protected when he was obliged to huddle on a box at the front. He considered decanting to another carriage, but did not have the energy for the argument it would inevitably provoke.

Knight nodded. ‘I do not know who the victim was, but someone told me the culprit had a lot of fluffy yellow hair and a farmer’s face, and … well, you saw what Gardner looks like. That horrid Clement Oxenbridge is at the heart of it, of course. He is evil, sly and dangerous, and if you are ordered to arrest him, I advise you not to go alone. He would kill you for certain.’

‘Would he now?’ murmured Chaloner, although he knew he had not comported himself particularly impressively that day, so Knight might be forgiven for thinking his martial skills were lacking. ‘Who is Clement Oxenbridge?’

‘A wealthy man, although no one is sure of the exact nature of his business. Or where he lives, for that matter. And he would not appreciate anyone trying to find out either.’

‘I see. And what manner of “deadly conspiracy” has he devised?’

‘If I tell you, you will have no reason to take me to White Hall, so I shall wait until we meet Clarendon, if you do not mind.’

A sudden crack had Chaloner
reaching for his sword, but it was only a ball of frozen mud lobbed by the group of tanners who had gathered outside St Paul’s Cathedral to pelt passing traffic. He might have dismissed their antics as youthful high spirits, but the lads were surly and scowling, and it was clear there was nothing light-hearted about their mood.

‘Have you noticed how unsettled London is at the moment?’ asked Knight, peering out of the window at them. ‘It feels like it did during the wars – turbulent and volatile.’

‘London is always unsettled,’ said Chaloner, thinking that in all his travels, he had never encountered a city that was more prone to violent undercurrents. If there was not one plot in the making, there was another.

‘This is different,’ insisted Knight. ‘Look.’

He pointed, and Chaloner saw the tanners approached by a large group of butchers. As rivalry between the two trades had always been fierce, Chaloner expected a scuffle at the very least, but the leaders only exchanged a few words, before steering their followers off in different directions.

‘You see?’ said Knight. ‘If they are not quarrelling with each other, it means they aim to fight someone else. Rebellion is in the air, you mark my words. Mr Bankes is worried, because he keeps pressing me for information about it.’