Death in St James's Park (23 page)

‘The tavern is closed,’ said one, as Chaloner approached. ‘Illness in the family.’

‘I came to see Mr Copping,’ explained Chaloner. ‘I am not here for a drink.’

‘You can try knocking,’ suggested the soldier, although his expression said he thought the visitor was wasting his time. ‘But do not be surprised when she refuses to let you in.’

Chaloner rapped on a door
that was made of best quality oak. ‘Is this part of Cheapside especially dangerous?’ he asked, wondering how the two men would explain their presence.

‘Not really, but Mr Copping was caught in that explosion at Post House Yard, and it frightened him, so Widow Smith hired us to make him feel better. And you cannot be too careful these days, anyway. Did you not hear about the riot in Long Acre last night?’

‘There is trouble everywhere,’ agreed his companion. ‘The Brewers’ Guild had a letter from their compatriots in Hull this morning, saying that if they rebel, Hull will stand with them. It has made them mutinously defiant.’

‘There have been letters to Londoners from brother guilds in Sussex and Bristol, too,’ said the first sagely. ‘Not to mention lengthy epistles from John Fry, the famous agitator. All encourage us to revolt. I shall join in when the time comes, of course.’

‘To revolt against what?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Our masters? The government? The King?’

‘Oh, not the King,’ said the soldier. ‘He is a lecherous rascal, but better than his boring father. And probably not the government either, given that we are about to go to war with the Dutch.’ He scratched his head. ‘In fact, I am not sure what we are against, but it will be something.’

‘Definitely something,’ agreed the second. ‘And it will be important, because John Fry would not concern himself with nonsense. He will appear like a Messiah and lead us to victory.’

At that moment, the door opened.
Chaloner had met many formidable matrons in his time, but few compared to Widow Smith. She was a vast mountain of a woman, taller than him by half a head and twice as broad. She wore skirts that accentuated her ample hips, and they swayed purposefully around her ankles. She folded her arms and glowered through eyes that seemed too small for her doughy face, reminding him of an obese and very angry pig.

‘What?’ she demanded.

‘I have come to see Mr Copping.’ Chaloner smiled. ‘You must be his sister.’

‘I am,’ she acknowledged. ‘Have you heard of me?’

Chaloner was not sure how to reply, because if he answered in the affirmative, she might ask why, and he could hardly repeat what he had been told. ‘Just that he was being tended by a loving and careful nurse,’ he lied.

Surprisingly, she softened. ‘You may enter, then. Follow me.’

Aware of the soldiers’ astonished glances that he should have won her good graces so easily, Chaloner stepped across the threshold. She barred the door behind her, and led the way down a corridor with dark panelling and a finely painted ceiling. Then she showed him into an attractive parlour at the back of the house, which was full of elegant furniture and rich curtains that rendered it cosy and light at the same time. Its fine decor would not have looked out of place in a palace.

‘Jeremiah was lucky,’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘He was near the Alibond brothers when the cart exploded, and
they
were killed. I am still picking bits of them out of his hair.’

It was information Chaloner had not
needed to hear, and he suspected Copping had not either, because the man who lay on the bed by the window winced and turned his face towards the wall. He was pale, and his neck was swathed in bandages, but he seemed otherwise unscathed.

‘It was a terrible thing,’ he said hoarsely. He had his sister’s princely height but not her girth, lank black hair and a tic in one eye. ‘One moment, I was chatting happily with Job and Sam Alibond about the prospect of the government raising postal charges, and the next …’

‘It was wicked,’ agreed Widow Smith. ‘Thank God the Alibonds were fat, because that was what prevented Jeremiah from being killed – their bulks shielded him from worst of the blast.’

Copping was staring at Chaloner. ‘You are the one who shouted the warning! It saved my life because I managed to take several steps away. But Sam and Job were slower …’

‘Have you come to demand a reward?’ asked Widow Smith, rather dangerously.

‘No!’ Chaloner was genuinely offended. ‘I came to ask whether your brother might know who set the explosion.’

‘Why would he?’ she demanded aggressively.

‘Because someone must, and he seemed as good a person to question as any,’ replied Chaloner, meeting her eyes steadily. ‘Or perhaps
you
have heard rumours?’

She preened, gratified that her opinion had been solicited. ‘I might. But let Jeremiah tell you what he knows first.’

‘Not much, I am afraid,’ replied Copping unhappily. ‘However, I am not surprised it happened. The Post Office has not been the same since Bishop was dismissed.’

‘In what way?’ asked Chaloner,
aware of the angry grimace from Widow Smith at the mention of one of the men she believed had destroyed her husband.

‘Bishop was a good Postmaster,’ began Copping. He raised his hand when his sister started to object. ‘I know you do not like him, but he was very efficient and his mail was nearly always delivered on time. But he was ousted on charges of corruption—’

‘He
was
corrupt.’ Widow Smith smiled maliciously. ‘And I helped prove it. I saw his letter-carriers stop at the tavern across the road and spend two hours sorting through the contents of their sacks before going on their way. I took my tale to O’Neill, and Bishop was discharged.’

‘I wish you had spoken to me first,’ said Copping wearily. ‘There would have been an explanation, because Bishop was not corrupt at all, whereas O’Neill …’

‘O’Neill what?’ asked Chaloner, when the clerk trailed off.

‘O’Neill is a dangerous fool,’ said Copping tightly. ‘The Alibond brothers thought the same. Perhaps that gunpowder was intended for us, for speaking out against him.’

‘How did you speak out against him? By approaching him directly? By spreading rumours?’

Copping shook his head vehemently. ‘No, that would have been reckless. We asked questions, and started probing certain matters. But I cannot talk about this. It will see me killed!’

‘You may be killed if you stay silent,’ warned Chaloner. ‘It is safer to tell the truth, so that Spymaster Williamson can—’

‘Williamson!’ spat Copping. ‘He cannot stop what has been set in motion, and neither can you. There is wickedness afoot in O’Neill’s domain, and the Alibond brothers died for it, even though they were wholly innocent of any wrongdoing. And I do not intend to follow them to the grave.’

‘If there is wickedness
afoot, you must help me thwart it,’ pressed Chaloner. ‘It is treason to know of a plot to harm a government institution and do nothing to stop it.’

He had no idea whether it was treason or not, but his remark had the desired effect. The twitch in Copping’s eye intensified, and he began to twist the bedcovers with unsteady hands. He was weakening. But then he glanced at his sister and seemed to take courage from her massive presence, because he regained control of himself.

‘I know nothing,’ he said in a low but firm voice. ‘And you cannot prove otherwise, not now Sam and Job are dead.’

‘Then tell me about the musician,’ said Chaloner, determined to extract something useful from the visit. ‘The one who was playing just before the explosion.’

‘He was piping “La Mantovana”, my favourite song,’ replied Copping, his expression distant. ‘It is Storey’s, too – he lives next to the Post Office – and I recall thinking that it was a pity he was out, because he would have liked to hear it. Then the Alibonds joined me, and we started to chat about business. The next thing I recall is you yelling…’

‘Do you know Oxenbridge and John Fry? Oxenbridge was in Post House Yard shortly after the blast, and John Fry may be using the General Letter Office to coordinate his—’

‘No,’ said Copping firmly. ‘I know neither of them. But I am tired and do not feel like answering more questions, no matter how much you offer to pay me. I love life more than money.’

It had not occurred to Chaloner
to extract the information with cash, but it was obvious from Copping’s remark that someone else had. ‘Who offered to buy what you know?’ he pounced.

‘No one,’ snapped Copping, clearly furious at himself for the slip. ‘It was a figure of speech. Now go away. I can tell you nothing more.’

Widow Smith ushered Chaloner out of the sickroom, where he found himself directed not to the front door, but into another parlour. She shoved him into a chair, and poured two cups of surprisingly decent claret. She smiled rather alarmingly, revealing teeth that were tobacco-stained slabs of brown, and proffered a plate of expensive pastries. He ate one; it was good, so he took another, glancing around as he did so and thinking how peculiar it was that this bristling, threatening, redoubtable woman should live in such delicately elegant surroundings.

‘I have things to tell you,’ she stated grandly. ‘More important things than Jeremiah.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, and resigned himself to hearing a more detailed account of how she had ousted Bishop.

‘I have always had an interest in the Post Office,’ she began. ‘Mostly because my husband was employed there during the reign of the first King Charles. We had always been good Royalists, and I was proud when he tried to overthrow Cromwell.’

‘I am sure you were.’

‘Well, something untoward is happening there now. And your assumption was correct: my brother
has
been paid to monitor its goings-on. But he has learned nothing of significance.’

‘Paid by whom?
Bankes? He buys information.’

‘By someone whose name I do not care to disclose,’ she replied, so haughtily that Chaloner suspected she did not know. ‘But
I
have not been paid, although I have more to say. I go there to post letters, you see, and I am observant. For example, I can tell you that if Smartfoot and Lamb are proper clerks, then I am the Queen of Sheba. They are louts, hired for some other purpose.’

‘What other purpose?’

‘You will have to ask them yourself. Or you could visit Tom Ibson, and put the same question to him. Have you heard of the evil spymaster who oppressed England when the Great Usurper was in power? John Thurloe? Well, Ibson was his jackal.’

‘His what?’

‘Jackal. It is a predatory animal with a taste for the bones of babies.’

Chaloner regarded her askance. ‘What are you saying? That Ibson is a cannibal?’

‘I would not put it past him. He is an unsavoury rogue, just like his erstwhile master. However, he knows a thing or two about what is happening in the General Letter Office.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘I have no idea.’ Her eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘But you have not told me why you are interested in this affair. Who sent you?’

Chaloner was tempted to say Thurloe, but was not sure he would win the fisticuffs that might follow. ‘No one you know.’

‘In other words, you will not tell me,’ she surmised. ‘Well, never mind. Just as long as it is not Thurloe, Williamson, Bankes or the Earl of Clarendon.’

‘You have explained
why you dislike Thurloe, but what have the others done to annoy you?’

Her expression hardened into something unpleasant. ‘Williamson is a fool, Bankes is sinister – not that I have ever met him, of course; I do not associate with scoundrels – and Clarendon has hired a villain named Gery, whom I hate with a passion.’

‘I am not enamoured of Gery either.’

Widow Smith scowled. ‘He burst in here with half a dozen soldiers and that treacherous little clerk, and he browbeat Jeremiah mercilessly, even though he is injured and knows nothing of any consequence. I would like to repay him for his brutality.’

She had a right to be angry: bullying tactics were hardly appropriate in a sickroom, no matter how annoying the patient. Chaloner murmured something suitably sympathetic, and Widow Smith refilled his cup with claret.

Night had fallen by the time Chaloner finally managed to escape. Widow Smith had told him nothing helpful, so he decided to return to the Post Office, to see whether he could waylay Rea and finish the conversation that Gery had interrupted. The streets were busy, as men left work to go home or visit inns, taverns and ‘ordinaries’ – places where meals could be bought for set prices. Thames Street and Dowgate Hill boasted a profusion of such establishments, and the many guildhalls that were nearby meant there was no shortage of patrons for them.

Lights burned in the General Letter Office, but its doors were closed, and Chaloner was loath to break in again, suspecting he might not survive being caught a third time. He took up station in the shadows cast by Wood’s mansion instead, huddled into his coat against the cold.

Clerks dribbled out in
twos and threes, but Rea was not among them. Chaloner was on the verge of giving up and going home when Morland arrived. The secretary glanced around in a manner that could only be described as furtive, and then made for the door. He had a key, but agitation made him clumsy, and it was several minutes before he could get it to work. Chaloner frowned. Why was he behaving so secretively when he had every right to visit the place on account of his work for Gery?

Intrigued, Chaloner forgot his decision not to break in and followed, picking the lock and entering the cavernous Letter Hall, which was as still and silent as a tomb. It was in darkness, and deserted except for Morland, who was just disappearing through the door that led to the offices beyond. Chaloner picked that lock, too, and trailed the secretary to the disused wing, moving with more than his usual caution, because Morland was openly uneasy in the shadowy emptiness of the building, and kept glancing behind him.

The secretary said something to the soldier on duty by the door, and whatever it was made the man hurry back towards the Letter Hall. Swearing under his breath, Chaloner ducked behind a mound of mailbags, and was relieved but not particularly impressed when the soldier passed within touching distance without noticing him. Had Morland sent the man on a genuine errand? Or did he just want him out of the way?