Death in St James's Park (3 page)

‘Who is Mr Bankes?’

‘A man interested in London and her troubles. He frightens me, if you want the truth. I have never met him, but the letters he writes demanding information are terribly aggressive. However, he is right to be concerned – I smell another civil war in the offing.’

Before Chaloner could ask
whether that was the nature of the intelligence Knight planned to pass to the Earl, the hackney rolled to a standstill. He leaned out of the window, and saw that a coach had broken an axle on the Fleet Bridge and was blocking traffic. There was nothing he could do to expedite matters, so he sat back to wait for the snarl to clear. Moments later, the door to his hackney was wrenched open. He drew his sword without conscious thought.

‘There is no need for that.’ The speaker was a Yeoman Warden from the Tower of London, identifiable by his distinctive uniform. ‘However, I am afraid we must commandeer your vehicle. We have an important prisoner to convey to White Hall, and our own carriage is broken.’

Chaloner was about to tell him to find another, when a second yeoman arrived with the prisoner in tow. The captive had the pale, wan look of a man kept locked up, although a certain chubbiness suggested he was not deprived of victuals. He had a thin black moustache, protuberant eyes and a mane of grey-brown hair. Chaloner recognised him immediately.

John Wildman, always known simply as ‘the Major’, had been an officer in Cromwell’s army, although his talent had been for making fiery speeches rather than fighting. Chaloner had heard one of his homilies before the Battle of Naseby, and recalled how it had set the soldiers alight with revolutionary zeal. After the wars, the Major had decided that Cromwell was worse than the King, and had plotted to assassinate him. The scheme had failed, but Royalists had loved him for it anyway, so Chaloner was astonished to learn that he was still incarcerated. Intrigued, he decided to find out why.

‘I am bound for White Hall with a prisoner, too,’ he said, sheathing his sword. ‘And London
feels uneasy today. It will be safer for us to travel there together.’

‘Fair enough,’ said the first yeoman, climbing in and indicating that his charge should follow. ‘The city’s current agitation makes me reluctant to leave the safety of the Tower, to be frank. But the Major has been summoned, and we can hardly let him out on his own.’

‘I would not escape,’ said the Major tiredly. His voice was weak and slightly hoarse, a far cry from the strident bray he had effected at Naseby. Chaloner studied him. The Major had been a lively and colourful figure during the wars; now he was grey, drab and defeated, a mere shadow of the man he had been. Chaloner could only surmise that the Tower had broken him, as it had so many others.

He gave no indication that he recognised Chaloner, but that was not surprising – Chaloner had been fifteen years old at Naseby, and although he had claimed the Major’s indignant attention by challenging some of the points in his tirade, he had changed considerably from the fresh-faced, slender boy of twenty years before.

‘I have been arrested, too,’ Knight told the Major unhappily, as the carriage began to trundle forward slowly. ‘I have done nothing wrong, of course.’

‘Neither have I,’ averred the Major. ‘I was taken eighteen months ago, accused of conspiring against the King, although I have never been formally charged. I have begged for a trial, to prove my innocence, but I have always been refused. My imprisonment is illegal – it is against the writ of habeas corpus to keep a man locked up indefinitely.’

‘I hope that does not happen to me,’ gulped Knight. ‘But I have seen you before. Were you friends with the Postmaster – not O’Neill, but his
predecessor, Henry Bishop?’

‘Bishop is my friend still,’ said the Major with a sad smile. Then it faded. ‘But do not mention that snake O’Neill! Being Postmaster is lucrative, and he wanted the job for himself, so he told a lot of lies to get poor Bishop ousted. And because I am Bishop’s friend, he included me in his fabrications. It was largely his testimony that saw me locked in the Tower.’

‘Bishop was excellent at running the postal services,’ said Knight. ‘But Controller O’Neill – did you know he prefers that title because he thinks it sounds grander than Postmaster? – is nowhere near as efficient.’

He lapsed into silence at that point, and stared out of the window, leaving Chaloner to wonder whether Knight had been arrested just for preferring his previous master to the current incumbent.

‘The Major has led a very interesting life,’ said the first yeoman conversationally, after a short pause during which the carriage crawled forward at a snail’s pace. His indulgent grin suggested he was rather fond of this particular inmate. ‘There are tales that say
he
was the hooded axe-man who beheaded the first King Charles—’

‘Those are untrue!’ cried the Major, distressed. Chaloner believed him: by all accounts, the kill had been a clean one, the work of a professional executioner. ‘I cannot imagine why I should be accused of so vile a deed.’

‘Then he decided that Cromwell was no better, so he plotted to blow him up,’ the yeoman went on approvingly. ‘Along with half that vile usurper’s Council of State.’

‘Now that is true,’ the Major conceded. ‘Cromwell was a dictator, and I wish I had succeeded. However, those dark times
are behind us, and these days, I am a man of peace. All I want is to go home to Norfolk, and live in quiet seclusion.’

Chaloner longed for peace, too, and if he never drew his sword again, it would be too soon. He fully understood why the Major should feel likewise.

‘Why are you going to White Hall?’ he asked politely. ‘To beg for a trial?’

Unhappiness filled the Major’s face. ‘If only it were that easy! No, I am summoned because important people believe I have valuable information to impart. They are not interested in my plight, only in the fact that certain faithful friends are in the habit of corresponding with me.’

‘But you improve your chances of freedom with every visit you make,’ said the yeoman encouragingly. ‘And as long as you take us with you, these government officials have even given you leave to enjoy a tavern or a coffee house on the way home.’

‘Only so I can gather intelligence for them,’ said the Major bitterly. ‘Do you know my family motto? It is
nil admirari
– surprised at nothing. However, I
shall
be surprised if they keep their word and let me go. But this is a gloomy subject, and we should discuss something more uplifting. Does anyone like music? I have a particular affection for the viol.’

So did Chaloner, and the rest of the journey passed very agreeably.

White Hall was where the King, his family, his ministers and his favourite courtiers lived and worked. It dated back several centuries, and had been extended and rebuilt as and when funds had been available, so it boasted an eclectic mixture of styles. It was vast, with approaching two thousand
rooms, although parts of it had grown shabby under successive rulers who had either no money or no inclination to invest in repairs and refurbishment.

When they arrived, the palace guards invited the Major to warm himself by their fire before his appointment, indicating that he had visited often enough to make friends. Chaloner left them exchanging tales of London’s growing restlessness, and escorted Knight across the Great Court to the offices that had been allocated to the Lord Chancellor. They overlooked the Privy Gardens, which were pretty that day, dusted as they were with a light coat of rime. He ascended the marble staircase to the upper floor, Knight shuffling dejectedly at his side.

It was too early for most of the Earl’s staff to be at work, and the only retainer in evidence was Will Freer, a stocky, soldierly fellow with a ready grin. Marshal Gery had hired him, which meant Chaloner felt compelled to regard him with a degree of caution, although Freer was likeable and friendly enough.

‘Where you are going?’ he hissed in alarm, as Chaloner and his prisoner passed. ‘You cannot take vagrants to see the Earl, man! He will have a seizure and you will lose your job.’

‘I am not a vagrant,’ objected Knight, offended. ‘I am a postal clerk. I wore this rough cloak today because … because the weather is cold.’

He had worn it to conceal his identity as a person of means when he had escaped from London, but Chaloner let the lie pass. ‘He has something to tell Clarendon.’

Freer regarded him worriedly. ‘I would not go in there if I were you. The Earl is in a bad mood, and Gery is with him.’

The Earl was always in a bad mood as far as Chaloner was concerned, and he
did not care whether Gery was there or not. He nodded his thanks for the warning, and tapped on the door anyway. When he heard the call to enter, he opened it and strode inside, indicating with a gesture that Knight should hang back until told to come forward.

The Earl of Clarendon was short, fat and fussy, and his portliness was accentuated rather than flattered by his close-fitting silk suit and the frothing lace under his several chins. He sported a fashionable T-beard – a sliver of hair over the upper lip with a small tuft on the chin – and an enormous and very costly wig. His gouty feet were propped on a stool in front of him, warmed by a fire that was high enough to risk setting the entire palace alight.

Gery was standing in front of him, tall, strong and dour; Chaloner had never seen him smile. He was so devoted to the Royalist cause that he was unable to forgive anyone who had sided with Parliament during the wars, and he hated Chaloner with a passion that verged on the fanatical. He firmly believed that former Roundheads were responsible for everything that was wrong with the world, and was in favour of rounding them all up and hanging them. He was not a particularly clever individual, and always gave the impression of barely controlled rage. Chaloner could not begin to imagine what had possessed his master to hire such a person.

‘Well, Chaloner?’ asked the Earl, steepling his chubby fingers. ‘Have you carried out my instructions? Are Knight and Gardner safely installed in Newgate Gaol?’

Gery gave a start of surprise. ‘You ordered the arrest of Knight and Gardner, sir? But why?’

‘Because Spymaster Williamson applied to me for warrants,’ explained the Earl. ‘But all his people were busy quelling trouble
with the apprentices, so I sent Chaloner instead. I know you have been investigating irregularities at the Post Office, Gery, but you had gone home. Why do you ask? Is there a problem?’

‘No, sir,’ said Gery, although the reply between gritted teeth suggested otherwise.

‘Good,’ said the Earl, a little coolly, then turned to Chaloner. ‘Well?’

Chaloner gestured behind him. ‘Knight has something to tell you, sir. He—’

‘You brought him here?’ interrupted Gery sharply. ‘A common felon?’

‘Please, My Lord!’ Knight scuttled forward and dropped to his knees. ‘I have never done anything dishonest in my life. These tales against me are wicked lies.’

‘Yes, yes.’ The Earl moved away in distaste, and looked at Chaloner. ‘Where is Gardner? Or am I to assume that he is already under lock and key?’

Chaloner braced himself for fireworks. ‘He escaped.’

‘Escaped?’ echoed Gery, while the Earl scowled his irritation. ‘I thought you were a soldier. Surely apprehending a pair of clerks should not have been beyond your capabilities?’

‘Please listen to me, My Lord,’ begged Knight, sparing Chaloner the need to reply. ‘These charges are a fiction, invented by men who hate me for my integrity.’

The Earl glowered at him. ‘The Spymaster had proof that you “lost” several letters.’

Knight clasped his hands together. ‘We all lose letters, My Lord, but that is hardly surprising when thousands of them pass through our hands each week. It happened less when Mr Bishop was in charge, but Controller O’Neill has introduced “improvements” that are less efficient than—’

‘You blame O’Neill?’ interrupted the
Earl indignantly. ‘A royally appointed official?’

‘No, sir,’ said Knight miserably. ‘But I have never defrauded the Post Office, not even during the Commonwealth, when I might have done it as an act of rebellion against a regime I never liked.’

‘Oh, yes, everyone is a Royalist now,’ muttered the Earl acidly.

‘I asked to be brought here because I have information to share with you.’ Knight swallowed hard, clearly frightened. ‘It is about a man named Clement Oxenbridge.’

‘Clement Oxenbridge?’ repeated Gery disdainfully. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘Then you should remedy the matter,’ said Knight with a small flash of defiance. ‘Because he is the most deadly villain in London.’

‘A Parliamentarian, then,’ surmised Gery. ‘Stand up, Knight. We have heard enough of your bleating, and it is time you were in Newgate. The Major will be here soon, and it is unfair to keep him waiting for the likes of you.’

‘The Major’s appointment is with you?’ asked Chaloner, surprised. He had not imagined that Gery would speak to a man who had earned his fame in the New Model Army, even if the Major had later changed sides and done his damnedest to murder Cromwell.

‘It is with me, actually,’ said the Earl. ‘He has proved himself extremely useful these last few weeks, and I may order his release from the Tower if it continues.’

‘Wait!’ cried Knight, as Gery stepped towards him. ‘There is a great and terrible plot unfolding in the Post Office, one that might result in another civil war.’

‘There is no plot,’ said Gery contemptuously. ‘Only a lot of greedy and
unscrupulous clerks who cheat their customers. Fetch the palace guards, Chaloner. They can escort him to Newgate.’

‘I will take him,’ said Chaloner, thinking that Knight might confide in him now that he had been given short shrift at White Hall, and there was something about the tale that had the ring of truth in it. No one wanted another war, and he was inclined to take such warnings seriously, even if Clarendon and Gery were not.

‘Do not defy me,’ barked Gery. ‘Fetch the guards.’

‘Do as he says, Chaloner,’ sighed the Earl tiredly. ‘As my marshal, he outranks you.’

With no choice, Chaloner went to do as he was told, although the Earl’s pointed reminder of his reduced status made him wonder yet again why Gery had been hired. The moment the door had closed, he heard the murmur of voices. He could not make out the words, but he could tell that Knight was doing the talking and Gery was asking questions.