Death in St James's Park (30 page)

‘What are you doing?’ asked Eliot, as the spy dropped to his hands and knees and started to grope about on the ground.

‘Some documents fell out of my
coat when I fell. I need them back.’

‘I saw the tall man scoop something up before he ran off,’ said Storey. ‘It was too dark to see clearly, but it was something oblong and pale. Were they very important?’

Chaloner regarded him in dismay, and began to search again, systematically at first, but then with increasing desperation. Storey helped, and Eliot fetched a lamp, but by the time the gardener returned, Chaloner knew it was hopeless: Knight’s letters had gone. He was disgusted with himself. It was the second valuable clue he had managed to mislay, counting the papers he had grabbed from the Post Office’s secret room.

‘That drunk hit you very hard,’ said Storey, clearly thinking Chaloner had been knocked out of his wits. ‘So we shall escort you home. Are you married? You will need a wife to care for you.’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner. Then he recalled that Hannah was away, and he did not want to return to Tothill Street to be sniggered at by any remaining servants. ‘No.’

‘Yes
and
no,’ grinned Eliot. ‘Perhaps we had better not ask, Storey. Not every man is as fortunate to have a woman like my Jane.’

By the light of Eliot’s lamp,
they gathered up the poisoned bread and put it in a pot. Then Chaloner hunted again for the letters, hating the prospect of confessing to Thurloe that he had lost another set of documents that might have provided answers. Afterwards, downcast and full of self-recrimination, he took the lantern and went to inspect the drunk. He turned him over with his foot, then recoiled in surprise.

It was Smartfoot.

For a moment, Chaloner could only stare at the dead man’s face, but then questions surged into his mind. Smartfoot was the second postal clerk to have died in the park, so did that mean the General Letter Office
was
behind the bird killings? That Leak had not just accepted employment from someone else, as his friend Rea had suggested? And if so, was Controller O’Neill behind it all?

But what possible reason could O’Neill
have for dispatching the King’s fowl? Or for dispatching Mary, for that matter? Was it because she lived in Post House Yard, and she had seen something that necessitated her silence? Storey lived there, too, so was the same true of him, except that he had not been ill in bed, so they had opted to kill his birds instead?

On the three occasions that Chaloner had met Smartfoot, Lamb had been with him. However, Lamb had not been one of the trio that night – he was heavy and brutal, whereas the two swordsmen had been light-footed. Moreover, Lamb’s preferred weapon seemed to be a cudgel, not a blade. So who were Smartfoot’s companions? Harper seemed a good guess. Or O’Neill. Or Gardner, perhaps. And if Gardner, was Oxenbridge involved, given that the two knew each other well enough to skulk around White Hall in the dark together?

Chaloner pulled away Smartfoot’s clothing to assess how he had died, but the only visible wound was a cut on his arm, puffy and inflamed. Chaloner suspected he had inflicted it the previous evening – he certainly recalled Smartfoot reeling away when they had done battle at the Post Office. He sniffed the clerk’s mouth, and was surprised when there was no reek of ale.

‘Do you know him?’ asked Eliot.

‘No,’ lied Chaloner, thinking the less he and Storey knew, the safer they would be.

‘Are my birds safe?’ asked Storey, trembling now the excitement was over. ‘Have we given these scoundrels such a fright that they will never dare set foot in this park again?’

‘Leak’s death did not stop them,
and Smart— this man’s will not either. They have a reason for doing what they do, and until we understand what it is, your birds remain at risk.’

Chaloner, Storey and Eliot carried Smartfoot to the gate, and took him to the Westminster charnel house in a hackney. When the grim business was done, Storey said that he and Eliot were going to return to the park and stand guard there until dawn; Chaloner let them do it only because he was sure the culprits were unlikely to return that night. Once they had been dropped off at the main gate, Chaloner asked the hackney driver to take him to Wiseman’s house, wanting the poisoned bread lodged with someone who would appreciate its dangers. He alighted wearily, hoping the surgeon would be in.

He was in luck. Wiseman was not only home, but ensconced in his cosy parlour in front of a roaring fire with his ginger cat on his knees. Chaloner moved towards the blaze gratefully, while Wiseman locked the tainted crumbs in a stout box. When he had finished, the surgeon insisted that they both scrub their hands thoroughly with a foul-smelling abrasive. Only when he was sure they were poison-free did he invite his guest to share a plate of food that Temperance had sent – elegant, expensive delicacies that had been left over from some event at the club.

Afterwards, they sat by the hearth, Chaloner silent and withdrawn as he tried to piece together what he had learned. Wiseman used the opportunity to indulge in a self-serving monologue about a public anatomy he had performed for the King.

‘Have you told anyone else that Mary Wood was poisoned?’ asked Chaloner, cutting into the tale so abruptly that the surgeon scowled his irritation.

‘Just Temperance – in the Crown earlier, when you were with us. But neither of us will talk about it until Wood has been informed. I assume you will visit him tomorrow?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘As soon as he is home from Chelsey. Do you know who started the rumours that she died from something other than the small-pox?’

‘Well, according to Temperance,
they originated with an ex-postal clerk – a plump little fellow with a Dutch name that now eludes me …’

‘Isaac Dorislaus?’

‘The very same! He claims to have seen Mary’s body the day she died, and suspected then that something was amiss. He is lying, of course. The servants did not spot anything, so why should he? And what would he have been doing in the Woods’ mansion at such a time, anyway? Or do you think
he
fed the toxin to her?’

‘If he had, then why draw attention to the murder by starting tales about it? Why not let everyone believe that she died of natural causes?’

‘God only knows,’ sighed Wiseman. ‘The criminal mind is beyond me. However, I should like to rectify the matter, so if you have cause to dispatch him, perhaps you would be kind enough to bring me his head. It would make for an interesting study.’

Chaloner winced at the notion, suddenly assailed with the uncomfortable thought that the surgeon would probably like parts of
him
in his quest for scientific wisdom, too. There were many reasons for not wanting to be dead, but the notion that he might end up on Wiseman’s mantelpiece was certainly one of them.

‘What would happen if that powerful poison entered someone via a wound?’ he asked, changing the subject again, although not to one that was any less comforting.

Wiseman considered. ‘It would take longer to work, but death would occur eventually. Why?’

‘Because I think that is what happened to Smartfoot. And it was my fault.’

Wiseman regarded him warily. ‘Who is Smartfoot?’

‘A man I came to blows with in
the Post Office last night. I wounded him in the arm with my dagger. He was trying to kill birds in the park this evening, but he was unsteady on his feet, and he fought dismally. Unlike yesterday, when I was lucky to escape.’

‘What makes you think you are responsible? It is more likely that he poisoned himself when he was preparing the stuff to feed to the royal fowl.’

‘Because I used that particular dagger to pick up the first batch of contaminated bread, and I did not wipe it off. There must have been a residue.’

‘Give it to me,’ ordered Wiseman. ‘Carefully, if you please.’

Chaloner obliged, and while the surgeon busied himself at the table, he stared idly at the fire, recalling how fast Smartfoot had backed away when informed that Thurloe’s little phial contained poison. Now he knew why: the clerk had known exactly what contact with it could do.

‘There
are
residues on your blade,’ said Wiseman, breaking into his morbid reflections. ‘And if you plunged it into Smartfoot, then you probably are responsible for his death. It would have taken longer to react, of course, as the toxin seems to be most effective when ingested.’

Chaloner experienced a range of conflicting emotions. He had never liked killing, and poison was a coward’s weapon. On the other hand, Smartfoot had tried to dispatch him, and was probably involved in murdering a sick woman and slaughtering the King’s birds.

‘I have encountered poisons before,’ he said, watching the surgeon scrub his hands again. ‘But none that are this virulent. You said at the charnel house this morning that no apothecary would have contrived such a substance.’

‘Not the ones I know,’ said Wiseman drily. ‘They aim to furnish their customers with remedies and tonics, not potions that kill. And those who are unscrupulous enough to experiment with deadly compounds will never admit it, so do not waste time trawling their shops.’

‘Do you know
what is in it?’

‘I analysed what we discovered in Mary, and it contained a number of dangerous ingredients, all of which have been concentrated to an unusual degree – monkshood, henbane, arsenic, some sort of lye. It would not be difficult to manufacture, although one would have to be very careful.’

‘You said earlier that it might have been imported.’

‘Yes, but it could have been produced here just as easily. You do not need me to tell you that anything can be bought in London, and that includes obscenely potent toxins.’

‘And all to kill birds, which seems rather excessive.’

Wiseman’s expression was sombre. ‘Yet it sends a clear message – that whoever is dispatching these ducks has access to a terrible substance and is not afraid to use it. Perhaps that is why chatter from the Post Office has suddenly dried up – people are afraid of being given a drop of this stuff. Here is your dagger. I have scoured it as well as I can, and it should be safe now.’

Chaloner refused to take it.

Because he was too tired to walk home,
Chaloner accepted Wiseman’s offer of a bed for the night, and immediately fell into an uneasy sleep that teemed with images of poisoned birds, Russia and Newgate Gaol. It was hardly restful, so when the surgeon’s servants began clattering about in the kitchen below, he rose and dressed with relief. It was still dark, but they made no concession to the fact that the other occupants of the house might be asleep.

He walked downstairs, intending to slip out without being seen, but the stairs creaked, and the footman intercepted him. Chaloner knew from past visits that Wiseman’s people loved to gossip, and as their master seldom entertained, any guest
was seized upon with alacrity. He found himself gripped by the hand and towed into the kitchen, where the other two were eating warm oatmeal.

‘Two men died in a fight outside the New Exchange last night,’ began the one-eyed groom with salacious glee, handing Chaloner a bowl and ladling some of the glutinous sludge into it. Despite its unappetising appearance, Chaloner ate, not sure how much opportunity there would be for food later. ‘The unrest grows worse almost by the hour.’

‘It is the same in Yorkshire and Sussex,’ put in the cook, who had lost an arm. ‘And we are all waiting to see which important person will be assassinated. I think it will be the Major, because he has renounced his principles and become a lily-livered pacifist.’

‘No, it will be Controller O’Neill,’ predicted the footman. He was missing the lower part of one leg, which lent a grim aptness to his chosen profession. ‘Because he is sly and corrupt.’

‘It is a bad state of affairs,’ sighed the groom. ‘And not set to improve when the Court is only interested in enjoying itself and spending money. We should make
them
live in a wooden palace, like the Tsar of Russia. That would teach them to behave.’

‘I shall never go to Russia,’ declared the cook. ‘I have heard that the only drink available is a powerful tonic made from vegetable parings, and a fellow cannot buy ale for love nor money.’

‘They do not have money in any case,’ said the footman with considerable authority. ‘They barter, so if you want to purchase something, you have to pay with gherkins or beetroot.’

‘Gherkins,’ said the cook with a shudder. ‘Surgeon Wiseman brought
one home from the Crown yesterday, and it reminded me of the things he keeps in jars on his shelves.’

‘Speaking of unsavoury specimens, Lady Castlemaine’s husband was dismayed when he returned from his foreign travels to find his family increased by two babies,’ chuckled the groom. ‘She told him they were begot by an angel. The whole Court laughed, but all he did was bow and leave. He is a fool to let her treat him with such rank disrespect.’

‘She is beginning to lose her looks,’ said the footman. ‘I saw her in the street the other day, and she looked as old and used as a Southwark whore.’

Chaloner eventually managed to escape, wondering how the King expected to be taken seriously when his private life was so brazenly scandalous. Not for the first time, he felt a wave of sympathy for Palmer, and for Queen Katherine, too. Both deserved better from their spouses.

Fleet Street was strangely deserted as Chaloner began to walk along it, and he wondered why. It was a Wednesday, so should have been busy. Then a bellman’s mournful call told him it was four o’clock, and he realised that the servants had woken him ridiculously early.

Yet he did not mind. He had a great deal to do that day – inform Wood that his wife had been murdered; confess to Thurloe about losing the letters; attend Knight’s funeral; see what Vanderhuyden had learned about Dorislaus; ask questions about Oxenbridge, Fry, Gardner, Bankes and Harper; corner a clerk and interrogate him about the disused part of the Post Office; waylay Lamb and ask about Smartfoot; and, if there was time, speak to Ibson. Unfortunately, it was too early to do any of it. Except Thurloe. His friend would not mind being woken up.