Death in St James's Park (39 page)

‘Is this what you did to Knight?’ asked Chaloner in distaste. ‘He would not sign a false confession either, so you garrotted him? I know it was you who visited him dressed as a cleric.’

Gery’s eyes blazed. ‘How dare you accuse me of that! You have no evidence.’

‘You paid the turnkeys to drink a toast to the King, good Royalist that you are, and I saw the clerical hat you wore to disguise yourself. You should not have left it lying around White Hall.’

Gery’s expression was murderous, and Chaloner tensed, wondering how he was going to defend himself with his hands tied behind his back. Freer’s mouth hung open in astonishment, while Morland had stopped writing. Both seemed shocked, but would they prevent Gery from dispatching a second prisoner? The marshal came slowly to his feet, fists clenched at his sides.

‘It was unfortunate, but necessary,’ he said tightly. ‘Knight had information, and was prepared to give it to anyone in order to get himself out of gaol.’

‘You executed an innocent man,’ said Chaloner coldly.

‘I stilled a loose tongue that would have damaged my investigation – he threatened to talk to his gaolers unless I let him go. It would have raised the suspicions of those I am trying to catch, so I had no choice but to silence him.’

Morland was concentrating
on his writing again, and the soldiers were impassive. Only Freer displayed any emotion, and continued to gaze at the marshal with open revulsion.

‘You strangled him while the turnkeys’ attention was on an influx of drunks.’ Chaloner glanced at the guards. ‘These men, no doubt. They were released the next day, when you paid their fine. But what did Knight know that justified his death?’

For a moment, Chaloner thought Gery would refuse to answer, but then the marshal shrugged, obviously of the opinion that sharing information was neither here nor there – which was worrying, because it suggested that he thought Chaloner would never be in a position to use it.

‘That abuses are being committed by postal clerks, which are costing the country a fortune. If Knight had bleated, the perpetrators would have gone to ground and I would never catch them.’

Chaloner regarded him in alarm: Freer and the Major had been right to be concerned about Gery’s ability to see the bigger picture. ‘I am sure some clerks are corrupt, but there is something far more serious that—’

‘It is Williamson’s fault,’ interrupted Gery. ‘If he had not applied for those arrest warrants when I was out, Clarendon would not have sent you to expedite them, Knight would not have been taken to Newgate, and I would not have been forced to put an end to him.’

‘There are other ways to ensure a man’s cooperation besides murder,’ said Freer softly. ‘It—’

‘Gardner is a villain, of course,’ Gery went on, ignoring him. ‘The fifty-pound reward will see him in custody, where he will reveal the names of his accomplices, and the case will be solved.’

Chaloner was appalled
by his bullish stupidity. ‘The Post Office plot is more deadly than—’

‘You are not in a position to give me advice,’ snapped Gery. ‘And I am tired of talking. Have you finished the confession, Morland?’

The secretary held out a piece of paper still wet with ink. ‘Yes, and he does not need to sign it, because I have done it for him.’

‘Good,’ said Gery, before Chaloner could point out that Morland could not possibly know how he wrote his name. ‘Now lock him up before he wastes any more of our time.’

Chaloner was hard-pressed to control his panic when the cell door closed. His dungeon was pitch black, freezing cold, and he could hear from the murmur of conversation outside that his guards were alert and watchful. Moreover, his wrists were still tied. Escape would be impossible.

He sank down on the damp, sticky floor. How long would it be before Gery put a garrotte around his neck and declared him a suicide? Part of him hoped it would be soon: he hated the thought of being incarcerated for days, even weeks, before the decision was made to dispatch him. But he had been trained to stay cool in desperate situations, and despair did not grip him for long. He began to think practically, and decided the first thing he needed to do was free his hands.

Rubbing the rope against a wall until it frayed was more difficult than he had anticipated, because the only suitable stone was high enough to be awkward. He worked until his arms cramped, hearing the palace bell strike nine and then ten. Thurloe would be with the Major, and he
hoped they would not need him. Eleven o’clock came and went, and the rope remained as tight as ever.

Just when he was beginning to fear the task was impossible, there was a snap and he was free. He felt better once it was done. Now at least he could punch Gery – at the very least – when the marshal came to commit sly murder.

He explored the cell by groping around in the darkness, discovering that there were no windows, the walls were solid stone and the sole item of ‘furniture’ was a pallet of straw that reeked of urine and mildew. He paced back and forth, trying to devise a plan. He had been relieved of his sword and knives, and the only thing he had left was the gingerbread he had bought earlier. He pulled it out and weighed it in his hand. It was heavy, but still no kind of weapon, so he ate it instead. The acid churning in his stomach eased, and he realised that he had been very hungry.

The clock was striking midnight when he heard a sound outside the door. He scrabbled about for the rope, and slipped his hands through it – there was no point in exposing the slim advantage he held too soon. He stood against the farthest wall, and watched the door swing open.

‘Morland,’ he said flatly when he saw who stood there. ‘Gery will not kill me himself, then?’

‘Hush, Tom. I have sent the guards on a fools’ mission to St James’s Park – I wrote an anonymous letter saying that another duck was going to be poisoned, and they have gone to save it – but who knows who might be lurking? Now come with me. Hurry!’

‘Hurry where?’ asked Chaloner, not moving.

‘Please! I am
risking a great deal by doing this.’

‘By doing what?’ Chaloner was confused and wary.

‘Helping you escape,’ snapped Morland. ‘But if you would rather wait for Gery to garrotte you, then tell me so and I shall leave you to it.’

‘Wait,’ called Chaloner, as the door started to close. ‘Sorry. I was not expecting rescue.’

Morland gave a thin smile. ‘Life is full of surprises. Now follow me.’

Chaloner stepped outside the cell, but remained deeply suspicious. ‘What happens if someone challenges us? Do you have any weapons?’

‘No, but it is midnight, and the only people awake are courtiers who are too drunk to be a problem. However, we shall keep your hands tied, so that I can pretend to be escorting you for further questioning should we encounter any difficulties.’

He was wearing an old uniform coat, and a broad-brimmed hat shadowed his face. The disguise might have worked had he adopted a more military posture, but Morland looked like what he was: a clerk wearing the cast-off garb of a soldier. It would not deceive anyone who was sober and sane. Yet this was White Hall, where Chaloner had witnessed worse inefficiencies. Careful to keep the rope wrapped around his wrists, he followed Morland up the cellar stairs.

‘We are going to the river,’ the secretary explained, once they were at the top. He took Chaloner’s arm and directed him towards the Great Court. ‘I have a boat waiting, and I will cut you free when we reach it, so you can row yourself away.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ Chaloner was still full of mistrust. ‘You owe me nothing.’

‘Knight,’ explained
Morland tersely. ‘I did not know that Gery murdered him, and I was stunned when I heard him confess, as if an innocent man’s life was worth nothing.’

Chaloner regarded him sceptically. ‘That is the only reason?’

‘Well, I would not mind if you repaid me by sharing all you have learned.’

‘Nothing you do not already know,’ lied Chaloner. He stumbled as he followed the secretary down the short tunnel that led to the Privy Gardens – frost covered the ground, the night was very dark, and it was not easy to balance with his hands behind him. ‘The only thing I have kept to myself is that whatever is unfolding will take place in the Crown tavern, not the Post Office.’

Morland nodded his thanks for the information, and led the way around the edge of the garden, where the shadows were thickest. As they passed Prince Rupert’s lodgings, Lady Castlemaine’s distinctive voice could be heard tinkling within. It was followed by a roar of manly approval.

They exited the palace through a tiny and little-used gate in the narrow lane called Cannon Row. Morland turned towards the Thames, where a flight of wooden steps descended to the shore. The tang of salt filled the air, and Chaloner supposed the tide was out, because he could hear the hiss of wavelets against mud and pebbles.

‘What do you know about Mary Wood?’ asked Morland, treading carefully as the stairs were slippery with seaweed as well as ice. ‘Am I to understand that the poison is the same as the stuff used on the birds, and that Gardner gave it to her?’ He must have sensed Chaloner’s suspicion, because he turned and shrugged. ‘Freer thinks Gery cannot be trusted
to see justice done, and I agree. Tell me what you know, and Freer and I will try to act on it.’

‘Then arrest Oxenbridge. He will tell you all you need to know, if the right threats are made.’

They reached the shore, which was dimly illuminated by the lanterns that blazed from Prince Rupert’s apartments above. The water was velvety black, with pinpricks of light gleaming in the distance from the Lambeth marshes. The hair on the back of Chaloner’s neck rose as it always did when he was in imminent danger, and he was suddenly sure they were not alone. He also saw there was no boat. Then there was a flare of light, and Gery appeared with two soldiers. The marshal held a lamp in one hand and a gun in the other.

‘Well?’ he asked of Morland. ‘What did he confide?’

‘Nothing of use,’ sighed Morland ruefully. ‘He thinks Oxenbridge is involved, and believes that any trouble will begin in the Crown tavern.’

Chaloner regarded him in disgust. ‘Treachery! I might have known.’

Morland shrugged. ‘Spying is a dirty game, Thomas. Surely Thurloe taught you that?’ He turned back to Gery. ‘He also admitted to lying about the birds. He did it to lead you astray.’

Chaloner was alarmed as well as confused by this particular deception. ‘What are—’

Morland whipped around and dealt him a slap that made his ears ring. It was all Chaloner could do not to free his hands and fasten them around the secretary’s throat.

‘We shall kill him here,’ determined Gery, while Morland wrung his smarting fingers. ‘Eyebrows will be raised if a
second man connected with this case is found hanging in a cell. And if his body is ever found, we shall be able to say, quite truthfully, that Chaloner died trying to escape.’

Smiling malevolently, Gery
aimed the gun at Chaloner, and his finger tightened on the trigger. There was nowhere to run, and Chaloner did not give him the satisfaction of trying; he only stood quietly, waiting for the inevitable. But Gery had reckoned without Morland who, puffed up with a sense of achievement, tried to lay hold of the spy himself. When the secretary stepped between him and the gun, Chaloner flung off the rope, grabbed Morland’s coat and butted him hard in the face. Morland screeched in pain and shock as Chaloner hurled him backwards into Gery, causing the marshal to drop both gun and lamp. Then Chaloner turned and ran.

It was much easier to move with free hands, although a rock- and rubbish-strewn ribbon of silt was hardly the place for speed. There was one loud crack, and then another, although neither shot came close. He tried to run faster, but stumbled over a stone. He slowed, knowing it was better to move less quickly than to risk a tumble. He could hear Gery and the guards behind, Morland screaming at them to hurry. Chaloner grimaced. The fact that the secretary was still capable of speech meant he had not done as much damage as he had intended.

He risked a glance
behind him. It was too dark to see, but he could hear curses as his pursuers lurched and slithered. Then he reached a part of the foreshore that backed on to the old Palace of Westminster, which was never lit at night. The blackness was absolute.

He stopped running, snatched up a handful of pebbly sludge, and took several steps up the bank, away from the water. Moments later, Gery lumbered past, followed by his two soldiers, with Morland bringing up the rear. When Gery ordered them to stop and listen, Chaloner hurled some of his muck. It dropped some distance ahead, and Chaloner sensed, rather than saw, the quartet surge towards the sound. When they paused a second time, he lobbed more, but harder than he intended, because it plopped into the water.

‘He is trying to swim!’ yelled Gery. His voice was accusing. ‘And I cannot see, because you made me drop the lantern.’

Chaloner threw more mud, this time as far as he could.

‘He
is
swimming!’ Gery was almost beside himself with rage, and Chaloner heard him shoving his men forward. ‘Go after him, or he will tell everyone that we brought him here to be murdered.’

‘It will not matter if he does,’ said Morland nasally. ‘No one will believe him, especially when we report that he murdered Ibson. That will teach him for breaking my nose.’

Chaloner felt matters were spiralling out of control. His mind reeling with questions and solutions in equal number, he left Gery trying to force Morland and the soldiers into the river, and stole back the way he had come. He crept silently through White Hall, and emerged on King Street, every nerve in his body alert for the yell that would tell him that his pursuers had guessed what he had done and had come after him.

He went
to Ibson’s tenement first, which was full of snuffles and snores as its many inhabitants slept. The door to Ibson’s room was unlocked, and he pushed it open to see the former spy lying on his bed, garrotted. As it was the same way that Knight had died, he could only assume that Gery was responsible – that the marshal had gone there with his henchmen, and had overwhelmed Ibson and his single gun.