Death in St James's Park (40 page)

Chaloner closed the door and stared at the body. Ibson had claimed to possess documentary evidence against the Post Office, and as Chaloner did not believe he would have let such important items out of his sight, they had to be in his home. He lit a candle and began to search, suspecting from scratches and scuffs in the dirt that Gery and his soldiers had been there before him. Fortunately, none possessed his skills, and they had missed the fact that the back of one of the shelves had a slit hollowed out of it.

He prised out the papers, and leaned against the wall to read them. There were accounts proving that money had been bleeding out of the Post Office at an appalling rate, and that Smartfoot and Lamb were involved. There was also evidence that said they were guided by a ‘director’ of considerable intelligence, although there was no indication as to who it might be. And finally, there were a large number of messages in cipher, which would have to be decoded.

But Chaloner dismissed all these as insignificant when he read what else Ibson had found. There was a letter from John Fry to the Lord Mayor, penned on expensive paper and sealed with purple wax. And there was a series of messages purporting to be from guildsmen in Hull, Sussex and Bristol, urging their fellow tradesmen to rebel. The writing, paper and seals were identical, which meant, Chaloner saw with a shock, that
Fry
was the author of the lot of them.

Was this what
Copping had meant by the Devill’s Worke? Inciting rebellion? And did it mean that Fry was the mastermind who was using the Post Office’s penchant for corruption to screen a more deadly plot?

The last page was in Dutch, and informed the recipient that the British would not be in a position to repel an invasion until summer. This damaging piece of intelligence was signed not with a name but with a crude drawing of a ship, and Chaloner understood its significance instantly: in Dutch,
huiden
could refer to the side of a boat, a play on Vander
huyden
. It meant Vanderhuyden was the traitor, and Dorislaus was innocent – that Thurloe had been right to defend his old friend from Chaloner’s accusations.

The letter was dated ten days earlier, and Chaloner knew he had to discover, as a matter of urgency, whether it was a copy or the original – whether the Dutch really did know that a spring invasion would likely see them in London without too much trouble.

Ibson’s sword was propped in a corner, so Chaloner buckled it around his waist and grabbed two daggers from the table. Carefully tucking the letters securely inside his shirt, he left the house at a run, aiming straight for Lincoln’s Inn. He was not about to lose a third set of documents before passing them to Thurloe.

*   *   *

He arrived to find
Chamber XIII empty, although there was a letter on the table. It was addressed to him, and was in Thurloe’s writing. It informed him that the Major had been sent a message saying that he would never see the light of day again if he spoke to anyone else about his discoveries. It had not been difficult to terrorise a man already so near the end of his tether, and Thurloe had been unable to persuade him to break his oath and talk.

The note went on to say that Thurloe was taking Dorislaus to make some enquiries of their own. Its tone was curt, and did not use the cipher he normally employed when he and Chaloner communicated. Chaloner regarded it in consternation. Should he be suspicious of it, because Thurloe was always punctilious of such matters? Or was it merely a sign that the spy was not yet forgiven for his amateurish bungling? He wrote a brief coded message in return, and hid the Post Office documents in a secret compartment inside Thurloe’s desk, where he knew the ex-Spymaster would find them. The one from the Dutch spy he took with him.

It was not far to Vanderhuyden’s home. A light burned within, but there were no voices: Chaloner’s quarry was awake, but alone. He picked the lock, drew his sword and stepped inside. Vanderhuyden was in the process of stuffing clothes into a sack; he paled when he saw Chaloner.

‘Did Dorislaus send you? That was sly! He watched my house like a hawk all night, but when he left an hour ago, I really thought he had given up. Obviously, I underestimated his determination to catch me. Where is he? Waiting outside?’

Chaloner held up the letter. ‘It is over, Vanderhuyden.’

The Anglo-Dutchman closed his eyes. ‘Where did you get that? It should have been sent …’

‘More to the
point, where did
you
get the information? No, do not tell me – someone on the Navy Board was rash enough to write it in a letter, and you intercepted it.’

Vanderhuyden took a deep breath, opened his eyes and returned to his packing. ‘Dorislaus would see me dead before he let me go, but you will not harm a man whose life you once saved. Put up your sword, Tom. We both know you will not use it.’

‘You think I will look the other way while you escape?’ asked Chaloner coldly. ‘A spy who has damaged my country? You do not know me as well as you think!’

‘But I had no choice! I was forced into it – I received horrible letters saying that my wife would die if I disobeyed. Of course I did what they ordered!’

‘Show me,’ ordered Chaloner.

Vanderhuyden reached into his bag and produced a sheaf of documents. Chaloner glanced through them quickly, recognising the flamboyant writing and purple seal of John Fry, although they were unsigned. They were vicious and uncompromising, and did indeed threaten to execute Vanderhuyden’s wife if he did not do exactly as he was told. Chaloner put them in his pocket.

‘You should have asked for help. I would have obliged, and so would Thurloe. But by allowing yourself to be coerced, you may have done irreparable harm.’

‘And I would do it again,’ flashed Vanderhuyden. ‘So would you, to save Hannah. There is something nasty about Dorislaus, anyway – we were never friends, no matter what he might have told you – so I do not feel guilty about letting him take the blame for what I did.’

‘And what was that, exactly?’

Vanderhuyden shrugged. ‘At first, just passing snippets of Court gossip to The Hague – silly, inconsequential stuff. But in the last few weeks …’ He nodded at the document in Chaloner’s hand. ‘I have been instructed to send reports like that.’

‘Is this the
original or a copy?’

Vanderhuyden inspected it. ‘The original. I can tell by the seal. How did you come by it?’

‘How many others like it have you sent?’

‘A few.’ The prickly defiance drained out of Vanderhuyden and he suddenly looked old, tired and defeated. He went to a cupboard and took out a jug of wine.

‘So Dorislaus was never a spy,’ said Chaloner. ‘Did you lie about the Post Office plot, too?’

Vanderhuyden nodded resignedly. ‘Yes. There
is
something more serious afoot than petty thievery, but you can see why I was never in a position to admit it. My wife …’

‘Who are the Major’s contacts in the Foreign Office?’

‘I never tried to find out – it would have been too dangerous. Christ God, I need a drink!’

Chaloner watched him pour wine with a hand that trembled, but shook his head when Vanderhuyden offered him a cup.

‘Wait!’ he said suddenly, as Vanderhuyden raised the brimming goblet to his lips. ‘Have your rooms been searched today?’

‘Yes, but there is nothing here to incriminate me. I am not a total fool.’

He had taken a swig before Chaloner could stop him. He started to add something else, but then clutched his throat and staggered. Chaloner jumped forward to catch him, lowering him to the ground where he lay gasping for breath, his body
convulsing violently. There was stark terror in his eyes, but there was nothing Chaloner could do except cradle him while his life ebbed away.

Shocked by the speed with which the poison had killed Vanderhuyden, Chaloner went to the conduit outside and scrubbed his hands until they were raw and aching from the cold. Then he ran to Lincoln’s Inn, but Thurloe was still out. He hid the report about the navy and the letters he had taken from Vanderhuyden in the secret compartment, and left. Dorislaus lived on Fleet Street, so he went there next, but his rooms were also deserted.

He knew he needed to tell someone all that he had learned, in case he fell foul of Gery, Morland or someone else who wanted him dead, but who? Williamson was unlikely to be at his office at such an ungodly hour, and Chaloner had no idea where he lived – not surprisingly, the spymaster had never invited him to his home. Meanwhile, Hannah, Temperance and Wiseman were gone, and Chaloner had no other friends in the city. There was only one person left: the Earl’s defences had almost crumbled the last time they had talked, and Chaloner believed he now knew the reason for his master’s recent peculiar behaviour.

He hurried to Piccadilly, hearing the bellmen call four o’clock. He was surprised that so little time had passed since his escape from the cell. He arrived to find Clarendon House in darkness, so he let himself in through a window with a loose catch and crept past Gery’s dozing guards. He aimed for the Earl’s bedchamber, sincerely hoping his master had not invited Lady Clarendon to join him that night.

He was in luck: the Earl lay in splendid isolation, snoring and rather comical in a tasselled nightcap. Chaloner lit a candle from the fire that still smouldered in the hearth, and touched him lightly on the shoulder, but the Earl only mumbled and turned over. Chaloner poked a little harder.

The Earl opened his eyes
and blinked stupidly for several seconds. Chaloner said nothing, giving him time to gather his befuddled wits. Then the Earl sat up sharply, hauling the bedcovers around his neck like a virgin about to be ravaged by a particularly ardent suitor.

‘Chaloner?’ he gulped. ‘I thought you had gone to visit your family.’

‘Gery arrested me, sir, but I escaped.’

‘Then he did not do it with my blessing – I told him to let you go to Buckinghamshire. But why are you here? It is unconventional, to say the least.’

‘Yes, but something terrible is about to happen, and if it succeeds, you will bear the blame.’

The Earl frowned in confusion. ‘What will happen? And why should I be held responsible?’

Chaloner started to explain, but the Earl held up his hand and climbed out of bed, going to pour himself a goblet of claret. Apparently deciding that unusual circumstances called for unusual measures, he poured one for Chaloner, too, but having so recently watched Vanderhuyden die of contaminated wine, the spy shook his head.

‘Who told you your son was poisoned, sir?’ he asked softly.

The Earl gaped at him, and the colour drained from his face. ‘Edward was … But I told no one …’ He closed his eyes, and his voice became a whisper. ‘How did you guess?’

‘Because it must be
expensive to hire Gery, Morland, Freer and their soldiers, and you do not usually squander money. Ergo, someone forced you to take them on. You are not a biddable man, so a particularly vicious method of coercion must have been used. And whenever your son is mentioned, you seem more frightened than grieved.’

The Earl swallowed hard, and when he spoke his voice was thick with misery. ‘It was put to me that if I did not employ Gery and allow him to explore the trouble at the Post Office as he saw fit, I might lose another member of my family. I tried to persuade Gery to work with you, but he hates you for your Parliamentarian past, so I had no choice but to order you to stay away.’

‘Who made this threat?’

The Earl’s face was ashen. ‘I received letters.’

Just like the hapless Vanderhuyden, thought Chaloner. ‘It is a lie. Your son was not poisoned, sir. He died of the small-pox.’

The Earl gazed at him, hope in his eyes. ‘But how did … are you
sure
?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Surgeon Wiseman heard the rumours and examined him very carefully, to assure himself that no mistake had been made. And you know you can trust his judgement.’

‘Then why did he not tell me?’ The Earl’s wail was loud, and Chaloner winced, hoping it would not wake the guards. He could not afford to be caught now, when he was so close to winning Clarendon to his side.

‘Because he had no reason to know that you feared foul play. If he had, then of course he would have hastened to reassure you.’

A tear rolled down the Earl’s cheek. ‘But who would do such a dreadful thing?’

‘Someone who wants
whatever is unfolding in the Post Office to succeed, and who does not care that you will be castigated for not stopping it. May I see the letters, sir?’

Wordlessly, the Earl went to the desk by the window. Some of the pile he handed over had been screwed into balls or torn into pieces, as their recipient had experienced fits of impotent rage, but all had been carefully repaired. Chaloner recognised the writing, the paper and the purple seal.

‘John Fry,’ he said, passing them back. ‘Who is determined to see London in flames.’

The Earl flopped into a chair and closed his eyes. Aware that time was short, Chaloner started to add more, but the Earl raised his hand to silence him. In an agony of tension, Chaloner watched the candle flicker, acutely aware that every moment lost was another one for Fry to bring his plans to fruition. It seemed like an eternity before the Earl opened his eyes. He was still pale, but he sat a little straighter.

‘Thank you for explaining all this. It eases the pain somewhat. No father likes to believe that he has been responsible for the death of a son, and thinking that poor Edward was murdered on my account has been almost unbearable. You have lifted a great burden from my soul.’

Chaloner nodded a little impatiently. ‘No matter what Gery claims, I did not flout your orders, sir. I followed a trail, and it led to the Post Office.’

‘Then you had better start at the beginning, and tell me all you know.’

Chaloner perched on the edge of the desk and began, explaining how the King’s birds had been killed to distract Storey, and how ‘Greede’ was being used to screen the ‘Devill’s Worke’, which had resulted in the deaths of Mary Wood, Leak, Smartfoot, Copping, Vanderhuyden and perhaps more. It had also prompted Gery to garrotte Knight and Ibson.