Death in St James's Park (11 page)

‘Anything else?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘A man named Bankes has been buying information – about the explosion, and about the Post Office and London in general. Perhaps you should ask why he should be interested, and what he intends to do with the intelligence once he has it.’

‘Do you know where I might find him?’

‘No, but he can be contacted via the Antwerp or the Crown. It should not be too difficult to lay hold of him when he goes to collect his reports.’

Williamson nodded his thanks, and returned to his men without another word. Seeing he was dismissed, Chaloner walked away.

He knocked on Storey’s door, noting that someone had already started to repair the damage to the carved pelican – chalk marks showed where replacement legs would be sited. A plain maid in an unattractive bonnet answered, and conducted him to a parlour at the back of the house. As he followed, Chaloner realised
that although the cottage looked modest from the square, it was unusually deep, and all the windows on the south side looked out on to the courtyard that was shared with the General Letter Office.

Unfortunately, it was not an inspiring view. The flagstones were cracked and sprouted weeds, the sundial was broken, and the shrubs that had once been elegantly petite were now overgrown giants that blotted out the light. Directly opposite was the Post Office’s disused wing, a mournful display of sagging gutters, lichen-encrusted walls and windows with dirty shutters.

Storey’s parlour was pleasant though, with a blazing fire and cushion-filled chairs. The walls were crowded with paintings, every one depicting a bird, while fowl also appeared in a design woven into the carpet, on the carved handles of the fire tongs, and etched into the coal shuttle.

The Curator of Birds was chubby, clean shaven and white haired. He was entertaining a visitor already, and Chaloner stepped aside so that the maid could go in first and announce him – it was hardly good manners to join them otherwise – but she had disappeared, leaving him to surmise that he was not the only one cursed with unsatisfactory servants. The guest was le Notre.

‘Good Lord!’ the landscape architect exclaimed in French, as Chaloner stood in the doorway and attracted their attention by clearing his throat. It was impolite, but so was wandering through someone’s house on his own to hunt down shoddy domestics and inform them of their duties. ‘What are you doing here? Come to steal a clock, to replace the one you broke? There is a nice one on the table.’

‘I think Hannah would notice the difference,’ replied Chaloner in the same language.

Le Notre laughed. ‘Blame O’Neill, as I told you last night. It will
serve him right for holding such deeply offensive theories about Catholics. Do you think Palmer’s book will cause him to change his mind? Or is he beyond reason?’

‘I do not know him well enough to say.’

Le Notre’s expression was difficult to read. ‘Yet you invited him into your home.’

Chaloner shrugged, reluctant to reveal that it had been Hannah’s doing. It would be disloyal, and there was something about le Notre that set warning bells jangling in his mind, despite the man’s apparent affability. When he did not reply, le Notre stood suddenly and switched to English, his accent so thick as to be almost impenetrable.

‘Farewell, Storey. I will visit you again soon, and we shall resume our discussion about aviaries. Birds are a great ornament to any garden, although only from a distance. Close up, they are smelly, noisy and full of fleas.’

With a bow so elaborate that Chaloner wondered whether it was intended to be a joke, le Notre departed, leaving behind a waft of strong perfume. Storey watched him go with an awe that verged on reverence, and barely listened when Chaloner stated his name and purpose.

‘He is a truly great man,’ the curator said in a whisper. ‘The King of France has appointed him as grand over-seer of all the royal parks, and he is going to design a garden of unusual splendour and opulence for the new palace at Versailles.’

Chaloner was unimpressed, preferring the simple beauty of the open countryside to the contrived precision of landscaped estates. ‘I see.’

‘And he deigned to visit
me
,’ Storey went on in the same hushed tones. ‘What a gentleman! What did he tell you
when he spoke his native tongue? I have never learned French.’

Chaloner was reluctant to say that le Notre had recommended stealing a clock; it seemed shabby to shatter the curator’s illusions. ‘He just remarked that it is cold outside today.’

‘It is, and you must be chilled to the bone,’ said Storey, smiling genially. ‘So sit by the fire, and allow me to pour you a cup of hot water. It is most refreshing, and my storks love it.’

‘Water?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether to point out that he was not a stork. He watched Storey ladle something into two goblets with swans painted on them.

‘What is good enough for our feathered friends is good enough for us,’ declared Storey, handing one to Chaloner and taking a hefty gulp from the other.

Chaloner followed suit, but more cautiously, and was startled to discover it really was water, and not a euphemism for something stronger and probably illegal. However, while he was happy to drink milk in the face of common prejudice, he drew the line at water. He had seen men die from it during the wars, filled as it was with dangerous diseases. He held the cup in his hands, enjoying the warmth that seeped from it, but declined to swallow any more.

‘Of course, not even le Notre can design something that will keep out foxes,’ said Storey, speaking as if this was a theme they had discussed before. ‘The cold weather has encouraged these vermin to hunt for prey in St James’s Park this year. They are an abomination, and have no place in God’s universe. I assume the devil created them. What do you think?’

‘I have no idea.’ Chaloner was unwilling to
be drawn into a debate that might be considered heretical. One never knew who might be listening, and the maid had the look of a Puritan about her.

‘They are worthless carnivores that serve no purpose other than to spread misery, pain and terror,’ said Storey firmly. ‘And I should like to kill every last one of them.’

‘You do not know Sir Henry Wood, do you?’ asked Chaloner, recollecting the courtier’s peculiar diatribe against vegetables. Perhaps all residents of Post House Yard were lunatics.

‘He is my neighbour. Just lost his wife, poor man. He does not like foxes either. He saw one near Chelsey last week, and killed it with a musket. It made a terrible mess.’

‘I came to ask about your birds,’ said Chaloner, to bring the discussion back on track before it ranged too far into the surreal. ‘The dead ones.’

‘Harriet, Eliza and Sharon,’ sighed Storey, and Chaloner was embarrassed to see tears glitter. ‘Two Indian runners and a Swedish. Beautiful creatures.’

‘Ducks?’ asked Chaloner, confused.

Storey regarded him askance. ‘Of course they were ducks, man! Poor Harriet was the first, and it was particularly distressing because she had been ill. At first, I thought a fox … but then I realised there was something even more sinister. I am glad someone is taking my concerns seriously at last, by the way. The King is fond of his birds, and so am I.’

‘How did they die? And when?’

‘Take some more hot water, Mr Chaloner,’ said Storey, all grim seriousness. ‘And make yourself comfortable. My explanation will take some time.’

*   *   *

The explanation did not
take long at all, because Chaloner kept it on course with questions and prompts, and did not allow Storey to vent as he had evidently intended. Unfortunately, he managed to distil only three facts: that the birds had been killed at night, that footprints indicated more than one culprit, and that scattered feathers suggested the swans had been involved.

Chaloner regarded him in alarm. ‘Another bird is the guilty party? Christ! The Earl will dismiss me for certain if I tell him that!’

‘A swan did not kill my ducks,’ said Storey irritably. ‘People did. What I am telling you is that the villains tried for a swan first. But swans are fierce creatures. They do not put up with nonsense.’

‘I see. And when did these attacks happen?’

‘The first was on a Monday, eighteen days ago. The second was four days later, and the third was the day before yesterday – a Wednesday.’

There was no pattern that Chaloner could see. ‘Do you know what killed them?’

Storey beckoned him out of the parlour and into a small cupboard-like room, where the three victims were covered with neatly sewn pieces of black satin, heads visible at the top. They looked as though they were lying in state, an image Chaloner found strangely unsettling.

‘I could not bury them,’ Storey whispered. ‘To smother their beautiful feathers in cold earth. So I thought I would stuff them. Unfortunately, I cannot bring myself to make the necessary incisions. I do not suppose you …’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly.

Storey sighed. ‘Well, the weather is very cold, so I have a little longer before the matter becomes pressing.’ Personally, Chaloner thought it was pressing already.

‘Inspect the poor beasts, Mr Chaloner, and see what you think. It is my contention
that they were murdered.’

Chaloner had seen enough people dead before their time to recognise poisoning, and he saw it in the birds: blood in their beaks told him that they had been given something caustic. He was angry. The ducks were doing no harm, so why should anyone hurt them?

‘You are right: they have been murd— fed a toxin,’ he said. ‘Do you have any suspects?’

Storey pursed his lips. ‘I have no evidence to accuse anyone, if that is what you are asking, but I have my opinions. The villain will be someone wealthy and influential.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because no one else has access to the park.’ Chaloner, who had climbed over its walls on innumerable occasions, sometimes for no other reason than because it represented the quickest way home, regarded him sceptically, and Storey hastened on. ‘And toxins are expensive. The poor have more urgent things to spend their money on, like food, clothing and fuel.’

Chaloner was unconvinced. People – rich or otherwise – did all manner of peculiar things for reasons that defied logic and common sense. ‘Then which wealthy and influential people do you think might be responsible?’

Storey covered his ducks carefully, then led the way back to the parlour, where he sat for several minutes in unhappy silence. ‘My birds are more important to me than the fools at Court, so I shall share my suspicions with you. But please do not say you had these names from me.’

Chaloner nodded acquiescence, and Storey took a deep breath.

‘Samuel Morland is at the top of my list, because I saw him strolling around
the park on the very day that poor Harriet died. And he is a vile individual.’

Although Chaloner was gratified to hear the name of a man he so despised singled out for such a disagreeable crime, he was reluctant to believe the accusation. What reason could Morland have for dispatching birds? Moreover, the secretary was more used to causing harm with his tongue than with weapons, and Chaloner had never known him target animals before.

‘Who else?’

‘George Gery, Clarendon’s new marshal. I once saw him try to kick a goose, and he unnerves me with his cold, unsmiling face. Then there is Controller O’Neill, who told me that he hates birds because of the mess they make. But birds cannot help the way they—’

‘Le Notre does not like birds either.’ Chaloner interrupted before they could become sidetracked. ‘He just said so.’

‘Yes, but he is a landscape architect,’ countered Storey, clearly of the belief that this was enough to exonerate anyone. He continued with his list. ‘Clement Oxenbridge is an evil villain. Do you know him? He looks like a spectre with his white face and peculiar eyes.’

‘Why is he a suspect?’

‘Because he is so deeply sinister.’ Storey sounded surprised that Chaloner should need to ask. ‘He has no home and no obvious employment, yet he is clearly wealthy and appears whenever there is trouble. Rather like the devil.’

‘Right.’ Chaloner was beginning to realise that he was wasting his time.

‘He comes to the park sometimes, and I have seen him
looking
at my birds.’ Storey made it sound very disturbing. ‘How dare he! His Majesty’s fowl are not for the likes of him to gawp at.’

‘Is there anyone else?’

‘Well, there is a vicious-tempered
postal clerk named Harper. And my neighbour Sir Henry Wood often gets odd ideas into his head. He may have mistaken a duck for a radish.’

Chaloner stood, loath to waste more time listening to unfounded speculation. ‘Thank you. You have been very helpful.’

Storey trailed him to the front door. When he opened it, he ran his fingers over the disfigured carving. ‘It was a terrible thing that happened yesterday,’ he said softly. ‘Two pigeons were killed, and God only knows how many sparrows.’

‘I understand you were out when it happened.’

Storey nodded. ‘I should have been in the park, but it was so cold that I spent the day in a coffee house instead, talking about the comet and the effect it is having on starlings.’

‘Two of the victims – humans, I mean – were coming to visit you.’

Storey nodded again, sadly. ‘Yes, Harold and Henry Yean. I promised them a few flamingo feathers. Have you ever seen a flamingo, Mr Chaloner? Beautiful creatures. Not afraid of foxes either.’

‘What do you know about the boys?’

‘Cousins from the Fleet Rookery,’ replied Storey, referring to an area of tenements and dirty alleys that was the domain of London’s poor. The forces of law and order did not venture there, and it was a city within a city, with its own rules and leaders. ‘I hired them to run errands for me.’

‘They seem an
odd choice. Do you not have apprentices or assistants for that sort of thing?’

‘I do, but the Yean lads were excellent at trapping foxes.’ Storey’s face became oddly vindictive. ‘And I take any opportunity to teach those murdering, thieving vaga-bonds not to set their filthy vulpine eyes on birds.’

The following day was colder than ever, and Chaloner woke before dawn to find that Hannah had taken all the bedcovers. He tried to retrieve some, but she tightened her grip in a way that told him she would wake if he persisted, and the sour temper that always assailed her first thing in the morning meant he was unwilling to risk it. He climbed off the bed and dressed in the dark, using the clothes that had been laid in a pile for him by the footman the night before, not because he liked the man making such decisions for him – he did not, and resented someone else rummaging in his wardrobe – but because lighting a candle would disturb Hannah.