Death in St James's Park (15 page)

Chaloner frowned. Was that the answer – the ducks had been killed for their exotic plumage? But none had been plucked. Or did someone aim to raid the corpses after Storey had had them cleaned and stuffed?

‘Feathers fetch a good price, then, do they?’ asked Morland keenly. ‘It is worth finding you a few?’

The milliner beamed. ‘Yes. So if you hear of a flamingo that wants a good home, let me know. I have ideas for a magnificent hat, which—’

‘Touch a flamingo and I will break your fingers,’ said Chaloner quietly, but with a look that made the milliner gulp a promise that flamingos would never feature in his creations again.

‘Jesus wept, Chaloner!’ exclaimed Morland, once they were outside. ‘Did you have to terrify that poor man? He is only making a living. Gery is right: you
are
sinister.’

‘The warning was intended for you just as much as him,’ said Chaloner coldly.

Morland sneered. ‘Threaten me again, and I will tell Gery to dismiss you.’

Chaloner rounded on him. ‘Where were you last night?’

Morland took a step away, alarmed despite his bluster. ‘At home. Why? Are you going to accuse me of killing the King’s fowl now? You
cannot find the real culprit, so you will invent one?’

‘Well, you did express an interest in providing the rogue in that shop with feathers,’ Chaloner pointed out, wondering whether Storey might have been right to place Morland first on his list of suspects.

‘Not from the King’s birds. I am not stupid. I have friends in the East India Company, and they will bring me what I need.’

‘You would see birds slaughtered to feed a fashion?’ Chaloner was disgusted.

‘Why not, if it makes me money? We are all entitled to take what opportunities come our way. But I have better things to do than discuss financial philosophy with you. I shall go back to White Hall and tell Gery that you gave me the slip. He will be angry, but with you, not with me.’

Once he was sure Morland had gone, Chaloner resumed his journey to Lincoln’s Inn. He did not enter by the main gate, though, lest Morland should question the porter, and aimed instead for a bramble thicket at the back. Hidden deep inside was a door, all but forgotten and heavily overgrown. He fought his way through the foliage, prised open the gate, and spent several minutes on the other side brushing dead leaves and cobwebs from his clothes.

Term was in full swing and the inn was busy, black-gowned students and their masters swarming everywhere. No one paid him any attention as he made for Dial Court and climbed the stairs to Chamber XIII. Unfortunately, when he arrived he heard the rumble of voices – Thurloe had company. The door was ajar, so Chaloner listened, to determine whether it was a meeting he could interrupt or whether he would have to wait.

‘
I
have answered these questions already,’ came an aggrieved voice. It was William Prynne, a
member of Lincoln’s Inn and a pamphleteer who wrote vicious diatribes on subjects ranging from Quakers and dancing, to lace and playhouses, all of which he despised with equal passion. He had had his ears chopped off for penning libellous nonsense about the King’s mother, but the punishment had done nothing to curb his vitriol. Chaloner frowned, wondering why he should be in Thurloe’s rooms: the ex-Spymaster usually declined to have anything to do with him.

‘I know.’ Chaloner was alarmed to recognise the voice as Gery’s. What was the marshal doing there? ‘But I want to hear it from Thurloe.’

‘Prynne is quite right,’ came Thurloe’s mildly modulated tones. ‘He has not been here for some time now. Why do you want to know?’

‘That is my business,’ retorted Gery. ‘Will you tell me if he contacts you?’

‘Of course,’ replied Thurloe politely. ‘I shall send word with Tom Chaloner, a man who can be trusted absolutely. Indeed, I wonder that Clarendon did not ask him to bring me this request.’

‘Because he told me to do it,’ snapped Gery, nettled by the remark as Thurloe had no doubt intended. ‘He also said that you are a valuable source of information, because your old spies still send you regular reports. Is it true?’

‘I am not a spymaster now, Mr Gery,’ said Thurloe with quiet dignity. ‘I know no more than the average Londoner.’

It was untrue, because Clarendon was right: a large number of Thurloe’s old informants did continue to supply him with gossip and titbits. But
Chaloner was glad he had chosen to be cautious.

‘
I
am the one with information,’ declared Prynne peevishly. ‘I am Keeper of Records at the Tower, and I learn a great deal as I trawl through old documents. Moreover, I listen in markets for chatter, and there is nothing you can tell me about current affairs. What do you want to know?’

‘John Fry,’ said Gery shortly, although Chaloner could tell he was more interested in intelligence from Thurloe. ‘What have you heard about him?’

‘A very wicked gentleman,’ replied Prynne promptly. ‘He has been in London of late, writing letters that encourage people to rise up against the government.’

‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Thurloe shortly. ‘He has been in his grave nigh on a decade.’

‘You seem very sure,’ said Gery unpleasantly. ‘But of course, Fry was a rancorous malcontent whose radical views caused trouble for Cromwell.
Ergo
, he was a thorn in your side, and there were rumours that he was murdered. Do you have any special reason to believe him dead?’

Chaloner held his breath. It was a nasty insinuation.

‘Only insecure governments need to silence their detractors,’ replied Thurloe coolly. ‘So there was no need for assassinations under Cromwell. All I meant was that if Fry did not die eight years ago, then why did he wait until now before reappearing? It makes no sense.’

The door opened suddenly, and Chaloner only just managed to dart into the shadows before Gery stalked out. Prynne was at his heels, wearing the woollen hat that hid his mutilated ears. The pamphleteer was gabbling, and Chaloner was sure he heard the name Oxenbridge. He waited until they had gone,
then entered Thurloe’s quarters himself.

Chamber XIII was full of heavy, dark oak furniture that Chaloner had once considered oppressive, but that he now found comfortingly familiar. It smelled of beeswax, polish and woodsmoke, and the shelves around the walls were bowed under the weight of an impressive library. Thurloe liked to read, and although most were books on law, there were also smatterings of history, philosophy, science and mathematics.

Thurloe was standing by the window. He was slightly built with brown hair and large blue eyes that often appeared soulful. He was one of the most intelligent, thoughtful men that Chaloner knew, and there was no one he trusted more. The ex-Spymaster glanced up when Chaloner entered, and indicated that he was to shut the door behind him.

‘I expected you sooner, Tom,’ he said without preamble. ‘Thursday, for example.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner, bemused.

Thurloe pursed his lips. ‘The Post Office atrocity. I understand you were there.’

‘How? Did Temperance tell you?’

‘Isaac Dorislaus did,’ replied Thurloe. ‘He saw it happen, too.’

‘Did he?’ Chaloner wondered why the portly Anglo-Dutchman had not said so when they had discussed it the previous day. Vanderhuyden had been open about hearing the blast and running outside, so why had Dorislaus seen fit to be secretive?

‘Isaac was the most gifted clerk the Post Office had,’ Thurloe went on. The ex-Spymaster had always been fond of Dorislaus, which was why Chaloner had never mentioned his suspicions during the Commonwealth – Thurloe was protective of his friends, and would not have listened to
accusations of disloyalty against one. ‘I urged O’Neill to keep him, but the fool thought he knew better, and not a letter has been delivered on time since.’

Chaloner changed the subject, sure the failings of the General Letter Office went deeper than the dismissal of one official. ‘Actually, I came to ask your advice about the dead birds in—’

‘I hope you came to tell me about the explosion,’ interrupted Thurloe sternly. ‘What have you discovered so far?’

‘Nothing. Clarendon has ordered me to stay away.’

Thurloe blinked his astonishment. ‘What? Surely he will want his best operative on this case, and Marshal Gery is hardly the thing.’

‘The Earl does not agree. Moreover, he has let Gery hire some assistants – six soldiers, a man named Freer and Samuel Morland.’ Chaloner saw Thurloe’s shock. ‘You did not know?’

‘God and all his saints!’ breathed Thurloe. As the ex-Spymaster rarely blasphemed, Chaloner saw the news had unsettled him deeply. ‘Morland?
Morland
?’

‘He tried to follow me here, which worries me. I think he still means you harm.’

‘Almost certainly – to prove himself to his new masters. It is a pity he is so treacherous, because he has many talents. He is skilled with languages and an extremely able inventor.’

‘What has he invented?’ asked Chaloner sceptically.

‘A trumpet that allows deaf people to hear, an engine that pumps water at fires, fountains for Versailles.’ Thurloe smiled bleakly. ‘We discussed mathematics for hours when he was in my service. I am interested in the subject, as you know. I considered him a friend.’

Chaloner could hear the pain
in Thurloe’s voice: Morland had wormed his way very deeply into his affections, and the betrayal still hurt.

‘I rarely misread people,’ Thurloe went on softly. ‘But I worked closely with Morland for six years, and never once did it occur to me that he might pass my secrets to the enemy. He played me for a fool. Me, a spymaster who should be used to deceit and treachery.’

Chaloner was not sure what to say, and they sat in silence for several minutes.

‘What did Gery want?’ he asked eventually. ‘And why was Prynne involved?’

Thurloe took a deep breath, pushing Morland’s perfidy to the back of his mind. ‘Prynne is in everyone’s business now the King has appointed him Keeper of Records – a clever ploy on His Majesty’s part, because it has won Prynne heart and soul. He was something of a liability before, with his incendiary opinions, but now he is the King’s most faithful servant.’

‘Gery was asking whether someone had contacted you,’ said Chaloner, more interested in the marshal’s business than the feisty pamphleteer’s allegiances. ‘Who?’

‘Isaac Dorislaus.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘You informed Gery that you had not seen Dorislaus for some time, but you must have done if he told you about the explosion. Gery may not be clever, but he is ruthlessly dogged, and if he learns that you lied—’

‘I did not lie. I said Isaac had not been here, which is true. We met at my coffee house.’

‘Sophistry,’ said
Chaloner, unimpressed. ‘Why is Gery interested in Dorislaus?’

‘Apparently, he believes he is a Dutch spy.’

‘And is he?’

Thurloe glared at him. ‘No, of course not! Isaac is one of few men I know whose loyalty is absolute. He would never betray his country.’

Chaloner nodded, but thought about his own lost reports. It had certainly been to the advantage of the Dutch that they had been mislaid, and Dorislaus had always been bitter that his regicide father had been murdered while on a diplomatic mission to Holland by Royalist agents from England – agents who had almost certainly been encouraged by men who were now members of the government. Moreover, Gery must have had some reason to be suspicious. Of course, Gery was suspicious of Chaloner, too, wholly without cause, so perhaps his mistrust of Dorislaus was similarly baseless.

‘I met Dorislaus yesterday,’ he said. ‘He was with Vanderhuyden.’

‘They have always been friends. But never mind this. The Earl is making a terrible mistake by ordering you away from the Post Office. It is your moral responsibility to ignore the instruction.’

‘He will dismiss me if he finds out.’

‘Better that than the alternative – which may be his execution for treason.’

Thurloe’s words sent a chill down Chaloner’s spine, but the ex-Spymaster decided that his rooms were no place for such a discussion – even Lincoln’s Inn had spies – and suggested a walk in the garden, where he could be certain they would not be overheard.

‘In the last few weeks, there have been reports of trouble in places as far distant as Yorkshire, Bristol and Sussex,’ he began, once they were strolling along a neatly gravelled path
bordered by tiny hedges. ‘And there is unrest here in London. It is not easy to coordinate events in such far-flung locations. A lot of correspondence would be needed …’

‘And you think the Post Office is being used to facilitate it?’

‘Sending letters is a lot cheaper than hiring private messengers on horses. However, if you use the post, you run the risk of your missives being intercepted. Unless the clerks are on your side.’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘Perhaps you are right, but is it any surprise that the country is dissatisfied? We thought we were getting a king who would heal two decades of civil unrest, but instead we have an indolent rake who is more interested in women than in running his country.’

Thurloe stared dolefully at him. ‘I am glad we came out here for this discussion, Thomas, because I should not have liked
that
remark to be heard emanating from my rooms.’

Chaloner grinned. Thurloe was the only person to whom he would have said such a thing.

Thurloe did not smile back. ‘His Majesty has his faults, but he is our leader now, so we must do all we can to protect him. And these tales about John Fry worry me extremely.’

‘Why? You just told Gery that he is dead. Or was that untrue, too?’

Thurloe eyed him balefully. ‘Fry caused untold trouble when Cromwell was in power. He held controversial religious opinions and a very specific notion of what a republic should entail.’

‘Him and half the country,’ said Chaloner drily.

‘Yes, but he was more passionate and determined than most. When our government did not conform
to his narrow ideals, he wrote letters urging other malcontents to revolt. He might have succeeded, but he passed away before his plans could be realised. When I heard the news, I travelled to Dorset to attend his funeral – to assure myself that he was really gone.’