Death in St James's Park (21 page)

Chaloner pulled himself
together. Why was he allowing himself to be intimidated? Oxenbridge was just a man. He started to run after him, but someone grabbed his arm. It was Palmer.

‘No,’ the nobleman said softly. ‘You do not want to antagonise him.’

‘But he launched an attack on your house. He may do it again if—’

‘I shall report the incident to the proper authorities, and they can deal with it,’ said Palmer in the same quietly reasonable voice. ‘It is the sensible thing to do.’

‘There was a note attached to one of the stones,’ said the Major unsteadily. He gave a wan smile. ‘It seems the assault on your hapless glass was my fault.’

The message, written in bold black letters that could be made out even in the gloom, carried a grim warning. It read,
The Major will die.

The encounter with Oxenbridge had unnerved Chaloner, and he did not feel like going home to Tothill Street, despite the fact that Hannah’s absence meant he could play his viol again. Instead, he walked to his rooms at Long Acre, which were closer – no mean consideration, given the plummeting temperatures.

Long Acre had once been fashionable, home to men such as Oliver Cromwell and John Pym, but it had turned seedy after the Restoration, and was now known for its taverns, brothels and an astonishing number of coach-makers. It was always busy, even at night, which suited Chaloner, as it meant he could blend in with the crowds, although it was often noisy and uninterrupted sleep was never guaranteed.

The house in which he rented rooms was four storeys high, and he had the attic. The old Parliamentarian named Stokes lodged on the floor below, and Chaloner glanced up at his window as he entered the building. A lamp burned as usual; Stokes had reached the age where sleep was elusive, and he often read well into the night.

Chaloner climbed the stairs,
then wished he had gone to Tothill Street when he unlocked the door to find ice on the inside of the windows. He went to bed wrapped in blankets that were stiff with frost, but woke at midnight when a group of apprentices began bawling revolutionary songs in the tavern opposite. They were ones his company had sung during the wars, and the memories they evoked were mixed – camaraderie and pride, but also fear, grief and helplessness.

A rival band attempted to silence them, and a fight ensued. Chaloner went to the window when it spilled out into the road, and saw a pitched battle in progress, knives and sticks flashing in the dim light cast through the tavern door. Then he spotted a man with a faded blue hat and red cloak. It was the musician, lurking in a doorway as he watched the mêlée with unconcealed delight. Clad only in breeches and shirt, and with no weapons whatsoever, Chaloner charged down the stairs.

Unfortunately, the musician detected something amiss when a half-dressed man began to dodge through the mass of cudgels and blades towards him. He whipped around and disappeared down an alley. It took Chaloner several minutes to reach it, by which point his quarry was long gone. He searched for a while, but it was too dark, and he was not equipped for a lengthy chase.

He returned to Long Acre to find the brawl had escalated. He was punched once and kicked twice before he reached his door, only to discover that two drunks had taken refuge there. He shoved past, recognising them as patrons of the Antwerp Coffee House – they had been there the previous day when he had visited it with Dorislaus. He closed the door behind him, but their voices were loud and he could not help but hear what they were saying.

‘This would not have happened
in Cromwell’s day,’ one was declaring. ‘He knew how to keep order. Not like this licentious King.’

‘Mr Bankes will be keen to read an eye-witness account, though,’ slurred the other. ‘I shall write him one and leave it at the Antwerp. If he likes it, he will send me some money.’

‘Why would he be interested in a spat between two packs of hotheads?’ asked the other. ‘I thought he only wanted information about the Post Office.’

‘He appreciates stories about any aspect of London.’

‘You should be careful. We none of us know him, and he might transpire to be a Royalist. You do not want to be helping one of them.’

‘No, he will be a Roundhead, like us,’ predicted the other, ‘waiting for the revolution that will oust this corrupt regime. He might even be John Fry himself, come to lead us to victory. He sent me sixpence for my account of that villain Harper, you know.’

‘Harper? You do not want to tell tales about him, man! He might find out.’

‘I do not care. He is a venomous devil, and I do not want him in my city.’

The fighting eased at that point, and they took the opportunity to stagger away. His mind full of questions, Chaloner climbed the stairs to his attic. Who
was
Bankes, and why was he so intent on gathering information?
Could
he be John Fry? And was Harper really as dangerous as the two drunks seemed to think?

He turned his
thoughts to the musician. The riot was the second violent incident at which he had been present. Was it coincidence, or had
he
played the revolutionary songs that had caused the skirmish? And had he run away because he had something to hide, or because most itinerants were wary of people who looked at them too hard?

Chaloner went back to bed, and woke as dawn revealed a cold, dismal world of frost and clouds. A familiar tapping on the roof told him that the red kites had assembled there, ready to swoop down on any carrion or rotting meat in the street below. These magnificent scavengers were a common sight in London, and he had often thought that they did more to keep the streets clean than the men who were paid to collect rubbish.

When he saw he would have to break through a thick plate of ice to draw water from the barrel in the hall, Chaloner dispensed with washing and shaving. He donned a white shirt that was damply chill against his bare skin, and the black breeches and dark-grey long-coat he had worn the night before. He replaced the dagger he had lobbed in the General Letter Office the previous day, choosing one that was small enough to slip up his sleeve without being obvious, and then was ready to face whatever the day might bring. He met Stokes as he was walking down the stairs.

‘Did that fracas keep you awake last night?’ the veteran asked. ‘It was the printers’ apprentices, full of hubris because they threw stones at the Castlemaine coach yesterday. It was empty, so no one was harmed, although I imagine the horses had a fright, poor creatures.’

Chaloner wondered
whether Oxenbridge had put them up to it, and had arranged for rocks to be hurled at Palmer’s windows when the first assault had failed.

‘I detest Castlemaine,’ Stokes went on. ‘He turns a blind eye while his whore-wife makes a cuckold of him, and he will soon publish a tract telling us that we have nothing to fear from Catholics – to lull us into feeling safe before they slit our throats as we sleep.’

‘When you read it, you will see that is not the case,’ said Chaloner, feeling obliged to defend the man whose hospitality he had enjoyed the night before.

Stokes’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I shall not read it, and I recommend you do not either. It will be seditious, and if you are caught with a copy … well, suffice to say that such charges are easily made, but not so easily disproved. And I do not want to visit Newgate to hear your viol.’

‘I doubt—’

‘London has a dangerous feel at the moment,’ Stokes interrupted severely. ‘And I urge you to stay away from any whiff of treachery – which includes poring over Catholic pamphlets.’

Chaloner was tempted to say he would pore over what he liked, but Stokes was well-intentioned, and he did not want an argument. He gave a noncommittal nod.

‘Come with me to Will’s Coffee House,’ the veteran said, clapping a friendly arm around his shoulders. ‘Our fractured night means we could both do with a medicinal draught.’

Will’s had been Chaloner’s favourite coffee house before he had grown to regard the Rainbow with such affection. However, when he entered its pleasantly smoky interior, which smelled of roasted beans, rather than burned ones, and where the tobacco used by the patrons seemed sweeter and less pungent than that favoured by Farr’s clients, he wondered why he had been seduced away.

While Stokes responded
to Will’s ‘What news?’ with an account of the brawl, Chaloner picked up a copy of
The Intelligencer
, fresh from the printing presses that morning, and sat down to read it. He was bemused to learn that the government’s idea of headline news was that the wind was from the east in Deal. He was about to toss it away in disgust when a notice caught his eye:

Chaloner stared at it in astonishment. Fifty pounds was a colossal sum, so why was the Spymaster willing to pay so much? Or was the prize merely indicative of the seriousness with which the government viewed such charges? Regardless, it was recklessly generous, and Williamson would be inundated with information, most of it bogus, from people determined to have the money. It would take him an age to sort the genuine clues from the false ones.

He glanced up when Stokes
approached, a companion in tow. The newcomer was another elderly ex-military man, with baggy grey eyes that looked as though they had seen too much. Like Stokes, he carried himself ramrod straight, and sported a large, old-fashioned moustache.

‘This is James Cliffe,’ said Stokes. ‘A comrade from Naseby.’

‘Where we fought bravely,’ said Cliffe sourly. ‘Only to see our country run by men who have one aim in life: to debauch themselves into oblivion, and to get rich without doing any work.’

That sounded like two aims to Chaloner, but he stopped himself from saying so, suspecting that Cliffe was not the kind of man to appreciate levity when he was griping.

‘White Hall is a den of iniquity,’ agreed Stokes. ‘The Court sleeps all day, and only stirs itself in the afternoons when there are parties to attend.’

‘It is Lord Castlemaine’s fault,’ said Cliffe venomously. ‘If he kept his wanton wife in order, she would not be free to bewitch the King and distract him from affairs of state. I did not endure having three toes shot off at Naseby to see my country run by reprobates. It is a vile state of affairs.’

Chaloner stood abruptly. It was hardly sensible to engage in seditious talk in public places.

‘Sit down, man,’ ordered Stokes irritably. ‘You know we speak the truth. And we are not alone in our convictions. All London is appalled by the way the Court comports itself.’

‘Palmer should
do the decent thing and take her off to Rome with him,’ Cliffe railed on. ‘Once her hold over the King is broken, all will be well again. His Majesty will see the sorry state of his realm, and will take steps to remedy the matter.’

Chaloner had started to aim for the door, but Cliffe’s remarks made him stop and gape his disbelief. He had heard some naive opinions in his time, but this one outranked the others by a considerable margin.

‘He is right.’ Stokes nodded earnestly. ‘She is ruthlessly greedy, and her gambling debts alone are costing more than the Dutch war. She lost ten thousand pounds in a single night, a bill the King paid with public monies. Palmer should rein her in before she bankrupts the entire country.’

‘Oh, damnation!’ exclaimed Cliffe, as the door opened and a man strolled in. ‘It is that horrible Spymaster again. I am not staying if he is here.’

He left with such haste that Williamson’s eyes narrowed. Other patrons glanced up to see what had agitated Cliffe, and when they spotted the Spymaster, there was a general race for the door that had the owner gaping his dismay and Williamson’s expression hardening further still.

‘The wretched man has taken to coming here of late,’ explained Stokes to Chaloner, pulling his hat low over his eyes as he prepared to follow. ‘But I wish he would find somewhere else – it is a nuisance having to dash off every time he appears.’

Chaloner sat down with a sigh, feeling that to join the exodus would arouse Williamson’s suspicions, and he had enough to worry about without a spymaster thinking he was up to no good.

Pulling
The Intelligencer
towards
him, he ordered more coffee. One serving was more than sufficient to set his heart racing, but it would have looked peculiar to sit with an empty dish. And vile though coffee was, it was more palatable than tea, which tasted of dead vegetation, while chocolate was just plain nasty with its bitter flavour and oily texture.

He scowled when Williamson came to perch next to him – no one liked to be seen fraternising with a man who was universally hated, feared and distrusted, and he resented the presumption of familiarity. The fact that he was the only customer left, and it was considered poor etiquette to sit alone in coffee houses, was beside the point.

‘You are up early,’ said Williamson, brushing a few snowflakes from his coat. ‘And it is a bitterly cold morning, when most men would prefer to be in bed with their wives. I know I would rather be with mine. Marriage is a wonderful institution.’

He was newly wed to a woman he loved, but Chaloner did not want to discuss matrimonial bliss, acutely aware that his own situation was rather less satisfactory.

‘It will never catch on,’ he said. The Spymaster regarded him askance, and Chaloner gestured to the mixture in his dish. ‘Coffee. We drink it because it is fashionable, not because it is pleasant, and the moment something better comes along, we shall abandon it.’