Death in St James's Park (22 page)

‘I beg to differ. It has become a necessity to most of us, although I am not so sure about coffee
houses
. They are full of seditious chatter, and I would suppress the lot of them if I could. Especially the Antwerp. And its neighbour the Crown, come to that.’

‘The Crown is a tavern, not a coffee
house. Besides, it is popular with Royalists.’

‘Yes,’ said Williamson grimly. ‘But the fanatical kind, who want to kill every man, woman and child who sided with Parliament. What were you discussing just now, by the way? Your companions raced away as though they were on fire when they saw me.’

‘You do have that effect on people.’

Williamson regarded him coolly. ‘Cliffe and Stokes were officers in Cromwell’s army, so they are persons of interest to me. Were they advocating a return to republicanism?’

‘Actually, they were bemoaning the fact that Lady Castlemaine is transpiring to be more expensive than war with the Dutch.’

‘It is not true,’ said Williamson. Then he grimaced. ‘But she is doing her best to remedy the matter. She lost another five hundred pounds at cards last night, and her royal bastards are costing a fortune in earldoms and estates. Not to mention her appetite for clothes, jewellery, fine art …’

‘Speaking of money, was it wise to offer such a large reward for Gardner’s arrest?’

Williamson’s jaw tightened. ‘That was Clarendon’s idea. I advised him against it – said we would be swamped with misleading information from unsavoury individuals determined to have the cash – but he is determined to see Gardner in custody. To answer for his crimes.’

‘What crimes?’ Chaloner was uneasy. Why had the Earl insisted on such a foolish measure?

‘Allowing friends and relatives to send letters free of charge.’

Chaloner’s disquiet intensified. ‘For fifty pounds, I could send three thousand letters to Dover and two thousand to Bristol. The reward is vastly in excess of the offence.’

Williamson frowned. ‘I had not done the
arithmetic, but you are right. Does this mean your Earl has learned more about the Post Office than he is telling me?’

Chaloner wished he knew. ‘Perhaps he suspects Gardner of setting Thursday’s blast. That would explain the huge reward. I did not see him there, but my memory of the whole event is hazy.’

Williamson’s expression was bleak. ‘I cannot tell you how difficult it is to acquire information about the place. None of O’Neill’s clerks will talk to me, and I have used every trick in the book – bribes, blackmail, flattery. My men have even whisked them down dark alleys and put knives to their throats, but they either claim to know nothing or Harper rescues them before they can speak.’

‘Surely you have spies among them? You told me you did the other day.’

‘Of course I do, but they are worse than useless.’ Williamson sounded disgusted and dispirited in equal measure. ‘And
I
should be Postmaster anyway. It goes hand in hand with running the intelligence services, and not having control of the mail is a serious hindrance.’

Chaloner imagined it was: Thurloe had been given the Post Office when
he
had been Spymaster, and it was partly why he had been so very good at his job.

‘What about Gery? Has he learned anything that might help you?’

Williamson gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Him? I doubt it. And even if he did, he would not understand its significance. I admire his persistence, though – he refuses to be discouraged by blank stares and polite refusals, and even declines to be daunted by Harper. He spends a lot of time there.’

Chaloner’s thoughts whirled. Was it just
tenacity that saw Gery persevering where Williamson had conceded defeat, or did he have another reason for loitering?

‘Do you know Clement Oxenbridge?’ he asked, changing the subject abruptly.

A pained expression crossed Williamson’s face. ‘Yes, in that we have exchanged words on several occasions. And no, in that I can tell you nothing about him. I have set my best agents to learn where he lives and how he makes his living, but they have failed. Fatally, in two cases.’

‘Can you prove he killed them?’

‘No, or I would arrest him – which I would love to do, believe me. There is something unpleasantly eerie about that man, and when he appeared at a soirée that my wife and I were attending the other day, I took her home. I did not want her in the same room as him.’

It was a bad sign when even the Spymaster was intimidated, thought Chaloner.

Most of that day was an exercise in futility. Chaloner arrived at Newgate to learn it was still closed, because the cleaning was taking longer than expected. He was not disappointed to be spared the ordeal of stepping inside, although he knew he was only postponing the inevitable. He went to a tavern for wine to quell his roiling stomach, and asked questions about John Fry and Oxenbridge when several apprentices there claimed to know them. Unfortunately, it took some time to discover that they had never met them, and the brag was a lie intended to impress their fellows.

Next he managed to
corner Harper in a Cheapside tavern, but his efforts to engage him in conversation over a pie and ale were repelled, and he was obliged to beat a hasty retreat when Lamb arrived. He went to the Post Office afterwards, to see if
he
could persuade a clerk to talk, and was making headway with Rea – Leak’s friend with the taupe eyes – when Gery, Morland and Freer arrived. Gery stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Chaloner, and shook his head in disbelief.

‘Do you
want
to be dismissed? And do not say you are sending another letter, because you are too late – the post has gone.’ Gery rounded on Rea. ‘What were you telling him?’

‘Nothing,’ bleated Rea. ‘But he threatened to break my fingers if I tried to walk away.’

It was untrue, but Chaloner knew there was no point in saying so.

‘Arrest him, Gery,’ advised Morland, eyes bright with malice. ‘His interference may damage our investigation.’

‘Please do not,’ said Freer wearily. ‘Or Clarendon might order us to solve those bird murders, and
I
am not grubbing about by the sides of frozen lakes. Not in this weather.’

‘True,’ said Gery in distaste. ‘I hate ducks.’

‘Enough to poison a few?’ asked Chaloner coolly.

Gery stared at him. ‘What would be the point of that? It would render them unsafe to eat. And now
you
can answer some questions. What were you doing in the Antwerp yesterday?’

It was not surprising that a Parliamentarian stronghold should be monitored, and Chaloner supposed he would have to be careful if he went there again. ‘Drinking coffee.’

Gery’s expression
was triumphant. ‘With Isaac Dorislaus, a man dismissed from the Post Office for being a Roundhead.’

Gery had asked Thurloe about Dorislaus, too, thought Chaloner, regarding him with interest. He had overheard part of the conversation at Lincoln’s Inn himself. Did the marshal know that Dorislaus had been helping Thurloe with an investigation into the Post Office, and the question to Chaloner aimed to show that Gery had guessed that the ex-Spymaster still dabbled in matters that should not concern him? If so, it was worrying, because Stokes’s recent remark was true – accusations of sedition
were
easy to make but difficult to disprove.

‘I distrust Dorislaus intensely,’ Gery went on when Chaloner did not reply. ‘There is a whisper that he is a Dutch spy. However, he is a less immediate problem than you. Morland is right: it would be unwise to leave you free to meddle, so you can spend a few days incarcerated in the—’

‘Is that you, Chaloner?’ came an amiable voice, just as Chaloner was debating whether to make a run for it or stand his ground. It was O’Neill, Kate at his side. ‘Have you come for the post, or is this a social call? I should like to think we are friends now that we have been guests in your home.’

‘I came to ask when the post leaves for Spain,’ blustered Chaloner. ‘Rea was about to tell—’

‘Spain?’ drawled Morland. ‘I do not believe you. But show us the letter you have written, and I shall apologise for doubting your word.’

‘No.’ O’Neill raised his hand to prevent Chaloner from obliging – not that he could have done. ‘We do not inspect the private correspondence of others at the Post Office. How many more times must I say it?’

‘I hear Hannah has
gone to Epsom,’ said Kate, while Chaloner studied O’Neill, trying yet again to decide whether the man was a total fool or a very cunning schemer. ‘Will you be holding soirées in her absence? If so, perhaps you would bear us in mind for an invitation. We did so enjoy meeting Monsieur le Notre.’

‘Charming man,’ nodded O’Neill. ‘I might ask him to do something about the courtyard at the back of this building. Bishop allowed it to decay, you see, and now it is very seedy.’

‘You should let me see to it,’ said Kate. ‘However, I shall not plant any tulips. They are Dutch, and it would be unpatriotic. I think we should not exchange post with the United Provinces either. We are virtually at war, and a continued service will only aid their spies.’

‘There was only one spy in the Letter Office and I dismissed him,’ said O’Neill. ‘Isaac Dorislaus, a scoundrel who was almost certainly sending secrets to his Dutch masters. He was one of Thurloe’s minions so—’

‘No,’ said Chaloner sharply, unwilling to see Thurloe maligned in front of the fanatical Gery. ‘Thurloe no longer associates with Dorislaus, and has not done for years.’

‘I doubt you know either villain,’ said O’Neill, patting his shoulder. Chaloner fought the urge to shove him away, disliking both the liberty of contact and the disparaging of Thurloe. ‘Hannah would not tolerate it. She is a lady of integrity and good judgement.’

‘Not if she married Chaloner,’ muttered Morland.

*   *   *

The short winter day was
already well advanced, and Chaloner had learned nothing of use, despite enduring encounters with a lot of unpleasant people. Feeling the need for decent company, he went to Lincoln’s Inn, where he found Thurloe looking harried. He noted with concern the number of patented medicines that were lined up on his desk: Rowland Pepin’s Cure for Rupture, Constantine’s Strong Coffee Pills, Goddard’s Drops, Sydenham’s Laudanum.

‘You take too many of those,’ he said worriedly. ‘What if one reacts badly with another and—’

‘My health is my own concern, Thomas,’ said Thurloe shortly. ‘I know what I am doing. Incidentally, the Major sent me a concoction when he heard I was ailing, one he says he uses himself when he is low. Do you think I should try it?’

‘No!’ Chaloner was appalled. ‘You imprisoned him for trying to kill Cromwell, and he almost certainly bears you a grudge. Besides, he is hardly the picture of vigour himself. Where is it?’

Thurloe handed him a phial. ‘I would not have taken it anyway. I am not such a fool as to swallow unsolicited gifts. I was teasing you.’

It was not Chaloner’s idea of a joke. ‘Shall I ask Wiseman to test it? He is already looking at some bread I found in St James’s Park, which was used to kill a swan.’

He perched on the table and gave a concise account of all he had done and learned since their last meeting. Unfortunately, it was not very much, and did not take long. When he had finished, Thurloe leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

‘It is a pity you dropped the papers you took from that secret room. They might have allowed us to solve the mystery. And there was certainly no such chamber when I was Postmaster. Still, you did better than Isaac Dorislaus, who has never managed to enter the south wing at all.’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner,
declining to comment further.

‘My sources tell me that Jeremiah Copping is now fit to receive visitors. Go today. And while you are there, see if you can coax his sister, Widow Smith, to talk about Bishop and the Major. One is an ex-Postmaster, while the other supplies the Earl with information. I doubt either is involved in anything untoward, but all intelligence is useful.’

‘Does she know them, then?’

‘Yes. Her husband plotted to overthrow Cromwell in fifty-eight, but we thwarted him. He was arrested, but died in prison before he could be tried. He blamed Bishop and the Major for betraying him, and she continues to believe it.’

‘Did they betray him?’

‘No. As most plotters eventually learn to their cost, their fellow conspirators are invariably untrustworthy, despite fervent protestations of loyalty to their cause.’

‘Then why did Smith think Bishop and the Major were responsible?’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘I really could not say.’

Chaloner stared at him, knowing there was something he was not being told. Then he thought about the date: the year before Cromwell had died, and when the Commonwealth – by then a military dictatorship – had seemed invincible.

‘I suppose the culprit was someone who thought his interests would be better served by remaining faithful to Cromwell,’ he said, watching Thurloe closely. ‘Someone who had a foot in both camps even then, but was driven by self-interest. Morland!’

Thurloe winced. ‘You are too
astute for your own good sometimes.’

‘That snake,’ said Chaloner in disgust. ‘So he
was
lying when he said he had been a Royalist the whole time he was working for you. As I suspected all along, he changed sides only when the republic was lost.’

‘I bear him no malice. He was only trying to salvage something from a terrible situation.’

‘By informing on his colleagues and undermining you.’ Chaloner could not help but wonder whether the regime might have survived longer, perhaps even permanently, if Morland had not meddled. In his mind, it was a crime that could never be forgiven.

‘What is done is done, and there is no point dwelling on it. Please do not tell Widow Smith that Morland is the guilty party. I should not like his death on my conscience.’

‘She is the kind of person to kill, then?’

‘You will find out when you meet her,’ was all Thurloe would say to that question.

The Catherine Wheel was a large, graciously elegant building on Cheapside, although above its door was a vividly painted portrayal of the saint’s martyrdom that would have turned even the strongest of stomachs. Two hefty soldiers stood guard outside.