Death in St James's Park (27 page)

‘No, leave it to me.’ Wiseman bristled at Chaloner’s immediate suspicion. ‘The rector is my patient, and I have prevailed upon him with this sort of request before. The ceremony will take place late tomorrow afternoon.’

Chaloner did not ask how he knew the minister would be available then – few men were equal to denying the bombastic surgeon and any patient would never dare risk it. He nodded his thanks, and gestured that they should make a start on Mary Wood. Wiseman led the way to a table, on which lay a woman of middling years. Her eyes were closed, and her body was covered in whitish vesicles. Chaloner instinctively stepped back, noting that Wiseman was clad in a thick leather apron and wore gloves.

‘The small-pox,’ the surgeon explained. ‘Not the malignant form, as I was led to believe, but the milder kind, from which most people recover. Mary would have been alive today if someone had not fed her poison. The rumours were right: she
was
murdered.’

He gestured to her face, where four small but distinct contusions lay in a line along her jaw.

‘Finger-marks,’
said Chaloner. He glanced at the surgeon. ‘Does it mean that someone held her head and forced her to swallow a toxin?’

‘It appears that way.’ Wiseman began to take samples from inside her mouth.

‘Why did you not notice the day she died? You said you were summoned to tend her.’

‘Yes, but she was dead when I arrived, so I did no more than give her a cursory glance. This is the first time I have examined her properly. I imagine the Earl will ask you to investigate, because she was a courtier, and we cannot have those dispatched with gay abandon. Not even her.’

‘You knew her, then?’

‘Yes. She had a spiteful tongue and sticky fingers,’ replied Wiseman, reiterating what Hannah had said. ‘Her husband will have to be told the sorry news, of course. Unfortunately, he went to Chelsey this morning, and will not be home until tomorrow.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I did not want him bursting in on me while I examined his wife, so I made some enquiries about his plans.’

‘Perhaps we should ride there and tell him. He has a right to know.’

But Wiseman shook his head. ‘She died last Thursday, and it is now Tuesday. Delaying a few hours will make no difference, and I am not eager to shatter his peace of mind.’

‘He cannot be that distressed by her death, not if he is gallivanting about the countryside.’

‘I imagine you will find out when you visit him. I cannot do it – I am too busy.’

Chaloner was not happy to be allotted such a task, but supposed there might be an advantage in breaking the
news. Wood was sufficiently lunatic that he might well be the culprit, and if the Earl did order an investigation, Chaloner would have a head start. He watched Wiseman go to a bench in a corner, and begin to test his samples on some hapless rodent.

‘Did you analyse that potion I gave you last night?’ he asked.

Wiseman nodded. ‘It is Epsom Water – full of natural salts that promote good health. It is expensive, and the phial is crystal, not glass. A handsome gift. Come here. Quickly!’

Chaloner did not move. ‘Why?’

Wiseman turned to face him, and Chaloner was alarmed by his sudden pallor. ‘It is too late – the rat is dead. I wanted you to see it, because the sample I have just taken from Mary produced exactly the same symptoms as the toxin in the bread you gave me – the stuff that killed the birds.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Is it readily available then?’

‘It is not,’ said Wiseman with conviction. ‘In fact, I have never encountered it before, which means it has either been imported from abroad, or some reckless lunatic has been experimenting.’

‘An apothecary?’ asked Chaloner.

‘I sincerely doubt it. They tend to devise remedies that cure their customers, not kill them. However, think of the repercussions of this vile toxin on your investigation. It means you do not have two separate cases here, Chaloner. You have one.’

Chaloner
accepted the offer of wine in Kersey’s sitting room, because he was bemused by the connection Wiseman had made, and wanted to mull it over while the surgeon was available for questions. Wiseman settled his vast red bulk in Kersey’s best chair, and began to describe the examinations he had conducted on the victims of the Post Office explosion. Kersey listened with the interest of a fellow professional, while Chaloner thought about Mary and the King’s fowl.

Other than the poison, what tied them together? The bird-killers were either courtiers or had access to White Hall, while Mary had been a courtier and so was her husband. Wood was also on Storey’s list of suspects. Could Wood have taken against the royal collection for lunatic reasons of his own, and then used the same toxin on his wife? Or was the culprit someone with a grudge against the monarchy, who wanted to deprive the Queen of a dresser and the King of his ducks? Did it mean Gery and Wood could be discounted, because of their Royalist convictions?

‘I have not had much previous experience with blast injuries,’
Wiseman was telling Kersey with ghoulish delight. ‘So I learned a great deal from the Post House Yard incident.’

‘It must have been a huge discharge to mangle the Alibond brothers,’ said the charnel-house keeper. ‘They were large men. Did you examine those two boys, by the way? Poor little mites.’

‘I did, but they were not boys – they were stunted men in their twenties. They should have been agile enough to run, and I do not understand why they lingered.’

‘They were going to steal logs.’ Chaloner had a vague recollection of a hand reaching out to grab one, and Temperance had seen it, too. ‘The cart was full of firewood.’

‘A tempting target for the poor,’ sighed Kersey. ‘Especially this weather.’

‘But there was money in their pockets,’ said Wiseman. ‘A lot of it. Why filch logs when they had enough to buy a coppice? You are wrong, Chaloner: they were not interested in wood.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘Then what else would they have been doing?’

‘Who knows?’ shrugged Wiseman. ‘Your warning was perfectly clear, and everyone else ran away. They, on the other hand, moved
towards
the cart. I saw them myself.’

‘Maybe it was they who made the thing explode,’ suggested Kersey.

‘No, there was a fuse,’ said Chaloner. ‘I saw the smoke, and I smelt it, too. It was burning long before they reached the vehicle.’

‘Then perhaps they underestimated the danger, and wanted a ringside seat.’ Kersey moved to another subject. ‘Is it true that the Company of Barber-Surgeons is

dissatisfied with the King, Wiseman? I hear they joined the butchers in a riot last night.’

‘Our apprentices have always been unruly,’ replied Wiseman stiffly. ‘Which is why I never take them on as pupils. I do not mind lecturing or allowing them to watch me conduct anatomies, but I refuse to have them trailing after me while I deal with patients.’

‘So is your Company rebelling or not?’ asked Kersey impatiently.

Wiseman regarded him coolly. ‘Only the students. Their masters have more sense.’

When they left the charnel house, Wiseman invited Chaloner to share a hackney to Fleet Street. As Chaloner intended to visit the Fleet Rookery to find out why the Yeans had died with a fortune in their pockets, he was happy to accept. However, he was not happy when the coach trundled past Wiseman’s house and continued down Ludgate Hill.

‘We are going to the Crown,’ explained Wiseman, reaching forward to stop him from banging on the ceiling to tell the driver to stop. ‘Where Temperance will be waiting. No, do not scowl! A decent meal will rebalance your humours, and I do not like the pallor that hangs about you.’

‘I doubt Temperance will be pleased. Not if she is expecting a romantic occasion for two.’

‘We are never romantic in public;
it would not be seemly,’ declared the surgeon, leaving Chaloner to wonder exactly what he understood by the word.

Unwilling to jump out of a moving carriage, Chaloner sat back and watched the buildings flash by – Ludgate, St Paul’s, Cutlers’ Hall – until they arrived at Dowgate Hill. He alighted reluctantly, aware that he was again wearing clothes that were un-Cavalier, and that might see him in trouble somewhere like the Crown.

He felt even more uncomfortable when the first people he saw there were Gery, Morland and Freer. Gery stopped eating to gaze at Chaloner with open hatred, and the spy was sure he would have attacked had they been in a less public place. Freer offered the marshal another slice of pie, which resulted in the dish being dashed from the table with a furious sweep of the arm.

The clatter silenced the rumble of conversation in the tavern, although Wiseman did not seem to notice, intent as he was on meeting his lover. He thrust his way through the crowd, not caring whom he shunted, and Chaloner followed, grateful for the speed with which they were moving away from Gery. However, it was not long before he sensed someone close behind him. He whipped around, anticipating an attack, but it was only Freer.

‘Gery sent me to tell you to leave London.’ Freer’s expression was apologetic. ‘You had better do it, Tom – he will not forgive that prank with the icy water. Go while you can.’

‘The Earl plans to send me to Russia when the bird-killer is caught,’ replied Chaloner, not without rancour. ‘So I will not be here for much longer, anyway.’

Freer nodded. ‘I will tell him, but be careful. He is a very dangerous man.’

As Chaloner had predicted, Temperance
was not pleased to learn that her intimate dinner was to be shared, although she struggled to mask her disappointment when Wiseman shot her an admonishing glance.

‘I have ordered woodcock,’ she said. ‘And gherkins. I am not sure what gherkins are, but they are expensive, so they must be good. Followed by chicken and quail.’

‘Birds,’ said Chaloner unhappily.

‘Dead ones,’ said Wiseman cheerfully, and launched into an account of what had happened to Mary Wood. Temperance listened with rapt attention, while Chaloner supposed he must be growing squeamish, because the grisly monologue deprived him of any appetite he might have had. Wiseman packed some of the food in a cloth, and made him put it in his pocket for later.

At that point, several patrons began a loud-voiced discussion about what they would do to any Roundhead who still approved of Cromwell. They were vicious and uncompromising, and Chaloner was shocked by the depth of their passion. He left as soon as he could do so politely, aiming for the back door to avoid passing them.

He was almost outside when he saw a man sitting alone wearing a thick cloak and a wide-brimmed hat that shielded his face. The disguise did not extend to his hands, though, and Chaloner recognised them immediately: they had played a viol in Palmer’s house. Not far away were two yeomen, laughing and chatting with the landlord.

‘Oh, it is you,’ whispered the Major, as Chaloner slid on to the bench next to him. His face was shiny with sweat, and his frightened eyes were everywhere. ‘You startled me.’

‘What are you doing?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Surely not spying? That would be reckless.’

‘It is not my idea, I assure you,’ said the Major miserably. ‘But Gery said I would never be released unless I help him monitor potential rebels.’ His hand shook as he shoved a piece of paper across the table. ‘So here is my report. Give it to Clarendon.’

‘But everyone in here is a Royalist,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘The government has nothing to fear from them. They are all like Gery, fanatical in their loyalty.’

‘Yes, but they itch to fight Roundheads, so they are a threat to the King’s peace,’ explained the Major. ‘Why do they not understand that violence begets nothing but more violence?’

‘If I am to be your messenger-boy, tell me why the Post Office—’

‘Chaloner, please!’ groaned the Major. ‘I
cannot
talk to you, so why do you insist on hounding me? However, if you must meddle, then investigate the threat on my life – this assassination that is the talk of all London. I should hate to be cut down the moment I have won my freedom.’

Chaloner stood. ‘You might be safer if you did not spy in places like the Crown. Some folk here will remember that you were in the New Model Army.’

The Major swallowed hard, and Chaloner saw he was on the verge of tears. ‘So were you, according to Gery, although you must have been very young. Did we ever meet?’

‘Not that I recall,’ lied Chaloner.
The Major might never trust him if reminded of the arrogantly precocious brat who had barracked him before the Battle of Naseby.

Chaloner hesitated when he was outside, pondering what was more urgent – investigating Oxenbridge, cornering Harper, tracking Gardner, delivering Knight’s letter, or asking after the Yeans. He was still weighing up his options when the door opened and the Major stepped out. His yeomen were not with him, and Chaloner wondered whether he was making a bid for escape.

He did not go far. Glancing around with such obvious unease that it attracted amused smirks from passers-by, the Major entered the Antwerp Coffee House. Curious, Chaloner followed, settling in a smoky recess at the back of the room where he pretended to read a newsbook. The Major opted for a seat in a corner, which made it plain that he was there to monitor what was going on. Chaloner cringed when he began to make notes. Did the man
want
to be caught?

Fortunately for the Major, the Antwerp’s customers were too interested in bawling their opinions to notice. Their debate was essentially the same as the one in the Crown, the only difference being that it was Cavaliers cast in the role of villain. Landlord Young was busy with his coffee jug, and Chaloner recognised several leading army officers from the wars. His elderly neighbour Stokes was among them, Cliffe at his side, although they took no part in the discussion, and seemed dismayed by the braying antagonism.

The Major did not stay long. Once outside,
he cornered an urchin, and paid him a penny to take his report to White Hall. Chaloner caught the lad before he had scampered too far, and offered him sixpence for it. The boy handed it over with a delighted grin.

Chaloner returned to the Crown just in time to hear the Major assure his agitated guards that he had only gone to look for a latrine. His voice shook almost uncontrollably, and one of them took his arm, apparently afraid he might faint. They believed the lie – or were too relieved by his reappearance to argue – and the three of them climbed into a hackney bound for the Tower.