Death in St James's Park (36 page)

‘Gery is not making progress with the Post Office enquiry, no matter what
Clarendon tells you. Please tell us what you have learned.’

The Major looked ready to cry. ‘I cannot. I gave my word.’

‘And that is more important than the security of your country?’ asked Thurloe sternly. ‘Or your freedom, which you will not win if the Post Office plot succeeds? Indeed, you may even be considered implicit in the affair, and end up being locked away for ever.’

A sickly green flush spread across the Major’s face. ‘Oh, God! If only Wood had taken my tale to someone else – the matter might have been resolved by now.’

‘Then talk to us,’ urged Thurloe. ‘We shall see this plot thwarted. And afterwards, I shall arrange your release. I may not have the power I once enjoyed, but I still own a certain influence.’

The Major swallowed hard. ‘Let me think about it. It is not a decision to be taken lightly.’

‘Then do not think too long,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Or you may be too late.’

‘I shall give you my decision tonight. But not here – the place will explode with violence soon, and we do not want to be caught in the middle. Meet me outside the Tower at ten o’clock.’

‘You will be allowed out then?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.

‘I shall be returning there after yet another foray to meet Clarendon at White Hall. Be prompt, though. I shall have only a few moments before I am shut away for the night.’

‘We may need longer,’ objected Chaloner.

The Major regarded him soberly. ‘No we will not. The business is deadly, but not complicated.’

*   *   *

Chaloner and Thurloe went their separate
ways after leaving the Antwerp; Thurloe to see what could be learned from his other sources, and Chaloner to visit the Swan on Cornhill to ask about the letter Thurloe’s contact had intercepted, and then to check on the birds in the park. It did not take him long to learn what he needed to know from the tavern, after which he turned west, walking through a city where work was beginning to stop for the day and people were already hurrying home, eager to be out of the biting cold.

As he walked along Fleet Street, Chaloner stopped to buy a piece of gingerbread, which transpired to be a heavy slab of stodge that reminded him of army marching rations. He ate half, and was shoving the rest in his pocket for later when he met Maude, the formidable matron who kept Temperance’s bawdy house in order. She was pale, and carried a limp bundle.

‘I am glad Richard took Temperance away,’ she said. ‘This would have distressed her.’

‘Wiseman’s cat,’ said Chaloner, pulling the cloth away to reveal ginger fur. He looked at the hapless animal more closely and saw blood in its mouth. ‘Poisoned!’

‘I am going to take it to Long Acre for the kites, in case Richard boils it up and presents its skeleton to her as a gift. He is not very good at knowing what might win a woman’s heart.’ Maude handed him a piece of paper. ‘This was with it.’

It was a crude drawing of a man and a woman, hanging side by side on a gibbet. Chaloner’s only consolation was that the warning had missed its intended target, as his friends were safely away. He offered to dispose of the cat for her and continued towards the park, the sad bundle under his arm. He found Storey and Eliot in one of the sheds, bent over
something lying on a bench. Chaloner’s heart sank.

‘Another swan?’

‘Not this time,’ replied Storey with triumphant glee. ‘A fox. Wood shot it with a musket near Chelsey. He is quite the marksman, although he was disappointed when I told him it was not a brassica. Lord! I hope that is not a bird you have wrapped in that cloth, Chaloner.’

‘A poisoned cat. Will you bury it? If the Long Acre kites feed on it, they will die, too.’

Storey nodded. ‘Give it to us. We shall ensure it does no harm.’

Chaloner turned to Eliot. ‘Do you have room in your house for a guest?’

‘Of course,’ replied Eliot warmly. ‘My Jane loves visitors. How long will you be staying?’

‘Not me – Storey. It is no longer safe for him to go home.’ Briefly, he explained his reasons, and recommended requisitioning palace guards to protect the birds.

Storey was pale. ‘But I
did
see lights burning in the disused bit of the Post Office! Do you think these villains saw me looking out of my window then? It was before poor Eliza was murdered …’

‘Perhaps it explains why your house was burgled last night, too,’ said Eliot.

‘I was here guarding my birds,’ explained Storey, seeing Chaloner’s questioning glance. ‘And went home at dawn to find that someone had made off with Eliza, Harriet and Sharon. For their beautiful feathers, I suppose. Milliners will pay handsomely for them.’

But Chaloner suspected that someone was tidying up – removing evidence that might tie dead ducks to a poisoned courtier and whatever else was unfolding in Post House Yard. And as Rea had been alarmed when he had
learned that Chaloner had made the connection, it did not take a genius to guess the identity of the culprits.

‘Tell me about the lights you saw,’ he ordered.

‘Well, ten men or so were meeting there, and I recognised three of them – two clerks named Rea and Gardner, and that eerie Clement Oxenbridge, who looks like a barn owl with his white face and black eyes, although not as handsome.’

‘Did you notice anything else?’

‘Yes – two others attempting to spy on them. The first was that slippery Morland. He did not stay long, perhaps because it was raining and he did not like getting wet. He left, but it was not many moments before his place was taken by another.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Not personally, but I have heard him addressed as Harper. It was amusing to see him press his face against the window as he aimed to hear what was being said, and I laughed uproariously.’

‘What happened then?’ asked Eliot, while Chaloner thought that Storey would certainly have been fed poison had the clerks known what he had witnessed.

‘The meeting ended, and Harper watched them leave. It was then that I saw the expression on his face. It was dark and rather frightening, like a fox about to kill a bird. It made me stop laughing, I can tell you!’

It was nearing dusk by the time Chaloner
left the park. The sky was pale blue, fading to a bright orange in the west as the sun set behind the winter-bare trees. The air was still, and smelled of frost and frozen mud. It was going to be another bitter night, although at least a dry one.

It was obvious to Chaloner what had to be done next: arrest Rea, and force him to reveal the whereabouts of Oxenbridge and Gardner. And when all three were in custody, raise the matter of the Post Office, the King’s fowl and Mary’s murder. But he knew that was not going to happen: the Earl had already promised to dismiss him if he investigated any matter other than the birds, and was unlikely to listen long enough to be told that they were all connected.

He sincerely hoped the Major would come to his senses. Until then, all he could do was return to the Catherine Wheel, and trust that Copping would agree to provide information. Cursing the fact that he had been burdened with such an intractable employer, he started to walk towards Lincoln’s Inn to collect Thurloe, but had not gone far before a carriage pulled up beside him. It was a fine one, although
plain, and had been provided with thick curtains to keep its occupant warm. One was whisked aside to reveal Williamson.

‘It is good to be going home to a loving wife,’ said the Spymaster, so smugly that Chaloner wondered whether he perhaps thought that Hannah had gone to Epsom not to prepare the way for the Queen, but to escape from her husband. White Hall was always full of malicious gossip, and Hannah might well have fuelled the rumour mill with some innocently incautious comment.

‘I am glad we met,’ said Chaloner, electing to ignore the remark. ‘You need to arrest Rea.’

Williamson indicated that he was to climb into the coach. It had the luxury of an internal lamp, and its amber glow showed the lines of exhaustion and worry etched into the Spymaster’s face.

‘I cannot arrest him, Chaloner. Your master will not give me a warrant.’

‘Such niceties do not usually stop you.’

‘No,’ agreed Williamson. ‘But half of London is interested in the Post Office at the moment, and I cannot be seen detaining its employees illegally. It would see
me
in the Tower.’

‘Rea will probably be able to tell you where Gardner is hiding,’ Chaloner pointed out.

‘Perhaps, but my hands are tied.’ Williamson sighed wearily. ‘I must have interviewed a hundred people about Gardner today. We have been hopelessly swamped since Clarendon insisted on offering that reward. It was a stupid idea, and I hope to God it bears fruit. I should not like to think that I have been wasting my time.’

Chaloner strongly suspected that he had.

‘If I were Postmaster, I would have had him in custody by now,’ Williamson went on bitterly. ‘I could have intercepted letters
to and from his acquaintances, and learned where he is hiding. How can the government expect me to succeed with only limited access to the mail? People compare me unfavourably to Thurloe, but they forget that
he
controlled the Post Office.’

‘Perhaps the King will give you the position if O’Neill transpires to be corrupt.’

‘Perhaps.’ Williamson seemed to realise that he was revealing rather more of himself than was professional, and became gruffly businesslike. ‘Do you have anything to report?’

Chaloner held out the letter addressed to Bankes, which he had taken from Thurloe, when the germ of an idea had begun to form in his mind. ‘No, but I believe this is intended for you.’

Williamson’s eyes narrowed, and he did not take it. ‘Why would you think so?’

‘First, because I have just visited the Swan on Cornhill, and the landlord’s description of “Mr Bankes” sounded uncannily like you. Second, because this note is written in terms that an intelligencer might use to his spymaster. And third, because who else but a government official would be able to pay a “generuss summe” for information? Of course it is you.’

Williamson scowled as he snatched it. ‘Then let us hope no one else guesses, because Mr Bankes wins considerably more information than poor Mr Williamson.’

Chaloner was not surprised. It was one thing supplying intelligence to an anonymous source, but another al-together to give it to an unpopular spymaster. With the admission, a number of things became clear – and not just about Bankes either.

‘It is from Copping,’ he said. ‘Your mole at the Post Office.’

Williamson regarded
him coldly. ‘No, it is from Jonah McPiperige, a Wapping tailor.’

‘Jonah McPiperige is an anagram of Jeremiah Copping, who inadvertently let slip that he sells information. No wonder he was so terrified when I visited him! He believes he was injured in your service – that the gunpowder was aimed at him.’

‘And was it?’ Williamson made no further effort to refute Chaloner’s conclusions.

‘Possibly. The cart was brought by the Yeans, who panicked when they heard me shout. Instead of running away, they tried to douse the fuse, which was why they ran back to it – they were not stealing firewood as we all assumed. I suppose they realised that Copping was going to escape, so decided to postpone the operation. Except that such devices are not easy to put out once they are lit.’

‘But you had already seen the fuse burning, so the matter was going to be investigated whether the powder ignited or not,’ Williamson pointed out.

Chaloner recalled what Mother Greene had said about them. ‘Yes, but they did not have the wits to think it through. Whoever hired them probably wanted Copping’s death to be one of many, so you would not realise that your mole was the intended target. But the Yeans left the cart –
sans
horse – in a place that aroused my suspicion. They were well paid, but they were not up to the task.’

Williamson’s expression was difficult to read. ‘Who is this ruthless villain?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘But you had better tell Copping to leave London, because the
soldiers his sister has hired cannot protect him.’

‘Damn,’ muttered Williamson. ‘He is the only postal clerk I managed to turn, although his injury has kept him from helping me of late. You had better come with me, lest he is inclined to disregard the advice. He does not trust me, despite my best efforts to win his affection.’

‘You tried to turn Knight, too,’ said Chaloner, rather accusingly. ‘“Bankes” pestered him relentlessly with demands for information, and when they failed, you applied to Clarendon for an arrest warrant – to frighten him into complying.’

‘And Clarendon precipitated me by sending you to implement it,’ said Williamson in some disgust. ‘Knight would have been perfectly safe in my cells, but he was taken to Newgate instead, where he was murdered. It was a wretched waste.’

‘A waste indeed,’ said Chaloner coldly. ‘Of a decent man.’

Williamson waved a dismissive hand. ‘Yes, he was innocent, but Gardner was not. I intended to question them both, then give Knight enough money to live in Limehouse with his woman.’

‘The warrant was unnecessary. He was desperate to share what he had—’

‘He was only desperate once he was in Newgate. Before that, he was as closed-mouthed as all the other clerks. Why do you think I was obliged to contact him in the guise of Bankes? Because he refused to confide in his Spymaster General.’

‘He would have done, had you handled him properly. Your antics with Bankes terrified him – a mysterious man whom no one knows, and who might even be one of the Post Office’s criminals.’

Regret flared in Williamson’s eyes when he realised he
might have miscalculated, but it was quickly masked. He banged on the ceiling and called Copping’s address to his driver. Chaloner was about to jump out, preferring to interview the clerk with Thurloe, when it occurred to him that Copping might reveal more to the current Spymaster than a past one. He sat back. He could always take Thurloe to see Copping later, should Williamson’s efforts prove to be unfruitful.

Once they were underway, Williamson began to talk about the Post Office, revealing that he knew even less about what was happening than did Chaloner. The only detail the spy did not know was that the Alibond brothers were corrupt. With the revelation, more answers snapped into place.