Death in St James's Park (41 page)

‘And John Fry is the
ringleader?’ asked the Earl when he had finished. His voice was stronger now, and there was colour in his cheeks. He sipped more wine. ‘He is behind this diabolical plot?’

‘I believe so. But he is not working alone. One of his cronies is Clement Oxenbridge, which is why I wanted to arrest him earlier.’

‘Oxenbridge is like mist – you would never have caught him. But I am not surprised he is mixed up in it. There is something distinctly evil about him. Who else is involved?’

‘Postal clerks – Rea, Gardner, Harper and Lamb. And there are others who—’

‘O’Neill must be aware of what is happening in his domain,’ interrupted the Earl. ‘And I have recently come to realise that the tales he told to get Bishop dismissed as Postmaster were lies. He fabricated evidence that saw the Major incarcerated, too. Ergo, he is certainly the kind of man to launch sinister plots.’

‘How would rebellion profit him?’

‘Perhaps he plans to use it as an excuse to raise postal charges. You look sceptical, but we are talking about vast sums of money, and men lose their reason where large fortunes are concerned.’

That was certainly true, thought Chaloner. He continued with his list of suspects. ‘Then there is Monsieur le Notre, who seems to have arrived in London just as all this started. And Wood, who has been relieved of an inconvenient wife.’

The Earl was thoughtful. ‘So how shall we proceed?’

‘We need to arrest Fry,
Oxenbridge and the four clerks as quickly as possible. I imagine they will answer questions in exchange for their lives once they are in the Tower.’ Chaloner stood. ‘If you prepare the warrants and lend me some soldiers, I will set about hunting them down.’

But the Earl shook his head. ‘I told you – Oxenbridge is like mist and you will not lay hold of him. Meanwhile, Gardner has evaded Williamson for a week already, and I doubt Fry will prove any easier. Unless you know where he lives?’

‘No, but—’

‘I think a bold stroke is called for,’ the Earl went on. ‘One that will smash this nasty plot once and for all. So I suggest we stage an armed raid on the Post Office, and seize every man in it. That will shake loose some secrets.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘But some of the clerks are innocent, and such an attack will put them in danger. It is not—’

‘I am Lord Chancellor of England,’ declared the Earl, a deep, slow anger burning in his eyes. Rage was driving him now, along with determination to repay those who had manipulated him so cruelly. ‘And if I say we shall raid the Post Office, then consider it raided.’

‘Raided by whom? The palace guards will not be equal to the task, and Gery and his men have their own agenda – which will not include working with us.’

‘Williamson will provide troops,’ determined the Earl. ‘I shall send a guard to appraise him of the situation at once. It is time he did something useful. He has spent the last few days doing nothing but interview witnesses who claim to have seen Gardner.’

‘Was it your idea to offer
such an enormous reward?’ asked Chaloner, a little pointedly.

‘Gery’s.’ The Earl was more interested in the task at hand. ‘Will Thurloe help us? Ask him immediately, then hurry to the Post Office and monitor it until I bring my army.’

‘
Your
army?’ The Earl was not a good strategist, and Chaloner was loath to see him head what might be a complex and dangerous operation.

‘Yes,’ replied the Earl crisply. He surged to his feet and reached for his clothes. ‘Now go and carry out my orders. When I arrive, you can provide me with a tactical report of the situation, and we shall attack together, swords in our hands.’

‘Oh, Christ!’ gulped Chaloner, wishing he had just asked for Williamson’s home address.

Stomach churning with apprehension, Chaloner hurried towards Lincoln’s Inn. Dawn was breaking, and he wondered what the day would bring. There was certainly something amiss on the streets: the shops of respectable traders were closed, and there were very few carriages or hackneys about. Gangs of youths prowled, many pointing at the comet and murmuring about the omen it represented, and there was an atmosphere of excited anticipation that was rarely felt so early in the day. The scent of trouble was thick in the air.

Chaloner arrived to find Thurloe still out, and the note he had left was unread. He scrawled another sentence on the bottom, describing the Earl’s sudden conversion into a man of action. He did not need to add that it was a worrying development: Thurloe would know without being told.

Because he was desperate to find
the ex-Spymaster – Chaloner could not stop the Earl from doing anything reckless, but Thurloe might – he went again to Dorislaus’s rooms. He felt a surge of hope when he saw a light, but it was dashed when he opened the door to find the Anglo-Dutchman alone. Dorislaus jumped when Chaloner entered uninvited.

‘Have you come to see whether I am writing secret messages to The Hague?’ he asked coldly. ‘I know Vanderhuyden told you that I am the culprit, but any fool should be able to see it is him.’

‘Vanderhuyden is dead.’ Chaloner leaned tiredly against the wall. ‘But he confessed to being a spy first. God only knows what damage has been done.’

‘You killed him?’ asked Dorislaus uneasily, eyeing the sword at Chaloner’s side.

‘Someone decided he was no longer useful and left him toxic wine. Have you seen Thurloe?’

‘Not since last night. We went to the Tower together, where that cowardly Major decided his personal safety was more important than saving London. Then we visited some of our contacts, but they could not help us, so we separated. He left you a note in Lincoln’s Inn.’

Chaloner was beginning to be worried. Was the ex-Spymaster’s displeasure with his ineptitude the reason why he had not employed their usual code, or had he been forced to write against his will, so using plain English was a plea for help? And if so, was Dorislaus involved?

‘I need to find him,’ he said tersely. ‘Where is he?’

‘He said he was going to see a few old friends. I do not know who – you know how careful he is about such matters – so I have no idea where he might be. Why? What is happening?’

Chaloner was not sure what to do. He
was desperately tired, his head throbbed with tension, and the bitter weather was making his lame leg ache, so it was difficult to think clearly. He decided to take a chance, although it was one he would have avoided, had there been a choice.

‘There will be a raid on the Post Office this morning,’ he explained. ‘I am supposed to monitor the place until an “army” arrives. I cannot do that and look for Thurloe. Will you—’

‘Gery is acting at last?’ pounced Dorislaus. ‘Good! It is about time he realised that asking questions of liars and cheats will get him nowhere.’

‘Hopefully, Gery will not be there. Williamson will.’

‘Even better.’ Dorislaus started to scribble on a piece of paper, but when Chaloner leaned over his shoulder, he saw it was in cipher. ‘No one but Thurloe will be able to translate this. I shall leave it here, so if he visits, he will know where to join us.’

‘Us?’ asked Chaloner warily.

‘Of course. You will need help if you are to present the Earl with an accurate report.’

‘One of us should look for Thurloe.’

‘How?’ asked Dorislaus reasonably. ‘We do not know where to start, and he might be anywhere. It is far more sensible for us both to go to Post House Yard.’

Chaloner nodded, but wished he could have read the message. He watched unhappily as Dorislaus propped it against a jug, then went to a cupboard where he withdrew a sword, three knives and a pair of handguns. Chaloner watched with mounting alarm.

‘I did not know you were a fighting man.’

Dorislaus shrugged. ‘I never used to be, but these are uncertain times, and I am cognisant of the fate of my father.
I
do not intend to be murdered by men purporting to be my friends.’

Interpreting it as a reminder that
Dorislaus was as wary of him as he was of Dorislaus, Chaloner followed him outside. He shivered. It was another bitingly cold morning, and snow was in the air. He glanced up at clouds that were dark, heavy and sullen. He was not usually fanciful, but it seemed they held a message: that the day would bring suffering, danger and despair, and that at the end of it, good men would lie dead.

The Post Office should have been busy, because overseas mail was collected on Fridays, but the door was closed and there was a notice pinned to it. Dorislaus went to read it, while Chaloner lurked in the shadows, watching frustrated customers go away with their letters still in their hands.

‘Snowdrifts have closed all the main highways out of London,’ reported Dorislaus. ‘So no mail is being accepted until further notice.’

‘Blocked roads should not stop the clerks from taking post,’ said Chaloner, worried. ‘Indeed, they should be pleased, as it gives Williamson’s spies more time to read it.’

‘Yes, but O’Neill controls the General Letter Office, not Williamson,’ Dorislaus pointed out. ‘I imagine our Spymaster is delighted by what is unfolding here – either endemic corruption
or
a treasonous plot will see O’Neill disgraced. And then who will step into his shoes?’

Chaloner stared at him. Dorislaus was right: Williamson would benefit from trouble at the Post Office. Was that why he had allowed himself to be distracted by the hunt for Gardner? To ensure the plot succeeded? But rebellion was not in his interests either – as Spymaster, he was expected to thwart that kind of thing. Or was he confident that all blame would lie with the Earl for hiring the incompetent Gery to solve the case? Chaloner rubbed his head, trying desperately to think.

‘It might take Clarendon some
time to raise an army,’ Dorislaus went on. ‘And we cannot wait here. Someone will notice us, and we should not squander the element of surprise by loitering – it may be the only advantage we hold. We need somewhere to hide until he comes.’

He was right again, and Chaloner cursed his sluggish wits for not seeing it first. He led the way to Storey’s house, where he picked the lock on the door. They entered, and Dorislaus whistled at the chaos within: the place had been thoroughly ransacked, presumably by whoever had been detailed to steal the dead ducks. Chaloner hurried to the parlour at the back.

‘No wonder they wanted Storey distracted,’ breathed Dorislaus, wide-eyed. ‘If I had known he had a view like this, I would have moved in with him!’

Lights glowed under the window shutters in the disused wing, and it was so obvious that something was about to happen that every nerve in Chaloner’s body thrummed with tension. Dorislaus began to chatter, an annoying buzz that prevented Chaloner from concentrating on the questions that tumbled through his mind.

‘Palmer’s book will go on sale today, at Speed’s shop on Fleet Street,’ the Anglo-Dutchman burbled. ‘I cannot see that calming turbulent waters, because no one likes Catholics, and London does not want to hear that they are the innocent victims of bigotry.’

‘Oh, God!’ Chaloner had forgotten that the nobleman’s entry into the world of publishing was scheduled for that day, and Dorislaus was right: it would cause trouble.

‘Speed plans to sell the first
copies in a couple of hours,’ Dorislaus wittered on. ‘And Palmer himself will be available to autograph them.’

Chaloner closed his eyes in despair. ‘The apprentices are spoiling for a fight, and Palmer might inadvertently provide the spark that ignites a riot. Other factions will join in …’

‘All fuelled by John Fry’s incendiary messages,’ agreed Dorislaus.

Chaloner was hopelessly confused. ‘But Thurloe says Fry is dead.’

‘I know, but a lot of rumours surrounded Fry’s “death” eight years ago, and you do not get smoke without a fire. Fry is obviously alive, and poised to lead one of the greatest rebellions that London has ever seen, echoed in Hull, Sussex, Bristol and God knows where else.’

Chaloner knew what would happen then: troops would be called to stamp it out, and the streets would run with blood. Royalists would race to defend the monarchy, Parliamentarians would clamour for a republic, and fanatics of every kind would aggravate the situation with incendiary speeches. London would descend into anarchy, after which the country would be plunged into yet another bout of political turmoil.

‘Perhaps we should leave,’ said Dorislaus softly, evidently thinking the same thing. ‘Leave London, I mean. We are deluding ourselves if we think Clarendon’s so-called army can stop what has been set in motion. The rebels will win, and we shall be hanged for trying to thwart them.’

‘They will not win,’ said Chaloner grimly.

‘Let us hope you are right.’ Dorislaus laughed suddenly. ‘What would my father and your uncle think if they could see us now – pondering whether to risk our necks to save the King?’

Chaloner supposed the situation did smack
of the ludicrous. But as Thurloe had pointed out days ago, the King was their leader now, and Chaloner was on the Lord Chancellor’s staff. He knew where his loyalties lay. So apparently did Dorislaus, because he went to Storey’s front door and began to monitor Post House Yard without another word. Chaloner watched the courtyard, but staring at closed shutters was pointless, and it was not long before he joined the Anglo-Dutchman at the front of the house.

‘Look,’ he whispered after a while, nudging Dorislaus sharply. ‘Something is happening.’

Clerks were arriving singly and in pairs. All wore thick cloaks and hats that concealed their faces, but Chaloner identified Lamb by his bulk and Harper by his cat-like prowl.

‘Thank God!’ breathed Dorislaus, as a slight, almost girlish figure struggled for several minutes before he was able to open the door. ‘That is Samuel Morland, which means Gery and your Earl cannot be too far away.’

‘How do you know it is Morland?’ asked Chaloner warily.

‘Because I spent hours watching the Post Office for Thurloe. That latch defeats Morland every time.’

‘
Every
time?’ Chaloner knew Dorislaus was telling the truth about the door, because he had seen the secretary struggle with it himself. ‘How often does he come here?’