Death in St James's Park (8 page)

‘The newsbooks!’ spat Kate. ‘You cannot believe anything you read in those. Personally, I am of the belief that it is Fry who has been agitating the apprentices. The King should let me lead a party of militia to root him out. Then we could hang, draw and quarter him in Smithfield, as a warning to other would-be traitors.’

Chaloner shuddered, feeling there had already been too much blood shed for politics. Reluctantly, he re-entered the affray, where he was immediately accosted by a drunken courtier with foolish opinions about the Dutch. Time passed so slowly that he went to the clock Hannah had
recently purchased at great expense, and shook it, to see whether it had stopped working. Something dropped out on to the floor, and there was a metallic twang as pieces sprang loose inside.

‘I should set it down and disavow all knowledge, if I were you.’

The speaker was le Notre, his eyes bright with amusement. Chaloner did not want to do as he was told, but unless he intended to hold the clock all night, he had no choice but to put it back on the table. He did so carefully, wincing when its face tilted at a peculiar angle inside the case.

‘When Hannah notices, tell her O’Neill did it,’ le Notre continued. His French had a lazy, aristocratic drawl that suggested he was rather more than a designer of gardens. ‘She should not pursue a friendship with him anyway. Or his wife.’

‘Why not?’ asked Chaloner, taken aback by the presumptuous advice.

‘Because they hate nonconformists, and will make bad enemies if they discover her religion.’

Chaloner was uncomfortable. It was not illegal to follow the Old Faith, but it was strongly discouraged, and Hannah would find herself barred from all manner of places and occasions should her conversion become common knowledge. ‘She is not—’

‘The Queen invited me to her private chapel this morning, and I saw Hannah accept the Host from the priest,’ interrupted le Notre. ‘But do not worry, I am not a man to betray a fellow Catholic. However, you should warn her against the O’Neills.’

‘Very well,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether she would listen. ‘Thank you.’

‘Your King promised
religious tolerance when he reclaimed his throne, but it has not come to pass. Indeed, I read in your government’s newsbook –
The Intelligencer
– this morning that he has ordered his country to dispense with Lent this year. Dispense with Lent! Whatever next?’

‘On what grounds?’ asked Chaloner, who had not had time for reading that day.

‘The article did not say. It merely reported that the King “doth for good reasons think that in this present year, no proclamation do issue forth for the strict observance of Lent”. I imagine these “good reasons” are so that it does not curtail his merry lifestyle.’

Chaloner made no reply, loath to engage in treasonous discussions with foreigners.

‘Lord Castlemaine will put him right, though,’ le Notre went on. ‘He has written a book, an apology for Catholics, which will be published next week. Will Hannah purchase a copy?’

‘Will you?’ Chaloner was not about to answer a question that might see his wife in trouble.

Le Notre smiled. ‘Yes. Palmer is an intelligent man, and will have sensible things to say. But I must not monopolise you, Monsieur Chaloner. Good evening. I hope our paths cross again.’

Chaloner did not. The Frenchman was far too outspoken for him.

Hannah’s soirée finished very late, and for once Chaloner was grateful that they had a large body of servants, because there was a lot to clean up. Unfortunately, they did so noisily, and although Hannah seemed oblivious to the racket, it kept him awake well into the small hours. He supposed he could have ordered them to be quiet, but it seemed
unreasonable to demand silence so that he could sleep when he imagined they would like to be abed themselves.

He had his revenge the following morning, though, waking long before dawn and clattering in the kitchen until Joan the housekeeper appeared. She was a grim-faced woman whose loose black clothes and beady eyes always put him in mind of a crow. She had given up treating him respectfully months before, when she had realised that the high regard in which Hannah held her meant she was immune from dismissal, and that any disagreements were put down to Chaloner’s irascible temper and not her own. She regarded him coldly.

‘May I help you with something? If so, please wait in the drawing room.’

It was a none too subtle reminder that Chaloner was trespassing in the domain she considered to be her own. Chaloner did not agree. The kitchen was by far the most comfortable room in the house, and the warmest, too, with a fire burning all day. He also liked the pleasing aromas of baking – unless Hannah happened to be plying her culinary skills, in which case wild horses would not have dragged him there. His wife’s inability to cook was legendary, and it was fortunate that the servants prepared most of their meals, or they would have starved.

‘I can manage, thank you,’ he replied shortly.

‘Manage with what?’ Joan demanded. ‘If it is food you want, I shall see what is available. Some fish-head soup, perhaps. Or boiled vegetable parings, which are very wholesome.’

‘Some milk will suffice,’ said Chaloner, sure Hannah was not offered such unappealing fare when she visited the kitchen.

He saw the instant
glee on Joan’s face: she believed cold milk was poisonous. She went to pour him some, handing him a far larger cup than he would have taken for himself. He sipped it gingerly, supposing it was sour and she intended to make him sick, so he was astonished to discover that it was sweet and creamy. He nodded his thanks, and left the house as the first light began to steal across the city’s grey streets.

It was too early to visit Storey and expect to be civilly received, so Chaloner wandered rather aimlessly, thinking about Hannah’s penchant for people with whom he had nothing in common. Why in God’s name had he married her? Was it because they had both been lonely, and it had been an act of desperation? Head bowed, deep in gloomy thoughts, he walked east.

It was another frigid day, and although it was not snowing, the wind was sharp. He skidded frequently on ice, especially at the sides of the roads where water had frozen in the gutters. Like the previous morning, the city was slower to wake than normal, with people reluctant to leave their fires and warm beds. It was quieter, too, with street vendors saving their voices for the crowds they hoped would come later, and there were fewer carts and carriages on the roads.

He passed St Paul’s Cathedral, the majestic but crumbling Gothic edifice that was loved by everyone except architects, who itched to replace it with something of their own devising. It dwarfed the surrounding buildings, even without the lofty spire that had been damaged by lightning a century before. What caught Chaloner’s attention that day, however, was not its grandeur, but the fact that a large group of youths had gathered outside it, talking in low voices.

He stared at them
as he passed. Their clothes suggested they were apprentices from several different guilds, including ones that were traditional enemies. He was uneasy – apprentices were an unruly, volatile crowd, and unrest among them often presaged greater trouble elsewhere. He wondered what they were doing together. Was it anything to do with the rumours that the political agitator John Fry was in the city – that they expected him to lead them in some sort of rebellion? Chaloner hoped not. London had seen far too much trouble over the past two decades, and it was time for a little peace.

He continued walking, threading through the tangle of lanes between Watling Street and Dowgate Hill, and to kill time, he entered the fuggy warmth of the Antwerp Coffee House, hoping a dose of the brew would sharpen his wits. The shop was busy, and the odour of burning beans mingled with the reek of a dozen tobacco pipes and the sharper tang of a badly vented chimney.

He sat at an empty table, and opened the latest news-book – twice-weekly publications in which the government gave people its versions of domestic and foreign affairs. He learned with some bemusement that le Notre had been right about the King’s decision to ignore the strictures of Lent, and His Majesty had indeed issued a proclamation saying that everyone could ignore it that year. He also learned that two Quaker meetings had been raided in Ross for no reason other than bigoted intolerance, and that the French Court was eagerly awaiting the Grand Ballet.

As he flicked through the rest of the paper, he became aware that the conversation at the next table was about Lady Castlemaine, who had amassed massive gambling debts and expected the King, via the taxpayer, to settle them. It
occurred to him then that Temperance had decried the Antwerp for being the haunt of disgruntled Parliamentarians, and he was on the verge of leaving when someone mentioned the comet that was currently blazing across the heavens, and the conversation moved to less contentious issues.

He relaxed a little, and sipped his coffee. It had a pleasantly nutty flavour, quite unlike the bitter concoction that was served in the place he usually frequented. He still did not like it, but at least it allowed him to understand why others did. It was probably a good deal more palatable with sugar, but he never took that, as a silent and probably meaningless protest against the way it was produced on plantations.

He had just started to browse a list of all the goods that had been imported through Plymouth the previous year – the government’s idea of entertaining reading – when two men approached. He glanced up warily, hoping they had not come to berate him for sitting alone. Coffee houses were not places for solitude, and he had broken an unwritten rule by taking a seat at an empty table.

‘Tom Chaloner,’ said one softly. ‘I thought you would have been dead by now.’

It took a moment for Chaloner to recognise the man who had spoken, because Isaac Dorislaus had aged in the year or so since they had last met. What little hair Dorislaus still possessed was grey, and there were lines of strain and worry around his eyes and mouth.

He and Chaloner had much in common. First, they shared the misfortune of having kinsmen who had been involved in the execution of the first King Charles: Dorislaus’s father had helped prepare the charges of treason, while Chaloner’s uncle had signed the death warrant. Second,
they had both worked for Cromwell’s intelligence service, Chaloner as a spy and Dorislaus in the Post Office. And third, they both spoke flawless Dutch – Dorislaus’s father had been a Hollander, while Chaloner had lived in The Hague and Amsterdam. However, Chaloner had never been quite sure of Dorislaus’s loyalty to the Commonwealth, and when several of his reports to Spymaster Thurloe had mysteriously gone missing, he had suspected that it was Dorislaus who had ‘lost’ them.

Dorislaus’s companion, whose smile of greeting was rather more genuine, was Cornelis Vanderhuyden, another Anglo-Dutchman who had made his home in London. He was a talented linguist, whose speciality was translating scientific tracts. Chaloner had once saved him from a cudgel-wielding mob, and they had been friends ever since.

Vanderhuyden and Dorislaus looked odd together. Vanderhuyden was tall and angular, and wore an expensive suit; Dorislaus was short and portly, and his old-fashioned clothes indicated he had not prospered since the Restoration – his coat was frayed, his hat was full of holes, and the lace on his cuffs and collar, although carefully laundered, was unfashionably plain. He launched into an explanation of his shabby state without being asked.

‘O’Neill dismissed me eighteen months ago. He accused me of being a Parliamentarian spy.’

‘Well, he was right,’ said Chaloner, failing to understand his rancour. ‘You were.’

Dorislaus grimaced. ‘Yes, but I gave all that up when the Royalists came to power. Bishop trusted me to do my job honestly and diligently, so why could O’Neill not have done the same? I am obliged to make ends meet by hiring out my services as a scribe these days.’

‘I imagine the
Cavaliers remember your father,’ said Vanderhuyden quietly.

An expression of pain crossed Dorislaus’s face. ‘He paid for his role in the old King’s execution – he was murdered in cold blood by vengeful Royalists. But why persecute me? I had nothing to do with it.’

Vanderhuyden patted his shoulder sympathetically, and when the coffee-boy came with the bill, he slapped down a handful of coins before Dorislaus could reach for his purse.

‘But you have fared better?’ Chaloner asked him.

Vanderhuyden smiled pleasantly. ‘O’Neill offered me a princely wage to abandon my scientists and translate for the Post Office instead, so I am now one of his clerks.’ He shrugged when Dorislaus shot him a recriminatory glare. ‘I was never a spy, so of course he prefers me to you.’

‘I wish Cromwell had not died,’ said Dorislaus miserably. ‘The King is a debauched lecher, more interested in bedding women than in governing the country he was so desperate to have back.’

‘Easy!’ exclaimed Chaloner, glancing around in alarm.

Dorislaus shrugged. ‘We need not worry about speaking our minds here. Everyone in the Antwerp is a Parliamentarian.’

Chaloner stood abruptly. It was no place for one of the Lord Chancellor’s gentlemen ushers, and he had been a fool to stay once he had recalled what Temperance had said about it.

‘Do not leave, Tom,’ begged Vanderhuyden. ‘We shall talk about something else instead. What about the explosion at the Post Office? Did you hear about it? I was inside at the time, and it rattled the windows in the most horrible manner.’

‘Did it?’ Chaloner
sat reluctantly.

‘Two of the dead were fellow clerks,’ Vanderhuyden went on. ‘Sam and Job Alibond.’

‘Famous for their gargantuan appetites,’ added Dorislaus sneeringly. He addressed Chaloner. ‘We are going to inspect the crater in a minute. It is said to be quite a sight.’

‘Are there rumours about who might have been responsible?’ fished Chaloner.

His question was aimed at Vanderhuyden, given that he worked in the Post Office, but it was Dorislaus who answered. ‘I heard one yesterday. Apparently, arrest warrants were issued for two dishonest clerks and—’

‘Knight and Gardner had nothing to do with the blast,’ interrupted Vanderhuyden indignantly.