Death in St James's Park (6 page)

Wiseman grasped his shoulder and peered into his eyes. ‘Headache?’

Chaloner nodded warily.

‘It will ease. You are fortunate – I thought you were dead when I saw you fly through the air.’

Chaloner wondered whether Wiseman was as brusque with the King when he was unwell, and if so, why he continued to be employed at White Hall. Wiseman vigorously maintained that he was the best
medicus
in the country, but it was not an opinion shared by most of his colleagues.

‘How many dead?’ asked Temperance in a small voice.

‘Five,’ replied the
surgeon. ‘And a dozen injured. It would have been much worse if Chaloner had not yelled his warning.’ He shot the spy a suspicious glance. ‘I assume it was by chance that you happened to be here – that you had nothing to do with the blast?’

Chaloner was offended that Wiseman should think he might play a role in perpetrating such an atrocity. ‘No, of course not. I came to visit Edward Storey.’

‘About the three dead ducks in St James’s Park?’ asked Temperance. She saw Chaloner’s surprise and hastened to explain. ‘It was mentioned at the club last night.’

She was referring to the brothel – although she preferred the term ‘gentleman’s club’ – that she owned in Hercules’ Pillars Alley, an exclusive establishment that catered to the needs of the very wealthy. It was patronised by members of Court, and gossip overheard there had helped Chaloner with a number of investigations in the past.

‘Surely Clarendon has not ordered you to explore those?’ said Wiseman in disbelief. ‘How can he squander your talents on so trivial a matter?’

‘How indeed?’ murmured Chaloner.

Temperance’s expression hardened. ‘I suppose that horrible Gery is given all the interesting cases now. Such as looking into what is going on at the Post Office.’

‘The Post Office?’ asked Chaloner, surprised a second time. ‘Is it common knowledge that trouble might be unfolding there?’

‘I suppose it is,’ replied Temperance. ‘At least, several people have told me that something untoward is going on. Unfortunately, no one seems to know exactly what.’

‘The Earl should have
asked you to look into it, Chaloner,’ said Wiseman. ‘And I told him so when I was tending his gout the other day. Gery does not have your wits.’

Chaloner was taken aback by how much this vote of confidence meant to him. ‘What did he say?’

‘That I should cure his sore foot and leave decisions pertaining to state security to him. He was rather rude, actually, which is unlike him.’

It was not unlike him at all, as far as Chaloner was concerned, and he was amazed that Wiseman had gone as long as he had without a reprimand. Perhaps it was the surgeon’s growing friendship with Chaloner that tarnished him in the Earl’s eyes.

‘I cannot abide Gery,’ said Temperance. ‘He visits the club sometimes, but he would rather die than smile. Still, he always pays promptly, which is a major consideration, of course.’

‘And he is wholly devoted to the King,’ added Wiseman. ‘Unfortunately, he is also unspeakably stupid. I do not like the fellows he has hired to help him either. Chaloner has always managed alone, so why should Gery have an army of staff?’

‘Hardly an army,’ said Chaloner. ‘Just Will Freer.’

‘Freer
and
six soldiers,’ corrected Wiseman. ‘Louts, who will do anything for money.’

‘I have seen no soldiers,’ said Chaloner, although it occurred to him that he had been kept so busy since his return from Sweden that Gery could have hired half of London without him knowing.

‘They are there, I assure you. However, they are better than the villain he has hired as his secretary – a fellow by the name of Samuel Morland. You seem startled. Did you not know?’

Chaloner did not, and was appalled. ‘But Morland worked for Cromwell’s government and …’

He faltered. Temperance and Wiseman
were staunch Royalists, and he did not think finishing his remark with ‘betrayed the Commonwealth by selling its secrets’ would be very well received. But the truth was that he and Morland had once been colleagues: both had been employed by Cromwell’s spymaster, John Thurloe. Chaloner had not trusted Morland then, and the passing of time had done nothing to make him change his mind.

‘Who saw the error of his ways and switched sides,’ finished Wiseman, making Chaloner glad he had guarded his tongue. ‘He is said to be very sharp witted and speaks several languages, but there is something about him that I distrust intensely.’

From that, Chaloner assumed that Morland was still the same slippery, devious, unlikable character he had been in Cromwell’s day. He had defected only after the Lord Protector had died, when the Commonwealth was failing, so it had been an act of self-preservation, not loyalty to the Crown, that had driven him to shift his allegiance. Morland claimed he had been sending intelligence to the exiled Royalists for years, but strangely, none of the messages had ever arrived. Somewhat inexplicably, the King believed him, and he had been rewarded with a knighthood.

‘Are you sure Gery has engaged him?’ asked Chaloner, although he hated to reveal that he, a man who made his living by gathering information, did not know what was happening in his own master’s household.

Temperance nodded. ‘I heard it from Gery himself, at the club. Well, I had to talk to him about something, and his duties for Clarendon were the only thing I could think of.’

‘Did he say anything else about them?’

Temperance’s expression was
troubled. ‘Only that he hates working with men who supported Cromwell, and thinks they should all be hanged and their corpses tossed in the river. Be careful in his company, Tom. He seems a little deranged to me.’

It was good advice, and Chaloner fully intended to follow it.

It was not long before word of the explosion spread, and people flocked to gawp at the place where others had died. They included some folk who had fled but who now returned to inspect the crater, along with a number of postal clerks – it was past noon, so the General Letter Office was closed, and they had abandoned their duties of sorting and stamping to stand in gossipy huddles. While Wiseman returned to the wounded, Temperance took her mind off the shock she had suffered by pointing out specific onlookers to Chaloner.

‘That is Roger Palmer,’ she whispered, indicating a tall man with a lean, athletic build. He was roughly Chaloner’s age, with an open, pleasant face. ‘Lady Castlemaine’s husband.’

‘He visits the club?’ Palmer’s clothes, like Chaloner’s own, were dusty and torn, indicating he had been uncomfortably close to the blast, too.

Temperance shook her head. ‘He is too respectable, which is astonishing, given his wife’s character. He is also said to be intelligent, although I do not believe it: he would not have married her if he had any wits.’ Then she gestured in a different direction. ‘Do you see that short, dark fellow with the impish face? That is Controller O’Neill.’

Chaloner looked with interest
at the man who ran the Post Office. The dead had been laid in a line, and O’Neill was hovering over them, his face a mask of distress. His clerks hurried to cluster around him, and while some seemed dismayed by the carnage, others were impassive. Then Temperance tugged on Chaloner’s arm, directing his attention elsewhere again.

‘Henry Bishop is here, too. He and O’Neill hate each other, because O’Neill conspired to have him removed as Postmaster so he could get the job himself. Anything that hurts O’Neill will please Bishop, and an explosion outside the Post Office
will
reflect badly on its Controller.’

Bishop was middle-aged with mournful eyes, and wore a large brown wig and a fine blue coat. He held a lapdog that had one of the most malevolent faces Chaloner had ever seen on an animal.

‘He does not look pleased to me,’ remarked Chaloner. Bishop was pale and he absently kissed the top of his dog’s head as one of the dead was carried past him.

‘No,’ conceded Temperance. ‘On reflection, he is not the kind of man to condone this sort of thing. He is by far the nicer of the two, and he was much better at running the Post Office. O’Neill told some terrible lies to get him ousted eighteen months ago. He even attacked Bishop’s friend the Major, who is still in prison because of the accusations.’

Hannah had said much the same, as had the Major himself, and Chaloner was puzzled. ‘Everyone seems to accept that O’Neill’s accusations were motivated by self-interest, so why were they taken seriously?’

‘Oh, I imagine money changed
hands,’ shrugged Temperance. ‘The Major is a fiery orator, so I suspect the government was delighted to have an excuse to lock him up. It is a pity about Bishop, though: the mail was usually delivered on time when he was in charge, whereas now …’

‘Do most Londoners think the same?’

Temperance considered the question carefully. ‘Yes, I should think so. Anyone who writes letters will deplore O’Neill’s shoddy service, while anyone who has met the two will prefer Bishop’s bumbling amiability over O’Neill’s bombastic insincerity. Bishop plays the viol, too, whereas O’Neill says he has no time for what he calls mindless frivolity.’

The last remark put Chaloner firmly in Bishop’s camp. Music was important to him. It helped him think clearly when he was confused, soothed him when he was unhappy, and revived him when he was tired. Unfortunately, Hannah hated him playing his viol, something he considered to be a serious impediment to their future happiness together.

Temperance continued to point out the rich and famous, and Chaloner listened with half an ear, more interested in studying the postal clerks who surrounded O’Neill. After a while, he became aware that he was not the only one watching them. So was a tall, thin man with very dark hair and an unusually white face. However, it was the fellow’s eyes that were his most arresting feature. They were jet black and oddly shiny.

A memory from Chaloner’s childhood
surfaced with such sudden clarity that it made him start. One of his sisters had owned a doll that had looked just like the man, right down to its chalky face and glinting eyes. It had given them both nightmares, so their father had put it on the fire, where it had released the most diabolical of shrieks as the flames had consumed it. The entire family had been disconcerted, while the servants had muttered darkly about witchcraft.

‘Clement Oxenbridge,’ whispered Temperance, following the direction of his gaze.

‘A client from the club?’

‘No, thank God,’ replied Temperance with a shudder. ‘He is said to be a very dangerous person, and I should not like to think of him around my girls.’

Chaloner was thoughtful: Knight had said that a man named Clement Oxenbridge was involved in something sinister at the Post Office. ‘Do you think he set the explosion?’

‘It is possible. No one knows anything about him – he just appears out of nowhere when there is mischief afoot. I am not surprised to see him here. He probably smelled the blood.’

The blast must have deprived Chaloner of his wits, because her words sent a cold shiver down his spine. He was not usually unsettled by remarks that were patently ridiculous, but there was something about Oxenbridge that was decidedly disconcerting.

‘Actually, he is here because he was posting a letter,’ countered Wiseman, rejoining them and overhearing the remark. ‘He was in front of me in the queue, sending greetings to his mother.’

‘His mother?’ echoed Temperance incredulously. ‘He will not have one of those.’

Wiseman shot her an amused glance. ‘Of course he will. How else would he have been born?’

‘Through the devil,’ replied Temperance promptly. ‘Oxenbridge is evil, Richard, and if he tries to approach you, I want you to run away.’

‘Run away?’ laughed Wiseman. ‘I most certainly shall not!’

‘But you must,’ insisted
Temperance earnestly. ‘Not only is he the most deadly villain ever to set foot in London, but he is said to have been friends with John Fry. Do you remember him?’

Wiseman nodded, and explained when he saw Chaloner’s blank look. ‘Fry was a man made famous by his controversial opinions during the Commonwealth. He penned all manner of inflammatory tracts and letters, including some that urged a rebellion against Cromwell.’

‘A Royalist, then,’ surmised Chaloner.

‘No, but not a Parliamentarian either,’ replied Wiseman. ‘He thought the country should be a republic, and his defiant words won him a lot of supporters. He died eight years ago, and there were rumours that he was murdered.’

‘A very dangerous man,’ elaborated Temperance, ‘only ever happy when Britain was in flames. However, he was not murdered because he never died – he arranged his own funeral, so he could continue his poisonous work unimpeded.’

‘You heard that in the club?’ asked Wiseman, a little sceptically.

Temperance nodded. ‘I also heard that he is in London at this very moment. Doubtless Oxenbridge intends to help him with whatever nasty plan he is fomenting.’

Wiseman opened his mouth to argue, but then thought better of it: Temperance was not easily dissuaded once she had made up her mind, and it was neither the time nor the place for a debate. ‘You are shivering, my dear,’ he said instead, kindly solicitous. ‘And Chaloner is very pale. I suggest we repair to the Crown tavern for some hot ale.’

‘Why not the Antwerp?’ asked
Chaloner tiredly. ‘It is closer.’

‘Really, Thomas,’ said Temperance disdainfully. ‘The Antwerp is well known for being the haunt of Parliamentarians. We could not possibly go there. Besides, it is a coffee house now, so women are refused admittance. The Crown, on the other hand, has always been a Cavalier stronghold and it welcomes ladies.’

Wondering when the turbulent politics wrought by the civil wars would ever relinquish their hold, Chaloner followed his friends out of Post House Yard.

Although he knew he should visit Storey, Chaloner was glad to sit next to a roaring fire and feel the warmth seep back into his frozen limbs. Wiseman ordered a jug of sack-posset – mulled wine mixed with milk, which was more palatable than it sounded – and it was not long before Chaloner began to feel better.

He had never been in the Crown before, and looked curiously around the place where Royalists still gathered to ruminate. It was large, comfortable and clean. A number of people sat at a table by the window, where they spoke in loud, bragging voices about what they would do if they ever laid hold of a Parliamentarian. Chaloner sincerely hoped his plain brown long-coat and lack of lace would not lead them to assume that
he
was one.