Death in St James's Park (25 page)

It was a painfully crude way of informing him that the marshal was incapable of solving the case very soon, if ever, but it was the best Chaloner could manage on the spur of the moment.

‘No!’ exclaimed the Earl, his expression bleak. ‘A man’s kin are his heart and soul, his very reason for living, so you must communicate with yours as often as you can. Do you ever think of the ones you lost to the plague in Holland?’

The question was so unexpected that Chaloner gave an involuntary start. He opened his mouth to reply, but then
was not sure what to say. As it happened, they had been in his mind of late, but it was not something he was inclined to reveal to anyone else. Yet at the same time, he did not want to dishonour their memory by denying them.

‘It does not matter,’ said the Earl, when the silence became awkward. ‘It is just that I find myself thinking about my children a lot these days, especially Edward. My enemies say grief is affecting my judgement, and that I should resign as Lord Chancellor.’ He sighed, and gave a wan smile. ‘But perhaps they will stop hounding me when I present the King with the villain who is attacking his fowl. So off you go now, Chaloner.’

Chaloner turned to leave, but stopped when he was at the door. ‘Do not let them oust you, sir. England cannot afford to lose the only Privy Councillor who does any work.’

The Earl sighed gloomily. ‘If only a few more people thought like you.’

Chaloner was walking down the marble staircase when he met someone coming up. It was the Major, with two yeomen in tow. His shoulders were slumped and he moved with the defeated shuffle of a prisoner who was low on hope. He was pale, and he looked as though he had not slept in days. His clothes were rumpled, too, although he had brushed his hair and shaved in an effort to smarten himself up for his audience with the Earl.

‘I do not know how much longer I can keep doing this,’ he whispered to Chaloner as they passed, speaking softly so his guards would not hear. He need not have worried: Lady Castlemaine’s voice was booming in the courtyard below, and they were gazing out of the window at
her in transfixed admiration. ‘How much longer will Gery’s enquiry drag on?’

‘Tell me what you have learned,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘That will expedite matters.’

‘How many more times must I say it?’ The Major looked pained. ‘There is nothing I would like more, but they made me swear to keep silent, and I dare not defy them – I have too much to lose. So do you: several investigators have died exploring this case, and you do not deserve to be one of them. The Earl has excluded you from the matter, so do not rail against it. Be thankful.’

Chaloner nodded, but his resolve to meddle only strengthened. ‘Do you have new information to report?’ he asked.

The Major nodded. ‘But as I have said before, Clarendon and Gery ignore any intelligence they do not understand or that they deem irrelevant. I am deeply concerned …’

So was Chaloner. ‘If you think the matter is not being properly investigated, you must confide in someone else. You decline to talk to me, but what about a friend? Palmer, perhaps? Or Bishop?’

‘I cannot endanger them.’ The Major sighed miserably. ‘You seem competent, and I wish Clarendon had chosen you over Gery, although not as much as I wish Wood had taken my message to another member of the Privy Council. Buckingham, perhaps; he is a man of action. Or even the King. But what is done is done, and I must make the best of it.’

‘Surely you can give me some indication of what is amiss?’ Chaloner was reluctant to let him go without learning at least something useful. The Major’s misgivings about Clarendon’s selective handling of intelligence had alarmed
him anew, and he began to wonder whether his master’s enemies were right: perhaps grief
was
robbing him of his reason. ‘Just a hint?’

The Major’s voice was so low as to be almost inaudible. ‘Certain abuses will occur in any postal service – clerks “accidentally” losing prepaid letters, letting passengers ride the post horses so there is no room for mailbags, drunken postmen. But there is a question of magnitude …’

Chaloner nodded impatiently. ‘Of course, but the trouble goes far deeper than mere chicanery. There are tales that the Post Office is behind the unrest that is sweeping across the country, which is a far more serious problem. What do you know about that?’

The Major took a step away. ‘Lord! You must have a death wish to speak so boldly.’

‘Is O’Neill involved?’ pressed Chaloner.

‘I hope so,’ replied the Major with a rueful smile. ‘His lies put me in the Tower, and I would love to see him fall from grace. But the truth is that I do not know. Now please leave me alone. We cannot be seen gossiping. It will endanger both our lives.’

‘There are rumours that someone will be assassinated soon, and that you might be the victim,’ said Chaloner, desperate enough to use harsh tactics. ‘You saw the message on the stone that came through Palmer’s window. So, you
are
endangering your life, but because you will
not
talk to me. Gery has been investigating for weeks and has made no headway. It is time to trust someone else.’

A stricken expression crossed the Major’s face. ‘Do you think I do not know that? Clarendon imagines that bringing me here before dawn will keep me safe, when the reality is that empty streets and darkness only
make it easier for killers to strike. And I do not want to die …’

‘Then talk to me,’ urged Chaloner.

The Major stared at him, and Chaloner saw his resolve begin to crumble. He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment, a door opened, and Gery’s voice could be heard echoing beneath them. The Major shot Chaloner an agonised glance and stumbled away.

Chaloner’s thoughts whirled as he left the Earl’s offices. When he had been sent to arrest Knight and Gardner, he had overheard them discussing a murder. Somewhat unconvincingly, Gardner had denied involvement. Could Knight have been referring to the spies that Thurloe and Williamson had lost, presumably the same men as the ‘investigators’ to whom the Major had just referred? Chaloner supposed he would have to add finding Gardner to his list of tasks, especially now he knew the clerk kept company with Oxenbridge.

When he reached the Great Gate, someone was waiting for him, shivering and stamping his feet against the cold. It was Vanderhuyden. Chaloner regarded him in surprise.

‘Thurloe said you are often here early, so I came in the hope of catching you,’ Vanderhuyden explained. His usually jovial face was sombre, and Chaloner’s stomach lurched.

‘Thurloe? Is he …’

‘He is well,’ Vanderhuyden assured him quickly. Then his expression turned rueful. ‘Other than extending affection to men who do not deserve it.’

‘Do you mean me?’

‘No, of course not. I mean Dorislaus.’ Vanderhuyden took a deep breath, and his next words emerged as a
gabble. ‘I have a terrible fear that he is sending intelligence reports to Holland, and that the Dutch are behind the unrest that grips our country. A rebellion will make England weak and vulnerable, and may tip the balance in the war we shall soon fight.’

‘I thought you and Dorislaus were friends,’ said Chaloner, not revealing his own suspicions about the man. ‘So how can you make such a terrible accusation?’

‘We
are
friends.’ Vanderhuyden’s tormented wail drew the attention of several passing tradesmen. ‘And this is not easy, believe me. I have agonised about it for days. Should I turn a blind eye or put the interests of my country first? It is the hardest decision I have ever made.’

‘On what grounds do you suspect him?’

‘He holds clandestine meetings with peculiar people – O’Neill, le Notre and Gery. Why does he pursue an acquaintance with O’Neill, who sacked him from the Post Office? Meanwhile, le Notre is almost certainly a French spy, while Gery hates old Roundheads, so Dorislaus should have no reason for joining him in shadowy taverns late at night.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Because once my suspicions were roused, I made it my business to monitor him as often as possible. It is difficult, because I have to go to work, but even my occasional surveillance has convinced me that he is a …’ Vanderhuyden trailed off and looked away miserably.

‘Have you told Thurloe?’

‘He would not listen; you know how loyal he is to his friends. That is why I decided to come to you – you must have encountered this sort of thing in the past.’ Vanderhuyden’s voice was thick with misery. ‘I thought I
would feel better once I had confided in someone else, but I feel worse. Like the lowest kind of worm.’

Chaloner nodded understandingly. ‘But your duty is clear: you must take your tale to Williamson. He will uncover the truth.’

‘I was afraid you would say that,’ gulped Vanderhuyden. ‘And I shall, but not yet.’

‘Waiting might allow Dorislaus to do something even more damaging. It may even see you accused of treason yourself, for not stopping him sooner.’

‘Then it is a risk I shall have to take, because I refuse to do it without proper proof – written evidence of his perfidy, as opposed to what I have now, which amounts to little more than a series of odd encounters. I shall redouble my efforts. Will you help me?’

‘Only if my path happens to cross his. I am too busy to do more.’

‘Oh,’ said Vanderhuyden, disappointed. ‘Then I shall have to ask O’Neill for a few days’ leave. I will have to lie, tell him my wife is unwell …’

‘Speaking of the Post Office, what can you tell me about Harper?’

Vanderhuyden looked surprised, but answered anyway. ‘O’Neill hired him to prevent harmful chatter. And it has worked: no one gossips about Post Office business now.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘However, there are tales that the place does a lot more than deliver letters, and keeping quiet about that is dangerous.’

‘You mean these claims about our corruption?’ Vanderhuyden shrugged. ‘The Foreign Office, where I work, is reasonably honest, but the Inland Office is much bigger and some of its clerks probably are abusing the system. But I imagine O’Neill is working to stamp it out.’

‘Actually,
I was referring to the rumours that say something deadly is in play there.’

Vanderhuyden shook his head impatiently. ‘That is a lot of nonsense, as I have told you before. I suspect someone like Bishop is behind those silly stories, to cause trouble for O’Neill.’

Chaloner could only suppose that Vanderhuyden was so intent on Dorislaus’s antics that he had failed to see what was unfolding under his nose. He changed the subject, thinking that if the Major would not reveal what his contacts had said, then he would visit them himself.

‘The Major has friends in the Foreign Office. Who are they?’

Vanderhuyden stared at him. ‘Are you suggesting that the
Major
is behind these silly tales? Because O’Neill was responsible for locking him in the Tower and getting Bishop dismissed? I doubt the poor fellow would have the nerve! He seems singularly lacking in spirit, and I find it very hard to believe that he once gave fiery speeches.’

‘Well, he did,’ said Chaloner. ‘So which clerks were his particular friends?’

‘I do not know: I was not employed there when Bishop was in power. But if you help me with Dorislaus, I shall find out. I shall ask about this so-called plot, too. No one in my department will be able to help, but I have one or two acquaintances in the Inland Office.’

‘Please do not,’ said Chaloner tiredly. Vanderhuyden was not a spy, and did not possess the requisite skills; he would be discovered and killed. ‘It is too risky.’

‘It is not, because there
is
no plot. Do not worry, I shall be discreet. And asking sly questions of my colleagues cannot be more distasteful than spying on Dorislaus.’

Chaloner
watched him leave, unable to shake the conviction that he was letting him walk to his doom. But how was he to stop him? Knock him on the head and lock him up? Bargain with him by saying that he would investigate Dorislaus if Vanderhuyden left the city? But he did not have the time, and Vanderhuyden was no coward, so was unlikely to agree to such terms. He felt the pressure on him mount as he realised there was only one thing he could do to protect his friend: expose the Post Office plot as quickly as possible.

It was still not fully light when Chaloner began to walk up King Street, and as it was too early to go to Newgate, he decided to visit the Rainbow. He did not need a draught of Farr’s poisonous brew, because his mind was already sharp with anxiety, but it was better than loitering in the cold, waiting for the gaol to open.

He was almost at Charing Cross when he saw Morland, strutting like a peacock in his splendid clothes. Chaloner strode towards him, grabbed him by the lace that frothed at his throat, and whisked him behind a booth that sold cabbages. The stall shielded them from the road, while above their heads was a large tarpaulin, heavy-bellied with an icy slush of snow and rain. It was somewhere they would not be disturbed.

‘You are alive!’ A gamut of emotions flashed across Morland’s small face, the most obvious of which was astonishment; relief and pleasure were certainly not among them. ‘Thank God! I feared they had not listened when I urged clemency, and I am glad I had a hand in saving your life.’

Chaloner released him abruptly. There was something so unpleasantly greasy about Morland that he was disinclined
to touch him. ‘What were you doing at the Post Office last night?’

‘I was on an errand for Gery. We
are
investigating the place, you know.’

‘What goes on in that secret chamber?’

Morland scowled. ‘I was on the verge of finding out when you appeared. Your antics brought Smartfoot and Lamb running, so I had to leave. You were a nuisance, to be frank.’

Chaloner had no idea whether he was telling the truth, and was not sure how to find out, so opted instead to pursue a subject that might stand a better chance of producing reliable answers.

‘What do you know about Clement Oxenbridge?’

Morland’s eyes widened fractionally. ‘No one knows anything about him. He just appears when he pleases, and then vanishes again. He is a sinister devil, though.’