Death in St James's Park (31 page)

He climbed over Lincoln’s Inn’s back wall, and was a silent, almost invisible shadow as he made his way across Dial Court and up the stairs to Chamber XIII. Reluctant to disturb Thurloe’s neighbours by knocking, he picked the lock and let himself in. Not surprisingly, the rooms were in darkness and the curtains were drawn around the bed. Chaloner called out softly, then lit a lamp, to give the ex-Spymaster a few moments to gather his wits. When he set his hand to the draperies and a knife slashed at him, he supposed he should have announced himself more clearly.

‘Thomas!’ exclaimed Thurloe, lowering the weapon. ‘Did no one ever tell you that it is impolite to wander about in other people’s bedrooms uninvited? You gave me a fright.’

‘One you repaid in full,’ retorted Chaloner ruefully. ‘You almost stabbed me.’

‘I thought it was Prynne, and I am
angry with him. A horse tried to eat that horrible old hat he always wears, and he was bitten in the battle to get it back. I wasted an entire evening convincing him not to sue the owners, and the owners not to sue him.’

‘Was it Morland who came to tell you what had happened?’

‘Yes, along with half a dozen others. Their intention was to save Lincoln’s Inn from embarrassment; his was to put me in a situation that was demeaning.’

While Thurloe lit a fire, Chaloner told him all he had discovered since their last meeting. The ex-Spymaster regarded him doubtfully when he mentioned Wiseman’s contention that it was Dorislaus who had been spreading rumours about Mary’s death.

‘Isaac would not do that – he and the Woods are friends. He could have spied on them during the Commonwealth, when Wood was a person of interest to me, but he never did. He likes them.’

Chaloner was inclined to see that as evidence that Dorislaus had not been as loyal to Parliament as Thurloe believed. He started to mention Vanderhuyden’s suspicions, but changed his mind: Vanderhuyden had tried and had been given short shrift, and he was unlikely to fare any better.

‘Isaac has been of incalculable value to
me over the past few days,’ Thurloe went on. He spoke coolly, as if he had read Chaloner’s reservations about the man. ‘He managed to prise some excellent intelligence from his former colleagues at the Post Office – before Harper was employed to prevent such gossip.’

‘What did he tell you, exactly?’

‘Unfortunately, what he learned is confusing and contradictory. Indeed, I am beginning to wonder whether there might be two plots unfolding there, not one.’

‘Two?’ Chaloner already suspected as much, but it was good to hear it confirmed.

Thurloe nodded. ‘One involving dishonest practices, and one rather more dangerous. We shall know soon, because Isaac has befriended a clerk named Smartfoot, who becomes indiscreet when drunk. Isaac plans to take him to a tavern today, and ply him with ale.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner guiltily, and summarised his adventures in St James’s Park.

‘For heaven’s sake, Thomas!’ cried Thurloe in exasperation. ‘Not only have you eliminated a promising source of information, but that is the second batch of documents you have managed to lose. If you happen across any more, please try a little harder to keep hold of them.’

‘I doubt they were important,’ said Chaloner defensively. ‘The one to Morland said John Fry was at the Angel, but it was untrue – Knight just reported an unsubstantiated rumour. There is no reason to assume the other letters were any different.’

‘They were important enough that they were what he wrote about in gaol. And I imagine the one to Morland was the least significant, because Knight could not have been sure of his loyalty to Gery. Indeed, I suspect these reports
might have provided the key to this entire affair.’

Chaloner shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Why do you think the bird-killers took them?’

‘The answer is obvious. They kept their faces concealed but you did not: they almost certainly knew who you were, so of course they were interested in papers dropping from your clothes.’

‘The letters were also addressed to Clarendon, Wood, Bishop, Palmer, Kate O’Neill and various members of Court and the Privy Council. Knight had not met the Earl before last Thursday, and I suspect he did not know the others either. Except perhaps Kate. Why choose them?’

‘Because they are influential people who would be able to act on the information he provided,’ replied Thurloe shortly, making no effort to mask his continuing irritation.

‘Do you want me to look for them?’

‘I would, if we had any idea where to start. It is a wretched shame they have gone.’

*   *   *

Chastened, Chaloner left, and it was only when he was out in Chancery Lane that it occurred to him that he should have asked Thurloe
about his ‘jackal’ Ibson. He considered returning, but Thurloe’s displeasure was hard to bear, and Ibson was not an important line of enquiry anyway.

It was still too early to begin the other tasks he had set himself, so he walked the short distance to Temperance’s club in Hercules’ Pillars Alley, aiming to see whether there had been any gossip that might help him. He arrived to find the last of the guests being loaded into hackneys or private coaches, while an army of cleaners moved in to tackle the mess. The weary
filles de joie
climbed the stairs towards beds in which, this time, they would do nothing but sleep.

A few patrons lingered on the steps or in the garden at the front of the house, bidding farewell to Temperance, while her doorman, Preacher Hill, loomed pointedly to remind them that it was time to go home. Hill was a nonconformist fanatic, who earned his keep in the brothel at night, and held forth about the perils of sin during the day. He and Chaloner had never seen eye to eye.

Le Notre was one of the stragglers, thanking Temperance effusively for a delightful evening. The powder on his cheeks was so thick that Chaloner wondered whether he was actually in disguise, and appeared as someone else when he was not parading as a French landscape architect with outrageous tastes in fashion.

After a moment, Oxenbridge appeared. He was also as white as chalk, although not from cosmetics, and there was something distinctly unearthly about the contrasting blackness of his eyes. He was limping slightly. Had he been fighting in the park the previous night or had he strained something in a frolic with the girls? He bowed to Temperance, who shrank away.

It was the perfect opportunity to waylay him, so Chaloner stepped forward. Recognition burned in Oxenbridge’s disconcerting eyes – the skirmish outside Palmer’s house had apparently not been forgotten – and he gripped the hilt of his sword.

‘Good morning,’ said Chaloner pleasantly, as the knife from his sleeve slipped into the palm of his hand. ‘The Lord Chancellor sent me to ask about your association with the Post Off—’

‘I do not answer to him,’ snarled Oxenbridge. ‘Or to you. Now, if you value your life, get out of my way.’

‘If you are busy now, I can come to your house later,’ said Chaloner, declining to move.

‘Stay away from me,’ hissed Oxenbridge. ‘I am not a doll, to be pulled this way and that by grand lords and their spies.’

He shoved Chaloner away with considerable
force. Normally, Chaloner would have stood firm, or perhaps grabbed him and put the knife to his throat, but he did neither. He told himself that Oxenbridge would not have answered his questions anyway, and pursuing the discussion was a waste of his time, but the truth was that the word ‘doll’ had flustered him. Logic told him there was nothing sinister about it, and that he was a fool for letting himself be so disconcerted – he should go after Oxenbridge and try again.

He watched as Oxenbridge drew level with le Notre, who linked arms with him, gabbling merrily in French. Chaloner suspected that Oxenbridge did not speak the language, and le Notre was having fun at his expense, although it seemed reckless to make sport of such a fellow. Unless they were friends, of course. But if that were true, then why had Oxenbridge lobbed stones at Palmer’s house when le Notre was in it?

He did not want to tackle Oxenbridge with
le Notre as a witness, so he trailed them to the lane, where le Notre climbed into a coach that was emblazoned with the Castlemaine coat of arms, leading Chaloner to wonder whether Palmer would have lent it had he known where the borrower intended to travel. It appeared as though he would ride away alone, but Oxenbridge suddenly jumped in with him, and the driver whipped the horses into a brisk trot.

Chaloner ran after it, aiming to flag down a hackney on Fleet Street and follow, but he arrived to find not a one in sight. There was no traffic at that early hour, so the driver gave the horses their head. Chaloner did his best to keep up on foot, but it was hopeless, and it was with a sense of enormous frustration that he staggered to a halt and watched it rattle out of sight.

He returned to the club, which was still disgorging members. Next out was Bishop, lapdog in one hand and some lady’s undergarment in the other. He also thanked Temperance for an exquisite occasion, and tottered down the steps into the courtyard, setting his pooch gently on the ground where it immediately squatted and began to water the plants. Chaloner ducked behind a shrub when it snuffled towards him, more so that Bishop would not see him if he needed to boot it away than to conceal himself, although the move did render him invisible.

On Bishop’s heels came O’Neill, who seemed taller and more imposing without his wife in tow. His voice was more forceful, too, as he informed Temperance in a penetrating whisper that allowing the likes of Bishop inside the club had lowered its tone.

‘He is a liar and a cheat,’ he stated uncompromisingly. ‘And his vile little rat-dog stinks.’

‘Yes, it does,’ she admitted. ‘However, it bit Oxenbridge, which more than compensated for its lack of personal hygiene. And I will hear nothing bad about Bishop. He is a gentle soul, and everyone here loves him for his generosity and thoughtfulness.’

‘Ban him,’ urged O’Neill, slipping a fat purse into her hand. ‘You will not regret it, I promise. And I will let you send free letters for the rest of your life if you poison his dog. I cannot abide the thing. It is worse than birds for its filthy habits.’

Behind the bush, Chaloner frowned. Was this proof that O’Neill
did
engage in nepotistic practices at the Post Office, despite his assurances to the contrary? And was his dislike of animals enough to see him use his clerks to dispatch ducks? When O’Neill aimed for the lane, Chaloner left his hiding place and began to follow, but this time Temperance saw and darted forward to stop him.

‘No, Tom,’ she said warningly. ‘I do not want you harrying my patrons, even the ones I do not like.’

‘You do not like O’Neill?’

‘Not particularly. He is a—’

She was interrupted by a shout from Hill – O’Neill and Bishop had met in the lane, and were engaged in fisticuffs. Bishop had his dog under one arm and was whirling the other around like a windmill, while O’Neill had taken the traditional pose of a boxer, but did not seem to know what to do next. The dog yapped with irritating intensity.

Bishop lunged, but while his fist missed its
target, the manoeuvre brought the dog’s sharp little teeth within nipping distance, and they fastened on to his opponent’s sleeve. Outraged, O’Neill jerked away, but the dog held on, and both men fell to the ground, where they rolled about, pulling each other’s wigs and trading clumsy slaps. Hill tried to separate them, but fell back with a yelp when the dog bit him. Chaloner watched in astonishment.

‘Too much to drink,’ said Temperance disapprovingly. ‘Pull them apart, Tom. We do not allow unseemly behaviour outside the club. What will the neighbours think?’

Chaloner doubted a fight
would horrify the neighbours, who were used to very much worse, but obligingly went to lift Bishop off O’Neill. Meanwhile, the dog continued to worry at Hill’s ankles, and in desperation, the preacher turned and fled towards Fleet Street. The sight of a pair of heels sent the creature into paroxysms of delight, and it shot after its quarry with a frenzy of excited yips.

‘Come back!’ cried Bishop in dismay, O’Neill forgotten as he hared after it. ‘My darling!’

‘I am here on official business,’ blustered O’Neill when he recognised Chaloner. His face was scarlet with mortification. ‘I did not come for the ladies while my wife is visiting her mother.’

‘I shall believe you,’ said Chaloner. ‘If you answer a few questions about the Post Office.’

O’Neill regarded him in dismay. ‘But I never discuss it with outsiders – it would be unethical. Betray me to Kate, then. But if you do, I shall tell Hannah that you were here, too.’

He stalked away, and Chaloner could not help but notice that he was very light on his feet and moved with a compact grace that made a lie of his ridiculous scuffle with Bishop. Had he gone to poison a few birds before enjoying a few hours of leisure at the club?

*   *   *

‘That was a dismal attempt at blackmail, Tom,’ said Temperance, wryly, when the last of the guests had gone and she and Chaloner turned to enter the club. ‘Are you losing your touch?’

‘It would seem so,’ sighed Chaloner. ‘In more ways than one.’

Inside, the mess was appalling.
Food was splattered on the walls, and there was more wine on the floor than he consumed in a month. He gazed around in horror, but the cleaners were undaunted, and chatted happily among themselves as they set to work. All would be pristine again by the evening, when the cycle would begin afresh.

‘I am exhausted,’ said Temperance, leading the way to her private parlour. She flopped into a chair, removed her wig and tossed it on the floor. Hairpieces were both expensive to buy and to maintain, and in that one careless gesture, she revealed how obscenely rich she had grown.

She reached up to the mantelpiece, and took down her pipe. Once it was lit, she poured two dishes of thick black sludge and passed one to Chaloner. He took it, but had no intention of drinking. It had been made by Maude, her formidable helpmeet, and was coffee so potent that it was rumoured to have killed healthy men. Besides, Chaloner liked having teeth.