Death in St James's Park

Book 8: Adventures of Thomas Chaloner

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Mystery; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Five years after Charles II's triumphant return there is growing mistrust of his extravagant court – and when a cart laden with gunpowder explodes outside the General Letter Office, it is immediately clear that such an act is more than an expression of outrage at the postal service. As intelligencer to the Lord Chamberlain, Thomas Chaloner cannot understand why an incompetent man is put in charge of the investigation while he is diverted to make enquiries about the poisoning of birds in the King's aviary in St James's Park. Then human rather than avian victims are poisoned, and Chaloner knows he has to use his own considerable wits to defeat an enemy whose deadly tentacles reach into the very heart of the government…

Release date: January 17, 2013

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 298

Sample

Prologue

 

Dorset, Summer 1657

John Fry was a man with controversial opinions. He had shocked the House of Commons with his unorthodox theology, he had written pamphlets that had been burned for their profanity, and he sincerely believed that beheading King Charles had been a very good idea. Naturally, his schismatic views had earned him enemies, and he suspected half of England would be delighted to learn he was laid low with the flux.

Through the sickroom window he could see the gently rolling hills and corn-rich fields that surrounded his house. He could see the river, too, glints of silver between a line of noble oaks, which made him recall the many hours he had spent there as a youth, reading, filling his mind with philosophy and political theory. He sighed, bitter in the knowledge that all his learning and dedication had been for nothing. He had fought bravely in the civil wars, but his dream of a republic had turned to ashes – Cromwell had transpired to be a worse tyrant than the King, and his regime every bit as oppressive. Fry had been told, quite categorically, that if he penned another contentious tract, he would be sent to prison without the courtesy of a trial.

His thoughts stirred him from his sickly languor, giving him the strength to sit up against the pillows. No! He would not be silenced by Cromwell or his bullying Puritan henchmen. It was his moral duty to point out the flaws in the current government, so that was what he was going to do. Filled with sudden vigour, he called for his wife to bring him pen and paper. She regarded him uneasily, but did as he asked. As soon as they arrived, he began to write, and he did not stop until a veritable mountain of letters lay on the bed beside him.

‘Find a fleet-footed servant to run to the post office, Anna,’ he instructed, as he signed the last one. ‘The London mail leaves within the hour, and I want these missives to be in the hands of their recipients by the end of the week.’

Gingerly, Anna picked up a few and read the names. Major Smith of Hounslow, Henry Wood of London, Major Wildman in Amsterdam. She looked into her husband’s bloodshot eyes. ‘But these are all notorious malcontents who want Cromwell deposed.’ She spread the letters in one hand like a fan.

‘Yes.’ Fry gripped Anna’s wrist. ‘And they are right – it is time to be rid of him. I had such high hopes when we won the war, but Cromwell’s rule has degenerated into a military dictatorship, and we cannot accept it any longer. It is time for another rebellion.’

Anna regarded him in alarm. ‘But if he is ousted, who will take his place? Do you want the monarchy restored?’

‘No!’ Fry was shocked by that notion. ‘These last fifteen years have convinced me more than ever that the only sensible form of government is a republic. We cannot have yet another petty despot dispensing unfair laws – I want democratically elected representatives.’

Anna pulled away from him and gathered all the letters. Her husband was a passionate and determined man. If anyone could set the country alight, it was him, and perhaps this wave of determination meant that he was not as ill as she had feared. She felt tears prick as she stared at the missives in her hands; what they contained could bring misery and hardship to countless thousands again – yet more harsh years of violence, hatred and anguish. She was tired of uncertainty and conflict, and while Cromwell was far from ideal, he did bring a measure of stability to a war-weary nation.

‘Hurry, good wife,’ said Fry softly. There was compassion and understanding in his eyes: he knew why she hesitated. ‘Or you will miss the post. And then help me dress. There is much to be done if we are to succeed.’

But within two weeks John Fry was dead. Speculation was rife. Had he left his sickbed too soon? Had he been assassinated, because the letters he had written had caused such a stir? Or was he not dead at all, but had gone into hiding, so that he could mastermind his plan without interference? Tongues wagged, and there were more theories than could be counted, but only a select handful of people knew the truth. And they were not telling.

St James’s Park, London, December 1664

When Andrew Leak had first been handed the bottle of poison, he had regarded it in disbelief. There was barely a dribble, and he was sure there would not be enough for what he had been charged to do. However, the fellow who had hired him – Leak believed he was an apothecary – soon put him right: it was one of the most deadly substances ever created, and a single drop was more than enough to kill.

Leak had been extremely careful with it after that. Worryingly, the apothecary had worn gloves when he had handed it over, although whether to protect himself from spillages, or to ensure that no part of him was visible when he dealt with his minions was impossible to say.

‘Who is he?’ Leak asked, as he followed his friend Smartfoot over the wall and into St James’s Park. It was a dark night, with thick clouds blocking out the moonlight, and they stumbled constantly, unfamiliar with the place and its terrain. ‘He even takes care to whisper when he meets us, to make sure we cannot identify his voice. Yet I am sure I should know him if I saw his face.’

‘Do not think about it,’ advised Smartfoot. ‘It might transpire to be dangerous.’

‘The whole business worries me,’ Leak went on unhappily. ‘Oh, the money is good, but this is peculiar work. I do not understand why he wants us to kill the royal waterfowl.’

‘No questions,’ said Smartfoot warningly. ‘That was the agreement.’

Both men stopped walking when a gale of laughter and music wafted from the nearby Palace of White Hall. The King was holding another of his soirées, where he and his debauched friends would carouse until dawn. Leak frowned disapprovingly as the revellers launched into a bawdy tavern song. It was one thing to hear such ditties in a Seven Dials alehouse, but another altogether for His Majesty to bawl them. Leak expected better of him and was disturbed by his coarseness. He said nothing, though, and after a moment, he and Smartfoot resumed their journey.

‘Here is the Canal,’ whispered Leak eventually, lighting a lamp so they could see what they were doing. ‘You grab a swan, while I pour the toxin down its throat.’

However, they soon discovered that ‘grabbing a swan’ was easier said than done, because the royal birds were kept in peak condition and were powerful creatures. Neither man had any idea of how to lay hold of one, and after several furious encounters that the birds won handily, Leak and Smartfoot decided to opt for something smaller and less feisty.

Unfortunately, the ducks had been disturbed by the fracas, and had scattered into the darkness. Only one remained, its filmy eyes and dull feathers suggesting it was ill. Thoroughly rattled by the whole business, Leak grabbed it with one hand and groped in his pocket for the phial with the other. He forced open the bird’s beak, and without thinking pulled out the stopper with his teeth.

As soon as he tasted the searing bitterness on his tongue, he knew he had done something very stupid. His stomach clenched in horror, and he spat frantically, so it was left to Smartfoot to drip the poison down the bird’s throat. Once released, the hapless fowl flapped a short distance and then was still.

‘Not exactly a swan,’ said Smartfoot dispassionately. ‘But it will have to do. And we had better be on our way, because we cannot afford to be caught. It is probably treason to damage the King’s property.’

Leak could not reply, because his tongue was on fire, and the pain grew worse as he followed Smartfoot towards the wall. Then his throat began to hurt as well; he could feel it swelling, cutting off his breath. He staggered, hands to his neck, then pitched forward and began to convulse, eyes wide in his terrified face. Smartfoot hurried back to help, but then thought better of it, afraid to touch him lest he should be poisoned, too.

Leak’s desperate struggle for life went on for a very long time, while Smartfoot paced in agitation, longing to run away, but kept rooted to the spot by fear of the apothecary. It was over eventually, and Smartfoot struggled to pull himself together. Now what? He could not leave Leak where he was lest he was identified – and the apothecary would not approve of that. Yet he could not carry him away on his own. He looked around quickly. Nearby was a part of the park that had been left to grow wild. It was not an ideal place to hide a body, but it would have to do.

He donned gloves, grabbed Leak’s feet and began to haul. He found a slight dip in the ground, rolled the body into it, and covered it with handfuls of dead leaves and twigs. It did not take long, and he was soon racing towards the wall again.

He was shocked: the apothecary had not been exaggerating when he had bragged about the potency of his poison. Smartfoot’s stomach churned, and he had a bad feeling that he knew what would happen the next time he was summoned: the victim would not be a bird, it would be a person.

London, Tuesday 10 January 1665

Post House Yard was a pretty square, located just off the busy thoroughfare named Dowgate Hill. It was dominated by the General Letter Office, the place where the country’s mail was received and dispatched. This was a handsome building taxed on thirty-three hearths, although there was a wing at the back that was disused and was said to be falling into disrepair. It boasted an imposing stone façade, and five marble steps led up to its grand front door.

The other buildings in Post House Yard were equally attractive – a row of neat, brightly painted cottages on the right, and the elegant mansion owned by the eccentric Sir Henry Wood on the left. The square was cobbled with pale pink stones, and someone had planted two long borders with a variety of shrubs and trees.

The two conspirators stood in one of these gardens. It was a clear night, and they could not afford to be seen, so they were grateful for the shadows cast by a spreading yew.

‘I am not sure about this,’ the first muttered unhappily. ‘Gunpowder is so indiscriminate. We might harm a lot of innocent bystanders.’

There was a crackle as the second man fingered a letter. ‘It says here that we should not allow that possibility to discourage us – that there will be casualties in any struggle for justice.’

‘I suppose that is true. When do they want this explosion to take place?’

‘At noon on Thursday.’

The first man gaped his disbelief. ‘But that is when the domestic mails are collected! The square will be teeming with people – we might kill dozens of them.’

The second shook his head quickly. ‘Not if it is done properly, and the noise and commotion will work to our advantage. It means that our powder-laden cart is less likely to be noticed, which will increase our chances of success.’

‘I do not like it.’

‘Neither do I, but the situation cannot be allowed to continue. You know this – we have talked of little else for the past four years. Look!’ The second man pointed at the sky. ‘It is the comet. It appeared on the very evening that we received our instructions, and it has grown steadily brighter ever since. It is a sign of God’s approval – what we are doing is right.’

The first man nodded, but he remained uneasy. In two days, the dead would litter Post House Yard, and London would never be the same again.

 

Chapter 1

London, Thursday 12 January 1665

Because Dowgate Hill ran from north to south, it served as a funnel for the wind, which was unusually bitter as it scythed towards Thames Street. Dawn was approaching, but London was reluctant to wake, and Thomas Chaloner, spy to the Earl of Clarendon, did not blame anyone for not wanting to leave their beds that day. He wished he was in his. Roofs shimmered white with frost, parts of the river had frozen over and snow was in the air.

Not for the first time, he wondered whether there was an easier way to earn a living. His Earl neither liked nor trusted him, even after two years of faithful service, and employed him only because he needed help to stay ahead of his many enemies. The Earl deplored the necessity, and had awarded him the title of ‘Gentleman Usher’ to disguise his true function. His master’s disdain for him and his skills meant Chaloner was regularly given duties that were dangerous, foolhardy or demeaning – such as lurking in filthy alleys on nights when not even a dog should be out.

Of course, it was the civil wars that lay at the heart of the trouble. Chaloner’s family had sided with Parliament, after which he had been eagerly accepted into Oliver Cromwell’s intelligence service. But Cromwell had died, the Commonwealth had collapsed and Charles II had been restored to his throne, which meant opportunities for men like Chaloner were now few and far between. Thus he was not in a position to tell the Earl what to do with his dreary assignments, and was forced to be grateful that someone was willing to overlook his past and hire him.

Unfortunately, he was unsure how much longer even this dismal state of affairs would last – he had returned from a mission in Sweden the previous week to learn that his master had appointed a ‘marshal’, a man whose duties were disconcertingly similar to his own. George Gery was an intensely devoted Royalist, and Chaloner could only suppose that the Earl no longer wanted a former Roundhead in his retinue, and was manoeuvring to replace him.

Chaloner stamped his feet and blew on his fingers, fast reaching the point where, even if the two men he had been ordered to arrest did appear, he would be too cold to do much about them. Shoving his frozen hands inside his coat, he tried to forget his concerns for the future, and reflect on what little the Earl had told him about his quarry instead.

Joseph Knight and Lewis Gardner worked in the nearby General Letter Office. A postal service had been established the previous century, although it was notoriously unreliable – letters were opened by government spies, mailbags were ‘lost’, and charges were made for missives that were never delivered. Chaloner had been bemused when he had been ordered to apprehend a pair of dishonest clerks: the Earl, who was also Lord Chancellor of England, did not usually trouble himself with such petty affairs.

Chaloner was on the verge of assuming that the culprits had somehow learned of the trouble they were in and were not going to come home, when two men appeared. One was small and nervous, while the other was stocky with bushy flaxen hair and a round, homely face. He looked like a country bumpkin, although he moved with a catlike grace that said he would be a formidable opponent in a brawl. They matched the descriptions the Earl had provided.

The small one, Knight, opened the door with a key, while Gardner stood with his back to the wall scanning the lane. Chaloner waited until they had gone inside, then slipped from his hiding place. The door had been secured again, but that was no obstacle to him; he was good at picking locks. Then he crept along a corridor to where he could hear voices. Twelve years in espionage meant eavesdropping was second nature, and he began to listen without conscious thought.

‘We are wrong to run,’ Knight was saying. ‘We should take our tale to Controller O’Neill.’

‘O’Neill will not listen,’ predicted Gardner. ‘Now gather what you need quickly. If we are caught, we will be hauled off to Newgate Gaol, never to be seen again.’

‘But taking flight will make everyone assume we are guilty.’ Knight’s voice was unsteady. ‘We should stay in London, and prove our innocence.’

‘No one is interested in our innocence. Now for God’s sake hurry!’

Personally, Chaloner thought Gardner was wise to be wary of the legal system. Miscarriages of justice were frequent and brazen, and London’s prisons were vile places. He owned a deep and abiding horror of them, and would certainly have gone on the run to avoid a sojourn in one.

‘What about the other business?’ Knight swallowed hard. ‘The murder. Are you sure you had nothing to do with it?’

‘Of course,’ replied Gardner, although it was not the most convincing denial Chaloner had ever heard. ‘Why?’

‘Because it preys on my mind,’ explained Knight miserably. ‘The taking of a human life is rather different to the pilfering of a few pounds.’

Gardner gestured impatiently that Knight was to pick up his bag, while Chaloner frowned. Were they innocent of dishonesty but guilty of murder then? He sighed softly. Why did the Earl insist on sending him on missions armed with only half a story? Apprehending killers was hardly the same as snagging petty thieves, and he would have asked for assistance had he known. But the pair were preparing to leave, and it was rather too late to be questioning his orders now. He drew his sword and stepped through the door.

‘You are under arrest,’ he announced. ‘By the Lord Chancellor’s warrant.’

Knight issued a shrill shriek of terror, but Gardner was made of sterner stuff. He hauled a gun from his belt and took aim.

Chaloner had never liked firearms. They were unpredictable, took an age to prime and were noisy, something that was anathema to spies, who lived in the shadows. Moreover, he had been wary of gunpowder ever since he had been injured by an exploding cannon at the Battle of Naseby, damaging a leg that had never fully recovered. His mistrust was borne out when Gardner’s weapon flashed in the pan, producing nothing more deadly than a puff of smoke.

Furious, Gardner hurled it at him with one hand, while hauling a second dag from his belt with the other. Knowing that both were unlikely to misfire, Chaloner grabbed Knight to use as a shield, confident that Gardner would not shoot when his friend might be injured. He was mistaken.

Gardner fired at Chaloner’s head, the crack of it deafening in the small room. Knight screamed again, and Chaloner was sure he felt the hot singe of the ball as it streaked past his ear. Swearing under his breath, Gardner drew his sword, forcing Chaloner to do likewise.

Firearms were not often discharged on Dowgate Hill, and the sound had attracted attention. Footsteps and muffled shouts indicated that residents in the neighbouring houses were astir, while a group of passing apprentices had paused in the street outside. Chaloner could see them through the window, edging forward in an uncertain semicircle, curiosity vying with the knowledge that it was dangerous to loiter in a place where shots had been discharged.

‘You cannot escape,’ he told Gardner firmly, still gripping Knight around the neck. ‘And fighting will only make your situation worse. No one will believe your innocence if you—’

With a roar of rage, Gardner leapt at him, and Chaloner only just managed to parry the murderous swipe. It was wild, but delivered with considerable strength, making him stagger, and giving Knight the opportunity to wriggle out of his grasp. Gardner struck a second time, at which point Chaloner decided he had better launch an offensive of his own before he was skewered. He surged forward, blade flashing, although his frozen limbs rendered his movements disgracefully clumsy. Even so, he soon had his quarry retreating.

But he had reckoned without Knight, who seized a pot from a table and lobbed it. It caught him on the side of the head, dazing him just long enough to allow Gardner to dart past. He managed to grab the hem of the clerk’s coat, but his fingers were too cold to grip it properly, and the material snapped free. And then Gardner was gone, bellowing for Knight to follow.

Chaloner blocked the smaller clerk’s way. Terrified, Knight lashed out with his fists, but he was no warrior, whereas Chaloner had been trained to fight by Cromwell’s New Model Army. It was an unequal contest, and did not last long.

‘Enough,’ said Chaloner irritably, pushing his captive against the wall. ‘You will hurt yourself if you continue to wrestle with me.’

Knight stared at him, eyes wide with a combination of fear and resignation. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Let me go. I have done nothing wrong.’

It was not for Chaloner to judge. He took Knight’s arm, and pulled him along the hallway towards the door. Outside, the apprentices had swelled in number, and they watched in silence as he steered his prisoner through them. Their mood was sullen, their sympathies firmly with the man who was being taken into custody, and Chaloner sensed it would take very little for them to stage a rescue attempt. So did Knight, who began to shout.

‘Help! I am innocent of any wrongdoing. Please do not let him have me.’

Several lads stepped forward, but Chaloner still held his sword, and they fell back when they saw he was prepared to use it. Knight in one hand and weapon in the other, he marched past them, aiming for Thames Street, where hackney carriages were available for hire.

‘No!’ wept Knight, still trying to pull away. ‘You do not understand! You sign my death warrant if you drag me off to gaol.’

‘Shall we go to White Hall instead, then?’ asked Chaloner acidly. Knight’s terror was making him feel guilty, which he resented. It was hardly his fault the man had involved himself in something unsavoury. ‘So you can tell the Lord Chancellor that there has been a mistake?’

‘Oh, thank God!’ breathed Knight in relief. ‘Yes, take me to Clarendon. I have a tale that will make his hair curl. I shall tell him everything.’

Although the suggestion had not been made seriously, on reflection Chaloner saw no reason why he should not oblige. He knew for a fact that the Earl would be at work, despite the early hour, as he was currently suffering from gout, which made sleeping difficult. He might even appreciate a diversion from his discomfort. Moreover, Chaloner would do a great deal to avoid setting foot in a gaol, even if it was only to deliver a prisoner to one.

Dawn had finally broken, although heavy clouds meant the morning might never be fully light, and the wind carried the occasional flurry of snow. The tiny white pellets danced across the frozen mud that formed the streets, and Chaloner wondered whether they would settle.

‘I am innocent,’ Knight said miserably, as he was bundled into a coach. ‘I swear it on my soul. But there is a deadly conspiracy unfolding at the Post Office, and its perpetrators are eager to silence me. That is why they have contrived to have me arrested.’

‘They have committed murder already?’ Chaloner climbed into the hackney after him. There was ice on the seat, a result of the window shutters being removed so that the inside of the coach was exposed to the elements. He could only suppose that the driver did not see why his passengers should be protected when he was obliged to huddle on a box at the front. He considered decanting to another carriage, but did not have the energy for the argument it would inevitably provoke.

Knight nodded. ‘I do not know who the victim was, but someone told me the culprit had a lot of fluffy yellow hair and a farmer’s face, and … well, you saw what Gardner looks like. That horrid Clement Oxenbridge is at the heart of it, of course. He is evil, sly and dangerous, and if you are ordered to arrest him, I advise you not to go alone. He would kill you for certain.’

‘Would he now?’ murmured Chaloner, although he knew he had not comported himself particularly impressively that day, so Knight might be forgiven for thinking his martial skills were lacking. ‘Who is Clement Oxenbridge?’

‘A wealthy man, although no one is sure of the exact nature of his business. Or where he lives, for that matter. And he would not appreciate anyone trying to find out either.’

‘I see. And what manner of “deadly conspiracy” has he devised?’

‘If I tell you, you will have no reason to take me to White Hall, so I shall wait until we meet Clarendon, if you do not mind.’

A sudden crack had Chaloner reaching for his sword, but it was only a ball of frozen mud lobbed by the group of tanners who had gathered outside St Paul’s Cathedral to pelt passing traffic. He might have dismissed their antics as youthful high spirits, but the lads were surly and scowling, and it was clear there was nothing light-hearted about their mood.

‘Have you noticed how unsettled London is at the moment?’ asked Knight, peering out of the window at them. ‘It feels like it did during the wars – turbulent and volatile.’

‘London is always unsettled,’ said Chaloner, thinking that in all his travels, he had never encountered a city that was more prone to violent undercurrents. If there was not one plot in the making, there was another.

‘This is different,’ insisted Knight. ‘Look.’

He pointed, and Chaloner saw the tanners approached by a large group of butchers. As rivalry between the two trades had always been fierce, Chaloner expected a scuffle at the very least, but the leaders only exchanged a few words, before steering their followers off in different directions.

‘You see?’ said Knight. ‘If they are not quarrelling with each other, it means they aim to fight someone else. Rebellion is in the air, you mark my words. Mr Bankes is worried, because he keeps pressing me for information about it.’

‘Who is Mr Bankes?’

‘A man interested in London and her troubles. He frightens me, if you want the truth. I have never met him, but the letters he writes demanding information are terribly aggressive. However, he is right to be concerned – I smell another civil war in the offing.’

Before Chaloner could ask whether that was the nature of the intelligence Knight planned to pass to the Earl, the hackney rolled to a standstill. He leaned out of the window, and saw that a coach had broken an axle on the Fleet Bridge and was blocking traffic. There was nothing he could do to expedite matters, so he sat back to wait for the snarl to clear. Moments later, the door to his hackney was wrenched open. He drew his sword without conscious thought.

‘There is no need for that.’ The speaker was a Yeoman Warden from the Tower of London, identifiable by his distinctive uniform. ‘However, I am afraid we must commandeer your vehicle. We have an important prisoner to convey to White Hall, and our own carriage is broken.’

Chaloner was about to tell him to find another, when a second yeoman arrived with the prisoner in tow. The captive had the pale, wan look of a man kept locked up, although a certain chubbiness suggested he was not deprived of victuals. He had a thin black moustache, protuberant eyes and a mane of grey-brown hair. Chaloner recognised him immediately.

John Wildman, always known simply as ‘the Major’, had been an officer in Cromwell’s army, although his talent had been for making fiery speeches rather than fighting. Chaloner had heard one of his homilies before the Battle of Naseby, and recalled how it had set the soldiers alight with revolutionary zeal. After the wars, the Major had decided that Cromwell was worse than the King, and had plotted to assassinate him. The scheme had failed, but Royalists had loved him for it anyway, so Chaloner was astonished to learn that he was still incarcerated. Intrigued, he decided to find out why.

‘I am bound for White Hall with a prisoner, too,’ he said, sheathing his sword. ‘And London feels uneasy today. It will be safer for us to travel there together.’

‘Fair enough,’ said the first yeoman, climbing in and indicating that his charge should follow. ‘The city’s current agitation makes me reluctant to leave the safety of the Tower, to be frank. But the Major has been summoned, and we can hardly let him out on his own.’

‘I would not escape,’ said the Major tiredly. His voice was weak and slightly hoarse, a far cry from the strident bray he had effected at Naseby. Chaloner studied him. The Major had been a lively and colourful figure during the wars; now he was grey, drab and defeated, a mere shadow of the man he had been. Chaloner could only surmise that the Tower had broken him, as it had so many others.

He gave no indication that he recognised Chaloner, but that was not surprising – Chaloner had been fifteen years old at Naseby, and although he had claimed the Major’s indignant attention by challenging some of the points in his tirade, he had changed considerably from the fresh-faced, slender boy of twenty years before.

‘I have been arrested, too,’ Knight told the Major unhappily, as the carriage began to trundle forward slowly. ‘I have done nothing wrong, of course.’

‘Neither have I,’ averred the Major. ‘I was taken eighteen months ago, accused of conspiring against the King, although I have never been formally charged. I have begged for a trial, to prove my innocence, but I have always been refused. My imprisonment is illegal – it is against the writ of habeas corpus to keep a man locked up indefinitely.’

‘I hope that does not happen to me,’ gulped Knight. ‘But I have seen you before. Were you friends with the Postmaster – not O’Neill, but his predecessor, Henry Bishop?’

‘Bishop is my friend still,’ said the Major with a sad smile. Then it faded. ‘But do not mention that snake O’Neill! Being Postmaster is lucrative, and he wanted the job for himself, so he told a lot of lies to get poor Bishop ousted. And because I am Bishop’s friend, he included me in his fabrications. It was largely his testimony that saw me locked in the Tower.’