to Hannah, who invited my husband and me to her lovely house the other night. Monsieur le Notre was there and it was—’
‘Chaloner the regicide?’ demanded Wood. ‘I thought he was older. Or has he used magic to shed the years? If so, I would not mind sharing his secret, because I should like to look younger myself. So would my wife, although she is dead now, poor soul.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said Chaloner, and was flailing around for an expression of condolence that sounded a little more sincere when Wood was off again.
‘I cannot bear potatoes. Have you ever seen one? Nasty, malevolent things. But they are nothing compared to radishes, which are agents of the devil.’
‘Radishes?’ Chaloner had known that Wood was reputed to be eccentric, but no one had mentioned him being insane.
‘Terriblecreations. But I had best be on my way. Thank you for the ride, O’Neill. It was kind of you, although you should invest in a proper carriage. I do not hold with sledges.’
‘It is not a sledge,’ objected Kate, startled. ‘It—’
‘Of course it is a sledge,’ snapped Wood. ‘There is snow on the ground, is there not?’
‘Well, yes, a light smattering,’ acknowledged Kate. ‘But—’
‘Then it is a sledge,’ declared Wood with finality. ‘Only sledges can glide across snow. It is a scientific fact.’ He turned abruptly and scuttled into his house; his next words were yelled through the door that he had slammed behind him. ‘Radishes will strike again with their barrels of gunpowder, you mark my words. And they killed my servant Joyce.’
‘Ignore him, Chaloner,’ instructed O’Neill with a long-suffering sigh. ‘He cannot help being odd, and the death of his wife has unhinged him even further.’
‘So has the shock of yesterday’s explosion, I imagine,’ added Kate. ‘I suppose he deserves our compassion, but it is hard to be patient sometimes.’
‘He will get himself skewered if he goes around making unfounded accusations, though,’ said O’Neill resentfully. ‘I have never read – or chewed – a letter addressed to someone else in my life, and I certainly do not allow spymasters inside my domain.’
‘And I am not a regicide,’ said Chaloner with a smile, thinking there was no harm in cultivating their friendship, objectionable though that might be, if he was to investigate the Post Office.
O’Neill smiled back. ‘Well then, all is right with the world.’
* * *
As Chaloner crossedPost House Yard to Storey’s house, he was distracted yet again, this time by Spymaster Williamson, who had arrived with a team of minions to sift through the rubble in the hope of finding clues as to what had happened.
Joseph Williamson had been an Oxford academic before deciding that the government needed his array of dubious talents. At first, his intelligence service had been embarrassingly inept because he had insisted on employing only Royalists, who were mostly novices in espionage. They had improved since and so had he, although his operation still fell far short of Thurloe’s. He and Chaloner had worked together in the past, although wariness and dislike persisted on both sides.
‘I hear you are investigating the dead ducks in the park,’ said Williamson, fixing Chaloner with an expression of haughty amusement. ‘Is it true?’
‘The King’s dead ducks,’ Chaloner pointed out.
‘Then I hope you find your culprit. We do not want “fowl” killers stalking our streets.’ Williamson chortled at his own joke, a curious sound that Chaloner had never heard before: the Spymaster rarely attempted wit. ‘However, I hope it will not interfere with your enquiries into yesterday’s explosion, a matter that is rather more pressing, as I am sure you will agree.’
‘Gery is exploring what happened at the Post Office, not me.’
‘Really?’ Williamson stared at him, humour evaporating. ‘I doubt he is equal to the task.’
‘The Earl disagrees.’ Chaloner
‘Chaloner the regicide?’ demanded Wood. ‘I thought he was older. Or has he used magic to shed the years? If so, I would not mind sharing his secret, because I should like to look younger myself. So would my wife, although she is dead now, poor soul.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said Chaloner, and was flailing around for an expression of condolence that sounded a little more sincere when Wood was off again.
‘I cannot bear potatoes. Have you ever seen one? Nasty, malevolent things. But they are nothing compared to radishes, which are agents of the devil.’
‘Radishes?’ Chaloner had known that Wood was reputed to be eccentric, but no one had mentioned him being insane.
‘Terriblecreations. But I had best be on my way. Thank you for the ride, O’Neill. It was kind of you, although you should invest in a proper carriage. I do not hold with sledges.’
‘It is not a sledge,’ objected Kate, startled. ‘It—’
‘Of course it is a sledge,’ snapped Wood. ‘There is snow on the ground, is there not?’
‘Well, yes, a light smattering,’ acknowledged Kate. ‘But—’
‘Then it is a sledge,’ declared Wood with finality. ‘Only sledges can glide across snow. It is a scientific fact.’ He turned abruptly and scuttled into his house; his next words were yelled through the door that he had slammed behind him. ‘Radishes will strike again with their barrels of gunpowder, you mark my words. And they killed my servant Joyce.’
‘Ignore him, Chaloner,’ instructed O’Neill with a long-suffering sigh. ‘He cannot help being odd, and the death of his wife has unhinged him even further.’
‘So has the shock of yesterday’s explosion, I imagine,’ added Kate. ‘I suppose he deserves our compassion, but it is hard to be patient sometimes.’
‘He will get himself skewered if he goes around making unfounded accusations, though,’ said O’Neill resentfully. ‘I have never read – or chewed – a letter addressed to someone else in my life, and I certainly do not allow spymasters inside my domain.’
‘And I am not a regicide,’ said Chaloner with a smile, thinking there was no harm in cultivating their friendship, objectionable though that might be, if he was to investigate the Post Office.
O’Neill smiled back. ‘Well then, all is right with the world.’
* * *
As Chaloner crossedPost House Yard to Storey’s house, he was distracted yet again, this time by Spymaster Williamson, who had arrived with a team of minions to sift through the rubble in the hope of finding clues as to what had happened.
Joseph Williamson had been an Oxford academic before deciding that the government needed his array of dubious talents. At first, his intelligence service had been embarrassingly inept because he had insisted on employing only Royalists, who were mostly novices in espionage. They had improved since and so had he, although his operation still fell far short of Thurloe’s. He and Chaloner had worked together in the past, although wariness and dislike persisted on both sides.
‘I hear you are investigating the dead ducks in the park,’ said Williamson, fixing Chaloner with an expression of haughty amusement. ‘Is it true?’
‘The King’s dead ducks,’ Chaloner pointed out.
‘Then I hope you find your culprit. We do not want “fowl” killers stalking our streets.’ Williamson chortled at his own joke, a curious sound that Chaloner had never heard before: the Spymaster rarely attempted wit. ‘However, I hope it will not interfere with your enquiries into yesterday’s explosion, a matter that is rather more pressing, as I am sure you will agree.’
‘Gery is exploring what happened at the Post Office, not me.’
‘Really?’ Williamson stared at him, humour evaporating. ‘I doubt he is equal to the task.’
‘The Earl disagrees.’ Chaloner
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