Death in St James's Park by Susanna Gregory Page B

nothing. He had met plenty of people in London who would not hesitate to use such means to achieve their twisted purposes, and so had Williamson.
    ‘Anything else?’
    Chaloner nodded. ‘A man named Bankes has been buying information – about the explosion, and about the Post Office and London in general. Perhaps you should ask why he should be interested, and what he intends to do with the intelligence once he has it.’
    ‘Do you know where I might find him?’
    ‘No, but he can be contacted via the Antwerp or the Crown. It should not be too difficult to lay hold of him when he goes to collect his reports.’
    Williamson nodded his thanks, and returned to his men without another word. Seeing he was dismissed, Chaloner walked away.
    He knocked on Storey’s door, noting that someone had already started to repair the damage to the carved pelican – chalk marks showed where replacement legs would be sited. A plain maid in an unattractive bonnet answered, and conducted him to a parlour at the back of the house. As he followed, Chaloner realisedthat although the cottage looked modest from the square, it was unusually deep, and all the windows on the south side looked out on to the courtyard that was shared with the General Letter Office.
    Unfortunately, it was not an inspiring view. The flagstones were cracked and sprouted weeds, the sundial was broken, and the shrubs that had once been elegantly petite were now overgrown giants that blotted out the light. Directly opposite was the Post Office’s disused wing, a mournful display of sagging gutters, lichen-encrusted walls and windows with dirty shutters.
    Storey’s parlour was pleasant though, with a blazing fire and cushion-filled chairs. The walls were crowded with paintings, every one depicting a bird, while fowl also appeared in a design woven into the carpet, on the carved handles of the fire tongs, and etched into the coal shuttle.
    The Curator of Birds was chubby, clean shaven and white haired. He was entertaining a visitor already, and Chaloner stepped aside so that the maid could go in first and announce him – it was hardly good manners to join them otherwise – but she had disappeared, leaving him to surmise that he was not the only one cursed with unsatisfactory servants. The guest was le Notre.
    ‘Good Lord!’ the landscape architect exclaimed in French, as Chaloner stood in the doorway and attracted their attention by clearing his throat. It was impolite, but so was wandering through someone’s house on his own to hunt down shoddy domestics and inform them of their duties. ‘What are you doing here? Come to steal a clock, to replace the one you broke? There is a nice one on the table.’
    ‘I think Hannah would notice the difference,’ replied Chaloner in the same language.
    Le Notre laughed. ‘Blame O’Neill, as I told you last night. It willserve him right for holding such deeply offensive theories about Catholics. Do you think Palmer’s book will cause him to change his mind? Or is he beyond reason?’
    ‘I do not know him well enough to say.’
    Le Notre’s expression was difficult to read. ‘Yet you invited him into your home.’
    Chaloner shrugged, reluctant to reveal that it had been Hannah’s doing. It would be disloyal, and there was something about le Notre that set warning bells jangling in his mind, despite the man’s apparent affability. When he did not reply, le Notre stood suddenly and switched to English, his accent so thick as to be almost impenetrable.
    ‘Farewell, Storey. I will visit you again soon, and we shall resume our discussion about aviaries. Birds are a great ornament to any garden, although only from a distance. Close up, they are smelly, noisy and full of fleas.’
    With a bow so elaborate that Chaloner wondered whether it was intended to be a joke, le Notre departed, leaving behind a waft of strong perfume. Storey watched him go with an awe that verged on reverence, and barely listened when Chaloner stated his