Free Death in St James's Park by Susanna Gregory Page A

the housekeeper appeared. She was a grim-faced woman whose loose black clothes and beady eyes always put him in mind of a crow. She had given up treating him respectfully months before, when she had realised that the high regard in which Hannah held her meant she was immune from dismissal, and that any disagreements were put down to Chaloner’s irascible temper and not her own. She regarded him coldly.
    ‘May I help you with something? If so, please wait in the drawing room.’
    It was a none too subtle reminder that Chaloner was trespassing in the domain she considered to be her own. Chaloner did not agree. The kitchen was by far the most comfortable room in the house, and the warmest, too, with a fire burning all day. He also liked the pleasing aromas of baking – unless Hannah happened to be plying her culinary skills, in which case wild horses would not have dragged him there. His wife’s inability to cook was legendary, and it was fortunate that the servants prepared most of their meals, or they would have starved.
    ‘I can manage, thank you,’ he replied shortly.
    ‘Manage with what?’ Joan demanded. ‘If it is food you want, I shall see what is available. Some fish-head soup, perhaps. Or boiled vegetable parings, which are very wholesome.’
    ‘Some milk will suffice,’ said Chaloner, sure Hannah was not offered such unappealing fare when she visited the kitchen.
    He saw the instantglee on Joan’s face: she believed cold milk was poisonous. She went to pour him some, handing him a far larger cup than he would have taken for himself. He sipped it gingerly, supposing it was sour and she intended to make him sick, so he was astonished to discover that it was sweet and creamy. He nodded his thanks, and left the house as the first light began to steal across the city’s grey streets.
    It was too early to visit Storey and expect to be civilly received, so Chaloner wandered rather aimlessly, thinking about Hannah’s penchant for people with whom he had nothing in common. Why in God’s name had he married her? Was it because they had both been lonely, and it had been an act of desperation? Head bowed, deep in gloomy thoughts, he walked east.
    It was another frigid day, and although it was not snowing, the wind was sharp. He skidded frequently on ice, especially at the sides of the roads where water had frozen in the gutters. Like the previous morning, the city was slower to wake than normal, with people reluctant to leave their fires and warm beds. It was quieter, too, with street vendors saving their voices for the crowds they hoped would come later, and there were fewer carts and carriages on the roads.
    He passed St Paul’s Cathedral, the majestic but crumbling Gothic edifice that was loved by everyone except architects, who itched to replace it with something of their own devising. It dwarfed the surrounding buildings, even without the lofty spire that had been damaged by lightning a century before. What caught Chaloner’s attention that day, however, was not its grandeur, but the fact that a large group of youths had gathered outside it, talking in low voices.
    He stared at themas he passed. Their clothes suggested they were apprentices from several different guilds, including ones that were traditional enemies. He was uneasy – apprentices were an unruly, volatile crowd, and unrest among them often presaged greater trouble elsewhere. He wondered what they were doing together. Was it anything to do with the rumours that the political agitator John Fry was in the city – that they expected him to lead them in some sort of rebellion? Chaloner hoped not. London had seen far too much trouble over the past two decades, and it was time for a little peace.
    He continued walking, threading through the tangle of lanes between Watling Street and Dowgate Hill, and to kill time, he entered the fuggy warmth of the Antwerp Coffee House, hoping a dose of the brew would sharpen his wits. The shop was busy, and the odour