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

of burning beans mingled with the reek of a dozen tobacco pipes and the sharper tang of a badly vented chimney.
    He sat at an empty table, and opened the latest news-book – twice-weekly publications in which the government gave people its versions of domestic and foreign affairs. He learned with some bemusement that le Notre had been right about the King’s decision to ignore the strictures of Lent, and His Majesty had indeed issued a proclamation saying that everyone could ignore it that year. He also learned that two Quaker meetings had been raided in Ross for no reason other than bigoted intolerance, and that the French Court was eagerly awaiting the Grand Ballet.
    As he flicked through the rest of the paper, he became aware that the conversation at the next table was about Lady Castlemaine, who had amassed massive gambling debts and expected the King, via the taxpayer, to settle them. Itoccurred to him then that Temperance had decried the Antwerp for being the haunt of disgruntled Parliamentarians, and he was on the verge of leaving when someone mentioned the comet that was currently blazing across the heavens, and the conversation moved to less contentious issues.
    He relaxed a little, and sipped his coffee. It had a pleasantly nutty flavour, quite unlike the bitter concoction that was served in the place he usually frequented. He still did not like it, but at least it allowed him to understand why others did. It was probably a good deal more palatable with sugar, but he never took that, as a silent and probably meaningless protest against the way it was produced on plantations.
    He had just started to browse a list of all the goods that had been imported through Plymouth the previous year – the government’s idea of entertaining reading – when two men approached. He glanced up warily, hoping they had not come to berate him for sitting alone. Coffee houses were not places for solitude, and he had broken an unwritten rule by taking a seat at an empty table.
    ‘Tom Chaloner,’ said one softly. ‘I thought you would have been dead by now.’
    It took a moment for Chaloner to recognise the man who had spoken, because Isaac Dorislaus had aged in the year or so since they had last met. What little hair Dorislaus still possessed was grey, and there were lines of strain and worry around his eyes and mouth.
    He and Chaloner had much in common. First, they shared the misfortune of having kinsmen who had been involved in the execution of the first King Charles: Dorislaus’s father had helped prepare the charges of treason, while Chaloner’s uncle had signed the death warrant. Second,they had both worked for Cromwell’s intelligence service, Chaloner as a spy and Dorislaus in the Post Office. And third, they both spoke flawless Dutch – Dorislaus’s father had been a Hollander, while Chaloner had lived in The Hague and Amsterdam. However, Chaloner had never been quite sure of Dorislaus’s loyalty to the Commonwealth, and when several of his reports to Spymaster Thurloe had mysteriously gone missing, he had suspected that it was Dorislaus who had ‘lost’ them.
    Dorislaus’s companion, whose smile of greeting was rather more genuine, was Cornelis Vanderhuyden, another Anglo-Dutchman who had made his home in London. He was a talented linguist, whose speciality was translating scientific tracts. Chaloner had once saved him from a cudgel-wielding mob, and they had been friends ever since.
    Vanderhuyden and Dorislaus looked odd together. Vanderhuyden was tall and angular, and wore an expensive suit; Dorislaus was short and portly, and his old-fashioned clothes indicated he had not prospered since the Restoration – his coat was frayed, his hat was full of holes, and the lace on his cuffs and collar, although carefully laundered, was unfashionably plain. He launched into an explanation of his shabby state without being asked.
    ‘O’Neill dismissed me eighteen months ago. He accused me of being a Parliamentarian