river. Be careful in his company, Tom. He seems a little deranged to me.’
It was good advice, and Chaloner fully intended to follow it.
It was not long before word of the explosion spread, and people flocked to gawp at the place where others had died. They included some folk who had fled but who now returned to inspect the crater, along with a number of postal clerks – it was past noon, so the General Letter Office was closed, and they had abandoned their duties of sorting and stamping to stand in gossipy huddles. While Wiseman returned to the wounded, Temperance took her mind off the shock she had suffered by pointing out specific onlookers to Chaloner.
‘That is Roger Palmer,’ she whispered, indicating a tall man with a lean, athletic build. He was roughly Chaloner’s age, with an open, pleasant face. ‘Lady Castlemaine’s husband.’
‘He visits the club?’ Palmer’s clothes, like Chaloner’s own, were dusty and torn, indicating he had been uncomfortably close to the blast, too.
Temperance shook her head. ‘He is too respectable, which is astonishing, given his wife’s character. He is also said to be intelligent, although I do not believe it: he would not have married her if he had any wits.’ Then she gestured in a different direction. ‘Do you see that short, dark fellow with the impish face? That is Controller O’Neill.’
Chaloner looked with interestat the man who ran the Post Office. The dead had been laid in a line, and O’Neill was hovering over them, his face a mask of distress. His clerks hurried to cluster around him, and while some seemed dismayed by the carnage, others were impassive. Then Temperance tugged on Chaloner’s arm, directing his attention elsewhere again.
‘Henry Bishop is here, too. He and O’Neill hate each other, because O’Neill conspired to have him removed as Postmaster so he could get the job himself. Anything that hurts O’Neill will please Bishop, and an explosion outside the Post Office
will
reflect badly on its Controller.’
Bishop was middle-aged with mournful eyes, and wore a large brown wig and a fine blue coat. He held a lapdog that had one of the most malevolent faces Chaloner had ever seen on an animal.
‘He does not look pleased to me,’ remarked Chaloner. Bishop was pale and he absently kissed the top of his dog’s head as one of the dead was carried past him.
‘No,’ conceded Temperance. ‘On reflection, he is not the kind of man to condone this sort of thing. He is by far the nicer of the two, and he was much better at running the Post Office. O’Neill told some terrible lies to get him ousted eighteen months ago. He even attacked Bishop’s friend the Major, who is still in prison because of the accusations.’
Hannah had said much the same, as had the Major himself, and Chaloner was puzzled. ‘Everyone seems to accept that O’Neill’s accusations were motivated by self-interest, so why were they taken seriously?’
‘Oh, I imagine money changedhands,’ shrugged Temperance. ‘The Major is a fiery orator, so I suspect the government was delighted to have an excuse to lock him up. It is a pity about Bishop, though: the mail was usually delivered on time when he was in charge, whereas now …’
‘Do most Londoners think the same?’
Temperance considered the question carefully. ‘Yes, I should think so. Anyone who writes letters will deplore O’Neill’s shoddy service, while anyone who has met the two will prefer Bishop’s bumbling amiability over O’Neill’s bombastic insincerity. Bishop plays the viol, too, whereas O’Neill says he has no time for what he calls mindless frivolity.’
The last remark put Chaloner firmly in Bishop’s camp. Music was important to him. It helped him think clearly when he was confused, soothed him when he was unhappy, and revived him when he was tired. Unfortunately, Hannah hated him playing his viol, something he considered to be a serious impediment to their future happiness
It was good advice, and Chaloner fully intended to follow it.
It was not long before word of the explosion spread, and people flocked to gawp at the place where others had died. They included some folk who had fled but who now returned to inspect the crater, along with a number of postal clerks – it was past noon, so the General Letter Office was closed, and they had abandoned their duties of sorting and stamping to stand in gossipy huddles. While Wiseman returned to the wounded, Temperance took her mind off the shock she had suffered by pointing out specific onlookers to Chaloner.
‘That is Roger Palmer,’ she whispered, indicating a tall man with a lean, athletic build. He was roughly Chaloner’s age, with an open, pleasant face. ‘Lady Castlemaine’s husband.’
‘He visits the club?’ Palmer’s clothes, like Chaloner’s own, were dusty and torn, indicating he had been uncomfortably close to the blast, too.
Temperance shook her head. ‘He is too respectable, which is astonishing, given his wife’s character. He is also said to be intelligent, although I do not believe it: he would not have married her if he had any wits.’ Then she gestured in a different direction. ‘Do you see that short, dark fellow with the impish face? That is Controller O’Neill.’
Chaloner looked with interestat the man who ran the Post Office. The dead had been laid in a line, and O’Neill was hovering over them, his face a mask of distress. His clerks hurried to cluster around him, and while some seemed dismayed by the carnage, others were impassive. Then Temperance tugged on Chaloner’s arm, directing his attention elsewhere again.
‘Henry Bishop is here, too. He and O’Neill hate each other, because O’Neill conspired to have him removed as Postmaster so he could get the job himself. Anything that hurts O’Neill will please Bishop, and an explosion outside the Post Office
will
reflect badly on its Controller.’
Bishop was middle-aged with mournful eyes, and wore a large brown wig and a fine blue coat. He held a lapdog that had one of the most malevolent faces Chaloner had ever seen on an animal.
‘He does not look pleased to me,’ remarked Chaloner. Bishop was pale and he absently kissed the top of his dog’s head as one of the dead was carried past him.
‘No,’ conceded Temperance. ‘On reflection, he is not the kind of man to condone this sort of thing. He is by far the nicer of the two, and he was much better at running the Post Office. O’Neill told some terrible lies to get him ousted eighteen months ago. He even attacked Bishop’s friend the Major, who is still in prison because of the accusations.’
Hannah had said much the same, as had the Major himself, and Chaloner was puzzled. ‘Everyone seems to accept that O’Neill’s accusations were motivated by self-interest, so why were they taken seriously?’
‘Oh, I imagine money changedhands,’ shrugged Temperance. ‘The Major is a fiery orator, so I suspect the government was delighted to have an excuse to lock him up. It is a pity about Bishop, though: the mail was usually delivered on time when he was in charge, whereas now …’
‘Do most Londoners think the same?’
Temperance considered the question carefully. ‘Yes, I should think so. Anyone who writes letters will deplore O’Neill’s shoddy service, while anyone who has met the two will prefer Bishop’s bumbling amiability over O’Neill’s bombastic insincerity. Bishop plays the viol, too, whereas O’Neill says he has no time for what he calls mindless frivolity.’
The last remark put Chaloner firmly in Bishop’s camp. Music was important to him. It helped him think clearly when he was confused, soothed him when he was unhappy, and revived him when he was tired. Unfortunately, Hannah hated him playing his viol, something he considered to be a serious impediment to their future happiness
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