The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Chaloner!’ he cried. ‘You can be my witness, because I am going to kill this impudent dog!’

  ‘You can try,’ said Elliot shortly. ‘Because no man tells me not to take the wall.’

  In London, ‘taking the wall’ was preferable to walking farther out into the street, because it was better protected from those who were in the habit of emptying chamber pots out of over-jutting upstairs windows. Disputes about who should have the more favourable spot were frequent and often ended in scuffles. Few drew weapons over it, though, and Chaloner was astonished that Cave should think such a matter was worth his life.

  ‘Cave, stop,’ he said softly. ‘Come away with me. Now.’

  ‘Never,’ flared the musician. ‘He insulted me, and I demand satisfaction.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Chaloner. That would afford ample time for tempers to cool and apologies to be sent. ‘In Lincoln’s Inn Fields at dawn.’

  ‘He is right,’ said a man at Elliot’s side. Of burly build, he had a ruddy face and sun-bleached hair that indicated a preference for outdoors living. ‘Listen to him. There is no need for this.’

  ‘There is every need, Lester,’ snarled Elliot. ‘You heard what Cave said. He called me a—’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ hissed Lester. ‘You will kill him, and then not even Williamson will be able to save you from the noose. This little worm is not worth it! Come away before it goes any further.’

  With a roar of outrage, Cave surged forward and blades flashed. As it quickly became apparent that Elliot was by far the superior swordsman, Chaloner waited for him to relent – and for Cave to yield when he realised the extent to which he was outgunned. But although the singer was stumbling backwards, struggling desperately to defend himself, Elliot continued to advance, doing so with a lazy grace that said he was more amused than threatened by Cave’s clumsy flailing.

  Cave’s eyes were wide with alarm, and he gasped in shock when Elliot scored a shallow cut on his cheek. Elliot seemed surprised, too, and Chaloner suspected it had been an accident – that Elliot had overestimated the singer’s ability to deflect the blow. Hand to his bleeding cheek, Cave darted behind Chaloner, and several onlookers began to laugh.

  ‘Enough,’ said Lester firmly, grabbing his friend’s arm and jerking him back. ‘Think of Ruth. She will be heart-broken if you are hanged for murder, and—’

  Suddenly and wholly unexpectedly, Cave shot out from behind Chaloner and attacked not Elliot but Lester. Chaloner managed to shove him, deflecting what would have been a fatal blow, but it was a close call, and there was a hiss of disapproval from the crowd: Lester was unarmed.

  Elliot’s face went taut with anger, and he advanced with sudden determination. His first lunge struck home, and Cave dropped to his knees, hand to his chest. Blood trickled between his fingers, thick, red and plentiful. With such volume, Chaloner had no doubt that the wound was mortal.

  The onlookers were stunned into silence, and the only sound was that of Cave struggling to breathe. Lester quickly disarmed Elliot, who gazed at his victim with an expression that was difficult to read. Chaloner knelt next to the stricken man, but Cave pushed his hands away when he tried to inspect the wound.

  ‘There is no pain. Please do not make it otherwise by attempting to physick me – I know my case is hopeless.’

  ‘You know nothing of the kind,’ argued Chaloner, fumbling to unbutton Cave’s coat. ‘I may be able to stem the bleeding until a surgeon arrives.’

  ‘But a surgeon will do unspeakable things.’ Cave grabbed Chaloner’s hand and gripped it with surprising strength. ‘And I am not brave. Besides, I am ready to die.’

  ‘No!’ cried Lester, horrified. He turned to the crowd. ‘Fetch help! Hurry!’

  No one obliged, partly because it was more interesting to watch the situation unfold than to dash away on an errand of mercy, but mostly because any medical man would almost certainly demand a down-payment from the Good Samaritan before answering the summons. Lester was almost beside himself with agitation, while Elliot’s face was whiter than that of his victim.

  ‘I want …’ Cave gasped. His flicked a hand at Elliot. ‘Him … I must …’

  Elliot approached reluctantly. He knelt when Cave started to speak, but the singer’s words were inaudible, and he was obliged to lean closer. Cave’s arm jerked suddenly, and Elliot bellowed in pain. When Elliot recoiled, there was a dagger protruding from his stomach. Chaloner stared at Cave in disbelief, and did not think he had ever seen an expression of such black malice on the face of a dying man.

  Groaning, Elliot struggled to his feet, hauling out the blade as he did so. It slipped from his fingers to clatter on the cobbles. He lurched towards Lester, who escorted him away. No one made any attempt to stop them.

  ‘Well,’ murmured Dugdale, arms folded. ‘I suppose that was a neat end to this insalubrious affair. The King’s singer is speared, but at least his killer did not escape unscathed.’

  ‘Is Elliot dead?’ asked Cave weakly. ‘Did I kill him?’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ replied Dugdale, prodding the dropped dagger with the toe of his elegant shoe. It was stained red to the hilt.

  ‘Good,’ breathed Cave. Then his head lolled suddenly, and the breath hissed out of him.

  Chaloner sat back on his heels, overwhelmed by the stupidity of it all.

  As it would not be right to leave Cave in the street, Chaloner paid a carter to transport the body to the Westminster charnel house. He had no idea whether corpses from The Strand would be welcome there, but he was not sure where else to take it. Dugdale was right in that much of London was still a mystery to him, and while he knew exactly how to dispose of cadavers in Amsterdam, The Hague, Paris, Lisbon, Bruxelles, Hamburg, Venice, Madrid and several other major cities, he was not sure what to do with one in his own country.

  ‘We had better make sure the charnel-house keeper will accept him,’ he said to Dugdale after the cart and its grim cargo had rattled away. ‘As you pointed out, Cave held a royal appointment, so it is our duty to see him treated with respect.’

  ‘I am not setting foot in a place like that,’ declared Dugdale with a fastidious shudder. ‘You go. I shall return to the Earl, and inform him that you are unavoidably delayed. He will be irked to be kept waiting, but I shall do my best to mollify him.’

  Chaloner suspected he would do nothing of the kind, and that the opportunity would be used to blacken his name. But it could not be helped – common decency dictated that he should ensure Cave’s body was properly looked after, and that was that.

  The Westminster charnel house was located in a narrow lane near the Thames, between a granary and a warehouse where coal was stored. It was an unprepossessing place, in a particularly dingy area. By the time Chaloner arrived Cave had been delivered, and the cart and its driver had gone so the lane was deserted and eerily quiet. He opened the door with some reluctance, grimacing at the damp chilliness and stench of decay that immediately wafted out at him.

  The charnel house comprised a mortuary at the back, with two handsomely appointed chambers at the front where the owner went through the formalities of death with the bereaved. John Kersey had made a fortune from dealing with the dead, partly by offering guided tours to wealthy ghouls, but also from the small museum he had established to display some of the more unusual artefacts he had collected over the years. He was a neat, dapper little man, whose elegant clothes were made by bespoke tailors. He did not, as Chaloner had first assumed, deck himself out in items reclaimed from corpses.

  That morning, he was entertaining a friend, and Chaloner’s heart sank when he recognised the loudly ebullient tones of Richard Wiseman, Surgeon to the King. Kersey kept Wiseman supplied with specimens, some of which were dissected publicly at Chyrurgeons’ Hall. It was a grisly business, and may have explained why Wiseman always chose to wear red. Coupled with the fact that he possessed a head of thick auburn curls, and was a large man with an immensely powerful physique, he made for an imposing fig
ure. He considered himself Chaloner’s friend, but although the spy respected Wiseman’s courage and honesty, he found it difficult to like a man who was so disagreeably arrogant.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Kersey with a pleasant smile. ‘What can we do for you today?’

  ‘The body that just arrived,’ began Chaloner. ‘It is—’

  ‘Toted in like a sack of onions,’ interrupted Kersey disapprovingly. ‘By a grubby carter from The Strand. Do folk have no sense of decorum?’

  Chaloner wondered how he could ask such a question when he let some of his charges go to a far worse fate than being lugged along a hall. Wiseman guessed what he was thinking.

  ‘I perform anatomies in the name of science,’ he declared loftily. ‘However, I shall leave that particular cadaver alone, because it is John Cave, one of the Chapel Royal musicians.’

  ‘Do you not dissect musicians, then?’ asked Chaloner, a little acidly.

  ‘Not ones with Court appointments. The King attends my Public Anatomies, and I cannot imagine him wanting to watch one where he is acquainted with the subject.’

  Chaloner was not so sure about that: the King liked to think of himself as a scientist. He turned to Kersey. ‘I arranged for Cave to be brought here. I did not know where else to suggest.’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ said Kersey kindly. ‘Do not worry: I shall look after him.’

  Chaloner nodded his thanks. His journey had been unnecessary: he should have remembered that Kersey was solicitous of his charges, especially the important or famous ones.

  ‘You will have to contact the Chapel Royal choir and ask his colleagues to arrange a funeral, Kersey,’ said Wiseman helpfully. ‘As far as I am aware, he had no family.’

  But Kersey was looking at Chaloner, doing so rather uneasily. ‘There was an awful lot of blood. You did not kill him, did you? If so, I hope you are not expecting me to disguise the fact, because I do not engage in that sort of activity. Well, not without a very good reason.’

  ‘He died in a brawl,’ objected Chaloner, offended. ‘I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘You have no right to sound indignant,’ said Kersey. ‘Given that you have been associated with so many premature deaths in the past. Indeed, there have been times when my domain has contained nothing but folk who have arrived here as a result of your investigations.’

  ‘But not today.’ Chaloner felt the accusation was unjust. It was hardly his fault that the Earl was in the habit of ordering him to explore dangerous matters.

  ‘You have only been home a week, but you are already embroiled in something deadly,’ scolded Wiseman. ‘And it is doing you no good. You glowed with health and vitality when you first returned, but now you are pale and mangy.’

  Chaloner was disinclined to tell him how he had been spending his nights. He did not have the energy to deal with the inevitable indignation that would arise when Wiseman learned that the Earl, a man he admired for some inexplicable reason, was being relieved of the bricks and wood intended for his house.

  ‘I should go,’ he said instead. ‘Clarendon is expecting me.’

  Kersey was surprised. ‘Do you not want to see Cave? I covered him with a nice clean cloth.’

  Chaloner shook his head and made for the door, keen to answer the Earl’s summons before the delay saw him in too much trouble. Wiseman and Kersey followed.

  ‘I am sorry Cave is dead,’ said the surgeon. ‘He had a lovely voice, and everyone was delighted when he returned from Tangier to rejoin the Chapel Royal choir. Henry O’Brien will be especially distressed – since Cave returned, he has refused to sing duets with anyone else.’

  ‘Who is Henry O’Brien?’ asked Chaloner.

  Wiseman regarded him as though he were short of a few wits. ‘He is married to Kitty.’

  ‘Oh.’ Chaloner was none the wiser. ‘Say no more.’

  Wiseman scowled. ‘There is no need to be acerbic. O’Brien is an Irish baron who came to London to sell copper from his estates. Even he is astonished by how rich it has made him. His wife Kitty is …’ The surgeon made an expansive gesture with his hand.

  ‘Beautiful, clever and distantly related to the King,’ supplied Kersey. ‘Every man in London longs to be in her company, but she already has a lover.’

  ‘She does not!’ declared Wiseman. ‘She is a decent lady – upright, honourable and kind.’

  ‘Those qualities do not preclude her from taking a lover,’ argued Kersey. He turned to Chaloner. ‘Suffice to say that O’Brien’s wealth and Kitty’s beauty means that people are keen to fête them, and soirées are always being held in their honour. He will be grieved when he hears his singing partner is dead. Who killed him, did you say?’

  ‘A man named James Elliot,’ replied Chaloner. ‘He is one of Williamson’s spies, apparently.’

  Wiseman pulled a face to indicate his distaste. ‘Elliot is married to a sweet girl named Ruth, and she will be heartbroken when he is hanged for murdering a courtier. But she will be better off without him in the long run. He is a greedy, unscrupulous devil.’

  ‘He may not live long enough to hang,’ said Chaloner soberly. ‘Cave stabbed him.’

  ‘We can but hope,’ said Wiseman ruthlessly.

  The clocks were striking ten by the time Chaloner left the charnel house. Wiseman walked with him, chatting about all that had happened during the time the spy had been away. Chaloner listened, not because he liked gossip, but because Dugdale’s remarks about him being poorly versed in London’s affairs had reminded him that he needed to rectify the matter – only foolish spies did not take the time to acquaint themselves with the society in which they were obliged to move.

  ‘O’Brien and Kitty are the King’s current favourites,’ Wiseman was saying, jostling a beefy soldier out of his way. The surgeon had always been large, but he had made himself even more powerful by a regime of lifting heavy stones each morning. He claimed it was to improve his general well-being, but the practice had given him the arms and shoulders of a wrestler, and meant prudent people were inclined to overlook any insults he might dole out, physical or verbal. Hence the soldier bristled at the rough treatment, but made no other response.

  ‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Because they are wealthy, or because she is pretty?’

  ‘Have a care!’ Wiseman glanced around uneasily. ‘There is no need to announce to everyone that our King is an unscrupulous womaniser with a voracious appetite for his subjects’ money.’

  ‘Your words, not mine,’ said Chaloner, supposing His Majesty must have reached new depths of depravity, if even a loyal follower like Wiseman voiced reservations about his character.

  ‘Still, at least O’Brien and Kitty are not Adventurers. And as I am sure you have no idea what I am talking about, let me explain. It means they are not members of that shameful organisation of gold-grabbing nobles commonly called the Company of Royal Adventurers Trading into Africa.’

  ‘I have heard of it,’ said Chaloner drily. ‘In case you did not know, Tangier is in Africa, and the place was full of talk about the Adventurers.’

  ‘What talk?’ asked Wiseman curiously.

  ‘Mostly that their charter forbids other Britons from buying or selling goods that originate in Africa. They have secured themselves a monopoly on gold, silver, hides, feathers, ivory, slaves—’

  Wiseman’s expression turned fierce. ‘Slaves?’

  Chaloner nodded. ‘The Portuguese used to dominate that particular trade – most of their “cargos” go to the sugar plantations in Brazil. But the Portuguese are no longer quite so powerful at sea, and the Dutch now control the best routes.’

  ‘Do they, by God?’ growled Wiseman. Britain was on the verge of war with the Dutch, so even mentioning them was likely to provoke a hostile response from most Londoners.

  ‘It is a lucrative business,’ Chaloner went on. ‘And the British merchants in Tangier itch to join in. But the Adventurers’ charter means they cannot.’

  ‘I do not approve of the slave
trade,’ declared Wiseman hotly.

  ‘No decent person does.’

  Wiseman brightened. ‘I read in The Newes a week ago that a slaving ship named Henrietta Maria sank mysteriously in Tangier harbour. It went down before it could be loaded, and the delay allowed many captives to escape.’ He stared at Chaloner. ‘It happened when you were there. Did you …’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  Wiseman clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I might have known! The loss set the Adventurers back a pretty penny, too! They had invested a fortune in fitting it out for transporting humans.’

  ‘It will make no difference in the end,’ said Chaloner despondently. ‘They will just build another. And another and another, until the sea is full of the damned things.’

  ‘You and I are not the only ones to be repelled. Others will make a stand, and the business will founder. You will see.’

  Chaloner said nothing, but thought Wiseman’s optimism was sadly misplaced. People probably would be appalled by the barbaric way sugar was produced on the plantations, but they would buy the stuff anyway, and that would create a market. The ethics of the matter would be swept under the carpet and quietly forgotten.

  Wiseman changed the subject. ‘I cannot say I like Roger Pratt the architect, by the way. I am beginning to think you were right when you said Clarendon House will bring our Earl trouble.’

  ‘What made you change your mind?’ asked Chaloner, surprised. Wiseman was one of those who firmly believed that Clarendon had every right to an extravagant mansion.

  ‘Pratt himself. He is arrogant and thinks himself some kind of god. I cannot bear such people.’

  Chaloner smothered a smile, thinking the description applied rather well to Wiseman himself.

  * * *

  The Earl lived in a rambling Tudor palace onThe Strand, which he had never liked and that he complained about constantly. Indeed, Chaloner suspected that Worcester House’s poky rooms and leaking ceilings were largely responsible for his master’s wild extravagance over his new home.