‘You missed him,’ said a gardener, straightening from his labours as Chaloner walked past. ‘He left for White Hall an hour ago.’
‘I thought he was ill,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether he was destined to spend the entire day traipsing around London. He hoped not: he was cold, damp and wanted to go home.
‘He recovered.’ The man sounded disappointed; the Earl was not popular with his staff.
‘That was fast. Gout usually keeps him in bed for days.’
The gardener grinned evilly. ‘He told everyone it was gout, but if you knew what he ate for his supper, you would not be surprised that he spent half the night clutching his innards. But a tonic restored him, and he sent for his coach shortly afterwards. It is not far to White Hall, but the lazy goat never walks. No wonder he is so fat.’
Wearily, Chaloner retraced his steps. White Hall was the King’s official London residence, and a number of his ministers had quarters there. It represented power and authority, as well as being the place where the King and his dissipated friends frolicked until the small hours of the morning, doing things that invariably transpired to be expensive for the tax-payer.
The palace was ancient, but had developed in a haphazard manner, depending on when money had been available for building and repairs. It was said to contain more than two thousand rooms, ranging from the spacious apartments occupied by the King and his nobles, to the cramped, badly ventilated attics that housed laundresses, grooms and scullions.
Chaloner was about to walk through the gate when a carriage drew up beside him. A face peered out and Chaloner recognised Spymaster Williamson, a tall, aloof man who had been an Oxford academic before deciding that his slippery talents would be more useful in government. He was feared by his employees, treated with extreme caution by his superiors, and detested by his equals.
‘I did not know you were back,’ Williamson said without preamble. ‘I thought you were still in Tangier, trying to learn why building a sea wall is transpiring to be so costly.’
‘Clarendon ordered me home,’ replied Chaloner, shortly and not very informatively.
He and Williamson had never liked each other. They had reached a truce of sorts in the summer, after an adventure involving some foreign diplomats, but it was an uneasy one, and Chaloner was acutely aware that it would take very little for the Spymaster to break it.
‘What is wrong, Joseph?’ came a female voice from inside the coach. Chaloner was surprised: the fairer sex tended to shy away from Williamson. ‘Why have we stopped?’
‘I want a word with this gentleman,’ replied Williamson, turning to her with a brief smile. ‘It will not take a moment, and then I shall show you my Westminster offices.’
‘Good,’ said another voice. It was a man and he sounded pleased. ‘I am looking forward to seeing the place where you spend so much time.’
Chaloner wondered whether the couple were actually being conveyed there so they could be arrested – that when they arrived, they would find themselves whisked into a grim little cell for the purposes of interrogation. It had certainly happened before. But Williamson climbed out of the carriage and began to make introductions. Chaloner was surprised a second time, because the Spymaster had never afforded him such courtesy before. He was immediately on his guard.
‘These are my very dear friends Kitty and Henry O’Brien. O’Brien and I were up at Oxford together.’ Williamson addressed the occupants of the carriage. ‘Chaloner is the fellow I was telling you about, who helped me with that business concerning the Dutch ambassador last June.’
Chaloner was not sure whether he was more taken aback to meet O’Brien and his wife so soon after the discussion in the charnel house, or to be informed that Williamson had friends. The only other man he knew who was willing to spend time in the Spymaster’s company was the sinister John Swaddell, who claimed to be a clerk, but whom everyone knew was really an assassin.
He regarded the pair with interest as they peered out. Kitty’s beauty was indeed breathtaking. Red hair tumbled around her shoulders, and there was both intelligence and humour in her arresting green eyes. He bowed politely, thinking that Kersey’s claims about her loveliness were, if anything, understated.
When he turned his attention to her husband, he thought for a fleeting moment that she had married a child, but O’Brien was just one of those men who had retained boyish looks into his thirties. He had fair curly hair, blue eyes, and the lines around his mouth said he laughed a lot. They were an attractive couple, and Chaloner was not surprised that the King had deigned to grace them with his favour. Their clothes said they were indeed wealthy, and the ruby that gleamed at Kitty’s throat was the largest that Chaloner had ever seen.
‘O’Brien has just received some sad news,’ said Williamson, addressing Chaloner. ‘A musician from the Chapel Royal, of whom he was very fond, is dead.’
‘Killed by one of your spies, Williamson,’ put in O’Brien sourly.
Kitty rested a calming hand on his arm. ‘He cannot hire choirboys for the dirty business of espionage, so it is hardly surprising that some transpire to be unruly. Like that odious Swaddell. I am glad he is no longer in your service, Joseph. He was downright sinister.’
‘Swaddell has left you?’ Chaloner was astounded – he had thought the bond between the two men was unbreakable, mostly, he had suspected uncharitably, because neither could find anyone else willing to put up with him.
Williamson grimaced. ‘I am afraid so.’
‘I shall miss Cave,’ O’Brien was saying unhappily. ‘He was an excellent tenor, and the only man in London capable of understanding how I like to perform. What shall I do without him? The King liked to listen to us sing, and he will be devastated when he hears what has happened.’
Chaloner doubted the King would care, especially if O’Brien financed some other form of entertainment. He did not usually make snap judgements about people, but there was something about O’Brien that said he lacked his wife’s brains, and that he was vain and a little bit silly.
While Kitty murmured soothing words in her husband’s ear, Williamson drew Chaloner to one side, so they could speak without being overheard. ‘One of my informants witnessed what happened. He told me you tried to prevent the skirmish.’
‘But unfortunately without success.’
‘It is a pity, especially as the quarrel was trifling. I cannot say I like Elliot, but he is a decent intelligencer.’
‘He is still alive?’ asked Chaloner, recalling the vicious blow Cave had delivered, and the dagger protruding from Elliot’s innards.
‘At the moment,’ nodded Williamson, ‘although his friend Lester fears he may not stay that way for long. And I hate to lose him. He was making headway on a troublesome case—’
‘The Earl is waiting,’ said Chaloner, unwilling to be burdened with the Spymaster’s concerns when he had more than enough of his own to contend with.
‘You can spare me a moment,’ said Williamson reproachfully. ‘And I am having a terrible week, what with Swaddell leaving, Elliot attacking Cave, and more plots to overthrow the government than you can shake a stick at. And the Privy Council has cut my budget. Again.’
‘Where has Swaddell gone?’ asked Chaloner, not liking the notion of such a deadly fellow on the loose. Williamson had never done much to control him, but he had been better than nothing.
‘To someone who can pay him what he deserves,’ replied Williamson shortly. ‘I wish I could offer him double, but how can I, when I barely have enough to make ends meet?’
‘Perhaps your friend O’Brien can secure you better funding,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Ask him to mention it while he warbles for the King.’
‘I most certainly shall not,’ declared Williamson indignantly. ‘It would be ungentlemanly to raise matters of money with a friend. Besides, he is too distressed by Cave’s death. I am taking him to see my Westminster offices, as a way to take his mind off it. For something pleasant to do.’
Chaloner regarde
d him askance. ‘You think that is pleasant? A heavily guarded hall filled with labouring clerks, and dungeons below containing God knows what horrors?’
Williamson looked exasperated. ‘Then what do you suggest? I am not a man for frivolity, but I feel compelled to offer some sort of diversion.’
‘What is wrong with a visit to the Crown Jewels or the Royal Menagerie? Or even a play?’
Williamson nodded slowly. ‘Those are good ideas. But I did not stop you to ask for advice about my social life. I want to know why Cave and Elliot fought. My informant’s account made no sense.’
Seeing no reason not to oblige him, Chaloner gave a concise account of the squabble. When he had finished, Williamson frowned unhappily.
‘But why did Cave and Elliot become agitated over so ridiculous a matter? Men do not squander their lives on such trivialities. There must be more to it.’
‘Very possibly,’ acknowledged Chaloner, glad he was not the one who would have to find out.
‘Cave will have a grand funeral in Westminster Abbey,’ Williamson went on. ‘The Chapel Royal choir will provide the music, and the Bishop of London will almost certainly be prevailed upon to conduct the ceremony. It will be a lofty occasion, and I should not like it spoiled with the taint of suspicion. I do not suppose you have time to—’
‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly.
Chapter 2
The guard on duty at White Hall’s Great Gate that day was Sergeant Wright, a petty, grasping individual who was heartily disliked by those soldiers who took pride in their work; those who were shirkers considered him an icon. He was an unattractive specimen with a bad complexion, stubby nose, and eyes that were too small for his doughy face.
‘You cannot come in dressed like that,’ he declared, when he saw Chaloner. ‘You are wet, dirty and there is blood on your coat. Someone else’s, more is the pity. Other gentlemen ushers do not—’
‘Let him through,’ came a commanding voice from behind them. The interruption was timely, because Chaloner did not take kindly to being berated by the likes of Wright, who was no picture of sartorial elegance himself with his food-stained tunic and greasy hair.
The speaker was Thomas Kipps, the Earl’s Seal Bearer, a tall, handsome man with an amiable face. He was dressed in the Clarendon livery of blue and gold, and it was his duty to walk ahead of his master in formal processions. Unfortunately, the Earl liked the ritual, and encouraged Kipps to escort him when he wandered around White Hall, too. Such vanity was ill-advised, because it gave his enemies the means with which to mock him – Chaloner had lost count of the times he had seen the Court rakes mimic the Earl’s waddling gait, preceded by another of their own bearing a pair of bellows in place of the seal.
Wright was outraged that someone should presume to tell him his business. ‘How dare—’
‘Clarendon wants him,’ snapped Kipps. ‘And you do not have the right to keep him waiting.’
Wright stepped aside with ill grace. Chaloner pushed past him rather more roughly than necessary, hard enough to make him stagger.
‘He is an odious fellow,’ said Kipps, once they were through the gate. ‘Do you know why he is not dismissed and someone more competent appointed in his place? Because he once carried an important message to the King during the civil wars. Anyone could have done it, but His Majesty remembers Wright, and this post is his reward.’
Chaloner liked Kipps, who alone of the Earl’s household had been friendly to him on his return from Tangier. He shrugged. ‘White Hall is full of such people.’
‘He is corrupt, too,’ Kipps grumbled on. ‘He hires out the soldiers under his command for private duties, such as acting as bodyguards or minding property. He pays them a pittance and keeps the bulk of the earnings for himself. Unfortunately, the extra work reduces their effectiveness at the palace – they are too tired to fulfil their proper responsibilities.’
Chaloner had never been impressed by White Hall’s security. And as the King’s popularity had waned since he had reclaimed his throne at the Restoration some four years earlier – mostly because of his hedonistic lifestyle and the licentiousness of his Court – he needed someone a lot more efficient than Wright to ensure his safety.
Chaloner and Kipps crossed the huge, cobbled expanse of the Great Court, which was a flurry of activity as usual. A number of courtiers had just emerged from Lady Castlemaine’s apartments, yelling drunkenly and accompanied by giggling prostitutes; the King’s mistress was famous for her unconventional parties. Elsewhere, clerks, guards and servants hurried about on more mundane business, and carts lined up to deliver supplies to kitchens, laundries, pantries and coal sheds.
‘Watch yourself when you see Clarendon,’ advised Kipps, pausing a moment to admire a duchess who was too drunk to realise that she had left the soirée without most of her clothes. More chivalrous men than he rushed to give her their coats, although they regretted their gallantry when she was sick over them. ‘Dugdale told him that you insisted on meddling in some fight on The Strand, despite the fact that you knew he was waiting.’
Chaloner groaned. ‘It is not true.’
‘I am sure of it. I wish Clarendon had not given him such power, because the man is a despot. Every night at home, I marvel that I have managed to pass another day without punching him.’
They were obliged to jump to one side when a cavalcade of coaches rattled towards them, the haughty demeanour of the drivers telling pedestrians that if they did not get out of the way they could expect to be crushed. Most of the carriages bore crests, and it was clear that the occupants considered themselves to be people of quality.
‘Adventurers,’ said Kipps disapprovingly. ‘Here for a meeting with the King who, as you will no doubt be aware, is one of their number. So is the Duke of Buckingham.’
Buckingham, the King’s oldest friend, was the first to alight when the convoy rolled to a halt. He was an athletic, striking man whose fondness for wild living was beginning to take its toll – his eyes had an unhealthy yellow tinge, his skin was sallow and he had developed a paunch.
‘He looks fragile this morning,’ Kipps went on gleefully. ‘He must have stayed too late at Lady Castlemaine’s soirée. I keep hoping he will debauch himself into an early grave, because his hatred for our Earl grows daily, and he is a powerful enemy.’
‘Are all these people Adventurers?’ asked Chaloner, staggered by the number of men who were lining up to enter the royal presence.
Kipps nodded. ‘They represent White Hall’s wealthiest courtiers. You see the short, pasty-faced villain? That is Ellis Leighton, their secretary, said to be the most dangerous man in London.’
‘Why?’ Leighton did not look particularly deadly, and when he moved, it was with a crablike scuttle that was vaguely comical, although Chaloner supposed there was something unsettling about the man’s button-like eyes, which were curiously devoid of expression.
Kipps lowered his voice, although there was no one close enough to hear. ‘Because he has amassed himself a fortune, but no one is sure how. And he has friends in London’s underworld.’
‘Is he a merchant?’
‘He calls himself a businessman, which is not the same thing at all.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not seeing at all.
‘They are meeting today because one of their number has gone missing,’ Kipps continued. ‘Peter Proby has not been seen for a week, and they are worried about him.’
‘What do they think might have happened?’
‘I imagine they are afraid that he has been murdered.’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Is Proby the kind of man to warrant such a fate, then?’
‘They all are,’ replied Kipps darkly. ‘They have cordoned off an entire continent, and decided that no one is allowed to profit from it except themselves. And the aggravating thing is that none of them have the faintest idea of what they are doing.’
‘You mean they do not appreciate the depth of the ill-will they have generated?’
‘Oh, I imagine they are perfectly aware of that, but being courtiers, they do not care. What I meant was that they have no concept of how to run such a venture. They are a band of aristocratic treasure hunters, whereas they should be a properly organised corporation.’
Chaloner was startled by the passion in Kipps’s voice. ‘You speak as though you resent their—’
‘I do resent it!’ declared Kipps through gritted teeth. ‘I should like to speculate in Africa myself.’
‘Join the Adventurers, then,’ suggested Chaloner.
Kipps sniffed. ‘I would not demean myself by treating with that dim-witted rabble. Besides, they rejected my application, although I have no idea why.’
Chaloner looked at the assembled men, recognising many. ‘Could it be that they comprise a large number of the Earl’s enemies? They will not want members of his household among their ranks.’
‘No,’ replied Kipps, ‘because his son is an Adventurer, and so is Dugdale. There must be another reason why they elected to exclude me, but I cannot imagine what it might be.’
It occurred to Chaloner that they may have taken exception to Kipps referring to them as a ‘dim-witted rabble’. ‘If they are as incompetent as you say, their venture will fail. And when it does, you can speculate to your heart’s content.’
‘Yes, but by then the Dutch will have secured all the best resources.’ Kipps sighed and gave a rueful smile. ‘Forgive me. I cannot abide ineptitude, and the Adventurers represent it at its worst.’
Eventually, Chaloner and Kipps arrived at the great marble staircase that led to the Earl’s domain. It was cold even in the height of summer, so it was positively frigid that day, and Chaloner shivered in his still-damp clothes. Kipps wished him luck and disappeared into the elegantly appointed room he had been allocated, where a fire blazed merrily, and wine and cakes had been set out for him.
Tiredly, Chaloner climbed the stairs, and continued along a passageway to the fine chamber from which the Earl conducted his official business. He smiled at the new secretary, William Edgeman, although his friendly greeting was not returned: Edgeman, a short, disagreeable man, was friends with Dugdale.
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 4