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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Nothing, except that it plagued his conscience.’ She grimaced. ‘He always was a weakling.’

  ‘Who do you think killed him?’ asked Chaloner, fighting down his revulsion for the woman.

  ‘His enemies – the deadly horde that Harley and Newell kept talking about last night. You see, there is the Piccadilly Company, and there are their foes. They hate each other. You should watch yourself, Mr … what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ said Chaloner. ‘But if this “deadly horde” is as dangerous as you say, you might be wise not to speak to anyone else about your son’s activities in Tangier.’

  ‘The horde will not harm me,’ stated Mrs Reyner confidently. ‘Because I have this.’

  She reached under her skirts, and there followed several moments of rather unseemly rummaging. Chaloner was on the verge of leaving – there was only so much he could be expected to endure for the sake of an inquiry – when she produced a piece of paper with a drunken flourish.

  ‘It is a list of names, but it is in code, so no one can read it. My son gave it to me, and said it would protect me if his enemies come.’

  She brandished it again, but the movement caused her to teeter, obliging Chaloner to grab her arm before she fell. He settled her in a chair, then turned his attention to the paper. On it were written about fifty words, all in cipher. Pen and ink stood on the table, so he began to make a copy.

  ‘Here!’ she demanded belligerently. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Saving your life. If this horde comes, and you are forced to give them the list, you can tell them there is a duplicate – one that will be made public should anything happen to you.’

  ‘Who shall I say has it?’ she asked blearily. ‘You have not told me your name.’

  Chaloner smothered his exasperation. ‘That is the point! If they do not know me, they cannot order me to hand my copy over, too. They will have to leave you alone, or risk being exposed.’

  Such a complex explanation took a while for Mrs Reyner to grasp, but when she did, she grinned. ‘Hurry up, then. But be warned – my boy said the code is impossible to crack, because it came from vinegar.’

  ‘Vinegar? Do you mean Vigenère?’

  She snapped her fingers. ‘That is the man! Do you know him?’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner, although his heart sank. The polyalphabetic cipher adapted by Vigenère was said to be unbreakable. He handed the scroll back to Mrs Reyner, reminded her what she should say if her son’s enemies came calling, and took his leave. It was time to visit his friend John Thurloe, who had a rare talent for decoding messages not intended for his eyes.

  Chaloner took a hackney carriage to Chancery Lane, not because he was tired, but because he was bored with the journey between Piccadilly and the city. Unfortunately, he was not in the coach for long before it rolled to a standstill, and he peered out to see The Strand was in the midst of one of its ‘stops’ – carts, carriages and horses in a jam so dense that nothing was moving.

  With a sigh, he clambered out and began to walk, dodging through the traffic until he reached Lincoln’s Inn, one of London’s four great legal foundations. He waved to the duty porter as he stepped through the wicket gate, then made his way to Chamber XIII. He tapped softly on the door, and let himself into the one place in London where he felt truly safe, a comfortable suite of rooms that were full of the cosy, familiar scent of old books, wax polish and wood-smoke.

  John Thurloe was sitting by the fire. He was a slight man with large blue eyes, whose unassuming appearance belied the power he had wielded when he was Cromwell’s Secretary of State and Spymaster General. There were those who said the Commonwealth would not have lasted as long as it had without Thurloe’s guidance – he had run a highly efficient intelligence network, of which Chaloner had been a part. He had retired from politics at the Restoration, and now lived quietly, dividing his time between London and his estate in Oxfordshire.

  ‘Tom!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come in! It is a bitterly cold day, and you must be freezing.’

  Chaloner laughed. ‘It is a pleasant morning, and I am hot from walking.’

  ‘Then you had better take one of these,’ said Thurloe, offering him a tin. ‘We cannot have you overheating. One of Mr Matthew’s Excellent Pills should put you right.’

  Thurloe was always concerned about his own health, and declared himself to be fragile, although there was a strength in him that was unmatched by anyone else Chaloner had ever met. He swallowed all manner of cure-alls in his search for one that would make him feel as he had when he was twenty. Chaloner was sure they could not be good for him.

  ‘Good for slaying fluxes,’ he said, shaking his head as he recalled what he had read about the tablets in The Intelligencer. He did not mention the bit about expelling wind: Thurloe was inclined to be prudish.

  ‘If you will not accept a pill, then have a sip of this instead,’ said Thurloe, proffering a brightly coloured phial that declared itself to be Sydenham’s Laudanum.

  Chaloner shook his head a second time, then watched in alarm as Thurloe drained it in a single swallow. ‘Easy! There might be all manner of unpleasant ingredients in that.’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Thurloe blithely. ‘But if essence of slug or tincture of quicksilver can restore the spark of vitality that has been missing in me since Cromwell died, I shall not complain.’

  ‘You will complain if they kill you. Quicksilver is poisonous. I know – I have seen it used.’

  ‘I doubt there is quicksilver in this. Indeed, it imparts a wonderful sense of well-being, and I feel as though I could raise mountains after my daily dose.’

  ‘Then do not do it in Lincoln’s Inn. Your fellow benchers would not approve.’

  Thurloe gave one of his rare smiles. ‘It is good to see you, Tom. Is this a social call, or have you come to ask what I know about certain happenings in Piccadilly?’

  Chaloner gaped at him. Thurloe had inspired deep loyalty among his intelligencers, and many continued to supply him with information, even though he was no longer active in espionage – fortunately, as it happened, because it was what allowed him to stay one step ahead of those who still itched to execute him for the role he had played in the Commonwealth. But even so, Chaloner was startled that the ex-Spymaster should know what he was currently investigating.

  Thurloe smiled again. ‘It was a guess, Tom, based on logic. It is obvious that the Earl would order you to find out about his missing bricks, while he cannot be happy with what is happening in the Crown, a place that is virtually his neighbour.’

  ‘What do you know about the Crown?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘Very little, other than that it rents rooms to a group that calls itself the Piccadilly Company. Word is that Spymaster Williamson is trying to probe their business, but with no success. Perhaps his failure is because Swaddell is no longer with him – he has gone to work for the Adventurers.’

  ‘The Adventurers?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘You mean the wealthy but inept aristocrats who have declared a trading monopoly on Africa? Why would they need an assassin?’

  ‘I do not know. However, it is not they who meet in the Crown, and whose gatherings are so carefully guarded that no one can eavesdrop. The Piccadilly Company worries me.’

  ‘I searched their parlour last night and found this.’ Chaloner handed him the singed paper.

  Thurloe took it. ‘It looks like a substitution code. You should be able to break it yourself. It will not be difficult, merely time-consuming.’

  ‘Apparently, the Piccadilly Company has some deadly enemies. These are their names.’ Chaloner passed him Mrs Reyner’s list. ‘They are written in Vigenère’s cipher.’

  Thurloe frowned. ‘This represents more of a challenge, so I suggest I tackle it, while you work on the document from the Crown. It will take me too long to do both, and I am busy with an errant kinsman at the moment – one of my wife’s brothers, who has always been recklessly wild.’

&nb
sp; ‘Do you need help?’

  ‘I can manage, thank you. Besides, you will have enough to do if you plan to break through the secrecy surrounding the Piccadilly Company.’

  ‘I think they might have something to do with what happened to Teviot in Tangier.’ Briefly, Chaloner outlined all he had learned and reasoned, including about Reyner’s murder.

  ‘It sounds as though you are right to make a connection between the massacre and the Piccadilly Company,’ mused Thurloe when he had finished. ‘But I cannot imagine what it might be.’

  ‘Do you know anything about them? Rumours about their plans? The identities of their members? I know some of them – for example, the three scouts and Harley’s sister Brilliana. But “Mr Jones” is probably an alias, and I suspect the same is true of “Margareta and Cornelis Janszoon”. They are the Dutch couple who attended a meeting in the Crown yesterday.’

  ‘Why would you think they are using false names?’ asked Thurloe, puzzled.

  ‘Because they are the Dutch equivalent of John and Mary Smith. They might be genuine, but I seriously doubt it. Fitzgerald is not an alias, though. He is—’

  ‘Fitzgerald?’ asked Thurloe in horror. ‘Not John Fitzgerald the pirate?’

  ‘He prefers the term privateer, apparently. Do you know him? He has a ridiculous orange beard, one eye and an extremely peculiar voice.’

  Thurloe’s expression was suddenly haunted. ‘Of all the enemies I faced as Spymaster, he was the one I most wish I had bested. His flagship sank recently. I had hoped he was on it.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Chaloner in alarm. Thurloe did not usually wish death on his opponents, and the reaction was deeply unsettling. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He destroyed a number of Commonwealth vessels and butchered their crews. You must take more than your usual care if he is involved. In fact, you will stay away from him. Do you promise?’

  ‘No.’ Chaloner did not want his hands to be so tied. ‘He cannot be—’

  ‘If you tackle him alone, he will kill you. And if you take reinforcements, but lack the evidence to destroy him, he will wriggle free of the charges – and then he will kill you. You must hold back until we understand exactly what he is doing. Do you understand?’

  ‘But I need to question him—’

  ‘Please, Tom,’ said Thurloe quietly. ‘I ask you for very little, and I would be grateful if you would oblige me in this. Will you swear to stay away from him? On your mother’s soul?’

  Chaloner tried to think of a way to avoid making the promise, but nothing came to mind. ‘I will,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘But—’

  ‘Good,’ said Thurloe, cutting across him before conditions could be attached. ‘I think I must emerge from retirement if he has returned. We shall work together on this case.’

  ‘No, we will not.’ Chaloner was even more alarmed. ‘He is not your only enemy – others will attack you if you start meddling with—’

  ‘I shall meddle where I please, Thomas,’ said Thurloe, rather dangerously. ‘Moreover, I fail to understand your persistent conviction that I need protecting. I do not. Have you forgotten that I was once Spymaster General?’

  ‘Spymaster, not spy,’ countered Chaloner. ‘There is a world of difference. You organised missions and interpreted information gathered by others. You did not go out and do it yourself.’

  Thurloe was silent for a moment. ‘Perhaps you are right. So I shall act as a spymaster again, deciphering what you bring me and collating it with snippets I shall commission from others. Will that satisfy you, or shall we work separately and less efficiently to bring Fitzgerald to task?’

  ‘We can try to work together,’ agreed Chaloner cautiously. ‘And see how we fare.’

  Thurloe wasted no time, and immediately set about writing to old contacts, to see what shreds of information might be gleaned about the Piccadilly Company. Chaloner was detailed to return to the Crown, and engage Landlord Marshall in conversation again.

  ‘The man loves to gossip,’ Thurloe said. ‘Which means he probably watches the Company very closely. See what else he can tell us.’

  It was raining outside, which surprised Chaloner, because the sun had been shining earlier. He was hungry, so he stopped at an ‘ordinary’ – an eating house that sold meals at set prices – on Fleet Street, and ate a venison pastry that was well past its best, although the baker assured him that the meat had spent the previous night in the ground, a popular cure for game that had been allowed to over-ripen. Afterwards, feeling slightly queasy, he took a hackney to Piccadilly.

  ‘Do you know William Reyner – one of the Piccadilly Company members?’ Marshall asked excitedly when he saw Chaloner, positively bursting with the need to talk. ‘Well, he was murdered last night. Harley and Newell are livid about it – they have vowed to catch the culprit and kill him.’

  ‘Do they have any suspects?’

  ‘Not that they told me,’ said Marshall ruefully. ‘But that is not my only news. Reyner’s mother is dead, too. She was found not an hour ago.’

  Chaloner stared at him. ‘How did she die?’

  ‘Throat cut, same as her son,’ replied Marshall with ghoulish glee. ‘Perhaps Reyner told her some secret, and she was dispatched to ensure she never revealed it to anyone else – she drank, you see, so was not discreet. Or perhaps Harley or Newell killed her for not being much of a mother to their friend – he doted on her, but she was indifferent towards him.’

  ‘You are not safe here.’ Chaloner’s stomach churned, and he had the sickening sense that he had sealed Mrs Reyner’s fate just by visiting her. ‘Dangerous people meet in your tavern, and—’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Marshall raised a hand when Chaloner began to argue. ‘I complained to Mr Jones about the Piccadilly Company’s odd habits this morning, and he explained everything. He said he and his friends still export glassware, but they just do it on a larger scale, which is why they are so keen on secrecy. It is a lucrative business, apparently.’

  Chaloner wondered how Marshall could have believed the tale. ‘But Fitzgerald is a—’

  ‘Mr Jones says Fitzgerald is a changed man now the Royalists are in power,’ interrupted Marshall with a smile. ‘He has given up piracy, and will make his fortune honestly instead.’

  ‘I seriously doubt—’ began Chaloner.

  ‘It is true,’ insisted Marshall earnestly. ‘He is respectable now, and has even been granted audiences with the King – he preyed on Cromwell’s ships during the Commonwealth, you see, which is considered patriotic these days. Indeed, he is in the Banqueting House at this very moment, invited there to watch the King devour his dinner.’

  Chaloner was astounded. ‘A pirate is welcomed at Court?’

  ‘The King considers him a hero for what he did to the Roundheads,’ said Marshall. ‘He is a pirate no more. He took Harley and Newell with him, to cheer them up after losing their friend.’

  Chaloner tried again to warn him about the danger he was in, but Marshall declined to listen, and there was nothing Chaloner could do to make him. He took his leave and began to walk to White Hall, wishing Thurloe had not shackled him with the promise to stay away from Fitzgerald, because an interview with the man might answer all manner of questions. However, while he was forbidden to approach the pirate, he could still speak to his cronies – and it was high time he had a serious discussion with Harley and Newell.

  The Banqueting House was a large, airy building with huge windows and a ceiling painted by Rubens. It was never easy gaining access to it when the King was eating, because it was a popular event and places were limited. Surprisingly, the solution came from Chief Usher Dugdale, who ordered Chaloner to don a liveried hat and coat, and take his place in the Lord Chancellor’s retinue. Chaloner obliged happily, and Dugdale’s eyes narrowed in instant suspicion.

  The procession set off, Kipps at the front bearing the seal. Clarendon and his wife were next, followed by their son Hyde, while the gentlemen ushers brought up the rear. All eyes were on the Earl, bec
ause he was wearing expensively fashionable shoes that were far too tight, and he waddled outrageously, more of a caricature of himself than anything his cruel mimics could ever manage.

  They had not been settled for long in the gallery that overlooked the main hall before the King arrived. He sat at the table that had been set ready for him, his Queen on one side, and his mistress on the other. Poor Katherine was dark and dowdy compared to the glorious Lady Castlemaine. She looked miserable, and it was clear she wished she were somewhere else.

  A blaring fanfare heralded the arrival of the food, which not surprisingly was a good deal more appetising than rancid venison pastry. There were huge pieces of roasted meat, elegantly decorated pies, whole baked fish and sweet tarts. The King fell to with an enthusiasm that was heartening, watched intently by spectators who must have numbered in the hundreds. Because it was hot in the Banqueting House with so many of them crammed together, and because best clothes had been donned for the occasion, the air was thick with the reek of sweat and moth-repellent.

  Chaloner looked for Fitzgerald, Harley and Newell, but they were nowhere to be seen. He wondered whether they had spun Marshall a yarn, and the pirate was no more welcome at Court than any other man with a brazenly criminal past would be.

  There were plenty of other people he recognised, though. They included Leighton, the Adventurers’ secretary, whom Kipps had described as the most dangerous man in London. Was it true? There was definitely something compelling about the fellow, with his button-like eyes and unsettlingly bland face.

  Leighton was next to O’Brien and Kitty, whose newly acquired wealth was evident in their fine but tastefully understated clothes. Chaloner recalled being told several times that they were the King’s current favourites – although apparently not enough to be asked to join him at his feast. Kitty looked especially lovely in a green dress that matched her eyes, her auburn hair in tight ringlets around her face. O’Brien’s obvious excitement with the occasion made him seem more boyish than ever, his fair curls bobbing and his eyes flashing with unbridled delight.