Leighton kept tapping O’Brien’s arm to claim his attention, but O’Brien was more interested in the King’s feast, and Chaloner could see them growing exasperated with each other. Meanwhile, Kitty had been cornered by Brodrick, who had a dark, sinister figure at his side – John Swaddell, who had worked for Spymaster Williamson until seduced away by the prospect of better wages. Surely, thought Chaloner uneasily, Brodrick had not hired the man? He doubted the Earl’s cousin could afford him, and he wondered whether there would be a murder to investigate when Swaddell learned he was never going to be paid what he had been promised.
After a few moments, Hyde and Dugdale joined them, and Leighton began to address the whole ensemble, although O’Brien and Kitty were obvious in their preference for watching the King instead, and it was not long before he gave up. Brodrick took up the reins, relating some tale that had them rocking with laughter, and Leighton promptly moved away, his expression difficult to read.
Eventually Chaloner spotted Fitzgerald, Harley and Newell in the opposite gallery, and supposed they must have told Marshall the truth after all. They were with several others he had seen in the Crown, all members of the Piccadilly Company. Chaloner abandoned the Earl and edged towards them, aiming to come close enough to eavesdrop. As he did so, he studied Fitzgerald carefully, curious about the man who had bested Thurloe.
The pirate was wearing a fine blue suit with a matching eye-patch, and his red beard had been allowed to flow free, so it covered his chest and a good part of his stomach. In all, it made for an arresting appearance. His peculiarly high voice was audible over the general hubbub, as he told a sullen Harley a tale about a chest of silver.
Newell was with the swarthy man whose clothes had led Chaloner to assume he was from Lisbon. When a trumpet blast announced the beginning of another course, the fellow jumped in alarm and blurted a curse in Portuguese. Chaloner nodded his satisfaction: he had been right.
A short distance away, ‘the nice Mr Jones’, complete with red ribbons in his boot hose, was chatting to Margareta and Cornelis Janszoon, although people were scowling at them, disliking Hollanders in their midst when the two countries might soon be at war. At first, Chaloner did not rate their chances of escaping the event in one piece, but then he saw that they were accompanied by several burly soldiers. Clearly, they were aware of their unpopularity, and had taken measures to protect themselves.
Chaloner did not think he had ever seen a couple more obviously Dutch. Janszoon looked as though he had stepped directly out of a painting by van Dyck, with a wide-brimmed hat and the kind of collar popular among Amsterdam’s burgomasters. There was a vivid scar on one cheek, which made Chaloner wonder whether an assault had prompted the hire of bodyguards. Margareta’s clothes were dark and sombre, with a maidenly wimple of a kind never seen in England. Perhaps as a sop to London fashions, both had used liberal amounts of face-powder and rouge.
‘The King eats with his fingers,’ she remarked to Jones in heavily accented English. ‘How curious. In Amsterdam, we use forks.’
Her voice had not been loud, but the comment coincided with a lull in other conversations, and those around her heard it quite clearly. There was a collective murmur of indignation, and Jones moved away sharply, his handsome face burning with embarrassment.
‘The Queen’s manners are delicate,’ said Janszoon quickly, also in the clipped, uncertain way of the non-native speaker. He smiled benignly. ‘Not like the … what is the word? Strumpet? Yes, strumpet. The Queen is more delicate than the common strumpet on the King’s left.’
Chaloner winced on his behalf, suspecting that someone had taught him the word as a joke. Then Fitzgerald stepped forward and whispered something. Janszoon was patently puzzled, but nodded agreement, and all three left, the guards at their heels. Chaloner tried to follow, but the press was too great, and he gave up when he realised they would be gone before he could reach the door.
‘Lord!’ came a familiarly peevish voice. ‘I cannot say I approve of that sort of judgement being passed about Lady Castlemaine. She is hardly a common strumpet.’
It was Roger Pratt, and his comment broke the uncomfortable tension that had followed the Janszoons’ departure, because people started to laugh. The architect looked bemused: he had not intended to be droll.
‘They are Dutch,’ explained Jones to the people who still regarded him uncertainly. ‘With poor English, so they cannot be expected to know how to behave in polite society. Unlike the Portuguese.’ He smiled ingratiatingly at the man in black.
Another bray of bugles interrupted any more that might have been added, and then there were coos of wonder, because one of the dishes comprised an enormous gelatine castle, wobbling precariously on a tray of live eels. The King plunged a spoon into one of the towers, accompanied by an encouraging cheer from the audience, but its taste apparently did not equal its appearance, because he pulled a face and did not take any more.
Feeling he should at least try to glean some useful information that day, Chaloner approached Harley and Newell.
‘So you are Clarendon’s creature,’ Newell said in disgust when he saw Chaloner’s uniform. ‘I might have known. The man has a reputation for meddling where he is not wanted.’
‘Reyner is dead,’ said Harley, his devil-eyes boring into Chaloner’s. ‘And if I learn you had anything to do with it, I will slit your throat.’
‘Why would I want Reyner dead?’ asked Chaloner with quiet reason. ‘I barely knew him.’
‘You had better be telling the truth,’ said Harley in a low, menacing voice. ‘I dislike liars.’
‘So do I,’ said Chaloner, returning the scout’s hard stare. ‘Have you thought about my proposal, by the way? The Tangier Committee is now certain to order an inquiry, and—’
Harley moved suddenly, and shoved him against the wall. The knife from Chaloner’s sleeve dropped into his hand, but he did not use it.
‘We do not need your good auspices, because there are others who will protect us,’ the colonel snarled. ‘Now leave us alone, and do not bother us again.’
He released Chaloner and stalked away. Newell followed, and Chaloner saw he would have to find another way to make them tell him what had happened that fateful day on Jews Hill.
The King did not take long to demolish his nine courses, and was leaping up from the table by the time Chaloner returned to the Earl. The entertainment over, people began to file out of the Banqueting House. Clarendon claimed his feet hurt, and sent his Seal Bearer and ushers to find him a sedan chair. As other courtiers wanted them, too, the commission was likely to take some time, so Dugdale ordered Chaloner to wait with him – a number of his enemies were nearby, and Chaloner was the only member of the retinue wearing a sword.
‘Who has cornered my wife?’ asked the Earl, perching on a plinth and slipping his feet out of his tight shoes to waggle his plump toes in relief. ‘Does she look as if she needs rescuing?’
‘That is Ellis Leighton, sir,’ replied Chaloner. ‘The Adventurers’ secretary.’
‘So it is.’ The Earl grimaced, then pointed rather indiscreetly. ‘Do you see that portly man and his skinny companion, talking near the door? They are Sir Edward Turner and Lord Lucas – also Adventurers, and two of the richest men in London. I cannot imagine why they elected a man like Leighton to be their leader. He is said to be a criminal.’
Turner was enormously fat, while Lucas was painfully thin, and they made for a curious pair as they stood together. Both had the smug, self-satisfied air of men who had done well for themselves.
‘They are particular friends,’ the Earl went on. ‘Look! Other Adventurers are going to join them now – like moths around a flame.’
Chaloner recognised most. They were either wealthy or had positions at Court, and he eyed them with distaste, aware that here were the people who owned the nation’s monopoly on the slave trade.
‘Frances is probably asking Secretary Leighton not to lead our son astray,’ said the Earl, his attention
snapping back to his wife. ‘But she is wasting her breath. Damn! She is bringing the fellow over, and there is something about him that has always made me uneasy.’
‘My Lord,’ drawled Leighton as he approached. Despite the elegant bow he effected, there was something that said he was anything but submissive, and when the Earl nodded back, it was he who seemed the lesser of the two. ‘I trust you are well?’
‘No, actually,’ replied Clarendon shortly. ‘I am in pain, and my ushers are taking an age to summon me a sedan chair. I knew I should have brought my personal carriage.’
‘Then you must join me in mine,’ said Leighton graciously. He turned to Turner and Lucas, who were suddenly at his heels, clearly eager for an opportunity to ingratiate themselves with the Lord Chancellor. ‘There is room for another, is there not?’
‘Of course,’ gushed Turner, multiple chins wobbling as he nodded. ‘I hope it arrives soon, though. I have not eaten in more than an hour, and the sight of all that food …’
‘It made me feel sick,’ countered Lucas, clutching his concave middle. ‘I think I shall stay with you tonight, Turner. I do not feel equal to riding home after that display of gluttony.’
‘Gluttony?’ asked Turner, startled. ‘They left half of what was provided. Personally, I would not have moved until every last crumb was consumed. It looked far too good to waste.’
Leighton smiled at them, although it was a curious expression and one that made even Chaloner uncomfortable, although he could not have said why. ‘I shall summon my coach.’
The Earl started to decline, but Leighton was already moving towards the gate, using the curious scuttle Chaloner had noticed the first time he had seen him. When Lucas and Turner had gone, too, the Earl shot his wife a pained glance.
‘Leighton is said to treat with felons, and now I am obliged to sit in his coach! I would sooner walk, but I dare not offend him. He might make me disappear, like he has some of his enemies.’
‘Nonsense, dear,’ said Frances mildly. ‘Mr Leighton is perfectly genteel. And he has agreed to ensure that Henry does not fall by the wayside at the Adventurers’ dinners, too. I know you have asked Cousin Brodrick to oblige, but that is rather like putting a fox in charge of the hen coop.’
‘I do not know what you mean,’ said the Earl, offended on his kinsman’s behalf. He started to add more, but was interrupted by the arrival of the son and heir himself, puffed up with importance and towing Kitty and O’Brien in his wake. O’Brien was grinning widely, informing the world at large that watching the King eat had been one of the most delightful experiences of his life. Chaloner could only surmise that he did not get out much.
‘I would like you to meet my new friends, father,’ said Hyde, openly thrilled to have secured the company of the King’s favourites. ‘Kitty and Henry O’Brien.’
‘Upstarts,’ muttered the Earl unpleasantly. ‘Made wealthy from the sale of a bit of copper.’
It was rude, and Chaloner was not surprised when O’Brien looked offended. The nobleman opened his mouth to respond, but was apparently not someone with the intellect for witty ripostes, so he closed it again. Kitty stepped forward and took his arm. Her pretty face was flushed, although with anger or mortification was difficult to say.
‘It has been a long day,’ she said with quiet dignity. ‘And we are all tired, blurting things without thinking. Good afternoon to you, My Lord Chancellor.’
‘The King has invited us to his apartments tomorrow,’ called O’Brien, over his shoulder as she tugged him away. ‘It is to be a small affair for his close friends.’
Chaloner was fairly sure O’Brien was only trying to convey to the Earl that not everyone at Court shunned him because he was newly rich, but the reality was that there were few remarks that could have been more wounding. Clarendon’s prissiness and tendency to nag meant he was losing the King’s affection, and it had been a long time since he had enjoyed a private soirée in the royal apartments. It was the Earl’s turn to flounder for a response.
Meanwhile, Hyde was livid at his father’s lack of courtesy. He spoke through gritted teeth.
‘They may be upstarts, but the King likes them, and it is foolish to alienate people who have his ear. Moreover, Leighton is trying to get them to invest their fortune with the Adventurers, and if they do, we can buy another ship. We shall all be richer if they join, and we have been asked to do what we can to persuade them. That does not include having them insulted by our sires.’
The Earl’s face was puce with fury at being challenged, and to prevent a family spat in a public place, Frances asked before he could speak, ‘Are they resisting, then, Henry?’
Hyde pulled a face. ‘Yes, because they dislike the fact that we trade in slaves. But such scruples have no place in commerce, which they should accept if they are going to join the ranks of the wealthy. Please do not offend them again, father. I do not want Leighton vexed with me.’
He trotted after them, leaving Clarendon spluttering with impotent rage. He caught up with them just as they stopped to exchange words with their friend Spymaster Williamson. Chaloner tuned out the Earl’s furious diatribe, and watched O’Brien greet Williamson with a happy grin; Kitty approached in such a way that her fingers brushed the Spymaster’s thigh. Chaloner gaped in astonishment, but then Kersey’s words flashed into his mind: that Kitty had taken a lover. But surely it could not be Williamson? O’Brien was his oldest friend!
‘We have been asked to the King’s private apartments,’ O’Brien announced with open delight. He was clearly a man for whom invitations were important. ‘What fun!’
‘You will soon have your wish of being accepted into high society,’ said Williamson warmly. ‘God knows, you deserve it. There is no better company in England than you.’
O’Brien laughed his pleasure, but then Hyde grabbed his arm and steered him and Kitty towards a gaggle of Adventurers, leaving Williamson to continue alone. The indulgent smile had been replaced by grim determination by the time the Spymaster reached Chaloner.
‘I need to see you urgently,’ he whispered. ‘Come to my Westminster office tomorrow.’
Chaloner nodded, although he had no intention of complying. They might have reached a truce, but he was not such a fool as to step willingly into Williamson’s lair.
‘Do not go,’ ordered the Earl, when the Spymaster had gone. The whiteness of his lips said he was still seething. ‘His assassin has abandoned him, and word is that he is looking for a replacement. And you work for me.’
Frances cleared her throat, claiming the attention of both of them. She beamed at Chaloner who began to smile back, although he stopped when he saw the Earl’s immediate scowl.
‘No, Frances,’ said Clarendon angrily. ‘He is busy with work I have set him to do.’
Frances ignored him. ‘I appreciate your kindness in dealing with Cave’s body the other day, Mr Chaloner. Or may I call you Thomas? I was fond of him – he often sang at Worcester House.’
‘He had a fine voice, ma’am,’ agreed Chaloner cautiously.
‘Very fine. I questioned Dugdale about his death. He said Cave spat insults until Elliot retaliated with his sword. And Cave cheated, too – he tried to murder Elliot’s unarmed friend.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Chaloner carefully, recalling the wild swing at Lester.
‘He was not himself when he came home from Tangier, and I want to know why.’ Frances raised her chin and regarded her husband defiantly. ‘Indeed, his death sounds almost like suicide to me. Will you ask a few questions on my behalf, Thomas, and discover what really happened?’
The Earl shook of his head vehemently behind her back.
‘The dispute was about who should take the wall, ma’am,’ explained Chaloner gently. ‘Insults were traded, and both parties lost their tempers. That is all.’
He did not mention the curious and suspicious connections he had uncovered since, or the fact that Williamson believed there had been something odd about the altercation.
&
nbsp; ‘No,’ said Frances. ‘The whole affair is peculiar, and I want the truth. I know you are busy, but you can spare me a few hours. Will you do it?’
Short of an outright refusal, Chaloner had no choice. He nodded reluctantly.
Chapter 5
Recalling that Mrs Reyner had mentioned Fitzgerald’s liking for the brothel on Hercules’ Pillars Alley, Chaloner decided to visit it that evening. Unfortunately, it was still too early, so he started to walk towards Tothill Street, thinking it was a good opportunity to spend an hour or two working on the cipher. He was just passing the Westminster Gatehouse when he saw Lester.
Chaloner had not paid him much attention during the spat between Cave and Elliot, but he studied him now as their paths converged. Lester was a burly fellow, with a ruddy face and the slightly rolling gait of a sailor. His clothes were fine but practical, with enough lace to say he was a gentleman, but not enough to interfere with his comfort or movement.
‘Elliot died,’ Lester stated bluntly. ‘I took him to a surgeon, but the wound was too severe.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Chaloner. ‘You were friends?’
Lester’s face clouded. ‘We served on several ships together, when I was master and he was my first officer. He had his faults, but there was no better man in a battle.’
‘Do you know what started the argument between him and Cave?’ asked Chaloner, supposing he may as well begin Lady Clarendon’s investigation, given that a witness was before him.
‘Brilliana Stanley,’ replied Lester bitterly. ‘She was Cave’s mistress before he went to Tangier, and Elliot took her on while Cave was away. I told Elliot no good would come of such a dalliance, but he would not listen. And then Cave returned …’
Chaloner supposed that jealousy might have led to a quarrel. He frowned as he recalled where he had heard the unusual name before. ‘Colonel Harley has a sister called Brilliana.’
Lester nodded. ‘Harley is a malevolent brute, and it would not surprise me to learn that he told Cave his sister’s affections had gone to another man.’
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 13