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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘It would be to your advantage,’ said Leighton immediately. ‘You could double your money.’

  ‘And what good would that do?’ asked O’Brien, laughing. ‘We already have more than we can spend. Besides, the Adventurers deal in slaves, and we do not approve of that.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Kitty vehemently. ‘It is a wicked business. But I firmly believe that the trade will founder eventually, and then anyone who participated in it will live in shame.’

  Chaloner, listening in the shadows, felt himself warm to her more than ever.

  ‘It is a very small part of our operation,’ said Leighton coaxingly. ‘We also trade in gold, ivory, nuts, gum and feathers. Africa is dripping with riches just for the taking. You should let me show you our accounts. I promise you will be impressed.’

  ‘Oh, probably,’ said O’Brien, with careless indifference. ‘But we should not talk about commerce when we are supposed to be enjoying ourselves. Who would like to dance?’

  Williamson and Kitty were the first couple to take the floor, encouraged by a delighted O’Brien. Chaloner felt sorry for him – a man prepared to challenge the likes of Leighton on a question of ethics deserved better. But it was getting late, and time for him to leave the merry comfort of O’Brien’s home to be about his work for the Earl.

  Temperance North had once been a prim Puritan maid, but the death of her parents two years before had prompted a change in her outlook on life. She had used her inheritance to found a ‘gentleman’s club’, an establishment that catered to the needs of very wealthy clients. It earned her a fortune, and was frequented by royalty and other influential people. It was located in Hercules’ Pillars Alley, a lane named for a nearby tavern, and the hours between ten and dawn tended to be its busiest time.

  Because it was popular and fashionable, it had been necessary to hire a doorman to exclude undesirable elements. A nonconformist fanatic called Preacher Hill had been hired for the job, a post he loved, because it left his days free to deliver public sermons on the dangers of licentious behaviour. He did not like Chaloner, and as getting past him was invariably a trial, the spy climbed over a wall and entered the brothel via the back door. He was greeted by bedlam.

  The temperamental French cook was standing in the middle of his domain, shrieking orders in an eclectic array of languages, none of which were English. The scent of fresh bread and roasted meat vied with the less appealing aroma of burning, where things had not gone according to plan.

  ‘You used too much oil,’ translated Chaloner, as he weaved his way through the chaos.

  There was a collective sigh of understanding, and the assistants hurried to rectify the matter. Chaloner walked along a hall to the club itself, where a different frenetic activity was in progress.

  The club comprised an enormous parlour on the ground floor, where its patrons could enjoy fine wine, good food and popular melodies played by members of the King’s Private Musick. If a gentleman wanted a lady, he would inform one of the scantily clad girls who flounced around the place, and his request would be passed to Maude, the formidable matron who guarded the foot of the stairs. When the woman of his choice was ready, he was escorted discreetly to an upstairs chamber.

  When the club’s doors first opened, the conversation was genteel and the violists played to an appreciative audience, but it was nearing midnight by the time Chaloner arrived, and any pretensions of civility had long since been abandoned. The atmosphere was debauched, and the place reeked of spilled wine and vomit. The musicians had been provided with far too much free claret, and only two of the quartet were still conscious – and it was probably fortunate that cheers and raucous laughter drowned out their efforts.

  As Chaloner stepped into the parlour, he was obliged to duck smartly when a decanter sailed through the air to smash against the wall behind him. It was closely followed by a jelly, which slid gracefully down the plaster leaving a trail behind it, like a slug. He was barely upright again before coming under assault from a battery of fruit tarts, forcing him to take refuge behind a statue.

  He looked for Fitzgerald, recognising as he did so several members of the Privy Council, two admirals and three prominent clerics. Then there were the Court debauchees, men who had nothing better to do than amuse themselves in increasingly wild ways.

  He was astonished to see Dugdale and Edgeman there, though, given that they had so vigorously denounced such places earlier that day. The Chief Usher’s eyes were glazed, while the secretary was singing at the top of his voice. They seemed at home, suggesting they were regular visitors. Chaloner wondered where they got their money, because the club was expensive and the Earl was not exactly generous with his retainers’ salaries.

  They formed a distinct party with several other men who looked prosperous and important. Chaloner surmised that they were Adventurers when he recognised one as the missing Grey – the man who had ‘disappeared’ en route to the brothel the previous night.

  The group also included Swaddell the assassin, who despite the gaiety of the occasion was clad in his trademark black. His restless eyes were everywhere, and it was not long before they spotted Chaloner. He left his companions and sidled towards him.

  ‘I was relieved to discover Grey alive and well,’ he said in a pleasantly conversational voice that belied his true nature as a vicious, dispassionate killer. ‘People were beginning to fear that he had met an unpleasant end. Like Proby.’

  ‘Where has he been?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Did he say?’

  Swaddell smirked. ‘With a woman. Where else?’

  ‘It was not you who pushed Proby off the cathedral, was it?’

  A pained expression crossed Swaddell’s face. ‘No, and I am getting tired of people asking me that. Just because I have dispatched one or two worthless individuals in the past does not mean I am responsible for every death in London. Proby committed suicide – he was an unhappy man.’

  ‘I see,’ said Chaloner, supposing he was telling the truth. Besides, Swaddell’s preferred method of execution was throat slitting. He recalled what had happened to Reyner and his mother.

  ‘Were you anywhere near Piccadilly last night?’

  ‘I was with Congett and Leighton from six until midnight, standing guard while they went over the Adventurer account books. Why? Did someone die there, too, and you think to blame me?’

  ‘It does not matter.’ Chaloner believed him: his alibi was one that could be checked, and the assassin was too experienced an operative to concoct stories that would show him to be a liar.

  ‘Have you heard that I am no longer in Williamson’s service?’ Swaddell asked casually. ‘I work for Leighton now – he is secretary of the Adventurers, and a very wealthy man.’

  ‘I cannot imagine Leighton having much use for an assassin. Besides, he looks as though he can manage that side of the business himself.’

  ‘I do more than just kill people, you know,’ said Swaddell irritably. ‘Do not underestimate me, Chaloner. Men have done it before, and lived to regret it.’

  Or not lived to regret it, thought Chaloner. He was not afraid of Swaddell, although there was no disputing that the assassin was an unsettlingly sinister individual. But there was no point in making enemies needlessly, and he had enough to do without dodging attempts on his life by professional killers. He nodded an amiable farewell and moved away.

  The revellers on the far side of the parlour were wearing masks, although Chaloner was not sure why – perhaps as part of some exotic game. It was easy to identify Fitzgerald, though, despite the grinning crocodile-head he had donned; his massive red beard had been carefully fluffed up for the occasion and it stood out like a beacon.

  Chaloner stole a mask from someone too intoxicated to notice, found a corner where he could pretend to be slumped in a drunken stupor, and settled down to watch the pirate at play.

  His earlier assumption that Adventurers and the Piccadilly Company did not mix was wrong, because members of both were in Fitzgerald’s party. The Adventure
rs were represented by Brodrick, safe in the knowledge that his prim cousin would never believe anyone who told on him; and by Congett, who had apparently not consumed enough wine at O’Brien’s house earlier and was busily rectifying the matter. Both wore visors, but Chaloner recognised them by their clothes. Then Dugdale and Edgeman tottered across to join them, disguised as an ape and a toad, respectively.

  Several Piccadilly Company members were also readily identifiable, despite their elaborate headdresses. ‘The nice Mr Jones’ was wearing his trademark red boot-ribbons, while Cornelis Janszoon appeared brazenly foreign in his sombre Dutch suit. Chaloner glanced around quickly and saw three henchmen lurking in the shadows near the door; Janszoon was still taking no chances with his safety.

  There were two others he recognised, too, although he doubted they were Adventurers or from the Piccadilly Company: Pratt the architect was betrayed by his haughty bearing, while his assistant Oliver still contrived to look morose despite the merrily beaming imp that concealed his face.

  Everyone was laughing uproariously, because Jones was encouraging Pratt to describe the mansions he had designed before Clarendon House. Jones was making much of the fact that Pratt could only lay claim to three, which should not have been sufficient for him to have formed such an elevated opinion of himself. Pratt did not know he was being practised upon, and his bragging replies unwittingly emphasised his foolish vanity.

  ‘Clarendon House is effluence,’ declared Janszoon suddenly, cutting across Pratt’s declaration that his buildings were the best in the country. ‘And all London’s architects are repulsive and bald.’

  Chaloner knew the revellers were far too drunk to understand that the Hollander was remarking on Clarendon House’s affluence, and the impulsive boldness of the capital’s builders. He braced himself for trouble, and saw the guards do the same.

  ‘British architects are the greatest in the world, sir,’ slurred Congett indignantly. ‘Whereas you Dutch never build anything except warehouses in which to store butter.’

  ‘Or cheese,’ added Brodrick, while Oliver nodded at his side.

  ‘I like Dutch cheese,’ said Janszoon gravely. ‘But England’s is odious.’

  Chaloner suspected he had confused ‘odious’ with ‘odoriferous’, and was merely commenting on the fact that British cheeses tended to smell riper than their milder Dutch counterparts. But eyes were immediately narrowed at the perceived slur.

  ‘Nonsense,’ snapped Dugdale. He struggled to enunciate the next sentence. ‘There is nothing odious about England. God save the King!’

  The cry was taken up by others, and the atmosphere turned raucously genial again, indignation forgotten. One of the guards slipped up to Janszoon at that point, and whispered in his ear. Janszoon nodded to whatever was said, and aimed for the door, his protectors at his heels.

  ‘Good,’ said Dugdale viciously, watching them go. ‘That butter-eater did nothing but abuse us from the moment he arrived, and I might have punched him had he persisted.’

  ‘Would you?’ asked Fitzgerald softly, his one eye gleaming oddly beneath his mask. ‘You sat back all night and let him bray all manner of insults about our country, our King and our food. I imagine he will always be perfectly safe from your fists.’

  His voice dripped scorn, and Chaloner sensed he was more disgusted with the Chief Usher for failing to defend their nation’s honour than with Janszoon for uttering the remarks in the first place.

  ‘We came here for fun,’ objected Dugdale defensively. ‘Not to trounce impudent foreigners. Besides, Temperance does not approve of fighting in her parlour, and I do not want to be ousted while the night is still young.’

  Pratt spoke up at that point, eager to reclaim the attention. ‘Have you heard that I am the subject of a planned assassination?’ he enquired smugly. ‘Someone hates my work enough to kill me.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ came an unpleasantly acidic voice from a man wearing the face of a dog. Chaloner recognised it as Newell’s, and supposed the hawk next to him was Harley. ‘No architect can claim notoriety until at least one person itches to dispatch him for the hideousness of his creations.’

  Pratt frowned as he tried to gauge whether he had just been insulted. Newell opened his mouth to add more, but Fitzgerald was there first, laying his hand on the scout’s shoulder.

  ‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘Pratt is our friend – a member of our Company. It is unkind to tease him.’

  Chaloner was surprised to learn that the architect was a member of the Piccadilly Company, but supposed he should not be – Pratt lived in the place where it met, and would have money to invest. Of course he would be recruited to its ranks.

  ‘He deserves to be jibed,’ said Newell sullenly. ‘He is an arrogant dolt. Besides, Janszoon is a friend and a member of the Company too, but you just castigated that courtier for not hitting him.’

  ‘I did nothing of the kind,’ said Fitzgerald, and although his voice was mild, there was a definite warning in it. ‘I merely dislike people who make casual reference to violence. If they mean it, they should carry it through. I have never made an idle threat in my life.’

  Newell was clearly unsettled by the remark, because he flung off his mask, grabbed a jug of wine from a table and began to drain it. When they saw what was happening, the other revellers egged him on with boisterous chants. Fitzgerald turned away, but the crocodile head prevented Chaloner from telling whether he was angry, amused or disgusted by the scout’s antics.

  When the jug was empty, Newell slammed it on the table and slumped into a chair. Chaloner homed in on him when the revellers drifted to another part of the room, and tried to rouse him, but it was hopeless – the scout would still be sleeping off his excesses at noon the following day.

  Meanwhile, the Portuguese man had seized another jug and looked set to follow Newell’s example, but once again, Fitzgerald was there to intervene.

  ‘No, Meneses,’ he piped, removing it firmly. ‘You have much to do tomorrow, and you will need a clear head. Allow me to summon a carriage to take you home.’

  Meneses opened his mouth to argue, but Fitzgerald gripped his arm and began to lead him towards the door. Meneses tried to pull away, but was far too drunk for a serious struggle, and he desisted altogether when Harley came to take his other arm. Chaloner followed, staying well back and hiding as the trio reached the hall and Fitzgerald sent Preacher Hill to fetch a hackney.

  ‘What do you think, Fitzgerald?’ asked Harley in a low voice, propping Meneses up against a wall while they waited for the coach to arrive. ‘How do we fare?’

  ‘Well, enough,’ replied the pirate. ‘Our master will be pleased, because tonight I have achieved two things: avenged Reyner’s murder, and let those who oppose us know that we are a potent force. Killing Reyner and his mother in revenge for Proby was rude, and I have taught them a lesson.’

  Harley nodded slowly. ‘Do you know who killed Reyner, then?’

  ‘No, but he will not live long, I promise – our St Frideswide’s Day plans will take care of him. Next Wednesday, our master will show everyone that he can organise noteworthy events, too.’

  In the shadows, Chaloner frowned his bemusement. St Frideswide’s Day was when Pratt was supposed to be murdered, but Fitzgerald had just saved him from ridicule and described him as a friend and a fellow Piccadilly Company member. Surely, he – or his mysterious master – could not be the author of that plot? Or was Fitzgerald actually saying that there was a second unpleasant event planned for the same day, one that would outshine the other in its viciousness?

  ‘Good,’ said Harley. ‘Then let us hope we succeed, because it has been months in the planning, and I am eager for it to be finished. But what exactly did you do tonight?’

  ‘You will see. Our enemies and all London will be agog with the news tomorrow.’

  The coach arrived at that point, and they manhandled Meneses into it. As the hackneyman declined to take a near-unconscious man unaccompanied, Harley went, too, whi
le Fitzgerald returned to the parlour.

  Chaloner mulled over what he had heard, wondering who the pirate considered to be his enemies. Frustrated, he realised he had a list of them from Reyner’s mother, but until Thurloe broke the code, their names would remain a mystery. He hoped the ex-Spymaster would not take long, because they were obviously in danger, and needed to be warned. He cursed the promise that Thurloe had forced out of him, because the obvious way forward was to corner Fitzgerald and demand some answers, most particularly the name of his master.

  His musings were interrupted suddenly when the hall filled with laughing, shrieking courtiers, all involved in a riotous game of chase. The curtain behind which he had taken refuge was hauled from its rail by someone struggling to stay upright, and he only just managed to hurl himself into the mêlée in time to prevent being exposed as someone who hid behind the draperies – and while most patrons were too drunk to notice or care, it was not a risk he was willing to take.

  As he scrambled to his feet, pretending to totter as he did so, a figure materialised in front of him. It was Fitzgerald. He itched to initiate a conversation, sure he could extract some information from the pirate without arousing his suspicions.

  ‘Allow me to help,’ Fitzgerald said, reaching out to steady him. ‘Mistress North’s wine has flowed very freely tonight, and not everyone can take it.’

  ‘But you can?’ slurred Chaloner.

  ‘I am a sailor,’ replied Fitzgerald, intensifying his grip to the point where it hurt. Chaloner was not sure whether the pirate was genuinely trying to hold him up, or whether there was a warning in the steel-like fingers. ‘We are more used to powerful brews than the average man. Indeed, we are a breed to be respected in many ways.’

  He escorted Chaloner to a nearby chair, where the spy pretended to fall asleep. Fitzgerald watched him for a moment, then turned and made for the door, apparently deciding that he had had enough of the club and its entertainments. Chaloner found himself inexplicably relieved when he had gone – there was definitely something unsettling about him, and he was beginning to understand why Thurloe considered him such a daunting opponent.