‘The best in the country,’ agreed Chaloner, deciding to do whatever was necessary to secure a place at the ceremony. He told himself it was to explore Cave’s peculiar death, even though he knew nothing could be accomplished while the service was underway.
‘Do not worry about Hannah,’ said Temperance kindly a short while later, as she was accompanying him to the front door. ‘I know many couples who dislike each other, yet still function perfectly well together in society. You will soon work out rules and boundaries.’
‘I do not dislike Hannah,’ exclaimed Chaloner, startled.
‘No,’ said Temperance softly. ‘Not yet.’
Chaloner did not feel like returning to Tothill Street after Temperance’s bleak remarks, and found himself walking towards Piccadilly instead. It was cold after the muggy heat of the club, so he strode briskly to keep the chill at bay. He soon left the city behind, and then the only sounds were the hoot of owls and the whisper of wind in the trees.
When he reached the hamlet, he made for the back of the Feathers, and let himself in through a broken window. There were two coffins in the parlour, mother and son lying side by side. Chaloner struggled to mask his distaste as he lifted Mrs Reyner’s skirts to hunt for the encrypted paper. He was not surprised to find it gone, especially when he saw her lip was swollen. He could only suppose she had handed it over when violence was used, although it had not saved her – the wound to her throat was every bit as vicious as the one that had killed her son.
He stared at her. She reeked of wine, and it occurred to him that she might not have been sober enough to tell her attackers that the list had been copied. Or had they not cared, because it was not as important as Reyner had believed? Chaloner supposed he would not know until it was decoded, which needed to happen now as a matter of urgency.
Carefully leaving all as he had found it, he made for Clarendon House, unimpressed to find not a single guard on duty, although a banked fire indicated that they intended to return at some point during the night. He checked the supplies that were stored outside, and then approached the building itself, idly counting the number of ways he could get in – four doors, two loose windows and a badly secured coal hatch. He entered through the grand portico because it represented the biggest challenge, and he felt like honing his burgling skills.
Once inside, he wandered aimlessly. It seemed especially vast in the dark, like a church. It smelled of damp plaster and new wood, and he felt his dislike of it mount with every step. Why did the Earl have to build himself such a shameless monstrosity?
He left eventually, but rather than cut across St James’s Park towards home, he took the longer route via Piccadilly and the Haymarket. As he passed the Crown, all was in darkness except Pratt’s room, in which several lanterns blazed. It had not been so when he had gone by earlier, and afraid something was amiss, he decided he had better investigate.
There were no lights in the tavern, but there were snores, and it did not take him long to see that Wright and his men had bedded down near the embers of the fire. There were eight of them, and he wondered what tale Wright would spin if materials went missing again.
Disgusted, he climbed the stairs, treading on the edges, which were less likely to creak and give him away. When he reached Pratt’s door he listened intently but could hear nothing. He tried the handle and was alarmed to find it unlocked. He opened it to see Pratt lying fully clothed on the bed with his mouth agape. Certain he was dead, Chaloner felt for a life-beat, then leapt away in shock when the architect’s eyes fluttered open.
‘Snowflake!’ Pratt purred, raising his arms enticingly. Then he became aware that he was not at Temperance’s brothel. ‘Chaloner? What are you doing here?’
Heart still pounding, Chaloner began to douse the lamps, unwilling to leave so many burning when he left, lest Pratt knocked one over in his drunken clumsiness and started a fire. The thought reminded him of what had happened to the two Adventurers.
‘Did you hear about Turner and Lucas?’ he asked.
‘One wants me to design him a stately home, but I cannot recall which. Lord, my head aches! I should have stayed with Lydcott in Charing Cross tonight. I wish I had, because then you would not be looming over me like the Angel of Death.’
‘Who is Lydcott?’
‘A dear friend. He was a Parliamentarian in the wars, but is a Royalist now – he knows how to survive turbulent times! He is an excellent horseman, too. Did you hear that someone thinks enough of my work to threaten me with death, by the way? Not even Wren has achieved that accolade!’
‘How do you know Harley and Fitzgerald?’ asked Chaloner. The architect was far too haughty to converse with him when he was sober, so it made sense to do it while he was intoxicated.
‘They are members of the Piccadilly Company,’ replied Pratt drowsily. ‘As am I. We trade in glassware and gravel. I have invested heavily, and it will make me richer than ever.’
‘How can gravel be lucrative?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Or glassware, for that matter. There cannot be a massive demand for it in New England, because none of the colonies are very big.’
But Pratt was asleep. Chaloner tried to shake him awake, but he responded only by mumbling more incoherent nonsense about Lydcott. When he began to mutter about Snowflake, too, Chaloner decided it was time to leave.
He was passing the table when he saw the key to Clarendon House, the silken cord still attached. He considered pocketing it, but common sense prevailed – Pratt might remember his visit the following morning, and he did not want to be accused of theft. So, working quickly, he melted a candle into a pill box, and waited for it to set. While it was still malleable, he pressed both sides of the key into it, then eased it out. He cleaned it, put the mould in his pocket, and left as silently as he had arrived. He could not steal Pratt’s key, but he could certainly make one of his own.
Downstairs, he gave Wright the fright of his life by sneaking up behind him and putting a knife to his throat. He kept the sergeant’s cronies at bay by brandishing his sword.
‘You are supposed to be guarding Pratt,’ he informed them shortly. ‘So why is no one outside his door? And who is watching Clarendon House? I have just been there, and it is deserted.’
‘If it is deserted, then there is no need to watch it,’ argued Wright. ‘Let me go, Chaloner, or I will tell Dugdale that you picked a fight with me. He offered to pay me for any bad tales about you.’
Chaloner released him with a shove that made him stagger. ‘Go to the house, or the Earl will learn that he is paying you to sleep in a tavern all night.’
Wright started to draw a knife, but thought better of it when Chaloner pointed the sword at him. Glowering, he slouched out, five of his men at his heels. The others reluctantly abandoned the fire, and went to take up station outside Pratt’s door, although Chaloner doubted they would stay there long once he had gone.
He went home, where the hour candle said it was three o’clock, but although he was tired, he did not feel like going to bed. He went to the drawing room, intending to doze for an hour before resuming his enquiries, but his mind was too active. He took the cipher from his pocket and began to work on it. Unfortunately, while he was too restless for sleep, he was not sufficiently alert for such an exacting task, and it was not long before he gave up. He stared at the empty hearth, then whipped around with a knife in his hand when he became aware of someone standing behind him.
‘I came to light the fire,’ said George, eyeing the blade with a cool disdain that told Chaloner he was more familiar with such situations than was appropriate for a footman in a respectable house.
Chaloner indicated with an irritable flick of his hand that he was to carry on. ‘Please do not creep up on me again. You might find yourself harmed.’
‘I doubt it. Fitzgerald was much freer with weapons than you, and I survived him.’
‘If he attacked you, why did you stay with him for ten years?’
The sour expression on George’s face said
Chaloner had touched on a sore point. ‘Ten years! And he dismissed me like so much rubbish.’
If George had behaved as sullenly with the pirate as he did in Tothill Street, then he was lucky he had not suffered a worse fate, thought Chaloner. He changed the subject, sure he would not be given an answer, but supposing there was no harm in trying.
‘What is the nature of Fitzgerald’s current business in London?’ By means of a bribe, he passed George a plug of tobacco he had palmed in Temperance’s club, where the stuff had been lying around for its patrons to enjoy.
George almost snatched it from him, and set about tamping the pipe he pulled from his pocket. ‘He did not tell me, but it will involve death and destruction, because he was singing about it. At sea, he always sang before he attacked another ship.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘I am afraid not,’ replied George, through a haze of smoke.
‘Does he have any powerful friends here? Ones he might refer to as his master?’
George regarded him oddly. ‘Not that I am aware.’
‘You cannot name any of his London acquaintances?’
‘No.’ George regarded Chaloner thoughtfully, then reached inside his shirt and produced an old leather pouch. ‘But if you intend to go after him – as your questions suggest you might – take this.’
‘What is it?’ asked Chaloner, disconcerted that George should read him so easily.
‘Dust from Tangier, which contains something that always sets him to uncontrollable sneezing. It should not affect you, but it will render him helpless.’
Chaloner did not take it. ‘And what am I supposed to do with it?’
‘Throw it in his face, should he decide to come at you.’ George tossed the pouch into Chaloner’s lap. ‘It works, believe me.’
Chaloner was thoughtful as George busied himself at the hearth. He had not forgotten Hannah’s conviction that the footman had been ordered to spy, and George’s inept fiddling with the fire said he was not skilled at the duties that usually went with being a footman. Or a captain’s steward, for that matter. If that were the case, why had he given Chaloner something with which to defeat his former master? Or was it a ploy that would see him in danger?
He doubted a direct enquiry would yield a truthful response, so he sat at the table instead and, recalling his promise to Lester, began to make sketches of Captain Pepperell and Elliot. He had a talent for drawing, and had been trained to remember faces, so it was not long before he had reasonable likenesses. He folded them in half, and as he did not know where Lester lived, told George to take them to Williamson’s offices in Westminster.
‘The Spymaster?’ asked George uneasily. ‘You want me to visit him?’
‘Just his clerks. Why? Have you done something to excite his interest?’
‘No more than any other man in London.’ George glanced out of the window without enthusiasm. ‘Shall I go now? It is still dark.’
‘Take a torch,’ said Chaloner shortly.
Chapter 6
An hour before dawn, Chaloner began to feel the effects of his sleepless night. He would have gone to bed, but Joan was crashing around in the kitchen, and he knew he would never sleep through the racket. He wondered how Hannah could, but a visit to the bedroom showed him that she had stuffed her ears with rags.
Lethargically, he walked to the Rainbow Coffee House, hoping a dish of Farr’s poisonous brew would sharpen his wits. The only customer at that hour was Grey, the Adventurer who had caused such consternation by disappearing with a woman. He was sitting in the corner, crying softly.
‘Weeping for Turner and Lucas,’ explained Farr in a low voice. ‘They died in a fire last night, along with Turner’s family and servants. Twelve people in all. A terrible tragedy.’
To give Grey privacy, Chaloner picked up The Newes, just off the presses that morning, and began to read. Home news comprised two main reports: that Dover expected to be invaded by the Dutch at any moment because the wind was in the right direction, and that a purple bed-cloth had been stolen from Richmond. Foreign intelligence revolved around the fact that the Swedish ambassador was expected at White Hall the following Tuesday, where he would attend a feast.
In smaller type were the advertisements. One promoted the exhibition that Farr had mentioned the last time Chaloner had visited the Rainbow:
At the Mitre near the West-end of St Paul’s is to be seen a rare Collection of Curiosities much resorted to, and admired by Persons of great Learning and Quality: among with, a choyce Egyptian Mummy with hieroglyphicks and the Ant Beare of Brasil; a Remora; a Torpedo; the huge Thigh-bone of a Gyant; a Moon Fish; a Tropick Bird & C.
Although intrigued by the torpedo in particular, Chaloner doubted he would have the time to see the display. He finished the coffee, nodded a farewell to Farr, and set off for Chancery Lane.
Lincoln’s Inn’s grounds had recently been replanted, and had gone from a pleasantly tangled wilderness to a garden of manicured precision. Chaloner was still not sure he liked it, but Thurloe did, and spent a lot of time there. It was usually deserted at dawn, a time the ex-Spymaster spent in quiet contemplation before the day began.
‘I have been expecting you,’ Thurloe said, as Chaloner materialised out of the gloom and fell into step beside him. It was not raining, but the garden had endured a good soaking during the night, and the paths were soggy underfoot. ‘I want you to purchase a handgun for yourself.’
‘Why?’ asked Chaloner suspiciously.
‘Because this case has a dangerous feel, and a sword is no defence against firearms. Here is a purse. No, do not refuse it – it is not my silver, it is Fitzgerald’s. He did not best me every time I tackled him, and I have been saving it for a time when it might be used against him. Which is now.’
Chaloner accepted reluctantly. Not only did he dislike taking money from friends, regardless of its provenance, but he had never been comfortable with the unpredictability of guns. They were, however, obscenely expensive, and he certainly could not have afforded to purchase one on his own salary.
‘Tell me what you have learned,’ instructed Thurloe, after they had walked in silence for a while, their footsteps alternately crunching and squelching.
‘That Fitzgerald has a master. Unfortunately, no one seems to know who he is.’
Thurloe nodded. ‘I suspected as much. I shall ask my old spies for a name. What else?’
‘He said he had scored a great victory over his “enemies” – presumably the men who oppose the Piccadilly Company – in revenge for Reyner, and it seems he arranged the deaths of Turner and Lucas. He probably tossed Proby off the roof of St Paul’s, too. Certainly, he believes that Reyner was killed in retaliation. And Proby, Turner and Lucas were Adventurers …’
‘So Fitzgerald’s foes – listed on the Vigenère cipher – are Adventurers? I thought the Adventurers were respectable men, not the kind to engage in tit-for-tat killings with pirates.’
‘Secretary Leighton is not respectable! He is alleged to have accrued vast wealth by criminal means. Moreover, most Adventurers are courtiers, and the words “courtier” and “respectable” are mutually exclusive. However, we shall know for certain when you decode the cipher.’
‘I am afraid I cannot. I worked on it all night, but it is beyond me. So I sent a copy to John Wallis, who was my code-breaker during the Commonwealth. If he cannot crack it, no one can.’
Chaloner hoped it would not take long. ‘So we have two commercial operations at war with each other – the Adventurers and the Piccadilly Company. The Adventurers have lost three of their number, and the Piccadilly Company has lost one.’
Thurloe was thoughtful. ‘The Adventurers comprise wealthy courtiers and merchants, and include men such as the Duke of Buckingham, Congett, Secretary Leighton and several members of your Earl’s household – Hyde, Brodrick, Dugdale and Edgeman. They have declared a monopoly on trading with Africa, and are greedy but inefficient.’
‘Meanwhile, the P
iccadilly Company comprises a pirate, a Dutch couple, a Portuguese, two Tangier scouts, Harley’s sister, Pratt and the enigmatic Mr Jones. They send glassware to New England and bring gravel back – a venture that necessitates hiring Brinkes to ensure secrecy.’
‘Their sea-routes lie in opposite directions,’ mused Thurloe. ‘And they deal in different commodities. They should not be rivals, yet they are killing each other. It makes no sense.’
Chaloner’s mind wandered to the mysteries he had been ordered to solve, and the way the two organisations featured in them. ‘I have four cases – Cave’s death, the Tangier massacre, the Queen’s letters about Pratt, and the stolen bricks. They are so different that they should be unrelated, yet there are strands linking each one to the others.’
‘Explain,’ ordered Thurloe.
‘First Cave. He and Elliot stabbed each other in a duel over Brilliana. She is Harley’s sister, and they live in Piccadilly. So does Pratt, whose latest house is the victim of stolen supplies, and who himself may be the target of an assassination.’
‘And Pratt is a member of the Piccadilly Company,’ mused Thurloe. ‘As is Harley.’
‘Harley is also one of the scouts whose intelligence sent Teviot to his death. Moreover, Elliot was Williamson’s spy, and his duties entailed monitoring the Crown. His wife – his deranged wife – lives in the Crown’s garret. And Cave sang duets with Fitzgerald, another member of the Piccadilly Company. Then there is the connection between Elliot and Pepperell.’
‘Who?’
‘The captain of Eagle – Elliot’s friend Lester thinks it suspicious that two sea-officers should die within such a short space of time of each other. Pepperell was murdered by Brinkes – the man charged with ensuring that Piccadilly Company meetings are not disturbed. I will hunt down Brilliana today, to see what she can tell me about her dead lovers – and about her brother, too. Lester is also looking into it, on Williamson’s behalf.’
‘Lester,’ said Thurloe disapprovingly. ‘Stay away from him. I distrust him intensely.’
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 17