‘It will be ready this evening,’ Edmund Trulocke was saying. ‘Come back at dusk.’
Harley nodded, and was gone without another word. Thwarted, Chaloner sauntered towards Leighton, pretending to inspect a nearby musket.
‘Are you sure?’ William Trulocke was asking worriedly. ‘It will render the trigger unusually light. If you stick it in your belt and touch it accidentally, it will blow off your—’
‘I am sure,’ interrupted Leighton shortly. ‘The damned thing is so stiff at the moment that I need both hands to set it off. I need a much more sensitive mechanism.’
Trulocke nodded, and a vast amount of money changed hands. Leighton gave instructions for the finished product to be delivered to his Queenhithe home, and left. Chaloner could only suppose that he was taking precautions to ensure he did not suffer the same fate as his fellow Adventurers – Proby, Turner and Lucas.
When Leighton had gone, Trulocke turned to Chaloner, who pointed to the gun he wanted. By the time they had negotiated a price, and Chaloner had been furnished with enough ammunition to blast away half of London, the shop had emptied and the other two brothers had retreated to their workshop. Chaloner laid the mould on the table.
‘We do not cut keys,’ said Trulocke immediately. ‘It would be illegal, not to mention treading on the toes of our colleagues the locksmiths.’
‘How much?’ asked Chaloner.
Trulocke named a sum, Chaloner halved it, and they agreed on an amount somewhere in the middle. Trulocke took the mould, and disappeared. The item was ready in record time, and it was not long before Chaloner was stepping around the dog with a gun in his belt and a key in his pocket.
Next, Chaloner went to see Thurloe. Unusually, the ex-Spymaster was not strolling in the gardens, but preparing to go out, swathed in a hat and cloak that rendered him incognito.
‘It is no day to be travelling.’ Thurloe looked at Chaloner’s coat. ‘You are already drenched, and the day has barely begun. I hope I do not catch a chill from this escapade.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Home to Oxfordshire?’
‘And leave you to deal with Fitzgerald alone? No. I am off to see Royal Katherine launched.’
‘Because you think Fitzgerald will be there? If he is as slippery as you say, your presence will put him on his guard, and you will be wasting your time.’
‘Probably,’ sighed Thurloe. ‘But it would be remiss not to try.’
‘The Earl has ordered me to go, too. He says his enemies will be there, and he thinks the culprit will be braying to all and sundry about the missing bricks.’
‘Then we had better listen carefully,’ said Thurloe with a smile. He glanced up at the grey clouds that scudded overhead. ‘I am not going by boat, though. There is a stiff wind, which will blow directly against the current. It will make for a most unpleasant journey.’
Poor Hannah, thought Chaloner. ‘Shall we hire horses?’
‘In this weather?’ Thurloe was aghast. ‘I think not! I have asked the porter to fetch me a hackney carriage. It will scarcely be comfortable, but it will have to suffice.’
Woolwich lay on the south bank of the river, dominated by the largest and oldest of the Thames shipyards. It employed some three hundred workers, whose cottages crouched along muddy lanes behind the dry docks. Cannons boomed as the hackney approached, and Chaloner tensed. He had been wary of artillery ever since the Battle of Naseby.
‘They are announcing His Majesty’s arrival with a royal salute,’ explained Thurloe. ‘There will be another when the Queen disembarks, so do not let it startle you.’
They alighted to find the dockyard already full. Most of the Court was there, many looking as though they had come straight from whatever wild entertainment they had enjoyed the night before. They mingled with officials from the admiralty, including Samuel Pepys, who had inveigled himself a choice spot near the King and the Duke of York.
Royal Katherine was the centre of attention. She was a three-masted warship of eighty-four guns, attractively painted in black, red and gold. Vast windows at her stern indicated that whoever commanded her would be very comfortably accommodated.
‘We shall separate,’ determined Thurloe. ‘We will learn more that way.’
They headed in opposite directions, and the first person Chaloner met was Williamson, who had donned a disguise so bad it was laughable – a landsman’s idea of what a sea-officer would wear, complete with an empty coat-sleeve to denote an amputated arm. The Spymaster was gazing at someone with open yearning, and Chaloner followed the direction of his gaze to Kitty. She and O’Brien were with Brodrick, whose company they seemed to be enjoying, and Secretary Leighton, whose presence was obviously unwelcome.
Williamson reddened when he saw that Chaloner had witnessed a look that should never have been given in public, and moved forward to speak.
‘You did not visit me yesterday,’ he snapped, concealing his mortification by going on the offensive.
‘I was busy.’
Williamson glared. ‘Then come tonight at six o’clock. Do not be late – I am invited to O’Brien’s home afterwards, before he attends some public event in Westminster.’
Chaloner was about to inform him that he had other plans when the Spymaster hurried away abruptly, and he turned to see Kitty and O’Brien approaching. The amused gleam in Kitty’s green eyes said she had not been fooled by the Spymaster’s disguise, although Chaloner was fairly certain O’Brien remained in ignorance. Leighton was still with them, and so was Brodrick.
‘Chaloner!’ O’Brien cried in obvious delight. ‘I was just telling Brodrick here about your remarkable talent on the viol.’
‘I have heard him play many times,’ said Brodrick. ‘He is especially good at Ferrabosco and Schütz, whose arpeggios are notably demanding. Their interludes require an exacting sense of rhythm, which separates the integral harmony from the …’
He trailed off as Leighton, eyes glazed, scuttled away.
‘At last!’ exclaimed O’Brien, laughing. ‘I did not believe you when you said you could bore him into leaving us alone, Brodrick, but you have succeeded admirably. Personally, I thought we were going to be stuck with him all day, and there is something about him I cannot like.’
‘Nor I,’ agreed Kitty. ‘He makes me shudder, although I would be hard-pressed to say why. Perhaps it is because he is an advocate of the slave trade.’
‘Actually, it is because he is innately evil,’ supplied Brodrick matter-of-factly. ‘But speaking of evil, there is Fitzgerald. Come away quickly before he engages us in conversation. We have our reputations to consider, and they will not be enhanced if we are seen conversing with a pirate.’
Chaloner had no reason to flee, so he held his ground as Fitzgerald approached. The pirate was wearing exquisitely made clothes, but they were slightly worn, indicating that the gossips were right: he probably was a wealthy man who had recently fallen on hard times.
‘I know you,’ he said in his oddly high voice, although his single eye was fixed on the retreating figures of Brodrick and the O’Briens. ‘We met at the bawdy house. I recognise your eyes.’
‘Did we?’ Chaloner smiled, although he was disconcerted that the man had managed to see beneath the mask he had worn, especially as his eyes were not particularly distinctive. ‘I am afraid I recall very little from my evenings there.’
‘Wine is a treacherous thing,’ said Fitzgerald softly. ‘It puts a man out of his wits, and that is never wise when there are so many dangerous individuals at large.’
Leaving Chaloner wondering whether he had just been threatened, Fitzgerald sauntered away. People gave him a wide berth, including several Adventurers and Swaddell, all of whom looked pointedly the other way as he passed.
Some sixth sense told Chaloner he was being watched, and he turned to see Leighton, who was regarding him with a blank expression that was nevertheless unsettling. He returned the stare, and it was the secretary who broke it, because Margareta Jansz
oon collided heavily with him.
‘I retard your impotence,’ she said breezily. Her guards immediately tensed nervously.
‘Impetus, madam,’ said Leighton stiffly, as several courtiers began to laugh. ‘It means forward movement. Impotence, on the other hand, has a rather different sense.’
‘You correct my speech?’ asked Margareta indignantly. ‘How rude!’
Chaloner felt his jaw drop as she removed a piece of cheese from her purse and began to eat it. Did she want to perpetuate the stereotype of the dairy-produce-loving Hollander?
‘I wonder if her husband has a pat of butter on his person,’ murmured Thurloe in Chaloner’s ear. He sounded amused. ‘Incidentally, I saw you break your promise to me just now. Fitzgerald.’
‘He approached me,’ objected Chaloner defensively. ‘And all he did was mutter about dangerous men.’
Thurloe regarded him uneasily. ‘What did he mean?’
‘I have no idea, but I do not believe he is as deadly as everyone claims.’
‘Do not underestimate him, Tom. He … Oh, heavens! He is going to sing. I hope Royal Katherine does not have much in the way of expensive glassware, because if so, it is in grave peril.’
He was not the only one with a low opinion of Fitzgerald’s talents. O’Brien promptly began to run, aiming to put as much distance between him and the performer as possible; Kitty and Brodrick trotted after him, both struggling to mask their laughter. Then the first notes of an aria began to waft around the shipyard.
The sound was indescribable. The notes were mostly true, but had a curious, metallic quality that was deeply unpleasant. They did not sound human, and had Chaloner not been able to see Fitzgerald opening and closing his mouth, he might have assumed they derived from an artificial source. The hubbub of genteel conversation died away.
There was a general a sigh of relief when the great guns roared an interruption. They heralded the arrival of the Queen, whose barge was rowed ashore with great ceremony. Her Majesty alighted jauntily enough, but Hannah was green, and so were several other ladies. Cruelly, the King released a bellow of mocking laughter.
‘It was horrible,’ Hannah whispered, when Chaloner went to help her. ‘The wind blew the river into great waves, and I seriously considered throwing myself overboard, just to end my misery.’
‘I will take you home by land when you have recovered.’
Hannah gave a wan smile. ‘I wish you could, but Meneses has attached himself to our party, and I am not leaving the Queen alone with him.’
Chaloner looked to where she pointed, and saw Meneses had indeed fastened himself to the Queen, a fawning, oily presence that deterred anyone else from greeting her. Hannah snagged the Duke of Buckingham’s arm as he passed.
‘Come and tell the Queen you like the ship that is being named in her honour,’ she ordered. The Duke looked as if he would decline, but Hannah tightened her grip. ‘It will please her.’
With no choice, Buckingham went to oblige, leaving Chaloner alone again. Thurloe joined him, and started to speak, but was distracted by a commotion on the other side of the dockyard. Apparently, one of the Janszoons had made another faux pas.
‘But Royal Katherine is a dog,’ Margareta was objecting crossly. ‘Many sailors have told us so.’
‘It means she has fast legs and strong teeth,’ elaborated Janszoon, clearly nervous as he glanced around to ensure his henchmen were to hand. ‘There is nothing wrong with dogs.’
‘Perhaps I should call Katherine a fish,’ said Margareta waspishly. ‘Is that a better epitaph?’
‘Epithet,’ corrected Leighton, unable to help himself.
Margareta scowled, but the King prevented a spat by announcing that he intended to go aboard. There was an immediate scramble as everyone tried to accompany him, and Chaloner was sure the great ship listed from the weight that suddenly descended on her. The Janszoons followed with rather more dignity.
‘Do they work at being so stupid?’ muttered Janszoon. He spoke English and Chaloner wondered why he did not revert to his native tongue, given that his words were intended for Margareta’s ears only. ‘Or does it come naturally to them?’
Chaloner did not hear her reply, because he was suddenly aware of someone close behind him. It was Lester, who was more soft-footed than Chaloner would have expected for a man of his size.
‘They must have eavesdropped on a conversation between seamen,’ Lester explained. ‘Katherine is a dog, but the description has nothing to do with speed and strength. Rather, it means she sails like a bucket, and will wallow like the devil in a swell. I should not like to command her.’
‘Then perhaps it is as well that you are unlikely ever to do so,’ said Thurloe coolly.
‘Thurloe?’ said Lester, peering at him. ‘Good God! I almost did not recognise you in that dreadful old cloak. How are you? It must be eight years since we last met. Now where was it?’
‘Dover,’ replied Thurloe promptly and without a hint of friendliness. ‘You were about to travel to Portugal. Fitzgerald was among your crew, if I recall correctly.’
‘Yes!’ Lester exclaimed, seemingly unperturbed by Thurloe’s icy tone. ‘That was before he turned to privateering, of course.’ He turned to Chaloner. ‘Thank you for the drawings of Pepperell and Elliot, by the way. They have already proved useful.’
‘How?’ asked Chaloner, wondering why Lester had not mentioned sailing with Fitzgerald when they had discussed him at the club two nights before.
‘By allowing me to prove for certain that they knew each other and that they had argued,’ replied Lester. ‘I am not sure what about, but I will tell you when I find out.’
‘I had not remembered until now that he and Fitzgerald were crewmates,’ said Thurloe, when the captain had walked away. ‘It makes me more wary of him than ever.’
‘I imagine they have both sailed with lots of people if they have spent most of their lives at sea,’ said Chaloner, instinctively defensive. ‘It almost certainly means nothing.’
‘We are wasting our time here,’ said Thurloe, declining to debate the matter. ‘You were right: Fitzgerald is far too clever to let anything slip in public, while I suspect most of the Piccadilly Company has no idea that he is taking orders from a higher authority.’
‘I have heard no rumours about what is planned for next Wednesday, either,’ said Chaloner gloomily. ‘Or so much as a whisper about the Earl’s bricks. Shall we go home?’
‘Not yet. Someone may drink too much wine and become indiscreet. We can but hope.’
Thurloe and Chaloner remained at Woolwich long after the King had galloped away on a fine stallion, his more athletic courtiers streaming at his heels. Meneses was still with the Queen when she clambered on her barge for the homeward journey, and thus so was Hannah. The other ladies-in-waiting were nowhere to be seen, though: they had secured themselves rides in coaches, unwilling to endure a second ordeal on the turbulent Thames.
When they had gone, Chaloner saw Harley and Newell standing near the place where wine was being served, and tried to start a conversation. They turned away, and did not react even when he made provocative remarks about Reyner’s murder. Faced with such taciturnity, he was forced to concede defeat and wandered to where Fitzgerald was talking to several people, all of whom were so well wrapped against the weather that it was impossible to tell who they were. When he moved closer, intending to eavesdrop, Brinkes blocked his way.
Chaloner retreated, then started to approach from a different direction, but Thurloe appeared at his side and shook his head warningly. Frustrated by their lack of progress, Chaloner was inclined to ignore him, but a flash of steely blue eyes told him he would be in trouble if he did.
Heartily wishing he had never made the promise, Chaloner watched Fitzgerald and his companions disperse, wondering whether anything would be served by whisking one down a dark alley and demanding answers at knifepoint. Of course, there would be hell to pay if his victim transpired to be someone influential. One of
the gaggle walked jauntily towards them, and Chaloner glimpsed red ribbons in the lace around his boots, all but hidden under a long, thick cloak.
‘Robert!’ the ex-Spymaster exclaimed in astonishment. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I move in auspicious company these days,’ replied Jones with an engaging grin, once Thurloe had removed his hat to reveal his face. ‘The glassware trade is thriving, as I explained to my sister in the letters I wrote.’
Thurloe turned to Chaloner. ‘This is my wife’s brother. Robert Lydcott.’
‘Lydcott,’ repeated Chaloner flatly. ‘I knew it was not Jones.’
Lydcott shrugged. ‘If you were kin to an ex-Spymaster, you would change your name, too. No one wants to know a Lydcott these days. It is almost as bad as being a Cromwell.’
Chaloner was not unsympathetic: he shared his name with a man who had signed the old king’s death warrant, and it was awkward to say the least. But using an alias was not Lydcott’s only crime.
‘He is a member of the Piccadilly Company,’ he said to Thurloe. ‘In fact, he founded it.’
‘He did what?’ exploded Thurloe, shocked.
‘Where lies the problem?’ asked Lydcott, bemused. ‘Exporting glassware to New England is a perfectly legitimate venture. Profitable, too. At least, it is now. It was rocky before Fitzgerald came along and offered to invest, but now it is doing splendidly.’
‘Robert!’ cried Thurloe, appalled. ‘Will you never learn? You know what kind of man Fitzgerald is. How can you have been so reckless as to go into business with him?’
‘It was a sound commercial decision,’ objected Lydcott, stung. ‘My company was on the verge of bankruptcy, but he made it viable again. We have been doing well for weeks now. And in case you were wondering, I did not tell you because I knew how you would react. I wrote to Ann about my change in fortunes last month, and she will be proud of me, even if you—’
‘On the contrary,’ snapped Thurloe. ‘You frightened her, and I have been trying to find you ever since. I should have known you were involved in another wild scheme.’
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 20