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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Are you going to apologise for calling me a thief?’ he demanded.

  Chaloner nodded slowly. Pratt could not be the culprit, because Chaloner would have noticed if the architect had removed hat and cloak during the chase, so the only place he could have divested was the library. But there had been no garments there, so logic dictated that Pratt was innocent, and the real villain must have hidden in an alcove while Chaloner had flown past. Moreover, the chase had left Chaloner breathing hard, but Pratt had not been panting.

  On the other hand, it had been Pratt’s furious diatribe that had warned the accomplice to run, and his occupation probably kept him reasonably fit, so there was nothing to say he would be reduced to a wheezing wreck after a short sprint.

  ‘Where are your bodyguards?’ asked Chaloner, his mind a confused jumble.

  ‘They left at dawn. Incidentally, I often work here at night, because it gives me an opportunity to feel the house – to assess whether its proportions are correct.’

  ‘In the dark?’ asked Chaloner sceptically.

  ‘Of course. Or do you imagine Clarendon will only live here when it is light? The ambience of a house at night is just as important as its looks during the day.’

  Chaloner supposed the claim was plausible. Just. Irritably, he shoved past Pratt and walked to the library. With the architect grumbling acidly behind him, he searched the rooms and the corridors he had run through, but there was no discarded hat and cloak.

  ‘Satisfied?’ demanded Pratt. ‘Perhaps you would like to inspect each panel, to see whether this mysterious intruder hid himself in one of the knots. Or perhaps he wriggled though a crack in the plaster on the ceiling.’

  Chaloner rubbed his head. ‘I am sorry. I was sure I had cornered him in here.’

  Pratt glared at him. ‘When Wednesday comes, I do not want you guarding me against the assassin. I want someone efficient.’

  ‘Why? I thought you were pleased by the threat to kill you, because it means you have succeeded in designing something unpopular.’

  ‘I am,’ said Pratt stiffly. ‘But that does not mean I want to die in four days’ time.’

  ‘I doubt you are in any danger.’ Chaloner was still sure the plot was aimed more at the Queen than the conceited architect. ‘There is no need to be concerned.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ retorted Pratt. ‘You are not the intended victim.’

  Still thinking about what had happened, Chaloner walked towards the Haymarket, wondering whether he was losing his touch. He replayed the incident in his mind again and again, but although the evidence indicated that Pratt probably was innocent, there was a niggling doubt at the back of his mind that made him reluctant to dismiss the architect as a suspect just yet.

  When he reached the Crown, a Piccadilly Company meeting was just ending, and yet again people were being ushered through the door in ones and twos, timed to blend in with the horde disgorging from the Gaming House. The person doing the shepherding was the beautiful woman who had undertaken the task on Monday – a lovely creature with dark eyes, a heart-shaped face, and a figure that surpassed even Lady Castlemaine’s.

  Chaloner picked up a soggy pamphlet from the ground, and pretended to read it while he watched, wondering at the Company’s penchant for gatherings that took place so early. Was it because its members had demanding daytime jobs, so could not manage a more conducive hour? Or because it was hoped that spies would be less attentive at dawn than late at night?

  Meneses was first out, although someone must have remarked on the foreignness of his clothes, because he wore a cloak to conceal them. Lydcott was next; Thurloe’s disapprobation had made no impression on him, because he was whistling happily and it was clear that he intended to ignore his kinsman’s warnings. He was followed by Harley and Newell, both grim-faced, as if whatever had been discussed had displeased them. Or perhaps they were still smarting because Reyner’s killer remained at large. Then came a lot of people Chaloner did not know, although their clothes indicated they were wealthy, and he suspected they were merchants.

  One of the last to emerge was Fitzgerald, his piratical beard tucked inside his coat and a hat pulled low to disguise his eye-patch. Once everyone had gone, the woman stared across the street, directly at Chaloner. He tensed as she began to walk towards him.

  ‘You have had more than enough time to peruse that wet pamphlet,’ she said softly. ‘Have you come to hire my services, but cannot pluck up the courage to come to my home?’

  ‘Possibly,’ hedged Chaloner, angry with himself for not being more circumspect. He wondered what services she had in mind, although the way she ran her fingers down his sleeve did not leave him pondering for long.

  ‘My name is Brilliana,’ she said. ‘But I imagine you already know that.’

  Chaloner bowed, noting that her clothes were of very high quality, and that she positively dripped jewellery. Here was no lowly strumpet, but a courtesan of some distinction, and he could only suppose she had deigned to approach him because he was dressed for visiting the Queen. Fortunately, his race to the woods had not damaged or soiled anything – at least, nothing that was noticeable on a morning where rainclouds and soot-laden smog meant the light was poor.

  ‘You had better come to my boudoir, then,’ she said. ‘It is too cold to do business out here.’

  Wondering whether it was wise to enter her lair – he had intended to tackle her on neutral ground – Chaloner followed her across the street. Her house, which he recalled was shared with her brother Harley, was a large building on three floors. She conducted him to a pleasantly airy room at the rear, graced with furniture that would not have looked out of place in a French palace.

  She sat on an embroidered chair and rang a bell that stood on a table to one side. Immediately, a footman appeared, bearing a tray with a jug of chocolate and two goblets. He poured a little of the dark liquid into each, and from the smell Chaloner suspected it had been fortified with sack.

  ‘I have told you my name,’ said Brilliana, when the servant had withdrawn and she and Chaloner were alone again. Her smile was coy. ‘What is yours?’

  ‘Do you require names from all your clients?’

  Brilliana tilted her head. ‘It helps, should I want to address them with any intimacy. Sugar?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Brilliana raised her eyebrows. ‘Do not tell me you are one of those tedious fellows who thinks abstaining makes a difference to the slaves on the plantations? You will have to change your tune soon, or you will find yourself left behind, like those poor fools who still hanker after the lost Republic. But you are not here to discuss commerce and politics. Are you?’

  The sharp intelligence in her eyes told Chaloner that she knew exactly who he was, and what he wanted. Seeing no point in playing games, he decided to be blunt.

  ‘No, mistress. I thought we might discuss your brother and his work in Tangier.’

  She regarded him coolly. ‘He will not need your help in the event of an official inquiry, because he has done nothing wrong. He did not see the Moors waiting in ambush on the day that Lord Teviot died, and no one can prove otherwise.’

  ‘That will not satisfy the lawyers,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Teviot is popular now he is dead, and they are looking for a scapegoat. Your brother fits the bill perfectly, so if you do not want him hanged, you should encourage him to cooperate with me.’

  It was impossible to read Brilliana’s thoughts, although a gleam in her eye said her mind was working fast. ‘I shall pass the message on, but I am not his keeper. He may not listen.’

  ‘Then tell me when the Piccadilly Company is next meeting, and I will talk to him myself.’

  ‘The Piccadilly Company is certainly not your concern,’ said Brilliana icily. ‘Now drink your chocolate and then we shall both be about our own business.’

  Chaloner lifted the cup, but did not put it to his lips. ‘Cave was on the ship from Tangier, too. I was with him when he died, and he mentioned you.’ It was
a lie, but she was not in a position to know it.

  ‘Poor John,’ she said softly. ‘His death was a wicked shame, and I miss him dreadfully.’

  ‘Did you attend his funeral?’ He knew she had not, because Wiseman had told him as much.

  ‘No,’ she replied shortly. ‘Because his brother Jacob shoved him in the ground before his friends could object. I was very upset – I would have liked to say goodbye.’

  ‘Do you know where Jacob lives?’

  ‘If I did, I would visit him and give him a piece of my mind. He had no right to act so precipitately. And damn James Elliot, too! John might have started the quarrel, but James should never have fought him. Personally, I think he encouraged Jacob to opt for a hasty funeral.’

  ‘He cannot have done,’ said Chaloner, startled. ‘He is dead.’

  ‘Have you seen his body?’ she demanded. ‘No? Then how do you know he is dead? I wager anything you please that he is alive and well and telling Jacob what to do.’

  ‘Why would he want Cave buried quickly?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.

  ‘Because he is dangerous and unpredictable,’ declared Brilliana. ‘I wish I had never bestowed my favours on him. I did it because his wife is insane, and I felt sorry for him. But it was a mistake.’

  ‘I have taken enough of your time,’ said Chaloner, his mind full of questions he knew Brilliana was unlikely to answer. ‘Thank you for the chocolate.’

  ‘You have not touched it. At least take a sip before you leave. It is expensive.’

  ‘You have not touched yours, either,’ said Chaloner, glad a career in espionage had taught him never to partake of anything his host had not tasted first.

  She smiled, although it was not a pleasant expression. ‘You must come to see me again. I always have chocolate waiting for guests like you.’

  Chaloner was sure she did.

  It was not far from Piccadilly to St Margaret’s Church in Westminster, but the journey yielded little in the way of information. The young curate who had conducted Cave’s funeral burst into tears when Chaloner started to ask questions about the musician’s hasty send-off.

  ‘I did not know! I thought he was just another pauper from the rookeries – we get lots of them in here, and it is my job to deal with them quickly so they do not distress our wealthier parishioners. His brother never said he was a courtier, and now everyone at White Hall thinks me a villain for depriving them of music by the Chapel Royal choir and a homily by the Bishop …’

  ‘Did Cave’s brother look like a pauper himself?’ asked Chaloner.

  The curate shook his head. ‘But I did not think anything about it at the time.’

  Still sniffling, he led the way to a mound in the churchyard, one in a line of several, which suggested he was telling the truth about the number of cheap and nasty interments he conducted.

  ‘What did Jacob look like?’ asked Chaloner, staring down at it.

  ‘He wore decent clothes and an oddly black wig, but there was something of the lout about him. However, he said and did nothing that made me suspect he was trying to avoid paying for a grand funeral. I assumed he just wanted his brother buried quickly because he was busy.’

  Chaloner supposed he would have to visit the charnel house, to see whether Kersey knew where Cave’s brother lived – Jacob would have had to supply an address when he had collected the corpse. He started to walk there but then changed his mind and aimed for Lincoln’s Inn instead. He listened outside Chamber XIII for a moment, where the scratch of a pen on paper told him his friend was alone, then tapped softly and entered.

  Thurloe was still in his nightclothes, his hair flowing from beneath a cap that might have looked comical on a man with less natural dignity.

  ‘I am writing to my wife about Robert,’ the ex-Spymaster said tiredly. ‘The man is a fool.’

  Chaloner nodded. ‘But a wealthy one. He lodges in the Mews on Charing Cross, which is sufficiently grand that Pratt likes to stay with him when his own rooms in the Crown are too noisy. Fitzgerald seems to have made him very rich.’

  Thurloe looked pained. ‘I am tempted to order him away from London for his own good. Unfortunately, I doubt he would go.’

  Chaloner hesitated. ‘Are you fond of him?’

  ‘He is family – fondness is immaterial. Why?’

  ‘Because if you do not mind placing him in danger by “turning” him, he could be useful to us. For a start, he could tell us what Piccadilly Company meetings entail, and why they take place at odd times. Like early this morning.’

  Thurloe sighed. ‘I interrogated him for hours last night – for so long that I overslept this morning, which is why I am still in my nightclothes.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘Nothing, because he is entrusted with nothing. He believes his business is legal, and there was no persuading him otherwise. He is being used – his glass-exporting venture provides a legitimate front for something else. They do not invite him to all their meetings, and he is sent to prepare refreshments when anything significant is discussed at the ones he is permitted to attend.’

  Chaloner was sorry that Thurloe was distressed, and disappointed to learn that even knowing a member of the Piccadilly Company was going to be of no use to them.

  ‘It is a pity,’ Thurloe went on. ‘Robert is a superb horseman and could have used that talent to earn a respectable living. Instead he prefers to dabble in silly commercial ventures that always fail.’

  ‘This one is not failing,’ Chaloner pointed out.

  Thurloe sighed. ‘I imagine it is – or the legal side of it is, at least. But never mind Robert: he is my problem, not yours. Tell me what has happened to you. It was something unpleasant, because you have the look of a man who did not sleep well, and your hand has been injured.’

  Chaloner told him about Clarendon House, unfolding the piece of paper that had been left on the chest. ‘The trap may not have been meant for me, though, because these words mean nothing.’

  ‘On the contrary – they mention death, darkness and small jaws, which neatly sums up the fate you were meant to suffer. I suspect it is Fitzgerald’s work, because he has always enjoyed inventing unusual ways to dispatch his victims. And if you do not believe me, then look at what happened to Proby, Turner, Lucas and Congett.’

  ‘Wiseman told me about Congett. He suggested shock as a cause of death, but I imagine it was poison. The rat probably bit him after his body was left on the banks of the Thames.’

  Thurloe nodded slowly. ‘But it was a kinder end than the one devised for you.’

  Chaloner did not want to dwell about his time in the strongroom, and changed the subject. ‘Have you heard from Wallis about Reyner’s cipher yet? We need those names – enemies of the Piccadilly Company may be friends to us. But even if not, we should warn them. We might have been able to save Congett, and perhaps Turner and Lucas, too, had we been able to translate it.’

  ‘I disagree. If they have pitted themselves against Fitzgerald, they will need no advice from us to be on their guard. They will know it already.’

  ‘We cannot take that chance. However, as all four victims were Adventurers, perhaps we should assume that Fitzgerald considers all Adventurers to be his enemies, and warn the lot of them.’

  ‘That would entail notifying the King, the Queen and other members of the royal family, and I doubt they have decided to challenge a viciously ruthless pirate. Fitzgerald’s adversaries will not be the Adventurers as a whole, but a particular section.’

  ‘But—’

  Thurloe held up his hand. ‘The only way to be certain is to decode that list. Wallis is working as fast as he can, but that particular cipher is fiendishly difficult to break. How are you managing with the other one?’

  ‘Not well.’

  ‘Send me a copy. We shall both study it in our free moments.’

  Chaloner told Thurloe about his failures that morning – losing the thieves, accusing Pratt, and entering Brilliana’s lair but gaining n
othing except the sense that she had tried to poison him.

  ‘And it is barely ten o’clock,’ he concluded morosely. ‘I suppose I should visit Kersey next. Then I should ask Lester whether Elliot might still be alive – and if he is, track him down and ask whether he encouraged Jacob to bury his brother with such indecent haste.’

  Thurloe winced at the mention of a man he did not trust. ‘If Elliot did survive Cave’s attack, then Lester will be complicit in a hoax. I doubt Lester will admit to lying.’

  ‘I was not planning to ask if he lied,’ said Chaloner, a little irritably. ‘Just whether he might have been mistaken. It is not always easy to tell the living from the dead.’

  Thurloe nodded, but his expression said he thought Chaloner was wasting his time. ‘What will you do about Teviot? How will you persuade Harley and Newell to break their silence and talk?’

  ‘I will visit Revered Addison today and ask what he knows about the matter.’

  Thurloe nodded approvingly. ‘However, if you do decide to tackle the scouts directly again, you might mention Jane. She may loosen their tongues.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Jane is a ship that traded in Tangier when Teviot was governor. I was reliably informed last night that Harley and Newell were hired to guard her when she docked there. My spies were unable to ascertain the precise nature of the cargo, but they heard some of the crew talking. Yet what they overheard makes no sense, so perhaps we should not take it into account.’

  ‘What did they hear?’

  ‘That Jane was carrying gravel.’

  By the time Chaloner reached the charnel house, Kersey was busy with the morning’s trade. Several corpses were awaiting his attention, and the chambers at the front of his premises were full of mourners. Chaloner was impressed to note that he afforded the same gentle sympathy to the poor as to the rich, offering medicinal wine to those in genuine distress, served in exquisite crystal goblets.

  ‘Jacob came here on Monday night and asked for his brother’s body,’ the charnel-house keeper reported angrily, taking Chaloner’s arm and pulling him towards the mortuary so they would not be overheard. ‘I assumed he was taking it home, so that friends and acquaintances could pay their last respects. But then I heard the day before yesterday that Cave was shoved in St Margaret’s churchyard with an appalling lack of ceremony. I am livid, because it reflects badly on me.’