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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘On Friday?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. He had been locked in on Friday.

  ‘We shall be late for church if we stand here chatting,’ said the Earl briskly. ‘My house is in your hands, Chaloner, although you will have to mind it from the garden, because I must lock up.’

  When they had gone, Chaloner let himself back in with his own key and prowled, trying to learn how the thief he had chased the previous day – assuming it was not Pratt – had disappeared. But although he paced corridors and tapped on walls, he could find no hidden doorways that the fellow might have used.

  He considered the stolen bricks. The conversation he had overheard on the portico told him that the thieves were known to the Earl. But who were they? Someone from his household, such as Edgeman or Dugdale? He refused to think it might be Kipps – working for Clarendon would verge on the intolerable if the one man who was friendly towards him was dismissed as a villain.

  The discussion had also indicated that there might be more to the matter than the removal of materials, although he could not imagine what. Moreover, he was still sure they were disappearing during the day rather than at night, although the conviction did nothing to help him with answers.

  He turned his mind to his other enquiries. First, Cave. What had induced him to fight Elliot? Did he have a brother named Jacob, or had Elliot recovered sufficiently from his wound to invent him? Lester had not seen Elliot die, and Chaloner doubted he had looked in the coffin before it was buried in St Giles-in-the-Fields.

  Second, there were the letters. He was inclined to accept Thurloe’s contention that an Adventurer was responsible – Pratt was a member of the rival Piccadilly Company, after all. Moreover, the Queen was unpopular at Court, and many Adventurers were eager to secure His Majesty a fertile Protestant bride in her place. Was Secretary Leighton one of them? Or Edgeman and Dugdale?

  And finally, there was the Tangier massacre. It was clear that Harley, Newell and Reyner had sent Lord Teviot into the ambush deliberately, and that the reason was tied up with the Piccadilly Company. But what was of such importance that the lives of five hundred men were seen as an acceptable sacrifice?

  Of course, the soldiers were not the only casualties of whatever war was raging. Proby, Turner, Lucas, Congett, Reyner and his mother, and Newell were victims, too. And what was the significance of gravel? Was it just a convenient cargo to transport on return voyages, as Lydcott claimed? Or was it code for some other commodity?

  Frustrated when no answers came, Chaloner descended to the basement, prowling the kitchens, laundries and pantries. He paused at the top of the cellar stairs and listened, but the place was silent, and wild horses would not have induced him to go down there again.

  He left the house to walk outside, carefully locking the door behind him. The site was deserted, and he kicked his heels restlessly as the afternoon crept by, fretting at the hours that could have been used more profitably.

  Predictably, it was late before Wright and his men arrived, although they were unrepentant when he complained. The clocks were striking eight before he was able to leave, and it had been dark for some time.

  Sure the answers to almost all his questions lay in Piccadilly, Chaloner took up station in the shadows surrounding the Gaming House and began to watch the Crown tavern. It did not take him long to realise that someone else was doing the same. He drew his dagger and crept forward.

  ‘Tom!’ exclaimed Thurloe, once Chaloner, recognising his muffled cry of alarm, had released him. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘The same as you.’ Chaloner slipped the knife back up his sleeve. ‘Is anything happening?’

  Thurloe nodded. ‘The Piccadilly Company is gathering. Robert knows nothing of it, though, because he told me only an hour ago that they will not meet again until the end of next week.’

  ‘Who has arrived so far?’

  ‘Fitzgerald, Meneses, Harley, Brilliana and others who have disguised themselves so well that I cannot recognise them – about a dozen in all. Brinkes and his henchmen have ousted the drinkers from the tavern, which says something sensitive is about to be aired, because he should not need to clear a downstairs room when they meet on an upper floor.’

  ‘Then we had better eavesdrop.’

  ‘Yes, but how?’ asked Thurloe impatiently. ‘Brinkes will be watching the stairs.’

  ‘Stairs are not the only way to gain access to upper floors.’

  ‘You mean I should climb up the back of the house and listen at a window?’ asked Thurloe, raising his eyebrows. ‘I doubt I could do it, not with my fragile constitution. Besides, Brinkes has posted two guards there, and he checks them every few minutes. He is nothing if not thorough.’

  ‘Then create a diversion while I try.’

  Thurloe’s eyes gleamed. ‘It will be dangerous, but worth it. Standing out here is a waste of time.’

  Chaloner made his way to the rear of the tavern, and after a few moments something began to happen. There was a lot of girlish laughter, and suddenly three near-naked prostitutes burst into the Crown’s garden. It went without saying that the guards hurried towards them and demanded to know what they were doing. The men’s voices were angry, but their eyes said they were not averse to the interruption. Chaloner began his ascent.

  It was easier than he had expected, because the building was old, and crumbling bricks provided plenty of handholds. He was soon outside the first-floor window, where he peered through the glass to see Fitzgerald sitting at the table and his associates gathered around him. The pirate’s soprano voice was clearly audible, and Chaloner was under the impression that he was in a sulk.

  ‘… do not see why it cannot be done. Our master will not be impressed, and neither am I.’

  Chaloner tensed when Brinkes came to find out what was happening in the garden, but the henchman stormed straight towards the girls, and did not once look up at the window. In case he did, Chaloner eased to one side, using darkness and the ivy that grew up the wall to conceal himself. He turned his attention back to the meeting.

  ‘… rumours of our plans,’ Harley was saying. ‘I am not saying we—’

  ‘Jane will arrive on Wednesday, and that is that,’ snarled Fitzgerald. ‘The plan will go ahead – on St Frideswide’s Day, just as we have intended from the start.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harley, clearly struggling for patience. ‘I am not saying we should delay. I am merely reiterating the need for caution, because half of London knows something is afoot.’

  Down below, Brinkes had declined the prostitutes’ offer of a free session in the bushes, and was ordering his men back to their posts. The women were shoved unceremoniously through the gate, while he began a systematic search of the garden, using his sword in a way that said he would have no problem skewering interlopers.

  ‘You advise caution?’ Fitzgerald demanded, the anger in his voice reclaiming Chaloner’s attention. ‘I expected you to dispatch Teviot quietly, and what did you do? Send him into an ambush with hundreds of men! If you had shown a little caution then, our business might have been able to proceed more smoothly.’

  ‘It was not my idea,’ snapped Harley. ‘I was under orders, too.’

  No one at the table looked as though they believed him, and Chaloner was not sure he did, either.

  ‘That escapade obliged us to rein back for weeks,’ said Meneses, in heavily accented English. ‘And now you say there might be an official inquiry.’

  ‘The next time Chaloner offers to influence matters, hear him out,’ said a man whose back was to the window. His voice was familiar, although the spy could not place it.

  ‘No,’ countered Brilliana sharply. She looked especially lovely that night, in a low-cut gown with a simple but expensive pendant at her throat. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that he killed Newell and Reyner, to make my brother think he has no choice but to reveal what he knows. But his tactics will not work. We shall weather this storm, just as we weathered Teviot.’

  ‘The gravel will ma
ke everything worthwhile,’ said Meneses. There was a gleam in his eyes that was immediately recognisable as greed, and it was echoed in every person around the table.

  Then disaster struck. The windowsill to which Chaloner clung gave a sudden creak, and although no one in the parlour seemed to have heard it, Brinkes and the guards immediately gazed upwards. They could not see him, but they knew something was amiss.

  ‘It must be that damned Ruth,’ said Brinkes. ‘She is always spying on us. Well, this time will be her last. You two take her to the woods and cut her throat. I shall stay here. They must be almost finished by now – they told me they would not be long tonight.’

  ‘Why not kill her here?’ asked one of the men.

  ‘Because it will be messy, and we do not want Lester making a fuss,’ replied Brinkes shortly. ‘This way, he will assume that she wandered off. God knows, she is lunatic enough.’

  Chaloner knew he had to act fast if he wanted to save her. Unfortunately, he could do nothing while Brinkes was standing guard – he would be shot or stabbed long before he reached the ground. Agonising minutes ticked by, but the henchman showed no sign of moving. In the end, Chaloner took one of his daggers and lobbed it, heaving a sigh of relief when Brinkes hurtled after the sound like a bloodhound. It kept him occupied just long enough to allow Chaloner to slither to the ground and slip unseen through the gate.

  ‘I doubt my ladies gave you long enough to learn anything useful,’ said Thurloe, appearing suddenly out of the shadows in the street. ‘They were ousted too soon, and—’

  ‘I made a noise, and Brinkes thinks it was Ruth,’ interrupted Chaloner tersely. ‘He has sent men to kill her.’

  Thurloe was too experienced an operative to ask questions when a life was at stake. He ran with Chaloner to the Crown, but the attic was already empty. Stomach churning, Chaloner set off along Piccadilly, hoping the guards had not taken her to some other dark road to carry out their grisly orders. Then he saw them some distance ahead. When Ruth tried to pull free, one slapped her.

  Chaloner charged forward, and cracked him over the head with the hilt of another of his daggers. The fellow dropped to the ground senseless. The second henchman hurled Ruth away, and drew his knife. He lunged, but Chaloner parried the blow with his arm, simultaneously driving his other fist into his opponent’s throat. The guard collapsed, gagging and struggling to breathe.

  ‘Did I teach you to do that?’ asked Thurloe in distaste. ‘Or is it something you learned yourself?’

  ‘She cannot go back to the Crown,’ said Chaloner, wrapping his coat around the terrified, shivering woman. ‘I will take her to Long Acre. Will you send word to Lester? I have no idea where he lives, but Williamson will.’

  Chaloner spent a long and restless night in his garret, although Ruth seemed none the worse for her experiences. She curled up on the bed and went to sleep almost immediately, instinctively trusting him to look after her. Lester did not arrive until dawn. He flew to his sister’s side, then closed his eyes in relief when he saw she was unharmed.

  ‘I thought you would come sooner,’ said Chaloner, irked to have spent the entire night playing nursemaid. He had not liked to leave Ruth, lest she woke and was frightened by her strange surroundings. Or worse, wandered off. He had not even been able to use the time to work on the cipher, because it was in Tothill Street, concealed in his boot.

  ‘Williamson did not know where to find me – I was out all night, monitoring courtiers. I can scarcely credit their capacity for merriment. Indeed, Brodrick and Buckingham are still at it, although Grey and Kipps are finally unconscious. What happened to my sister?’

  Chaloner told him, half tempted to include what he had overheard in the Crown, too. He resisted, but because of his habitual reluctance to share intelligence, not because of Thurloe’s warnings.

  ‘I should have taken her away from that place the moment she told me there was something amiss,’ said Lester, reaching out to stroke her hair. ‘It was obvious that her fascination with its comings and goings would bring her trouble.’

  Chaloner agreed. ‘So why did you leave her there?’

  ‘Because Landlord Marshall and his wife are kind to her,’ Lester explained. ‘And she finds comfort in familiarity. If I took her to my own home, she would be alone and miserable.’

  ‘What will you do with her now? She cannot go back.’

  ‘I shall hire a woman to sit with her. Here, if you would not mind, just until this mischief is over. It is as safe a place as any, and it will not be for more than a day or two.’

  Chaloner nodded acquiescence, feeling he owed Ruth something, given that it was his fault she had almost been murdered.

  ‘I would stay myself,’ Lester went on. ‘But Williamson has ordered me to White Hall, where the Adventurers are holding one of their meetings – it will be followed by a reception to which he has inveigled me an invitation, so it is a unique and valuable opportunity to spy. But I shall come and play my flute tonight. That will soothe her.’

  ‘What time?’ asked Chaloner. Ruth was not the only one in need of calming music.

  ‘As soon as I finish. Perhaps we can play her a duet.’

  Chaloner nodded keenly. ‘I am going to visit the surgeon who tended Elliot today – Jeremiah King. I want to be sure your brother-in-law is really dead.’

  ‘Of course he is dead,’ said Lester impatiently. ‘Do you think that I, a sailor who has weathered numerous battles, am incapable of identifying a corpse?’

  ‘How did you identify it? Did you put a glass to its mouth to test for breath? Touch its eyes to see if it flinched? Feel for a heartbeat or a pulse?’

  ‘Well, no, but Elliot’s face was waxen, and he looked dead.’

  ‘So does half the Court first thing in the morning. It means nothing.’

  ‘You are wrong, but talk to the surgeon if you must. He will confirm my tale.’

  Chaloner wanted to go immediately, but there was another delay while Lester hired a nurse, and it was nearing ten o’clock by the time Ruth was settled. Chaloner and Lester set out to Westminster together. It was a glorious day, although frost dusted the rooftops and the red-gold leaves of trees.

  ‘Tell Williamson that whatever mischief is planned for the day after tomorrow may involve Jane and gravel,’ said Chaloner, deciding suddenly that it was time to demonstrate a little trust. He was sure Thurloe was wrong about Lester, and they needed all the help they could get. ‘The Piccadilly Company believe it will make them very rich.’

  Lester nodded his thanks, then strode off towards New Palace Yard, while Chaloner entered the little court named Axe Yard, which comprised some very smart houses and some extremely shabby ones. Jeremiah King was home, sewing up a fearsome wound in the leg of someone who had fallen under a speeding carriage. Even at that hour of the day, he was far from sober.

  ‘Elliot,’ he mused, swaying unsteadily, needle and thread clutched in his bloody hand. ‘Was he the man who was really a woman?’

  ‘I would not have thought so,’ said Chaloner, regarding him askance. ‘He had a knife wound.’

  ‘Oh, him. He was brought here by a sea-officer – a burly, bossy fellow who accused me of not knowing my trade. But his friend was past Earthly help anyway, and died.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Chaloner.

  King fixed him with a bleary eye. ‘Do you think I cannot tell the difference?’

  ‘Very possibly.’ Chaloner nodded at the patient on the table. ‘You have been stitching him with infinite care, but he has been dead ever since I arrived.’

  King peered down at the victim. ‘Oh, damnation! When did that happen?’

  Chaloner left even more convinced that Elliot was still in the world of the living, and headed for Covent Garden, where a helpful urchin was more than happy to earn a penny by taking him to the rooms occupied by a loutish man with an unusually black wig. Chaloner rapped on the door, but there was no reply.

  ‘He is dead,’ said the elderly woman who emerged from the g
arret above to see what was happening. ‘A week ago now.’

  ‘What was his name?’ asked Chaloner tiredly.

  ‘James Elliot,’ replied the woman. ‘He was a sea-captain, although he gambled and had debts. I am not surprised that someone made an end of him.’

  ‘Have you heard of a man named Jacob Cave?’

  ‘No, and I have lived in this area all my life. There is no one in Covent Garden of that name.’

  Chaloner thanked her and took his leave. He was now certain Jacob did not exist, and that Elliot had invented him in order to bury Cave without a grand funeral. So where was Elliot now? Had he taken the opportunity afforded by his own ‘death’ to disappear and start a new life? Or was he still in the city?

  Chaloner’s next task was to ask Reverend Addison what he knew about Tangier. His eavesdropping at the Crown had told him that Harley had been under orders – presumably from the same ‘master’ who commanded Fitzgerald – to orchestrate the massacre, but he still needed to know why Teviot had warranted such a fate.

  Addison had rented a house near the Maypole, a landmark demolished to a stump by Cromwell, but restored to its full splendour by the King. Somewhat typically, people had complained bitterly when it was not available, but rarely used it now it was.

  ‘Chaloner!’ exclaimed Addison. ‘I did not think we would meet again. On Eagle, you were more interested in making music with Cave than in talking to me, which was a pity, because I am very interested in military engineering, and I suspect you are, too. You certainly asked a lot of questions about Tangier’s splendid sea wall – the mole – when you were there.’

  ‘Only because I wanted to know why it is costing the tax-payer so much money.’

  Addison’s smile faded. ‘Unfortunately, the opportunity to cheat the government is too great a temptation for those in authority. It is a shame, because the project is ingenious and daring. However, it should cost a fraction of what is being demanded, and every governor we get seems worse than his predecessor for dishonesty and greed.’