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

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The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 32

by Susanna Gregory


  Lady Castlemaine was hot on his heels, clad in a robe that accentuated her ample frontage and narrow waist. She expected to be admired, and her jaw dropped in astonishment when the ambassador barely spared her a glance. It was the Queen who saved the day, by engaging him in a discussion about herring, a subject that made his eyes light up. As every remark needed to be translated, the ensuing conversation took some time.

  ‘She is a great diplomat,’ whispered Hannah proudly. ‘She took care to learn about his interests, you see. Unlike the Lady, who assumes a display of bosom will keep him transfixed.’

  ‘It seems to have transfixed the King,’ said Chaloner, aware that His Majesty was far more interested in the Lady than his guest’s ramblings about salting processes.

  But even the Queen could not maintain a discussion about fish indefinitely, and when it eventually faltered, the ambassador began to move towards the Banqueting House again. The King heaved a sigh of relief when Buckingham winked to say all was more or less in order, and if the emissary noticed that the interior décor was somewhat unusual, he was too polite to show it.

  The occasion was a large one, and guests included virtually everyone Chaloner had met since returning from Tangier. Both Adventurers and members of the Piccadilly Company were present, rubbing shoulders with naval and military officers, clerics, courtiers, merchants, servants and even local shopkeepers. Chaloner was startled to see Joan and George there, having apparently persuaded Hannah to get them in. There was a pipe clamped between George’s teeth, and his eyes were everywhere. Chaloner watched him, thinking that while it may have been Susan who had been caught spying, there was still something very questionable about the footman.

  ‘Fitzgerald has been invited,’ came a voice in his ear. Chaloner turned, and it took him a moment to recognise that the choleric churchman in the orange wig was Thurloe. ‘When he arrives, leave him to me – along with Lester, who is currently talking to Kipps.’

  Chaloner had not known that Lester and Kipps were acquainted, but said nothing, unwilling to fuel Thurloe’s suspicions about the captain.

  ‘I will corner Meneses,’ he said instead. ‘I think he was the one who planted the letters in the Queen’s purses, and he has turned cool towards her now we are on the eve of Pratt’s so-called murder. Moreover, he was strangely eager for me to be disabused of the notion that he has a connection with Tangier.’

  ‘But he is not an Adventurer,’ Thurloe whispered. ‘And it seems to me that they are the ones who want the Queen implicated in a treasonous plot.’

  ‘Perhaps he infiltrated the Piccadilly Company in order to spy. It seems Cave may have been an intelligencer, too, and I cannot help but wonder whether he was sent to discover what really happened to Teviot.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Thurloe. ‘He was not the kind of man I would have entrusted with such a difficult and dangerous mission. Who else will you monitor, besides Meneses?’

  ‘Leighton,’ replied Chaloner promptly. ‘And I will listen to as many Adventurers and Piccadilly Company members as I can. I do not suppose you have cracked the cipher, have you?’

  ‘No, but Wallis did.’ Chaloner started to smile in surprise, but the ex-Spymaster’s expression was bleak. ‘Reyner told his mother that it was a list of his enemies, but either he lied to her or he was mistaken. It was actually a description of Jews Hill in Tangier – the kind of report that a scout might send to his commanding officer, detailing dips, rises and the number of trees.’

  ‘So it was nothing?’ asked Chaloner, acutely disappointed. ‘All that time we spent on it …’

  ‘Was wasted,’ agreed Thurloe grimly. ‘We must learn something today, Tom, or Fitzgerald will succeed tomorrow, and we shall all be the losers.’

  Chaloner’s reply was drowned out by a sudden blast of trumpets. The King sat down on his great throne, his courtiers clustered around him so tightly that Buckingham’s face was full of Clarendon’s wig, and the Lady was pressed hard against the Bishop of Winchester. She gave the prelate a long, slow wink, and he recoiled in alarm.

  There was another fanfare and the speeches began, unusually brief because no one had had time to prepare anything. The ambassador opened his mouth to remark on it, clearly interpreting the brevity as a diplomatic snub, but the King invited him to dine before he could do so, steering him towards the tables and chatting about the dancing that had been arranged for later. The Earl was one of the first to take his place at the table, knife in one chubby hand, and spoon in the other.

  Only the elite had been asked to eat, and O’Brien’s face was a mask of disappointment when he realised he was not to be one of them. Kitty patted his hand consolingly, and led him away.

  ‘We were sorry you did not attend Brodrick’s soirée last night,’ she said, when their route took them past Chaloner. ‘We were hoping for some decent music, but there were only flageolets and drums. Moreover, the occasion became rather wild as the evening progressed.’

  ‘It was unruly,’ agreed O’Brien, in what was almost certainly an understatement. He started to add something else, but stopped when a shadow materialised at his side. It was Leighton.

  ‘I have just heard a rumour,’ said the Adventurers’ secretary silkily. ‘About Cave’s brother.’

  ‘I hope you do not intend to criticise him for burying Cave in St Margaret’s Church,’ said Kitty, regarding him with dislike. ‘The Chapel Royal choir had arranged a very expensive ceremony without consulting him, so I do not blame the fellow for taking matters into his own hands.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ agreed O’Brien stoutly. Then he grimaced. ‘Although I was rather looking forward to attending a funeral in Westminster Abbey. The music would have been fabulous.’

  ‘Actually, I was going to tell you something else entirely,’ said Leighton, a little coolly. ‘Namely that James Elliot – the man who killed Cave in the swordfight – pretended to be Jacob, and buried him early for spite.’

  Chaloner stared at him. How had he heard that story? The only people he had told of his suspicions were Thurloe and Lester. Thurloe would never have gossiped, so did that mean Lester had spread the tale? But why would he do such a thing when it reflected badly on a man who was his friend and brother-in-law? Or had someone else reached the same conclusion, and was more inclined to chat about it?

  ‘Well, that cannot be true,’ said Kitty stiffly, ‘because Elliot is dead, too. Joseph Williamson told us so. Elliot was buried on Friday.’

  ‘Well, if he has been buried, then he must be dead,’ said Leighton slyly. ‘We are not in the habit of interring people alive in London. I cannot imagine it would be pleasant. Rats might come.’

  Chaloner glanced at him sharply. Was it a random remark or one that carried a greater meaning? But Leighton’s face was impossible to read, as usual.

  ‘I am not discussing this,’ said Kitty firmly. ‘It is repugnant. Mr Cave was our friend.’

  ‘You are quite right,’ said O’Brien, taking her arm. ‘Come, we must pay our respects to Buckingham. He is having a dinner next week, and has intimated that we are to be invited.’

  ‘I shall put in a good word for you,’ Leighton called after them. ‘And do not forget the Adventurers’ event tomorrow at dusk. You will not be disappointed with that, I assure you.’

  When they had gone, Chaloner saw a number of Adventurers had gathered together. Swaddell was with them, dark eyes alert and reptilian. His companions had been drinking, and their loud, self-congratulatory discussion was generating considerable distaste among those near enough to hear.

  ‘Personally, I believe their monopoly on African trade is unpatriotic,’ said Kipps, coming to stand next to Chaloner and glaring at them. ‘It means that Dutch ship-owners are growing fat on Gold Coast slaves, whereas if Africa was open to everyone, I could reap some of this profit.’

  ‘Are you saying you would invest in the slave trade if the Adventurers’ charter did not forbid it?’ Chaloner was shocked, because he had expected Kipps to be more principled.
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  ‘Of course. Slaves are no different from any other commodity, and I predict they will be more profitable than gold in time.’

  Chaloner itched to tell him what he thought of people who dabbled in that particular business, but Kipps’s voice had been loud, and a number of people were looking at them. They included Adventurers and several members of the Piccadilly Company. Kitty and O’Brien had also turned, while Leighton was watching the scene unfold with aloof amusement.

  ‘What about gravel?’ asked Chaloner. It was a reckless question in front of so many people, but he was desperate enough for clues to take the risk.

  ‘There is plenty of that in the Thames,’ drawled Leighton, his expression curiously bland. ‘So we have no need to import it from Africa.’

  There was a hoot of mocking laughter from the Adventurers, and a meaningful exchange of glances between members of the Piccadilly Company.

  ‘That was an idiotic remark, Chaloner,’ said Kipps, scowling at the still-snickering merchants. ‘Gravel indeed! Have you been drinking?’

  ‘I hear many idiotic remarks at White Hall,’ brayed Margareta Janszoon. Her henchmen exchanged uneasy glances, and Chaloner recalled his promise to Prynne to suggest that she and her husband refrained from joining discussions they did not understand. ‘I have never heard English spoke with such greasy charm.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Janszoon, nodding gravely. That evening, his scar was less pronounced, slathered as it was with fashionable face pastes. ‘Everyone here is a champion at greasy charm.’

  There was an angry murmur from Adventurers and Piccadilly Company members alike.

  ‘She is praising our command of the English language,’ explained Brodrick quickly. ‘She meant “idiomatic”, and the smooth way in which we courtiers can—’

  ‘Actually, I think she intended an insult,’ interrupted O’Brien, troubled. ‘She called us “greasy”.’

  ‘She did,’ agreed Leighton softly. ‘And I shall be glad when we go to war and defeat the Dutch at sea. They are all arrogant, impertinent and untrustworthy.’

  Neither Janszoon nor Margareta had any trouble understanding that remark, and both paled. Their soldiers closed around them, hands on the hilts of their swords.

  ‘You call us names?’ asked Janszoon indignantly. ‘When the English leave much to be desired?’

  ‘How dare you!’ cried O’Brien, incensed. ‘We are the greatest nation in the world!’

  ‘Let us see if there is any more wine, O’Brien,’ said Brodrick loudly. He lowered his voice as he hauled his friend away. ‘Easy, man! We do not want the Swedes to think us barbarians.’

  The Adventurers were more than happy to avail themselves of liquid refreshment, and followed eagerly, Leighton scuttling among them. Janszoon opened his mouth to yell something to their retreating backs, but Thurloe was suddenly in front of him.

  ‘Your wife has dropped her fan,’ he said, bending to scoop it up. ‘And you are quite pale. Allow me to escort you both to a place where there is more air.’

  ‘We do not—’ Margareta began angrily, but there was something in Thurloe’s steely gaze that made her accept the proffered arm. The guards and Janszoon followed, and so did Chaloner.

  ‘Your English is very good,’ Thurloe began politely, once they were outside. ‘But there are nuances in our language that are difficult for foreigners to comprehend. You might be advised to keep quiet until you are sure you understand them.’

  ‘We understand them,’ began Janszoon, outraged. ‘We are fluent in—’

  Thurloe’s baleful eye silenced him abruptly. ‘It might be time to leave London and return home. It cannot be comfortable here for you, with our two countries on the edge of war.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Margareta sullenly. ‘We shall go as soon as we find a suitable ship. London is a hateful place, and we will be glad to leave it.’

  ‘Where in Amsterdam do you live?’ asked Chaloner in Dutch, more to placate them than for information. ‘I know it well, and—’

  ‘It is rude to use foreign languages here,’ snapped Margareta in English. She indicated Thurloe. ‘He did not understand what you said. My mother was right: London is full of unmannerly savages.’

  ‘Go home,’ said Thurloe shortly. ‘And I do not mean to your lodgings – I mean to Holland. The situation here will only grow more uneasy as we inch towards a conflict. You know you are in danger, or you would not have felt the need to hire guards.’

  ‘It does feel dangerous,’ agreed Janszoon, still nettled. ‘And I grow to hate the English. They are stupid if they think they can win the war.’

  He took Margareta’s arm and led her towards the gate. They held their heads high, but people shot them unfriendly glances as they passed, and their guards were tense and alert.

  ‘Prynne was right,’ said Chaloner, watching them. ‘They are a danger to peace.’

  ‘I imagine any Hollander in London is a danger to peace at the moment, regardless of the quality of their English. London is itching to lynch one.’

  Chaloner was bemused. ‘Why do they not learn from their experiences and keep quiet at these courtly gatherings? Or do you think they are actually clever Dutch spies, sent to needle us into war before we are ready? Shall we follow them, and demand answers?’

  ‘Not unless you feel equal to dispatching their guards first – I imagine they will be under orders to prevent such a situation. No, Tom, we must look to others for our answers.’

  ‘Fitzgerald?’

  ‘He has sent his apologies, saying he is unavoidably detained and cannot be here. It is bad news, because it means he is working on his plans for tomorrow. I only hope we overhear something that will allow us to thwart him, because time is fast running out.’

  The heat and crowded conditions in the Banqueting House had driven many people out into the Great Court, where they congregated in groups. It was a clear autumn afternoon, and the sun was shining, so it was pleasantly warm. Thurloe slipped away to eavesdrop on Harley, who was engaged in urgent conversation with Kipps, so Chaloner aimed for Lydcott in the hope that he might have learned something useful. He was intercepted before he could reach him.

  ‘Today, I decided to arrest Fitzgerald and damn the consequences,’ said Williamson in a low voice. He had attempted to disguise himself, but was instantly recognisable by his haughty strut. Lester was at his side, resplendent in a fine blue coat that made him look every inch the successful sea-officer. ‘But he must have had wind of it, because he has disappeared.’

  ‘He will be busy making arrangements for tomorrow,’ predicted Lester soberly. ‘The threat of incarceration is not responsible for his flight, because he considers us an irrelevancy.’

  Williamson glared at him. ‘But we have made some progress in learning what is to happen. Swaddell overheard a conversation between Leighton and some of his Adventurers today – they plan to attack and burn Jane. Unfortunately, he did not catch where or when.’

  ‘Queenhithe,’ supplied Chaloner. ‘She will dock there at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon, but arson is better managed in the dark than in daylight, so I imagine they will strike tomorrow night.’

  Williamson nodded his thanks for the information. ‘Then at least we shall prevent one crime. Obviously, I do not condone piracy, but we cannot allow Jane’s crew to be roasted alive. Or a conflagration set that might destroy half of London – Queenhithe has wooden warehouses.’

  ‘I understand you sent Cave to spy in Tangier,’ began Chaloner. ‘And—’

  ‘I did nothing of the kind,’ interrupted Williamson sharply. ‘I have intelligencers there, of course, but they are soldiers. What use would a musician be in such a place?’

  ‘Who hired him, then?’ mused Chaloner, more to himself than the others. ‘The Adventurers?’

  ‘Possibly,’ replied Williamson, although Chaloner had not expected an answer. ‘But here is Swaddell, come to make his report. We shall ask him.’

  Chaloner was horrified. ‘He will tell you his finding
s here? With half the Court watching? I thought you wanted everyone to believe that he has broken with you.’

  ‘I do,’ replied Williamson. ‘But if we do it in full view of everyone – ensuring we look strained and angry – it eliminates the need for meeting secretly. It is safer for him.’

  Chaloner would not have been fooled by such a ruse, and doubted others would, either, but it was too late to say so, because the assassin was there. He bowed stiffly to Williamson.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, pointing as though he was remarking on the Banqueting House’s roof. It was patently transparent, and Chaloner cringed. ‘All they ever talk about is money. However …’

  He paused as several people walked past, and resumed when they had gone. Chaloner winced a second time. He did not like Swaddell, and thought London would be a better place without him, but the man was risking his life with such reckless amateurism.

  ‘… they certainly plan to sink Jane. Or rather, hired hands will. The Adventurers themselves will be on Royal Katherine in Woolwich, so they can later claim ignorance of the affair.’

  ‘You must have heard something else,’ said Williamson in exasperation. ‘For God’s sake man!’

  Swaddell glared at him. ‘I am doing my best. Unfortunately, they still do not trust me.’

  ‘Have you heard anyone mention gravel?’ asked Chaloner.

  Swaddell frowned. ‘Leighton said Teviot had wanted some. I assume it was for the mole. Why?’

  ‘Do you know whether Cave was spying for the Adventurers?’ asked Williamson.

  ‘He was not,’ replied Swaddell with conviction. ‘He worked for the Piccadilly Company. I know, because I heard Congett tell Leighton so. He also said that he was glad Elliot had killed him.’

  ‘I wish we had known that sooner,’ said Lester with an irritable sigh.

  ‘I did not think it was important,’ snapped Swaddell. ‘But I should go or they will be suspicious.’

  He bowed again and moved away, although Chaloner saw the exchange had been observed by several Adventurers, including Leighton, all of whom were smirking: they knew perfectly well that Swaddell had been sent to infiltrate them. Chaloner felt a surge of exasperation that Williamson should have employed such clumsy tactics to tackle a group of powerful and intelligent people.

 

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