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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Of course,’ said Harley, continuing to speak to Fitzgerald. ‘Because if we had poisoned or shot him, eyebrows would have been raised – our master made that perfectly clear. His plan saw Barbary corsairs blamed instead.’

  ‘Not true,’ countered Fitzgerald softly. ‘There are rumours of an official inquiry. I told him he could not trust the corsairs not to blab about the arrangement you made with them, and I was right.’

  ‘They did not blab.’ Harley pointed an accusing finger at Chaloner. ‘He started those tales to frighten Reyner and Newell. There is no truth in them.’

  He snatched the firearm from Brinkes and there was murder in his eyes as he pointed it at Chaloner. But before he could pull the trigger, Fitzgerald stepped forward and brought the butt of his own gun down on Harley’s head. The sound it made was unpleasant, and the scout dropped to the floor, where he lay twitching.

  ‘I said no gunfire,’ declared Fitzgerald, with a marked lack of emotion. ‘Open a gunport and tip him out, Brinkes. We do not want the Adventurers finding him if they wander down here.’

  Brinkes hasted to oblige. Lester’s face was white with shock, although Chaloner was not sure whether it was because a murder had just been committed in front of him, or because he had just realised the extent of the danger he was in.

  Once Harley had been unceremoniously dumped overboard, Fitzgerald became businesslike. He turned to leave, indicating that the captives were to be brought, too.

  ‘Why take the risk?’ asked Brinkes. ‘Hit them over the head and toss them out.’

  ‘One corpse might be overlooked,’ explained Fitzgerald shortly. ‘But three will cause consternation among our enemies if they are seen. Do as I say, please, or we shall have words.’

  Brinkes obeyed with alacrity, although he took the precaution of tying the prisoners’ hands first, and of searching them for weapons. Chaloner lost three knives, and Lester one.

  When Brinkes was satisfied, Chaloner and Lester were shoved towards Katherine’s stern, some two decks below where the Adventurers were carousing. On any other night, they would have been seen from the warehouse – it was now fully light – but the fog had thickened, and nothing of the quay was visible. Lester opened his mouth to yell, but was silenced by a slap from Fitzgerald.

  ‘You will make me angry if you try to raise the alarm,’ the pirate said mildly. ‘Come quietly, and we might still be friends. You and I were once shipmates, after all.’

  But Chaloner knew he planned to kill them. He also knew that shouting would be futile: the Adventurers would not hear over the racket they were making, and even if Thurloe and Williamson did, it would take more than a word or two to explain what was happening – and he and Lester would be dead long before they could accomplish that. He turned his mind to escape, but Brinkes and his henchmen were watchful, and he knew any attempt to run would fail.

  Brinkes slid through a gunport and landed lightly on Jane’s afterdeck, which was no more than the height of a man below them. He indicated Chaloner and Lester were to follow. It was not easy with their hands tied, and both landed awkwardly. Lester sniffed as he struggled to his feet.

  ‘There is an odd stench on this ship. Alcohol and—’

  ‘You will find out soon enough,’ said Brinkes, shoving him forward. ‘Now move.’

  Chaloner was also aware of the peculiar smell. He looked around for the source as he stumbled after Lester, but could see nothing amiss. To gain more time, he exaggerated his limp.

  ‘Hurry,’ snapped Brinkes, giving him a push. Chaloner fell to his knees in order to earn a few more seconds, causing Fitzgerald to glare and Brinkes to swear under his breath.

  ‘He was shot last night,’ explained Lester quickly, stepping between Chaloner and Brinkes’s fist. ‘He cannot move quickly.’

  ‘That did not stop him earlier,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘when he was racing around Katherine with a view to learning our plans. He might have discovered them, too, had we not been expecting him.’

  ‘Expecting me? But how …’ And then Chaloner understood. ‘You knew we were coming! You were waiting for us, and we walked directly into your arms.’

  Fitzgerald smiled coldly. ‘We were expecting a better show, to be frank. Williamson and Thurloe should have managed something a little more impressive than a bumbling sea-officer and a worn-out Parliamentarian spy.’

  ‘What is he talking about, Chaloner?’ whispered Lester. ‘How did he know we were coming?’

  ‘Because he was warned,’ replied Chaloner. He nodded to where a flash of red ribbon indicated that someone was watching from behind a hatch. ‘Lydcott did not go to St Paul’s to save Pratt from being murdered – he ran straight to Fitzgerald, the man who has turned his paltry glassware business into a lucrative concern.’

  * * *

  There was a pause, and then Lydcott stepped into the open. He shrugged apologetically, and his expression was sheepish as he addressed Chaloner.

  ‘I had to think of myself,’ he said. ‘I owe more to Mr Fitzgerald than I do to Thurloe, who never does anything but criticise me. I am sorry you must die, but it cannot be helped—’

  ‘Has there been any activity?’ asked Fitzgerald, cutting across him impatiently.

  Lydcott shook his head. ‘Williamson came past, pretending to be drunk as he surveyed us, but he did not linger. No one suspects anything – although that might change if Thurloe thinks Chaloner is taking too long. They are friends, and he will come to find out what has happened to him.’

  ‘Let him,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘Come with us, Lydcott. Yorke can stand guard now.’

  ‘Come where?’ asked Lydcott uneasily.

  ‘To view Jane’s holds,’ replied Fitzgerald smoothly. ‘They are quite a sight.’

  He led the way to one of the hatches, with Lydcott following and Chaloner behind them. Then came Brinkes, Lester and three henchmen. Chaloner hesitated, aware that once he stepped off the open deck he might never escape, but Brinkes fingered his dagger, and Chaloner sensed there was nothing he would like more than to use it. Reluctantly, he did as he was told.

  ‘I should have known you were a villain,’ he said to Lydcott as they went. He spoke softly, so Fitzgerald would not hear; the pirate was humming to himself, which helped. ‘At the Banqueting House, you pretended to laugh at the way Pratt was monitoring Meneses. But the reality was that it was you who was minding him – as Fitzgerald had no doubt ordered you to do.’

  ‘He did ask me to ensure that Meneses stayed out of mischief,’ acknowledged Lydcott.

  ‘And then you killed him. Thurloe and Pratt both praised your skill with horses, and Meneses was trampled by one. You knew exactly how to arrange an “accident” without risk to yourself.’

  Lydcott shrugged. ‘He was selling our secrets to the Adventurers. Fitzgerald had no choice but to order his execution.’

  Chaloner wondered what it was about Fitzgerald that compelled people to do what he asked – Lydcott committing murder and betraying a kinsman who had never been anything but kind to him; Brinkes to look the other way while Harley was clubbed to death; all manner of people to join the Piccadilly Company. He could only suppose it was the promise of riches to come.

  ‘Did you kill Pratt, too?’ he asked. ‘At St Paul’s?’

  ‘I lied,’ said Lydcott, rather proudly. ‘I was not summoned to St Paul’s, and neither was Pratt. I came straight here instead. And you and Thurloe did not suspect a thing!’

  ‘No, but we should have done.’ Chaloner was as disgusted with himself as with Lydcott. ‘The clues were there to identify you as a villain. For example, you told Thurloe that the Piccadilly Company would not meet until next week, but there was a gathering on Sunday. You were there, but in disguise – I recognised your voice. You were sitting with your back to the window.’

  Lydcott’s jaw dropped. ‘You spied on us? My God! I was right to warn Fitzgerald: you are a danger! Just wait until I tell him! He will be sure to give me the little bonus I requested now.’


  ‘You are demanding a bigger share of the profits?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Then you will die tonight, too. I wondered why he wanted you below decks, but it is obvious now.’

  ‘You understand nothing!’ said Lydcott, loudly and angrily. ‘He appreciates my skills.’

  Fitzgerald whipped around. ‘No talking, or I will cut out your tongues. Both of you.’

  Chaloner could see he meant it, and thought that while Lydcott was not quite the empty-headed fool he had assumed, he was still unspeakably stupid.

  It was dark inside Jane, and the lamp Fitzgerald lit was the kind that was used during storms at sea – one that would not break if it fell over, spilling fuel that would cause a fire. The odd aroma was much stronger, but there was no time to analyse it as they were ordered to descend a series of stairs. Then all that could be smelled was bad water and rotting wood.

  ‘They have not kept her seaworthy,’ murmured Lester. ‘She is taking on water, and will sink in the next serious blow. No wonder she looks heavy in the bows.’

  He was proven right when they reached a flooded hold. Brinkes jumped in, and indicated that Chaloner and Lester were to follow, while Fitzgerald, Lydcott and the three henchmen watched from the ladder. The waist-deep water was bitingly cold, and as they waded forwards, Chaloner felt something crunching under his feet: gravel. When they reached a post, Brinkes secured them to it.

  ‘It will be over soon,’ called Lydcott sympathetically. ‘You do not have long to suffer.’

  Fitzgerald moved fast, and before Chaloner could shout a warning he had brought the butt of his gun down hard on Lydcott’s head. Lydcott swayed for a moment, then plummeted into the water.

  ‘Another risk eliminated,’ announced Fitzgerald with chilling blandness. He began to hum again.

  It was completely silent in Jane’s hold, and not even the carousing from the Adventurers could be heard. Lydcott floated face down in the water, his arms out to the side, and Fitzgerald and his men watched Brinkes finish tying Chaloner and Lester to the post. When it was done, the henchmen moved away, but Fitzgerald lingered, nodding approvingly from his dry perch on the stairs as Brinkes gave his knots a final check.

  ‘You will be next, Brinkes,’ whispered Lester. ‘Fitzgerald is singing, and he always does that before dispatching someone. You—’

  ‘Let him go, Lester,’ said Chaloner. He tried to sound calm, but his stomach churned with agitation. ‘We have nothing to say to the likes of him.’

  ‘Fitzgerald will kill you, Brinkes,’ Lester went on, ignoring him. ‘You are a risk, too, no matter what he tells you now.’

  ‘Lies,’ whispered Brinkes. ‘You do not know what you are talking—’

  ‘What are you muttering about down there?’ called Fitzgerald, causing Brinkes to leap away from the prisoners in alarm and begin to wade back towards the steps.

  ‘If we are going to die, then at least tell us the name of the man who is behind all this,’ shouted Lester, boldly defiant as he glared at the pirate. ‘We know it is not you.’

  ‘Do you indeed?’ Fitzgerald sounded amused. ‘How?’

  ‘Do not answer him,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Or he will race down the ladder and beat your brains out.’

  ‘Better that than whatever else he has planned,’ Lester muttered back. ‘Besides, I want answers.’

  ‘We do not need them,’ said Chaloner, wanting Fitzgerald gone from the hold so he could think about how to escape while there was still time. ‘It is—’

  ‘Because you are not clever enough, you damned pirate,’ yelled Lester. ‘Or rich enough. And do not say that Lydcott’s glassware venture gives you funds, because we all know that is untrue.’

  Chaloner tensed, expecting swift and brutal retaliation, but Fitzgerald only laughed. ‘Then you will die in ignorance, because I am not inclined to confide in you. And I am not a pirate, by the way, I am a privateer.’

  ‘Tell us what you plan to do,’ shouted Lester, as Brinkes reached the ladder and began to ascend. ‘It involves alcohol and something else …’

  ‘For God’s sake, Lester!’ hissed Chaloner urgently. ‘Just let them go, so we can turn our minds to escape. You are wasting time with your banter.’

  ‘Poor Jane,’ said Fitzgerald, leaning down to give a beam an affectionate pat. ‘She has served me well, but her timbers are rotten, and it is time to put her to another use.’

  ‘Gunpowder!’ yelled Lester in sudden understanding, although Chaloner had grasped the significance of what he had smelled the moment they stepped aboard – along with the fact that Fitzgerald was willing to sacrifice a ship that was a virtual wreck anyway.

  ‘Yes, he intends to blow her up,’ Chaloner snarled. ‘And I imagine there are enough explosives on board to destroy Jane, Katherine, and half of Queenhithe. Now just shut up and let him—’

  ‘My master will be rid of the Adventurers once and for all,’ called Fitzgerald gloatingly. ‘And a pair of irritating spymasters into the bargain. Thurloe and Williamson will perish in the blast, too.’

  ‘You cannot!’ cried Lester in horror. ‘There must be two hundred people on Katherine, including women and servants. It would be a terrible massacre!’

  ‘But not our master’s first,’ said Fitzgerald with a cold smile. ‘As Lord Teviot could attest, were he still in the land of the living. Are we ready, Brinkes? Is everything in place?’

  Brinkes nodded. ‘All that remains is to set the fires. Shall I remove the gangways, to ensure no one can get off Katherine?’

  Fitzgerald laughed, and the shrill, mad sound of it filled the hold. ‘Do not bother: our explosion will obliterate Queenhithe, and it will not matter if our enemies are aboard or on the quayside. They will die regardless.’

  There was a thump and sudden darkness as Fitzgerald disappeared through the hatch and slammed it closed. Chaloner willed his footsteps to retreat, knowing that he and Lester did not have much time.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ asked Lester brokenly. ‘I do not care for myself – I have cheated death too often already in my years at sea. But all those innocents in the Great Cabin …’

  ‘Hardly innocents,’ said Chaloner, listening to ensure their captors had gone before making his move. ‘They are wealthy Adventurers, who intend to make themselves richer by trading in slaves.’

  ‘But their wives are with them,’ cried Lester. ‘Besides, I am sure we could make some of them see reason. Grey, for example. He would condemn the slave trade if he understood what it entails – he is not a bad man.’

  Chaloner thought Lester was deluded if he believed he could persuade a lot of very rich people to forgo an easy way to make more money. But there was something refreshingly decent about Lester’s optimism, and he respected him for it.

  Then there was a series of scrapes and rattles.

  ‘What is that?’ Chaloner asked in alarm.

  ‘Someone climbing down the side of the ship,’ explained Lester. ‘The scoundrels must be making their escape by river. The fog will help – Williamson and Thurloe will never see them.’

  But Chaloner was more interested in trying to avert an atrocity than in Fitzgerald’s movements.

  ‘Quickly!’ he urged. ‘Up the stairs.’

  ‘How? My hands are tied so tight that I can barely move … but I can! We are free! How in God’s name did you manage that?’

  ‘With Wiseman’s scalpel,’ explained Chaloner, grateful that Brinkes had missed it. He shoved Lester towards the ladder. ‘Why do you think I wanted you to stop talking? Now, hurry!’

  Lester was gone in a trice, feeling his way in the darkness much more efficiently than Chaloner, and running up the ladder with the ease of the experienced seaman. Fortunately, Fitzgerald had not deemed it necessary to bar the hatch, and it opened easily. Beyond was nothing but darkness.

  ‘The gunpowder will be on the upper deck,’ whispered Lester, grabbing Chaloner’s sleeve and leading him unerringly along a companionway and then up another flight of steps. It was there that the reek of the
bilges gave way to the sharper, cleaner scent of explosives.

  ‘At least we know why Fitzgerald used storm lamps,’ said Chaloner. ‘He did not want to blow himself up with stray sparks.’

  The moment he spoke, he became aware of smoke and the crackle of flames: fires had been lit. He began to move faster, but stopped abruptly when they reached the upper deck and the dim light of another lantern revealed just how many barrels of gunpowder Fitzgerald had acquired. There were more than he could count, and would certainly destroy the quay. Worse, sparks from the resulting explosion might set the surrounding buildings alight, and the conflagration could easily spread. Lester darted to several separate hatches, then swore as he turned to face Chaloner.

  ‘Fires have been set in three different parts of the ship, all splashed with alcohol to make them spread.’ His face was white. ‘All will need to be doused if we are to prevent the kegs from igniting. But by the time we have one under control, the others will be beyond us.’

  Chaloner ran to the nearest gunport and peered at the water below. It moved sluggishly as the current tugged it towards the sea. He whipped around, grabbed the nearest barrel and hurled it overboard. It sank, but then bobbed to the surface a moment later, where, half-submerged, it began to drift away. Would it be enough? He hoped so. He reached for another but it was heavy and his injured shoulder prevented him from throwing it as far as he would have liked.

  ‘I will not be able to lob them all overboard before the fires take hold,’ he explained quickly, reaching for a third. ‘But I should be able to manage enough to reduce the impact. Go and warn the Adventurers. Hurry!’

  Lester did a quick survey. ‘You are right! We can foil these evil bastards and save the quay!’

  Chaloner heaved the barrel overboard. ‘Yes, now raise the alarm.’

  ‘No.’ Lester snatched up a keg and pitched it through the hole. It fell much farther out than Chaloner’s had done, and was towed away more quickly. ‘I know which part of the deck to clear first – you do not, as evidenced by the barrels you have chosen to grab. Moreover, I have not been shot, and can work more efficiently. You warn the Adventurers.’