‘It is only a scratch,’ said Chaloner, struggling to lift the next cask. ‘You said so yourself.’
‘I lied,’ said Lester, snatching it from him. ‘Now go and save those people before it is too late.’
‘I left you once. At Elliot’s grave. I cannot do it again.’
‘It is hardly the same.’ Lester gave him a vigorous shove, then smiled lopsidedly. ‘Look after Ruth for me, because if Williamson puts her in Bedlam, it will be you I come back to haunt. It has been an honour serving with you, Tom. Now go before I toss you overboard.’
Chaloner could think of no trite declaration of friendship to make in return. With a final, agonised glance, he turned and clambered up the final set of stairs, sickened by the knowledge that he was exchanging the life of a good man for a lot of ruthless merchants who traded in slaves.
In Katherine’s Great Cabin, the Adventurers had finished the rum and were looking for something else to drink. There was a lot of discontented mumbling, because Leighton had gone to fetch wine some time ago, and had not returned. Also notable by their absence were Dugdale and Edgeman.
‘I will look for Leighton,’ Brodrick was offering, transparently grateful for an excuse to be back on terra firma. ‘He cannot have gone far. Play the fiddle again, O’Brien. It is—’
Chaloner burst among them, urgently enough to make Kitty issue a squeal of alarm. He supposed he did look desperate – dirty, sodden and reeking of bilge-water.
‘The ship next to you is going to blow up,’ he gasped. ‘Everyone needs to leave. Now!’
‘Jane?’ asked O’Brien in surprise. ‘I seriously doubt anyone would waste powder on that old tub. Indeed, I am surprised she survived her voyage up the Thames.’
There was a chorus of agreement, but Brodrick knew Chaloner well enough to see that he was not in jest. He took command and ordered everyone out. Unfortunately, his uncharacteristic display of authority caused immediate panic, and it took him and Swaddell at the stairs, and Chaloner at the gangway, to ensure there was not a stampede. As many Adventurers were drunk and others were weak with terror, the evacuation took far longer than it should have done. Williamson and Thurloe, quick to comprehend what was happening, hurried to direct people to a safe distance.
‘Where are you going?’ shouted Thurloe, as Chaloner fought his way through the last Adventurers waiting to disembark and began to run towards Jane.
‘Lester needs help,’ yelled Chaloner over his shoulder. ‘He—’
‘No!’ Thurloe raced after him and grabbed the flying tails of his coat. ‘It will be too late.’
Chaloner struggled free, but Thurloe stuck out a foot that sent him sprawling. Even as he started to rise, there was a tremendous explosion. Heat washed over him, and had he not been protected by the mass of Katherine, he would certainly have been blown to pieces. When he was able to look up, it was to see Jane’s masts toppling with a series of tearing groans. Every timber and sail was a bright cluster of flames.
He whipped around in alarm, fearing for Thurloe, but the ex-Spymaster had thrown himself to the ground, and was covering his head with his hands as fragments of burning wood began to rain down. When the treacherous fallout had finished, Chaloner scrambled upright on unsteady legs. Jane was a mass of blazing stays and spars that made the fog glow amber, while Katherine was battle-scarred and alight in a dozen places, but still afloat.
‘He did it,’ he whispered. ‘Lester saved Katherine and Queenhithe.’
Williamson arrived, looking around wildly. ‘Did you see Kitty leave? And Swaddell?’
‘I am here.’ Swaddell materialised out of the fog like a spectre. He shot his master a pained glance. ‘It seems we infiltrated the wrong group – it was not the Adventurers I should have been watching, but the Piccadilly Company.’
‘You did your best.’ Williamson’s face was a mask of agitation. ‘Kitty?’
‘I saw her escape,’ said Swaddell soothingly. ‘Do not worry. O’Brien will look after her.’
‘So is this the atrocity Fitzgerald and his master plotted?’ asked Thurloe, while Williamson winced at the blunt reminder that the object of his affections was married to his friend. ‘The murder of half the Court and the upper echelons of government?’
‘Yes, and they did not care that it might destroy Queenhithe, too,’ said Swaddell in disgust. ‘But where is Lester? I did not see him leave Katherine.’
Chaloner did not reply, and only stared at the burning remnants of Jane.
Williamson’s face fell, and he closed his eyes. ‘Damn!’ he whispered. ‘Damn!’
For a long moment, no one did anything except stare at Jane’s blazing masts and spars. Then Thurloe grabbed Chaloner’s arm and shook it.
‘We must avenge Lester’s sacrifice by laying hold of Fitzgerald and his master. They will not get away with this – we will not let them.’
‘Fitzgerald escaped by boat,’ said Chaloner numbly. ‘He could be anywhere by now.’
‘Would he go to the Crown?’ asked Swaddell.
‘Too obvious,’ said Thurloe. ‘He is not a fool. Yet I imagine he will be with his Piccadilly Company cronies. They will want to gloat over the triumph they think they have won.’
‘If it is of any help, I just saw Pratt leap on a horse and gallop off at a colossal speed,’ said Swaddell. ‘I wondered what he was doing here, because he is not an Adventurer. However, he is a member of the Piccadilly Company …’
‘Fitzgerald summoned him to St Paul’s earlier,’ said Thurloe, bemused. ‘To be murdered.’
‘It was a lie.’ Chaloner was still too stunned by Lester’s death to give details. ‘Lydcott never went to St Paul’s, and Pratt did not, either. In fact, I think he might be Fitzgerald’s master.’
‘Pratt?’ asked Williamson in patent disbelief. ‘What reason could he have for wanting courtiers dead? He will view them as potential clients.’
‘Besides,’ added Thurloe, more gently, ‘he is the one whose murder was—’
‘There is no plot to kill him.’ Chaloner jumped when a dull roar indicated that a stray spark had caught one of the wooden warehouses. ‘There never was – the Piccadilly Company just wanted the Queen accused of it. Pratt was never in any danger, which explains why he was never very concerned.’
‘Chaloner has a point,’ said Swaddell to Williamson. ‘I would not have been happy if I had been threatened with death and the likes of Sergeant Wright had been hired to protect me. Yet Pratt was indifferent. Indeed, I heard him tell people he was flattered by it.’
‘I suppose he might be the master,’ conceded Williamson. ‘He is wealthy enough to finance the Piccadilly Company’s activities. But we can examine motives later, when he is arrested. The question we should be asking now is: where has he gone?’
There was a sudden yell from Brodrick: flames from the burning warehouse were threatening to spread to its neighbours.
‘Clarendon House,’ said Chaloner, as all became clear. ‘I wondered how he had come to raise the alarm earlier, when Hyde and I were doing battle with Oliver. I imagine he went there to ensure that all was ready, and found it full of brick-thieves instead.’
‘To ensure all was ready for what?’ asked Thurloe.
‘To receive the cargo Jane brought,’ explained Chaloner. ‘They will need to store it somewhere safe, and Clarendon House has a lockable vault.’
‘What cargo?’ demanded Williamson.
‘Something that was concealed in Jane’s consignment of gravel,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Jewels or precious metals from Tangier, perhaps. It will not be bulky – she could not have coped with that – so I imagine it is no more than a chest or two. Fitzgerald took a risk, though. He has already lost one fortune on a ship that could not withstand a storm.’
‘He had no choice,’ said Swaddell. ‘Jane is the only vessel he has left.’
‘But Clarendon House is too public, surely?’ objected Williamson. ‘It will be full of workmen.’
‘Not in the small hours of th
e morning, which is when Jane arrived.’ Something else became clear to Chaloner, too. ‘Hyde and Oliver denied paying Wright to linger in the Crown tonight, but someone did. It was not Pratt, because Wright would have told me, so one of the other Piccadilly Company members must have done it – Fitzgerald or another of his accomplices.’
More shouting drew their attention. A second warehouse was alight, and although people were rallying to douse the flames, their efforts were disorganised and ineffectual.
‘My instincts scream at me to go to Clarendon House,’ said Williamson, agitated. ‘Yet I cannot leave courtiers to fight this inferno. I doubt they will contain it, and half the city could be lost.’
‘Stay and do your duty,’ instructed Thurloe. ‘Tom and I will deal with Fitzgerald and Pratt.’
‘I will send help if my men return from Woolwich,’ promised Williamson. ‘In the meantime, take my sword and dagger, Chaloner. You should not attempt this unarmed.’
* * *
Thurloe set off at a run, Chaloner at his heels. A number of private coaches had parked in Thames Street, and loath to miss any of the excitement, their wealthy Adventurer-owners and their drivers had not fled the scene, but had lingered. Some were helping with the fire, but most were there as ghoulish spectators, eager to witness first-hand what promised to be a serious conflagration. With cool aplomb, Thurloe commandeered one of the carriages, and they were soon galloping towards Piccadilly at a speed that was far from safe when fog meant that neither the driver nor the horses could see where they were going.
Thurloe closed his eyes when he heard what had happened to Lydcott, but opened them to listen without interruption as Chaloner told him everything he had seen, heard and deduced on Jane.
‘I am not sure you are right about Pratt,’ the ex-Spymaster said when he had finished. ‘I know you have good reasons for accusing him, but I remain unconvinced.’
‘We might have known for certain if you had not forced me to make that ridiculous promise,’ said Chaloner bitterly, clinging to the carriage’s side as it lurched across a pothole. ‘I could have tackled Fitzgerald and had answers directly.’
‘You would have been dead,’ said Thurloe harshly. ‘He is not in the habit of revealing all to anyone who asks. But never mind recriminations: we need a plan of attack, because if we charge into Clarendon House without one, he will kill us. How many helpmeets will he have?’
Chaloner swore when the coach swerved so violently that he was almost hurled out. ‘Brinkes and his men number about a dozen. Then there are thirty members of the Piccadilly Company …’
‘I doubt all of them are involved,’ said Thurloe. ‘Some will have been recruited to provide a veneer of respectability and funds for investments.’
‘Even so, you were reckless when you offered to confront them. I doubt we will succeed.’
‘Of course we will,’ said Thurloe with quiet determination. ‘We shall use our wits. Now think of something – anything – that might give us an edge over them.’
Chaloner racked his brains. ‘The secret passages …’
He reached into his coat and retrieved the roll of plans he had taken from Oliver. Fortunately, they had been tucked high enough to avoid a soaking when he had been forced into Jane’s flooded hold. He handed them to Thurloe, then clung on for dear life as the coach rounded a corner. For a moment, only two wheels were on the road, but then the others came down with a bone-jarring thump, and they picked up speed again.
It was not easy to read when the carriage was pitching about like a ship in a storm. Chaloner glanced out of the window once and hoped the driver knew where he was because he could tell nothing from the occasional flash of building through the mist. Then he glimpsed the familiar line of the Gaming House walls. They were almost there.
‘The Crown is all shut up,’ said Thurloe, who was looking in the opposite direction. ‘I am sure you are right to predict that these villains will go to Clarendon House.’
‘Have you thought of a plan yet?’ Chaloner banged on the ceiling to make the driver stop. It would not be a good idea to hurtle up to the front gates and warn their enemies of their arrival.
Thurloe regarded him sombrely. ‘No, and all I can hope is that these secret passages will work to our advantage. If not, God help us, because Fitzgerald will have no mercy, and neither will his master.’
The fog was so dense along Piccadilly that Chaloner was obliged to hold Thurloe’s wrist to ensure they did not lose each other. Fine droplets of moisture glistened on their clothes and caught at the back of their throats. The urge to cough was strong, but they resisted, not knowing who might be nearby.
Eventually, they reached Clarendon House’s distinctive gateposts, where the winged pigs looked almost evil in the shifting mist. Following the ruts made by the labourers’ wheelbarrows, Chaloner aimed for the portico. He climbed the steps, aware that the silence was absolute, because the fog deadened all the usual noises, so there was not so much as a twitter from a bird or a bark from a dog. There were certainly no human sounds.
‘Most of the workmen will be under arrest,’ whispered Thurloe. ‘Or still running away from Doines. The Piccadilly Company will have the house and grounds to themselves.’
Chaloner pulled out his key and opened the door to reveal darkness within. All the window shutters were closed, and what meagre light did filter inside was dull and did little to illuminate the place. He secured the door behind them, and began to move stealthily towards the Great Parlour, which seemed the obvious place for a large group of people to gather.
‘I can hear something,’ whispered Thurloe, stopping abruptly. ‘Voices.’
‘Brinkes and his men. Step carefully – the builders leave their tools lying around.’
Chaloner’s heart thudded as they crept forward. How many villains would they have to confront? Would Pratt and Fitzgerald be there, or were they in another part of the house?
Eventually, he detected a glimmer of light, which grew stronger as he and Thurloe inched towards it. They reached the Great Parlour, and heard voices. The handsome double doors stood open to reveal Brinkes inside, serving ale to his cronies.
‘It is almost over, lads,’ he was saying encouragingly. ‘And then we shall be rich.’
‘Good,’ said one fervently. ‘It has been a dirty business, especially Turner’s children. Our employers are too brutal for me, and I shall not weep if I never see them again.’
The others growled assent, even Brinkes, which did nothing to ease Chaloner’s growing anxiety. If callous louts like them thought Pratt and Fitzgerald too ruthless, then what chance did he and Thurloe stand against them? But it was no time for faint-hearted thoughts, and he turned his attention to neutralising Brinkes and his henchmen.
The windows in the Great Parlour were so high as to be unreachable, which meant there was only one way in or out of the room – through the thick, heavy doors that opened outwards into the hall in which he and Thurloe were standing. He glanced at his friend, and saw the ex-Spymaster understood exactly what he was thinking: that if they could shut and lock them, imprisoning Brinkes and his friends inside, it might even the odds while they tackled Fitzgerald and Pratt.
The left-hand door would have to be closed first, because it contained a lever – located near the doorknob – which snapped bolts into the ceiling and floor. Then the right-hand door could be shut and locked with the key. Chaloner pulled the key from his pocket and inserted it soundlessly, testing it to make sure it turned. Thurloe took the side with the key, Chaloner the one with the lever.
His inclination was to slam it shut and yank on the lever as quickly as possible, but Brinkes and his men were too near – they would be out and fighting before Thurloe could manage his side. With agonising slowness, he eased it closed little by little, relieved to discover that its hinges did not creak. He had almost succeeded when Brinkes happened to glance at it.
There was no time to hesitate. Chaloner leaned all his weight on it, so it cracked into pl
ace, then grabbed the lever, aware as he did so of Thurloe beginning to shove his side. Brinkes leapt forward, hauling out his dagger. The lever was stiffer than Chaloner had anticipated, and took all his strength to tug. While he wrestled with it, Thurloe’s door moved faster and faster towards him, threatening to crush him.
Just when he thought he was going to be squashed between the two doors, an unmoving target for Brinkes to stab, the bolts clicked into place, and he was able to twist away. The door slammed shut an instant later, and he saw Thurloe reach for the key. But the door had banged so hard that it had popped partly open again, just enough to prevent the key from turning.
Chaloner hurled himself at it, and pushed with every fibre of his being, hearing the blood roar in his ears. Brinkes was doing the same on the other side. The henchmen were yelling, and Chaloner was sure they were racing to help Brinkes – and when they did, the door would fly open and he and Thurloe would die. The thought of losing his friend was just enough for a final, massive effort. The door closed and the locks snapped into place. They had done it.
‘Come,’ said Thurloe urgently, hauling Chaloner to his feet. ‘We must tackle the others before Brinkes escapes – these are sturdy doors, but they will not hold him for long.’
Chaloner’s legs were unsteady as they ran back the way they had come. There was only one place Pratt would be – the Lawyers’ Library, the room he had been using as an office. Behind them, Brinkes and his men were pounding on the doors furiously, sending hollow booms reverberating through the entire house.
Chaloner reached the library and paused to listen. The door was closed, but someone was murmuring within. Unfortunately, the voice was too soft to recognise. Then he saw a flicker of movement under the door – someone was coming to investigate the racket Brinkes was making.
It was too late to hide, so he whipped out Williamson’s sword and dagger and kicked the door open with as much force as he could muster. It flew against the wall with a resounding crack, and the person who had been about to open it stumbled back in alarm.
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 39