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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘To chat about what?’

  Marshall spread his hands. ‘Who knows? I used to eavesdrop when that lovely Mr Jones was in charge – he is the one with the red boot-ribbons – although all he and his friends ever talked about was exporting glassware to New England. It was rather dull, to be frank. But then others joined the Company, and they hired Brinkes to keep listeners away. So I have no idea what they discuss now.’

  ‘What others?’ asked Chaloner, a little taken aback by the taverner’s bald admission that he liked to spy on his tenants.

  Marshall lowered his voice. ‘Well, a Dutch couple called Margareta and Cornelis Janszoon made an appearance today. I heard Margareta inform Mr Jones that her country will win the war we are about to wage.’

  Chaloner was surprised: Hollanders tended to keep a low profile in London, on the grounds that they were currently Britain’s most hated adversary. They certainly did not go around speculating on who might triumph in the looming confrontation.

  ‘But they are not the worst by a long way,’ Marshall went on. ‘Last week, Harley, Newell and Reyner appeared. Now, I know Harley is a colonel, but he is no better than that monster Brinkes.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Chaloner, hoping that Marshall’s loose tongue would not land him in trouble. Brinkes might reward him with the same fate as Captain Pepperell if he knew he was the subject of chatter, while Harley was unlikely to appreciate being discussed either.

  ‘Because he is evil. Have you seen his eyes? They are like the devil’s – blazing with hate and malice. But even he is not the worst. About a month ago someone even more dreadful joined. Namely Mr Fitzgerald.’ Marshall hissed the name in a way that made it sound decidedly sinister.

  ‘Not Fitzgerald the pirate?’ asked Chaloner. Could this be George’s last employer?

  ‘He prefers the term privateer.’ Marshall glanced around, as if he was afraid the man might appear and take umbrage. ‘He lost a lot of money recently, and word is that he is working on plans to get some more. I am surprised at Mr Jones for letting the likes of him join the Piccadilly Company – Mr Jones is such a nice gentleman.’

  ‘I do not suppose Fitzgerald is the one with the beard and the eye-patch, is he?’ asked Chaloner, amused. The fellow could not have moulded himself more to the popular image of a pirate had he tried. He was lacking only the gold earrings.

  Marshall nodded earnestly. ‘And he has an unusually high voice. Listen, you can hear him now, singing. I wish he would not do it. It is horrible!’

  As a lover of music, Chaloner had to agree. The sound that came from upstairs was redolent of tortured metal. It was treble in range, but there was a grating quality to it that was far from pleasant.

  ‘You mentioned him losing a lot of money,’ he said, eager to talk so that he would not have to listen. ‘Do you know how?’

  ‘His best ship sank during a storm. It was full of French gold, so King Louis arrested him and offered him a choice: repay every penny or execution. Fitzgerald had to sell everything he owned, and it broke him financially. That is why he is in London now – to recoup his losses by embarking on another business venture.’

  At that moment there was a clatter of footsteps as the Piccadilly Company took its leave. Uncharitably, Chaloner wondered whether Fitzgerald’s singing had brought the meeting to a premature end, because he would certainly not have wanted to be in the same room with it – it was bad enough from a distance. He leaned forward in his chair, so he could look up the hall and watch them file out.

  They left in ones and twos again, with the Dutch woman – Margareta – directing who should go when. Some elected to leave by the back door, which had Chaloner huddling towards the fire to conceal his face; but he need not have worried: no one gave him a second glance.

  When everyone had gone, Chaloner claimed his gout had eased and he could walk. Marshall nodded genially and invited him to visit again, but preferably not in the mornings, which tended to be when Fitzgerald and his cronies were in conference. Evenings, he assured his visitor, would see him in far more conducive company.

  For a moment, Chaloner thought the three scouts had disappeared, but then he saw them walking north. He assumed they were returning to the house from which they had emerged earlier, but they ducked into another tavern, with broken windows and a sign outside that said it was the Feathers. He followed, then went through an elaborate charade intended to make them think the encounter was coincidence.

  ‘How nice to see you!’ he exclaimed amiably. ‘I did not think we would meet again.’

  His cordiality was not reciprocated. Colonel Harley’s pale ‘devil’ eyes were full of suspicion and Newell fingered his dagger. Reyner smiled, but it was a wary expression, devoid of friendliness.

  ‘Neither did we,’ said Harley, making it clear that he wished they had not.

  ‘Well, I suppose it is no surprise to run into you here,’ Chaloner blustered on, pretending not to notice their hostility. ‘I distinctly recall you saying that you hailed from Piccadilly.’

  He remembered no such thing, but his gambit worked. Pride suffused Reyner’s face.

  ‘I was born here, and my mother owns this tavern,’ he said, and the smile became genuine. ‘Meanwhile, Harley and his sister have taken up residence next door, and Newell lives across the street. We prefer Piccadilly’s cleaner air to the foul vapours of the city.’

  ‘Understandable.’ Sensing the other two were on the verge of sending him packing, Chaloner sat down and began to talk quickly. ‘There was a meeting of the Tangier Committee yesterday.’

  Harley regarded him coldly, and Chaloner began to understand what Marshall had meant about the disconcerting quality of his eyes. ‘So what? That town is no longer of interest to us.’

  ‘The matter of Teviot’s death was raised.’ Chaloner hoped they were not in a position to know he was lying. ‘There is going to be an official inquiry.’

  Harley’s gaze did not waver, although Reyner gulped hard enough to be audible. There was a thump, and Reyner leaned down to rub his leg – Newell had dealt him a warning kick under the table. Chaloner continued to meet Harley’s gaze, but he had learned two things already: that Reyner was the weak link in the trio, and that they had reason to fear such an eventuality. It was more than he had gleaned during all the time he had spent on Eagle with them.

  ‘What will such an inquiry entail?’ asked Newell, when the silence following Chaloner’s announcement had extended to the point where it was uncomfortable.

  Chaloner shrugged. ‘It will be conducted by lawyers from the Inns of Court, so you can be certain it will leave no stone unturned.’

  Reyner groaned, then winced when Newell kicked him a second time.

  ‘We have nothing to fear,’ said Newell, more to Reyner than to Chaloner. ‘Jews Hill was clear of Barbary corsairs when we surveyed it, but everyone knows how fast they can move. They waited until we left, and then they crept forward. What happened to Teviot was not our fault.’

  ‘Impossible,’ said Chaloner immediately. ‘Jews Hill is surrounded by miles of open countryside, and ten thousand men could never lurk there without being seen. Ergo, they were in the woods when you said they were not, and anyone looking at a map will know it. The inquiry will want to know why you lied – why you killed Teviot and half his garrison.’

  Harley’s eyes flashed, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. ‘You play a dangerous game, accusing us of wilful murder.’

  Chaloner smiled lazily. ‘I have powerful friends at the Inns of Court – men who owe me favours. I may be able to influence the outcome of the inquiry. Would you like me to try?’

  ‘In return for what?’ asked Reyner, thus reinforcing Chaloner’s suspicion that they had indeed given the hapless Teviot a deliberately misleading report.

  ‘I will need to know the whole truth,’ he went on, ignoring the question. ‘Clearly, you had a reason for doing what you did. Explain it to me, and I will advise you how to—’

  ‘We
asked what you want in return,’ interrupted Harley. His hand was still on his sword, but the knife that Chaloner always carried in his sleeve was at the ready, and it would be in the colonel’s heart before his weapon was halfway out of its scabbard. Of course, he would be in trouble if the other two attacked at the same time.

  ‘Information,’ he replied, more to keep them talking than because it was true. ‘Specifically the names of the thieves who are stealing Clarendon House’s supplies. The culprits must use a cart, so the chances are that you have seen them passing.’

  ‘We have not,’ declared Reyner, before the others could speak. ‘All Piccadilly is talking about those burglaries, but none of us have seen anything. It is a mystery. The villains must travel down St James’s Street, because they certainly do not come this way.’

  Newell sneered. ‘I would not tell you even if we did know their names, because I cannot abide that fat, greedy old Clarendon, and his palace is an abomination. Besides, we have nothing to fear from the Teviot affair, because Fitzgerald said—’

  This time it was Harley doing the kicking under the table, and Chaloner frowned. He had assumed that the curious happenings in the Crown were unrelated to the Teviot massacre, but Newell’s remark made him reconsider. Fitzgerald was a pirate, and they operated by the dozen around Tangier, so perhaps there was a connection.

  ‘If you cannot give me information, I will settle for an introduction instead,’ he said, improvising wildly. ‘To Fitzgerald. He may be interested in a certain business proposition I have to offer.’

  ‘He will not,’ stated Harley firmly. ‘And you would be well advised to keep your mouth shut about Tangier, because you know nothing about it. If you start spreading rumours, all I can say is that you will regret it most bitterly.’

  Chaloner could think of no way to prolong the discussion further, so was forced to take his leave. He went back to the Gaming House and stood in its doorway, hidden in the shadows. It was not long before the three scouts emerged from the Feathers. They were arguing, Harley and Newell muttering in fierce whispers at Reyner, who kept shaking his head. Eventually, they parted: Harley and Newell turned north, while Reyner began to walk towards the city alone.

  Chaloner followed Reyner and caught up with him near Charing Cross, hauling him into a narrow alley that ran between two tall houses. Reyner scowled when he saw who had ambushed him, but the sly, calculating expression in his eyes said he was not particularly surprised to have been waylaid.

  ‘Who are you really?’ he asked. ‘Newell thinks you work for Spymaster Williamson, while Harley says you are just a greedy opportunist out for his own ends. But I suspect you are from the Tangier Committee, and that you have been charged to learn the truth about Teviot.’

  ‘Then you had better be honest,’ said Chaloner, deciding to let him assume what he liked. ‘The murder of five hundred soldiers is a serious matter. A hanging matter.’

  ‘Four hundred and seventy-two,’ countered Reyner, as if it made a difference. ‘But why does the Tangier Committee care? Everyone knows that Teviot was a corrupt fool who should never have been made governor, and all the men have been replaced. Besides, it happened months ago.’

  Chaloner regarded him with contempt. ‘They can never be “replaced”. Nor did they deserve to be hacked to pieces.’

  Reyner looked away. ‘It was not our fault that Teviot allowed himself to be ambushed.’

  ‘Of course it was your fault! He relied on you to provide him with accurate information, and you betrayed that trust by feeding him lies. What I cannot understand is why – why did you arrange the slaughter of your own countrymen?’

  Reyner had the decency to wince. ‘It is complicated, and will take a long time to explain.’

  ‘Then you had better make a start.’

  ‘I cannot – at least, not now. Harley will be suspicious if I am gone too long.’

  ‘I do not care whether he is suspicious or not.’

  ‘Well, I do,’ snapped Reyner, regaining some of his composure. ‘So meet me in the Gaming House gardens at ten o’clock tonight. I will tell you everything then. But in return I want a written pardon from the government – someone from the Tangier Committee should be able to organise it – and two hundred pounds in gold coins.’

  Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Anything else?’

  Reyner glowered. ‘Do not judge me, Chaloner. I will not be safe once I tell my story – I shall be a marked man, and a lot of powerful people will want me dead. I need that money to disappear.’

  ‘Why should—’

  ‘I will explain everything tonight. But bring the pardon and the money, or I am not telling you anything. And for Christ’s sake, make sure you are not followed.’

  Chaloner drew his dagger. ‘I do not like this plan. You will tell me your story now.’

  Reyner’s gaze was defiant. ‘What will you do? Kill me? Then you will never have the truth. And I am not doing this for myself, anyway – my mother is old and I need to protect her, which I cannot do without funds. Now let me go before you put both our lives in danger.’

  He shoved Chaloner away and marched towards the end of the alley. He looked carefully in both directions before slipping out and resuming his journey towards the city.

  Chaloner was thoughtful as he walked down King Street, trying to imagine what plan could have required the murder of so many men. Newell’s slip in the Feathers said Fitzgerald was involved, which in turn said the Piccadilly Company warranted further investigation. But what could its members be doing? How had the deaths of Teviot and his garrison benefited them? No answers came, and he supposed he would have to wait until he met Reyner later.

  He turned his mind to the Queen’s letter, and went directly to her apartments. He was pleasantly surprised when he was refused entry – security was so lax at White Hall that he was under the impression that anyone could gain access to anywhere he fancied.

  ‘Her Majesty is vulnerable,’ explained the captain. His name was Appleby, a grizzled veteran with a beard. ‘People do not like her because she is Catholic and barren, but the King will be vexed if she is harmed, so we cannot let anyone inside unless he has an appointment.’

  ‘How do I make an appointment?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘You do not! She is the Queen, man! People cannot wander in off the streets to pass the time of day with her. Besides, she has ladies in there, and the Court rakes are always trying to slip past me to get at them. It is quite a task to keep them out, I can tell you!’

  Chaloner knew he could gain access to the Queen if he wanted. Fortunately for her, most people did not possess his particular array of talents – or a wife who was one of Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting, for that matter. Prudently, he changed the subject, and asked what happened when letters were delivered. Appleby explained that he handed all such missives to the Queen’s private secretary. Hyde opened everything she received, and although he claimed to stay out of her personal correspondence, it was a lie.

  ‘He likes to know what is going on in every aspect of her life,’ said Appleby disapprovingly. ‘I cannot bear the odious prig. He is worse than his father for overbearing manners.’

  From what little he had seen of Hyde, Chaloner was inclined to concur.

  ‘Have you heard the news?’ Appleby asked, changing the subject abruptly. ‘About Proby?’

  ‘Peter Proby?’ asked Chaloner, recalling what he been told the previous day – that the Adventurers had been obliged to call an emergency meeting because Proby had disappeared.

  ‘He has been found,’ said Appleby. ‘Well, most of him has been found.’

  Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He threw himself off the roof of St Paul’s Cathedral, and landed with such force that parts of him have yet to be discovered. What is the world coming to, when such terrible things happen?’

  ‘What indeed?’ murmured Chaloner.

  When he had finished with Appleby, Chaloner spent the rest of the mornin
g and the first part of the afternoon questioning other members of the Queen’s household, but learned nothing he did not know already – that Her Majesty was unpopular, and so any number of people might have sent malicious letters to see her in trouble. It was a depressing state of affairs, and when he eventually left White Hall he was tired and dispirited.

  His gloom intensified when he visited St James’s Fields, an area that had been open countryside at the Restoration, but that was now the domain of developers. There were several such sites in the city, but this was the nearest to Clarendon House. It did not take him long to realise that even if the Earl’s bricks were finding their way there, he would never prove it. Dozens of carts kept the workforce supplied with materials, from hundreds of different sources. Moreover, each house had been tendered out to a different builder, and it would take weeks – perhaps months – to track down the provenance of all their supplies.

  He persisted, though, and the sun was setting when he was finally compelled to admit that he was wasting his time. As he walked along The Strand it occurred to him that he had not eaten all day, so he stopped to buy a meat pie from a street vendor. It was cold, greasy and filled with something he supposed might have once belonged to a cow, although he did not like to imagine what part. He ate it, then heartily wished he had not when it lay dense and heavy in his stomach.

  Feeling the need to dislodge it with something hot, he went to his favourite coffee house – the Rainbow on Fleet Street – entering its steamy fug with relief after the chill of outside. Most of the regulars were there, enjoying a dish of the beverage that was currently very popular in London. He sat on a bench and listened to the chatter around him, breathing in deeply of the comfortingly familiar aroma of burned beans, pipe smoke and wet mud trampled in from the road.

  ‘What news?’ called Farr, the owner, voicing the usual coffee-house greeting.

  ‘The Portuguese ambassador enjoyed having dinner with the King,’ offered Chaloner, repeating what he had read in the newsbook earlier. No one looked very impressed, so he added, ‘Afterwards, he skipped all the way from White Hall to St Paul’s, and one member of the Privy Council was so impressed by his elegance that he has engaged him as a dancing master.’