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

by Susanna Gregory

  He expected everyone to know he was being facetious, but Farr nodded sagely. ‘The Portuguese are a strange nation. I am not surprised that one of them knows how to gyrate over long distances.’

  ‘The Intelligencer did not report the prancing, though,’ said a young printer named Fabian Stedman, who spent so much time in the Rainbow that Chaloner wondered whether he had a home of his own – or a place of work, for that matter. ‘I do not know how it dares call itself a newsbook, because it never contains anything interesting.’

  ‘Well, what do you expect?’ asked the Rector of St Dunstan-in-the-West. Chaloner liked Joseph Thompson, a kindly, liberal man with a conscience. ‘The government is afraid that we will embark on another civil war if it tells us too much – this time to rid ourselves of King and Parliament, given that neither have proved themselves worthy to rule.’

  ‘There was a fascinating piece about a fish caught in the River Severn last week, though,’ said Farr. ‘Apparently, it was of great size and uncouth shape.’

  ‘Does that count as foreign news or domestic?’ mused Stedman. ‘The Severn is in Wales, which is a distant land full of heathens.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ argued Thompson. ‘I have been to Wales, and it is very nice.’

  ‘The farthest I have ever been is Chelsey,’ confided Farr. ‘And that was more than foreign enough for me! I was worried about being set on by footpads every inch of the way. Life is very dangerous outside the city.’

  ‘Have you ever travelled, Chaloner?’ asked Stedman. ‘You hold very controversial opinions, so I imagine you have. For example, you are always telling us that it is wrong to go to war with the Dutch, when the rest of the country cannot wait to start fighting.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ cheered Farr. ‘I am thoroughly looking forward to trouncing the Hollanders at sea, and stealing all their trade routes.’

  ‘War with the Dutch is not a good idea,’ said Chaloner tiredly. He had lost count of the times he had tried to explain the reality of the situation to them. ‘They have faster ships, better-trained sailors, and mountains of materiel that will allow them to stay at sea for months. We do not.’

  ‘He is right,’ agreed Thompson. ‘Fighting Hollanders would be madness. Besides, they are a Protestant nation that was kind to the King when he was in exile. What purpose will conflict serve?’

  ‘They are taking slaves from Africa to work on their sugar plantations,’ argued Farr. ‘When we defeat them, we can do it instead, so we shall have cheap sugar – as much as we can eat.’

  ‘Excellent!’ declared Stedman. ‘Coffee is a lot nicer with sugar.’

  Chaloner wondered whether that was why he had yet to acquire a taste for coffee: he did not use sugar, as a silent protest against the plantations. He knew his self-denial made no difference to the slaves, and it was impossible to avoid sugar in all its forms, but he persisted anyway.

  ‘The slave trade is a vicious, despicable business, and any good Christian should agree with me,’ declared Thompson, uncharacteristically vehement. ‘It is evil.’

  ‘It is a matter of commerce,’ argued Farr. ‘We need affordable sugar, and slaves are the best way to get it. Morality has nothing to do with—’

  ‘Of course it does!’ cried Thompson. ‘How can you condone snatching men, women and children from their homes, and forcing them to work for no pay, just so you can have sweet coffee?’

  ‘If I were an African, I would accept it as my lot,’ declared Farr. ‘The wealthy and powerful have always dominated the weak. God made us that way.’

  ‘He most certainly did not,’ yelled Thompson, outraged. ‘And if you ever say such a wicked thing again, I will … I will … well, I do not know what I shall do, but you will be sorry.’

  Everyone stared at him. Thompson had never lost his temper with Farr before.

  ‘He is right,’ said Chaloner in the silence that followed. He rarely joined coffee-house debates, because he disliked the attention it earned him. However, this was a matter about which he felt strongly. ‘The slave trade is an abhorrent business.’

  ‘How do you know?’ pounced Stedman. ‘You appeared last week all brown and healthy after months of absence – which you still have not explained. You were clearly in warmer climes, so where did you go? Barbados? Jamaica? Is that why you hold forth about the slave trade?’

  Chaloner was aware that everyone was regarding him with interest, and wished he had held his tongue. ‘Tangier,’ he replied, supposing there was no harm in telling them. His mission had not been secret, and an evasive answer might be more trouble than it was worth.

  ‘How unpleasant,’ shuddered Farr. ‘I understand it is a vile place, full of snakes and swamps.’

  ‘No, that is New England,’ countered Stedman. ‘Tangier is in the middle of a desert. The Portuguese were delighted to foist it on us, because it is hot and nasty. Is that not right, Chaloner?’

  ‘It is certainly hot,’ replied Chaloner, wondering how the Rainbow’s patrons came by such wildly inaccurate information. How could Stedman think Tangier was in the middle of a desert when it was being fortified a sea port?

  ‘I have been told it will be a useful slaving centre one day,’ said Farr. ‘But Thompson is glaring, so we had better discuss something else. How about this Collection of Curiosities near St Paul’s, which is the talk of the city? Has anyone been to see it? Apparently, it has an “Ant Beare” from Brazil on display. Where is Brazil, exactly? Is it anywhere near China?’

  While Stedman obliged him with a lesson in geography, Thompson gave Chaloner a strained smile. ‘I am glad one of my acquaintances has proper views on the slave trade. I preached against it in my sermon on Sunday, but I do not think anyone listened. I have a bad feeling that we will follow the Portuguese into the business, simply because there is money to be made.’

  ‘Portugal is not a major factor in the trade any longer. Holland has supremacy now.’

  ‘But the Portuguese do continue to take slaves to Brazil,’ countered Thompson. ‘You should not ignore their role in this evil simply because the Dutch have surpassed them in wickedness. More to the point, did you know that the Adventurers transported more than three thousand people to Caribbean plantations last year? It is disgraceful, barbaric and … and wicked! And it is not as if the Adventurers need more money. They are all fabulously rich already.’

  ‘Wealth seems to be one of those commodities that no one ever admits to having enough of,’ said Chaloner. ‘The more someone has, the more he itches to acquire.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Thompson caustically. ‘In my line of work, we call it greed.’

  Night had fallen by the time Chaloner left the coffee house, a set of carefully forged documents in his pocket for Reyner – he had borrowed pen and paper from Farr, although it had not been easy to dissuade the other patrons from trying to see what he was doing. Many other pedestrians had hired linkmen – carriers of pitch torches – to light their way, especially north of Charing Cross, where fewer houses meant it was much darker. Chaloner did not bother, although it meant he was in danger of stumbling in potholes or treading in something unpleasant. There was another peril, too: two louts approached him with the clear intent of demanding his purse, but they backed away when his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword and they saw he was able to defend himself.

  He reached the Crown and spent a few moments studying it from the shadows cast by the Gaming House opposite. Lights blazed on the ground floor, and a lamp was lit in the attic, but the rooms in between were in darkness. He crossed the road and entered the tavern. It was full and very noisy; Landlord Marshall moved between the tables with a genial smile and amiable conversation.

  Still happy to gossip, Marshall informed Chaloner that the Piccadilly Company had permanent hire of the first floor, while the two storeys above it were rented by tenants, namely Pratt and a woman for whom he seemed to hold a fatherly regard. Chaloner sat for a while, watching and listening, and when he was sure no one was looking, he slipped up the stairs. />
  The Piccadilly Company’s chambers were locked, but it did not take him long to pick the mechanism and let himself inside. He lit a candle from the embers of the fire, shielding it with his hand so it would not be seen from outside.

  The first room was an elegantly appointed parlour, with wood-panelled walls and a finely plastered ceiling. Its only furniture comprised a large table of polished oak, with benches set around it. He examined them minutely, then did the same for the panelling, floorboards and chimney, but if there were secret hiding places for documents, then he could not find them. The only evidence that papers had been present was in the hearth, where some had been reduced to ashes.

  The second room was a pantry, indicating that refreshments were sometimes served, but a search of it yielded nothing. He returned to the parlour and sat on one of the benches, wondering what it was that Fitzgerald the pirate, the Dutch Janszoons, the nice Mr Jones, the Portuguese man, the three scouts and their cronies discussed. It was clearly something they wanted kept secret, or they would not have hired Brinkes to stand guard downstairs.

  Could they be plotting rebellion? There had been dozens of uprisings since the King had reclaimed his crown – by Parliamentarians unwilling to accept that the Republican experiment was over, and by fanatics who believed the throne should have been offered to Jesus instead. They occurred so frequently that the newsbooks no longer bothered to report them, and the only person remotely interested was Spymaster Williamson, whose duty it was to suppress them.

  But Chaloner did not think Harley and his fellow scouts were the kind of men who would care about politics – they were too selfish to risk themselves for a principle. However, Fitzgerald had lost his fortune in a storm, and Landlord Marshall believed he intended to make himself wealthy again. Somehow, money seemed a far more likely explanation than insurrection. But what were they planning, exactly? And how did the Tangier massacre fit into it?

  As sitting in the parlour was not providing answers, Chaloner stood to leave. He glanced at the ashes in the hearth and, out of desperation, poked among them until he recovered a fragment that had escaped the flames. He tweaked it out, but it had been written in cipher:

  iws ubj kwy jvv rzv wiy evj

  jvb rdi xlp ell qcm ftq xds

  cmr zva knt elq pad dpm znx

  pdk yto jgw pup qpj rbh tjo

  ufz moq iqq ylz hjh ibj wiq

  iaq oqi jhn rtr shw qsi jbx

  egq yin udh azd hag fcm dyp

  ivy am

  He shoved it in his pocket, thinking it told him one thing for certain: that if the Piccadilly Company was sending or receiving coded messages and then burning them, it was embroiled in something untoward. It was not something that honest people tended to do.

  He relocked the door and was about to walk down the stairs when he heard someone coming up them. The person was carrying a lamp, and it cast a shadow on the wall. Chaloner froze in alarm when he recognised the unmistakable bulk of Brinkes – he was about to be caught prying by a man who made his living by violence and murder.

  Chapter 4

  Chaloner was reluctant to fight Brinkes, because he did not want the Piccadilly Company to know it was being monitored. Unfortunately, there was no time to pick the lock on the door again, so he ran silently up the stairs to the next floor. Not surprisingly, Pratt’s rooms were locked, and as he bent to try the handle, his sword scraped against the wall. It was a careless mistake, and he heard Brinkes falter on the floor below. There was a brief pause and then footsteps as the man came to investigate.

  With no other option, Chaloner continued upwards to the attic. Luckily, that door was open, so he stepped through it quickly.

  The woman sitting in the window spun around in alarm. She was pretty, with brown hair and clear skin, and she recognised him as the man who had seen her watching the street because she smiled. He interpreted it as a sign that she would be willing to help him, so he put his finger to his lips, and had only just managed to duck behind the bed before the door flew open.

  Brinkes stood there, one meaty hand clutching a lamp and the other holding a dagger. When he began to stride towards the woman with barefaced menace, Chaloner swore softly, seeing he would have to do battle after all. He started to stand, but sank down again when she began to speak.

  ‘Do you have a dog?’ she asked in a curiously childish voice. She beamed at Brinkes, an expression that bespoke vacuity, and Chaloner realised with a start that there was something amiss with her wits. ‘James has a dog. A black one. Have you seen it? It is missing.’

  ‘Your husband is dead,’ said Brinkes, stopping in his tracks to regard her warily. ‘And so is his dog. Do you not remember being told? But never mind that. Did anyone just come in here?’

  ‘I like visitors,’ declared the woman, rocking back and forth. ‘But I do not have many.’

  ‘Christ,’ muttered Brinkes. Like many folk, he was unsure how to deal with disturbed minds. Unsettled, he began to back away. ‘Lock the door when I have gone. There are a lot of unpleasant people in this part of the city, and you do not want them coming in.’

  The door closed, but Chaloner waited until Brinkes’s footsteps had gone all the way to the ground floor before moving. He stood and smiled gratefully at the woman.

  ‘I like visitors,’ she announced brightly. ‘My name is Ruth Elliot, and my husband is called James. He has a dog, and it is missing. Have you seen it?’

  Chaloner frowned. James Elliot was the name of the man who had fought and killed Cave. ‘When did your husband die, mistress? Yesterday?’

  ‘He has not been to see me all day, and my brother told me he was dead.’ Then her troubled expression lifted, and she laughed. ‘But it cannot be true, because he was alive on Sunday.’

  A miniature line-engraving had pride of place on the table, so Chaloner picked it up. The likeness had been made when Elliot was younger, but the eyes and black wig were the same. Also, Lester had mentioned a Ruth who would be heartbroken if Elliot were harmed, although Chaloner doubted it was the shock of her spouse’s death that had turned her wits: the array of medicines on the cabinet, and the dolls lined up on the bed, suggested they had been awry for some time.

  He regarded her thoughtfully. It was a curious coincidence that Elliot’s wife just happened to live in the place that was the object of one of his three investigations. Or was it? There was a connection of sorts, in that Elliot had killed Cave, a man who had travelled home from Tangier on the same ship as the three scouts. And Harley, Newell and Reyner were involved with the Piccadilly Company, which met downstairs.

  ‘You watch the people who use the rooms below you,’ he said, coming to kneel next to her and trying to gauge her level of intelligence. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘I do not like them,’ she declared. ‘James said he will stop them from coming, but he forgets.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  ‘They talk,’ replied Ruth, pouting. ‘They discuss gravel.’

  ‘Gravel?’ echoed Chaloner warily.

  ‘I do not like gravel. I fell over in some once, and it hurt my knee. Look.’

  She whipped up her skirts and showed Chaloner a minute scar. Gently, he pulled them down again, hoping she would not do the same to Brinkes, because the leg was shapely.

  ‘Who are the people you watch? Do you know their names?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Mr Fitzgerald the pirate. And Mr Jones with the red ribbons. And Mr Harley. And Mr Reyner. And Mr Newell.’ She sang the names rather oddly.

  ‘What about the others?’

  Ruth shook her head and shrank away from him, her expression darkening. ‘They frighten me, and my brother told me that they killed James’s dog. But I do not believe that people would kill dogs – it must have run away. Have you seen it?’

  ‘Do not look out of the window any more,’ advised Chaloner, standing up. ‘These people will not like being monitored.’

  ‘But James told me to do it,’ said Ruth, wide-eyed. ‘He told me it was important.’r />
  Chaloner was disgusted that Elliot should have encouraged such a dangerous habit, and wondered what he had been thinking. He took his leave, first ensuring that she locked the door after him, then exited the Crown by its back door, to avoid Brinkes, who was lurking at the front one.

  Once outside, he aimed for the Gaming House. It was far earlier than the appointed ten o’clock, but he wanted to watch Reyner arrive, to ensure he was alone. He fingered the papers he had forged earlier, which he hoped would be convincing enough to persuade Reyner that a pardon and two hundred pounds would be his in exchange for information. He felt no guilt over the deception: anyone complicit in the deaths of Teviot’s garrison – and considered them ‘replaceable’ – deserved no better.

  Because it was a cold night, the grounds were deserted. Moving silently, Chaloner made his way to the line of trees that divided the bowling green from the formal gardens, intending to use them as cover while he awaited Reyner’s arrival.

  He was almost there when he saw a dark shape lying in one of the rose beds. Abandoning all efforts at stealth, because he knew it no longer mattered, he ran towards it. He reached the inert form and felt for a life-beat, not surprised when there was none. He rolled the body over. Reyner’s throat had been cut.

  A brief search of the grounds revealed that Reyner’s killer had long gone, so Chaloner returned to stare at the body, disgusted with himself for not pressing the scout to talk earlier. He wondered how he was going to find out what had happened to Teviot now, because Harley and Newell would be far more difficult to crack. He sighed, supposing he would have to pursue the charade of the fictitious official inquiry.

  Unwilling to answer the questions that would arise from informing the Gaming House owner that there was a corpse among his roses, Chaloner left, assuming the body would be found the following morning. He was wrong.