He had taken only a few steps along the Haymarket, eager now for home and bed, when there was a shrill shriek, followed by a lot of shouting. Because it would have looked suspicious to continue walking in the opposite direction, he joined the throng that poured into the garden. The alarm had been raised by a serving maid who had gone for a tryst with a card player, and had been distressed to find her favourite flower bed occupied by a cadaver.
By the time Chaloner arrived, torches had been lit, allowing the full extent of Reyner’s injury to be seen. Whoever had cut his throat had used enough force almost to sever his head from his body. It was a vicious attack, and Chaloner wondered who had done it. Harley or Newell, because they knew their comrade was about to betray them? Or Brinkes?
The two scouts were among the crowd. The faces of both were white, and Newell was leaning heavily on Harley’s shoulder. Chaloner eased back into the shadows, reluctant for them to see him, lest they assumed he was responsible. They did not linger long, though, and slouched away when the spectators began to reveal what they knew of the victim.
‘His name is Reyner, and he lives in that shabby old Feathers tavern,’ the serving wench was saying. She added rather sneeringly, ‘With his mother.’
Chaloner brightened. Perhaps Reyner’s dam would know what her son had embroiled himself in. He loitered a while longer, hoping to learn more by listening to the excited speculations, but it soon became clear that no one knew anything useful. He left and aimed for the decrepit Feathers, arriving to see lamps lit: Mrs Reyner already had visitors. He crouched down outside and pretended to fiddle with the buckle on his shoe, pleased when he heard the discussion within emanating through several conveniently cracked and broken windows.
‘Reyner was a good man,’ Newell was saying, his voice tight with fury. ‘We will hunt down who killed him, and slit his throat.’
‘Thank you kindly.’ Mrs Reyner’s voice was slurred, but Chaloner did not think it was from shock at the news she had just received. ‘Pour me another drink, will you? My nerves are all aquiver.’
‘It was Chaloner,’ said Harley softly. ‘It is too much of a coincidence that he should start asking questions about Teviot, and within hours Reyner is dead. He must have thought Reyner was a soft touch and slit his throat when he discovered otherwise.’
‘Chaloner wants to gain our favour, not kill us,’ argued Newell. ‘He is not the culprit. And it cannot be anyone from the Piccadilly Company, so that only leaves one set of suspects: our old adversaries. They killed Reyner because of what happened to Proby.’
‘You may be right,’ conceded Harley. ‘They certainly hate us.’
‘They do,’ said Newell tightly. ‘And when I find out which of them was responsible, I will kill him. I swear it on Reyner’s soul.’
At that point Mrs Reyner knocked over her cup, and there was a fuss as the mess was mopped up. Chaloner frowned his confusion. The only Proby he knew was the Adventurer who had recently jumped from the roof of St Paul’s Cathedral. Was Newell referring to him? But why would he be an enemy of the Piccadilly Company? And who were the ‘old adversaries’?
He continued to listen, but the scouts and Reyner’s mother had repositioned themselves after the spillage and he could no longer hear them clearly. As there was only so long he could pretend to be adjusting his shoe, he stood and began to walk home. He would have to interview Mrs Reyner the following day, when she was alone.
He was relieved that Newell had convinced Harley of his innocence, because it would have been inconvenient to dodge murderous attacks when he had so much else to do. But Reyner’s death was a blow, and he could not escape the feeling that it was his fault. He turned south when he reached Charing Cross, but it had been a frustratingly trying day, and he felt the need to be alone, away from the inquisitive stares of the servants in Tothill Street. He retraced his steps, intending to sleep at Long Acre instead.
Long Acre had once been a fashionable part of the city, with residents that included Oliver Cromwell and the poet John Dryden, but standards had slipped since the Restoration. Most of the elegant people had moved to more salubrious lodgings, and the place was now given over to coach-makers and brothels. It suited Chaloner perfectly. First, it was usually busy, even at night, which meant he was less likely to be noticed – always an important consideration for a spy. Second, it was convenient for White Hall. And third, Landlord Lamb only cared about the rent being paid on time, and never asked questions about his tenants’ business.
The house was a four-storey affair with a cellar, and was neither respectable nor notably seedy. The ground floor and rear garden were occupied by a coach-maker, while the first floor was home to Lamb and his wife. An old Cromwellian major named John Stokes lived in the rooms above, and Chaloner was right at the top.
The attic comprised three tiny chambers, and had the advantage of being reached by two separate staircases. It was also possible to climb out of the windows to the roof next door, further reducing his chances of being trapped. There was a bed and a chest in one chamber; the second was a cosy parlour where he kept his best bass viol; and the third was a cupboard-like pantry.
He was too restless to sleep, so he took his viol and began to play, a sad, lilting melody by Schütz, which matched his mood. He felt the music begin to calm him, and although he knew he should work on the cipher he had found, he continued to play until he could barely keep his eyes open. Then he lay on the bed, fully clothed, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
A loud clatter in the street below woke him the following morning. He was off the bed with his sword in his hand before he was fully cognisant, but soon learned that the noise was nothing to concern him. Red kites liked to range themselves along the roof, from where they swooped down to pick juicy morsels from the filth of the road, and one had dislodged a tile. It had landed on a glazier’s cart, making short work of the finished wares. Needless to say, the glazier was furious, and an argument ensued when he began to demand compensation from an indignantly defensive Landlord Lamb.
Chaloner ignored the clamouring voices as he fetched water from the butt in the hallway. He washed and shaved, then donned a heavily laced shirt, breeches with enough ribbon to satisfy even the most particular of critics, and a green long-coat with buttons to the knees. A white ‘falling band’ – a piece of linen that fell across the chest like a bib – completed the outfit.
He went to White Hall first, to report to the Earl. The dough-faced Sergeant Wright was on duty at the Great Gate, bags under eyes that were rimmed red with tiredness.
‘Bad night?’ asked Chaloner, as Wright stepped in front of him to prevent him from passing.
Wright spat. ‘Your Earl has a vicious tongue. He refused to pay me for the night before last, just because his bricks went missing. It meant I had to stay awake all last night, to make sure it did not happen again. It was damned hard work!’
‘Doing the job you have been paid for can be taxing.’
‘Too right,’ agreed Wright, the irony sailing over his head. ‘I usually find somewhere to snatch a doze, but I did not dare last night, not after what he said to me. Still, I shall manage a nap later this morning. Have you heard the latest news, by the way? About the missing Adventurer?’
‘I thought Proby had been found,’ said Chaloner. ‘After he jumped off St Paul’s Cathedral.’
Wright leaned closer, treating Chaloner to a waft of second-hand onions. ‘They are worried about another of their members now. Mr Grey set out to visit the Hercules’ Pillars Alley brothel last night, but he never arrived.’
‘Perhaps he found somewhere better to take his pleasure along the way.’
‘There is nowhere better.’ The sergeant sighed ruefully. ‘Not that the likes of you and I will ever see it, of course. It is an exclusive establishment, open only to barons or the extremely wealthy.’
Chaloner did not tell him that he had visited that particular bordello on numerous occasions, because he was friends with its owner.
&n
bsp; ‘I suppose I can let you pass,’ said Wright, looking Chaloner up and down critically, although he was deluding himself if he thought he could stop him. ‘You are almost respectable today.’
Once inside, Chaloner walked across the Great Court towards the Earl’s offices. In the Privy Garden a group of drunken courtiers, which included the Earl’s debauched kinsman Brodrick, were throwing pebbles at Lady Castlemaine’s windows, hoping to secure her attention. There was a cheer when she appeared in a dangerously low-cut robe.
‘I am going to tell my father about Cousin Brodrick. His behaviour is disgraceful!’
Chaloner turned to see Hyde standing there, although he could not help but wonder whether the younger man’s disapproval stemmed from jealousy – the Lady was obviously delighted to flirt with Brodrick, but she had not included Hyde in her sultry salutations.
‘I was hoping to catch you today, Chaloner,’ Hyde went on, reluctantly tearing his attention from the Lady’s generous display of bosom. ‘I found another letter yesterday. This time it was in the hearth, and you can see it is singed. Obviously, the Queen tried to burn it but failed to ensure it was done properly.’
Chaloner took it from him and saw the edge was indeed charred. The writing was identical to the previous missive, and confidently informed the recipient that Pratt would die on St Frideswide’s Day, when the whole Catholic world would rejoice at his demise. Chaloner handed it back.
‘Let me guess: it was placed at the front of the hearth, where it would be seen. And it happened to be there at a time when you were the one most likely to notice it.’
‘It was in a prominent position,’ Hyde acknowledged stiffly. ‘And being a man of habit, I always go to the hearth the moment I arrive at work. But it was not put there for me to find. The Queen is dabbling in dark business, and the sooner we dissuade her from such foolishness by catching her confederates, the sooner she will be safe. Have you unveiled them yet?’
‘No,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But—’
‘Then I suggest you refrain from regaling me with unfounded opinions and do your job,’ interrupted Hyde coldly. His glower intensified. ‘My father should never have appointed a spy – especially one with Parliamentarian leanings.’
He stalked away before Chaloner could inform him that he no longer had leanings one way or the other, being heartily disillusioned with both sides.
The new letter was worrying. It suggested that someone was determined to see the Queen in trouble, and that whoever it was had slipped past Captain Appleby to put his nasty note in a place where he knew it would be discovered by the credulous Hyde. But there were still seven days before the Feast of St Frideswide, so there was ample time to explore the matter. At least, Chaloner hoped so.
When Chaloner arrived at the Earl’s offices, it was to find Chief Usher Dugdale there, rifling through the drawers of a cabinet. Edgeman the secretary was sitting at the desk, also rummaging, while Kipps stood in the window. The Seal Bearer had placed himself so as to secure an unimpeded view of the Lady in her flimsy gown.
‘Where have you been?’ Dugdale demanded, using anger to mask his chagrin at being caught pawing through his master’s belongings. ‘I told you to report to me every day, and you failed to appear yesterday.’
‘Actually,’ countered Chaloner, ‘what you said was that you wanted to know my every move. It is not the same thing.’
‘You insolent dog!’ snarled Dugdale. ‘How dare you talk back to me! Do you—’
Chaloner stepped towards him, fast enough to make him cower involuntarily. ‘Please do not call me names. Unless you want to repeat them on the duelling field?’
‘Duelling is illegal,’ blustered Dugdale. ‘And I do not break the law.’
‘It is only illegal if you are caught,’ said Kipps, tearing his eyes away from the Lady and turning towards them. ‘Do you need a second, Chaloner?’
‘No, he does not,’ cried Dugdale, alarmed. ‘The Earl expects high standards of his gentlemen, and you will never coerce me into behaving disreputably.’
Chaloner looked pointedly at the recently searched cabinet. ‘You need no coercion from me.’
‘Tell me what you intend to do today,’ ordered Dugdale, immediately going on the offensive. ‘I shall then decide whether to give my permission.’
Chaloner had no intention of confiding his plans. ‘It depends on what the Earl says after he has heard my report. Where is he?’
It was Edgeman who replied. He smirked spitefully. ‘You have had a wasted journey. He will come late today, because he is going to watch the King dine at the Banqueting House. I might join him there. It is always an entertaining spectacle.’
‘Is it?’ Chaloner had been once, but had failed to understand the attraction in watching someone else eat. It was not as if His Majesty hurled food around or told clever jokes while he feasted. But it was a popular pastime for many, and the Earl rarely refused an invitation.
‘You are incapable of appreciating the finer things of life,’ sneered Edgeman. ‘Because—’
‘The same might be said of you two,’ interrupted Kipps sharply. ‘I invite you to spend an evening at the best brothel in London, and what do you do? Decline!’
‘Because we do not indulge in sordid wickedness,’ said Edgeman loftily. ‘Do we, Dugdale?’
‘No,’ agreed Dugdale piously. ‘Only low-mannered scum frequent brothels.’
‘The King is a regular at this one.’ Kipps smiled rather wolfishly. ‘Shall I tell him your opinion then? I am sure he will be interested to hear what you think of him.’
He spun on his heel and stalked out. Chaloner followed, wondering what it was about White Hall that seemed to attract such dreadful people. He was sure the foreign courts in which he had worked had not housed such a profusion of them.
‘Baiting them gives me great pleasure,’ confided Kipps, once they were out of earshot. ‘Yet I cannot help but wonder whether it is expensive fun. We shall never have the better of a man like Dugdale, because he is so damned slippery.’
‘Why were they searching the Earl’s drawers?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Were they? I did not notice. I try not to look in their direction whenever possible, especially Dugdale’s. The very sight of him stirs me to violent impulses.’
‘You like him well enough to invite him to brothels.’
‘Only because I knew he would never accept,’ replied Kipps, with a conspiratorial wink.
The first thing Chaloner did after leaving White Hall was to visit Mrs Reyner. It was a pleasant day, and the sun had turned the sky pink in the east. He breathed in deeply, then coughed as grit caught at the back of his throat. As always, London was swathed in a yellow-black haze, from its citizens lighting sea-coal fires for heat, hot water and cooking.
When he reached the Feathers, he listened carefully outside, to ensure Harley and Newell had not kept her company overnight. When he was sure she was alone, he knocked, and when the door was answered, he was hard-pressed to prevent himself from recoiling at the stench of wine on her breath. Clearly, she was a woman who liked to give her sorrows a good dousing.
‘My son is dead,’ she said, sharply. ‘And if he owed you money, then that is too bad, because I am not responsible for his debts.’
‘I heard what happened to him,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘I am sorry.’
She softened at the kindness in his voice. ‘Well? What do you want? It is cruel to keep an old woman on her doorstep in the chill of the morning.’
‘Then I had better come in,’ said Chaloner, stepping past her and entering a dingy hall.
She made no complaint, and only shuffled to a pantry, where she poured herself a generous measure of wine. Her movements were uncoordinated, which he supposed was to his advantage: if she were drunk, she was less likely to wonder why he was interrogating her.
‘You must have been very proud of your son,’ he began. ‘Being a scout in Tangier.’
‘Spying on people was what he did best.’ She nodded.
‘He was always good at it, even as a child. But he did not come home a happy man. He was frightened.’
‘Frightened of what?’
‘He would not tell me, although he did mention that we were going to be rich. Of course, that will not happen now.’ Bitterly, she took a gulp from her mug.
‘No? Surely Harley and Newell will see you are looked after – for his sake?’
‘Those scum! They are furious that he is dead, and promised vengeance. But vengeance does not put wine on the table, does it? I want money!’
‘He belonged to a group called the Piccadilly Company,’ said Chaloner, a little taken aback by her brazen rapacity, especially as Reyner professed to have been fond of her. Naively, he had expected the sentiment to have been reciprocated. ‘Do you know what—’
Mrs Reyner sneered. ‘That Brilliana is a member! She is Colonel Harley’s sister, and an evil witch. The others I do not know. Well, there is Fitzgerald – the one-eyed sailor with the large orange beard – but we do not talk about him, of course.’
‘Why not?’ asked Chaloner, aware that her voice had dropped to a whisper.
‘Because he is a pirate. And he visits brothels, like the one in Hercules’ Pillars Alley.’
‘I see. Is that the best place to find him, then?’
‘No one “finds” Fitzgerald. And you had better hope he does not find you, either.’
Chaloner changed the subject, thinking he would rather have answers about Fitzgerald from the man himself, anyway. ‘Did your son tell you what happened in Tangier the day Lord Teviot died?’
‘He said he was paid handsomely to facilitate an ambush, although I never saw any of the money.’ Mrs Reyner sighed mournfully. ‘And now I never will.’
‘Did he tell you that this ambush resulted in the deaths of almost five hundred men?’
She shrugged. ‘What of it? They were soldiers, and soldiers are supposed to fight. It was hardly my boy’s fault that they were not very good at it.’
There was no point in embarking on a debate about the ethics of the situation, and Chaloner did not try. ‘What else did he tell you about it?’
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 11
