Back inside the parlour, the merrymaking continued unabated, and all manner of food was still flying through the air. Pratt was lying on the floor, liberally splattered with custard, and an inanely grinning Oliver – an expression that did not sit well on his naturally melancholy face, now devoid of its mask – was sitting astride the architect, rummaging in his clothes.
‘I am looking for the key to Clarendon House,’ he explained, as Chaloner approached. ‘Pratt usually keeps it round his neck, see.’
Chaloner helped him search with the express intention of taking it – he did not think Oliver or Pratt should have possession of it that night. It was not there, indicating either that the architect had been sensible enough to leave it at home, or someone else had got to it first.
‘Damn,’ said Oliver, reeling as he sat back on his heels. ‘He always gives it to me when he knows he is going to be late for work. And he will be late tomorrow, because he will still be drunk.’
‘Does he often come here?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Oh, yes – he is always waxing lyrical about it. Usually it is barred to the likes of me, but the King is being entertained elsewhere tonight, so Mistress North said her regulars could bring a friend. Just this once. And Mr Pratt invited me, which was nice.’
He sounded ridiculously pleased, giving Chaloner the impression that it would be the highlight of his year. Then the grin slowly disappeared, and he mumbled something about needing to close his eyes for a moment, before sinking down on top of Pratt and beginning to snore.
Chaloner was about to go home when he saw Jones pouring himself more wine. The man was perfectly steady, and was one of few sober people in the room.
‘Temperance is canny,’ Jones said affably, wincing as he sipped. ‘The claret was excellent earlier in the evening, but now few are in a position to savour quality, she has brought out the slop.’
‘You are a member of the Piccadilly Company,’ said Chaloner, deciding the environment was right for a frontal attack – everyone else was blurting whatever entered their heads, so why should he not do likewise? ‘May I join?’
Jones blinked. ‘You are very direct! How did you find out about us?’
It was on the tip of Chaloner’s tongue to say that Harley and Newell had told him, but he remembered what had happened to Reyner, and baulked. He did not want another death on his conscience, not even theirs. ‘I listen,’ he said instead.
Jones smiled apologetically. ‘Personally, I would love a new member, because our meetings are tedious and you might liven them up. Unfortunately, my colleagues have decided that our business has reached its optimum size of thirty investors, and they will not enrol anyone else.’
‘Should I ask Fitzgerald to make an exception?’
Jones considered the question carefully. ‘You could try, although I am told he is not always very friendly. I have never found him so, but there you are.’
‘What is the Piccadilly Company, exactly?’
Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘You do not know its nature, yet you want to enlist?’
‘I have heard it is a lucrative venture,’ lied Chaloner.
Jones laughed and clapped his hands. ‘Then you heard right! It is very profitable. We export fine glassware to New England, and we bring gravel back.’
‘Gravel?’ echoed Chaloner. Ruth had mentioned gravel, too.
Jones shrugged. ‘No ship wants to travel one way empty, and there is always a great demand for gravel. It is useful for building roads, apparently.’
‘Who is in charge of your company?’ asked Chaloner. ‘The man Fitzgerald calls his master?’
Jones looked puzzled. ‘He does not have a master. What are you talking about?’
Chaloner could only surmise that Jones was not trusted to the same degree as Harley. ‘What is your name?’ he asked. ‘And do not say Jones, because we both know that is an alias.’
‘Do we indeed?’ Jones seemed more amused than offended as he raised his cup in a salute. ‘People really are called Jones, you know – there are dozens of us in London alone.’
Once Jones had gone, Chaloner aimed for the hall again, bored with wealthy hedonists and their secrets, and keen to go home. His hand dropped to his dagger when someone intercepted him, but it was only Lester. Chaloner smothered a smile when he saw the captain had chosen to wear a mask of delicate silver lace, which had been intended for a woman. It would have made him conspicuous if anyone had been sufficiently sober to notice.
‘Everything here costs a fortune,’ Lester said disagreeably, watching the antics in the parlour with prim disapproval. He winced and ducked as a syllabub missed its intended target and flew through the door towards him. ‘I hope Williamson reimburses me.’
‘So you are working for him?’ Chaloner was unimpressed. ‘You told me you were not.’
Lester grimaced. ‘I was a free agent when we spoke this morning, but he has since learned of a certain weakness of mine, and holds me to ransom over it.’
‘A weakness?’
Lester shot him a cool glance. ‘One I am not prepared to discuss. However, the upshot is that he thinks there was more to Elliot’s death than a fight over a woman, and has ordered me to look into it. I do not suppose you would help, would you? I am rather out of my depth.’
‘So would I be,’ said Chaloner shortly.
‘Not according to Williamson. He says you are the most resourceful man he has ever met.’
‘Does he?’ Chaloner was uneasy to learn that the Spymaster talked about him to all and sundry.
‘I suspect he is right to order an investigation into the Cave–Elliot affair, though,’ Lester went on soberly. ‘I have been considering the matter, and I believe it may be connected to the murder of one Captain Pepperell. Have you heard of him? He was stabbed in Queenhithe two Mondays ago.’
Chaloner stared at him. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because it is odd that two sea-officers should die in suspicious circumstances within a week.’
‘London is a big place. People are unlawfully killed here every day.’
‘But the matter stinks! I have already learned that Cave sang duets with O’Brien, who seems a decent fellow, and Fitzgerald, who is a damned pirate! I cannot abide the breed. Privateers should be hanged at the yardarm, and—’
‘What else do you know about Fitzgerald?’ Chaloner headed off what promised to become a rant.
‘Is being a pirate not enough?’ demanded Lester. Then he relented. ‘Tonight, I heard him say that something terrible was going to be common knowledge tomorrow. He also mentioned gravel.’
Chaloner regarded him narrowly. ‘What is gravel?’
Lester’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Small bits of stone, man! How much claret have you had?’
‘It must mean something else, too. Fitzgerald is in London to recoup his losses after losing a ship full of treasure. He will not do that by trading in grit.’
‘If it is code for another commodity, then it is one I do not know.’
‘Have you heard whether Fitzgerald is working for anyone else?’ asked Chaloner.
Lester shook his head, but was more concerned with his own enquiries than in answering questions. ‘I suppose I shall have to visit all Elliot’s old haunts to ask whether Pepperell was ever with him, because I am sure I shall discover a connection between them. It will not be easy, though. I do not have a way with words, and both were average men, difficult to describe.’
Chaloner had taken a liking to Lester, although he could not have said why. Perhaps it was his hearty, bluff manner, or the stance he had taken over the slave trade. Regardless, he sensed a decency in him that was missing from virtually everyone else at Temperance’s club.
‘I will send you something that might help. It will arrive tomorrow.’
‘What is it?’
Chaloner smiled. ‘You will have to wait and see.’
Lester drew him into an alcove when Brodrick lurched past. Behind the Earl’s cousin, clinging drunkenly t
o his waist, was Dugdale with Edgeman clutching him, all three in a state of semi-undress. Chaloner was sure the Earl would be appalled if he could see them. Then came several Privy Councillors and five Members of Parliament, singing a popular tavern song at the tops of their voices as they danced along in a single, weaving line. They jigged out of the front door, took a turn around the courtyard, and trotted back in again before aiming for the kitchens. The screech of outrage from the French cook would have been audible in Chelsey.
‘It is good to know our country is in such capable hands,’ said Lester contemptuously. ‘God save us! Is this why I risk my life in the navy? So these monkeys can sit in authority over us?’
‘Easy! It is hardly sensible to bawl treasonous remarks when half the government might hear.’
Lester rubbed his eyes. ‘My apologies. Incidentally, Williamson said that if I saw you, I was to urge you to go to his office. Normally, I would tell you where to put such an invitation, but I have a bad feeling about whatever is unfolding in Piccadilly. I recommend you oblige him.’
Chaloner nodded, but had no intention of following the advice as long as Thurloe was helping him. If the ex-Spymaster proved lacking, then he might see whether Williamson was prepared to trade information, but he was certainly not ready to go down that road yet, aware that there would be a price for collaboration – and he was not sure whether it was one he would be willing to pay.
Chaloner was about to leave the club and go home when he remembered that he had not paid his respects to Temperance, and while they were not the close friends they once were, he was loath to hurt her feelings. He found her in an antechamber with Wiseman. The surgeon was asleep, and she was in the process of covering him with a blanket.
‘He is exhausted, poor lamb,’ she whispered, although if Wiseman could slumber through the drunken revels in the parlour, then she had no need to lower her voice. ‘Because of that terrible business with Sir Edward Turner. Richard was the first medicus on the scene, you see.’
Temperance was a large young woman, who should not have worn gowns designed for those with slimmer figures. She had once owned glorious chestnut curls, but had shaved them off to don a wig, which was seen as more fashionable. The upshot was that she was fat, plain and bald, although Wiseman did not seem to mind, because they had been lovers for months.
‘What terrible business?’ asked Chaloner, recalling how he had seen the obese Adventurer not many hours before, watching the King dine in the Banqueting House. The spectacle had made Turner hungry, he recalled, while his thin friend Lord Lucas had been sickened by the sight of such plenty.
‘You will hear about it tomorrow. All London will be appalled by the news.’
Chaloner stared at her. Could this be what Fitzgerald had mentioned? ‘Tell me about it.’
Temperance smoothed Wiseman’s hair back from his face in a gesture of infinite tenderness. Chaloner felt a mild twinge of envy; Hannah was never so loving with him.
‘Turner’s house caught fire, and he and his household were roasted alive.’
‘How many?’ asked Chaloner, his stomach churning.
‘Turner and his wife, their three children and six servants. Lucas was staying with him, so he was caught in the inferno, too. Still, we should not be surprised. The last time Turner came here, he quarrelled with Fitzgerald, and only a fool does that.’
‘Are you saying Fitzgerald is responsible?’ Chaloner wondered whether the man had set the blaze himself, or whether he had hired a minion to do it while he cavorted at the club.
Temperance glanced around in alarm. ‘Not so loud, Tom! I do not want him coming after me.’
‘You cannot be afraid of him – he is one of your patrons. You would not admit him if—’
‘I wish I could refuse him entry, but I do not dare. He is a pirate, and you cannot be too careful with those. They are depraved monsters, who love to kill and maim.’
‘If he did set Turner’s house alight, he will be punished for it. Spymaster Williamson—’
‘Will never get the evidence he needs to make a case. And if you do not believe me, ask Mr Thurloe. That is why he never managed to bring Fitzgerald down.’
‘I do not suppose you have heard rumours about Fitzgerald working for someone else, have you?’ asked Chaloner hopefully. ‘That another man dictates his actions in London?’
Temperance shook her head. ‘But if there is such a fellow, I should not like to meet him. He would have to be very evil and powerful to control a pirate.’
The food-fight in the parlour was getting out of hand. The ceiling and walls were now heavily splattered, and so were most of the guests. Chaloner saw Congett pick up a huge pot of brawn, and quickly pulled Temperance out of harm’s way, wincing when the bowl crashed into the wall behind them and dented the plaster. There was a wild whoop of glee at the resulting mess.
Smiling indulgently, as if she considered these foolish, middle-aged men her unruly children, Temperance led Chaloner to the small room near the kitchen where she and Maude counted their nightly takings. There were already several full purses on the table, and their ledger registered more money than Chaloner earned in a month. She flopped into one of the fireside chairs, removed her wig and reached for a pipe. She was not yet two years and twenty, but the eyes that studied Chaloner through the haze of smoke were far older.
‘Have you been away, Tom? I do not recall seeing you for a while.’
There was a time when Chaloner would have been hurt by the fact that she had not noticed an absence of three months, but he had learned to accept that he was no longer very important to her.
‘Tangier,’ he replied.
‘What were you doing there? Learning Arabic? I know you have a talent for languages, but you should not bother. Every civilised person speaks English these days. Except that evil Queen.’
‘She is not evil,’ said Chaloner coldly. ‘And she is learning as fast as she can.’
Temperance shot him a sour look. ‘I had forgotten your unfathomable liking for the woman. I cannot imagine why, when the rest of the country wishes her gone to the devil. She will never give the King an heir, and it is all your Earl’s fault. He deliberately picked a barren princess.’
‘He could not have known—’
Temperance cut across him. ‘Of course he knew! It is common knowledge in Lisbon that she is infertile. Did you know that she plans to buy a child, and pass it off as her own?’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘I imagine even the dim-witted rabble currently destroying your parlour would be suspicious if she produced a baby without being pregnant first.’
Temperance shrugged. ‘I am only repeating what Count Memphis of America told me.’
‘That is his real name?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.
‘Or something similar. I rarely pay attention to foreigners. They are not worth my notice.’
Chaloner gazed at her, wondering whether she had purposely set out to shock him. He had come to terms with her smoking, drinking, shaven head and relationship with Wiseman, but she had never displayed a streak of xenophobia before. And he did not like it.
She smirked at his response, then changed the subject. ‘Why did you come here tonight? To hear the latest gossip about my clients so you can repeat it to your horrid Earl?’
‘No,’ said Chaloner, standing abruptly. He was too tired for a spat. ‘I came to see you.’
‘I am sorry, Tom,’ she said quickly. When he hesitated, she reached out to take his hand. ‘Please stay. I am upset about Turner and Lucas, and it has barbed my tongue. And I will never tell anyone else, but I think Fitzgerald had the atrocity planned before he came here tonight.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Chaloner, sitting again.
Temperance stared at the embers of the dying fire. ‘Because I heard him tell Harley that Turner would not be a problem for much longer at about nine o’clock tonight, and Richard told me the fire started at ten – a whole hour later.’
‘Then you must infor
m Williamson what—’
‘No!’ Temperance looked genuinely frightened. ‘Peter Proby challenged Fitzgerald, and look what happened to him. And you must not tackle him, either. I would not like to think of you smashed into pieces outside St Paul’s Cathedral.’
‘At least someone would not,’ sighed Chaloner.
‘Hannah?’ asked Temperance sympathetically. ‘I could have told you not to marry her.’
‘You could?’ asked Chaloner, taken aback by the turn the discussion had taken.
Temperance nodded. ‘She is a nice lady, but you are ill-matched. I wish you had asked my advice before you agreed to wed her, because you will make each other very unhappy.’
‘Oh,’ said Chaloner, not sure how else to respond, at least in part because he knew she was right.
‘Will she be attending Cave’s funeral?’ asked Temperance, tactfully changing the subject. ‘It will be the social event of the month, and everyone at Court plans to be seen there. People have already started to buy new black clothes, as is the fashion. I imagine it will be next week, because it will take some time to organise such a grand occasion. Richard will go, and I shall accompany him.’
‘You knew Cave?’
‘He came here on occasion, although I never liked him much – he was never very friendly.’
As Temperance and Chaloner rarely shared the same opinions, he was surprised that her assessment of Cave was the same as his own – the singer had made no effort to be pleasant on the voyage from Tangier, and had endured Chaloner’s company only because he played the viol. It had suited Chaloner, though; he had not extended himself to be sociable, either.
‘What else do you know about him?’
‘Nothing, because he only ever talked about music. He was a bore, to tell you the truth.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘The Chapel Royal choir are going to sing at his burial, and that alone will encourage many to come. They are extremely good.’
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 16
