He took his leave of White Hall in a troubled state of mind and began to walk home. He stopped once, at a potter’s shop, where he purchased a large piece of clay.
By the time Chaloner reached Tothill Street, he was despondent, feeling he had learned nothing new that day, except the possibility that Pratt might be responsible for the disappearing materials and that Reverend Addison might be a source of information on Teviot’s scouts. He decided to explore both lines of enquiry the following morning, after he had interviewed Brilliana.
He arrived to find Hannah preparing to go out. She was wearing a new bodice and skirt, the latter of which was cut open at the front to reveal delicately embroidered underskirts. In accordance with fashion, she wore a black ‘face-patch’ on her chin, although he was relieved that she had confined herself to one; it was not unknown for people to don up to thirty in an effort to be stylish.
She was in the kitchen, which reeked powerfully of burned garlic. Lounging in a chair, George puffed on his pipe, feet propped on the wall where they left black marks on the plaster. Nan had just poured him a cup of ale, which she delivered with a curtsy before fleeing behind Joan; Susan was sewing him another shirt. All three women were subdued, and Chaloner wondered whether George’s bullying had gone beyond mental intimidation to something physical.
‘Stand up in your mistress’s presence,’ he snapped, sweeping the footman’s legs off the wall.
George came to his feet fast, and Chaloner braced himself for a fight, but the footman only bowed an apology and stood to attention. Nan and Susan exchanged a startled look, while the flicker of a smile crossed Joan’s dour face. Hannah nodded her approval, then turned to the mirror, assessing the way her hair fell in ringlets around her face.
‘You should not be leaving the house at this hour, mistress,’ chided Joan, glancing out of the window at the darkness beyond. ‘It is not seemly.’
‘Thank you, Joan,’ said Hannah crisply. ‘I shall be home late, so there is no need to wait up. Take the evening off. All of you.’
Susan and Nan did not need to be told twice, and were away before she could change her mind, jostling to be first out of the door. Joan followed more sedately, head held high to indicate her annoyance at being so casually dismissed. George started to sit back down, but saw Chaloner’s look and went instead to fetch Hannah’s cloak. Chaloner escorted her to White Hall himself, not liking the notion of her being out alone after dark.
‘You were right, and I was wrong,’ said Hannah, once they were out of the house. She sounded as dispirited as he felt. ‘George is a brute, Joan is bossy, Susan is spiteful and Nan is insolent. She just told me that I cannot cook.’
‘Did she?’ Chaloner hoped he would not be called upon to dispute it; he was too weary to tell convincing lies.
‘But I can,’ said Hannah, obviously hurt. ‘I made you a lovely stew. With lots of garlic.’
‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner weakly. ‘Have you found anyone willing to hire George yet?’
‘Unfortunately, his reputation goes before him, so no one will oblige. I wish you would take him with you when you go out. Then I would not feel like an unwelcome interloper in my own home.’
Chaloner had visions of trying to blend into courtly functions with the surly ex-resident of Tangier in tow. ‘Impossible. Do you want my company this evening, or only as far as White Hall?’
Hannah grimaced. ‘I wish you could come, because it would make the occasion bearable – her Majesty is entertaining Meneses, the Conde de Almeida, again, and it is my turn to act as chaperon.’
‘Meneses?’ asked Chaloner sharply. Was this Temperance’s ‘Memphis, Count of America’, and the Portuguese member of the Piccadilly Company?
‘I cannot abide the man,’ Hannah went on. ‘Unfortunately, the Queen can.’
‘What is wrong with him?’
‘He pretends to know no English, but he understands it when it suits him. Personally, I think he is here to see what he can get from her, but he will be disappointed.’
‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. Hannah was right about the language: Meneses had spoken perfectly passable English at the club.
‘Because the Queen has nothing to give. Personally, I think the Court will keep her poor until she produces an heir. Of course, that will never happen. She is like me: we both have dutiful husbands, but there is no sign of a baby. Surgeon Wiseman told me that some women simply never conceive.’
‘You want children?’ asked Chaloner, startled.
‘Of course I do! I thought I was just unlucky with my first husband, but it is the same with you, too. And as you had a son with your first wife, the fault must lie with me.’
Chaloner was not sure what to say. He had lost his first wife and child to plague, and since he had arrived in London, he had come to believe that it would be unwise to start another family when his own life and future were so uncertain. He was astonished to learn that Hannah thought otherwise, and it underlined again how little they knew each other.
‘The Queen’s failure is rather more serious than mine, though,’ Hannah went on. ‘So I am toying with the notion of acquiring a baby, and passing it off as hers.’
‘Please do not,’ begged Chaloner, recalling uncomfortably that there was a rumour about that very possibility. ‘Royal surgeons will need to be present during the birth, and—’
‘Surgeons can be bribed.’
‘If they can be bribed, then they are likely to be treacherous. They will betray you.’
‘I will not recruit anyone dishonourable,’ declared Hannah, in the kind of statement he had once found endearing but that now made him wonder whether she was in complete control of her wits.
‘Your plan will see the Queen accused of treason.’ Chaloner hesitated, but then forged on – Hannah should know her mistress was in danger. ‘Letters have been found that implicate her in a murder. Obviously, she is innocent, but it shows that someone is keen to harm her.’
Hannah paled. ‘Who has been murdered? And who found these letters? Do not tell me – Hyde! That treacherous little beast! He told his father and the Earl ordered you to look into it. Am I right?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘We know the Queen is innocent of wanting Pratt dead, but—’
‘But others will not care whether it is true or not,’ finished Hannah angrily. ‘They will use it against her, regardless. You must exonerate her immediately.’
‘I shall try my best. Hyde discovered these messages in her apartments. Do you know how they might have arrived there?’
‘It would not be easy,’ replied Hannah, still livid. ‘But you might see how it was done if I show you her quarters. Meet me there tomorrow … No, I shall be busy tomorrow. Come the day after – Saturday – late in the afternoon. And dress nicely, Tom, because she might be there.’
Back in Tothill Street, Chaloner burned the ripped-up letter on the kitchen fire. Then he took a bowl of Hannah’s stew, but the reek of charred garlic was so strong that it made him gag. He poured it on the flames, leaping back in alarm when something in it produced a great billowing blaze that almost set him alight. There was bread and cheese in the pantry, along with a jug of milk, so he took them to the drawing room, and started to work on the cipher he had found in the Crown.
Unfortunately, he was no more alert than he had been that morning, and it was not long before the letters blurred in front of his eyes. He tossed down the pen, feeling the need for the restorative effects of music. His best viol was at Long Acre, but he kept another one in the cupboard under the stairs at Tothill Street. There was no Hannah to complain, and no female servants to make disparaging remarks, so he went to retrieve it.
As he played, the tensions of the day drained away. He closed his eyes, allowing the music to take him to its own world, and did not hear the knocking at the door until it was loud enough to be impatient. He was alarmed – that sort of inattention saw spies killed.
‘Are you deaf?’ demanded Surgeon Wiseman, when Chaloner opened the door. �
�I have been hammering for an age, trying to make myself heard over your private recital.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Chaloner, resenting the return to Earth and its attendant problems.
‘To bring you some news,’ said Wiseman, equally brusque as he pushed past Chaloner and made for the drawing room. He sat, and warmed his hands by the fire. ‘About Cave’s funeral.’
‘Has a date been set?’
‘Yes,’ replied Wiseman. ‘It took place on Tuesday – two days ago.’
Chaloner regarded him in surprise. ‘But I thought it was to be the “social event of the month” with music by the Chapel Royal choir and the Bishop of London presiding.’
‘So did everyone else. But it was discovered this evening that he was quietly buried in St Margaret’s churchyard on Tuesday morning. It might have gone unrealised for longer, but the curate who conducted the ceremony happened to mention it in passing to the Bishop. Needless to say, a lot of people feel cheated.’
‘Who arranged for him to be buried? I thought he had no family.’
‘We all did, but we were wrong – he had an older brother named Jacob. However, I cannot imagine what possessed him to shove Cave in the ground with such unseemly haste.’
‘Can you not? The ceremony planned by the Chapel Royal choir would have cost a fortune – an expense that Jacob would have been obliged to bear.’
‘Cave was comfortably wealthy. He probably had enough money to cover it.’
‘But he might not, and the fact that he never mentioned Jacob to his friends means they were not close – no one wants to be bankrupted by the funeral of an unloved sibling. Besides, if Cave did have money, I imagine Jacob would rather keep it for himself.’
‘You might be right,’ acknowledged Wiseman. ‘Are you drinking cold milk, Chaloner? Surely, you know that is dangerous? Have you no wine? I shall accept a cup, if you do.’ He watched Chaloner go to pour it, then resumed his report. ‘A lot of people are upset by what Jacob has done, including a woman named Brilliana Stanley. And we do not want her annoyed, believe me. She is a very disreputable character.’
‘So I have heard.’ Chaloner decided to make use of the surgeon, as he was there. ‘Do you know a minister named Addison? I need to talk to him, but I do not know where he lives.’
‘Tangier’s chaplain? He has taken rooms on The Strand, near the Maypole. Why? Surely you do not suspect him of being complicit in Cave’s shameful send-off?’
‘It relates to another matter.’
‘Teviot’s fate?’ Wiseman shrugged at Chaloner’s surprise. ‘The Earl told me that you were looking into it, although it seems unreasonable to expect you to find answers so long after the event. Still, I suppose Addison might have a theory; he is an observant fellow. Incidentally, did you hear what happened in the Theatre Royal earlier today?’
Chaloner shook his head.
‘The Parson’s Dream is playing there. It is one of the bawdiest plays ever written – I was mortified, and I am an anatomist. But that is beside the point, which is that a Dutch couple were in the audience, and misunderstood something said by the character Mrs Wanton, with rather embarrassing consequences.’
‘I do not suppose they were the same Dutch couple who revealed their shaky English in the Banqueting House yesterday, were they?’
‘Very possibly. Unfortunately, people are not very forgiving of Hollanders with a poor grasp of our language, and the increasing dislike for this particular couple will do nothing for the cause of peace. Fortunately, someone defused the situation before they could be harmed.’
‘Who? And how did he do it?’
‘He escorted them outside before they could be assaulted. I believe their saviour was Fitzgerald the pirate. Or should I say Fitzgerald the privateer?’
They were silent for a while, Wiseman sipping his wine and Chaloner pondering how Fitzgerald fitted into his various enquiries. Eventually, the surgeon spoke again.
‘The Earl said you were looking into his stolen bricks, too.’
Chaloner wished his master would not gossip about his investigations. He trusted Wiseman to be discreet – for all his faults, the surgeon was sensible of the fact that talking out of turn might endanger lives – but the Earl tended to be loose-tongued with a lot of people.
‘You should accuse Oliver of the crime,’ Wiseman continued. ‘I do not like him. He hired me to cure his bunions, but then refused to pay, just because my lotion made them worse.’
Mention of Clarendon House reminded Chaloner of something else he needed to do. ‘Do you recall inventing a substance for immobilising broken limbs? You tried it on me once, and I thought I might have to wear it on my arm for the rest of my life.’
‘I have perfected it since then,’ said Wiseman coolly, not liking to be reminded of a venture that had been less than successful. ‘It now works extremely well. Why?’
‘May I have some?’
Wiseman regarded him suspiciously, but mixed him a batch from the supplies he carried in his bag. When it was ready, Chaloner used it and the clay he had bought to produce an accurate mould of the key-impressions he had made the previous night. It did not take long, and when he had finished, all that remained was to take the moulds to a forge and commission a copy in metal.
‘Should I ask whose house you intend to give yourself unlimited access to?’ asked Wiseman.
‘No.’
‘Well, perhaps I am better off not knowing, anyway.’ Wiseman stood. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. The Earl wants you to go to Woolwich tomorrow.’
Chaloner groaned. ‘He orders me to solve these mysteries by Wednesday, but then wastes my time by sending me on futile errands. I might have had some answers today had he left me alone.’
‘Very possibly, but do not antagonise him by refusing to comply. Apparently, a new ship, Royal Katherine, is to be launched, and a lot of his enemies will be there. He wants you to monitor them.’
‘What does he expect me to do?’ asked Chaloner waspishly. ‘Sink it and drown them all?’
Wiseman raised his eyebrows. ‘Now there is an idea.’
The following dawn was cold, wet and windy, so Chaloner dressed in clothes suitable for a day outside in foul weather, and trotted down the stairs to spend an hour on the cipher before he left. He had left it in his pen-box, and was troubled to note that it had been moved since the previous night.
He stared at it. The table had been polished that morning, because there were streaks of wax where it had not been buffed properly. Had Joan or one of the maids knocked the box as they had worked, so the disturbance was innocent? Or had they looked inside to see whether it contained anything interesting? Or, more alarmingly, had George?
Chaloner could see no way to find out – he doubted direct demands would yield truthful answers – and supposed he would just have to be more careful in future. As it was raining, he could not take the cipher with him lest the ink ran, so he knelt and slipped it in the gap between the wall and the skirting board. He stood quickly when someone entered the room. It was Hannah.
‘What are you doing down there?’ she demanded. ‘I hope we do not have mice again. George told me he had poisoned them all.’
‘Perhaps he missed one.’ Chaloner did not like the idea of George in charge of toxic substances, and when the footman marched into the room with a breakfast tray, he declined to take any.
‘Eat something, Tom,’ instructed Hannah brusquely. ‘You are already thinner than when you came home from Tangier.’
Chaloner refrained from saying that her cooking was largely responsible for that, because he could tell from her scowl that her morning temper was about to erupt. He accepted a piece of bread, but spoiled the ale and oatmeal by ‘accidentally’ knocking one so it spilled into the other; he did not want his wife poisoned by their footman, either.
‘Why are you awake?’ he asked. ‘It is not long past dawn – the middle of the night for you.’
‘Do not be facetious with me, Thomas,’ she snapped. ‘I have
to go to Woolwich, because the ship named after the Queen is to be launched today. We are travelling there by barge, God help us. The last time I went on one of those, I was sick the whole way.’
‘Then perhaps it is as well the breakfast is spoiled. You cannot be sick with an empty stomach.’
‘Spoken like a man who has never suffered from mal de mer,’ retorted Hannah crossly. ‘Because if you had, you would know you could abstain from food for a week and still find something to vomit.’
On that note, Chaloner took his leave.
As he left the house, it occurred to him that it was time he followed Thurloe’s orders and purchased a handgun. There was only one place he knew where such weapons could be bought with no questions asked – given their potential for assassination, the government liked gunsmiths to keep records – and that was from the Trulocke brothers on St Martin’s Lane. Before he entered their shabby, uninviting premises, he bought a piece of meat, donned an old horsehair wig, and covered his face with the kind of scarf men wore to keep London’s foul air from their lungs.
Outside the shop was a fierce dog, which snapped at the ankles of passers-by. Chaloner tossed it the meat, then stepped around it when it leapt on the offering. It wagged its tail as he passed, and he wondered whether it remembered him feeding it on previous occasions.
Inside, the place reeked of gunpowder and hot metal. It was also busy, and all three brothers were dealing with customers. Like Chaloner, the other patrons had taken care to conceal their faces, but unlike him they did not appreciate that a disguise was more than just donning a hat and a scarf. He recognised Secretary Leighton from his scuttling gait, and although Harley knew to change his walk, his blazing devil-eyes gave him away.
Chaloner edged towards Harley. It was not a good place to accost the scout, because it would expose them both to recognition, but he could certainly ascertain what the man was doing in a place where illegal firearms could be purchased. Unfortunately, Harley’s business was just concluding.
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 19
