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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘It is not wild. I know what you think of Fitzgerald, but this is honest business. He charters a ship to transport our glassware to New England, and he arranges a different cargo for the return journey. Gravel, mostly.’

  ‘Gravel,’ said Thurloe flatly.

  ‘It is a useful commodity. I swear there is nothing devious or dubious about the Piccadilly Company. Our membership includes several noblemen and a number of wealthy merchants. Of course, I do not know their names …’

  ‘If it is legal, why does Brinkes keep people away from its meetings?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘To prevent spies from learning our business secrets,’ explained Lydcott earnestly. ‘And because Fitzgerald earned a lot of enemies when he was a pirate. You are one of them, Thurloe, although he has not broken the law since you fell from power. He says it has not been necessary now the Royalists are in control.’

  Thurloe did not look convinced, and neither was Chaloner, but Lydcott clearly believed his own tale. He was not overly endowed with wits, thought Chaloner, so was exactly the kind of fellow to be used by more devious minds. But there was nothing to be gained from questioning him further, and Thurloe indicated he could go. Lydcott escaped with relief.

  ‘He always was a fool,’ said Thurloe in disgust. ‘And I have bailed him out of more trouble than you can imagine, only for him to land himself in yet another scrape. But to throw in his lot with Fitzgerald! All I can hope is that he will escape this foolery unscathed, because Ann will be heartbroken if anything happens to him.’

  Chaloner summoned a hackney carriage, and he and Thurloe rode back to Lincoln’s Inn in silence. The ex-Spymaster promptly hurried away to see what messages had been left for him by informants while he had been absent, and Chaloner decided to check Clarendon House.

  He arrived as dusk was falling. Wright’s soldiers had not yet deigned to appear, but Pratt, Oliver and Vere were there, inspecting the newly installed gateposts at the front of the drive – four times the height of a man, and topped with carvings that bore a marked resemblance to winged pigs.

  Chaloner considered tackling Pratt about possible errors in his estimates, but decided against it: he was more likely to secure a confession when there was not an audience of minions listening. The same went for Vere and Oliver – they were not going to expose mistakes in their employer’s reckoning when he was standing next to them. So Chaloner sank back into the shadows, and waited to see whether the opportunity would arise to accost one of them alone. Unfortunately, all three set off in the direction of the Haymarket together, clearly with the intention of enjoying a post-work drink in the company of each other.

  Once they had gone, he approached the house and tried his key in the door. It did not work, but he was expecting that. Using a file he had filched from the Trulockes’ shop, he sawed at it until it did, then spent another hour in patient honing until it turned smoothly and silently.

  When he was satisfied, he entered the house and lit a lamp, using a tinderbox he found in the library. He prowled the main floor, instinctively memorising lengths, distances and dimensions, and testing his key in other doors as he went. Then he climbed to the next storey, wondering maliciously who would sleep in all the bedrooms, given that the Earl had a small family and very few friends.

  Of course, he thought with a pang, the Earl had a lot more friends than he did. Other than Thurloe, there was only Wiseman whom he did not much like, Temperance who did not much like him, and Hannah. Most of the friends he had made while spying were dead, and the few who had survived had retired under false names, and would not take kindly to a reminder of their past lives.

  Sobered by the thought, he ascended to the top floor, where smaller chambers would provide accommodation for the Earl’s retinue and less important guests. One was marked with Kipps’s name, and Chaloner unlocked it to see the Seal Bearer had already started to decorate. It was sumptuous, and indicated that either Kipps had paid for some of the fitments himself, or he had persuaded the builders to make a special effort on his behalf.

  Eventually, Chaloner descended to the basement, noting that the laundries had been supplied with copper vats since he had last been there. He glanced at the stairs that led to the cellar, and bent to inspect some muddy footprints. They were wet, indicating they had been made not long before, and included human feet and animal claws. It was curious, but he was disinclined to investigate, given that to do so would mean entering a place that was far too similar to a prison to be comfortable. He was about to leave when he heard a sound.

  He stood stock still, listening. Had Wright arrived and seen his lamp, so had come to find out who was prowling when the house should be empty? Or, more likely, given that Wright was not a conscientious man, was it the thieves?

  Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to walk down the stairs, fighting the clamouring voice in his head that told him to race back up them and run away from Clarendon House as fast as his legs would carry him. At the bottom, he raised the lamp, but saw nothing other than the hallway disappearing into darkness. He moved along it cautiously.

  When he reached the strongroom he saw that a large chest had been placed inside it, at the far end. The light from his lantern picked up a flash of white – a piece of paper was on top of the box. He walked toward it and scanned the message:

  Behold the smalle jawes of Death and Darknesse

  He regarded it in incomprehension, and lifted the lid. Then three things happened at once. First, there was a frantic flurry of movement and he saw the box was full of rats. Second, there was sound behind him, startling him into dropping the lamp. And third, the door slammed closed, leaving him in total darkness.

  Chapter 7

  Cursing his own stupidity, Chaloner groped his way towards the door, furry bodies scurrying around his feet as he went. Agitated squeaks and the sound of scrabbling claws came from all directions, curiously muffled by the lead-lined walls. He reached the door and tried to open it, but was not surprised when it refused to budge.

  He experienced a pang of alarm when it occurred to him that he might not be released until the workmen returned the following morning, but that was nothing compared to what he felt when he remembered that Pratt had designed the room to be airtight.

  He did panic at that point, and pounded on the door with all his might, feeling his breath come in agonised bursts, and aware that his fear was transmitting itself to the rodents, because they nipped at his ankles and scratched at his legs. The chest had been full of them, and they would use up the air, reducing the time any of them would survive. How long would they wait before beginning to eat him alive? And how was he to fend them off when he could not see them?

  But he had been trained to think rationally in dire situations, and the debilitating wave of terror did not last long. He forced himself to stand still and think. He would not suffocate immediately, because there was still plenty of air, and the hapless rats were probably more interested in escaping than in devouring their cellmate. While he waited for his heart to slow to a more normal pace, he set his mind to working out who might want him dead.

  Was it Fitzgerald or his master, because he had been asking questions about the Piccadilly Company? Harley and Newell, because they resented his interference over the Teviot affair? What about Leighton, who was sinister by any standard, and who almost certainly had something to hide? Or was it the brick-thieves, because he was a nuisance?

  There was also a possibility that the culprit was someone nearer home. Chief Usher Dugdale would not hesitate to dispatch him, and neither would his crony Edgeman, but were they sufficiently bold to contrive and act out such a diabolical plan? Kipps was, but Chaloner had received nothing but kindness from him, and could not believe that the Seal Bearer meant him harm. And then there was Hyde, who deplored the fact that his father’s household included a spy.

  He turned his thoughts to escape. He could not relight the lamp, because he had no tinderbox, so whatever he did would need to be done in the dark. He began to run h
is fingers over the door, recalling that the vault was the only room in the house that could not be opened with the master key. But it was still secured with a lock, and locks could be picked.

  He was just beginning to fear that there might not be one on the inside, when he found it. It was covered by a slip of metal, designed to prevent air from blowing in. He prised it aside with his knife, ridiculously relieved when he detected air on his fingertips. At least he could kneel there and inhale it if the worst came to the worst. He took his probes from his pocket, inserted them into the hole, and began to fiddle.

  He soon learned it was a type he had never encountered before, equipped with a strong spring that was beyond his probes’ capabilities. He lost count of the times when he nearly had it turned, only to hear it snap back again. Moreover, the air in the room seemed to be getting thinner, making him light-headed. At one point he sank to the floor, feeling despair begin to consume him, but the sharp teeth of a rat in his hand drove him to his knees again, to start tinkering afresh.

  When the lock eventually gave way he wondered whether he had imagined it, but he pushed the door and felt it swing open. The corridor beyond was as dark as the vault, and he still could not see his hand in front of his face. The rats sensed freedom, though, and he heard them surging around him as they retreated to the deeper recesses of the cellars.

  Then followed a nightmarish period during which he lurched blindly, trying to locate the steps. When he eventually found them, he ascended as fast as he could, and made for the portico. It took several attempts to insert his key in the front door, and when it opened, he staggered out with a gasp of relief. He leaned against the wall and took a deep breath, relishing the cool, fresh scent of night. By the time he had recovered his composure, he hated Clarendon House more than ever.

  The experience had shaken him badly, and he wanted no more than to spend what was left of the evening by a fire with a large jug of wine. He considered going to Long Acre, but the prospect of a cold garret did not appeal: he craved human company. However, he wished he had chosen somewhere other than Tothill Street when he opened the door to his house and immediately sensed an atmosphere.

  George was in the kitchen, a picture of serenity with his long legs stretched comfortably towards the hearth and a flagon of ale in his hand. He was in the chair Joan liked to use, and she had been relegated to a far less pleasant seat near the window. Susan was positively cowering, while Nan looked as though she had been crying. George did stand when Chaloner entered the room, but so slowly it was only just on the right side of respect.

  ‘The mistress will be late tonight,’ said Joan, coolly aloof as always. ‘She baked you a pie, but it is no longer available.’

  It was an odd thing to say. ‘Why?’ Chaloner asked. ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘He fed it to the neighbour’s pig,’ said Susan, regarding George through eyes that were full of nervous dislike. George stared back at her, his expression disconcertingly neutral. ‘He said he thought it was meant for the slops.’

  ‘What a pity,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether George expected him to be grateful. If so, then he was going to be disappointed, because Chaloner was not about to be disloyal to his wife. ‘But you all seem merry here together, so I shall leave you in peace.’

  He turned to leave but Joan seized his arm, and it was fortunate for her that she was a middle-aged woman, or she might have found herself knocked away with considerable vigour. Chaloner was not in the mood for being manhandled.

  ‘We are not merry at all,’ she hissed. ‘Indeed, we have not been merry since you hired that horrible footman. If you want to keep Nan, Susan and me, you will dismiss him.’

  ‘Rat bites,’ said George, making them both jump by speaking close behind them. Chaloner had not heard him approach, and was disconcerted that so large a man should move with such stealth. ‘You should see to that hand, sir. They can be dangerous if left untended.’

  Chaloner regarded him sharply. Was there more to the words than concerned advice?

  ‘Rat bites?’ Joan’s voice was a mixture of revulsion and disapproval, while the maids smirked at this latest evidence of their master’s eccentricity. ‘I shall not ask how you came by them.’

  ‘Good,’ said Chaloner shortly, and stalked out. He had done no more than slump wearily by the drawing room fire when there was a knock on the front door. He smothered a sigh of annoyance when Wiseman was shown in moments later by a spiteful-faced Joan.

  ‘He will berate me tomorrow, for not asking whether he was available to receive you,’ she said snidely to the surgeon. ‘But it does him no harm to be sociable on occasion.’

  Chaloner shot to his feet. There was only so far he could be goaded by surly servants, but Joan ducked behind Wiseman in alarm, and was gone before he could do more than step towards her.

  ‘If ever you dismiss that gorgon, I am sure Temperance would take her on,’ said Wiseman, pouring himself a cup of claret from the jug on the table. ‘To keep the club in order.’

  ‘Take her with you tonight, then,’ said Chaloner, adding pointedly, ‘When you leave.’

  Wiseman laughed, wholly unfazed by Chaloner’s sullen temper. ‘Having impudent servants serves you right. Now you know how the Earl feels when you are disrespectful to him.’

  ‘What do you want, Wiseman?’

  The surgeon sat, and stretched his hands towards the flames. ‘Must I have a reason to visit a friend? But perhaps it is as well I came, because you seem unwell. Do you need my services?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Chaloner shortly.

  Wiseman reached out and grabbed his wrist. ‘Is that a rat bite?’

  Chaloner tried to pull away, but Wiseman’s grip was powerful, and he did not want to free himself at the expense of broken bones. Wiseman rummaged in his bag and produced a pot.

  ‘Smear that on me, and it will be the last thing you do,’ warned Chaloner. He had learned to his cost that the medical profession invariably did more harm than good, and although Wiseman was generally better than most, he did have a propensity to experiment.

  ‘It is a salve containing ingredients to combat infection,’ said Wiseman sternly. ‘Any fool knows rat bites can kill. Did you not hear what happened to poor Congett this evening?’

  Chaloner regarded him uneasily as the healing paste was slapped on – the big-nosed Adventurer had been in good health at Woolwich earlier. ‘What?’

  ‘He was found dead by the river tonight, and the only mark on his body was a rat bite on his foot. He must have trodden on it while he was strolling along the shore.’

  No self-respecting merchant ‘strolled’ along the banks of the Thames, on the grounds that all manner of filth was washed up on them, not to mention the fact that they were muddy. Chaloner could only assume that Congett was the latest victim in whatever war was raging.

  ‘His heart must have been weak,’ Wiseman went on. ‘And he died from the shock of it.’

  ‘He will have been murdered,’ predicted Chaloner. ‘Although I would not recommend opening the corpse to prove it. That would almost certainly put you in danger.’

  ‘Then I shall abstain,’ said Wiseman, packing away his salve and standing to leave. He hesitated. ‘I do not want to know what is currently occupying your time – not if it involves murder and rats – but it would make me happier if you accepted this. It is the scalpel I use for dissecting eyeballs. No, do not try to pass it back with such a look of revulsion!’

  But Chaloner was repelled – the tiny blade was not very clean. ‘I do not need it.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ stated Wiseman firmly. ‘It is more easily hidden than the rest of the arsenal you tote around with you, and considerably more discreet. Take it, Chaloner. It may save your life.’

  Chaloner doubted such a minute thing would do anything of the kind, but he slid it into the waistband of his breeches, nodding his thanks – he had neither the energy nor the inclination to engage in a battle of wills with Wiseman. When the surgeon had gone,
he went upstairs and lay on the bed, where he endured nightmare after nightmare about the strongroom and Congett.

  * * *

  Chaloner snapped awake a few hours later to find himself clutching a dagger. A creak on the stair confirmed that his return to consciousness had not been natural. He bounded off the bed and was about to pounce on the person who came creeping into the room when he realised it was Hannah.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded suspiciously, seeing him behind the door.

  He shrugged sheepishly, dropping the weapon on to the pile of clothes behind his back before she could see it. ‘I heard a sound.’

  ‘I was trying to be quiet,’ declared Hannah, loudly and on an accompanying waft of wine. It was still dark outside, although a paler glimmer in the east said dawn was on its way. He surmised that she had just enjoyed one of White Hall’s infamous all-night parties.

  ‘Whisper, Hannah, or you will wake the servants. Where have you been?’

  ‘Westminster. There was a reception to celebrate the launch of Katherine. The whole Court was there. Indeed, I am surprised you stayed away, as it was a good opportunity to eavesdrop.’

  Chaloner ignored the censure inherent in her words. ‘Who was there?’

  ‘Everyone,’ replied Hannah unhelpfully, twirling around happily and then staggering. ‘It was very lively, especially once the sober, boring types had gone. Such as your Earl and his retinue – with the exception of Kipps, who knows how to enjoy himself. I am sorry for you, having to endure the likes of Hyde, Dugdale and Edgeman day in and day out.’

  ‘Our paths do not cross very often. Although Dugdale—’

  ‘Leighton from the Adventurers left early, too,’ Hannah went on, cutting across him in the way she always did when she was not very interested in what he was saying. ‘So did Grey. Well, I suppose we can excuse Grey, because he still mourns Turner and Lucas.’

  Chaloner wondered whether that was true. Grey had wept in the Rainbow Coffee House, but had seemed in perfectly good spirits at the Tennis Courts later, when he had chatted and laughed with Kipps. And why had Hyde, Dugdale, Edgeman and Leighton left early? To lock irritating intelligencers in Clarendon House’s strongroom? Chaloner said nothing, and Hannah chattered on.