‘Very well,’ conceded Williamson reluctantly. ‘But you are paying.’
‘I cannot be long,’ warned Chaloner, supposing there was no harm in listening. He might learn something useful with no obligation to reciprocate. ‘I have an audience with the Queen.’
‘And you say you have no connections,’ said Lester wonderingly.
The Paradise was one of three establishments – the others were Hell and Purgatory – that sold food and drink in Westminster’s Old Palace Yard. They were sometimes taverns, sometimes ordinaries and sometimes coffee houses, depending on the whims of their owners. The Paradise was currently a coffee house, although in keeping with the eccentricity of the place, the upper floor was given over to selling fishing tackle and an assortment of patented medicines.
Inside, it was hazy not only with smoke from the coffee beans, but from a badly swept chimney. It was dominated by a large oval table with a slit up the centre that allowed the owner to walk inside it and refill his customers’ dishes. His patrons were a mixture of the black-gowned lawyers who worked in the Palace of Westminster, and the ruffians who inhabited the slums that surrounded it. They were discussing the Post Office, an institution notorious for opening any letters entrusted to its care. The lawyers were of the opinion that anyone who committed words to paper without hiring one of them to make sure they could not be misinterpreted had only himself to blame; the rest thought a man’s correspondence was his own affair, and that the Post Office had no right to pry.
Chaloner started to sit at the main table, but Lester grabbed his arm and pointed to a secluded cubicle at the back.
‘We cannot discuss our problems in front of an audience. You know that. The booth is private, but in full view – Williamson cannot do anything untoward without at least a dozen men seeing.’
Williamson shot Chaloner a reproachful glance as he led the way towards it, although Chaloner felt their past encounters gave him the right to be wary. Lester placed several coins on the table, and coffee was brought. Chaloner sipped it, surprised to discover it was almost palatable. He set the dish back on the table, and indicated that Lester and Williamson were to begin their explanations.
‘I suppose we must start with Lester’s sister,’ Williamson obliged. ‘She lives in the Crown on Piccadilly, and was the first to notice that something untoward was happening.’
‘Not Ruth?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘She is Lester’s sister as well as Elliot’s wife?’
Lester nodded. ‘I thought you knew. She said you have been to visit her twice, and I know she would have mentioned me. I assumed you went to pick her brains.’
‘Such as they are,’ muttered Williamson acidly.
Something snapped clear in Chaloner’s mind when resentment suffused Lester’s face. ‘She is the reason you are working with Williamson! He said he was using your family to coerce you.’
‘He threatened to commit her to Bedlam otherwise,’ said Lester. He glared at the Spymaster. ‘There was no need to resort to such tactics – I would have helped anyway. I am a patriotic man, which is why I joined the navy.’
Williamson ignored him. ‘Ruth told Lester that something peculiar was happening in the Crown, and rather rashly, he decided to investigate.’
‘I did not know there was anything to investigate at first,’ elaborated Lester. ‘Ruth is given to imagining things, you see. But I soon realised she was right – it is the Piccadilly Company’s headquarters. I managed to eavesdrop once, although I am not very good at that sort of thing, and they hired Brinkes to stop it happening again.’
‘What did you hear?’ asked Chaloner.
‘A discussion about a plot to kill one of their members. The Queen wants Pratt dead, apparently.’
Chaloner shook his head firmly. ‘She would never embroil herself in such an affair.’
‘I agree,’ said Williamson. ‘But that will not stop people from accusing her, should the tale become public. People dislike her, and it provides an opportunity to send her back to Portugal in disgrace. Or worse. Our country does have a habit of lopping the heads off unwanted monarchs.’
‘And if that happens, Portugal will break off diplomatic relations with us,’ added Lester. ‘We shall have to return her dowry, which includes the ports of Tangier and Bombay, jewels, money, and all manner of trading rights. It will cripple us for decades.’
‘In other words, it will be an enormous disaster,’ summarised Williamson. ‘The French and Spanish will leap to take advantage of our weakened state, and the Dutch will declare war on us.’
‘Pratt does not seem overly worried by the plot, though,’ said Lester, while Chaloner’s mind reeled at their revelations. ‘He probably thinks Fitzgerald can protect him.’
‘Protect him from whom?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Who is behind this plot? The Adventurers?’
‘We do not know,’ replied Lester. ‘However, Fitzgerald may think so – it would certainly explain why he roasted Turner and Lucas, and may also account for Proby’s “suicide” and Congett’s “accident”. We cannot forget Captain Pepperell of Eagle, either. Brinkes killed him, and Brinkes is Fitzgerald’s henchman. Perhaps Pepperell was an Adventurer, too. He did sail to Africa a lot, after all.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘So Fitzgerald has declared war on the Adventurers?’
‘We suspect he has taken against some of them,’ said Williamson. ‘However, if we are right, then they are fighting back. Reyner and Newell are dead, and Pratt may soon follow …’
‘I am still hoping that the relationship between Pepperell and Elliot will provide answers,’ said Lester. He shrugged at Williamson’s dismissive expression. ‘You think I am wasting my time, but we have no other leads to follow, and I would like to know the truth about their deaths.’
‘Are you sure Elliot is dead?’ Chaloner asked him.
Lester looked startled. ‘Of course! The wound he received was mortal. He died the same day.’
‘Were you with him?’
‘No. The surgeon was drunk, so I left to see whether Wiseman was available. Unfortunately, I could not find him, and by the time I returned, Elliot had expired.’
‘What was this surgeon’s name?’
‘Jeremiah King of Axe Yard.’ Lester was puzzled. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Because Cave’s “brother” buried him rather hastily, thus depriving him of his elaborate funeral, and the descriptions of Jacob sound remarkably like Elliot.’
‘Then it is coincidence,’ said Lester firmly. ‘Because Elliot is buried himself. I saw him laid to rest in St Giles-in-the-Fields yesterday.’
‘That was Friday,’ said Chaloner. ‘But Cave was collected from the charnel house on Monday night, and buried on Tuesday. Elliot could have done it.’
‘He died on Monday,’ said Lester shortly. ‘Besides, he had no reason to tamper with Cave’s funeral arrangements. What a terrible accusation to make!’
‘His reason for tampering would be the same as the one that led him to fight Cave in the first place,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Brilliana.’
‘Well, he is innocent,’ stated Lester uncompromisingly. ‘I am sure of it.’
‘I understand why Cave’s brother acted as he did,’ said Williamson quietly. ‘The Chapel Royal choristers were organising a wildly expensive affair, and Cave was not wealthy. Payment would ultimately have fallen on Jacob, and I do not blame him for declining to be beggared.’
Lester nodded agreement, but Chaloner thought he would reserve judgement until he had visited ‘Jacob’ in Covent Garden and heard the tale from his own lips.
Unsettled and confused by the connections that were emerging, Chaloner followed Williamson and Lester out of the coffee house, hearing the bells of Westminster strike three. The day was passing, and he still had much to do. He took a deep breath. The air reeked of soot and blocked drains, but its coolness was refreshing after the fug of the shop.
‘So, to summarise,’ he said, ‘you believe there is a plot underway to discredit the Que
en by implicating her in the murder of a prominent architect. The result will be a diplomatic crisis, resulting in the loss of Tangier, untold money and trading rights. Meanwhile, the Piccadilly Company and the Adventurers are at each other’s throats, and members of both are dead.’
‘Some Adventurers are involved,’ stressed Williamson. ‘Not all of them.’
‘The Piccadilly Company includes Fitzgerald, Meneses, Brilliana, Harley, the Janszoons and Pratt,’ Chaloner went on. ‘And Brinkes is their henchman.’
‘Among others,’ acknowledged Williamson. ‘It also includes a number of upstanding merchants, and several knights. They are not all sinister, and some may very well think their sole aim is to export fine glassware to New England and bring gravel back.’
‘Meanwhile, the Adventurers also boast dozens of rich and influential people,’ Chaloner continued. ‘Leighton, the Duke of Buckingham, the King—
‘And four members of your employer’s household,’ interjected Williamson pointedly. ‘Brodrick and Hyde are open about their association; Dugdale and Edgeman keep it quiet.’
‘Kipps is not a member, though,’ said Lester. ‘I cannot imagine why, because he is exactly their kind of fellow – rich, brash and interested in extravagant parties.’
‘He was rejected, although I have been unable to ascertain why,’ said Williamson. ‘I would say it is because he works for Clarendon, whom most Adventurers hate, but if that were true, then Hyde, Brodrick, Edgeman and Dugdale would not have been accepted, either.’
Chaloner addressed his next question to Lester. ‘Have you heard of a ship called Jane?’
Lester nodded. ‘She is a privateer trading out of Tangier. A smuggler, in essence. I remember her well, because she has a peculiarly curved bowsprit. Why?’
Chaloner hesitated, but was acutely aware that he and Thurloe could not thwart what was happening alone, and the Queen was in danger. ‘Harley may have a connection to Jane. It has been suggested that I use it to blackmail him for answers.’
‘Then do it: smuggling is a hanging offence, and the threat may loosen his tongue.’ Williamson smiled, although it was not a pleasant expression. ‘Does this reluctant sharing of information mean you have decided to work with us?’
‘I will think about it,’ said Chaloner, reluctant to capitulate too readily.
‘Very well,’ said Williamson stiffly. ‘You know where to find me.’
The discussion over, Lester accompanied Chaloner along King Street, while Williamson returned to his offices. Chaloner glanced at the sky as they went, and saw it was too late to question Addison, Jacob, Harley or the witnesses to Newell’s death before visiting the Queen. And he dared not be late lest Hannah took umbrage and declined to let him in. Irritably, he supposed he would have to postpone his other enquiries until afterwards.
‘I really am sorry about the way you were brought to us,’ said Lester, seeing his annoyed grimace and misunderstanding the reason. ‘Doines is a lout.’
Chaloner glanced at him. ‘Are you happy working with Williamson?’
‘Not at all! However, I shall continue to do so until this crisis is resolved – it is my duty as a sea-officer. Yet I cannot rid myself of the notion that he might incarcerate Ruth in Bedlam anyway, just for spite. And she does not belong there. She may be fey-witted, but she is not insane.’
‘Was she fey-witted when she married Elliot?’
Lester shrugged uncomfortably. ‘She has always been a little … unworldly. I did not want her to wed him, but she was in love, and I did not have the heart to withhold permission. I wish I had, though, because he did not make her happy.’
‘My wife tells me you play the flute.’ Chaloner would have liked to express his sympathy, but was unsure what to say, so he changed the subject to one he thought Lester might prefer instead.
Lester smiled. ‘Williamson was waxing lyrical about your skill on the viol today, so perhaps we should try a duet. We shall do it after we have saved England from that damned pirate Fitzgerald. It will give me something to look forward to.’
Chaloner met Kipps when he arrived at White Hall, but the Seal Bearer looked him up and down in horror when he heard he was bound for the Queen’s quarters – the scuffle with Doines had taken its toll on his finery. There was also a coffee stain on his cuff, although he could not recall spilling any. Kipps whisked him into his office, and set about polishing his shoes and brushing the muck from his coat. He also lent him a clean shirt and a pair of white stockings.
‘I have been hearing about the Adventurers today,’ said Chaloner while he changed, intending to find out what Kipps knew about them. ‘I understand they—’
‘Thieves and scoundrels,’ declared Kipps uncompromisingly, scrubbing so vigorously at a sleeve that Chaloner feared he might make a hole. ‘What gives them the right to sequester an entire continent for themselves, forbidding anyone else to trade there?’
‘Presumably the fact that the King is a member, and he can do what he likes.’
‘I thought that was why we had Parliament,’ snapped Kipps, uncharacteristically revolutionary. ‘So monarchs cannot make decisions based on brazen self-interest. What have you been doing to get yourself into such a mess? Surely a conversation about the Adventurers was not the cause?’
‘Commerce is a dirty subject,’ replied Chaloner wryly.
‘It is where the Adventurers are concerned,’ agreed Kipps. ‘I am glad they rejected my application to join, because they are treasure-hunting aristocrats, not businessmen, and their venture will founder from lack of fiscal acumen.’
‘What about the Piccadilly Company?’ probed Chaloner. ‘Would you join that?’
‘Never heard of it,’ replied Kipps briskly. ‘You have one stocking inside out, by the way. God’s blood, Chaloner! No wonder Dugdale considers you slovenly. And if you will not wear a wig, then at least remove the blades of grass from your hair.’
He fussed until he was satisfied, unwilling for the spy to leave in anything less than pristine condition. Aware that the process had taken some time, Chaloner set off across the Great Court at a run, but was obliged to skid to a halt when he heard someone calling his name.
It was Hyde, the Earl puffing along in his wake with Frances on his arm. Dugdale was behind them, nose in the air and looking more regal than his master. From the other side of the courtyard, Buckingham aped the Earl’s portly waddle, and his rakish companions burst into peals of laughter. Hyde glowered, but it was Frances’s admonishing look that shamed them into silence.
‘Will you let them mock our employer so, Chaloner?’ demanded Dugdale indignantly. ‘Why do you not draw your sword and punish them for their effrontery?’
‘Because the King will not be happy if I slaughter his oldest friend, his mistress and several of his favourite barons,’ replied Chaloner shortly. He did not have time for this sort of nonsense.
‘There is no need for impudence,’ said Dugdale mildly, although his eyes showed his anger.
‘I suggest we incarcerate him in the palace prison for a few days,’ said Hyde, eyes narrowing. ‘That will teach him to mind his manners.’
‘That is a good idea,’ nodded Dugdale. ‘They are cold, dark and full of rats.’
Chaloner regarded him sharply. Was it coincidence that he should mention rats and dark places, or did the Chief Usher know what had transpired in Clarendon House the night before?
‘Your incautious tongue keeps bringing you trouble, Chaloner,’ said the Earl, raising his hand to prevent his son from adding more. ‘I understand you accused Pratt of stealing, too. I wish you had not. What if he takes umbrage and decides not to finish my home?’
‘He will do no such thing, dear.’ Frances patted her husband’s arm soothingly. ‘His pride will not let him abandon a half-finished masterpiece.’
‘And architects are vain,’ agreed Hyde. ‘I know, because I trained as one, and met lots of them.’
‘It was hardly training, Henry,’ remarked Frances. ‘A few months on a�
�’
‘We were discussing Chaloner’s claims,’ interrupted Hyde sharply, clearly furious at being put in his place by his mother. ‘I do not believe he saw these thieves. I think he invented them, to encourage us not to dismiss him.’
‘We will never do that,’ said Frances vehemently. ‘I feel much happier now he is home, looking after our interests.’ She turned to her husband. ‘And so do you, dear. You said so only last night.’
‘Well, yes, I did,’ acknowledged the Earl. Then he scowled at Chaloner. ‘But that was before he failed to lay hold of these villains.’
‘I can find someone better,’ said Hyde stiffly. ‘Someone who will follow orders and keep a civil tongue in his head. Of course, he will not be a spy, but espionage is sordid anyway, and—’
‘It is sordid,’ interrupted Frances. ‘But it is also necessary. And no one will dismiss Thomas, because he is better at it than anyone we have ever known.’
She took the Earl’s arm and pulled him on their way, inclining her head to Chaloner, who was not sure whether he had just been complimented or insulted. The twinkle in her eye led him to hope it was the former. Dugdale followed, leaving Chaloner alone with Hyde.
‘I am glad we met,’ said Chaloner, although he chafed at the passing time, and hoped Hyde would not prove awkward to interview. ‘I understand you witnessed Newell’s death today.’
‘I decline to discuss it,’ said Hyde curtly. ‘And you cannot make me.’
Chaloner was sure he could. ‘I only wanted to ask who else was there.’
‘Lots of people,’ snapped Hyde. ‘Men often demonstrate new weapons in St James’s Park on a Saturday morning, and I was there with Leighton and the O’Briens. It is one of London’s favourite pastimes. Well, favourite among respectable people. I doubt you have ever been.’
‘How close were you when it happened?’
‘Quite close – touching distance.’ Hyde’s expression was suddenly bleak, and Chaloner realised that distress, not mulishness, was the reason for his reluctance to discuss the matter. When Hyde next spoke, it was more to himself than the spy. ‘The weapon was a type I had never seen before – and not one I am inclined to purchase, either, given that demonstration of its capabilities.’
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 25
