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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Chaloner sympathetically. ‘It cannot have been easy to witness.’

  Hyde shuddered, and his manner softened slightly. ‘No. But never mind Newell – I have something much more important to tell you. I declined to mention it in front of my father, because I do not want him worried, but I found another letter this morning.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘In the Queen’s purse again,’ replied Hyde. ‘Which means she must have put it there, because no one else goes in it. It was in a different one from last time – that was red, and this one was yellow.’

  ‘You went in it,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘So logic dictates that someone else could, too.’

  ‘Yes, but I am her secretary,’ countered Hyde haughtily. ‘I am different.’

  ‘What did the letter say?’ asked Chaloner, declining to argue. ‘And where is it now?’

  ‘It reiterated all the same nonsense as the first three. I put it on the fire.’

  ‘Good,’ said Chaloner, pleased Hyde had done something right at last. ‘Are you sure the whole thing was burned? No readable fragments were left?’

  Hyde shot him a look of pure dislike. ‘Of course I am sure. But I cannot waste time chatting to you. I have an important Adventurers’ meeting to attend.’

  The Queen’s quarters comprised a suite of rooms that were cold in winter and hot in summer, and while a few chambers afforded a nice view of the river, most overlooked a dingy courtyard near the servants’ latrine. Chaloner went through the formalities of admission with Captain Appleby, then climbed a staircase that was nowhere near as fine as the one that led to the Earl’s offices.

  ‘There you are, Tom,’ said Hannah, emerging from a plain and rather threadbare antechamber. ‘I was beginning to think you might have forgotten. Where have you been?’

  ‘Hyde found another letter today.’ Chaloner ignored the question and said what was on his mind. ‘In the Queen’s purse. Does he often rummage around in those?’

  Hannah gaped. ‘He certainly should not! I would not appreciate a man rifling through mine, not even you. They are personal.’

  Chaloner was thoughtful. Had Hyde gone where no man should dare to root because he wanted to protect the Queen, or because he was eager to see her in trouble? And there was the question that kept nagging at him: had Hyde planted the letters there himself?

  ‘He said it was in a different purse from last time,’ he went on. ‘Yellow, rather than red.’

  Hannah stared at him. ‘The Queen never uses the red and yellow ones – she does not like them. Her favourites are the green and white.’

  Chaloner smiled. ‘Which is indicative of her innocence – if the letters were hers, they would have been in the purses she uses, not in the ones she dislikes.’

  ‘All well and good,’ said Hannah worriedly. ‘But it means someone villainous has access to the Blue Dressing Room – the chamber where she keeps such accessories. I shall have to work longer hours, to see if I can catch him.’

  ‘Please do not,’ begged Chaloner, alarmed. ‘It might be dangerous.’

  ‘It would be worth it.’ Hannah raised her chin bravely, reminding Chaloner of why he had married her. ‘The Queen is worth ten of anyone else in White Hall – except the Duke and you.’

  Chaloner supposed it was a compliment, although he was not flattered to be likened to Buckingham. ‘I have a number of clues,’ he lied. ‘So there is no need to risk yourself just yet. But we had better make a start before Hyde comes back.’

  ‘He has gone for the day. Why do you think I suggested you come now? I wanted to show you how Her Majesty gets letters without him leaning over my shoulder and contradicting me at every turn. He really is the most frightful bore, and I wish she had a different secretary.’

  So did Chaloner. He followed her through another grimly barren chamber, to one that was luxuriously appointed, with paintings by great masters and a wealth of fine furnishings.

  ‘Hyde’s office,’ explained Hannah disapprovingly. ‘He has far nicer things than the Queen.’

  Chaloner searched it, going through the standard procedures to identify secret hiding places, aiming to discover anything that might prove Hyde was the author of the letters. He was aware of Hannah watching some of his checks in astonishment, no doubt wondering how he had come to learn them, but she grinned her delight when he located a secret drawer in a bureau. It was not a novel hiding place, but one in keeping with Hyde’s unimaginative but overconfident character.

  Unfortunately, it contained nothing but sketches of Lady Castlemaine sans clothes. The Earl would be unimpressed to think of his son poring over such images, but it was irrelevant as far as Chaloner was concerned. Hannah picked up one of the drawings and studied it disparagingly.

  ‘Her knees are too big.’

  ‘If Hyde is responsible for writing the letters, then he has left no evidence here,’ said Chaloner, replacing all as he had found it. ‘Who else has access to Her Majesty’s wardrobe?’

  ‘All her ladies-in-waiting, along with a host of maids, laundresses and seamstresses – some twenty or thirty women in all. No men, of course – that would be unseemly. You interviewed them when you were last here. Clearly none struck you as sly, or you would have said something.’

  ‘What happens when letters arrive for the Queen?’ While Chaloner did not believe the staff would have initiated such a plot of their own volition, most would have planted the missives in exchange for money. Loyalty was cheap at White Hall, where wages were low and often paid late.

  ‘They are given to Captain Appleby downstairs, and he brings them to Hyde.’

  ‘And Hyde reads them all?’

  ‘He opens them all, but the ones that are personal he is supposed to pass on without perusing. Of course, he is a nosy fellow and scans the lot. Except the ones in Portuguese, which are beyond him.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then, if he thinks she should see them, he places them on this silver platter, and conveys them to her. He deals with the routine correspondence, of course – petitions, bills and so forth.’

  Chaloner had learned nothing helpful, and was about to leave when a door opened and the Queen stepped through it. Meneses was with her, along with several ladies-in-waiting, who scampered away with indecent haste when they saw that Hannah was available to take over as chaperon.

  ‘I hope he does not stay long,’ Hannah whispered resentfully to Chaloner, ‘because there is nothing more tedious than listening to conversations in a language you do not know.’

  ‘Hannah tells me you have been in Tangier, Thomas,’ said Katherine pleasantly. She spoke Portuguese, and Chaloner suspected the pleasure she always exhibited when she met him derived from the fact that she was not obliged to struggle in English. ‘I hope you liked it. It was part of my dowry, and the King says it will soon become one of England’s most prized possessions.’

  ‘Perhaps, Your Majesty,’ Chaloner replied evasively, wanting neither to lie nor hurt her feelings.

  Meneses regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Who are you? You speak our language like a Spaniard, but you do not look like one.’

  ‘He is Hannah’s husband,’ explained Katherine. ‘I suppose he does sound like a Spaniard, now that you mention it. I have never noticed that before.’

  As Spain and Portugal were mortal enemies, speaking Portuguese with a Spanish accent was clearly undesirable, and Chaloner would have to remedy the matter when he had time.

  ‘Meneses has been to Tangier, too,’ said Katherine conversationally. ‘In fact, he was one of its governors, before it was handed to the English. I am sure you will enjoy talking to each other.’

  Meneses’ smile was tight. ‘Alas, my sojourn there was brief, so I have little to say about it.’

  ‘Come, My Lady,’ said Hannah, taking the Queen’s arm and clearly intent on separating her from the man she did not like. ‘You promised to show me the new dances you have learned – the ones you will use at tomorrow’
s ball.’

  The Queen laughed, a pleasant sound that was rarely heard, and allowed herself to be led away. She loved dancing, and could nearly always be diverted by it.

  ‘The Queen is a dear, sweet creature, but easily confused,’ said Meneses, when they had gone. ‘You will ignore her chatter. She does not know what she is talking about.’

  ‘You mean you were not Governor of Tangier?’

  ‘I have never been there,’ replied Meneses smoothly. ‘But if it amuses her to think I held the title of governor, then where is the harm in letting her dream?’

  He bowed and set off after her before Chaloner could ask more. The man was lying, but about what? Had he awarded himself fictitious titles to gain her favour? Or was he reluctant for anyone other than her – whose poor English did not permit her to gossip – to know of his Tangier connections, especially given his association with Fitzgerald and the Piccadilly Company?

  As Meneses turned to close the door behind him, he caught Chaloner staring, and a combination of unease and anger flitted across his face. Chaloner looked away, but too late. Meneses knew he was suspicious, and Chaloner had a very bad feeling that might prove to be dangerous.

  The next day was Sunday, and Chaloner awoke long before dawn when two cats elected to hold a brawl under his bedroom window. The moment he opened his eyes, he was aware of an immediate sense of frustration.

  He had collected Thurloe after leaving the Queen’s lodgings, and the two of them had spent the evening being thwarted at every turn. First, Reverend Addison had been out. Second, Harley had declined to answer his door and Thurloe had baulked at breaking in. Third, they had been unable to locate Jacob’s house in Covent Garden. Fourth, Leighton had taken a number of Adventurers for a jaunt on the river; his guests included Kitty and O’Brien, so none of the three were available to describe what had happened to Newell. And finally, enquiries in the Piccadilly taverns had failed to yield a single shred of useful information.

  Hannah had not been home when Chaloner had returned, and he was not sure how long he had been asleep before she had arrived. He had snapped awake with a dagger in his hand when she slid into bed beside him, although he had managed to shove it under the pillow before she saw it. Exhausted, he had dozed again, and had not woken until the cats had started yowling.

  He rose quietly and went into the dressing room to hunt for fresh clothes. Then, because his stomach was tender and acidic from days of missed or hastily snatched meals, he went to the kitchen, to see whether there was anything nice to eat.

  ‘It is far too early for breakfast,’ stated Joan, the moment she saw him. She was still wearing nightclothes, although Nan was dressed. There was no sign of George or Susan. ‘The mistress gave strict instructions that nothing was to be served before ten o’clock on a Sunday.’

  ‘Well, I am not the mistress,’ replied Chaloner coolly, going to the larder. There was a pie, but remembering his injunction to George about the possibility of poison, he settled for a cup of milk instead.

  ‘Do not drink that,’ ordered Joan. ‘Cold milk is dangerous.’

  Chaloner took a larger gulp than he might otherwise have done, and stalked past her, wishing he had stayed in Long Acre. He went to the drawing room and retrieved the singed document he had hidden in the skirting board – the one he had found in the Piccadilly Company’s rooms in the Crown. Then he opened his pen-box, and was unimpressed to note that it had been searched a second time – a pot of violet ink, which he liked for its unusual colour, had been moved. There was nothing significant in the box for the culprit to find, but it was unsettling nevertheless.

  He settled down to work, trying all manner of exotic formulae, and using reams of paper in the process, but he met with no success. Bored, he leaned back in his chair to ease the cramped muscles in his shoulders, and his eye lit on his second-best viol, which he had neglected to put away the last time he had played it. He walked over to it and ran his fingers across its cool, silky wood. Then he took a sheet of music and began to go through it in his mind. A draught on the back of his neck told him someone was watching. He whipped around to see Nan.

  ‘Joan sent me to tell you not to make a noise,’ she said boldly. ‘It disturbs the neighbours, and the mistress is still resting.’

  Chaloner had not been going to play, but the directive prompted him to bow a rather tempestuous fantasy by Henry Lawes, which expressed his feelings far more accurately than words ever could. It was not long before Joan appeared.

  ‘You will wake the mistress,’ she snapped, going immediately to the table where the cipher still lay. Chaloner stood quickly and went to put it in his pocket. ‘And she worked very late last night. She needs her sleep, and you are disturbing her.’

  It was difficult to argue with such a remark, so Chaloner burned the useless decrypting notes in the hearth, then went to stand in the garden, craving fresh air and peace.

  He was not sure of the time, but the sky was lightening in the east, and London was coming awake. It was too early for bells to summon the faithful to church, but there was a low and constant hum as carts, carriages and coaches rumbled their way along the capital’s cobbled streets. Dogs barked, a baby cried, someone was singing and there was a metallic clatter from the ironmonger’s shop three doors down. It was hardly restful, but he breathed in deeply, relishing the cool, earthy scent of the open fields that lay not far to the west.

  He was not left alone to enjoy it for long. George appeared, carrying a lamp – a luxury Chaloner had certainly not considered claiming for himself. Clearly, the footman had not taken long to make himself at home in Tothill Street.

  ‘A smoke is the only way to start the day,’ he said, blowing great clouds of it towards the last of the season’s cabbages. He was wearing a curious combination of clothes to ward off the early morning chill, including what looked suspiciously like Chaloner’s best hat. ‘Clears the mind.’

  ‘Does it?’ Chaloner glanced at him, and as the footman’s fingers closed round the bowl of his pipe, he saw a smudge of violet ink on his hand, starkly visible in the lamp light. He grabbed it and inspected it more closely.

  ‘An accident,’ said George, freeing himself with more vigour than was appropriate between master and servant.

  ‘Explain,’ ordered Chaloner curtly.

  ‘I was cleaning the pens in your box,’ replied George, not looking at him. ‘And the ink spilled.’

  ‘None of my pens appeared to be clean.’

  George looked him directly in the eye. ‘Then it seems I am no better at that duty then I am at most others in the stewarding line. No wonder Fitzgerald dismissed me.’

  ‘Speaking of Fitzgerald, did you ever sail with him on Jane?’

  ‘Jane? Never heard of her.’

  ‘Then were you with him when he traded in gravel?’

  George shrugged, and produced so much smoke that it was difficult to see his face. ‘He never told me what was in his holds. And I never asked.’

  A sudden screech from the kitchen made Chaloner run back inside the house in alarm, although George ignored it. He arrived to find Joan had cornered a massive rat in the pantry.

  ‘Fetch your gun and shoot it!’ she ordered. ‘I know you have one, because I have seen it.’

  It was a brazen admission that she had been through his belongings, because he had taken care to hide the weapon at the bottom of a drawer. He stared at her, wondering whether all servants considered it their bounden duty to pry into their employers’ affairs.

  ‘Do not just stand there!’ she shrieked. ‘Fetch the pistol and make an end of the beast.’

  ‘The neighbours will complain about the noise,’ he objected. ‘Chase it out with a—’

  He stopped in disgust when she swooped forward and brought a broom down on the rodent’s head. The resulting gore was far worse than death from a gun, and he was sorry for Nan, who was given the task of cleaning it up.

  When he went to resume his discussion with George, the footman had gone. Was h
e already on his way to report the conversation to Fitzgerald – or whoever else had ordered him to spy? Chaloner finished the milk, took more because he knew it would annoy Joan, and retired upstairs, sure Hannah would be awake by now.

  She was only just beginning to stir, which was impressive given the racket that had been made by the duelling cats and by Joan over the rat. He was glad he did not sleep so soundly, certain he would have been dead long ago if he had.

  ‘Did I hear you scraping on that horrible viol?’ she asked accusingly.

  Chaloner said nothing, but wondered why his playing should have disturbed her, when all the other sounds had not.

  ‘I wish you had learned the flageolet instead,’ she went on. ‘Those are much nicer.’

  He changed the subject quickly: they would fall out for certain if they debated the relative merits of flageolets and viols. ‘Could Meneses have hidden those letters in the Queen’s purses?’

  Hannah blinked, startled by such a question out of the blue. ‘No. He is a man, and we do not allow those in Her Majesty’s dressing rooms. It would not be decent. Where are you going?’

  ‘Church,’ replied Chaloner, suddenly seized with the desire to be out of the house.

  ‘Good. You can take the servants. I want people to know we have an exotic footman.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Hannah,’ snapped Chaloner, unable to help himself. ‘He is not a performing bear. He may not even be Christian.’

  Hannah stared at him. He rarely lost his temper with her, not even when he was seriously angry. Her expression darkened. ‘If you cannot be civil, Thomas, it is wiser to say nothing at all.’

  Chaloner rubbed his head, itching to retort that she should heed her own advice, especially in the mornings, but he was not equal to the argument that would follow. ‘You were home late last night,’ he said, changing the subject again in the interests of matrimonial harmony.

  ‘Because Meneses would not leave. Perhaps he did plant those letters, although I cannot imagine how. Or why, come to that – he will not gain anything if the Queen is accused of plotting to kill the vainest man in London. Incidentally, I caught Susan poking about in your pen-box when I came home last night. I hope you do not keep anything sensitive in there.’