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

by Susanna Gregory

  Chaloner frowned. ‘Did she explain what she was doing?’

  Hannah looked away. ‘It seems you were right to distrust her. She has been accepting money from someone to spy on you. She would not say who.’

  Chaloner aimed for the door. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Gone. I ordered her out of the house immediately, never to return.’

  Chaloner smothered a sigh. ‘It would have been better to question her first.’

  ‘I did question her. And I just told you all she said. Besides, I did not want her in our home a moment longer.’

  There was no point quarrelling over a fait accompli, so Chaloner bowed in an absurdly formal manner and took his leave, pausing only to hide the scrap of cipher in one of his old boots, an article so grimly shabby that he was certain no one would ever be inclined to investigate within. Perhaps such a precaution was unnecessary now Susan was exposed, but he had not forgotten George’s suspicious behaviour or the fact that Joan had made a beeline for the document when it had been left on the table. As far as he was concerned, he trusted no one in his house. Not even, he realised with a pang, his wife.

  Because London was terrified of religious fanatics – defined as anyone who did not follow traditional Anglican rites – Chaloner had no choice but to go to church that Sunday. The vergers made lists of absentees, and he did not want to draw attention to himself by playing truant. He could not afford to lose two hours that day, though, so he exchanged friendly greetings with the sexton in St Margaret’s porch until he was sure his name had been recorded in the register, then escaped through the vestry door before the ceremonies began.

  Yet he resented the fact that such deception was necessary, feeling he had fought a series of wars to end such dictates. The injustice of the situation gnawed at him as he walked to Worcester House – exacerbated by his irritation with Hannah, George and Susan – so that by the time he arrived to ask the Earl whether Meneses had been Governor of Tangier, he was in a black mood.

  He stalked past the guards and rapped on the study door with considerable force. It was opened cautiously by Edgeman, who sighed his relief when he recognised the visitor.

  ‘It is all right,’ the secretary called over his shoulder. ‘It is only Chaloner.’

  ‘It was such an imperious knock that I thought it was Parliament come to impeach me,’ said the Earl, putting his hand on his chest to indicate he had been given a fright. He was sitting by the fire, and Oliver and Dugdale were standing to attention in front of him.

  ‘It is unbecoming for an usher to pound on his master’s doors,’ admonished Dugdale. He looked seedy that morning, so his rebuke lacked the venom it would usually carry. ‘You made us all jump.’

  ‘My apologies,’ said Chaloner insincerely. He glanced at Oliver, thinking he had never seen the assistant architect in Worcester House before. It was the Earl who explained.

  ‘Pratt has gone to view the Collection of Curiosities that is the talk of all London, so Oliver has come to give me my daily report instead.’

  ‘The Earl refers to the exhibition near St Paul’s Cathedral,’ Oliver elaborated, although Chaloner recalled Farr telling him about it and reading the advertisment for it in the newsbook, so needed no explanation. An expression of gloom settled over the assistant architect’s long face as he continued. ‘And everyone who is anyone will be there today. Except me – I am the only man in the city who is not invited.’

  ‘That is untrue,’ said the Earl kindly. ‘I have not been asked to attend, and neither has anyone else from my household.’

  Dugdale and Edgeman exchanged a smug glance that said he was wrong.

  ‘The rich and the famous,’ Oliver went on morosely. ‘Earls, barons and fêted merchants. Great people like Leighton, O’Brien, Kitty, Meneses and Brodrick. And Pratt, of course. But I shall be at Clarendon House, dusting banisters before the labourers return to work tomorrow.’

  ‘Being in Clarendon House is not that bad,’ objected the Earl, offended. ‘It is a fine place to spend a Sunday morning. Indeed, I shall be there myself in an hour.’

  Oliver brightened. ‘Will you, sir? Some company would be nice.’

  ‘I shall bring a jug of wine, and you can show me around,’ elaborated the Earl graciously. Oliver cracked what was almost a smile. ‘So go and make everything ready. My wife and I will join you as soon as she is ready. We are expected at church this morning, but we shall attend this afternoon, instead. No sacrifice is too great where my house is concerned.’

  ‘You should not have yielded, sir,’ chided Dugdale, after Oliver had shuffled out. ‘It is not your responsibility to create a merry workforce. I never make any concessions in that direction myself. Indeed, I keep my ushers in line by ensuring that they are as unhappy as I can possibly make them.’

  He had certainly done that, thought Chaloner, watching the Earl’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the bald confession. Dugdale started to add something else, but the Earl flapped a pudgy hand to indicate he should leave. The Chief Usher grimaced his indignation at the curt dismissal, and the bow he gave as he left was shallow enough to be impertinent. Edgeman scurried after him.

  ‘Well?’ asked the Earl, when the door had closed. ‘Who is stealing my bricks? And have you identified the villain who wants to kill Pratt? You are fast running out of time.’

  Chaloner did not need to be told. ‘I have uncovered a lot of connections between the cases,’ he hedged. ‘And Williamson is worried about what will happen if the plot to harm the Queen succeeds – concerned for our future relations with Portugal.’

  ‘It would be awkward, to say the least. Moreover, I do not want Pratt to die before he has finished my home. Are you sure you saw the thieves yesterday? Henry thinks you were mistaken.’

  ‘Of course I saw them.’

  ‘There is no need to snap,’ said the Earl sharply. ‘I believe you. It is a wretched shame you did not catch them, though. Was there anything that might allow you to identify them?’

  ‘They were disguised.’ Chaloner moved to what he considered more important matters. ‘I need some information, sir: the names of the last Portuguese governors of Tangier.’

  The Earl regarded him askance. ‘What an odd request! But it is one I can grant, as it happens. The fellow with whom I had most correspondence – as I negotiated that part of the Queen’s dowry – was Fernando de Meneses. He was later dismissed for dishonesty.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘I never met him. However, I imagine he looks Portuguese.’

  It was not helpful, and left Chaloner none the wiser as to whether the Queen’s new friend was an impostor. Of course, if Meneses stood accused of corruption, and so was unable to secure a post at home, then perhaps he had come to London to try his luck with a countrywoman who might not have heard of his shortcomings.

  ‘I am glad you came,’ said the Earl, when there was no response. ‘Because I want you to spend the afternoon at Clarendon House. It is the workmen’s day off, so it needs guarding. Frances and I will be there this morning. You can take over at two o’clock, and stay until Wright arrives at dusk.’

  Chaloner struggled to control his temper. ‘I thought you wanted me to catch the brick-thief, expose the plot to kill Pratt, and find out what happened to Teviot. All before Wednesday. How am I supposed to do that when—’

  ‘You have had days to make enquiries,’ snapped the Earl. ‘It is not my fault you wasted them.’

  ‘I have not wasted them,’ countered Chaloner in something of a snarl. ‘You ordered me to Woolwich and the Tennis Court, both of which were stupid, futile exercises.’

  ‘You go too far!’ cried the Earl, shocked. ‘Perhaps Henry is right, and I should dismiss you in favour of someone more amenable. Or at least, someone who does not rail at me.’

  Chaloner took a deep breath, knowing he had over-stepped the mark. He was also aware that it would not have happened if he had not been troubled by his home life and its attendant problems.

&nb
sp; ‘I am sorry, sir. But something deadly is planned for three days’ time, and we need to discover the identity of the man who is giving Fitzgerald orders before it is too late. It may involve Pratt, and—’

  ‘Then you can do it this morning and tonight,’ said the Earl, unappeased. ‘Protecting my new home is far more important than rumours of vague plots. It is the reason I brought you home from Tangier, after all. This is not negotiable, Chaloner. You will do as I say.’

  Chaloner had no choice but to agree. His temper was even blacker as he bowed and took his leave. As he hauled open the door, Kipps tumbled inside. The Seal Bearer’s expression was distinctly furtive.

  ‘I was not eavesdropping,’ he blustered. ‘I just wanted to know if you had finished.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Chaloner brusquely. ‘He is all yours now.’

  He walked to Chancery Lane Inn amid a cacophony of bells, as churches advertised their Sunday rites. The roads were full of people flocking towards them, along with those street vendors who declined to acknowledge that there were laws prohibiting Sabbath trading, and sought to provide for those who had time and money to spare. Other services had finished, disgorging congregations into the streets, while still more were in progress, so that singing drifted through their windows.

  Chaloner reached Lincoln’s Inn and ran up the stairs to Chamber XIII.

  ‘There is a Collection of Curiosities near St Paul’s,’ he said, opening the door and speaking without preamble. ‘We should visit it, because a lot of people we need to interview will probably be there. We might even be able to determine which of the Adventurers wants the Queen accused of plotting to kill Pratt.’

  ‘Good morning to you, too,’ said Thurloe drily. He was sitting at the table, and Chaloner saw he was working on the same cipher that continued to defeat him – they had made a copy the previous night. ‘Do you expect me to come with you? Before my devotions in the chapel?’

  Chaloner felt the business at hand was rather more urgent than religious ceremonies, although he knew better than to say so outright – Thurloe was devout. ‘You can go this afternoon. The Earl will be doing the same, so he can mind Clarendon House instead.’

  ‘He is reduced to guarding his own property, is he?’ Thurloe rose with a sigh. ‘Very well, we shall go to St Paul’s, although I shall have to don a disguise. The Court is unlikely to appreciate being watched by an old Parliamentarian spymaster.’

  Chaloner sat by the fire as Thurloe changed his appearance with a range of pastes, powders and an exceptionally unattractive orange wig.

  ‘The more I think about it, the more I am sure that Elliot is alive and masquerading as Cave’s brother,’ Chaloner said, staring into the flames. ‘Both the curate and Kersey mentioned an unusually black wig – which Elliot had. And both said “Jacob” was large and loutish.’

  ‘But anyone can don a hairpiece,’ Thurloe pointed out. ‘While I could write you a list as long as my arm of “large and loutish” men. Lester would be on it – and we know for certain that he is alive.’

  ‘Why would Lester want Cave buried without a grand funeral?’ asked Chaloner impatiently.

  Thurloe turned away from the mirror to regard him soberly. ‘To avenge Elliot – his shipmate and brother-in-law.’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner irritably. ‘Lester is not Jacob.’

  Thurloe went back to perfecting his disguise. They were silent for some time, Chaloner gazing moodily at the fire. Eventually, Thurloe indicated that he was ready.

  ‘Have you given consideration to Williamson’s request?’ he asked, as they walked across Dial Court towards Lincoln’s Inn’s main gate. ‘Will you work with him?’

  ‘No. I do not trust him, and the notion of taking orders from such a man …’

  ‘Take them,’ instructed Thurloe. ‘This is far too grave a matter to be affected by your pride. He has swallowed his by asking for your help. Do likewise, and help him.’

  ‘Then when I fall foul of him – an inevitability, given his prickly temper and our past quarrels – will you rescue me from his dungeons?’

  Thurloe raised his eyebrows, and it was clear that he was thinking that Williamson was not the only one prone to bad tempers. ‘He would not dare incarcerate you. Clarendon would not stand for it.’

  Chaloner recalled the hot words that had been spoken earlier. ‘I think he might.’

  ‘He is all bluster, but he appreciates what you do for him. His son does not, though. You should be wary of Hyde.’

  ‘You have warned me to be wary of a lot of people lately – Hyde, Lester, Fitzgerald. Indeed, half of London seems to be swirling with deadly villains according to you.’

  Thurloe regarded him sharply. ‘They are dangerous, Thomas, and you are a fool if you discount my advice. You think Fitzgerald is less deadly than I have portrayed, and Hyde is too feeble to be a threat, while you like Lester.’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Chaloner. ‘I do.’

  ‘Then continue to like him. Just do not trust him. That should not be difficult – you repel overtures of friendship from everyone else you meet. And I cannot say it is healthy.’

  ‘You trained me to do it,’ retorted Chaloner, nettled. ‘Besides, it means I am rarely disappointed when they transpire to be villains.’

  ‘Speaking of villains, you might want to watch Kipps, too,’ said Thurloe. ‘He professes a powerful dislike of Adventurers, but that does not stop him from hobnobbing with them.’

  ‘He is just friendly.’ Chaloner was becoming tired of Thurloe’s suspicions. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Did you ever harbour misgivings about Hannah’s maid Susan?’

  ‘I told Hannah she was sly and untrustworthy, but she – like you – declined to listen. Why?’

  ‘She was dismissed for spying this morning. God knows who paid her to do it. Unfortunately, she had been sent packing before I could question her.’

  ‘That is a pity,’ said Thurloe.

  Chapter 9

  Thurloe talked all the way to St Paul’s, and his calm voice and rational analyses of the information they had gathered did much to lift the dark mood that had descended on Chaloner. By the time they arrived, all that remained was an acute sense of unease, arising partly from the fact that they had less than three days to prevent whatever catastrophes the Piccadilly Company and their rivals intended to inflict on London, but mostly because he had finally come to accept the realisation that it had been a mistake to marry Hannah.

  He was fond of her – he supposed it might even be love – but they had nothing in common, and he knew now that they would make each other increasingly unhappy as the gulf between them widened. But these were painful, secret thoughts, and he doubted he would ever be able to share them with another person. Not even Thurloe, who was as close a friend as any. He pushed them from his mind as they neared St Paul’s, and tried to concentrate on the task at hand.

  Because it was Sunday, the cathedral was busy. Canons, vicars and vergers hurried here and there in ceremonial robes, and a large congregation was massing. It was a fabulous building, with mighty towers and soaring pinnacles that dominated the city’s skyline. Unfortunately, time had not treated it well: there were cracks in its walls, its stonework was crumbling, and several sections were being held up by precarious messes of scaffolding. Ambitious architects – Pratt among them – clamoured for it to be demolished, but Londoners loved it, and strenuously resisted all efforts to provide them with a new-fangled replacement.

  ‘The exhibition is at the Mitre,’ said Chaloner, as they walked. ‘At the western end of the cathedral.’

  ‘The Mitre,’ said Thurloe disapprovingly. ‘Even in Cromwell’s time it was a place that catered to the bizarre. We should have suppressed it.’

  The tenement in question was sandwiched between a coffee house and a bookshop. Its ground floor was a tavern, while the upper storey had a spacious hall that was used for travelling expositions. It was virtually deserted when Chaloner and Thurloe arrived, with only one or two clerics porin
g over the artefacts, killing time before attending to their religious duties.

  ‘We are too early,’ murmured Thurloe. ‘But it does not matter – there is much to entertain us while we wait. I have never seen a tropic bird. Or a remora, come to that.’

  ‘What is a remora?’ asked Chaloner.

  Thurloe shrugged. ‘I imagine we shall know by the time we leave.’

  Chaloner wandered restlessly, intrigued by some exhibits and repelled by others. The Egyptian mummy held pride of place, although moths had been at its bandages, and some of its ‘hieroglyphicks’ had been over-painted by someone with a sense of humour, because one of the oft-repeated symbols bore a distinct resemblance to the King in his wig.

  ‘Apparently, the tropic bird has not survived London’s climate,’ reported Thurloe, having gone to enquire after its whereabouts. ‘I am sorry. I would have liked to have made its acquaintance.’

  At that moment the door opened and Lady Castlemaine strutted in, a number of admirers at her heels. Immediately, the atmosphere went from hushed and scholarly to boisterously puerile. The exhibits were poked, mocked and hooted at, and the situation degenerated further still as more courtiers arrived. Soon, the place was so packed that it was difficult to move.

  ‘There is your brother-in-law,’ said Chaloner, nodding to where Lydcott was peering at the moon fish, a sad beast in a tank of cloudy water that looked as if it would soon join the tropic bird and become a casualty of London’s insatiable demand for the bizarre.

  ‘I cannot greet him,’ said Thurloe. ‘I am in disguise, and he is the kind of man to blurt out my name if I speak to him and he recognises my voice. I shall attempt to engage the Janszoon couple in conversation instead, to see what I can learn about the Piccadilly Company.’

  He moved away, although he was not in time to prevent Margareta from informing the entire room that English curiosities were ‘a deal more meretricious’ than ones in Amsterdam.