‘Was Teviot corrupt?’
Addison sighed unhappily. ‘I have no idea why you should ask me this now, but I cannot lie. He amassed himself a fortune by stealing the funds intended for the mole.’
‘Could it have had a bearing on his death?’
Addison nodded slowly. ‘I strongly suspected so at the time. Along with Jane.’
‘The privateer ship? How does she fit into it?’
‘Teviot refused her permission to dock, although her captain was adept at bribing the soldiers who had been ordered to repel her. But even so, she only managed to put in occasionally when he was in charge. Now Bridge is governor, Jane regularly trades in Tangier.’
‘I am confused. Was Teviot killed because he was corrupt, or because he declined to let a privateer do business in Tangier?’
‘Why should they be exclusive? Banning a ship from port is a kind of corruption – you should ask yourself why he did it. Before you ask, I do not know the answer but I can tell you that he will have been motivated by money.’
‘I was in Tangier for almost three months, but I never heard talk of a vessel called Jane.’
Addison shrugged. ‘That is no surprise. She would not have been there legally, so her arrival was never blared from the rooftops.’
Chaloner stared at him, the germ of a solution beginning to unfold in his mind. ‘The Adventurers own a monopoly on African trade, but Jane is a privateer. Perhaps Teviot’s reason for refusing her a berth was because he did not want to anger a wealthy and influential group of courtiers.’
‘It is possible, although I imagine he would have yielded if Jane had paid him enough.’
‘Not if he was an Adventurer himself, and Jane was stealing custom that would have made him richer. Do you know what cargo she carried?’
‘No idea, although I did once hear that she carried a quantity of gravel.’
Chaloner sighed. ‘I was afraid you might say that.’
‘Well, the mole needs a lot of it. But Africa is full of valuable goods, and Tangier is strategically placed at the end of caravan routes, along which gold, ivory, cotton, kola nuts and even slaves are transported.’ Addison’s expression darkened. ‘Slavery is a despicable business. Were you there when Henrietta Maria went down? That cost the Adventurers a pretty penny, I can tell you.’
‘So I have been told,’ said Chaloner, wondering what would happen to him if the likes of Leighton ever discovered his role in the affair.
‘They were livid,’ Addison went on gleefully. ‘They blamed a corporation called the Piccadilly Company, but they have no evidence. I know who did it, of course.’
‘You do?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
Addison nodded. ‘Harley, Newell and Reyner. And do you know why? Because they slunk away from Tangier within hours of the sinking.’
‘So did you,’ Chaloner pointed out, not adding that he had, too.
‘Yes, but I am not the type to commit criminal damage,’ said Addison. ‘Of course, I have since learned that Harley and his cronies are members of this Piccadilly Company, so I imagine it will not be long before the Adventurers exact revenge.’
‘Perhaps they already have,’ said Chaloner, uncomfortably realising that here was another reason why he was responsible for what had happened to Newell and Reyner. ‘Because two of them are dead.’
Addison stared at him. ‘Then I wager you my treasured copy of Harbottle Grimston’s Duties of a Christian Life that Harley is the one who is still alive.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because he is the most unscrupulous of the three, and the one most dedicated to himself.’
* * *
His mind a whirl of questions, Chaloner aimed for Lincoln’s Inn, hoping Thurloe might have learned something useful, and was just crossing Dial Court when he was intercepted by William Prynne. Prynne was the inn’s most repellent resident, a pamphleteer with deeply bigoted opinions, and someone to be avoided by decent people. He was pulling down the long cap he always wore, to hide the fact that his ears had been lopped off as punishment for ‘seditious libel’ – not that it had taught him to moderate his thoughts. If anything, it had made him more poisonous than ever.
‘They are Satan’s spawn,’ he snarled, launching into one of his tirades without preamble. ‘And the dissolute and unhappy constitution of our depraved times made me wonder whether to sit mute and silent over these overspreading abominations, or whether I should lift up my voice like a trumpet and cry against them to my power.’
‘I assume you opted for the latter,’ said Chaloner drily, certain the opportunity to bray like a trumpet was one Prynne would not have been able to resist. When he started to move away, the old man snatched his sleeve with a claw-like hand of surprising strength and kept him there.
‘It occurred to me to bend my pen against them, as I have done against other sinful and unchristian vanities, but my thoughts informed me that I would only earn the reproach and scorn of the histrionic and profaner sort, whose tongues are set on fire of Hell against all such as dare affront their infernal practices.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Chaloner, trying again to escape. He could have broken the grip on his arm, but he was not in the habit of using force against the elderly, not even loathsome specimens like Prynne.
‘I am talking about that Dutch pair,’ shouted Prynne, having worked himself into a frenzy. ‘Cornelis and Margareta Janszoon. You must hunt them down, or the mischievous and pestiferous fruits of hellish wickedness that issues from their noxious and infectious nature will—’
‘Please, Mr Prynne,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘I really do not understand what you are saying.’
‘Then I shall speak in simple terms,’ said Prynne, calming himself with an effort. ‘Although I expected more of you – Thurloe tells me you are highly intelligent. The Janszoons are saying terrible things, and you must stop them.’
‘Me? Why? I have no jurisdiction to—’
‘You must,’ cried Prynne. ‘I do not know who else to ask, and you are often at Court. Silence this couple before they do serious harm. Do you know what they said in church yesterday? That the Dutch will send a plague to kill us all.’
‘You misunderstood. Or, more likely, they said something they never intended.’
Prynne scowled. ‘Rubbish! How else can you interpret “we ply you with boils”? And right in the middle of an innocent discussion about games, too!’
‘Then I imagine what they meant was “we play you at bowls”,’ said Chaloner.
Prynne stared at him. ‘I suppose you might be right – it would certainly explain the sudden change in topics. But people took offence and damage was done anyway. You must make them curb their tongues, or they will have the entire city baying for war, and I am currently fond of the Dutch – they have decent Protestant views about religion.’
‘You oppose war?’
‘I do,’ declared Prynne, although Chaloner could not help but wonder whether he had taken that particular stance because almost everyone else would disagree; Prynne was famous for expounding opinions that few others held. ‘It would be contrary to the will of God.’
‘The Janszoons have hired henchmen to protect—’
‘To protect them from harm. But what about the damage they cause with their silly remarks? Other Dutchmen will pay the price, and we shall have a bloodbath. Not to mention a war.’
Sympathetic to anyone struggling with the vagaries of spoken English, Chaloner promised to explain the situation when he next saw them. He resumed his journey to Chamber XIII, where he found Thurloe sitting at a table surrounded by paper. The ex-Spymaster had been working on decrypting both the half-burned letter from the Crown and Mrs Reyner’s list.
‘Any luck?’ asked Chaloner hopefully.
‘None whatsoever, and neither has Wallis,’ replied Thurloe. ‘But I have decided that they must be broken as a matter of urgency, and I shall sit here all day if necessary. What are your plans?’
<
br /> Chaloner removed his coat and dropped it on to the back of a chair, before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. ‘To help you.’
Chaloner worked with Thurloe until well past midnight, by which time he was stiff from sitting hunched over the table, and his head ached. With a pang of regret, he recalled the tentative plan to play a duet with Lester, but did not mention it to Thurloe, sure he would disapprove.
He tossed down his pen and went to the tray of food Thurloe’s manservant had brought some hours before. The bread had gone hard and the cheese had been left too near the fire, so was molten, but he ate some anyway. Thurloe opted for several pills that he shook from an elegantly enamelled pot. Chaloner rubbed his eyes, trying to summon the energy to return to his labours.
‘Yes!’ the ex-Spymaster exclaimed suddenly. ‘God be praised! I have made sense of the scrap of paper you found in the Crown.’
‘What does it say?’ demanded Chaloner, darting to the table, weariness forgotten.
‘It is really very simple,’ said Thurloe in satisfaction. ‘As I predicted, it was a substitution code, where a code of one-two-three means you move the first letter of your message one place to the right, the second letter two places, and so on. So ‘cat’ becomes ‘dcw’.’
‘I know that,’ said Chaloner impatiently, trying to see Thurloe’s translation. ‘We have been struggling over different combinations for hours.’
‘In this case, the sequence is three-five-four-eight, repeated again and again.’
Chaloner regarded him blankly. ‘What is the significance of that number?’
‘It is the latitude of Tangier.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, thinking that he could have worked on the cipher for years and not tried that particular combination. ‘What does the message say?’
Thurloe read it. ‘From ye Governour of Tanger to ye Pikadilye Companye our ship will sayle with a fulle complimente of gravelle in three dayes and wille be in Londonne by Saynte Frydswyds Daye at last we …’
Chaloner stared at it in dismay. ‘It tells us nothing new!’
‘On the contrary, it informs us that Governor Bridge sends coded messages to the Piccadilly Company, which is evidence that Fitzgerald and his cronies did dispose of Teviot so that a malleable successor could be appointed. Reverend Addison said Jane is more often in Tangier now that Bridge is in command, and here is more proof of it.’
‘So “our ship” refers to Jane, and she left Tangier carrying gravel.’ Chaloner was becoming despondent, feeling he had wasted time he could ill afford. ‘But we already knew she trades in that particular commodity. And that she was due to arrive here on St Frideswide’s Day – I heard the Piccadilly Company say so when I eavesdropped.’
‘Yes, but we did not know she was coming from Tangier. No wonder Fitzgerald and his cronies burned the letter! It is a valuable clue.’
‘It is?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.
‘Yes! You must make enquiries along the river and ascertain where Jane will berth,’ said Thurloe urgently, handing Chaloner his coat. ‘Someone will know at which wharf she is expected. And then we shall go and inspect this gravel for ourselves.’
‘Now?’ asked Chaloner without enthusiasm. ‘In the middle of the night?’
Thurloe glanced at the window, startled to see it was dark outside. He snatched the coat back again. ‘Rest for an hour or two, and then go.’
‘What will you do while I trawl the docks?’ asked Chaloner, daunted by the task he had been set – the Thames was thick with them, all the way from Wapping to Westminster.
Thurloe pointed to the Reyners’ list. ‘We must decode it as soon as possible.’
Chaloner did not think he would sleep, given that his mind was full of worries and questions, but he did. Thurloe prodded him awake when it was still dark, although the rumble of traffic said London was coming to life. The ex-Spymaster’s face was pale, and he shook his head tiredly to Chaloner’s raised eyebrows – the cipher continued to elude him.
Even at that early hour, the air was full of soot as fires were lit all over the city. The Thames had produced a heavy fog that mingled unpleasantly with it, making breathing difficult. It enveloped shops and warehouses, and gave them an eerie, other-worldly appearance.
Feeling he had been set an impossible challenge, Chaloner began at Black Friars Stairs, where lamps had been lit to illuminate a frenzied scene – its work was driven by tides, not clocks, so it was often busy during the hours of darkness. Meeting with no success, he went to Puddle Wharf, because it was famous for dubious transactions. It required a hefty bribe before he learned that Jane was not expected.
He approached Queenhithe next, fighting down his rising agitation – it was all taking far too long, and he was acutely aware that whatever atrocity Fitzgerald’s master had planned might well take place in less than twenty-four hours. He asked his question distractedly, not expecting an answer, and so was astonished when the harbour-master nodded.
‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ the fellow replied, pocketing the coins Chaloner had offered for a moment of his time. ‘The Bridge is scheduled to open for ships at midnight tonight and noon tomorrow, and Jane is expected at noon. She has booked a berth here at three o’clock.’
‘What will she be carrying?’
‘We shall not know that until she arrives, but it will not be anything heavy. She is a dog, and too much weight would take her under.’
‘Not gravel, then?’
The harbour-master shrugged. ‘If so, then there will not be very much of it.’
Chaloner hurried back to Lincoln’s Inn. Assuming that the Piccadilly Company’s plan would coincide with Jane’s arrival – or at least, not swing into action until she was safely moored – it meant they had a day and a half to work out what was happening and stop it.
‘I may not have cracked this cipher, but our mysteries have been simmering in the back of my mind,’ said Thurloe, after listening carefully. ‘Fitzgerald is powerful and dangerous, but he has no money – he was obliged to dismiss all his servants after his gold-laden ship sank.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner impatiently. ‘Everyone says he is in London to recoup his losses after the disaster. What of it?’
‘Hiring Brinkes and his henchmen will require cash. So will investing in a struggling glassware business. Ergo, it is his master who has money at his disposal. We can eliminate the Adventurers as suspects, because they are on the opposing side.’
Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘Your brother-in-law told us that some of their thirty members are wealthy merchants or nobles. And he said Pratt has invested heavily.’
‘Pratt might be the master,’ conceded Thurloe. ‘He is earning a fortune from your Earl, so he will have plenty of funds at his disposal. Of course, it would mean that the threat against his life is a ruse, to throw us off his scent. Another candidate for arch-villain is Lester—’
‘No! There is nothing to say he is a member of the Piccadilly Company – indeed, Williamson has charged him to monitor them. Besides, his sister was almost murdered by Fitzgerald’s henchmen. I doubt that would have happened if he were their leader.’
‘His sister was taken along a dark lane to be rescued by you,’ corrected Thurloe. ‘Perhaps she was never in any danger. And I have never liked his role in all this – he just happened to be there when Cave and Elliot fought; he just happens to have a mad sibling whom Williamson uses to secure his services. I have not forgotten that he and Fitzgerald were once shipmates, either.’
‘Who else?’ asked Chaloner, declining to argue.
‘Meneses. He was Governor of Tangier, and we all know how talented they are at making themselves rich – and he was so brazen about it that he was dismissed. I am bothered by Leighton, too. He is the Adventurers’ secretary, but he has criminal connections. It would not surprise me to learn that he is pitting two powerful and greedy organisations against each other for his own ends.’
‘What about Dugdale and Edgeman?’ suggested Chaloner. ‘They ar
e Adventurers, but both are treacherous types who would think nothing of betraying friends. They serve the Earl, yet they consort with his enemies. It is suspicious.’
‘Possible but unlikely – I doubt the Earl pays them enough. Of course, they may have access to a source of wealth that we do not know about. Kipps is rich, too, but his application to enrol as an Adventurer was rejected. I imagine he bears them a grudge …’
‘Yes, but that does not mean he would act on it,’ said Chaloner defensively.
‘Then there are those who are openly villainous,’ Thurloe went on. ‘Brilliana, the wealthy courtesan; her brother Harley, who must have been well paid to carry out the Tangier massacre; and the Janszoons, who know nothing about the glassware that their Company exports …’
‘And whose shaky English is stirring up anti-Dutch sentiments,’ finished Chaloner. ‘I am not surprised that they never go anywhere without guards to protect them.’
‘We cannot dismiss Ruth as a suspect, either,’ Thurloe went on. ‘She lives in the Crown, is sister to the sinister Lester, and wife to Elliot – who is said to be dead but is probably alive. Most men do not marry lunatics, so you must ask yourself whether she is as fey-witted as she would have us believe. After all, it would not be the first time a devious plot was masterminded by a lady.’
Chaloner shook his head. ‘She is not wealthy. Neither is Lester.’
‘On the contrary,’ argued Thurloe. ‘Lester did very well for himself in the navy, and captured several enemy ships that were later sold for princely sums. He is extremely rich, and would certainly share his good fortune with a much-loved sister.’
Chaloner regarded him uneasily. Lester did not give the impression of being well off, while Ruth’s lodgings in the Crown were hardly palatial. Of course, he had no idea where Lester lived – it might be a mansion on The Strand, for all he knew. But he liked the man, and his instincts still told him to ignore Thurloe’s reservations.
‘And finally, I am not happy with Kitty O’Brien,’ Thurloe went on. ‘She has seduced Williamson, perhaps to distract him from her crimes. Her husband is more interested in inveigling himself into high society than in plotting, and he certainly does not need more money – his copper sales have made him fabulously rich already.’
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 30
