‘We should be listening for rumours about tomorrow,’ said Lester, arriving a few moments later. ‘Not wasting time with this errand. What is it, anyway?’
‘We are going to St Giles-in-the-Fields.’
‘Why? To look in the register of burials to convince yourself that Elliot is dead? I assure you, I did not imagine attending his funeral. It would be better to stay here, and—’
‘Williamson can eavesdrop without us. Of course, there is a reason why his enquiries have been so spectacularly unsuccessful: there was a spy in his organisation.’
‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Lester, matching the brisk pace Chaloner set. ‘He is not a man who commands loyalty, and I imagine a lot of his agents take the traitor’s penny. But what does this have to do with Elliot? Or do you think he was such a fellow?’
‘Yes, and I believe that is why Cave challenged him.’
‘I suppose it is possible.’ Lester looked troubled. ‘Elliot was an excellent man to have at one’s back at sea, but he became a different fellow once on land. I should never have let him marry Ruth. He gambled, which made him greedy for money, and that led him down dark paths. My enquiries have revealed that he was definitely involved in Pepperell’s murder.’
The stabbing of the Eagle’s captain the day she had docked at Queenhithe seemed a long time ago, although it was only a little more than two weeks. Chaloner recalled what he had seen.
‘Brinkes murdered Pepperell. I watched it happen, and so did several other—’
‘Brinkes did the deed, and the Piccadilly Company ordered it,’ interrupted Lester. ‘Of that I have ample proof. But someone helped Brinkes strike the fatal blow, and that man was Elliot.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘Brinkes was with someone who wore a red uniform and a Cavalier hat that hid his face …’
‘Elliot’s ceremonial naval regalia – I have an identical set. It was what enabled him and Brinkes to stroll past the port guards. Once I had your sketches, I was able to find several people who can confirm that there was bad blood between Elliot and Pepperell. Of course, I still do not know why Elliot wanted Pepperell dead. They did not like each other, but that is no reason to kill.’
‘I can answer that,’ said Chaloner, recalling what he had deduced from Pepperell’s sometimes odd behaviour aboard Eagle, and the letter he had seen in Williamson’s office – the one penned in the sea-captain’s distinctive scrawl. ‘Pepperell was Williamson’s man, too – paid to monitor passengers travelling to and from Tangier. The Piccadilly Company were aware of this, and decided that his report on Harley, Newell and Reyner should never be delivered. And how did they know what Pepperell did to boost his income? Because another of Williamson’s spies betrayed him.’
‘Elliot?’ asked Lester unhappily.
‘Elliot,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘The man who had been charged to watch the Piccadilly Company, and who moved his addled wife into rooms in the Crown to enable him to do it – keeping lodgings for himself in Covent Garden lest it transpired to be too dangerous. He used Ruth mercilessly, and did not care that his antics put her at risk.’
‘Fitzgerald must have guessed what Elliot was doing, and realised how easily he could be turned into a traitor,’ said Lester bitterly. ‘Which explains why Williamson’s knowledge about the Piccadilly Company was always so scanty – Elliot had been paid to tell him nothing of value.’
Chaloner nodded. ‘Pepperell tried to communicate two clues before he died: Piccadilly and trade. He must have learned from eavesdropping on the three scouts that the Piccadilly Company is involved in smuggling goods from Africa, and wanted Williamson to know.’
‘It is a pity he did not have the breath to be more specific,’ said Lester ruefully. ‘Because we could have done with this information days ago. Who else heard him speak?’
‘Besides the three scouts? Reverend Addison, Cave and Captain Young, who promptly seized command of Eagle and sailed her away on the evening tide.’
‘Young?’ asked Lester sharply. ‘There is an Anthony Young who sails for the Piccadilly Company. Williamson told me. Did he know Pepperell was going to be murdered? Is that why he was so quick to grab the ship?’
‘I doubt it – not in advance. But I imagine he would have understood who had ordered the murder when he saw Brinkes.’
‘And then Cave, whom we now know was a Piccadilly Company spy, was ordered to start a quarrel with Elliot and kill him,’ finished Lester. ‘Presumably, to ensure that Elliot never told anyone what he had done – no traitor can be trusted, after all. But Cave also died in the fracas …’
Chaloner did not bother to reiterate his conviction that Elliot was still alive. For all he knew, Elliot might be the villain who gave orders to Fitzgerald – his actions certainly showed him to be ruthless and unprincipled.
* * *
St Giles-in-the-Fields was a handsome, red-brick building not forty years old. Unfortunately, its brash splendour had attracted the attentions of the Puritans during the Commonwealth, and many of its best features had been smashed or stolen. Moreover, it had a much smaller churchyard than its pastoral name suggested, and was tightly hemmed in by houses. It was eerie in the shifting mist, and Lester jumped in superstitious alarm when a cat slunk across their path.
There was a small shed at the far end of the graveyard. Chaloner broke the lock with a stone and emerged with two spades and a lamp. ‘Show me Elliot’s grave.’
Lester’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean to dig him up? Christ God, Chaloner, no!’
‘We will find a box filled with stones or soil. Elliot will not be in it.’
‘Of course he will be in it!’ Lester was aghast. ‘I told you – I attended his funeral.’
‘Did you look in the coffin?’ demanded Chaloner. Lester shook his head reluctantly. ‘You were not with him when he died, and the surgeon you hired is incapable of telling the difference between the living and the dead. I know Elliot is alive and still causing mischief. Exposing his empty casket will be proof of it.’
‘Then we shall ask the sexton to do it tomorrow – with a priest on hand to say whatever prayers are appropriate when desecrating tombs. We will not burrow like ghouls—’
‘It might take weeks to obtain the necessary permissions,’ argued Chaloner. ‘And we need answers tonight. Besides, think of Ruth. Surely, she has a right to know whether she is a widow?’
Lester glared, but Chaloner’s words had the desired effect. He took a deep, unhappy breath, and led the way through the wet grass to a mound of recently dug earth. Fortunately, it was shielded from the surrounding houses by a dense yew.
‘There must be a better way to find out than this,’ he muttered. ‘If we are caught … I am sure this sort of thing is illegal. And I doubt Williamson will speak for us.’
Chaloner was sure he would not, and began to excavate as fast as he could, eager to be finished as soon as possible. It was not long before there was a hollow thud: fortunately for them, lazy gravediggers had not bothered to make the hole very deep.
Lester scraped away the remaining soil, but then hesitated uncertainly, so it was Chaloner who inserted a spade between coffin and lid, and levered. The two men exchanged a brief glance as the wood splintered, and then Chaloner took the lamp and brought it close to the coffin.
Elliot’s dead face stared out at them, an unusually black wig on his head.
Chapter 11
‘You owe him an apology,’ said Lester, his voice low with anger and revulsion. ‘And me, too. Elliot did die when I said he did. Surgeon King was not mistaken: you are.’
Chaloner gazed at the body in disbelief. He had been so certain he was right. ‘But if Elliot has been dead since last Monday, then who buried Cave?’
‘His brother,’ replied Lester curtly. ‘You have been a spy too long, and see treachery where there is none – Jacob buried Cave to avoid funeral costs that would have crippled him. You say the descriptions of him matched Elliot, but lots of men are large and own black wigs.’
‘Th
en why did he tell Kersey that he lived in Covent Garden?’ demanded Chaloner defensively. ‘Elliot lived there, but Jacob never has.’
‘Because he did not want vengeful courtiers after him for depriving them of the “social event of the month”,’ snapped Lester. ‘I might have done the same in his position. And given that you are so spectacularly wrong over Elliot, are you sure your conclusions about Cave are correct?’
‘Yes,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘He was a spy. Brodrick and Reverend Addison said so, as did Swaddell. The Piccadilly Company employed him – you were there when Swaddell confirmed it.’
Yet Thurloe had said he would not have hired a man like Cave for espionage, and so had Williamson. Was it possible that the Piccadilly Company had not, either?
‘And their claims are based on what?’ asked Lester archly. ‘Actual evidence or supposition?’
Chaloner said nothing, because the captain had a point. Moreover, Thurloe’s words were echoing loudly in his mind: that the descriptions of Jacob applied just as well to Lester as to Elliot. He glanced at the captain, taking in his bluff, hearty face and kindly eyes. Thurloe must be wrong!
‘If Ruth ever learned what we have done, she would hold it against me for the rest of my life,’ Lester was saying, as he replaced the coffin lid and grabbed a spade. ‘I hope to God she never finds out.’
Chaloner hoped no one would. He clambered out of the grave. ‘Can you finish this alone?’
Lester gaped at him. ‘You are leaving? Christ God, man! I thought we were in this together.’
‘I am sorry, but there is something I need to do. And time is short.’
‘Then help me rebury the man you exhumed, and I will assist you with whatever it is.’
‘There is no time.’ Chaloner brushed mud from his clothes. ‘I need to go now.’
‘For pity’s sake!’ cried Lester, dismayed. ‘It is hardly comradely to abandon me here.’
It was not, but Chaloner did not want company when he made his next port of call. Muttering a hasty but sincere apology, he aimed for Clarendon House. It was time to resolve the business of the stolen bricks, so there would be one less matter to explore the following day, when Jane would arrive, the Adventurers would destroy her, and some diabolical plot would swing into action.
As he walked, a stealthy, solitary figure in the mist, he pushed Elliot and Lester from his mind and considered all he had learned about the Earl’s missing materials – from his visits to the site, and from what his suspects had inadvertently let slip. He knew the culprits would be at Clarendon House at that very moment, confident that they would not be disturbed while the celebrations at White Hall were in full swing. He smiled grimly. They were going to be in for a shock.
He could hardly believe his luck when he bumped into Wright outside the Crown. A knife to the throat persuaded the sergeant to answer questions that confirmed Chaloner’s suspicions, and a knock on the head ensured that he would not warn the villains before they could be confronted.
The mansion was an imposing silhouette in the blackness when Chaloner arrived. There were no guards, but he had expected that: Wright had already admitted that he and his cronies had been paid to sit in the tavern all night. He approached it silently, and aimed for the library.
Voices emanated from it, and Chaloner nodded to himself when he recognised them: all his reasoning had been correct. The only thing he did not know was why they had seen fit to steal from the Earl. He advanced silently, and saw two men there, poring over a sheaf of plans. He drew his gun, wanting them frightened into making a confession, because he did not have time for a more leisurely approach.
‘I assume those are the papers that changed hands the day I chased you,’ he said, stepping into the room and pointing the dag at its startled occupants. ‘The Earl’s son and Pratt’s assistant: two men who have betrayed a trust.’
There was a silence in the library after Chaloner had made his accusation, the two culprits regarding him in astonishment – although at his claim or his unanticipated appearance it was impossible to say.
‘How did you get in?’ demanded Hyde, startled. ‘I borrowed my father’s key, and Pratt owns the only other one in existence. And I doubt he lent it to you.’
‘Never mind keys,’ snapped Oliver, glaring accusingly at Hyde. ‘You told me you had not been followed. You damned fool! You should have been more careful.’
Hyde bristled. ‘Do not call me names! And no one followed me. You, on the other hand—’
‘I followed no one,’ interrupted Chaloner. There was no time for a silly spat. ‘Although I was certainly suspicious when Oliver told me he was going home to Westminster, but then promptly set off in the opposite direction.’
‘I did not know he was watching,’ objected Oliver, when he received an accusing scowl in his turn. ‘I am not the distrustful type.’
‘Then you are in the wrong business,’ murmured Chaloner.
‘How did you guess it was me you chased through the house the other day?’ asked Hyde. Chaloner blinked his surprise at the question – he had expected at least some declaration of innocence – while Oliver’s gloomy face was a mask of disbelief at his associate’s easy capitulation. ‘I disappeared without a trace.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Chaloner. ‘But that in itself is a clue – it meant there had to be secret rooms or tunnels. And that is where the “stolen” materials have been going – they have been used to build these devices. It explains why no one has ever seen them carted away: they are still here.’
‘You cannot prove that,’ warned Oliver. ‘You will never find—’
Chaloner tapped on a panel that glided open to reveal a space behind it, large enough for a man to stand. ‘Of course I will. I have been locating these contrivances for years. It will be easy.’
It was a bluff, because he still had no idea how Hyde had disappeared near the library. He walked to the desk and glanced briefly at the plans. Then he rolled them up and slid them inside his coat. They would help him understand what had been constructed where.
‘You reckoned without Wright, too,’ he went on. ‘He did not hesitate to say that he had been paid to stay away tonight. He also explained how he has been taught to arrange the supplies so that Pratt will no longer notice what is missing.’
‘You paid him to stay away?’ asked Oliver of Hyde, unimpressed. ‘That was a waste of money – he is rarely here anyway. And then he betrayed you! I told you he could not be trusted.’
‘I admit to teaching him how to re-stack bricks and wood,’ said Hyde stiffly. ‘But I certainly did not give him any money tonight. The man is a liar and a villain.’
Chaloner regarded him in disgust, thinking that a son who put his father through such torments was hardly a saint himself. He resumed his analysis.
‘You have been on my list of suspects since the morning of the chase,’ he said, ‘because you opened the door with a key. Pratt’s was around his neck, so the man I dashed after must have had the Earl’s. You are in a better position to borrow that than anyone else.’
‘Yes, but there must be more than two of them,’ said Oliver, looking hard at Chaloner. ‘Because otherwise you could not have gained access to—’
‘Most of the workmen are in your pay,’ interrupted Chaloner, loath to pursue that particular line of thought. ‘Which is why the materials disappear during the day – your tunnels and passages are constructed during normal working hours, when Pratt is away on other business. No wonder I did not see anything vanish when I stood guard at night.’
‘We were able to work in the evenings, too, before you appeared,’ said Hyde sullenly. ‘It was a damned nuisance when my father summoned you back from Tangier.’
‘It is an impressive achievement,’ said Chaloner grudgingly. ‘Especially as I imagine Pratt is unaware of what is being done to his creation. I suppose your architectural training came in useful?’
‘Very,’ said Hyde smugly. ‘My artifices are a masterpiece in their own right.’
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‘Perhaps so,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I do not understand why you built them. What possible advantage is there in having your father’s house riddled with such devices?’
‘So he can spy on his enemies, stupid!’ said Hyde in sneering disdain. ‘He would never have agreed to these measures himself – you know how conservative he is – so I decided to install them for him. You will doubtless take advantage of them in time. Assuming you are still in his service, of course, which is looking increasingly unlikely at the moment. He will dismiss you when I tell him you held me at gunpoint.’
Chaloner eyed him contemptuously. ‘How will these contrivances benefit him? He does not entertain enemies in his own home. And I doubt he spies on his friends.’
Hyde opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it again, indicating that this notion had not occurred to him. ‘We shall see,’ he hedged stiffly.
‘There was another clue, too,’ Chaloner went on. ‘The note that enticed me into the strongroom was in your handwriting. I recognised it when Oliver showed me the inventory of missing materials you had made. It was a nice touch: small jaws, death and darkness.’
‘I did write those words,’ acknowledged Hyde, puzzled. ‘I have an elegant hand, and Oliver asked me to pen them as part of an anonymous love poem to his woman. Curious phrases to express passion, but each to his own. However, I doubt he left such an intimate item in the vault.’
‘Oliver does not have a woman,’ said Chaloner, recalling how the assistant architect had twice alluded to being at home with no one but his pet. ‘And then there were the muddy footprints on the cellar stairs that same night. Most were human, but there were an animal’s, too. They told me that Oliver had been there with his ferret shortly before I was locked inside.’
Oliver scowled when he saw he was cornered. ‘I only wish you had died there, as I had intended,’ he snarled. ‘Then we would not be having this ridiculous conversation.’
‘Died?’ echoed Hyde, shocked. ‘No one is supposed to die! And no one is meant to be shut in the strongroom, either. It is designed to be airless.’
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 34
