The Piccadilly Plot (15 page)

When Chaloner arrived at the Earl’s offices, it was to find Chief Usher Dugdale there, rifling through the drawers of a cabinet.
Edgeman the secretary was sitting at the desk, also rummaging, while Kipps stood in the window. The Seal Bearer had placed
himself so as to secure an unimpeded view of the Lady in her flimsy gown.

‘Where have
you
been?’ Dugdale demanded, using anger to mask his chagrin at being caught pawing through his master’s belongings. ‘I told
you to report to me every day, and you failed to appear yesterday.’

‘Actually,’ countered Chaloner, ‘what you said was that you wanted to know my every move. It is not the same thing.’

‘You insolent dog!’ snarled Dugdale. ‘How dare you talk back to me! Do you—’

Chaloner stepped towards him, fast enough to make
him cower involuntarily. ‘Please do not call me names. Unless you want to repeat them on the duelling field?’

‘Duelling is illegal,’ blustered Dugdale. ‘And I do not break the law.’

‘It is only illegal if you are caught,’ said Kipps, tearing his eyes away from the Lady and turning towards them. ‘Do you
need a second, Chaloner?’

‘No, he does not,’ cried Dugdale, alarmed. ‘The Earl expects high standards of his gentlemen, and you will never coerce
me
into behaving disreputably.’

Chaloner looked pointedly at the recently searched cabinet. ‘You need no coercion from me.’

‘Tell me what you intend to do today,’ ordered Dugdale, immediately going on the offensive. ‘I shall then decide whether to
give my permission.’

Chaloner had no intention of confiding his plans. ‘It depends on what the Earl says after he has heard my report. Where is
he?’

It was Edgeman who replied. He smirked spitefully. ‘You have had a wasted journey. He will come late today, because he is
going to watch the King dine at the Banqueting House. I might join him there. It is always an entertaining spectacle.’

‘Is it?’ Chaloner had been once, but had failed to understand the attraction in watching someone else eat. It was not as if
His Majesty hurled food around or told clever jokes while he feasted. But it was a popular pastime for many, and the Earl
rarely refused an invitation.

‘You are incapable of appreciating the finer things of life,’ sneered Edgeman. ‘Because—’

‘The same might be said of you two,’ interrupted Kipps sharply. ‘I invite you to spend an evening at the best brothel in London,
and what do you do? Decline!’

‘Because
we
do not indulge in sordid wickedness,’ said Edgeman loftily. ‘Do we, Dugdale?’

‘No,’ agreed Dugdale piously. ‘Only low-mannered scum frequent brothels.’

‘The King is a regular at this one.’ Kipps smiled rather wolfishly. ‘Shall I tell him your opinion then? I am sure he will
be interested to hear what you think of him.’

He spun on his heel and stalked out. Chaloner followed, wondering what it was about White Hall that seemed to attract such
dreadful people. He was sure the foreign courts in which he had worked had not housed such a profusion of them.

‘Baiting them gives me great pleasure,’ confided Kipps, once they were out of earshot. ‘Yet I cannot help but wonder whether
it is expensive fun. We shall never have the better of a man like Dugdale, because he is so damned slippery.’

‘Why were they searching the Earl’s drawers?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Were they? I did not notice. I try not to look in their direction whenever possible, especially Dugdale’s. The very sight
of him stirs me to violent impulses.’

‘You like him well enough to invite him to brothels.’

‘Only because I knew he would never accept,’ replied Kipps, with a conspiratorial wink.

The first thing Chaloner did after leaving White Hall was to visit Mrs Reyner. It was a pleasant day, and the sun had turned
the sky pink in the east. He breathed in deeply, then coughed as grit caught at the back of his throat. As always, London
was swathed in a yellow-black haze, from its citizens lighting sea-coal fires for heat, hot water and cooking.

When he reached the Feathers, he listened carefully outside, to ensure Harley and Newell had not kept her company overnight.
When he was sure she was alone, he knocked, and when the door was answered, he was hard-pressed to prevent himself from recoiling
at the stench of wine on her breath. Clearly, she was a woman who liked to give her sorrows a good dousing.

‘My son is dead,’ she said, sharply. ‘And if he owed you money, then that is too bad, because I am not responsible for his
debts.’

‘I heard what happened to him,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘I am sorry.’

She softened at the kindness in his voice. ‘Well? What do you want? It is cruel to keep an old woman on her doorstep in the
chill of the morning.’

‘Then I had better come in,’ said Chaloner, stepping past her and entering a dingy hall.

She made no complaint, and only shuffled to a pantry, where she poured herself a generous measure of wine. Her movements were
uncoordinated, which he supposed was to his advantage: if she were drunk, she was less likely to wonder why he was interrogating
her.

‘You must have been very proud of your son,’ he began. ‘Being a scout in Tangier.’

‘Spying on people was what he did best.’ She nodded. ‘He was always good at it, even as a child. But he did not come home
a happy man. He was frightened.’

‘Frightened of what?’

‘He would not tell me, although he did mention that we were going to be rich. Of course, that will not happen now.’ Bitterly,
she took a gulp from her mug.

‘No? Surely Harley and Newell will see you are looked after – for his sake?’

‘Those scum! They are furious that he is dead, and promised vengeance. But vengeance does not put wine on the table, does
it? I want money!’

‘He belonged to a group called the Piccadilly Company,’ said Chaloner, a little taken aback by her brazen rapacity, especially
as Reyner professed to have been fond of her. Naively, he had expected the sentiment to have been reciprocated. ‘Do you know
what—’

Mrs Reyner sneered. ‘That Brilliana is a member! She is Colonel Harley’s sister, and an evil witch. The others I do not know.
Well, there is Fitzgerald – the one-eyed sailor with the large orange beard – but we do not talk about him, of course.’

‘Why not?’ asked Chaloner, aware that her voice had dropped to a whisper.

‘Because he is a pirate. And he visits brothels, like the one in Hercules’ Pillars Alley.’

‘I see. Is that the best place to find him, then?’

‘No one “finds” Fitzgerald. And you had better hope he does not find you, either.’

Chaloner changed the subject, thinking he would rather have answers about Fitzgerald from the man himself, anyway. ‘Did your
son tell you what happened in Tangier the day Lord Teviot died?’

‘He said he was paid handsomely to facilitate an ambush, although I never saw any of the money.’ Mrs Reyner sighed mournfully.
‘And now I never will.’

‘Did he tell you that this ambush resulted in the deaths of almost five hundred men?’

She shrugged. ‘What of it? They were soldiers, and soldiers are supposed to fight. It was hardly my boy’s fault that they
were not very good at it.’

There was no point in embarking on a debate about the ethics of the situation, and Chaloner did not try. ‘What else did he
tell you about it?’

‘Nothing, except that it plagued his conscience.’ She grimaced. ‘He always was a weakling.’

‘Who do you think killed him?’ asked Chaloner, fighting down his revulsion for the woman.

‘His enemies – the deadly horde that Harley and Newell kept talking about last night. You see, there is the Piccadilly Company,
and there are their foes. They hate each other. You should watch yourself, Mr … what did you say your name was?’

‘Thank you for your time,’ said Chaloner. ‘But if this “deadly horde” is as dangerous as you say, you might be wise not to
speak to anyone else about your son’s activities in Tangier.’

‘The horde will not harm me,’ stated Mrs Reyner confidently. ‘Because I have this.’

She reached under her skirts, and there followed several moments of rather unseemly rummaging. Chaloner was on the verge of
leaving – there was only so much he could be expected to endure for the sake of an inquiry – when she produced a piece of
paper with a drunken flourish.

‘It is a list of names, but it is in code, so no one can read it. My son gave it to me, and said it would protect me if his
enemies come.’

She brandished it again, but the movement caused her to teeter, obliging Chaloner to grab her arm before she fell. He settled
her in a chair, then turned his attention to the paper. On it were written about fifty words, all in cipher. Pen and ink stood
on the table, so he began to make a copy.

‘Here!’ she demanded belligerently. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Saving your life. If this horde comes, and you are forced to give them the list, you can tell them there is a duplicate –
one that will be made public should anything happen to you.’

‘Who shall I say has it?’ she asked blearily. ‘You have not told me your name.’

Chaloner smothered his exasperation. ‘That is the point! If they do not know me, they cannot order me to hand my copy over,
too. They will have to leave you alone, or risk being exposed.’

Such a complex explanation took a while for Mrs Reyner to grasp, but when she did, she grinned. ‘Hurry up, then. But be warned
– my boy said the code is impossible to crack, because it came from vinegar.’

‘Vinegar? Do you mean Vigenère?’

She snapped her fingers. ‘That is the man! Do you know him?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, although his heart sank. The polyalphabetic cipher adapted by Vigenère was said to be unbreakable. He
handed the scroll back to Mrs Reyner, reminded her what she should say if her son’s enemies came calling, and took his leave.
It was time to visit his friend John Thurloe, who had a rare talent for decoding messages not intended for his eyes.

Chaloner took a hackney carriage to Chancery Lane, not because he was tired, but because he was bored with the journey between
Piccadilly and the city. Unfortunately, he was not in the coach for long before it rolled to a standstill, and he peered out
to see The Strand was in the midst of one of its ‘stops’ – carts,
carriages and horses in a jam so dense that nothing was moving.

With a sigh, he clambered out and began to walk, dodging through the traffic until he reached Lincoln’s Inn, one of London’s
four great legal foundations. He waved to the duty porter as he stepped through the wicket gate, then made his way to Chamber
XIII. He tapped softly on the door, and let himself into the one place in London where he felt truly safe, a comfortable suite
of rooms that were full of the cosy, familiar scent of old books, wax polish and wood-smoke.

John Thurloe was sitting by the fire. He was a slight man with large blue eyes, whose unassuming appearance belied the power
he had wielded when he was Cromwell’s Secretary of State and Spymaster General. There were those who said the Commonwealth
would not have lasted as long as it had without Thurloe’s guidance – he had run a highly efficient intelligence network, of
which Chaloner had been a part. He had retired from politics at the Restoration, and now lived quietly, dividing his time
between London and his estate in Oxfordshire.

‘Tom!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come in! It is a bitterly cold day, and you must be freezing.’

Chaloner laughed. ‘It is a pleasant morning, and I am hot from walking.’

‘Then you had better take one of these,’ said Thurloe, offering him a tin. ‘We cannot have you overheating. One of Mr Matthew’s
Excellent Pills should put you right.’

Thurloe was always concerned about his own health, and declared himself to be fragile, although there was a strength in him
that was unmatched by anyone else Chaloner had ever met. He swallowed all manner of cure-alls in his search for one that would
make him feel
as he had when he was twenty. Chaloner was sure they could not be good for him.

‘Good for slaying fluxes,’ he said, shaking his head as he recalled what he had read about the tablets in
The Intelligencer
. He did not mention the bit about expelling wind: Thurloe was inclined to be prudish.

‘If you will not accept a pill, then have a sip of this instead,’ said Thurloe, proffering a brightly coloured phial that
declared itself to be Sydenham’s Laudanum.

Chaloner shook his head a second time, then watched in alarm as Thurloe drained it in a single swallow. ‘Easy! There might
be all manner of unpleasant ingredients in that.’

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Thurloe blithely. ‘But if essence of slug or tincture of quicksilver can restore the spark of vitality
that has been missing in me since Cromwell died, I shall not complain.’

‘You will complain if they kill you. Quicksilver is poisonous. I know – I have seen it used.’

‘I doubt there is quicksilver in this. Indeed, it imparts a wonderful sense of well-being, and I feel as though I could raise
mountains after my daily dose.’

‘Then do not do it in Lincoln’s Inn. Your fellow benchers would not approve.’

Thurloe gave one of his rare smiles. ‘It is good to see you, Tom. Is this a social call, or have you come to ask what I know
about certain happenings in Piccadilly?’

Chaloner gaped at him. Thurloe had inspired deep loyalty among his intelligencers, and many continued to supply him with information,
even though he was no longer active in espionage – fortunately, as it happened, because it was what allowed him to stay one
step ahead of those who still itched to execute him for the role he
had played in the Commonwealth. But even so, Chaloner was startled that the ex-Spymaster should know what he was currently
investigating.

Thurloe smiled again. ‘It was a guess, Tom, based on logic. It is obvious that the Earl would order you to find out about
his missing bricks, while he cannot be happy with what is happening in the Crown, a place that is virtually his neighbour.’

‘What do you know about the Crown?’ asked Chaloner.