The Piccadilly Plot (20 page)

Chaloner stole a mask from someone too intoxicated
to notice, found a corner where he could pretend to be slumped in a drunken stupor, and settled down to watch the pirate
at play.

His earlier assumption that Adventurers and the Piccadilly Company did not mix was wrong, because members of both were in
Fitzgerald’s party. The Adventurers were represented by Brodrick, safe in the knowledge that his prim cousin would never believe
anyone who told on him; and by Congett, who had apparently not consumed enough wine at O’Brien’s house earlier and was busily
rectifying the matter. Both wore visors, but Chaloner recognised them by their clothes. Then Dugdale and Edgeman tottered
across to join them, disguised as an ape and a toad, respectively.

Several Piccadilly Company members were also readily identifiable, despite their elaborate headdresses. ‘The nice Mr Jones’
was wearing his trademark red boot-ribbons, while Cornelis Janszoon appeared brazenly foreign in his sombre Dutch suit. Chaloner
glanced around quickly and saw three henchmen lurking in the shadows near the door; Janszoon was still taking no chances with
his safety.

There were two others he recognised, too, although he doubted they were Adventurers or from the Piccadilly Company: Pratt
the architect was betrayed by his haughty bearing, while his assistant Oliver still contrived to look morose despite the merrily
beaming imp that concealed his face.

Everyone was laughing uproariously, because Jones was encouraging Pratt to describe the mansions he had designed before Clarendon
House. Jones was making much of the fact that Pratt could only lay claim to three, which should not have been sufficient for
him to have
formed such an elevated opinion of himself. Pratt did not know he was being practised upon, and his bragging replies unwittingly
emphasised his foolish vanity.

‘Clarendon House is effluence,’ declared Janszoon suddenly, cutting across Pratt’s declaration that his buildings were the
best in the country. ‘And all London’s architects are repulsive and bald.’

Chaloner knew the revellers were far too drunk to understand that the Hollander was remarking on Clarendon House’s affluence,
and the impulsive boldness of the capital’s builders. He braced himself for trouble, and saw the guards do the same.

‘British architects are the greatest in the world, sir,’ slurred Congett indignantly. ‘Whereas you Dutch never build anything
except warehouses in which to store butter.’

‘Or cheese,’ added Brodrick, while Oliver nodded at his side.

‘I like Dutch cheese,’ said Janszoon gravely. ‘But England’s is odious.’

Chaloner suspected he had confused ‘odious’ with ‘odoriferous’, and was merely commenting on the fact that British cheeses
tended to smell riper than their milder Dutch counterparts. But eyes were immediately narrowed at the perceived slur.

‘Nonsense,’ snapped Dugdale. He struggled to enunciate the next sentence. ‘There is nothing odious about England. God save
the King!’

The cry was taken up by others, and the atmosphere turned raucously genial again, indignation forgotten. One of the guards
slipped up to Janszoon at that point, and whispered in his ear. Janszoon nodded to whatever was said, and aimed for the door,
his protectors at his heels.

‘Good,’ said Dugdale viciously, watching them go. ‘That butter-eater did nothing but abuse us from the moment he arrived,
and I might have punched him had he persisted.’

‘Would you?’ asked Fitzgerald softly, his one eye gleaming oddly beneath his mask. ‘You sat back all night and let him bray
all manner of insults about our country, our King and our food. I imagine he will always be perfectly safe from your fists.’

His voice dripped scorn, and Chaloner sensed he was more disgusted with the Chief Usher for failing to defend their nation’s
honour than with Janszoon for uttering the remarks in the first place.

‘We came here for fun,’ objected Dugdale defensively. ‘Not to trounce impudent foreigners. Besides, Temperance does not approve
of fighting in her parlour, and I do not want to be ousted while the night is still young.’

Pratt spoke up at that point, eager to reclaim the attention. ‘Have you heard that
I
am the subject of a planned assassination?’ he enquired smugly. ‘Someone hates my work enough to kill me.’

‘Congratulations,’ came an unpleasantly acidic voice from a man wearing the face of a dog. Chaloner recognised it as Newell’s,
and supposed the hawk next to him was Harley. ‘No architect can claim notoriety until at least one person itches to dispatch
him for the hideousness of his creations.’

Pratt frowned as he tried to gauge whether he had just been insulted. Newell opened his mouth to add more, but Fitzgerald
was there first, laying his hand on the scout’s shoulder.

‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘Pratt is our friend – a member of our Company. It is unkind to tease him.’

Chaloner was surprised to learn that the architect was a member of the Piccadilly Company, but supposed he should not be
– Pratt lived in the place where it met, and would have money to invest. Of course he would be recruited to its ranks.

‘He deserves to be jibed,’ said Newell sullenly. ‘He is an arrogant dolt. Besides, Janszoon is a friend and a member of the
Company too, but you just castigated that courtier for not hitting him.’

‘I did nothing of the kind,’ said Fitzgerald, and although his voice was mild, there was a definite warning in it. ‘I merely
dislike people who make casual reference to violence. If they mean it, they should carry it through.
I
have never made an idle threat in my life.’

Newell was clearly unsettled by the remark, because he flung off his mask, grabbed a jug of wine from a table and began to
drain it. When they saw what was happening, the other revellers egged him on with boisterous chants. Fitzgerald turned away,
but the crocodile head prevented Chaloner from telling whether he was angry, amused or disgusted by the scout’s antics.

When the jug was empty, Newell slammed it on the table and slumped into a chair. Chaloner homed in on him when the revellers
drifted to another part of the room, and tried to rouse him, but it was hopeless – the scout would still be sleeping off his
excesses at noon the following day.

Meanwhile, the Portuguese man had seized another jug and looked set to follow Newell’s example, but once again, Fitzgerald
was there to intervene.

‘No, Meneses,’ he piped, removing it firmly. ‘You have much to do tomorrow, and you will need a clear head. Allow me to summon
a carriage to take you home.’

Meneses opened his mouth to argue, but Fitzgerald gripped his arm and began to lead him towards the door. Meneses tried to
pull away, but was far too drunk for a serious struggle, and he desisted altogether when Harley came to take his other arm.
Chaloner followed, staying well back and hiding as the trio reached the hall and Fitzgerald sent Preacher Hill to fetch a
hackney.

‘What do you think, Fitzgerald?’ asked Harley in a low voice, propping Meneses up against a wall while they waited for the
coach to arrive. ‘How do we fare?’

‘Well, enough,’ replied the pirate. ‘Our master will be pleased, because tonight I have achieved two things: avenged Reyner’s
murder, and let those who oppose us know that we are a potent force. Killing Reyner and his mother in revenge for Proby was
rude, and I have taught them a lesson.’

Harley nodded slowly. ‘Do you know who killed Reyner, then?’

‘No, but he will not live long, I promise – our St Frideswide’s Day plans will take care of him. Next Wednesday, our master
will show everyone that
he
can organise noteworthy events, too.’

In the shadows, Chaloner frowned his bemusement. St Frideswide’s Day was when Pratt was supposed to be murdered, but Fitzgerald
had just saved him from ridicule and described him as a friend and a fellow Piccadilly Company member. Surely, he – or his
mysterious master – could not be the author of
that
plot? Or was Fitzgerald actually saying that there was a second unpleasant event planned for the same day, one that would
outshine the other in its viciousness?

‘Good,’ said Harley. ‘Then let us hope we succeed, because it has been months in the planning, and I am
eager for it to be finished. But what exactly did you do tonight?’

‘You will see. Our enemies and all London will be agog with the news tomorrow.’

The coach arrived at that point, and they manhandled Meneses into it. As the hackneyman declined to take a near-unconscious
man unaccompanied, Harley went, too, while Fitzgerald returned to the parlour.

Chaloner mulled over what he had heard, wondering who the pirate considered to be his enemies. Frustrated, he realised he
had a list of them from Reyner’s mother, but until Thurloe broke the code, their names would remain a mystery. He hoped the
ex-Spymaster would not take long, because they were obviously in danger, and needed to be warned. He cursed the promise that
Thurloe had forced out of him, because the obvious way forward was to corner Fitzgerald and demand some answers, most particularly
the name of his master.

His musings were interrupted suddenly when the hall filled with laughing, shrieking courtiers, all involved in a riotous game
of chase. The curtain behind which he had taken refuge was hauled from its rail by someone struggling to stay upright, and
he only just managed to hurl himself into the mêlée in time to prevent being exposed as someone who hid behind the draperies
– and while most patrons were too drunk to notice or care, it was not a risk he was willing to take.

As he scrambled to his feet, pretending to totter as he did so, a figure materialised in front of him. It was Fitzgerald.
He itched to initiate a conversation, sure he could extract some information from the pirate without arousing his suspicions.

‘Allow me to help,’ Fitzgerald said, reaching out to
steady him. ‘Mistress North’s wine has flowed very freely tonight, and not everyone can take it.’

‘But you can?’ slurred Chaloner.

‘I am a sailor,’ replied Fitzgerald, intensifying his grip to the point where it hurt. Chaloner was not sure whether the pirate
was genuinely trying to hold him up, or whether there was a warning in the steel-like fingers. ‘We are more used to powerful
brews than the average man. Indeed, we are a breed to be respected in many ways.’

He escorted Chaloner to a nearby chair, where the spy pretended to fall asleep. Fitzgerald watched him for a moment, then
turned and made for the door, apparently deciding that he had had enough of the club and its entertainments. Chaloner found
himself inexplicably relieved when he had gone – there was definitely something unsettling about him, and he was beginning
to understand why Thurloe considered him such a daunting opponent.

Back inside the parlour, the merrymaking continued unabated, and all manner of food was still flying through the air. Pratt
was lying on the floor, liberally splattered with custard, and an inanely grinning Oliver – an expression that did not sit
well on his naturally melancholy face, now devoid of its mask – was sitting astride the architect, rummaging in his clothes.

‘I am looking for the key to Clarendon House,’ he explained, as Chaloner approached. ‘Pratt usually keeps it round his neck,
see.’

Chaloner helped him search with the express intention of taking it – he did not think Oliver or Pratt should have possession
of it that night. It was not there, indicating either that the architect had been sensible enough to leave it at home, or
someone else had got to it first.

‘Damn,’ said Oliver, reeling as he sat back on his heels. ‘He always gives it to me when he knows he is going to be late
for work. And he will be late tomorrow, because he will still be drunk.’

‘Does he often come here?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Oh, yes – he is always waxing lyrical about it. Usually it is barred to the likes of me, but the King is being entertained
elsewhere tonight, so Mistress North said her regulars could bring a friend. Just this once. And Mr Pratt invited me, which
was nice.’

He sounded ridiculously pleased, giving Chaloner the impression that it would be the highlight of his year. Then the grin
slowly disappeared, and he mumbled something about needing to close his eyes for a moment, before sinking down on top of Pratt
and beginning to snore.

Chaloner was about to go home when he saw Jones pouring himself more wine. The man was perfectly steady, and was one of few
sober people in the room.

‘Temperance is canny,’ Jones said affably, wincing as he sipped. ‘The claret was excellent earlier in the evening, but now
few are in a position to savour quality, she has brought out the slop.’

‘You are a member of the Piccadilly Company,’ said Chaloner, deciding the environment was right for a frontal attack – everyone
else was blurting whatever entered their heads, so why should he not do likewise? ‘May I join?’

Jones blinked. ‘You are very direct! How did you find out about us?’

It was on the tip of Chaloner’s tongue to say that Harley and Newell had told him, but he remembered what had happened to
Reyner, and baulked. He did not
want another death on his conscience, not even theirs. ‘I listen,’ he said instead.

Jones smiled apologetically. ‘Personally, I would love a new member, because our meetings are tedious and you might liven
them up. Unfortunately, my colleagues have decided that our business has reached its optimum size of thirty investors, and
they will not enrol anyone else.’

‘Should I ask Fitzgerald to make an exception?’

Jones considered the question carefully. ‘You could try, although I am told he is not always very friendly. I have never found
him so, but there you are.’

‘What is the Piccadilly Company, exactly?’

Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘You do not know its nature, yet you want to enlist?’

‘I have heard it is a lucrative venture,’ lied Chaloner.

Jones laughed and clapped his hands. ‘Then you heard right! It is very profitable. We export fine glassware to New England,
and we bring gravel back.’