The Piccadilly Plot (31 page)

‘And it is barely ten o’clock,’ he concluded morosely. ‘I suppose I should visit Kersey next. Then I should ask Lester whether
Elliot might still be alive – and if he is, track him down and ask whether he encouraged Jacob to bury his brother with such
indecent haste.’

Thurloe winced at the mention of a man he did not trust. ‘If Elliot did survive Cave’s attack, then Lester will be complicit
in a hoax. I doubt Lester will admit to lying.’

‘I was not planning to ask if he lied,’ said Chaloner, a little irritably. ‘Just whether he might have been
mistaken. It is not always easy to tell the living from the dead.’

Thurloe nodded, but his expression said he thought Chaloner was wasting his time. ‘What will you do about Teviot? How will
you persuade Harley and Newell to break their silence and talk?’

‘I will visit Revered Addison today and ask what he knows about the matter.’

Thurloe nodded approvingly. ‘However, if you do decide to tackle the scouts directly again, you might mention
Jane
. She may loosen their tongues.’

‘Who is she?’

‘
Jane
is a ship that traded in Tangier when Teviot was governor. I was reliably informed last night that Harley and Newell were
hired to guard her when she docked there. My spies were unable to ascertain the precise nature of the cargo, but they heard
some of the crew talking. Yet what they overheard makes no sense, so perhaps we should not take it into account.’

‘What did they hear?’

‘That
Jane
was carrying gravel.’

By the time Chaloner reached the charnel house, Kersey was busy with the morning’s trade. Several corpses were awaiting his
attention, and the chambers at the front of his premises were full of mourners. Chaloner was impressed to note that he afforded
the same gentle sympathy to the poor as to the rich, offering medicinal wine to those in genuine distress, served in exquisite
crystal goblets.

‘Jacob came here on Monday night and asked for his brother’s body,’ the charnel-house keeper reported angrily, taking Chaloner’s
arm and pulling him towards the mortuary so they would not be overheard. ‘I assumed
he was taking it home, so that friends and acquaintances could pay their last respects. But then I heard the day before yesterday
that Cave was shoved in St Margaret’s churchyard with an appalling lack of ceremony. I am livid, because it reflects badly
on me.’

‘How?’ asked Chaloner, puzzled. ‘You are not responsible for the arrangements.’

‘Cave was in my care, and I always take it upon myself to act as adviser to my clients’ kin,’ explained Kersey shortly. ‘People
might think
I
recommended this unseemly course of action.’

‘I am sure they do not,’ said Chaloner soothingly. ‘What can you tell me about Jacob?’

‘A bit loutish – not like Cave at all. There was a dullness in his eyes that made me suspect he was not overly intelligent,
and he looked as though he would enjoy a brawl. He wore nice clothes and had donned an especially black wig.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin. Kersey’s description, like the curate’s, sounded uncannily like Elliot. Was it possible that Brilliana
was right? That he had survived Cave’s attack and was avenging himself by shoving Cave in the ground without the pomp and
ceremony that was his due? If the quarrel
had
been about her, and not about taking the wall as they had claimed, then it was certainly possible that their antipathy towards
each other was powerful enough to result in petty spite.

‘Can you remember anything else about Jacob?’ he asked.

‘He listened attentively to all I said about the grand ceremony that was being arranged, and then shoved his brother in the
ground first thing the following morning, employing a novice curate to say the prayers so that no
questions would be asked. It was sly, mean-spirited and niggardly.’

‘Did he tell you where he lives?’

‘Near the sign of the Sun in Covent Garden. Or so he claimed. I would pay him a visit myself and give him a piece of my mind,
but I am too busy.’

‘Was Cave the only subject you discussed?’

‘No, actually,’ replied Kersey, and Chaloner was surprised to see hurt and anger in his face. ‘He looked at the table on which
Cave lay, and told me it was disgraceful. No one has ever complained before and it offended me. I want you to look at it and
tell me whether he was right.’

Chaloner had no desire to inspect mortuary furniture, but Kersey was clearly upset, and he liked the man. He allowed himself
to be led into the hall, recoiling at the powerful stench of burning that assailed his nostrils the moment the door was opened.

‘Turner’s family and servants,’ explained Kersey. ‘And Lord Lucas. A terrible tragedy.’

He aimed for a table that looked no different to any of the others – it was sturdy and had been scrubbed so often that the
wood was almost white. It was already occupied by someone else, and although Chaloner tried to prevent Kersey from whipping
away the blanket – he did not want to see charred cadavers – he was too late.

But it was not a blackened specimen that lay there. It was Newell, dead of a gunshot wound.

Chaloner stared at the scout, his thoughts in turmoil. Newell was wearing the clothes he had sported when he had left the
Piccadilly Company meeting with Harley
and Lydcott at dawn, and was still slightly warm to the touch. He had not been dead for long.

‘He came in a few moments ago,’ explained Kersey. ‘An accident in St James’s Park – you know how people meet there to show
off their new firearms. Well, he was demonstrating one to a party of interested onlookers, and he shot himself by mistake.’

Chaloner seriously doubted it. ‘Newell was an experienced soldier. He would not have—’

‘There are witnesses: Secretary Leighton, Hyde, Mr O’Brien and the lovely Kitty to name but a few. These accidents are not
uncommon, because firearms are notoriously capricious.’

‘But Newell was a professional scout. He would not have killed himself by accident, no matter how temperamental the gun.’

Kersey shrugged. ‘Yet here he is, lying on my table. Tell me what you think of my furniture, Chaloner. Should I invest in
new stock?’

But all Chaloner’s attention was on Newell. Experience told him that the scout had probably been looking down the barrel when
he had squeezed the trigger, and the ball had taken him in the throat. There were two possibilities. Either Newell had committed
suicide because he was losing his nerve over Teviot and whatever other dark matters he had embarked upon with the Piccadilly
Company, or the gun had been fitted with an unusually fine firing mechanism.

‘The table,’ prompted Kersey worriedly. ‘Can you see anything wrong with it?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner. ‘I suspect Jacob made the remark to disconcert you – and to prevent you from asking him too many questions.’

‘Well, it worked,’ said Kersey bitterly. ‘It stopped our conversation dead, and I have been distressed ever since – about
the entire episode.’

‘Cave was killed by a man named James Elliot, who is supposed to have died of his wounds shortly afterwards. I do not suppose
you had him in here, did you?’

‘No,’ replied Kersey with absolute conviction. ‘I have not had a stabbing victim for almost three weeks now.’

Chaloner left the charnel house aware that he now had even more to do. He had to ask Leighton, O’Brien, Kitty and Hyde about
what had happened to Newell; interview Addison about Tangier; visit the Sun in Covent Garden to speak to Jacob – assuming
he was not Elliot, of course; and talk to Lester about the possibility that his friend was still alive. Then he was due to
visit the Queen’s apartments, and he wanted to track down Harley – it was even more urgent that he cornered the scout now,
given that he was the only one of the three left alive.

His thoughts were so full of how to fit everything in that he failed to pay attention to his surroundings, and he was halfway
down the lane before he became aware of several men walking towards him. They were advancing with grim purpose and it did
not take a genius to see that they were there for him. There were too many to fight, so he turned, and had just broken into
a run when he was faced with more men coming from the opposite direction. There were at least a dozen, all rough-looking types
with cudgels.

Was
he
going to have an ‘accident’ now? Was someone disappointed that he had escaped suffocation the previous night, and intended
to rectify the matter? He looked around quickly but either by chance or design the men had chosen a part of the alley with
walls that were too
high to climb, and there were no windows or doors. He would have to fight.

He drew his sword with one hand and the gun with the other, and stood with his back to the wall, waiting to see which side
would strike first. He could not win against so many, but if he was going to die, then he would not be the only one to meet
his Maker that day.

‘There is no need for that,’ said the man in the lead, faltering. Behind him, his fellows drew an assortment of swords and
knives. ‘We only want a word.’

Chaloner indicated with a gesture that he was to speak.

‘Not here,’ said the man. ‘Come with us.’

‘No.’ Chaloner levelled the gun at him.

‘We have orders to take you somewhere,’ said the man, eyeing it uneasily. ‘And it will be a lot more pleasant for everyone
if you put down the weapons and come quiet, like.’

‘Orders from whom?’ demanded Chaloner.

‘We cannot say, but if you come with us, you will find out.’

‘Then I decline.’

The man sighed and indicated that his cronies should advance. They obliged, slowly at first, but then in a rush when a puff
of smoke told them that Chaloner’s dag had misfired. Cursing the thing, Chaloner used it as a club, bruising at least two
of his assailants, while three others reeled away from his sword. But it was an unequal contest and it was not long before
he went down under a hail of cudgels, fists and feet. A sack was pulled over his head and tugged so tight that it was difficult
to breathe. He managed to free one hand, though, and heard a yelp of pain as he lashed out with it.

‘Tie him,’ ordered the leader urgently. ‘Quickly, before he injures anyone else.’

‘Easy for you to say, Doines,’ someone grumbled. ‘Standing there, giving orders, while we do battle with the devil.’

Chaloner continued to struggle long after he was rendered helpless by an array of ropes, desperately seeking a weakness in
his bonds. There was none, and he felt himself lifted and tossed into the back of a cart. Doines clicked his tongue to a horse,
which began to trot.

He was not sure how many men piled themselves on top of him, but he could not ever recall a more uncomfortable journey. He
tried to ask whether their orders entailed him arriving dead, but the sack muffled his words, and the sound he made encouraged
someone to hit him. He felt himself grow light-headed from lack of air, and soon lost any sense of where he was being taken.

By the time they arrived at their destination, Chaloner was dizzy and disoriented. He was aware of being carried, but did
not have the strength to resist. He heard a swirl of voices as the sack was hauled off, but kept his eyes closed, to see what
might be learned about his captors by feigning unconsciousness. The ropes were removed, and he was dragged forward.

‘What have you done to him?’ Chaloner’s heart sank when he recognised Williamson’s voice. ‘I specifically told you to invite
him nicely.’

‘We did,’ came Doines’s aggrieved reply. ‘But he started to fight, and injured five of us. You cannot blame us for taking
him down before he could do any more damage.’

‘I can and I do,’ snapped Williamson. ‘I need his help, and he is hardly going to agree to work with me now you have knocked
him senseless, is he!’

‘I told you to let me fetch him,’ came another voice. It was Lester, and he sounded angry. ‘You should have listened.’

Chaloner felt himself laid gently on a bench. Then a cloth began to wipe his face. He opened his eyes a
fraction and saw the ministering angel was Lester, his ruddy face full of concern.

‘He would not have obliged you,’ argued Williamson. ‘I asked him to come here several times, and even sent a polite note with
his wife. All were ignored. He does not like me, although I cannot imagine why. I have graciously overlooked all manner of
injustices, insults and violations in the past – ones I would have killed another man for committing against me.’

‘This is not
my
fault,’ said Doines sullenly. ‘You said not to mention that it was you who wanted to see him, but he got suspicious when
we refused to answer. It was—’

‘Leave,’ snapped Williamson. ‘Before I decline to pay you.’

Footsteps crossed the floor, then a door opened and closed. Chaloner opened his eyes a little more, and saw he was in Williamson’s
Westminster office. Lester was still looming over him, but the Spymaster had gone to sit at his desk. As far as he could tell
there was no one else in the room, but in order to get free he would have to incapacitate both, and make an escape from a
building that was full of Williamson’s clerks, spies and ruffians. Could he do it?

‘Perhaps we should summon a surgeon,’ said Lester worriedly. ‘Wiseman is the best. He is expensive, but I will bear the cost.
This should not have happened.’

Chaloner knew then that it was time to pretend to regain his wits, because Wiseman would not be fooled by his act. He sat
up.

‘Thank God!’ exclaimed Lester. ‘I thought they had done you serious harm.’

‘He is awake?’ asked Williamson, coming to stand over them. ‘Good. Can he speak?’

‘Give him a moment to recover,’ snapped Lester. Then his voice softened. ‘Sit quietly for as long as you like, Chaloner.
We shall talk only when you are ready.’

‘I am ready now,’ said Chaloner, unwilling to prolong the experience. ‘What do you want?’

‘I am sorry violence was used to bring you here,’ said Williamson stiffly. ‘But a situation has arisen that means we must
put aside our differences and work together. As we did in June.’