The Piccadilly Plot (32 page)

‘What situation?’ asked Chaloner, hoping he was not about to be given another mystery to unravel. He was struggling with the
ones he had already.

‘One involving powerful men,’ replied Williamson soberly. ‘Members of government, wealthy merchants, and several less salubrious
characters. Such as Fitzgerald the pirate. Do you know him?’

‘Not personally.’

‘He is an extremely dangerous individual,’ Williamson went on. ‘And I have reason to believe that he is behind the tragic
deaths of Sir Edward Turner and Lord Lucas.’

‘Then arrest him,’ suggested Chaloner.

‘I cannot – I do not have evidence that will secure a conviction in a court of law.’

‘That has never stopped you before.’

Williamson had cells for people whose trials would not win a verdict that he deemed to be in the public interest, and assassins
available should he decide on a more permanent solution.

‘He is too prominent and well connected,’ explained Williamson. ‘And if you do not believe me, then ask your friend Thurloe.
He was as wily a spymaster as ever lived, but even
he
could not defeat Fitzgerald. The man is not a normal criminal.’

‘I overheard him talking,’ said Chaloner. He spoke hesitantly, because it went against the grain to share information with
someone he distrusted. ‘He said he has a master who gives him orders.’

‘Who is it?’ demanded Williamson, clearly horrified.

‘I do not know. Another member of the Piccadilly Company, perhaps.’

‘And there are plenty in
that
sinister organisation to choose from,’ interposed Lester grimly. ‘Brilliana and her brother Harley, Newell, Meneses, Margareta
and Cornelis Janszoon, Jones, Pratt the architect. And those are just the ones we have identified. Most of them wear disguises
to their gatherings.’

Chaloner was about to point out that ‘Jones’ was stupid, rather than sinister, but there was always the possibility that Williamson
did not know he was Thurloe’s brother-in-law, and there was no need to highlight the connection unnecessarily.

‘Newell is dead,’ he said instead.

Williamson’s eyes opened wide. ‘How do you know?’

‘I have just seen his body. He was shot while showing off with a gun – an accident, apparently. It was witnessed by several
people, including Leighton, Hyde, and your friend O’Brien and his wife.’

‘Kitty?’ Williamson was stricken. ‘I must go to her at once. To comfort her!’

‘What about O’Brien?’ asked Chaloner archly. ‘Does he not warrant comfort, too?’

Williamson glanced at him sharply, and Chaloner wished he had held his tongue. Alluding to the Spymaster’s dalliance with
his old friend’s wife had been unwarranted and reckless. He tried to think of a way to mitigate the damage, but Lester was
already talking.

‘Far too many people connected to this matter have died,’ he said unhappily. ‘Turner, Lucas, Proby, Congett, Reyner and his
mother, Elliot, Cave, and now Newell.’

‘What matter?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Precisely?’

Williamson looked pained. ‘That is the problem: we are not sure. However, we suspect that two organisations are at loggerheads:
the Piccadilly Company and the Adventurers. Deaths have occurred in both.’

Chaloner played devil’s advocate. ‘The Adventurers cannot be involved in anything untoward. The King is a member, and so is
the Queen and half the Privy Council.’

‘I doubt whatever is underway involves the entire corporation,’ explained Williamson shortly. ‘However, there are rumours
that something terrible will unfold next Wednesday—’

‘St Frideswide’s Day,’ put in Lester helpfully.

‘—and it
must
be stopped,’ Williamson finished. ‘Unfortunately, we cannot do it with the resources currently at our disposal.’

‘Doines is Williamson’s best man, and you saw what
he
is like,’ elaborated Lester, oblivious to the Spymaster’s irritated grimace. ‘So if we are to thwart it, we shall need other
help. Yours.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, standing abruptly and wondering whether he would be allowed to walk out. As he did so, his eye fell on
a pile of letters on a table, and he recognised the signature of the one on top. It raised another question, but it was not
one he would be able to ponder until he was alone again.

‘Please wait,’ said Williamson softly, and Chaloner suddenly became aware of the lines of strain in his face. ‘I could use
your family to coerce you, as I have done
in the past – and as I am currently doing to Lester – but I would rather you helped me willingly.’

‘I am sure you would,’ said Chaloner. ‘Swaddell is gone, so you are desperate to replace—’

‘Swaddell has not gone anywhere,’ interrupted Williamson tiredly. ‘The tale of our break is a canard, so he can inveigle himself
into the confidence of those we believe to be plotting. At great personal risk, I might add. The only people who know this
are Lester, and now you.’

Chaloner was horrified on Swaddell’s behalf. ‘Sharing such information is hardly—’

‘Swaddell is my friend, and I have put his life in your hands by confiding in you. If there was another way to make you trust
me, I would have taken it, believe me. But I am faced with a crisis, and I need the help of an experienced operative with
the right connections.’

‘I have no connections,’ said Chaloner truthfully.

‘At least listen to what we have to say before turning us down,’ said Lester reasonably.

‘You are uncomfortable here in my office,’ surmised Williamson astutely. ‘Would it help if we went somewhere else? We could
sit in my carriage and ride around London.’

‘A coffee house,’ determined Chaloner. They were public places, which meant Williamson was less likely to try to harm him.
‘The Paradise by Westminster Hall.’

Williamson scowled. ‘Certainly not. It will be busy, and we need to converse in private.’

‘It has private booths at the rear,’ said Lester quickly, as Chaloner stepped towards the door to indicate the interview was
over. ‘And we are all in need of a medicinal draught.’

‘Very well,’ conceded Williamson reluctantly. ‘But you are paying.’

‘I cannot be long,’ warned Chaloner, supposing there was no harm in listening. He might learn something useful with no obligation
to reciprocate. ‘I have an audience with the Queen.’

‘And you say you have no connections,’ said Lester wonderingly.

The Paradise was one of three establishments – the others were Hell and Purgatory – that sold food and drink in Westminster’s
Old Palace Yard. They were sometimes taverns, sometimes ordinaries and sometimes coffee houses, depending on the whims of
their owners. The Paradise was currently a coffee house, although in keeping with the eccentricity of the place, the upper
floor was given over to selling fishing tackle and an assortment of patented medicines.

Inside, it was hazy not only with smoke from the coffee beans, but from a badly swept chimney. It was dominated by a large
oval table with a slit up the centre that allowed the owner to walk inside it and refill his customers’ dishes. His patrons
were a mixture of the black-gowned lawyers who worked in the Palace of Westminster, and the ruffians who inhabited the slums
that surrounded it. They were discussing the Post Office, an institution notorious for opening any letters entrusted to its
care. The lawyers were of the opinion that anyone who committed words to paper without hiring one of them to make sure they
could not be misinterpreted had only himself to blame; the rest thought a man’s correspondence was his own affair, and that
the Post Office had no right to pry.

Chaloner started to sit at the main table, but Lester
grabbed his arm and pointed to a secluded cubicle at the back.

‘We cannot discuss our problems in front of an audience. You know that. The booth is private, but in full view – Williamson
cannot do anything untoward without at least a dozen men seeing.’

Williamson shot Chaloner a reproachful glance as he led the way towards it, although Chaloner felt their past encounters gave
him the right to be wary. Lester placed several coins on the table, and coffee was brought. Chaloner sipped it, surprised
to discover it was almost palatable. He set the dish back on the table, and indicated that Lester and Williamson were to begin
their explanations.

‘I suppose we must start with Lester’s sister,’ Williamson obliged. ‘She lives in the Crown on Piccadilly, and was the first
to notice that something untoward was happening.’

‘Not Ruth?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘She is Lester’s sister as well as Elliot’s wife?’

Lester nodded. ‘I thought you knew. She said you have been to visit her twice, and I know she would have mentioned me. I assumed
you went to pick her brains.’

‘Such as they are,’ muttered Williamson acidly.

Something snapped clear in Chaloner’s mind when resentment suffused Lester’s face. ‘
She
is the reason you are working with Williamson! He said he was using your family to coerce you.’

‘He threatened to commit her to Bedlam otherwise,’ said Lester. He glared at the Spymaster. ‘There was no need to resort to
such tactics – I would have helped anyway. I am a patriotic man, which is why I joined the navy.’

Williamson ignored him. ‘Ruth told Lester that
something peculiar was happening in the Crown, and rather rashly, he decided to investigate.’

‘I did not know there was anything
to
investigate at first,’ elaborated Lester. ‘Ruth is given to imagining things, you see. But I soon realised she was right
– it is the Piccadilly Company’s headquarters. I managed to eavesdrop once, although I am not very good at that sort of thing,
and they hired Brinkes to stop it happening again.’

‘What did you hear?’ asked Chaloner.

‘A discussion about a plot to kill one of their members. The Queen wants Pratt dead, apparently.’

Chaloner shook his head firmly. ‘She would never embroil herself in such an affair.’

‘I agree,’ said Williamson. ‘But that will not stop people from accusing her, should the tale become public. People dislike
her, and it provides an opportunity to send her back to Portugal in disgrace. Or worse. Our country does have a habit of lopping
the heads off unwanted monarchs.’

‘And if that happens, Portugal will break off diplomatic relations with us,’ added Lester. ‘We shall have to return her dowry,
which includes the ports of Tangier and Bombay, jewels, money, and all manner of trading rights. It will cripple us for decades.’

‘In other words, it will be an enormous disaster,’ summarised Williamson. ‘The French and Spanish will leap to take advantage
of our weakened state, and the Dutch will declare war on us.’

‘Pratt does not seem overly worried by the plot, though,’ said Lester, while Chaloner’s mind reeled at their revelations.
‘He probably thinks Fitzgerald can protect him.’

‘Protect him from whom?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Who is behind this plot? The Adventurers?’

‘We do not know,’ replied Lester. ‘However, Fitzgerald may think so – it would certainly explain why he roasted Turner and
Lucas, and may also account for Proby’s “suicide” and Congett’s “accident”. We cannot forget Captain Pepperell of
Eagle
, either. Brinkes killed him, and Brinkes is Fitzgerald’s henchman. Perhaps Pepperell was an Adventurer, too. He did sail
to Africa a lot, after all.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘So Fitzgerald has declared war on the Adventurers?’

‘We suspect he has taken against
some
of them,’ said Williamson. ‘However, if we are right, then they are fighting back. Reyner and Newell are dead, and Pratt
may soon follow …’

‘I am still hoping that the relationship between Pepperell and Elliot will provide answers,’ said Lester. He shrugged at Williamson’s
dismissive expression. ‘You think I am wasting my time, but we have no other leads to follow, and I would like to know the
truth about their deaths.’

‘Are you
sure
Elliot is dead?’ Chaloner asked him.

Lester looked startled. ‘Of course! The wound he received was mortal. He died the same day.’

‘Were you with him?’

‘No. The surgeon was drunk, so I left to see whether Wiseman was available. Unfortunately, I could not find him, and by the
time I returned, Elliot had expired.’

‘What was this surgeon’s name?’

‘Jeremiah King of Axe Yard.’ Lester was puzzled. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because Cave’s “brother” buried him rather hastily, thus depriving him of his elaborate funeral, and the descriptions of
Jacob sound remarkably like Elliot.’

‘Then it is coincidence,’ said Lester firmly. ‘Because Elliot is buried himself. I saw him laid to rest in St Giles-in-the-Fields
yesterday.’

‘That was Friday,’ said Chaloner. ‘But Cave was collected from the charnel house on Monday night, and buried on Tuesday. Elliot
could have done it.’

‘He
died
on Monday,’ said Lester shortly. ‘Besides, he had no reason to tamper with Cave’s funeral arrangements. What a terrible accusation
to make!’

‘His reason for tampering would be the same as the one that led him to fight Cave in the first place,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Brilliana.’

‘Well, he is innocent,’ stated Lester uncompromisingly. ‘I am sure of it.’

‘I understand why Cave’s brother acted as he did,’ said Williamson quietly. ‘The Chapel Royal choristers were organising a
wildly expensive affair, and Cave was not wealthy. Payment would ultimately have fallen on Jacob, and I do not blame him for
declining to be beggared.’

Lester nodded agreement, but Chaloner thought he would reserve judgement until he had visited ‘Jacob’ in Covent Garden and
heard the tale from his own lips.

Unsettled and confused by the connections that were emerging, Chaloner followed Williamson and Lester out of the coffee house,
hearing the bells of Westminster strike three. The day was passing, and he still had much to do. He took a deep breath. The
air reeked of soot and blocked drains, but its coolness was refreshing after the fug of the shop.

‘So, to summarise,’ he said, ‘you believe there is a plot underway to discredit the Queen by implicating her in
the murder of a prominent architect. The result will be a diplomatic crisis, resulting in the loss of Tangier, untold money
and trading rights. Meanwhile, the Piccadilly Company and the Adventurers are at each other’s throats, and members of both
are dead.’