The Piccadilly Plot (37 page)

‘Have you ever been to Brazil, Chaloner?’ asked O’Brien amiably.

‘It is full of plantations,’ said Kitty in distaste. ‘Run on slave labour – which is wicked.’

‘Leighton is still trying to persuade us to become Adventurers,’ said O’Brien unhappily. ‘The irony is that
we were keen to join last year, but our copper sales had not made us rich enough, and we were rejected. Now we have ample
funds, but have learned that it is an unethical venture – although their social events are certainly enticing.’

‘Leighton pesters us constantly to join,’ said Kitty. ‘Horrible man!’

‘I understand that you had another unpleasant experience recently, too,’ said Chaloner. ‘You saw Newell killed in St James’s
Park.’

Kitty paled, and her husband put a protective arm around her shoulders. ‘It was dreadful,’ he said weakly. ‘Leighton was with
us, but he said and did
nothing
. In fact, he looked like the serpent that just tried to eat Lady Castlemaine – evil and dispassionate at the same time.’

‘Do you think he knew what was about to happen?’ asked Chaloner.

Kitty and O’Brien looked at each other. ‘I would not have thought so,’ said O’Brien eventually, although without much conviction.
‘How could he have done?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Kitty cautiously. ‘It must have been an accident. But let us talk about something else. Newell’s death was horrible,
and we shall all have nightmares if we persist.’

‘We have been invited to a soirée tomorrow and a reception on Tuesday,’ said O’Brien, forcing a smile. ‘The soirée is at Brodrick’s
house, and he promises us a memorable time.’

‘I am sure you will have it,’ said Chaloner, knowing from experience that Brodrick’s parties usually began well, but degenerated
as the night progressed and the wine flowed.

‘Tuesday’s event is a pageant to welcome the Swedish
ambassador,’ O’Brien went on. This time the grin was more genuine. ‘I
do
love a good ceremony, and London is very good at them.’

‘Will you be there, Mr Chaloner?’ asked Kitty. ‘Joseph says he will need to be in disguise, to spy on people with wicked intentions.
It means he cannot talk to us, lest he gives himself away.’

‘He told us he will be in pursuit of traitors and scoundrels,’ said O’Brien, laughing at the notion. ‘But I cannot imagine
there are many of those at White Hall.’

‘You would be surprised,’ murmured Chaloner.

Soon, even those of a scientific bent took their leave, and Chaloner and Thurloe adjourned to a nearby coffee house to discuss
their findings. It did not take them long to know that they had uncovered very little in the way of clues, and that most of
what they had learned was no more than rumour and speculation.

‘In other words,’ Thurloe concluded grimly, ‘we still do not know who is giving orders to Fitzgerald, or what he intends to
do on Wednesday. We also have no idea who wants the Queen blamed for plotting to kill Pratt, although we suspect the culprit
will transpire to be an Adventurer.’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner, troubled. ‘But the Queen is an Adventurer, too. So much for loyalty.’

‘She signed the charter and invested money, but that is all. She will never be part of them – at least, not until she produces
an heir. My chief suspect is Leighton, on the grounds that he is a sinister individual who may have brought about Newell’s
demise with a faulty gun.’

‘Which Harley promptly tossed into the river.’ Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘
My
chief suspect for the letters
remains Hyde – also an Adventurer. And you did tell me to be wary of him.’

‘I did,’ acknowledged Thurloe. ‘However, he would never do anything to endanger his father – and Clarendon
would
suffer if the Queen is accused, because he is the one who recommended her as a bride for the King. Of course, there are other
members of the Earl’s household …’

‘Dugdale and Edgeman,’ said Chaloner, nodding. ‘They would betray the Earl in an instant if they thought it would benefit
them.’

‘So would Kipps.’ Thurloe held up his hand to silence Chaloner’s objections. ‘We will not argue about this, Tom, because there
is no point – neither of us has the evidence to prove or disprove our beliefs. All we have is suspicion and conjecture.’

Chaloner accepted his point, and returned to their list of unanswered questions. ‘We still do not know why Fitzgerald took
over the Piccadilly Company, either.’

‘I cornered the Janszoons, Meneses
and
Pratt, but they all claimed a passion for glassware prompted their interest in Lydcott’s business. However, none of them
know the first thing about it, which tells me they were lying.’

Chaloner was beginning to feel despondent. ‘We have less than three days before some diabolical plot swings into action, but
how are we to prevent it when we are thwarted at every turn? Or worse, locked in vaults with chests of hungry rats.’

Thurloe regarded him sympathetically. ‘My favoured suspect for that piece of nastiness remains Fitzgerald, on the grounds
that he is famous for inventing unusual ways to dispatch his victims. Or perhaps the savage imagination is his master’s.’

‘Or Leighton’s, whose indifferent reaction to Newell’s death suggests he is used to gore. Or a brick-thief, because my enquiries
are becoming a nuisance. The list is endless.’

Thurloe finished his coffee and stood. ‘I am going to visit a few old haunts in and around Piccadilly, then I shall prod Wallis
over decoding Mrs Reyner’s list. Will you come with me?’

‘I wish I could, but I am condemned to spend the afternoon at Clarendon House. I hate the place. If it burned down, do you
think the Earl would know I did it?’

‘No, but he would order you to investigate, which would be awkward, to say the least. Do not commit arson just yet, Tom –
if you fail to save the Queen and she falls from grace, Clarendon will tumble with her. It is possible that he may not survive
to inhabit his mansion.’

‘Is that meant to make me feel better?’ asked Chaloner, shocked.

‘It is an outcome you should bear in mind,’ replied Thurloe soberly. ‘Along with the possibility that Fitzgerald might win
this contest. He bested me on innumerable occasions when I was spymaster, and there is no reason to assume he will not do
so again.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner with quiet determination. ‘I will not stand by while the Queen is used in so vile a manner. Or the Earl.
He may not be much of an employer, but he is all I have.’

Thurloe smiled briefly. ‘Then let us see what we can do to protect them.’

They took a hackney carriage to Piccadilly, where Thurloe disappeared into the dark recesses of the Feathers, and Chaloner
walked to Clarendon House.
Oliver was just leaving for the day, his dusting completed, while the Earl was still wandering about inside with Frances.

‘I shall spend the rest of the day at home,’ said Oliver, his gloomy face a mask of dejection. ‘Alone, with only my ferret
for company. Being an architect’s assistant is a lonely occupation, because the unsociable hours prevent me from meeting ladies
…’

‘You have a ferret?’ asked Chaloner, not sure how else to respond to the confidence.

Oliver nodded, and arranged his morose features into what passed as a smile. ‘They are cheaper to feed than dogs, and more
affectionate than birds. They also keep a kitchen free of rats, and I cannot abide rats.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner unhappily, as he turned to enter Clarendon House, his mind full of the strongroom and what had happened
to him in it.

It was not easy to step inside the mansion, and he was uncomfortably aware of the vast emptiness of the place as he walked
through it, treading softly to prevent his footsteps from echoing. He found the Earl and Frances in the Great Parlour, a huge
room in one of the wings that was accessed by a set of double doors that were as grand as any in White Hall. It was lit by
windows in the ceiling, which would be almost impossible to clean, and there was a ridiculous number of marble pillars and
plinths.

‘I do not like it, dear,’ Frances was saying, looking around in dismay. ‘This is the chamber where you and I will spend cosy
evenings together, but it is about as snug as a tomb. It does not even have a fireplace. Perhaps we should have hired a different
architect.’

‘We shall be very happy here,’ declared the Earl firmly.
‘Ah, there you are, Chaloner. I was beginning to think you had decided to spend the afternoon elsewhere. Have you seen my
vault, by the way? You should approve, being mindful of security.’

‘Mr Kipps spent a lot of time inspecting it on Friday,’ said Frances, smiling a greeting at the spy. ‘He was greatly admiring
of it, and said it is the safest depository in London.’

‘On Friday?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. He had been locked in on Friday.

‘We shall be late for church if we stand here chatting,’ said the Earl briskly. ‘My house is in your hands, Chaloner, although
you will have to mind it from the garden, because I must lock up.’

When they had gone, Chaloner let himself back in with his own key and prowled, trying to learn how the thief he had chased
the previous day – assuming it was not Pratt – had disappeared. But although he paced corridors and tapped on walls, he could
find no hidden doorways that the fellow might have used.

He considered the stolen bricks. The conversation he had overheard on the portico told him that the thieves were known to
the Earl. But who were they? Someone from his household, such as Edgeman or Dugdale? He refused to think it might be Kipps
– working for Clarendon would verge on the intolerable if the one man who was friendly towards him was dismissed as a villain.

The discussion had also indicated that there might be more to the matter than the removal of materials, although he could
not imagine what. Moreover, he was still sure they were disappearing during the day rather than at night, although the conviction
did nothing to help him with answers.

He turned his mind to his other enquiries. First, Cave. What had induced him to fight Elliot?
Did
he have a brother named Jacob, or had Elliot recovered sufficiently from his wound to invent him? Lester had not seen Elliot
die, and Chaloner doubted he had looked in the coffin before it was buried in St Giles-in-the-Fields.

Second, there were the letters. He was inclined to accept Thurloe’s contention that an Adventurer was responsible – Pratt
was a member of the rival Piccadilly Company, after all. Moreover, the Queen was unpopular at Court, and many Adventurers
were eager to secure His Majesty a fertile Protestant bride in her place. Was Secretary Leighton one of them? Or Edgeman and
Dugdale?

And finally, there was the Tangier massacre. It was clear that Harley, Newell and Reyner had sent Lord Teviot into the ambush
deliberately, and that the reason was tied up with the Piccadilly Company. But what was of such importance that the lives
of five hundred men were seen as an acceptable sacrifice?

Of course, the soldiers were not the only casualties of whatever war was raging. Proby, Turner, Lucas, Congett, Reyner and
his mother, and Newell were victims, too. And what was the significance of gravel? Was it just a convenient cargo to transport
on return voyages, as Lydcott claimed? Or was it code for some other commodity?

Frustrated when no answers came, Chaloner descended to the basement, prowling the kitchens, laundries and pantries. He paused
at the top of the cellar stairs and listened, but the place was silent, and wild horses would not have induced him to go down
there again.

He left the house to walk outside, carefully locking
the door behind him. The site was deserted, and he kicked his heels restlessly as the afternoon crept by, fretting at the
hours that could have been used more profitably.

Predictably, it was late before Wright and his men arrived, although they were unrepentant when he complained. The clocks
were striking eight before he was able to leave, and it had been dark for some time.

Sure the answers to almost all his questions lay in Piccadilly, Chaloner took up station in the shadows surrounding the Gaming
House and began to watch the Crown tavern. It did not take him long to realise that someone else was doing the same. He drew
his dagger and crept forward.

‘Tom!’ exclaimed Thurloe, once Chaloner, recognising his muffled cry of alarm, had released him. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘The same as you.’ Chaloner slipped the knife back up his sleeve. ‘Is anything happening?’

Thurloe nodded. ‘The Piccadilly Company is gathering. Robert knows nothing of it, though, because he told me only an hour
ago that they will not meet again until the end of next week.’

‘Who has arrived so far?’

‘Fitzgerald, Meneses, Harley, Brilliana and others who have disguised themselves so well that I cannot recognise them – about
a dozen in all. Brinkes and his henchmen have ousted the drinkers from the tavern, which says something sensitive is about
to be aired, because he should not need to clear a downstairs room when they meet on an upper floor.’

‘Then we had better eavesdrop.’

‘Yes, but how?’ asked Thurloe impatiently. ‘Brinkes will be watching the stairs.’

‘Stairs are not the only way to gain access to upper floors.’

‘You mean I should climb up the back of the house and listen at a window?’ asked Thurloe, raising his eyebrows. ‘I doubt I
could do it, not with my fragile constitution. Besides, Brinkes has posted two guards there, and he checks them every few
minutes. He is nothing if not thorough.’

‘Then create a diversion while I try.’

Thurloe’s eyes gleamed. ‘It will be dangerous, but worth it. Standing out here is a waste of time.’

Chaloner made his way to the rear of the tavern, and after a few moments something began to happen. There was a lot of girlish
laughter, and suddenly three near-naked prostitutes burst into the Crown’s garden. It went without saying that the guards
hurried towards them and demanded to know what they were doing. The men’s voices were angry, but their eyes said they were
not averse to the interruption. Chaloner began his ascent.