The Piccadilly Plot (38 page)

It was easier than he had expected, because the building was old, and crumbling bricks provided plenty of handholds. He was
soon outside the first-floor window, where he peered through the glass to see Fitzgerald sitting at the table and his associates
gathered around him. The pirate’s soprano voice was clearly audible, and Chaloner was under the impression that he was in
a sulk.

‘… do not see why it cannot be done. Our master will not be impressed, and neither am I.’

Chaloner tensed when Brinkes came to find out what was happening in the garden, but the henchman stormed straight towards
the girls, and did not once look up at
the window. In case he did, Chaloner eased to one side, using darkness and the ivy that grew up the wall to conceal himself.
He turned his attention back to the meeting.

‘… rumours of our plans,’ Harley was saying. ‘I am not saying we—’

‘
Jane
will arrive on Wednesday, and that is that,’ snarled Fitzgerald. ‘The plan
will
go ahead – on St Frideswide’s Day, just as we have intended from the start.’

‘Yes,’ said Harley, clearly struggling for patience. ‘I am not saying we should delay. I am merely reiterating the need for
caution, because half of London knows something is afoot.’

Down below, Brinkes had declined the prostitutes’ offer of a free session in the bushes, and was ordering his men back to
their posts. The women were shoved unceremoniously through the gate, while he began a systematic search of the garden, using
his sword in a way that said he would have no problem skewering interlopers.

‘
You
advise caution?’ Fitzgerald demanded, the anger in his voice reclaiming Chaloner’s attention. ‘I expected you to dispatch
Teviot quietly, and what did you do? Send him into an ambush with hundreds of men! If you had shown a little caution then,
our business might have been able to proceed more smoothly.’

‘It was not
my
idea,’ snapped Harley. ‘I was under orders, too.’

No one at the table looked as though they believed him, and Chaloner was not sure he did, either.

‘That escapade obliged us to rein back for weeks,’ said Meneses, in heavily accented English. ‘And now you say there might
be an official inquiry.’

‘The next time Chaloner offers to influence matters, hear him out,’ said a man whose back was to the window. His voice was
familiar, although the spy could not place it.

‘No,’ countered Brilliana sharply. She looked especially lovely that night, in a low-cut gown with a simple but expensive
pendant at her throat. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that
he
killed Newell and Reyner, to make my brother think he has no choice but to reveal what he knows. But his tactics will not
work. We shall weather this storm, just as we weathered Teviot.’

‘The gravel will make everything worthwhile,’ said Meneses. There was a gleam in his eyes that was immediately recognisable
as greed, and it was echoed in every person around the table.

Then disaster struck. The windowsill to which Chaloner clung gave a sudden creak, and although no one in the parlour seemed
to have heard it, Brinkes and the guards immediately gazed upwards. They could not see him, but they knew something was amiss.

‘It must be that damned Ruth,’ said Brinkes. ‘She is always spying on us. Well, this time will be her last. You two take her
to the woods and cut her throat. I shall stay here. They must be almost finished by now – they told me they would not be long
tonight.’

‘Why not kill her here?’ asked one of the men.

‘Because it will be messy, and we do not want Lester making a fuss,’ replied Brinkes shortly. ‘This way, he will assume that
she wandered off. God knows, she is lunatic enough.’

Chaloner knew he had to act fast if he wanted to save her. Unfortunately, he could do nothing while Brinkes was standing guard
– he would be shot or stabbed long
before he reached the ground. Agonising minutes ticked by, but the henchman showed no sign of moving. In the end, Chaloner
took one of his daggers and lobbed it, heaving a sigh of relief when Brinkes hurtled after the sound like a bloodhound. It
kept him occupied just long enough to allow Chaloner to slither to the ground and slip unseen through the gate.

‘I doubt my ladies gave you long enough to learn anything useful,’ said Thurloe, appearing suddenly out of the shadows in
the street. ‘They were ousted too soon, and—’

‘I made a noise, and Brinkes thinks it was Ruth,’ interrupted Chaloner tersely. ‘He has sent men to kill her.’

Thurloe was too experienced an operative to ask questions when a life was at stake. He ran with Chaloner to the Crown, but
the attic was already empty. Stomach churning, Chaloner set off along Piccadilly, hoping the guards had not taken her to some
other dark road to carry out their grisly orders. Then he saw them some distance ahead. When Ruth tried to pull free, one
slapped her.

Chaloner charged forward, and cracked him over the head with the hilt of another of his daggers. The fellow dropped to the
ground senseless. The second henchman hurled Ruth away, and drew his knife. He lunged, but Chaloner parried the blow with
his arm, simultaneously driving his other fist into his opponent’s throat. The guard collapsed, gagging and struggling to
breathe.

‘Did I teach you to do that?’ asked Thurloe in distaste. ‘Or is it something you learned yourself?’

‘She cannot go back to the Crown,’ said Chaloner, wrapping his coat around the terrified, shivering woman.
‘I will take her to Long Acre. Will you send word to Lester? I have no idea where he lives, but Williamson will.’

Chaloner spent a long and restless night in his garret, although Ruth seemed none the worse for her experiences. She curled
up on the bed and went to sleep almost immediately, instinctively trusting him to look after her. Lester did not arrive until
dawn. He flew to his sister’s side, then closed his eyes in relief when he saw she was unharmed.

‘I thought you would come sooner,’ said Chaloner, irked to have spent the entire night playing nursemaid. He had not liked
to leave Ruth, lest she woke and was frightened by her strange surroundings. Or worse, wandered off. He had not even been
able to use the time to work on the cipher, because it was in Tothill Street, concealed in his boot.

‘Williamson did not know where to find me – I was out all night, monitoring courtiers. I can scarcely credit their capacity
for merriment. Indeed, Brodrick and Buckingham are still at it, although Grey and Kipps are finally unconscious. What happened
to my sister?’

Chaloner told him, half tempted to include what he had overheard in the Crown, too. He resisted, but because of his habitual
reluctance to share intelligence, not because of Thurloe’s warnings.

‘I should have taken her away from that place the moment she told me there was something amiss,’ said Lester, reaching out
to stroke her hair. ‘It was obvious that her fascination with its comings and goings would bring her trouble.’

Chaloner agreed. ‘So why did you leave her there?’

‘Because Landlord Marshall and his wife are kind to her,’ Lester explained. ‘And she finds comfort in familiarity. If I took
her to my own home, she would be alone and miserable.’

‘What will you do with her now? She cannot go back.’

‘I shall hire a woman to sit with her. Here, if you would not mind, just until this mischief is over. It is as safe a place
as any, and it will not be for more than a day or two.’

Chaloner nodded acquiescence, feeling he owed Ruth something, given that it was his fault she had almost been murdered.

‘I would stay myself,’ Lester went on. ‘But Williamson has ordered me to White Hall, where the Adventurers are holding one
of their meetings – it will be followed by a reception to which he has inveigled me an invitation, so it is a unique and valuable
opportunity to spy. But I shall come and play my flute tonight. That will soothe her.’

‘What time?’ asked Chaloner. Ruth was not the only one in need of calming music.

‘As soon as I finish. Perhaps we can play her a duet.’

Chaloner nodded keenly. ‘I am going to visit the surgeon who tended Elliot today – Jeremiah King. I want to be sure your brother-in-law
is really dead.’

‘Of course he is dead,’ said Lester impatiently. ‘Do you think that I, a sailor who has weathered numerous battles, am incapable
of identifying a corpse?’

‘How did you identify it? Did you put a glass to its mouth to test for breath? Touch its eyes to see if it flinched? Feel
for a heartbeat or a pulse?’

‘Well, no, but Elliot’s face was waxen, and he looked dead.’

‘So does half the Court first thing in the morning. It means nothing.’

‘You are wrong, but talk to the surgeon if you must. He will confirm my tale.’

Chaloner wanted to go immediately, but there was another delay while Lester hired a nurse, and it was nearing ten o’clock
by the time Ruth was settled. Chaloner and Lester set out to Westminster together. It was a glorious day, although frost dusted
the rooftops and the red-gold leaves of trees.

‘Tell Williamson that whatever mischief is planned for the day after tomorrow may involve
Jane
and gravel,’ said Chaloner, deciding suddenly that it was time to demonstrate a little trust. He was sure Thurloe was wrong
about Lester, and they needed all the help they could get. ‘The Piccadilly Company believe it will make them very rich.’

Lester nodded his thanks, then strode off towards New Palace Yard, while Chaloner entered the little court named Axe Yard,
which comprised some very smart houses and some extremely shabby ones. Jeremiah King was home, sewing up a fearsome wound
in the leg of someone who had fallen under a speeding carriage. Even at that hour of the day, he was far from sober.

‘Elliot,’ he mused, swaying unsteadily, needle and thread clutched in his bloody hand. ‘Was he the man who was really a woman?’

‘I would not have thought so,’ said Chaloner, regarding him askance. ‘He had a knife wound.’

‘Oh, him. He was brought here by a sea-officer – a burly, bossy fellow who accused me of not knowing my trade. But his friend
was past Earthly help anyway, and died.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Chaloner.

King fixed him with a bleary eye. ‘Do you think I cannot tell the difference?’

‘Very possibly.’ Chaloner nodded at the patient on the table. ‘You have been stitching him with infinite care, but he has
been dead ever since I arrived.’

King peered down at the victim. ‘Oh, damnation! When did that happen?’

Chaloner left even more convinced that Elliot was still in the world of the living, and headed for Covent Garden, where a
helpful urchin was more than happy to earn a penny by taking him to the rooms occupied by a loutish man with an unusually
black wig. Chaloner rapped on the door, but there was no reply.

‘He is dead,’ said the elderly woman who emerged from the garret above to see what was happening. ‘A week ago now.’

‘What was his name?’ asked Chaloner tiredly.

‘James Elliot,’ replied the woman. ‘He was a sea-captain, although he gambled and had debts. I am not surprised that someone
made an end of him.’

‘Have you heard of a man named Jacob Cave?’

‘No, and I have lived in this area all my life. There is no one in Covent Garden of that name.’

Chaloner thanked her and took his leave. He was now certain Jacob did not exist, and that Elliot had invented him in order
to bury Cave without a grand funeral. So where was Elliot now? Had he taken the opportunity afforded by his own ‘death’ to
disappear and start a new life? Or was he still in the city?

Chaloner’s next task was to ask Reverend Addison what he knew about Tangier. His eavesdropping at the Crown had told him that
Harley had been under orders
– presumably from the same ‘master’ who commanded Fitzgerald – to orchestrate the massacre, but he still needed to know
why
Teviot had warranted such a fate.

Addison had rented a house near the Maypole, a landmark demolished to a stump by Cromwell, but restored to its full splendour
by the King. Somewhat typically, people had complained bitterly when it was not available, but rarely used it now it was.

‘Chaloner!’ exclaimed Addison. ‘I did not think we would meet again. On
Eagle
, you were more interested in making music with Cave than in talking to me, which was a pity, because I am very interested
in military engineering, and I suspect you are, too. You certainly asked a lot of questions about Tangier’s splendid sea wall
– the mole – when you were there.’

‘Only because I wanted to know why it is costing the tax-payer so much money.’

Addison’s smile faded. ‘Unfortunately, the opportunity to cheat the government is too great a temptation for those in authority.
It is a shame, because the project is ingenious and daring. However, it should cost a fraction of what is being demanded,
and every governor we get seems worse than his predecessor for dishonesty and greed.’

‘Was Teviot corrupt?’

Addison sighed unhappily. ‘I have no idea why you should ask me this now, but I cannot lie. He amassed himself a fortune by
stealing the funds intended for the mole.’

‘Could it have had a bearing on his death?’

Addison nodded slowly. ‘I strongly suspected so at the time. Along with
Jane
.’

‘The privateer ship? How does she fit into it?’

‘Teviot refused her permission to dock, although her
captain was adept at bribing the soldiers who had been ordered to repel her. But even so, she only managed to put in occasionally
when he was in charge. Now Bridge is governor,
Jane
regularly trades in Tangier.’

‘I am confused. Was Teviot killed because he was corrupt, or because he declined to let a privateer do business in Tangier?’

‘Why should they be exclusive? Banning a ship from port is a kind of corruption – you should ask yourself
why
he did it. Before you ask, I do not know the answer but I can tell you that he will have been motivated by money.’