The Piccadilly Plot (39 page)

‘I was in Tangier for almost three months, but I never heard talk of a vessel called
Jane
.’

Addison shrugged. ‘That is no surprise. She would not have been there legally, so her arrival was never blared from the rooftops.’

Chaloner stared at him, the germ of a solution beginning to unfold in his mind. ‘The Adventurers own a monopoly on African
trade, but
Jane
is a privateer. Perhaps Teviot’s reason for refusing her a berth was because he did not want to anger a wealthy and influential
group of courtiers.’

‘It is possible, although I imagine he would have yielded if
Jane
had paid him enough.’

‘Not if he was an Adventurer himself, and
Jane
was stealing custom that would have made him richer. Do you know what cargo she carried?’

‘No idea, although I did once hear that she carried a quantity of gravel.’

Chaloner sighed. ‘I was afraid you might say that.’

‘Well, the mole needs a lot of it. But Africa is full of valuable goods, and Tangier is strategically placed at the
end of caravan routes, along which gold, ivory, cotton, kola nuts and even slaves are transported.’ Addison’s expression
darkened. ‘Slavery is a despicable business. Were you there when
Henrietta Maria
went down? That cost the Adventurers a pretty penny, I can tell you.’

‘So I have been told,’ said Chaloner, wondering what would happen to him if the likes of Leighton ever discovered his role
in the affair.

‘They were livid,’ Addison went on gleefully. ‘They blamed a corporation called the Piccadilly Company, but they have no evidence.
I know who did it, of course.’

‘You do?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

Addison nodded. ‘Harley, Newell and Reyner. And do you know why? Because they slunk away from Tangier within hours of the
sinking.’

‘So did you,’ Chaloner pointed out, not adding that he had, too.

‘Yes, but I am not the type to commit criminal damage,’ said Addison. ‘Of course, I have since learned that Harley and his
cronies are members of this Piccadilly Company, so I imagine it will not be long before the Adventurers exact revenge.’

‘Perhaps they already have,’ said Chaloner, uncomfortably realising that here was another reason why he was responsible for
what had happened to Newell and Reyner. ‘Because two of them are dead.’

Addison stared at him. ‘Then I wager you my treasured copy of Harbottle Grimston’s
Duties of a Christian Life
that Harley is the one who is still alive.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because he is the most unscrupulous of the three, and the one most dedicated to himself.’

*     *     *

His mind a whirl of questions, Chaloner aimed for Lincoln’s Inn, hoping Thurloe might have learned something useful, and
was just crossing Dial Court when he was intercepted by William Prynne. Prynne was the inn’s most repellent resident, a pamphleteer
with deeply bigoted opinions, and someone to be avoided by decent people. He was pulling down the long cap he always wore,
to hide the fact that his ears had been lopped off as punishment for ‘seditious libel’ – not that it had taught him to moderate
his thoughts. If anything, it had made him more poisonous than ever.

‘They are Satan’s spawn,’ he snarled, launching into one of his tirades without preamble. ‘And the dissolute and unhappy constitution
of our depraved times made me wonder whether to sit mute and silent over these overspreading abominations, or whether I should
lift up my voice like a trumpet and cry against them to my power.’

‘I assume you opted for the latter,’ said Chaloner drily, certain the opportunity to bray like a trumpet was one Prynne would
not have been able to resist. When he started to move away, the old man snatched his sleeve with a claw-like hand of surprising
strength and kept him there.

‘It occurred to me to bend my pen against them, as I have done against other sinful and unchristian vanities, but my thoughts
informed me that I would only earn the reproach and scorn of the histrionic and profaner sort, whose tongues are set on fire
of Hell against all such as dare affront their infernal practices.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Chaloner, trying again to escape. He could have broken the grip on his arm,
but he was not in the habit of using
force against the elderly, not even loathsome specimens like Prynne.

‘I am talking about that Dutch pair,’ shouted Prynne, having worked himself into a frenzy. ‘Cornelis and Margareta Janszoon.
You must hunt them down, or the mischievous and pestiferous fruits of hellish wickedness that issues from their noxious and
infectious nature will—’

‘Please, Mr Prynne,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘I really do not understand what you are saying.’

‘Then I shall speak in simple terms,’ said Prynne, calming himself with an effort. ‘Although I expected more of you – Thurloe
tells me you are highly intelligent. The Janszoons are saying terrible things, and you must stop them.’

‘Me? Why? I have no jurisdiction to—’

‘You must,’ cried Prynne. ‘I do not know who else to ask, and you are often at Court. Silence this couple before they do serious
harm. Do you know what they said in church yesterday? That the Dutch will send a plague to kill us all.’

‘You misunderstood. Or, more likely, they said something they never intended.’

Prynne scowled. ‘Rubbish! How else can you interpret “we ply you with boils”? And right in the middle of an innocent discussion
about games, too!’

‘Then I imagine what they meant was “we play you at bowls”,’ said Chaloner.

Prynne stared at him. ‘I suppose you might be right – it would certainly explain the sudden change in topics. But people took
offence and damage was done anyway. You
must
make them curb their tongues, or they will have the entire city baying for war, and I am currently fond
of the Dutch – they have decent Protestant views about religion.’

‘You oppose war?’

‘I do,’ declared Prynne, although Chaloner could not help but wonder whether he had taken that particular stance because
almost everyone else would disagree; Prynne was famous for expounding opinions that few others held. ‘It would be contrary
to the will of God.’

‘The Janszoons have hired henchmen to protect—’

‘To protect
them
from harm. But what about the damage they
cause
with their silly remarks? Other Dutchmen will pay the price, and we shall have a bloodbath. Not to mention a war.’

Sympathetic to anyone struggling with the vagaries of spoken English, Chaloner promised to explain the situation when he next
saw them. He resumed his journey to Chamber XIII, where he found Thurloe sitting at a table surrounded by paper. The ex-Spymaster
had been working on decrypting both the half-burned letter from the Crown and Mrs Reyner’s list.

‘Any luck?’ asked Chaloner hopefully.

‘None whatsoever, and neither has Wallis,’ replied Thurloe. ‘But I have decided that they must be broken as a matter of urgency,
and I shall sit here all day if necessary. What are your plans?’

Chaloner removed his coat and dropped it on to the back of a chair, before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. ‘To help you.’

Chaloner worked with Thurloe until well past midnight, by which time he was stiff from sitting hunched over the table, and
his head ached. With a pang of regret,
he recalled the tentative plan to play a duet with Lester, but did not mention it to Thurloe, sure he would disapprove.

He tossed down his pen and went to the tray of food Thurloe’s manservant had brought some hours before. The bread had gone
hard and the cheese had been left too near the fire, so was molten, but he ate some anyway. Thurloe opted for several pills
that he shook from an elegantly enamelled pot. Chaloner rubbed his eyes, trying to summon the energy to return to his labours.

‘Yes!’ the ex-Spymaster exclaimed suddenly. ‘God be praised! I have made sense of the scrap of paper you found in the Crown.’

‘What does it say?’ demanded Chaloner, darting to the table, weariness forgotten.

‘It is really very simple,’ said Thurloe in satisfaction. ‘As I predicted, it was a substitution code, where a code of one-two-three
means you move the first letter of your message one place to the right, the second letter two places, and so on. So ‘cat’
becomes ‘dcw’.’

‘I know that,’ said Chaloner impatiently, trying to see Thurloe’s translation. ‘We have been struggling over different combinations
for hours.’

‘In this case, the sequence is three-five-four-eight, repeated again and again.’

Chaloner regarded him blankly. ‘What is the significance of that number?’

‘It is the latitude of Tangier.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, thinking that he could have worked on the cipher for years and not tried that particular combination.
‘What does the message say?’

Thurloe read it. ‘
From ye Governour of Tanger to ye Pikadilye Companye
our ship will sayle with a fulle complimente of gravelle
in three dayes and wille be in Londonne by Saynte Frydswyds Daye at last we
…’

Chaloner stared at it in dismay. ‘It tells us nothing new!’

‘On the contrary, it informs us that Governor Bridge sends coded messages to the Piccadilly Company, which is evidence that
Fitzgerald and his cronies
did
dispose of Teviot so that a malleable successor could be appointed. Reverend Addison said
Jane
is more often in Tangier now that Bridge is in command, and here is more proof of it.’

‘So “our ship” refers to
Jane
, and she left Tangier carrying gravel.’ Chaloner was becoming despondent, feeling he had wasted time he could ill afford.
‘But we already knew she trades in that particular commodity. And that she was due to arrive here on St Frideswide’s Day –
I heard the Piccadilly Company say so when I eavesdropped.’

‘Yes, but we did not know she was coming from Tangier. No wonder Fitzgerald and his cronies burned the letter! It is a valuable
clue.’

‘It is?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.

‘Yes! You must make enquiries along the river and ascertain where
Jane
will berth,’ said Thurloe urgently, handing Chaloner his coat. ‘Someone will know at which wharf she is expected. And then
we shall go and inspect this gravel for ourselves.’

‘Now?’ asked Chaloner without enthusiasm. ‘In the middle of the night?’

Thurloe glanced at the window, startled to see it was dark outside. He snatched the coat back again. ‘Rest for an hour or
two, and then go.’

‘What will you do while I trawl the docks?’ asked
Chaloner, daunted by the task he had been set – the Thames was thick with them, all the way from Wapping to Westminster.

Thurloe pointed to the Reyners’ list. ‘We must decode it as soon as possible.’

Chaloner did not think he would sleep, given that his mind was full of worries and questions, but he did. Thurloe prodded
him awake when it was still dark, although the rumble of traffic said London was coming to life. The ex-Spymaster’s face was
pale, and he shook his head tiredly to Chaloner’s raised eyebrows – the cipher continued to elude him.

Even at that early hour, the air was full of soot as fires were lit all over the city. The Thames had produced a heavy fog
that mingled unpleasantly with it, making breathing difficult. It enveloped shops and warehouses, and gave them an eerie,
other-worldly appearance.

Feeling he had been set an impossible challenge, Chaloner began at Black Friars Stairs, where lamps had been lit to illuminate
a frenzied scene – its work was driven by tides, not clocks, so it was often busy during the hours of darkness. Meeting with
no success, he went to Puddle Wharf, because it was famous for dubious transactions. It required a hefty bribe before he learned
that
Jane
was not expected.

He approached Queenhithe next, fighting down his rising agitation – it was all taking far too long, and he was acutely aware
that whatever atrocity Fitzgerald’s master had planned might well take place in less than twenty-four hours. He asked his
question distractedly, not expecting an answer, and so was astonished when the harbour-master nodded.

‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ the fellow replied, pocketing the coins Chaloner had offered for a moment of his time. ‘The Bridge
is scheduled to open for ships at midnight tonight and noon tomorrow, and
Jane
is expected at noon. She has booked a berth here at three o’clock.’

‘What will she be carrying?’

‘We shall not know that until she arrives, but it will not be anything heavy. She is a dog, and too much weight would take
her under.’

‘Not gravel, then?’

The harbour-master shrugged. ‘If so, then there will not be very much of it.’

Chaloner hurried back to Lincoln’s Inn. Assuming that the Piccadilly Company’s plan would coincide with
Jane
’s arrival – or at least, not swing into action until she was safely moored – it meant they had a day and a half to work out
what was happening and stop it.

‘I may not have cracked this cipher, but our mysteries have been simmering in the back of my mind,’ said Thurloe, after listening
carefully. ‘Fitzgerald is powerful and dangerous, but he has no money – he was obliged to dismiss all his servants after his
gold-laden ship sank.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner impatiently. ‘Everyone says he is in London to recoup his losses after the disaster. What of it?’

‘Hiring Brinkes and his henchmen will require cash. So will investing in a struggling glassware business. Ergo, it is his
master who has money at his disposal. We can eliminate the Adventurers as suspects, because they are on the opposing side.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘Your brother-in-law told us that some of their thirty members are wealthy merchants or nobles. And
he said Pratt has invested heavily.’

‘Pratt might be the master,’ conceded Thurloe. ‘He is earning a fortune from your Earl, so he will have plenty of funds at
his disposal. Of course, it would mean that the threat against his life is a ruse, to throw us off his scent. Another candidate
for arch-villain is Lester—’