The Piccadilly Plot (44 page)

‘You pry when it suits you,’ Chaloner retorted. ‘Did you translate the cipher you found in my pen-box, by the way, or would
you like me to help you?’

George regarded him with steady eyes. ‘You confuse me with Susan. She was the spy.’

Chaloner threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Fine! Can I trust you to deliver that message or shall I hire one of these
others?’

‘You can trust me,’ said George. He looked offended, and perhaps it was the suggestion that he was unreliable that encouraged
him to attempt an explanation. ‘There was always gravel in
Jane
’s holds. Even in Tangier, when Fitzgerald could have sold the lot, he kept some back. Thus any customs official boarding
her will find gravel at any time in her voyage. As is written in her log.’

Chaloner stared at him, struggling to understand what he was being told. ‘Fitzgerald lost a ship carrying gold, which is valuable
but that does not require much space. It could have been concealed under a pile of gravel …’

George gave a brief smile. ‘Well, then. Perhaps that is all you need to know.’

He bowed and walked away, leaving Chaloner with the glimmer of another solution as facts came together in his mind. If the
Piccadilly Company’s business was trading small but highly valuable items, then it was not surprising that Teviot had objected
to
Jane
’s presence in Tangier – as an Adventurer, he would have preferred the profits to go to himself and his friends. It made sense,
therefore, that the Piccadilly Company would want a more amenable governor, although Chaloner was appalled that nearly five
hundred men had to die to make it happen. Meneses was right: Fitzgerald and his master
would
do anything to smash a powerful monopoly.

Chaloner was hovering by the Great Gate as the clocks struck eight. It was moonless, but clear, although the stars were invisible
because plummeting temperatures were beginning to produce another thick fog. Chaloner did
not mind. It would conceal him, and make his next task easier.

‘We should be listening for rumours about tomorrow,’ said Lester, arriving a few moments later. ‘Not wasting time with this
errand. What is it, anyway?’

‘We are going to St Giles-in-the-Fields.’

‘Why? To look in the register of burials to convince yourself that Elliot is dead? I assure you, I did not imagine attending
his funeral. It would be better to stay here, and—’

‘Williamson can eavesdrop without us. Of course, there is a reason why his enquiries have been so spectacularly unsuccessful:
there was a spy in his organisation.’

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Lester, matching the brisk pace Chaloner set. ‘He is not a man who commands loyalty, and I imagine
a lot of his agents take the traitor’s penny. But what does this have to do with Elliot? Or do you think
he
was such a fellow?’

‘Yes, and I believe that is why Cave challenged him.’

‘I suppose it is possible.’ Lester looked troubled. ‘Elliot was an excellent man to have at one’s back at sea, but he became
a different fellow once on land. I should never have let him marry Ruth. He gambled, which made him greedy for money, and
that led him down dark paths. My enquiries have revealed that he was definitely involved in Pepperell’s murder.’

The stabbing of the
Eagle
’s captain the day she had docked at Queenhithe seemed a long time ago, although it was only a little more than two weeks.
Chaloner recalled what he had seen.

‘Brinkes murdered Pepperell. I watched it happen, and so did several other—’

‘Brinkes did the deed, and the Piccadilly Company
ordered it,’ interrupted Lester. ‘Of that I have ample proof. But someone
helped
Brinkes strike the fatal blow, and that man was Elliot.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Brinkes was with someone who wore a red uniform and a Cavalier hat that hid his face …’

‘Elliot’s ceremonial naval regalia – I have an identical set. It was what enabled him and Brinkes to stroll past the port
guards. Once I had your sketches, I was able to find several people who can confirm that there was bad blood between Elliot
and Pepperell. Of course, I still do not know
why
Elliot wanted Pepperell dead. They did not like each other, but that is no reason to kill.’

‘I can answer that,’ said Chaloner, recalling what he had deduced from Pepperell’s sometimes odd behaviour aboard
Eagle
, and the letter he had seen in Williamson’s office – the one penned in the sea-captain’s distinctive scrawl. ‘Pepperell was
Williamson’s man, too – paid to monitor passengers travelling to and from Tangier. The Piccadilly Company were aware of this,
and decided that his report on Harley, Newell and Reyner should never be delivered. And how did they know what Pepperell did
to boost his income? Because another of Williamson’s spies betrayed him.’

‘Elliot?’ asked Lester unhappily.

‘Elliot,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘The man who had been charged to watch the Piccadilly Company, and who moved his addled wife into
rooms in the Crown to enable him to do it – keeping lodgings for himself in Covent Garden lest it transpired to be too dangerous.
He used Ruth mercilessly, and did not care that his antics put her at risk.’

‘Fitzgerald must have guessed what Elliot was doing, and realised how easily he could be turned into a traitor,’
said Lester bitterly. ‘Which explains why Williamson’s knowledge about the Piccadilly Company was always so scanty – Elliot
had been paid to tell him nothing of value.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Pepperell tried to communicate two clues before he died: Piccadilly and trade. He must have learned from
eavesdropping on the three scouts that the Piccadilly Company is involved in smuggling goods from Africa, and wanted Williamson
to know.’

‘It is a pity he did not have the breath to be more specific,’ said Lester ruefully. ‘Because we could have done with this
information days ago. Who else heard him speak?’

‘Besides the three scouts? Reverend Addison, Cave and Captain Young, who promptly seized command of
Eagle
and sailed her away on the evening tide.’

‘Young?’ asked Lester sharply. ‘There is an Anthony Young who sails for the Piccadilly Company. Williamson told me. Did he
know Pepperell was going to be murdered? Is that why he was so quick to grab the ship?’

‘I doubt it – not in advance. But I imagine he would have understood who had ordered the murder when he saw Brinkes.’

‘And then Cave, whom we now know was a Piccadilly Company spy, was ordered to start a quarrel with Elliot and kill him,’ finished
Lester. ‘Presumably, to ensure that Elliot never told anyone what he had done – no traitor can be trusted, after all. But
Cave also died in the fracas …’

Chaloner did not bother to reiterate his conviction that Elliot was still alive. For all he knew, Elliot might be the villain
who gave orders to Fitzgerald – his actions certainly showed him to be ruthless and unprincipled.

*     *     *

St Giles-in-the-Fields was a handsome, red-brick building not forty years old. Unfortunately, its brash splendour had attracted
the attentions of the Puritans during the Commonwealth, and many of its best features had been smashed or stolen. Moreover,
it had a much smaller churchyard than its pastoral name suggested, and was tightly hemmed in by houses. It was eerie in the
shifting mist, and Lester jumped in superstitious alarm when a cat slunk across their path.

There was a small shed at the far end of the graveyard. Chaloner broke the lock with a stone and emerged with two spades and
a lamp. ‘Show me Elliot’s grave.’

Lester’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean to dig him up? Christ God, Chaloner, no!’

‘We will find a box filled with stones or soil. Elliot will not be in it.’

‘Of course he will be in it!’ Lester was aghast. ‘I told you – I attended his funeral.’

‘Did you look in the coffin?’ demanded Chaloner. Lester shook his head reluctantly. ‘You were not with him when he died, and
the surgeon you hired is incapable of telling the difference between the living and the dead. I
know
Elliot is alive and still causing mischief. Exposing his empty casket will be proof of it.’

‘Then we shall ask the sexton to do it tomorrow – with a priest on hand to say whatever prayers are appropriate when desecrating
tombs. We will not burrow like ghouls—’

‘It might take weeks to obtain the necessary permissions,’ argued Chaloner. ‘And we need answers tonight. Besides, think of
Ruth. Surely, she has a right to know whether she is a widow?’

Lester glared, but Chaloner’s words had the desired
effect. He took a deep, unhappy breath, and led the way through the wet grass to a mound of recently dug earth. Fortunately,
it was shielded from the surrounding houses by a dense yew.

‘There must be a better way to find out than this,’ he muttered. ‘If we are caught … I am sure this sort of thing is illegal.
And I doubt Williamson will speak for us.’

Chaloner was sure he would not, and began to excavate as fast as he could, eager to be finished as soon as possible. It was
not long before there was a hollow thud: fortunately for them, lazy gravediggers had not bothered to make the hole very deep.

Lester scraped away the remaining soil, but then hesitated uncertainly, so it was Chaloner who inserted a spade between coffin
and lid, and levered. The two men exchanged a brief glance as the wood splintered, and then Chaloner took the lamp and brought
it close to the coffin.

Elliot’s dead face stared out at them, an unusually black wig on his head.

‘You owe him an apology,’ said Lester, his voice low with anger and revulsion. ‘And me, too. Elliot
did
die when I said he did. Surgeon King was not mistaken:
you
are.’

Chaloner gazed at the body in disbelief. He had been so certain he was right. ‘But if Elliot has been dead since last Monday,
then who buried Cave?’

‘His brother,’ replied Lester curtly. ‘You have been a spy too long, and see treachery where there is none – Jacob buried
Cave to avoid funeral costs that would have crippled him. You say the descriptions of him matched Elliot, but lots of men
are large and own black wigs.’

‘Then why did he tell Kersey that he lived in Covent Garden?’ demanded Chaloner defensively. ‘Elliot lived there, but Jacob
never has.’

‘Because he did not want vengeful courtiers after him for depriving them of the “social event of the month”,’ snapped Lester.
‘I might have done the same in his position. And given that you are so spectacularly wrong over Elliot, are you sure your
conclusions about Cave are correct?’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘He
was
a spy. Brodrick
and Reverend Addison said so, as did Swaddell. The Piccadilly Company employed him – you were there when Swaddell confirmed
it.’

Yet Thurloe had said
he
would not have hired a man like Cave for espionage, and so had Williamson. Was it possible that the Piccadilly Company had
not, either?

‘And their claims are based on what?’ asked Lester archly. ‘Actual evidence or supposition?’

Chaloner said nothing, because the captain had a point. Moreover, Thurloe’s words were echoing loudly in his mind: that the
descriptions of Jacob applied just as well to Lester as to Elliot. He glanced at the captain, taking in his bluff, hearty
face and kindly eyes. Thurloe must be wrong!

‘If Ruth ever learned what we have done, she would hold it against me for the rest of my life,’ Lester was saying, as he replaced
the coffin lid and grabbed a spade. ‘I hope to God she never finds out.’

Chaloner hoped no one would. He clambered out of the grave. ‘Can you finish this alone?’

Lester gaped at him. ‘You are leaving? Christ God, man! I thought we were in this together.’

‘I am sorry, but there is something I need to do. And time is short.’

‘Then help me rebury the man
you
exhumed, and I will assist you with whatever it is.’

‘There is no time.’ Chaloner brushed mud from his clothes. ‘I need to go now.’

‘For pity’s sake!’ cried Lester, dismayed. ‘It is hardly comradely to abandon me here.’

It was not, but Chaloner did not want company when he made his next port of call. Muttering a hasty but sincere apology, he
aimed for Clarendon House. It was
time to resolve the business of the stolen bricks, so there would be one less matter to explore the following day, when
Jane
would arrive, the Adventurers would destroy her, and some diabolical plot would swing into action.

As he walked, a stealthy, solitary figure in the mist, he pushed Elliot and Lester from his mind and considered all he had
learned about the Earl’s missing materials – from his visits to the site, and from what his suspects had inadvertently let
slip. He knew the culprits would be at Clarendon House at that very moment, confident that they would not be disturbed while
the celebrations at White Hall were in full swing. He smiled grimly. They were going to be in for a shock.

He could hardly believe his luck when he bumped into Wright outside the Crown. A knife to the throat persuaded the sergeant
to answer questions that confirmed Chaloner’s suspicions, and a knock on the head ensured that he would not warn the villains
before they could be confronted.

The mansion was an imposing silhouette in the blackness when Chaloner arrived. There were no guards, but he had expected that:
Wright had already admitted that he and his cronies had been paid to sit in the tavern all night. He approached it silently,
and aimed for the library.

Voices emanated from it, and Chaloner nodded to himself when he recognised them: all his reasoning had been correct. The only
thing he did not know was
why
they had seen fit to steal from the Earl. He advanced silently, and saw two men there, poring over a sheaf of plans. He drew
his gun, wanting them frightened into making a confession, because he did not have time for a more leisurely approach.

‘I assume those are the papers that changed hands
the day I chased you,’ he said, stepping into the room and pointing the dag at its startled occupants. ‘The Earl’s son and
Pratt’s assistant: two men who have betrayed a trust.’