The Piccadilly Plot

Chapter 12

Chaloner gaped at the dag that Lester held. Then he saw it was not pointing at him, but at someone hiding in the shadows behind him. He turned to see Fitzgerald. The pirate stepped into the circle of light cast by the lamp, moving with a haughty confidence that immediately set alarm bells ringing in Chaloner’s mind. Before he could draw his own weapons or shout a warning to Lester, Brinkes and his henchmen emerged from the darkness, too. All carried guns and daggers.

Undeterred, Lester took aim at Fitzgerald, intending to shoot him anyway, but ducked when a knife hurtled towards him. It missed by the merest fraction, and the gun flashed in the pan. Without waiting to see what happened to Lester, Chaloner hauled his sword from its scabbard and launched himself at Brinkes, hoping the speed of his attack would catch the henchman off guard.

But Brinkes was no novice in the art of skirmishing. He feinted away and brought his gun down hard on Chaloner’s wrist, forcing him to drop the blade. Chaloner was reaching for his knife before the sword hit the floor, but the others also reacted with commendable speed, and it was not long before he was overwhelmed. Powerful hands grabbed him, and when he finally stopped struggling, he saw that Lester had been similarly secured.

‘Do not bother to shout for help,’ said Brinkes, his face bright with the prospect of violence to come. ‘You will not be heard, not above the racket the Adventurers are making.’

‘Hold them tight,’ ordered Fitzgerald in his piping treble. His single eye glittered. ‘We do not want them to interfere with our plans.’

‘What plans?’ demanded Lester.

‘I am not inclined to discuss them with you,’ replied Fitzgerald coldly.

Although it was not the first time Chaloner had been in the pirate’s presence, it was the first time he had seen him commanding troops. Fitzgerald’s manner was calm and self-assured, and the men he had hired were professionals who followed his orders unthinkingly. With a growing sense of alarm, Chaloner finally began to understand why Thurloe considered him such a formidable adversary.

Footsteps caused everyone to glance towards the stairs. It was Harley, whose eyebrows shot up in surprise when he saw that prisoners had been taken.

‘The man who has been asking questions,’ he said, regarding Chaloner with contempt. ‘You have been a nuisance ever since you realised the Piccadilly Company might make you rich.’

‘Will it?’ asked Chaloner innocently. ‘How?’

Harley sneered at him. ‘I am no more inclined to answer questions now than I was a week ago.’

‘Then let me answer them,’ said Chaloner quickly, when Harley nodded to Brinkes, who cocked his pistol and aimed it at Lester. ‘You want the Queen discredited, so Tangier will return to Portugal — away from the hands of the Adventurers. You have a sympathetic governor in Bridges, but he is greedy and demands too much-’

‘Enough,’ snapped Harley. ‘Shoot them, Brinkes. We do not have time to deal with captives, and these two are too dangerous to leave alive.’

‘No!’ countered Fitzgerald, as Brinkes prepared to obey. ‘Their yells may not carry, but gunshots will, and we do not want any alarms. I know how to dispose of them with no risk to ourselves.’

He gave Harley a significant look, causing the colonel to smile slowly as understanding dawned. Chaloner suppressed the unsettling images that immediately flooded into his mind, and forced himself to concentrate.

‘Murder,’ he said, looking hard at Harley. ‘But that is no stranger to you, is it? I know it was you who killed Reyner and Newell. And Reyner’s mother, too.’

‘Liar!’ snarled Harley, although the alarm in his eyes told anyone who saw it that the accusation was true. He turned to Fitzgerald. ‘He is just trying to make trouble. Ignore him.’

‘Reyner was beginning to weaken,’ Chaloner went on. ‘So you gave him a paper written in the Vigenère cipher, which you said was a list of enemies and would protect him. But it did nothing to reduce his agitation, so you killed him, lest he cracked.’

‘Reyner would not have cracked,’ said Harley, although his voice lacked certainty.

‘Vigenère cipher?’ asked Fitzgerald rather dangerously. ‘Not a letter from our master?’

‘Of course not,’ said Harley quickly. ‘It was a copy of one I once sent to Teviot, describing Jews Hill. I do not know why Reyner agreed to meet Chaloner in the Gaming House, but it would not have been to reveal all.’

‘Reyner made an assignation?’ asked Fitzgerald. ‘Then it seems you were right to dispatch him.’

Harley had evidently not anticipated approval, because his expression was one of confusion. ‘I did not … It was … But never mind this. Brinkes, bring the prisoners over here.’

‘Newell suspected you were Reyner’s killer, so you murdered him, too,’ said Chaloner, as Brinkes moved to obey. He was guessing, but the immediate anger in Harley’s face said he was right. ‘You went to a gunsmith, and ordered a dag with special modifications. It killed him as he demonstrated it in St James’s Park.’

‘How very interesting,’ said Fitzgerald flatly, fingering his enormous beard.

‘And you strangled Reyner’s mother because-’

‘Because she could not keep her mouth shut,’ snarled Harley, cutting across him and addressing Fitzgerald. ‘Reyner confided in her, but she gossiped, especially when she was drunk. It was necessary, and I would do the same again.’

‘You have been busy on our behalf,’ mused Fitzgerald softly. ‘Very busy.’

Chaloner continued his attack on Harley, aiming to widen the rift that was beginning to open. ‘I know why you murdered Teviot, too — he was an Adventurer who made it difficult for Jane to trade. But was it really necessary to slaughter his soldiers as well?’

‘Of course,’ said Harley, continuing to speak to Fitzgerald. ‘Because if we had poisoned or shot him, eyebrows would have been raised — our master made that perfectly clear. His plan saw Barbary corsairs blamed instead.’

‘Not true,’ countered Fitzgerald softly. ‘There are rumours of an official inquiry. I told him he could not trust the corsairs not to blab about the arrangement you made with them, and I was right.’

‘They did not blab.’ Harley pointed an accusing finger at Chaloner. ‘He started those tales to frighten Reyner and Newell. There is no truth in them.’

He snatched the firearm from Brinkes and there was murder in his eyes as he pointed it at Chaloner. But before he could pull the trigger, Fitzgerald stepped forward and brought the butt of his own gun down on Harley’s head. The sound it made was unpleasant, and the scout dropped to the floor, where he lay twitching.

‘I said no gunfire,’ declared Fitzgerald, with a marked lack of emotion. ‘Open a gunport and tip him out, Brinkes. We do not want the Adventurers finding him if they wander down here.’

Brinkes hasted to oblige. Lester’s face was white with shock, although Chaloner was not sure whether it was because a murder had just been committed in front of him, or because he had just realised the extent of the danger he was in.

Once Harley had been unceremoniously dumped overboard, Fitzgerald became businesslike. He turned to leave, indicating that the captives were to be brought, too.

‘Why take the risk?’ asked Brinkes. ‘Hit them over the head and toss them out.’

‘One corpse might be overlooked,’ explained Fitzgerald shortly. ‘But three will cause consternation among our enemies if they are seen. Do as I say, please, or we shall have words.’

Brinkes obeyed with alacrity, although he took the precaution of tying the prisoners’ hands first, and of searching them for weapons. Chaloner lost three knives, and Lester one.

When Brinkes was satisfied, Chaloner and Lester were shoved towards Katherine’s stern, some two decks below where the Adventurers were carousing. On any other night, they would have been seen from the warehouse — it was now fully light — but the fog had thickened, and nothing of the quay was visible. Lester opened his mouth to yell, but was silenced by a slap from Fitzgerald.

‘You will make me angry if you try to raise the alarm,’ the pirate said mildly. ‘Come quietly, and we might still be friends. You and I were once shipmates, after all.’

But Chaloner knew he planned to kill them. He also knew that shouting would be futile: the Adventurers would not hear over the racket they were making, and even if Thurloe and Williamson did, it would take more than a word or two to explain what was happening — and he and Lester would be dead long before they could accomplish that. He turned his mind to escape, but Brinkes and his henchmen were watchful, and he knew any attempt to run would fail.

Brinkes slid through a gunport and landed lightly on Jane’s afterdeck, which was no more than the height of a man below them. He indicated Chaloner and Lester were to follow. It was not easy with their hands tied, and both landed awkwardly. Lester sniffed as he struggled to his feet.

‘There is an odd stench on this ship. Alcohol and-’

‘You will find out soon enough,’ said Brinkes, shoving him forward. ‘Now move.’

Chaloner was also aware of the peculiar smell. He looked around for the source as he stumbled after Lester, but could see nothing amiss. To gain more time, he exaggerated his limp.

‘Hurry,’ snapped Brinkes, giving him a push. Chaloner fell to his knees in order to earn a few more seconds, causing Fitzgerald to glare and Brinkes to swear under his breath.

‘He was shot last night,’ explained Lester quickly, stepping between Chaloner and Brinkes’s fist. ‘He cannot move quickly.’

‘That did not stop him earlier,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘when he was racing around Katherine with a view to learning our plans. He might have discovered them, too, had we not been expecting him.’

‘Expecting me? But how …’ And then Chaloner understood. ‘You knew we were coming! You were waiting for us, and we walked directly into your arms.’

Fitzgerald smiled coldly. ‘We were expecting a better show, to be frank. Williamson and Thurloe should have managed something a little more impressive than a bumbling sea-officer and a worn-out Parliamentarian spy.’

‘What is he talking about, Chaloner?’ whispered Lester. ‘How did he know we were coming?’

‘Because he was warned,’ replied Chaloner. He nodded to where a flash of red ribbon indicated that someone was watching from behind a hatch. ‘Lydcott did not go to St Paul’s to save Pratt from being murdered — he ran straight to Fitzgerald, the man who has turned his paltry glassware business into a lucrative concern.’

There was a pause, and then Lydcott stepped into the open. He shrugged apologetically, and his expression was sheepish as he addressed Chaloner.

‘I had to think of myself,’ he said. ‘I owe more to Mr Fitzgerald than I do to Thurloe, who never does anything but criticise me. I am sorry you must die, but it cannot be helped-’

‘Has there been any activity?’ asked Fitzgerald, cutting across him impatiently.

Lydcott shook his head. ‘Williamson came past, pretending to be drunk as he surveyed us, but he did not linger. No one suspects anything — although that might change if Thurloe thinks Chaloner is taking too long. They are friends, and he will come to find out what has happened to him.’

‘Let him,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘Come with us, Lydcott. Yorke can stand guard now.’

‘Come where?’ asked Lydcott uneasily.

‘To view Jane’s holds,’ replied Fitzgerald smoothly. ‘They are quite a sight.’

He led the way to one of the hatches, with Lydcott following and Chaloner behind them. Then came Brinkes, Lester and three henchmen. Chaloner hesitated, aware that once he stepped off the open deck he might never escape, but Brinkes fingered his dagger, and Chaloner sensed there was nothing he would like more than to use it. Reluctantly, he did as he was told.

‘I should have known you were a villain,’ he said to Lydcott as they went. He spoke softly, so Fitzgerald would not hear; the pirate was humming to himself, which helped. ‘At the Banqueting House, you pretended to laugh at the way Pratt was monitoring Meneses. But the reality was that it was you who was minding him — as Fitzgerald had no doubt ordered you to do.’

‘He did ask me to ensure that Meneses stayed out of mischief,’ acknowledged Lydcott.

‘And then you killed him. Thurloe and Pratt both praised your skill with horses, and Meneses was trampled by one. You knew exactly how to arrange an “accident” without risk to yourself.’

Lydcott shrugged. ‘He was selling our secrets to the Adventurers. Fitzgerald had no choice but to order his execution.’

Chaloner wondered what it was about Fitzgerald that compelled people to do what he asked — Lydcott committing murder and betraying a kinsman who had never been anything but kind to him; Brinkes to look the other way while Harley was clubbed to death; all manner of people to join the Piccadilly Company. He could only suppose it was the promise of riches to come.

‘Did you kill Pratt, too?’ he asked. ‘At St Paul’s?’

‘I lied,’ said Lydcott, rather proudly. ‘I was not summoned to St Paul’s, and neither was Pratt. I came straight here instead. And you and Thurloe did not suspect a thing!’

‘No, but we should have done.’ Chaloner was as disgusted with himself as with Lydcott. ‘The clues were there to identify you as a villain. For example, you told Thurloe that the Piccadilly Company would not meet until next week, but there was a gathering on Sunday. You were there, but in disguise — I recognised your voice. You were sitting with your back to the window.’

Lydcott’s jaw dropped. ‘You spied on us? My God! I was right to warn Fitzgerald: you are a danger! Just wait until I tell him! He will be sure to give me the little bonus I requested now.’

‘You are demanding a bigger share of the profits?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Then you will die tonight, too. I wondered why he wanted you below decks, but it is obvious now.’

‘You understand nothing!’ said Lydcott, loudly and angrily. ‘He appreciates my skills.’

Fitzgerald whipped around. ‘No talking, or I will cut out your tongues. Both of you.’

Chaloner could see he meant it, and thought that while Lydcott was not quite the empty-headed fool he had assumed, he was still unspeakably stupid.

It was dark inside Jane, and the lamp Fitzgerald lit was the kind that was used during storms at sea — one that would not break if it fell over, spilling fuel that would cause a fire. The odd aroma was much stronger, but there was no time to analyse it as they were ordered to descend a series of stairs. Then all that could be smelled was bad water and rotting wood.

‘They have not kept her seaworthy,’ murmured Lester. ‘She is taking on water, and will sink in the next serious blow. No wonder she looks heavy in the bows.’

He was proven right when they reached a flooded hold. Brinkes jumped in, and indicated that Chaloner and Lester were to follow, while Fitzgerald, Lydcott and the three henchmen watched from the ladder. The waist-deep water was bitingly cold, and as they waded forwards, Chaloner felt something crunching under his feet: gravel. When they reached a post, Brinkes secured them to it.

‘It will be over soon,’ called Lydcott sympathetically. ‘You do not have long to suffer.’

Fitzgerald moved fast, and before Chaloner could shout a warning he had brought the butt of his gun down hard on Lydcott’s head. Lydcott swayed for a moment, then plummeted into the water.

‘Another risk eliminated,’ announced Fitzgerald with chilling blandness. He began to hum again.

It was completely silent in Jane’s hold, and not even the carousing from the Adventurers could be heard. Lydcott floated face down in the water, his arms out to the side, and Fitzgerald and his men watched Brinkes finish tying Chaloner and Lester to the post. When it was done, the henchmen moved away, but Fitzgerald lingered, nodding approvingly from his dry perch on the stairs as Brinkes gave his knots a final check.

‘You will be next, Brinkes,’ whispered Lester. ‘Fitzgerald is singing, and he always does that before dispatching someone. You-’

‘Let him go, Lester,’ said Chaloner. He tried to sound calm, but his stomach churned with agitation. ‘We have nothing to say to the likes of him.’

‘Fitzgerald will kill you, Brinkes,’ Lester went on, ignoring him. ‘You are a risk, too, no matter what he tells you now.’

‘Lies,’ whispered Brinkes. ‘You do not know what you are talking-’

‘What are you muttering about down there?’ called Fitzgerald, causing Brinkes to leap away from the prisoners in alarm and begin to wade back towards the steps.

‘If we are going to die, then at least tell us the name of the man who is behind all this,’ shouted Lester, boldly defiant as he glared at the pirate. ‘We know it is not you.’

‘Do you indeed?’ Fitzgerald sounded amused. ‘How?’

‘Do not answer him,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Or he will race down the ladder and beat your brains out.’

‘Better that than whatever else he has planned,’ Lester muttered back. ‘Besides, I want answers.’

‘We do not need them,’ said Chaloner, wanting Fitzgerald gone from the hold so he could think about how to escape while there was still time. ‘It is-’

‘Because you are not clever enough, you damned pirate,’ yelled Lester. ‘Or rich enough. And do not say that Lydcott’s glassware venture gives you funds, because we all know that is untrue.’

Chaloner tensed, expecting swift and brutal retaliation, but Fitzgerald only laughed. ‘Then you will die in ignorance, because I am not inclined to confide in you. And I am not a pirate, by the way, I am a privateer.’

‘Tell us what you plan to do,’ shouted Lester, as Brinkes reached the ladder and began to ascend. ‘It involves alcohol and something else …’

‘For God’s sake, Lester!’ hissed Chaloner urgently. ‘Just let them go, so we can turn our minds to escape. You are wasting time with your banter.’

‘Poor Jane,’ said Fitzgerald, leaning down to give a beam an affectionate pat. ‘She has served me well, but her timbers are rotten, and it is time to put her to another use.’

‘Gunpowder!’ yelled Lester in sudden understanding, although Chaloner had grasped the significance of what he had smelled the moment they stepped aboard — along with the fact that Fitzgerald was willing to sacrifice a ship that was a virtual wreck anyway.

‘Yes, he intends to blow her up,’ Chaloner snarled. ‘And I imagine there are enough explosives on board to destroy Jane, Katherine, and half of Queenhithe. Now just shut up and let him-’

‘My master will be rid of the Adventurers once and for all,’ called Fitzgerald gloatingly. ‘And a pair of irritating spymasters into the bargain. Thurloe and Williamson will perish in the blast, too.’

‘You cannot!’ cried Lester in horror. ‘There must be two hundred people on Katherine, including women and servants. It would be a terrible massacre!’

‘But not our master’s first,’ said Fitzgerald with a cold smile. ‘As Lord Teviot could attest, were he still in the land of the living. Are we ready, Brinkes? Is everything in place?’

Brinkes nodded. ‘All that remains is to set the fires. Shall I remove the gangways, to ensure no one can get off Katherine?’

Fitzgerald laughed, and the shrill, mad sound of it filled the hold. ‘Do not bother: our explosion will obliterate Queenhithe, and it will not matter if our enemies are aboard or on the quayside. They will die regardless.’

There was a thump and sudden darkness as Fitzgerald disappeared through the hatch and slammed it closed. Chaloner willed his footsteps to retreat, knowing that he and Lester did not have much time.

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Lester brokenly. ‘I do not care for myself — I have cheated death too often already in my years at sea. But all those innocents in the Great Cabin …’

‘Hardly innocents,’ said Chaloner, listening to ensure their captors had gone before making his move. ‘They are wealthy Adventurers, who intend to make themselves richer by trading in slaves.’

‘But their wives are with them,’ cried Lester. ‘Besides, I am sure we could make some of them see reason. Grey, for example. He would condemn the slave trade if he understood what it entails — he is not a bad man.’

Chaloner thought Lester was deluded if he believed he could persuade a lot of very rich people to forgo an easy way to make more money. But there was something refreshingly decent about Lester’s optimism, and he respected him for it.

Then there was a series of scrapes and rattles.

‘What is that?’ Chaloner asked in alarm.

‘Someone climbing down the side of the ship,’ explained Lester. ‘The scoundrels must be making their escape by river. The fog will help — Williamson and Thurloe will never see them.’

But Chaloner was more interested in trying to avert an atrocity than in Fitzgerald’s movements.

‘Quickly!’ he urged. ‘Up the stairs.’

‘How? My hands are tied so tight that I can barely move … but I can! We are free! How in God’s name did you manage that?’

‘With Wiseman’s scalpel,’ explained Chaloner, grateful that Brinkes had missed it. He shoved Lester towards the ladder. ‘Why do you think I wanted you to stop talking? Now, hurry!’

Lester was gone in a trice, feeling his way in the darkness much more efficiently than Chaloner, and running up the ladder with the ease of the experienced seaman. Fortunately, Fitzgerald had not deemed it necessary to bar the hatch, and it opened easily. Beyond was nothing but darkness.

‘The gunpowder will be on the upper deck,’ whispered Lester, grabbing Chaloner’s sleeve and leading him unerringly along a companionway and then up another flight of steps. It was there that the reek of the bilges gave way to the sharper, cleaner scent of explosives.

‘At least we know why Fitzgerald used storm lamps,’ said Chaloner. ‘He did not want to blow himself up with stray sparks.’

The moment he spoke, he became aware of smoke and the crackle of flames: fires had been lit. He began to move faster, but stopped abruptly when they reached the upper deck and the dim light of another lantern revealed just how many barrels of gunpowder Fitzgerald had acquired. There were more than he could count, and would certainly destroy the quay. Worse, sparks from the resulting explosion might set the surrounding buildings alight, and the conflagration could easily spread. Lester darted to several separate hatches, then swore as he turned to face Chaloner.

‘Fires have been set in three different parts of the ship, all splashed with alcohol to make them spread.’ His face was white. ‘All will need to be doused if we are to prevent the kegs from igniting. But by the time we have one under control, the others will be beyond us.’

Chaloner ran to the nearest gunport and peered at the water below. It moved sluggishly as the current tugged it towards the sea. He whipped around, grabbed the nearest barrel and hurled it overboard. It sank, but then bobbed to the surface a moment later, where, half-submerged, it began to drift away. Would it be enough? He hoped so. He reached for another but it was heavy and his injured shoulder prevented him from throwing it as far as he would have liked.

‘I will not be able to lob them all overboard before the fires take hold,’ he explained quickly, reaching for a third. ‘But I should be able to manage enough to reduce the impact. Go and warn the Adventurers. Hurry!’

Lester did a quick survey. ‘You are right! We can foil these evil bastards and save the quay!’

Chaloner heaved the barrel overboard. ‘Yes, now raise the alarm.’

‘No.’ Lester snatched up a keg and pitched it through the hole. It fell much farther out than Chaloner’s had done, and was towed away more quickly. ‘I know which part of the deck to clear first — you do not, as evidenced by the barrels you have chosen to grab. Moreover, I have not been shot, and can work more efficiently. You warn the Adventurers.’

‘It is only a scratch,’ said Chaloner, struggling to lift the next cask. ‘You said so yourself.’

‘I lied,’ said Lester, snatching it from him. ‘Now go and save those people before it is too late.’

‘I left you once. At Elliot’s grave. I cannot do it again.’

‘It is hardly the same.’ Lester gave him a vigorous shove, then smiled lopsidedly. ‘Look after Ruth for me, because if Williamson puts her in Bedlam, it will be you I come back to haunt. It has been an honour serving with you, Tom. Now go before I toss you overboard.’

Chaloner could think of no trite declaration of friendship to make in return. With a final, agonised glance, he turned and clambered up the final set of stairs, sickened by the knowledge that he was exchanging the life of a good man for a lot of ruthless merchants who traded in slaves.

In Katherine’s Great Cabin, the Adventurers had finished the rum and were looking for something else to drink. There was a lot of discontented mumbling, because Leighton had gone to fetch wine some time ago, and had not returned. Also notable by their absence were Dugdale and Edgeman.

‘I will look for Leighton,’ Brodrick was offering, transparently grateful for an excuse to be back on terra firma. ‘He cannot have gone far. Play the fiddle again, O’Brien. It is-’

Chaloner burst among them, urgently enough to make Kitty issue a squeal of alarm. He supposed he did look desperate — dirty, sodden and reeking of bilge-water.

‘The ship next to you is going to blow up,’ he gasped. ‘Everyone needs to leave. Now!’

‘Jane?’ asked O’Brien in surprise. ‘I seriously doubt anyone would waste powder on that old tub. Indeed, I am surprised she survived her voyage up the Thames.’

There was a chorus of agreement, but Brodrick knew Chaloner well enough to see that he was not in jest. He took command and ordered everyone out. Unfortunately, his uncharacteristic display of authority caused immediate panic, and it took him and Swaddell at the stairs, and Chaloner at the gangway, to ensure there was not a stampede. As many Adventurers were drunk and others were weak with terror, the evacuation took far longer than it should have done. Williamson and Thurloe, quick to comprehend what was happening, hurried to direct people to a safe distance.

‘Where are you going?’ shouted Thurloe, as Chaloner fought his way through the last Adventurers waiting to disembark and began to run towards Jane.

‘Lester needs help,’ yelled Chaloner over his shoulder. ‘He-’

‘No!’ Thurloe raced after him and grabbed the flying tails of his coat. ‘It will be too late.’

Chaloner struggled free, but Thurloe stuck out a foot that sent him sprawling. Even as he started to rise, there was a tremendous explosion. Heat washed over him, and had he not been protected by the mass of Katherine, he would certainly have been blown to pieces. When he was able to look up, it was to see Jane’s masts toppling with a series of tearing groans. Every timber and sail was a bright cluster of flames.

He whipped around in alarm, fearing for Thurloe, but the ex-Spymaster had thrown himself to the ground, and was covering his head with his hands as fragments of burning wood began to rain down. When the treacherous fallout had finished, Chaloner scrambled upright on unsteady legs. Jane was a mass of blazing stays and spars that made the fog glow amber, while Katherine was battle-scarred and alight in a dozen places, but still afloat.

‘He did it,’ he whispered. ‘Lester saved Katherine and Queenhithe.’

Williamson arrived, looking around wildly. ‘Did you see Kitty leave? And Swaddell?’

‘I am here.’ Swaddell materialised out of the fog like a spectre. He shot his master a pained glance. ‘It seems we infiltrated the wrong group — it was not the Adventurers I should have been watching, but the Piccadilly Company.’

‘You did your best.’ Williamson’s face was a mask of agitation. ‘Kitty?’

‘I saw her escape,’ said Swaddell soothingly. ‘Do not worry. O’Brien will look after her.’

‘So is this the atrocity Fitzgerald and his master plotted?’ asked Thurloe, while Williamson winced at the blunt reminder that the object of his affections was married to his friend. ‘The murder of half the Court and the upper echelons of government?’

‘Yes, and they did not care that it might destroy Queenhithe, too,’ said Swaddell in disgust. ‘But where is Lester? I did not see him leave Katherine.’

Chaloner did not reply, and only stared at the burning remnants of Jane.

Williamson’s face fell, and he closed his eyes. ‘Damn!’ he whispered. ‘Damn!’

For a long moment, no one did anything except stare at Jane’s blazing masts and spars. Then Thurloe grabbed Chaloner’s arm and shook it.

‘We must avenge Lester’s sacrifice by laying hold of Fitzgerald and his master. They will not get away with this — we will not let them.’

‘Fitzgerald escaped by boat,’ said Chaloner numbly. ‘He could be anywhere by now.’

‘Would he go to the Crown?’ asked Swaddell.

‘Too obvious,’ said Thurloe. ‘He is not a fool. Yet I imagine he will be with his Piccadilly Company cronies. They will want to gloat over the triumph they think they have won.’

‘If it is of any help, I just saw Pratt leap on a horse and gallop off at a colossal speed,’ said Swaddell. ‘I wondered what he was doing here, because he is not an Adventurer. However, he is a member of the Piccadilly Company …’

‘Fitzgerald summoned him to St Paul’s earlier,’ said Thurloe, bemused. ‘To be murdered.’

‘It was a lie.’ Chaloner was still too stunned by Lester’s death to give details. ‘Lydcott never went to St Paul’s, and Pratt did not, either. In fact, I think he might be Fitzgerald’s master.’

‘Pratt?’ asked Williamson in patent disbelief. ‘What reason could he have for wanting courtiers dead? He will view them as potential clients.’

‘Besides,’ added Thurloe, more gently, ‘he is the one whose murder was-’

‘There is no plot to kill him.’ Chaloner jumped when a dull roar indicated that a stray spark had caught one of the wooden warehouses. ‘There never was — the Piccadilly Company just wanted the Queen accused of it. Pratt was never in any danger, which explains why he was never very concerned.’

‘Chaloner has a point,’ said Swaddell to Williamson. ‘I would not have been happy if I had been threatened with death and the likes of Sergeant Wright had been hired to protect me. Yet Pratt was indifferent. Indeed, I heard him tell people he was flattered by it.’

‘I suppose he might be the master,’ conceded Williamson. ‘He is wealthy enough to finance the Piccadilly Company’s activities. But we can examine motives later, when he is arrested. The question we should be asking now is: where has he gone?’

There was a sudden yell from Brodrick: flames from the burning warehouse were threatening to spread to its neighbours.

‘Clarendon House,’ said Chaloner, as all became clear. ‘I wondered how he had come to raise the alarm earlier, when Hyde and I were doing battle with Oliver. I imagine he went there to ensure that all was ready, and found it full of brick-thieves instead.’

‘To ensure all was ready for what?’ asked Thurloe.

‘To receive the cargo Jane brought,’ explained Chaloner. ‘They will need to store it somewhere safe, and Clarendon House has a lockable vault.’

‘What cargo?’ demanded Williamson.

‘Something that was concealed in Jane’s consignment of gravel,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Jewels or precious metals from Tangier, perhaps. It will not be bulky — she could not have coped with that — so I imagine it is no more than a chest or two. Fitzgerald took a risk, though. He has already lost one fortune on a ship that could not withstand a storm.’

‘He had no choice,’ said Swaddell. ‘Jane is the only vessel he has left.’

‘But Clarendon House is too public, surely?’ objected Williamson. ‘It will be full of workmen.’

‘Not in the small hours of the morning, which is when Jane arrived.’ Something else became clear to Chaloner, too. ‘Hyde and Oliver denied paying Wright to linger in the Crown tonight, but someone did. It was not Pratt, because Wright would have told me, so one of the other Piccadilly Company members must have done it — Fitzgerald or another of his accomplices.’

More shouting drew their attention. A second warehouse was alight, and although people were rallying to douse the flames, their efforts were disorganised and ineffectual.

‘My instincts scream at me to go to Clarendon House,’ said Williamson, agitated. ‘Yet I cannot leave courtiers to fight this inferno. I doubt they will contain it, and half the city could be lost.’

‘Stay and do your duty,’ instructed Thurloe. ‘Tom and I will deal with Fitzgerald and Pratt.’

‘I will send help if my men return from Woolwich,’ promised Williamson. ‘In the meantime, take my sword and dagger, Chaloner. You should not attempt this unarmed.’

* * *

Thurloe set off at a run, Chaloner at his heels. A number of private coaches had parked in Thames Street, and loath to miss any of the excitement, their wealthy Adventurer-owners and their drivers had not fled the scene, but had lingered. Some were helping with the fire, but most were there as ghoulish spectators, eager to witness first-hand what promised to be a serious conflagration. With cool aplomb, Thurloe commandeered one of the carriages, and they were soon galloping towards Piccadilly at a speed that was far from safe when fog meant that neither the driver nor the horses could see where they were going.

Thurloe closed his eyes when he heard what had happened to Lydcott, but opened them to listen without interruption as Chaloner told him everything he had seen, heard and deduced on Jane.

‘I am not sure you are right about Pratt,’ the ex-Spymaster said when he had finished. ‘I know you have good reasons for accusing him, but I remain unconvinced.’

‘We might have known for certain if you had not forced me to make that ridiculous promise,’ said Chaloner bitterly, clinging to the carriage’s side as it lurched across a pothole. ‘I could have tackled Fitzgerald and had answers directly.’

‘You would have been dead,’ said Thurloe harshly. ‘He is not in the habit of revealing all to anyone who asks. But never mind recriminations: we need a plan of attack, because if we charge into Clarendon House without one, he will kill us. How many helpmeets will he have?’

Chaloner swore when the coach swerved so violently that he was almost hurled out. ‘Brinkes and his men number about a dozen. Then there are thirty members of the Piccadilly Company …’

‘I doubt all of them are involved,’ said Thurloe. ‘Some will have been recruited to provide a veneer of respectability and funds for investments.’

‘Even so, you were reckless when you offered to confront them. I doubt we will succeed.’

‘Of course we will,’ said Thurloe with quiet determination. ‘We shall use our wits. Now think of something — anything — that might give us an edge over them.’

Chaloner racked his brains. ‘The secret passages …’

He reached into his coat and retrieved the roll of plans he had taken from Oliver. Fortunately, they had been tucked high enough to avoid a soaking when he had been forced into Jane’s flooded hold. He handed them to Thurloe, then clung on for dear life as the coach rounded a corner. For a moment, only two wheels were on the road, but then the others came down with a bone-jarring thump, and they picked up speed again.

It was not easy to read when the carriage was pitching about like a ship in a storm. Chaloner glanced out of the window once and hoped the driver knew where he was because he could tell nothing from the occasional flash of building through the mist. Then he glimpsed the familiar line of the Gaming House walls. They were almost there.

‘The Crown is all shut up,’ said Thurloe, who was looking in the opposite direction. ‘I am sure you are right to predict that these villains will go to Clarendon House.’

‘Have you thought of a plan yet?’ Chaloner banged on the ceiling to make the driver stop. It would not be a good idea to hurtle up to the front gates and warn their enemies of their arrival.

Thurloe regarded him sombrely. ‘No, and all I can hope is that these secret passages will work to our advantage. If not, God help us, because Fitzgerald will have no mercy, and neither will his master.’

The fog was so dense along Piccadilly that Chaloner was obliged to hold Thurloe’s wrist to ensure they did not lose each other. Fine droplets of moisture glistened on their clothes and caught at the back of their throats. The urge to cough was strong, but they resisted, not knowing who might be nearby.

Eventually, they reached Clarendon House’s distinctive gateposts, where the winged pigs looked almost evil in the shifting mist. Following the ruts made by the labourers’ wheelbarrows, Chaloner aimed for the portico. He climbed the steps, aware that the silence was absolute, because the fog deadened all the usual noises, so there was not so much as a twitter from a bird or a bark from a dog. There were certainly no human sounds.

‘Most of the workmen will be under arrest,’ whispered Thurloe. ‘Or still running away from Doines. The Piccadilly Company will have the house and grounds to themselves.’

Chaloner pulled out his key and opened the door to reveal darkness within. All the window shutters were closed, and what meagre light did filter inside was dull and did little to illuminate the place. He secured the door behind them, and began to move stealthily towards the Great Parlour, which seemed the obvious place for a large group of people to gather.

‘I can hear something,’ whispered Thurloe, stopping abruptly. ‘Voices.’

‘Brinkes and his men. Step carefully — the builders leave their tools lying around.’

Chaloner’s heart thudded as they crept forward. How many villains would they have to confront? Would Pratt and Fitzgerald be there, or were they in another part of the house?

Eventually, he detected a glimmer of light, which grew stronger as he and Thurloe inched towards it. They reached the Great Parlour, and heard voices. The handsome double doors stood open to reveal Brinkes inside, serving ale to his cronies.

‘It is almost over, lads,’ he was saying encouragingly. ‘And then we shall be rich.’

‘Good,’ said one fervently. ‘It has been a dirty business, especially Turner’s children. Our employers are too brutal for me, and I shall not weep if I never see them again.’

The others growled assent, even Brinkes, which did nothing to ease Chaloner’s growing anxiety. If callous louts like them thought Pratt and Fitzgerald too ruthless, then what chance did he and Thurloe stand against them? But it was no time for faint-hearted thoughts, and he turned his attention to neutralising Brinkes and his henchmen.

The windows in the Great Parlour were so high as to be unreachable, which meant there was only one way in or out of the room — through the thick, heavy doors that opened outwards into the hall in which he and Thurloe were standing. He glanced at his friend, and saw the ex-Spymaster understood exactly what he was thinking: that if they could shut and lock them, imprisoning Brinkes and his friends inside, it might even the odds while they tackled Fitzgerald and Pratt.

The left-hand door would have to be closed first, because it contained a lever — located near the doorknob — which snapped bolts into the ceiling and floor. Then the right-hand door could be shut and locked with the key. Chaloner pulled the key from his pocket and inserted it soundlessly, testing it to make sure it turned. Thurloe took the side with the key, Chaloner the one with the lever.

His inclination was to slam it shut and yank on the lever as quickly as possible, but Brinkes and his men were too near — they would be out and fighting before Thurloe could manage his side. With agonising slowness, he eased it closed little by little, relieved to discover that its hinges did not creak. He had almost succeeded when Brinkes happened to glance at it.

There was no time to hesitate. Chaloner leaned all his weight on it, so it cracked into place, then grabbed the lever, aware as he did so of Thurloe beginning to shove his side. Brinkes leapt forward, hauling out his dagger. The lever was stiffer than Chaloner had anticipated, and took all his strength to tug. While he wrestled with it, Thurloe’s door moved faster and faster towards him, threatening to crush him.

Just when he thought he was going to be squashed between the two doors, an unmoving target for Brinkes to stab, the bolts clicked into place, and he was able to twist away. The door slammed shut an instant later, and he saw Thurloe reach for the key. But the door had banged so hard that it had popped partly open again, just enough to prevent the key from turning.

Chaloner hurled himself at it, and pushed with every fibre of his being, hearing the blood roar in his ears. Brinkes was doing the same on the other side. The henchmen were yelling, and Chaloner was sure they were racing to help Brinkes — and when they did, the door would fly open and he and Thurloe would die. The thought of losing his friend was just enough for a final, massive effort. The door closed and the locks snapped into place. They had done it.

‘Come,’ said Thurloe urgently, hauling Chaloner to his feet. ‘We must tackle the others before Brinkes escapes — these are sturdy doors, but they will not hold him for long.’

Chaloner’s legs were unsteady as they ran back the way they had come. There was only one place Pratt would be — the Lawyers’ Library, the room he had been using as an office. Behind them, Brinkes and his men were pounding on the doors furiously, sending hollow booms reverberating through the entire house.

Chaloner reached the library and paused to listen. The door was closed, but someone was murmuring within. Unfortunately, the voice was too soft to recognise. Then he saw a flicker of movement under the door — someone was coming to investigate the racket Brinkes was making.

It was too late to hide, so he whipped out Williamson’s sword and dagger and kicked the door open with as much force as he could muster. It flew against the wall with a resounding crack, and the person who had been about to open it stumbled back in alarm.

‘Janszoon,’ said Thurloe flatly, standing next to Chaloner with his own gun drawn. ‘And Margareta. Whose remit in this nasty plot is to whip up ill-feeling towards Hollanders in the hope of encouraging a war. Prynne was right to want you stopped.’

Chaloner stepped inside quickly, but there was no sign of Pratt or Fitzgerald. Margareta smirked, not at all discomfited to find herself at the wrong end of a dag. Chaloner was immediately uneasy, and edged to one side, so as not to come under fire from the peepholes again.

‘You are right,’ she said carelessly. ‘But I doubt you know why.’

‘Of course we do,’ said Thurloe disdainfully. ‘Your country owns the best shipping routes, but war will disrupt them. And that will be to the Piccadilly Company’s advantage.’

‘They are not Hollanders,’ said Chaloner, aware that Margareta had spoken without the merest trace of an accent. ‘I have known it ever since they refused to speak Dutch to me at White Hall last night. Moreover, no learner of English would use complex grammatical structures one moment, and make basic vocabulary mistakes another. Their ridiculous choice of names is another clue to their real identities.’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘There are many Janszoons in Holland. I researched it very carefully.’

‘So who are they, Tom?’ asked Thurloe. ‘More greedy merchants? Or pirates, perhaps?’

Chaloner pointed to the scar on the man’s face. ‘Whose cheek was cut in a public swordfight recently? And who was then given a hasty funeral — not to avoid an expensive send-off as we all assumed, but to explain why his “corpse” was removed from the charnel house within hours of his very public “death”?’

‘Cave?’ breathed Thurloe. ‘He is not dead and buried in St Margaret’s churchyard?’

Chaloner nodded, then turned to the woman. ‘And who was his lover, a manipulative courtesan who is also a member of the Piccadilly Company and sister to the dangerous Harley?’

‘Brilliana!’ exclaimed Thurloe in understanding. ‘It all makes sense now.’

When Brilliana gave a brief, cold smile, the pastes on her face cracked, revealing a glimpse of the beautiful but deadly woman underneath. ‘Well done. Unfortunately for you, your deductions have come too late to make any difference to what has been set in motion.’

‘It has failed,’ said Thurloe harshly. ‘Your brother is dead, and the Adventurers are still alive.’

‘My brother is not dead, so do not think you can frighten us with lies,’ said Brilliana coldly.

Chaloner looked around uncomfortably, unable to escape the conviction that something was very wrong. Why were they not more concerned at being exposed?

‘We should leave,’ he said in a low voice to Thurloe. ‘I do not like this.’

‘We should have guessed days ago,’ said Thurloe, ignoring him to glare at Cave. ‘You either paid or coerced Elliot to start a fight, so you could disappear and become Janszoon. You were good. Your “death” convinced Tom, and he is not easily misled.’

Guiltily, Chaloner recalled how he had berated Lester for not checking Elliot’s body. Now it seemed he had done the same thing with Cave, but with far graver consequences.

‘I confess I was alarmed when he tried to inspect my “wound”,’ admitted Cave. ‘But I stopped him, and then he was kind enough to hire a cart to take me to the charnel house. The original arrangement had been for Elliot to do it, but that changed when I was obliged to stab him.’

‘And then another Piccadilly Company member — or, more likely, Brinkes — collected your “body” later the same day,’ surmised Thurloe.

Cave grimaced. ‘He should have arrived sooner. I had to spend hours in that terrible place, in constant fear that someone would come and inspect me. He used the excuse that he was perfecting his disguise, but I think he did it for malice.’

‘Brinkes made himself look like Elliot,’ Thurloe went on. ‘And told Kersey that he lived in Covent Garden — where Elliot had rented rooms.’ He glanced at Brilliana. ‘And you claimed it was Elliot who had encouraged “Jacob” to give Cave a hasty funeral — to make Tom waste time looking for a man who was dead and buried.’

Chaloner glanced behind him again. Why did Cave and Brilliana seem so relaxed? Because they expected Fitzgerald or their master to rescue them? He looked hard at the spyholes in the panelling, but could detect nothing amiss. Cave smirked at his wariness, making him even more certain that something was about to happen.

‘Enough,’ he said softly, tugging on Thurloe’s arm. ‘We should-’

‘It worked,’ Brilliana said gloatingly, ignoring Chaloner and addressing the ex-Spymaster. ‘Everyone was so easy to deceive. Chaloner should have drunk the chocolate I provided, though — then we would not be having this discussion.’

‘You “die” in operas all the time,’ Thurloe said to Cave, freeing his arm from Chaloner’s hand. ‘I suppose you wore a sack of animal blood under your clothes, which gushed out when it was jabbed. That is how it is managed on stage, I believe. Then you both donned disguises, testing them on cronies at the Piccadilly Company first …’

‘They were impressed.’ Brilliana’s smile was smug with satisfaction. ‘And it gave us the confidence to step into that most auspicious of circles — White Hall.’

Chaloner was barely listening. Every nerve in his body screamed that something was wrong, although he could still hear the distant boom of Brinkes and his henchmen hammering on the Great Parlour doors, so he knew they had not yet managed to break free.

‘But why kill Elliot?’ Thurloe was asking. ‘He did what you asked.’

‘Barely,’ said Cave coldly. ‘Lester told him he would hang for murder if he “killed” me — an outcome that had not occurred to the fool, because I could see him having second thoughts before my very eyes. I was obliged to goad him to fulfil his end of the bargain by attacking Lester.’

‘Who was unarmed,’ said Chaloner, recalling the crowd’s murmur of disapproval. ‘I suppose you were afraid that Elliot would tell the truth about the deception to save himself from the noose.’

‘Yes.’ Cave touched a hand to his scarred face. ‘And I was angry because he hurt me. That was certainly never part of the arrangement.’

‘What is in this for you?’ Thurloe asked. ‘It means your old life is over for ever — your voice will be recognised if you ever sing in public again. There can be no going back.’

The besotted expression on Cave’s face as he glanced at Brilliana answered that question, although Chaloner could see just by looking that the devotion was not reciprocated. When he had outlived his usefulness, Cave would be dispatched, like so many others.

‘I am sorry, Chaloner,’ he said, and he sounded sincere. ‘I enjoyed singing to your viol when we sailed on Eagle. You have a rare talent, and it is a pity to silence it. But it cannot be helped.’

Chaloner was about to remark that he had no intention of being silenced when he heard the merest of rustles behind the door. A faint smile tugged the corners of Brilliana’s mouth, and he knew her deliverance was at hand. Reacting instinctively, he hurled himself to the floor, dragging Thurloe with him. And then the room was full of noise as bullets ripped into the oaken panels and smashed the windows.

Before the gunmen could reload, Chaloner kicked the door closed and struggled to his knees to lock it. Immediately, someone started to batter it from the other side. It began to splinter, not being as robust as the ones in the Great Parlour. Chaloner glanced fearfully at Thurloe, expecting him to be shot, but the ex-Spymaster scrambled to his feet and hurried to Brilliana, who was gazing at the shattered remains of her right arm in shocked disbelief. Cave was dead.

‘Open the window,’ hissed Thurloe. ‘We shall escape through that. Hurry!’

Obediently, Chaloner ran towards it, but could see shadows moving in the fog outside. When one of them fired a musket at him, he whipped around and began prodding the panels instead.

‘The plans said Hyde installed a passage in this wall,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Help me find it.’

There were voices in the hallway — Fitzgerald’s piping treble ordering someone to hurry. The pirate sounded deranged, and Chaloner knew he and Thurloe would not live long once they were caught. Whoever was kicking the door intensified his assault, and Chaloner’s hunt for the hidden passage became more frantic, too.

It was Thurloe who found it — a tiny knob disguised as a carving of a pineapple. Chaloner followed him inside, then pressed the mechanism that closed it. A little light filtered through the holes that had been placed for spying, but it was still difficult to see where they were going.

‘Fitzgerald did not care who was shot just then,’ Thurloe whispered, shocked. ‘Indeed, I cannot help but wonder whether he wanted Brilliana and Cave dead anyway.’ His voice was unsteady, stunned by the ruthlessness of the onslaught.

‘Probably,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘It is more loose ends tied.’

‘Do you accept now that I was right to keep you away from him? And understand why I could never find witnesses to speak against him when I tried to bring him to trial? How could I, when he murders his accomplices?’

They were passing the last of the peepholes when the door burst open and Fitzgerald flew in. Chaloner stopped to watch. The pirate did not so much as glance at the writhing Brilliana, and instead issued a piercing scream of frustration when he saw his enemies had escaped. His master entered more calmly.

‘They seem to have gone,’ said O’Brien softly. ‘Find them, or you will die, too.’

Chaloner gaped at the man who had been the author of so much carnage, then clenched his fists as rage consumed him. It was O’Brien’s fault that Lester had died saving worthless Adventurers, and in the darkness of Hyde’s secret passage, he vowed the man would pay. Unfortunately, his dive to the floor to avoid the deadly hail of gunfire meant he had dropped his weapons, so the odds of him fulfilling that promise were remote to say the least. But he determined to do his best.

‘He was never among my suspects,’ whispered Thurloe. He sounded disgusted and stunned in equal measure. ‘I underestimated him — and his capacity for greed, because he is already rich.’

‘Rich enough to have funded the Piccadilly Company all these months,’ replied Chaloner. ‘No wonder he refused to join the Adventurers. I believed him when he said it was because he opposed the slave trade — he was convincing. But it was a lie, a ruse to conceal his real intentions.’

‘And what are his real intentions? What can he gain, other than to make yet more money?’

Chaloner was about to repeat the reply he had given when Rector Thompson had posed the same question the previous week — that money was one of those commodities of which those who owned it never felt they had enough — when O’Brien crouched by the dying Brilliana. She tried to move away but he made a sudden movement and she went limp, head lolling to one side.

‘I thought I told you to find our unwanted guests,’ he snarled, when he saw Fitzgerald watching him. The pirate took an involuntary step backwards at the force of the words. ‘Hunt them down and kill them. They have done immeasurable harm with their meddling.’

‘I said it was a bad idea to bring the Adventurers to Queenhithe,’ Fitzgerald snapped back. ‘If you had let me blow them up in Woolwich, as we originally planned-’

‘How?’ snapped O’Brien. ‘You could not have smuggled gunpowder on board Royal Katherine, and using Jane was a stroke of genius.’

Fitzgerald scowled. ‘Modestly put. But how did you persuade Leighton to change the time and venue of his party? It cannot have been easy.’

‘It was, actually — I told him I would join the Adventurers if he did as I asked. Unfortunately, now our plan is foiled, he will know that I am behind the plot to massacre them all, so I will have to kill him today, too. But not before I have dispatched Thurloe and his helpmeets, to teach them what happens to those who cross me.’

‘I did not cross you,’ said Fitzgerald immediately. ‘I was on my way to warn you that we had to set the explosion early, but then I saw you on the quayside, so obviously I did not risk our venture by exposing myself to recognition by approaching you.’

‘Obviously,’ said O’Brien flatly, while Chaloner recalled that O’Brien had been one of those whose life had been saved by the timely evacuation. However, he was sure O’Brien was right to be sceptical of Fitzgerald’s intentions.

Beside him, Thurloe released a soft sound of disgust. ‘If he trusted Fitzgerald not to betray him, then the man is deranged,’ he said softly.

‘He is deranged,’ Chaloner whispered back. ‘Look at his face. And what he did to Brilliana …’

‘Well, do not just stand there!’ O’Brien was snapping to his accomplice. ‘Our enemies cannot be allowed to escape, so find them and kill them. Now!’

Fitzgerald was an intelligent man, who knew his quarry could not have left through the window while there were guards outside, so he immediately turned his attention to the panels. He began tapping and poking, and Chaloner knew it was only a matter of time before he found what he was looking for.

He and Thurloe moved as fast as they could along the passage, but it was difficult in the dark. Thurloe gave him a vigorous shove when Fitzgerald screeched his triumph, sending him stumbling down a flight of steep stairs. When he had finally regained his balance, he saw a flare of light close behind him. Thurloe had a tinderbox and had lit a candle.

‘Douse it!’ Chaloner hissed in alarm. He glanced up to see a second gleam at the top of the steps. ‘They are coming!’

‘They know we are here,’ Thurloe snapped back. ‘And it is better to see, than to blunder blindly.’

Chaloner snatched the candle and ran along a corridor that — according to Hyde’s plans — led to the kitchens. He was acutely aware of footsteps behind them. Then he reached a dead end.

‘I sincerely hope we have not gone past the exit,’ gulped Thurloe, groping frantically along the wall. Chaloner did likewise, noting that the mortar was still damp.

Chaloner gasped his relief when he detected a knob. He pulled and twisted, but nothing happened. He did it harder, then gaped in horror when it came off in his hand. Calmly, Thurloe reached past him and pushed the exposed metal. There was a soft sigh, and a stone slid to one side. Aware of Fitzgerald’s lamp coming ever closer, Chaloner crawled out quickly, and when Thurloe had followed, he stood by the hole with a brick in his hand.

‘The next person out will lose his brains,’ he said grimly.

Thurloe cocked his head. ‘Fitzgerald may be in the tunnel, but O’Brien is coming down the stairs. They separated!’

‘Then we will fight them,’ said Chaloner with quiet determination. ‘One each.’

‘We cannot combat bullets with a stone,’ hissed Thurloe. ‘Run! It is our only chance!’

He was right, so Chaloner did as he was told, racing through sculleries, laundries and pantries, sure-footed again now he was in familiar territory. Suddenly, the basement began to echo with a metallic, grating sound that echoed eerily. Fitzgerald was humming to himself. Chaloner winced: not all the notes were true.

‘Whoever told him he could sing was lying,’ he whispered, wishing it would stop.

‘He warbles before making a kill,’ muttered Thurloe. ‘He thinks he has defeated us.’

Chaloner looked around desperately, but saw nothing that would help them survive. Then his eye lit on the stairs that led to the cellar. It was the last place he wanted to go, but he felt a surge of hope as a plan began to form in his mind.

‘The vault,’ he said in a low voice. ‘If we can do to Fitzgerald and O’Brien what we did to Brinkes, we might yet avenge Lester. This way — run!’

The cellar steps were dark and uninviting, and Chaloner’s chest tightened when he recalled what had happened the last time he had ventured down them. But there was no time for squeamishness. He descended them quickly and made for the strongroom. It was locked, but this time he had Wiseman’s scalpel, which proved to be a much better instrument for dealing with the mechanism.

‘Why do they not release Brinkes and his men to hunt for us?’ he asked as he worked, aware that on the floor above, O’Brien and Fitzgerald were conducting a systematic search. ‘Or summon their other Piccadilly Company cronies? Pratt, for example.’

‘Arrogance,’ replied Thurloe shortly. ‘They believe they can best us alone.’

‘Then pride will be their downfall,’ muttered Chaloner. ‘Find a lamp and light it. Quickly!’

Thurloe obliged, and it was not long before he was back. ‘I recommend you hurry,’ he said tensely, ‘because I hear footsteps on the cellar stairs.’

The words were no sooner out of his mouth when the vault’s lock clicked open. Fighting down his nausea, Chaloner tugged open the door and entered. The chest that had contained the rats was gone, and in its place were two more, both sturdy items with metal bands. There was no time for finesse, so he smashed the locks on one with the brick he had brought from the kitchen.

‘Tom!’ pleaded Thurloe nervously. ‘Are you sure we have time for this?’

Chaloner lifted the lid to reveal a mass of gold and silver ingots, with a good smattering of jewellery and precious stones. Thurloe gasped at the sheer volume of it.

‘Is this what came on Jane?’ he breathed.

Chaloner nodded. ‘And it is time to put it to good use.’

He grabbed two large gold bars and shoved them into Thurloe’s hands, then took two himself. Leaving the chest open, and the lantern illuminating it, he dived into the room opposite, flinging the ingots away as soon as he and Thurloe were concealed in the shadows. He slipped his hand into his pocket, hunting for Wiseman’s scalpel. He could not find it, but his fingers located something else. It was the packet of Tangier dust George had given him days ago, which he had all but forgotten.

O’Brien was the first to arrive. He held a gun, and his boyish face was lit by a viciously cruel expression. It showed his true nature as the pitiless villain who had ordered the deaths of Teviot and his garrison, Proby, Lucas, Turner, Congett, Meneses and all the others who had died since he had taken exception to the Adventurers’ monopoly on African trade.

His eyes lit on the open chest, and he released a strangled cry of disbelief before running towards it. Fitzgerald arrived moments later, also armed with a dag. Chaloner tensed, willing him to step inside too, but the pirate only leaned against the doorframe.

‘The treasure!’ shouted O’Brien furiously. ‘You said it would be safe here — that you stole the only key from Pratt, and no one else would be able to get at it. But some has been stolen!’

‘Impossible,’ countered Fitzgerald. ‘No one knows it is here except you and me. Unless you-’

O’Brien’s eyes blazed as he leapt to his feet. ‘Are you accusing me of cheating you?’

‘It is not an unreasonable assumption,’ Fitzgerald flashed back. There was a tremor of fear in his voice but he held his ground. ‘Our venture was more costly than we anticipated, and the returns so far have been disappointing. Of course you might try to-’

He took several steps back as O’Brien stalked towards him, and Chaloner knew he had to act now or they would both be out in the corridor — at which point he and Thurloe would die. He leapt forward, shoving Fitzgerald as hard as he could. The pirate cannoned into O’Brien, and Chaloner started to close the door. But Fitzgerald recovered quickly, and hurled himself against it.

Chaloner’s strength was all but spent, and he felt the door begin to open, even when Thurloe raced forward to help — fury had given the pirate a diabolical might. It was then that he realised he was still holding George’s powder. With nothing to lose, he flung it in Fitzgerald’s face, hoping the footman had not been lying when he claimed it would render his former master helpless.

The pirate jerked away in surprise, and for a moment nothing happened. Then he sneezed. He blinked furiously and sneezed again. And again. Chaloner and Thurloe leaned all their weight on the door, which slammed shut, allowing the lock to click into place.

Suddenly, there was a yell from the stairs. Chaloner and Thurloe exchanged a glance of horrified dismay. Brinkes must have battered his way free at last. Weaponless, they turned and stood shoulder to shoulder, bracing themselves for the onslaught.

‘There you are!’ said Williamson, skidding to a standstill. ‘When we found Brinkes locked up but no sign of you two, we feared the worst.’

‘Fitzgerald and his master are safely secured,’ said Thurloe, indicating the strongroom with a nonchalance Chaloner was sure he could not feel. ‘However, I recommend you leave them there for a while. You may find them less feisty once the air has grown thin.’