The Piccadilly Plot

Chapter 1

Piccadilly, mid October 1664

It had been raining all night, and Thomas Chaloner was cold, wet and tired, so when the workmen arrived he left his hiding place with relief, hobbling slightly on legs that were stiff from staying still too long. Chatting and laughing, the men set about lighting a fire and balancing a pot above it: no self-respecting labourer began the day without a cup of warmed ale inside him. Chaloner would have liked to have joined them at the brazier, but he kept his distance until Roger Pratt arrived.

Pratt was reputed to be one of the country’s most innovative architects, although Chaloner was inclined to suspect that ‘innovative’ was a euphemism for ‘overrated and expensive’. He was a haughty, self-important man, who always managed to appear coolly elegant in his Court finery. By comparison, Chaloner was a dishevelled mess. No wig covered his brown hair, and his clothes had suffered from their night under a tarpaulin. Pratt eyed him disparagingly, although Chaloner was tempted to ask what else he expected after such a miserable night.

‘Well?’ the architect demanded curtly.

Chaloner fought down his resentment at the brusque greeting. ‘Nothing. Again. Perhaps your bricks, nails and wood are going missing during the day.’

‘Impossible,’ snapped Pratt. ‘We hire upwards of sixty men here, and thieves would be noticed. The villains come at night, and I am disgusted by your inability to catch them. These thefts are costing your master a fortune, and Clarendon House is not a cheap venture to begin with.’

Chaloner looked at the place he had been guarding since he had returned from Tangier the week before. When he had left London at the beginning of July, the imposing H-shaped mansion had been nothing but foundations, but walls and a roof had flown up in his absence, and windows and doors had been installed. Now, most of the remaining work was internal — plastering, tiling and decorating.

‘It will be hailed as the finest building in London,’ said Pratt, allowing himself a smile of satisfaction as he followed the direction of Chaloner’s gaze. ‘I was delighted when the Earl of Clarendon chose me to be his architect. Clarendon House will be the best of all my work, a fabulous stately home within walking distance of White Hall and Westminster.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner unhappily. He had always felt the project was a bad idea: it was too sumptuous, too ostentatious and too costly, and he was sure it would bring his employer trouble. ‘That is the problem. As most of London is poor, it will attract resentful-’

‘No one begrudges the Earl a nice place to live,’ interrupted Pratt. ‘He is the Lord Chancellor, for God’s sake. He should have a decent home.’

‘But Clarendon House is not a “decent home”,’ argued Chaloner. ‘It is a palace — and far more luxurious than any of the ones owned by the King.’

‘Do you think so?’ asked Pratt, flattered, although Chaloner had not meant it as a compliment.

‘His enemies will use it against him, and-’

‘The Earl does not have enemies,’ snapped Pratt. ‘He is a lovely man, and everyone reveres and respects him.’

Chaloner struggled not to gape, because the Earl was neither revered nor respected, and ‘lovely’ was certainly not a word many would have used to describe him. He was vain, petty and selfish, and Chaloner would have abandoned him for other work in an instant. Unfortunately, opportunities for former Parliamentarian spies were few and far between in Royalist London, and the Earl had been the only one willing to overlook Chaloner’s past allegiances and hire him. Thus Chaloner was stuck with Clarendon, regardless of his personal feelings towards the man.

The antipathy was wholly reciprocated. The Earl needed Chaloner’s range of unorthodox skills to stay one step ahead of his many rivals, but he made no secret of the fact that he disapproved of Chaloner, his past and his profession. He had promoted him to the post of gentleman usher a few months before, but only because Chaloner had married a lady for whom the Earl felt a fatherly affection — an affection that was certainly not extended to her husband.

Yet despite his dislike, Chaloner hoped the Earl would survive the political maelstrom that surged around him, because if he were to fall from grace, then his intelligencer would fall with him. Worse, Chaloner’s wife might be dismissed from her post as lady-in-waiting to the Queen, simply because of whom she had married. Chaloner winced. Hannah would be devastated if that happened: she loved her work, her status at Court and Queen Katherine in equal measure.

When there was no reply to his remarks, Pratt strode away to talk to the workmen. Chaloner watched, wondering how many of them knew more than was innocent about the missing materials, because he was sure the thieves could not operate so efficiently without inside help.

One man returned the stare. His expression was distinctly unfriendly, as if he had guessed what Chaloner was thinking. His name was Vere, a woodmonger who had been hired to act as supervisor. He was a thickset fellow with greasy ginger hair, and he continued to glare until Chaloner, too cold and tired for needless confrontations, looked away.

Next to Vere was John Oliver, Pratt’s assistant, a gangly, shambling man with a pear-shaped face, sad eyes, and shoulders that seemed perpetually slumped in defeat. When he spoke, his words were often preceded by a gloomy shake of the head, as if to warn the listener that any news he had to impart would not be good.

As Pratt told the workmen that their materials had survived another night intact, Chaloner was alert for a furtive glance or a sly nod that might indicate guilt, but he was wasting his time: there was no discernible reaction from anyone. Then Pratt started to issue orders, which had them hurrying in all directions to obey. While the architect was busy, Oliver came to talk to Chaloner.

‘It means the villains will come tonight instead,’ he predicted morosely. ‘Or tomorrow. And you cannot stand guard indefinitely. Is it true that Clarendon ordered you back from Tangier specifically to investigate the matter?’

Chaloner nodded. The Earl had hated being the victim of a crime, and the summons to return on the next available ship had been curt and angry, as if it were Chaloner’s fault that he had not been to hand when he was needed. Chaloner had been relieved though, because he had been in Tangier disguised as a diplomat for almost ten weeks, and was beginning to think the Earl had forgotten him — that he was doomed to spend the rest of his life in the hot, dirty, dangerous little outpost pretending to be something he was not.

‘I doubt you will succeed,’ said Oliver, when no other answer was forthcoming. ‘It is almost as if they spirit our bricks away by magic.’

‘I have succeeded in that nothing has disappeared since I arrived,’ said Chaloner defensively.

‘Well, yes,’ acknowledged Oliver grudgingly. ‘That is true. But I worry for you. Your presence may have deterred them so far, but what happens when they get desperate? I imagine they are ruthless villains, and they may do you harm. You are, after all, only one man.’

Chaloner smiled. Before he had been recruited as a spy, he had been a soldier in Cromwell’s New Model Army, and was better able than most to look after himself. But no one else had expressed any care for his safety, and he appreciated Oliver’s concern.

‘Pratt is calling you,’ he said. ‘It is time for you to begin work, and for me to finish.’

He made one last circuit around the house, and took his leave.

It was still not fully light as Chaloner walked home. The day was unseasonably cold, and a bitter breeze blew from the north, so he strode briskly in an effort to work some warmth into his limbs. Normally, he would have cut through St James’s Park to reach his house in Tothill Street, but that would have entailed scaling two high walls, and his hands and feet were far too numb for such antics. He went east instead, along the muddy, rutted country lane named Piccadilly.

He hoped Hannah would still be in bed when he arrived, because sliding between icy blankets held scant appeal that day. It was likely that he would be in luck, because her duties with the Queen meant she often worked late, but even if not, she hated rising early. Or perhaps one of the maids would have lit a fire in the parlour, and he could doze next to it for an hour or two before going to report to the Earl in White Hall.

It was a quarter of a mile before he reached the first signs of civilisation — a cluster of tenements and taverns where Piccadilly met the busy thoroughfare called the Haymarket. The most prominent building was the Gaming House, once a fashionable resort, but like many such establishments, it had been allowed to fall into shabby decline under Cromwell’s Puritans.

It was apparently closing time, because a number of patrons were emerging. Some sang happily after a night of freely flowing wine, while others moved with the slouched, defeated air that said their losses at the card tables had been heavy.

Opposite was a tavern called the Crown, and Chaloner was amused to note that its customers were using the Gaming House’s commotion as an opportunity to slink away in dribs and drabs. An extremely attractive woman was directing people out, timing their departures so they could blend into the throng that staggered noisily towards London. It was natural for any spy to be intrigued by brazenly suspicious behaviour, so Chaloner ducked behind a stationary milk-cart to watch almost without conscious thought.

First to emerge was a man with an eye-patch and an orange beard so massive that its end had been tucked into his belt, presumably to prevent it from flying up and depriving him of the sight in the other eye. He walked with a confident swagger, and when he replied to a slurred greeting from one of the Gaming House’s patrons, his voice was unusually high, like that a boy.

Next out was a fellow wearing the kind of ruffs and angular shoes that had been fashionable when Chaloner had last visited Lisbon; the man’s complexion was olive, and he had dark, almost black, eyes. His companion wore a wide-brimmed hat that concealed his face, although the red ribbons he had threaded through the lace around his knees were distinctive and conspicuous.

Chaloner was surprised to recognise the next three. They were Harley, Newell and Reyner, the scouts who had sailed home with him on Eagle. Rather than aim for the city, they turned north. He watched them go, thinking the surly trio were certainly the kind of men to embroil themselves in dubious business. And there was definitely something untoward going on in the Crown, given the manner in which its customers were sneaking out.

He was about to leave when someone else emerged whom he recognised. It was the fellow who had stabbed Captain Pepperell — Brinkes, the felon said to do anything for money. Chaloner eased farther behind the cart as he recalled Pepperell’s dying words: ‘Piccadilly’ and ‘trade’. Had the captain been naming the place where his killer liked to do business?

Chaloner thought back to the murder. It had occurred exactly a week before, but the authorities had made no effort to arrest the culprit, mostly, it appeared, because they were afraid Brinkes might not like it — it had not taken Chaloner long to realise that those in charge of Queenhithe were frightened of the man, and were loath to do anything that might annoy him. Chaloner had done his best to see justice done, but his efforts had been ignored.

Did the fact that Harley and his scouts frequented the same tavern mean that they had hired Brinkes to kill Pepperell? But how could they have done, when they had been in Tangier for the last two years? And what reason could they have for wanting Pepperell dead, anyway? The captain had not been pleasant, with his sulky temper and rough manners, but that was hardly a reason to dispatch him. Or, more likely, had they been so impressed by Brinkes’s efficiency with a knife that they had hired him for business of their own?

Outside the Crown, Brinkes paused to light his pipe. Chaloner watched, wondering whether to grab him and drag him to the nearest magistrate. Unfortunately, he had no idea where that might be, and Brinkes was unlikely to go quietly. Moreover, given the authorities’ reluctance to act so far, he suspected Brinkes would not stay in custody for long, at which point Chaloner would have a vengeful assassin on his trail. With a sigh, he decided to leave matters well alone.

Once Brinkes had gone, the woman withdrew and the Crown’s door was closed. It was then that Chaloner glimpsed a flicker of movement in an upper window that told him he had not been the only one watching. A young lady gazed out, and even from a distance Chaloner could see she was troubled. He was aware of her eyes on him as he resumed his walk, and, on an impulse, he waved — the furtive exodus said the Crown’s patrons were keen to maintain a low profile, and his gesture would tell her that she needed to be more careful if she intended to spy.

He was somewhat disconcerted when she waved back, and a beaming smile transformed her into something quite lovely — he had expected her to duck away in alarm. Bemused, he went on his way.

He was almost at Charing Cross when he heard someone calling his name. The Earl’s Chief Usher was hurrying towards him, waving frantically. Chaloner struggled to keep a straight face. John Dugdale was not built for moving at speed: his arms flapped as though he were trying to fly, and his long legs flailed comically. He was not an attractive specimen, despite the care he took with his appearance. His skeletal frame and round shoulders made even the finest clothes hang badly, and his beautiful full-cut breeches only accentuated the ridiculous skinniness of his calves.

‘You heard me shouting,’ he gasped accusingly when he caught up. ‘But you ignored me so I would have farther to run.’

Chaloner had done nothing of the kind, but there was no point in saying so. Dugdale disliked him for a variety of reasons, the two most important being that he did not consider it right for ex-Parliamentarians to be made ushers, no matter how high the Earl’s regard for their wives; and that Chaloner’s clandestine activities on the Earl’s behalf meant that Dugdale could not control him as he did the other gentlemen under his command.

‘Nothing was stolen last night,’ said Chaloner, supposing Dugdale had come for a report on their employer’s bricks. ‘I am not sure Pratt is right to claim they go missing at-’

‘I do not want to know,’ snapped Dugdale. ‘Lying in wait for thieves is hardly a suitable pastime for a courtier, and I condemn it most soundly.’

‘Shall I tell the Earl that I cannot oblige him tonight because you disapprove, then?’ asked Chaloner, suspecting that if he did, the resulting fireworks would be apocalyptic.

Dugdale did not deign to acknowledge the remark. Instead, he looked Chaloner up and down with open disdain. ‘Decency dictates that you should change before setting foot in his presence, but he says he needs you urgently, so there is no time. He will have to endure you as you are. Just make sure you do not put your filthy feet on his new Turkey carpets.’

The church bells were chiming eight o’clock as Chaloner and Dugdale reached Charing Cross. The square was a chaos of carts and carriages, most containing goods that were to be sold in the city’s markets or ferrying merchants to their places of business, but others held bleary-eyed revellers, making their way home after a riotous night out.

The noise was deafening, with iron-clad cartwheels rattling across cobblestones, animals lowing, bleating and honking as they were driven to the slaughterhouses, and street vendors advertising wares at the tops of their voices. The smell was breathtaking, too, a nose-searing combination of sewage, fish and unwashed bodies, all overlain with the acrid stench of coal fires. Chaloner coughed. He rarely noticed London’s noxious atmosphere when he was in it, but a spell in the cleaner air around Piccadilly always reminded him that his country’s capital was a foul place to be.

He started to turn towards White Hall, where the Earl had been provided with a suite of offices overlooking the Privy Gardens — Clarendon worked hard, and was at his desk hours before most other courtiers were astir — but Dugdale steered him towards The Strand instead.

‘He is at home today,’ he explained shortly. ‘Gout.’

Chaloner groaned. The Earl was not pleasant when he was well, but when he was ill he became an implacable tyrant, and the fact that Chaloner had been summoned to his presence did not augur well. He racked his brains for something he had done wrong, but nothing came to mind — he had spent the past week investigating the stolen bricks, so had had scant opportunity to err. Unfortunately, the Earl was easily annoyed, so any small thing might have upset him.

‘I imagine he wants you to tell him about Tangier,’ predicted Dugdale. ‘You have barely spoken to him since you returned, so you cannot blame him for becoming impatient.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. He had written a lengthy report about his findings, and had offered a verbal account on several occasions, but had been given short shrift each time, leading him to assume that the Earl was no longer interested in knowing why Tangier was costing the government so much money. It would not be prudent to say so to Dugdale, though, who would almost certainly repeat it out of context, so he held his tongue.

‘You have not told me, either,’ said Dugdale coldly. ‘And I am your superior.’

Manfully, Chaloner suppressed the urge to argue, heartily wishing that Dugdale’s kindly, genial predecessor had not retired. It had been a shock to find a new chief usher in place on his return, especially one who was determined to subdue the people under his command by bullying. Dugdale sensed his resentment, and his expression hardened.

‘It is my duty to keep our master’s household respectable, so there will be no more of this running about on your own. You will keep me appraised of your every move.’

‘Very well,’ said Chaloner, with no intention of complying. He had worked alone for years, confiding in no one, and was not about to change the habits that had kept him alive for so long.

‘Then tell me about Tangier,’ instructed Dugdale. ‘Why is it costing us so much in taxes?’

Chaloner might have replied that he had never seen a place so steeped in corruption, and that for every penny spent on the new defences, another ten were siphoned off by dishonest officials — from the governor down to the lowliest clerk. But Dugdale gossiped, and Chaloner did not want to be responsible for a rumour that said the King made mistakes in his choice of bureaucrats.

‘It is under constant attack from Barbary pirates,’ he said instead. ‘In order to repel them, the settlement needs a sea wall and a fortress. Naturally, these are expensive to build.’

Dugdale narrowed his eyes. ‘The Earl said you were involved in several skirmishes there. Such activities are beneath a gentleman usher, and I forbid you to engage in them again.’

‘There is nothing I would like more,’ said Chaloner fervently. The civil wars that had erupted when he was a child, followed by twelve years in espionage when they were over, made him feel as though he had been fighting all his life, and he was tired of it. ‘However, it is not always practical to-’

‘Then make it practical. You are said to be blessed with sharp wits, so use them instead of a sword. But tell me more about Tangier. Who is to blame for these escalating costs? The new governor, Sir Tobias Bridge? His was not a sensible appointment.’

Bridge had taken over the running of the desolate little outpost after Lord Teviot’s brutal death.

‘No?’ Chaloner seized the opportunity to sidetrack the discussion. ‘Why not?’

‘Because he fought for Parliament during the wars, so he is by definition devious and wicked. No one who supported Cromwell can be considered as anything else.’

It was Dugdale’s way of telling Chaloner — yet again — what he thought of his former allegiances. Fortunately, there was a flurry of excited yells from the opposite side of the street at that moment, and Chaloner’s dubious history was promptly forgotten.

‘A swordfight,’ said Dugdale, with rank disapproval. ‘I see one of the combatants is James Elliot. He works for Spymaster Williamson.’

Williamson ran the country’s intelligence network, and Chaloner had expected to continue serving overseas under him when the Royalists had been returned to power — the King needed information on foreign enemies just as much as Cromwell had. But all the old spies had been dismissed, and long-term Royalists appointed in their place. Even so, Chaloner harboured a faint hope that Williamson would see sense one day, and send him to Holland, France or Spain.

‘Elliot’s opponent is John Cave,’ he said, recognising the singer who had sailed from Tangier with him on Eagle. ‘A tenor from the Chapel Royal.’

It was odd that he should see so many fellow passengers — Harley, Newell, Reyner and Cave — within an hour of each other, especially as he had not set eyes on any since disembarking the week before. But London was like that — the biggest city in Europe on the one hand, with a population of some three hundred thousand souls, but a village on the other, in which residents frequently met friends and family just by strolling along its thoroughfares.

Dugdale shot Chaloner another distaste-filled glance. ‘I cannot imagine how you come to be acquainted with Court musicians. The Earl tells me that you have spent virtually your entire adult life in foreign countries, and that you know nothing of London.’

Chaloner was the first to admit that his knowledge of the capital was lacking — and it was unlikely to improve if the Earl kept sending him to places like Tangier, either — but it was not for Dugdale to remark on it. He scowled, but the Chief Usher was not looking at him.

‘You had better intervene,’ Dugdale was saying. ‘Elliot will kill Cave, and we cannot have members of Court skewered on public highways.’

It was anathema for a spy to put himself in a position where he would be noticed, and the altercation had already attracted a sizeable gathering. Moreover, although Chaloner had accompanied Cave’s singing for hours aboard Eagle, their association had been confined solely to music: they had not been friends in any sense of the word, and he was not sure Cave would appreciate the interference.

‘You just ordered me not to take up arms again,’ he hedged. ‘And-’

‘Do not be insolent! Now disarm Elliot, or shall I tell the Earl that you stood by and did nothing while a fellow courtier was murdered?’

Aware that Dugdale might well do what he threatened, Chaloner moved forward. The argument was taking place outside the New Exchange, a large, grand building with a mock-gothic façade. It comprised two floors of expensive shops, and a piazza where merchants met to discuss trade. It was always busy, and most of those watching the quarrel were wealthy men of business.

As he approached, Chaloner thought that Elliot looked exactly like the kind of fellow who would appeal to Williamson — the Spymaster had yet to learn that there was more to espionage than being handy in a brawl. Elliot was well-dressed and wore a fine wig made from unusually black hair, but his pugilistic demeanour and the scars on his meaty fists exposed him as a lout. By contrast, Cave was smaller, and held his fancy ‘town sword’ as if it had never been out of its scabbard — and now that it was, he was not entirely sure what to do with it.

‘Chaloner!’ he cried. ‘You can be my witness, because I am going to kill this impudent dog!’

‘You can try,’ said Elliot shortly. ‘Because no man tells me not to take the wall.’

In London, ‘taking the wall’ was preferable to walking farther out into the street, because it was better protected from those who were in the habit of emptying chamber pots out of over-jutting upstairs windows. Disputes about who should have the more favourable spot were frequent and often ended in scuffles. Few drew weapons over it, though, and Chaloner was astonished that Cave should think such a matter was worth his life.

‘Cave, stop,’ he said softly. ‘Come away with me. Now.’

‘Never,’ flared the musician. ‘He insulted me, and I demand satisfaction.’

‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Chaloner. That would afford ample time for tempers to cool and apologies to be sent. ‘In Lincoln’s Inn Fields at dawn.’

‘He is right,’ said a man at Elliot’s side. Of burly build, he had a ruddy face and sun-bleached hair that indicated a preference for outdoors living. ‘Listen to him. There is no need for this.’

‘There is every need, Lester,’ snarled Elliot. ‘You heard what Cave said. He called me a-’

‘For God’s sake!’ hissed Lester. ‘You will kill him, and then not even Williamson will be able to save you from the noose. This little worm is not worth it! Come away before it goes any further.’

With a roar of outrage, Cave surged forward and blades flashed. As it quickly became apparent that Elliot was by far the superior swordsman, Chaloner waited for him to relent — and for Cave to yield when he realised the extent to which he was outgunned. But although the singer was stumbling backwards, struggling desperately to defend himself, Elliot continued to advance, doing so with a lazy grace that said he was more amused than threatened by Cave’s clumsy flailing.

Cave’s eyes were wide with alarm, and he gasped in shock when Elliot scored a shallow cut on his cheek. Elliot seemed surprised, too, and Chaloner suspected it had been an accident — that Elliot had overestimated the singer’s ability to deflect the blow. Hand to his bleeding cheek, Cave darted behind Chaloner, and several onlookers began to laugh.

‘Enough,’ said Lester firmly, grabbing his friend’s arm and jerking him back. ‘Think of Ruth. She will be heart-broken if you are hanged for murder, and-’

Suddenly and wholly unexpectedly, Cave shot out from behind Chaloner and attacked not Elliot but Lester. Chaloner managed to shove him, deflecting what would have been a fatal blow, but it was a close call, and there was a hiss of disapproval from the crowd: Lester was unarmed.

Elliot’s face went taut with anger, and he advanced with sudden determination. His first lunge struck home, and Cave dropped to his knees, hand to his chest. Blood trickled between his fingers, thick, red and plentiful. With such volume, Chaloner had no doubt that the wound was mortal.

The onlookers were stunned into silence, and the only sound was that of Cave struggling to breathe. Lester quickly disarmed Elliot, who gazed at his victim with an expression that was difficult to read. Chaloner knelt next to the stricken man, but Cave pushed his hands away when he tried to inspect the wound.

‘There is no pain. Please do not make it otherwise by attempting to physick me — I know my case is hopeless.’

‘You know nothing of the kind,’ argued Chaloner, fumbling to unbutton Cave’s coat. ‘I may be able to stem the bleeding until a surgeon arrives.’

‘But a surgeon will do unspeakable things.’ Cave grabbed Chaloner’s hand and gripped it with surprising strength. ‘And I am not brave. Besides, I am ready to die.’

‘No!’ cried Lester, horrified. He turned to the crowd. ‘Fetch help! Hurry!’

No one obliged, partly because it was more interesting to watch the situation unfold than to dash away on an errand of mercy, but mostly because any medical man would almost certainly demand a down-payment from the Good Samaritan before answering the summons. Lester was almost beside himself with agitation, while Elliot’s face was whiter than that of his victim.

‘I want …’ Cave gasped. His flicked a hand at Elliot. ‘Him … I must …’

Elliot approached reluctantly. He knelt when Cave started to speak, but the singer’s words were inaudible, and he was obliged to lean closer. Cave’s arm jerked suddenly, and Elliot bellowed in pain. When Elliot recoiled, there was a dagger protruding from his stomach. Chaloner stared at Cave in disbelief, and did not think he had ever seen an expression of such black malice on the face of a dying man.

Groaning, Elliot struggled to his feet, hauling out the blade as he did so. It slipped from his fingers to clatter on the cobbles. He lurched towards Lester, who escorted him away. No one made any attempt to stop them.

‘Well,’ murmured Dugdale, arms folded. ‘I suppose that was a neat end to this insalubrious affair. The King’s singer is speared, but at least his killer did not escape unscathed.’

‘Is Elliot dead?’ asked Cave weakly. ‘Did I kill him?’

‘Almost certainly,’ replied Dugdale, prodding the dropped dagger with the toe of his elegant shoe. It was stained red to the hilt.

‘Good,’ breathed Cave. Then his head lolled suddenly, and the breath hissed out of him.

Chaloner sat back on his heels, overwhelmed by the stupidity of it all.

As it would not be right to leave Cave in the street, Chaloner paid a carter to transport the body to the Westminster charnel house. He had no idea whether corpses from The Strand would be welcome there, but he was not sure where else to take it. Dugdale was right in that much of London was still a mystery to him, and while he knew exactly how to dispose of cadavers in Amsterdam, The Hague, Paris, Lisbon, Bruxelles, Hamburg, Venice, Madrid and several other major cities, he was not sure what to do with one in his own country.

‘We had better make sure the charnel-house keeper will accept him,’ he said to Dugdale after the cart and its grim cargo had rattled away. ‘As you pointed out, Cave held a royal appointment, so it is our duty to see him treated with respect.’

‘I am not setting foot in a place like that,’ declared Dugdale with a fastidious shudder. ‘You go. I shall return to the Earl, and inform him that you are unavoidably delayed. He will be irked to be kept waiting, but I shall do my best to mollify him.’

Chaloner suspected he would do nothing of the kind, and that the opportunity would be used to blacken his name. But it could not be helped — common decency dictated that he should ensure Cave’s body was properly looked after, and that was that.

The Westminster charnel house was located in a narrow lane near the Thames, between a granary and a warehouse where coal was stored. It was an unprepossessing place, in a particularly dingy area. By the time Chaloner arrived Cave had been delivered, and the cart and its driver had gone so the lane was deserted and eerily quiet. He opened the door with some reluctance, grimacing at the damp chilliness and stench of decay that immediately wafted out at him.

The charnel house comprised a mortuary at the back, with two handsomely appointed chambers at the front where the owner went through the formalities of death with the bereaved. John Kersey had made a fortune from dealing with the dead, partly by offering guided tours to wealthy ghouls, but also from the small museum he had established to display some of the more unusual artefacts he had collected over the years. He was a neat, dapper little man, whose elegant clothes were made by bespoke tailors. He did not, as Chaloner had first assumed, deck himself out in items reclaimed from corpses.

That morning, he was entertaining a friend, and Chaloner’s heart sank when he recognised the loudly ebullient tones of Richard Wiseman, Surgeon to the King. Kersey kept Wiseman supplied with specimens, some of which were dissected publicly at Chyrurgeons’ Hall. It was a grisly business, and may have explained why Wiseman always chose to wear red. Coupled with the fact that he possessed a head of thick auburn curls, and was a large man with an immensely powerful physique, he made for an imposing figure. He considered himself Chaloner’s friend, but although the spy respected Wiseman’s courage and honesty, he found it difficult to like a man who was so disagreeably arrogant.

‘Good morning,’ said Kersey with a pleasant smile. ‘What can we do for you today?’

‘The body that just arrived,’ began Chaloner. ‘It is-’

‘Toted in like a sack of onions,’ interrupted Kersey disapprovingly. ‘By a grubby carter from The Strand. Do folk have no sense of decorum?’

Chaloner wondered how he could ask such a question when he let some of his charges go to a far worse fate than being lugged along a hall. Wiseman guessed what he was thinking.

‘I perform anatomies in the name of science,’ he declared loftily. ‘However, I shall leave that particular cadaver alone, because it is John Cave, one of the Chapel Royal musicians.’

‘Do you not dissect musicians, then?’ asked Chaloner, a little acidly.

‘Not ones with Court appointments. The King attends my Public Anatomies, and I cannot imagine him wanting to watch one where he is acquainted with the subject.’

Chaloner was not so sure about that: the King liked to think of himself as a scientist. He turned to Kersey. ‘I arranged for Cave to be brought here. I did not know where else to suggest.’

‘You did the right thing,’ said Kersey kindly. ‘Do not worry: I shall look after him.’

Chaloner nodded his thanks. His journey had been unnecessary: he should have remembered that Kersey was solicitous of his charges, especially the important or famous ones.

‘You will have to contact the Chapel Royal choir and ask his colleagues to arrange a funeral, Kersey,’ said Wiseman helpfully. ‘As far as I am aware, he had no family.’

But Kersey was looking at Chaloner, doing so rather uneasily. ‘There was an awful lot of blood. You did not kill him, did you? If so, I hope you are not expecting me to disguise the fact, because I do not engage in that sort of activity. Well, not without a very good reason.’

‘He died in a brawl,’ objected Chaloner, offended. ‘I had nothing to do with it.’

‘You have no right to sound indignant,’ said Kersey. ‘Given that you have been associated with so many premature deaths in the past. Indeed, there have been times when my domain has contained nothing but folk who have arrived here as a result of your investigations.’

‘But not today.’ Chaloner felt the accusation was unjust. It was hardly his fault that the Earl was in the habit of ordering him to explore dangerous matters.

‘You have only been home a week, but you are already embroiled in something deadly,’ scolded Wiseman. ‘And it is doing you no good. You glowed with health and vitality when you first returned, but now you are pale and mangy.’

Chaloner was disinclined to tell him how he had been spending his nights. He did not have the energy to deal with the inevitable indignation that would arise when Wiseman learned that the Earl, a man he admired for some inexplicable reason, was being relieved of the bricks and wood intended for his house.

‘I should go,’ he said instead. ‘Clarendon is expecting me.’

Kersey was surprised. ‘Do you not want to see Cave? I covered him with a nice clean cloth.’

Chaloner shook his head and made for the door, keen to answer the Earl’s summons before the delay saw him in too much trouble. Wiseman and Kersey followed.

‘I am sorry Cave is dead,’ said the surgeon. ‘He had a lovely voice, and everyone was delighted when he returned from Tangier to rejoin the Chapel Royal choir. Henry O’Brien will be especially distressed — since Cave returned, he has refused to sing duets with anyone else.’

‘Who is Henry O’Brien?’ asked Chaloner.

Wiseman regarded him as though he were short of a few wits. ‘He is married to Kitty.’

‘Oh.’ Chaloner was none the wiser. ‘Say no more.’

Wiseman scowled. ‘There is no need to be acerbic. O’Brien is an Irish baron who came to London to sell copper from his estates. Even he is astonished by how rich it has made him. His wife Kitty is …’ The surgeon made an expansive gesture with his hand.

‘Beautiful, clever and distantly related to the King,’ supplied Kersey. ‘Every man in London longs to be in her company, but she already has a lover.’

‘She does not!’ declared Wiseman. ‘She is a decent lady — upright, honourable and kind.’

‘Those qualities do not preclude her from taking a lover,’ argued Kersey. He turned to Chaloner. ‘Suffice to say that O’Brien’s wealth and Kitty’s beauty means that people are keen to fête them, and soirées are always being held in their honour. He will be grieved when he hears his singing partner is dead. Who killed him, did you say?’

‘A man named James Elliot,’ replied Chaloner. ‘He is one of Williamson’s spies, apparently.’

Wiseman pulled a face to indicate his distaste. ‘Elliot is married to a sweet girl named Ruth, and she will be heartbroken when he is hanged for murdering a courtier. But she will be better off without him in the long run. He is a greedy, unscrupulous devil.’

‘He may not live long enough to hang,’ said Chaloner soberly. ‘Cave stabbed him.’

‘We can but hope,’ said Wiseman ruthlessly.

The clocks were striking ten by the time Chaloner left the charnel house. Wiseman walked with him, chatting about all that had happened during the time the spy had been away. Chaloner listened, not because he liked gossip, but because Dugdale’s remarks about him being poorly versed in London’s affairs had reminded him that he needed to rectify the matter — only foolish spies did not take the time to acquaint themselves with the society in which they were obliged to move.

‘O’Brien and Kitty are the King’s current favourites,’ Wiseman was saying, jostling a beefy soldier out of his way. The surgeon had always been large, but he had made himself even more powerful by a regime of lifting heavy stones each morning. He claimed it was to improve his general well-being, but the practice had given him the arms and shoulders of a wrestler, and meant prudent people were inclined to overlook any insults he might dole out, physical or verbal. Hence the soldier bristled at the rough treatment, but made no other response.

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Because they are wealthy, or because she is pretty?’

‘Have a care!’ Wiseman glanced around uneasily. ‘There is no need to announce to everyone that our King is an unscrupulous womaniser with a voracious appetite for his subjects’ money.’

‘Your words, not mine,’ said Chaloner, supposing His Majesty must have reached new depths of depravity, if even a loyal follower like Wiseman voiced reservations about his character.

‘Still, at least O’Brien and Kitty are not Adventurers. And as I am sure you have no idea what I am talking about, let me explain. It means they are not members of that shameful organisation of gold-grabbing nobles commonly called the Company of Royal Adventurers Trading into Africa.’

‘I have heard of it,’ said Chaloner drily. ‘In case you did not know, Tangier is in Africa, and the place was full of talk about the Adventurers.’

‘What talk?’ asked Wiseman curiously.

‘Mostly that their charter forbids other Britons from buying or selling goods that originate in Africa. They have secured themselves a monopoly on gold, silver, hides, feathers, ivory, slaves-’

Wiseman’s expression turned fierce. ‘Slaves?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘The Portuguese used to dominate that particular trade — most of their “cargos” go to the sugar plantations in Brazil. But the Portuguese are no longer quite so powerful at sea, and the Dutch now control the best routes.’

‘Do they, by God?’ growled Wiseman. Britain was on the verge of war with the Dutch, so even mentioning them was likely to provoke a hostile response from most Londoners.

‘It is a lucrative business,’ Chaloner went on. ‘And the British merchants in Tangier itch to join in. But the Adventurers’ charter means they cannot.’

‘I do not approve of the slave trade,’ declared Wiseman hotly.

‘No decent person does.’

Wiseman brightened. ‘I read in The Newes a week ago that a slaving ship named Henrietta Maria sank mysteriously in Tangier harbour. It went down before it could be loaded, and the delay allowed many captives to escape.’ He stared at Chaloner. ‘It happened when you were there. Did you …’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

Wiseman clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I might have known! The loss set the Adventurers back a pretty penny, too! They had invested a fortune in fitting it out for transporting humans.’

‘It will make no difference in the end,’ said Chaloner despondently. ‘They will just build another. And another and another, until the sea is full of the damned things.’

‘You and I are not the only ones to be repelled. Others will make a stand, and the business will founder. You will see.’

Chaloner said nothing, but thought Wiseman’s optimism was sadly misplaced. People probably would be appalled by the barbaric way sugar was produced on the plantations, but they would buy the stuff anyway, and that would create a market. The ethics of the matter would be swept under the carpet and quietly forgotten.

Wiseman changed the subject. ‘I cannot say I like Roger Pratt the architect, by the way. I am beginning to think you were right when you said Clarendon House will bring our Earl trouble.’

‘What made you change your mind?’ asked Chaloner, surprised. Wiseman was one of those who firmly believed that Clarendon had every right to an extravagant mansion.

‘Pratt himself. He is arrogant and thinks himself some kind of god. I cannot bear such people.’

Chaloner smothered a smile, thinking the description applied rather well to Wiseman himself.

* * *

The Earl lived in a rambling Tudor palace onThe Strand, which he had never liked and that he complained about constantly. Indeed, Chaloner suspected that Worcester House’s poky rooms and leaking ceilings were largely responsible for his master’s wild extravagance over his new home.

‘You missed him,’ said a gardener, straightening from his labours as Chaloner walked past. ‘He left for White Hall an hour ago.’

‘I thought he was ill,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether he was destined to spend the entire day traipsing around London. He hoped not: he was cold, damp and wanted to go home.

‘He recovered.’ The man sounded disappointed; the Earl was not popular with his staff.

‘That was fast. Gout usually keeps him in bed for days.’

The gardener grinned evilly. ‘He told everyone it was gout, but if you knew what he ate for his supper, you would not be surprised that he spent half the night clutching his innards. But a tonic restored him, and he sent for his coach shortly afterwards. It is not far to White Hall, but the lazy goat never walks. No wonder he is so fat.’

Wearily, Chaloner retraced his steps. White Hall was the King’s official London residence, and a number of his ministers had quarters there. It represented power and authority, as well as being the place where the King and his dissipated friends frolicked until the small hours of the morning, doing things that invariably transpired to be expensive for the tax-payer.

The palace was ancient, but had developed in a haphazard manner, depending on when money had been available for building and repairs. It was said to contain more than two thousand rooms, ranging from the spacious apartments occupied by the King and his nobles, to the cramped, badly ventilated attics that housed laundresses, grooms and scullions.

Chaloner was about to walk through the gate when a carriage drew up beside him. A face peered out and Chaloner recognised Spymaster Williamson, a tall, aloof man who had been an Oxford academic before deciding that his slippery talents would be more useful in government. He was feared by his employees, treated with extreme caution by his superiors, and detested by his equals.

‘I did not know you were back,’ Williamson said without preamble. ‘I thought you were still in Tangier, trying to learn why building a sea wall is transpiring to be so costly.’

‘Clarendon ordered me home,’ replied Chaloner, shortly and not very informatively.

He and Williamson had never liked each other. They had reached a truce of sorts in the summer, after an adventure involving some foreign diplomats, but it was an uneasy one, and Chaloner was acutely aware that it would take very little for the Spymaster to break it.

‘What is wrong, Joseph?’ came a female voice from inside the coach. Chaloner was surprised: the fairer sex tended to shy away from Williamson. ‘Why have we stopped?’

‘I want a word with this gentleman,’ replied Williamson, turning to her with a brief smile. ‘It will not take a moment, and then I shall show you my Westminster offices.’

‘Good,’ said another voice. It was a man and he sounded pleased. ‘I am looking forward to seeing the place where you spend so much time.’

Chaloner wondered whether the couple were actually being conveyed there so they could be arrested — that when they arrived, they would find themselves whisked into a grim little cell for the purposes of interrogation. It had certainly happened before. But Williamson climbed out of the carriage and began to make introductions. Chaloner was surprised a second time, because the Spymaster had never afforded him such courtesy before. He was immediately on his guard.

‘These are my very dear friends Kitty and Henry O’Brien. O’Brien and I were up at Oxford together.’ Williamson addressed the occupants of the carriage. ‘Chaloner is the fellow I was telling you about, who helped me with that business concerning the Dutch ambassador last June.’

Chaloner was not sure whether he was more taken aback to meet O’Brien and his wife so soon after the discussion in the charnel house, or to be informed that Williamson had friends. The only other man he knew who was willing to spend time in the Spymaster’s company was the sinister John Swaddell, who claimed to be a clerk, but whom everyone knew was really an assassin.

He regarded the pair with interest as they peered out. Kitty’s beauty was indeed breathtaking. Red hair tumbled around her shoulders, and there was both intelligence and humour in her arresting green eyes. He bowed politely, thinking that Kersey’s claims about her loveliness were, if anything, understated.

When he turned his attention to her husband, he thought for a fleeting moment that she had married a child, but O’Brien was just one of those men who had retained boyish looks into his thirties. He had fair curly hair, blue eyes, and the lines around his mouth said he laughed a lot. They were an attractive couple, and Chaloner was not surprised that the King had deigned to grace them with his favour. Their clothes said they were indeed wealthy, and the ruby that gleamed at Kitty’s throat was the largest that Chaloner had ever seen.

‘O’Brien has just received some sad news,’ said Williamson, addressing Chaloner. ‘A musician from the Chapel Royal, of whom he was very fond, is dead.’

‘Killed by one of your spies, Williamson,’ put in O’Brien sourly.

Kitty rested a calming hand on his arm. ‘He cannot hire choirboys for the dirty business of espionage, so it is hardly surprising that some transpire to be unruly. Like that odious Swaddell. I am glad he is no longer in your service, Joseph. He was downright sinister.’

‘Swaddell has left you?’ Chaloner was astounded — he had thought the bond between the two men was unbreakable, mostly, he had suspected uncharitably, because neither could find anyone else willing to put up with him.

Williamson grimaced. ‘I am afraid so.’

‘I shall miss Cave,’ O’Brien was saying unhappily. ‘He was an excellent tenor, and the only man in London capable of understanding how I like to perform. What shall I do without him? The King liked to listen to us sing, and he will be devastated when he hears what has happened.’

Chaloner doubted the King would care, especially if O’Brien financed some other form of entertainment. He did not usually make snap judgements about people, but there was something about O’Brien that said he lacked his wife’s brains, and that he was vain and a little bit silly.

While Kitty murmured soothing words in her husband’s ear, Williamson drew Chaloner to one side, so they could speak without being overheard. ‘One of my informants witnessed what happened. He told me you tried to prevent the skirmish.’

‘But unfortunately without success.’

‘It is a pity, especially as the quarrel was trifling. I cannot say I like Elliot, but he is a decent intelligencer.’

‘He is still alive?’ asked Chaloner, recalling the vicious blow Cave had delivered, and the dagger protruding from Elliot’s innards.

‘At the moment,’ nodded Williamson, ‘although his friend Lester fears he may not stay that way for long. And I hate to lose him. He was making headway on a troublesome case-’

‘The Earl is waiting,’ said Chaloner, unwilling to be burdened with the Spymaster’s concerns when he had more than enough of his own to contend with.

‘You can spare me a moment,’ said Williamson reproachfully. ‘And I am having a terrible week, what with Swaddell leaving, Elliot attacking Cave, and more plots to overthrow the government than you can shake a stick at. And the Privy Council has cut my budget. Again.’

‘Where has Swaddell gone?’ asked Chaloner, not liking the notion of such a deadly fellow on the loose. Williamson had never done much to control him, but he had been better than nothing.

‘To someone who can pay him what he deserves,’ replied Williamson shortly. ‘I wish I could offer him double, but how can I, when I barely have enough to make ends meet?’

‘Perhaps your friend O’Brien can secure you better funding,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Ask him to mention it while he warbles for the King.’

‘I most certainly shall not,’ declared Williamson indignantly. ‘It would be ungentlemanly to raise matters of money with a friend. Besides, he is too distressed by Cave’s death. I am taking him to see my Westminster offices, as a way to take his mind off it. For something pleasant to do.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘You think that is pleasant? A heavily guarded hall filled with labouring clerks, and dungeons below containing God knows what horrors?’

Williamson looked exasperated. ‘Then what do you suggest? I am not a man for frivolity, but I feel compelled to offer some sort of diversion.’

‘What is wrong with a visit to the Crown Jewels or the Royal Menagerie? Or even a play?’

Williamson nodded slowly. ‘Those are good ideas. But I did not stop you to ask for advice about my social life. I want to know why Cave and Elliot fought. My informant’s account made no sense.’

Seeing no reason not to oblige him, Chaloner gave a concise account of the squabble. When he had finished, Williamson frowned unhappily.

‘But why did Cave and Elliot become agitated over so ridiculous a matter? Men do not squander their lives on such trivialities. There must be more to it.’

‘Very possibly,’ acknowledged Chaloner, glad he was not the one who would have to find out.

‘Cave will have a grand funeral in Westminster Abbey,’ Williamson went on. ‘The Chapel Royal choir will provide the music, and the Bishop of London will almost certainly be prevailed upon to conduct the ceremony. It will be a lofty occasion, and I should not like it spoiled with the taint of suspicion. I do not suppose you have time to-’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly.