The Piccadilly Plot

Chapter 3

Chaloner’s most pressing duty that day was to begin his investigation into the Tangier massacre by questioning the three scouts. He did not know where they lived, but the Crown in Piccadilly was as good a place as any to start making enquiries, given that he had seen them leaving it the previous morning. But the tavern was closed, and rather than waste time waiting for it to open, he decided to visit Clarendon House first, to see whether any more bricks had been stolen.

He approached with his usual stealth, and was unimpressed when Sergeant Wright and his White Hall soldiers did not notice him until he was standing next to them. Several were rubbing sleep from their eyes, while others reeked of ale. He doubted they had done much in the way of surveillance, and the best the Earl could hope was that their presence had been a deterrent to thieves.

Wright was regaling them with a story of his courage during the civil wars, when he had single-handedly defeated an entire regiment of Parliamentarians and had come close to dispatching Cromwell in the process. They looked bored and disbelieving in equal measure as they huddled around a brazier, waiting for a pot of ale to warm through.

‘Did anything happen last night?’ asked Chaloner, cutting into the tale. He was normally tolerant of men who embellished the truth about what they had done during those uncertain times, when both sides had had their flaws and no one wanted to admit to backing the loser. But there was a difference between exaggeration and brazen lies.

The dough-faced sergeant regarded him frostily, disliking the interruption. ‘No.’

‘You saw and heard nothing?’

‘I said no,’ snapped Wright. ‘Obviously, the villains knew we were here and dared not strike. We are not foppish Roundheads, who would not know what to do if a robber came up and bit him.’

His men sniggered obligingly, and Wright preened, revelling in the role of wit.

‘So the Earl’s supplies are all present and correct?’ pressed Chaloner, rather flattered to hear himself described as foppish. He would have to tell Hannah.

‘Of course,’ replied Wright, with calculated insolence. ‘Where else would they be?’

Chaloner grabbed his arm in a grip that was not only painful, but was difficult to break, and marched him to where the materials were piled. The soldiers watched uneasily, but made no effort to intervene.

‘Count the bricks,’ Chaloner ordered, releasing Wright so abruptly that he stumbled.

Wright’s small eyes took on a vicious cant, and he reached for his knife. Chaloner smiled lazily as he did likewise, and Wright promptly turned to do as he was told, unnerved by the spy’s calm confidence. He was soldier enough to know who would win that confrontation.

The sergeant finished his inventory with some consternation, then started reckoning again. Chaloner waited patiently for him to finish. He had not needed to count to know the pile was lopsided in a way that it had not been the previous day.

‘Some are gone,’ Wright breathed, appalled. Then his expression hardened. ‘You took them when we were in the tav- when we were patrolling the back of the house. To get us into trouble!’

‘I assure you, I have better things to do.’

‘We could not be everywhere,’ another man bleated. ‘It is a huge site, with gardens as well as a massive house. That makes it easy for thieves. It is not our fault!’

‘How long were you here before you went to the Crown?’ asked Chaloner, not bothering to point out that he had done it for a week on his own.

‘Of course we visited the Crown!’ snarled Wright. ‘That is where Mr Pratt the architect lodges, and we are hired to protect him. We did both duties.’

Chaloner tried another tack. ‘Then how many men guarded Pratt, and how many stayed here?’

‘It varied,’ replied Wright tightly, leaving Chaloner to suspect that most if not all had elected to sit in the tavern. No one was wet and cold, as he had been the previous morning, indicating none had been outdoors for very long.

‘I am telling Clarendon that you pinched his bricks,’ declared Wright, eyeing Chaloner defiantly. ‘You did it for malice, because we are better guards than you. And then you sold them.’

Chaloner did not grace the accusation with a reply, confident in the knowledge that the Earl would not believe it. Clarendon might have a generally low opinion of his intelligencer, but he had never doubted his honesty.

‘He did not steal them,’ said one of the others. ‘Look at his clothes — they are too clean.’

Wright swallowed uneasily. ‘Maybe they are just mislaid, then. We will search the site. You lot look, while I stay here and keep the fire going.’

Muttering resentfully, the guards shuffled away, although Chaloner knew they were wasting their time. He had conducted a thorough search when he had first returned from Tangier, and there was no indication that the missing supplies were being stored in the house or its grounds.

‘We will find them,’ predicted Wright confidently. ‘So you had better not go braying to the Earl about them being gone, because it will not be true.’

‘I have no intention of telling him. He does not react well to bad news.’

Wright glowered, but said no more.

‘It is curious, though,’ said Chaloner, more to himself than the sergeant. ‘These thefts started after the walls and roof were finished — when the bulk of the building was completed, and the materials available were considerably reduced. Moreover, it is easy to pilfer items that are stacked outside, but some — like the planks yesterday — disappeared from inside the house.’

‘Supply and demand, mate,’ shrugged Wright. ‘Maybe the villains had no market when the house was in its early stages.’

Chaloner supposed he would have to explore the city with a view to learning who else’s home was being made from fine bricks and oaken planks. It would not be easy, but it represented a lead, and he decided to follow it as soon as he had a free moment.

* * *

It was not long before Pratt arrived, his gloomy assistant Oliver in tow. Reluctantly, Wright confessed that a number of bricks were gone, although he was careful to reiterate that he could not be expected to monitor such a large site and protect the architect with only ten men.

‘Chaloner managed,’ Oliver pointed out. ‘Well, he did not have Pratt to mind, too, but-’

‘And he was just as ineffective,’ interrupted Pratt angrily. ‘Is no one in London capable of doing his job? I have been invited to submit a design for rebuilding St Paul’s Cathedral, but I do not think I shall bother. Not if it entails labouring amid thieves and men who cannot deter them.’

‘Ignore him, Chaloner,’ said Oliver kindly, once the architect had stalked away. ‘He is in a bad mood today, because a lot of carousing in the Crown kept him awake last night. He is thinking of going to stay with a friend in Charing Cross tonight, just to get some sleep.’

‘I found the Crown rather tame, personally,’ said Wright, thus indicating the probable source of the disturbance.

Supposing he had better ensure the rest of the house was in order, Chaloner walked with Oliver towards it. Yet again, he was seized with the notion that it would bring the Earl trouble. It towered above them, as grand as anything owned by the extravagant kings of France, and the doors in the showy portico would not have looked out of place on a cathedral. Pratt was in the process of opening them with a key that, not surprisingly, was identical to the Earl’s.

‘Is it a good idea to have all the locks on the same key?’ asked Chaloner, sure it was not.

Pratt scowled. ‘Do not presume to tell me my business. And anyway, all the locks are not on the same key. The strongroom has one of its own.’

‘Have we told you about the strongroom?’ asked Oliver, his morose visage breaking into what was almost a smile. ‘It is designed so that no air can get inside once the door is shut. In that way, if there is ever a fire, its contents will be protected. It might even save lives, because Clarendon himself could use it, to escape being incinerated.’

‘Yes, but only if he does not mind being suffocated instead,’ Chaloner pointed out.

Oliver’s lugubrious face fell. ‘I had not thought of that.’ He turned to Pratt in some alarm. ‘What does happen if someone is trapped in there?’

Pratt opened his mouth once or twice but did not reply, which told Chaloner that the notion of safety had not crossed his mind, either. Then the architect shrugged. ‘He will yell for help, and someone will come to let him out. However, if it is a villain who is shut inside, then he will die and it will serve him right. Would you like to see it?’

‘No!’ Chaloner had not meant to sound sharp, but he had a deep and abiding horror of cell-like places, which had afflicted him ever since he had been imprisoned in France for espionage.

‘As you please,’ said Pratt stiffly, offended. ‘Are you coming in today, or does the rest of my creation fill you with revulsion, too?’

He turned away before Chaloner could think of a tactful response.

When Chaloner had first been given the task of guarding Clarendon House and its supplies, he had taken the opportunity to explore it thoroughly. It was rigidly symmetrical. There were two rooms to the left, which led to a huge staircase that swept up to the Earl’s bedchamber, and an identical arrangement to the right, which would be used by his wife. Chaloner supposed they should be grateful that they already had all the children they intended to produce, because it would be something of a trek to meet each other in the night. Other rooms on the ground floor were graced with such grand names as the Great Parlour, the Room of Audience, My Lord’s Lobby and the Lawyers’ Library.

The upper storey was equally majestic, although wood panelling and tapestries meant the bedchambers and dressing rooms would be cosier than the stark marble monstrosities below. The attics were above them, with rooms already earmarked as sleeping quarters for the sizeable retinue that would be needed to run the place.

But it was the basement that was the most confusing, and Chaloner had counted at least thirty rooms in it, ranging from kitchens, pantries, butteries and sculleries to laundries and tack rooms. There were also places where servants could work and eat out of sight of the more lofty company above. All were connected by a maze of corridors and hallways. Beneath them were the strongroom and a range of dark, cold cellars.

‘Are you sure you will not see the vault?’ coaxed Oliver, as Chaloner followed him inside. ‘You will be impressed.’

Chaloner was about to decline a second time, when he reconsidered. How much longer were his experiences in France going to haunt him? Determined to overcome what he knew was a foolish weakness, he nodded agreement. Obligingly, Oliver lit a torch and led the way down one flight of steps to the basement and then another to the cellars, chatting amiably as he went. Chaloner was grateful for the monologue, because it concealed the fact that his own breathing was ragged, and that he had to steady himself with one hand against the wall.

At the bottom, there was a long corridor with a floor of beaten earth, which had chambers leading off it, all low-ceilinged, dark spaces that would be used for storage. Two rooms were different, though. One was the purpose-built cavern where the Earl would keep his wine; the second was the vault.

Oliver pushed open the door of the latter to reveal a chamber that was no more than ten feet long and six wide. The door was unusually thick — wood encased in metal — and the internal walls had been lined with lead, which had the curious effect of deadening sound; as Oliver described how the place had been constructed, his voice was strangely muted.

‘The door locks automatically when it is slammed shut. Then it can only be opened with a key.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner quickly, as Oliver started to demonstrate.

Oliver’s sad face creased into a grin. ‘The operative word is slammed. If you close it gently, it can be opened again. Besides, Mr Pratt has the key, and will rescue us if we inadvertently lock ourselves in. All we have to do is yell for help.’

‘You think he will hear us, do you?’ said Chaloner, stepping outside before Oliver could give him a demonstration. ‘If this room really is airtight, we will suffocate long before he realises we are missing.’

Oliver smiled again, to indicate that he thought Chaloner was being melodramatic, and led the way back towards the stairs. Chaloner was silent, wrestling with the uncomfortable notion that he might have to become much more familiar with the strongroom when the Earl was in residence. His duties did include safeguarding his employer’s property, after all.

Once Oliver had finished showing off the vault, Chaloner hunted Pratt down in the Lawyers’ Library. This room was already finished, with shelves and panelling in place, and a functional hearth. Pratt was using it as an office from which to work on the rest of the house. It was cold, though, and Oliver immediately set about lighting a fire.

‘What time did you finish work last night?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether it was possible to glean clues about the thieves by identifying what time they struck.

It was Oliver who replied. ‘Early. Mr Pratt had been called away, but shortly afterwards a question arose about the cornices, which meant we had to stop work to await his decision. Rather than keep the men hanging around idle, I sent them home at three o’clock.’

‘I left at noon,’ said Pratt, adding smugly, ‘Christopher Wren wanted to show me his designs for a new St Paul’s, you see. He values my opinion.’

‘What did you think?’ asked Chaloner curiously. He had seen Wren’s plans, and had been appalled: the architect intended to tear down the iconic gothic building and replace it with a baroque monstrosity of domes and ugly pediments.

‘That without me, he will make some terrible mistakes,’ replied Pratt haughtily. ‘No one has my skill with Palladian porticos.’

Chaloner found the prospect of a cathedral with Palladian porticos vaguely sacrilegious and considered telling Pratt so, but he knew he should not waste time on a debate when he had so much to do. Reluctantly, for he would have liked to denounce Wren’s flashy notions, he turned the discussion back to the thefts. ‘So the supplies could have been stolen yesterday afternoon?’

‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Oliver. ‘All we can say for certain is that they were there when we left. Personally, I do not believe common thieves are responsible. Clarendon has enemies at Court, and I think some of them are doing the pilfering. To annoy us and inconvenience him.’

Chaloner was about to ask if he had any specific suspects, recalling that Hannah believed much the same thing, when Vere shuffled in to announce that the labourers were ready to begin work. The sullen woodmonger regarded Chaloner with disdain.

‘You did not last long as nightwatchman,’ he said. ‘I see real soldiers are doing it now.’

‘Chaloner is still investigating, though,’ said Oliver, endearingly loyal. ‘The Earl just wants him free to do more questioning than watching. He will catch these villains, never fear.’

‘I hope so,’ growled Vere. ‘Because at the moment he suspects my lads of helping the thieves. But he is wrong, and when he has the real culprits in custody, he will owe us an apology.’

‘We shall work on the Room of Audience today,’ announced Pratt, uninterested in what his staff thought about Chaloner’s suspicions. ‘So I shall need all the cherry-wood panels, and as much plaster as you can mix.’

Oliver left to supervise the operation, and Vere followed him out only after shooting Chaloner a gloweringly resentful glare. When they had gone, Pratt closed the door.

‘I suppose you are here about the threat against my life,’ he said. ‘The Earl told me about it yesterday, but there is no need for alarm. It means I have reached an apogee.’

Chaloner regarded him uncertainly. ‘I do not understand.’

‘I mean that ignorant fools often take exception to my buildings, because they do not possess the intelligence to appreciate how exquisite they are. You are probably one of them, which is why you think Clarendon House is too grand. But threats against me are a good thing. They tell me that I have succeeded in making people notice what I have done.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner cautiously. He had met people with inflated egos in the past, but none who interpreted threats to kill them as a welcome form of flattery. ‘Are you saying that this is not the first time someone has offered to deprive you of your life?’

Pratt shrugged. ‘It is the first time, but it will not be the last. You see, the culprit will be someone who does not understand that my creations are not just a case of hurling up a few bricks, but an expression that is French in inspiration. In other words, the equal proportions of my floors represent a new innovation, compared to the Palladian manner of emphasising a piano nobile.’

Chaloner had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Can you be more specific? About people who have taken against you, I mean, not about a piano nobile.’

‘I built three stately homes before this one,’ replied Pratt loftily. ‘Doubtless there are philistines galore who fail to appreciate my perfect classical lines and I could not possibly list them all.’

‘Are any in London at the moment?’ pressed Chaloner, determined to have a sensible answer.

‘Not that I am aware,’ replied Pratt. He grinned suddenly. ‘I told Wren that there is a plot afoot to kill me, and he was very impressed. No architect can ever say that he has fulfilled his potential until he has designed something that makes people want to kill him.’

Chaloner blinked. ‘Surely you should strive to produce buildings that people will like?’

‘Why? The masses should keep their sorry opinions to themselves, and leave architecture to those of us with the wit and skill to devise great masterpieces.’

‘Modestly put,’ said Chaloner drily.

The sun was beginning to show its face as Chaloner walked towards the cluster of buildings where Piccadilly met the Haymarket. It was heartening, because it was the first time that he had seen it since he had returned from Tangier. Unfortunately, it was obliged to shine through a layer of haze, which lent the city a dirty, slightly yellowish cast that rendered it distinctly seedy.

He reached the junction and looked around. There were perhaps two dozen homes, some detached and others terraced, along with the Gaming House, three taverns and a windmill. As in most of London, dirty, insalubrious hovels rubbed shoulders with edifices that looked as though their residents were comfortably wealthy.

He knocked on the door to the Crown but there was no answer, and he could only suppose that its landlord was still asleep. He raised his hand to rap louder, but a picture of Hannah suddenly came to mind: she would not answer questions if dragged out of bed so soon after dawn. He could force the taverner to cooperate, of course, but it would be more pleasant for everyone if it was done willingly, so he decided to wait until the inn showed some signs of life.

To pass the time, he went to the Gaming House, where he ordered a cup of wine that he had no intention of drinking — it was far too early in the day for strong beverages. The place was comparatively empty, although a game of cards was underway in a corner. The tense faces of the participants, and the thick fug of pipe-smoke that enveloped them, indicated that they had been there for some time and that the stakes were high.

When the wine arrived, Chaloner settled at a table overlooking the street. It was busy now, with carts rolling in from Kensington and Knightsbridge bearing country produce for the great markets at Smithfield and Covent Garden. There were also coaches taking wealthy merchants to business in the city, and a variety of riders, ranging from farmers on plodding carthorses to elegant courtiers on prancing stallions.

Chaloner watched for a while, then picked up the latest government newsbook, which had been left for patrons to peruse. The Intelligencer was published on Mondays and The Newes on Thursdays, to keep the general populace abreast of foreign and domestic affairs. Unfortunately, the government did not like its people knowing what it was up to, lest there was another rebellion, so news tended to be selective, biased and well larded with lies.

He began to read, learning with some bemusement that the Portuguese ambassador had enjoyed having supper with the King, and that Mr Matthew’s Excellent Pill was very efficacious at slaying fluxes and expelling wind. Overseas intelligence was in even shorter supply, the most significant being that nothing very exciting was happening in Venice. Finally, there was an advertisement for a book that claimed it would teach him ‘how to walk with God all day long’.

He tossed the publication away in disgust, but at that point something began happening across the street: people were converging on the Crown. He recognised several he had seen leaving the previous morning — the jaunty Cavalier with the red ribbons in his boot hose; the Portuguese; the fellow with the orange beard, eye-patch and voice of a boy; and lastly, the pugilistic man named Brinkes, who had murdered Captain Pepperell.

The Portuguese and Brinkes glanced around furtively before slipping inside, but the Cavalier and One Eye entered confidently, indicating they did not care who saw them. They were followed by a couple wearing the kind of hats that were popular in The Hague, and whose clothes were more sober than those currently favoured by Englishmen.

Chaloner was pleased to see the scouts arrive, too. Harley was in the lead, walking with a confident swagger, while Newell slouched behind. Reyner was last, his shoulders hunched and a hood shadowing his face. They had emerged from a house several doors up, leading Chaloner to surmise that one of them — or possibly all three — lived there.

The remainder of the gathering was a curious mix of well-dressed people and ruffians, and once they were all inside, the door was firmly closed. Chaloner glanced upwards and saw the pale face of the woman he had seen the previous morning. His warning wave had evidently gone unheeded, because she was watching the arrivals with undisguised interest.

He waited a moment, then left the Gaming House, determined to find out what was going on.

* * *

Like many tenements, the Crown fulfilled a variety of functions. Its lower chamber served as a tavern, while the upper floors were rented to lodgers — Sergeant Wright had mentioned earlier that Pratt had rooms there, presumably because it was close to Clarendon House. In addition, the yard was leased to a coach-maker, while the stable had been converted into a pottery.

The tavern comprised a large, airy chamber crammed with tables and benches. It boasted a massive fireplace, although only embers glowed in it that morning. The ruffians were sitting around it, talking in low voices. Brinkes was with them, but he stood when Chaloner entered, his manner unfriendly. There was no sign of the well-dressed people.

‘We are closed,’ said the landlord, who had hurried from the back of the house when he had heard the door open. He wore a clean white apron and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal arms that were red from the cold — he had been washing his tankards. He was middle-aged, with thick grey hair and eyes like an inquisitive chicken.

‘You are not,’ countered Chaloner, nodding towards the men around the hearth.

‘Private party.’ The landlord shot them a nervous look. ‘Try the Feathers, down the road.’

‘I have a bad leg,’ said Chaloner, truthfully enough. It had been injured by an exploding cannon at the Battle of Naseby, and had not been right since. ‘I cannot walk any farther.’

The man regarded him sympathetically. ‘Gout, is it? I suffer from that myself, and I would not wish it on my worst enemy. Come to my parlour at the back, then, and sit with me while I rinse my pots. My name is John Marshall, by the way, owner of this fine establishment.’

‘It is fine,’ said Chaloner, remembering to limp as he followed Marshall down the corridor. It was true: the Crown was a good deal nicer on the inside than it looked from the street.

Smiling amiably, Marshall directed him to a chair while he filled a tankard with ale. ‘You are better off in here than with Brinkes, anyway. The man is a brute, and I am sure he has killed people. He has that look about him.’

‘Then why do you let him in?’

Marshall’s expression was pained. ‘Because he is with them upstairs. He and his cronies act like guard dogs, and oust anyone who tries to come in while they are here — I do my best to reach visitors first, to eject them more politely, but I do not always succeed.’

Chaloner was intrigued. What dark business had Harley and his cronies embarked upon that entailed hiring a killer to keep it from prying eyes and ears? He doubted it would have anything to do with what had happened in Tangier, but he was keen to find out anyway. If nothing else, it might enable him to force them to answer questions, something he had been unable to do on Eagle.

‘Who are “them upstairs”?’ he asked.

‘They call themselves the Piccadilly Company,’ replied Marshall. Like many taverners, he loved to gossip. ‘They rent the rooms on the first floor, and often gather to chat.’

‘To chat about what?’

Marshall spread his hands. ‘Who knows? I used to eavesdrop when that lovely Mr Jones was in charge — he is the one with the red boot-ribbons — although all he and his friends ever talked about was exporting glassware to New England. It was rather dull, to be frank. But then others joined the Company, and they hired Brinkes to keep listeners away. So I have no idea what they discuss now.’

‘What others?’ asked Chaloner, a little taken aback by the taverner’s bald admission that he liked to spy on his tenants.

Marshall lowered his voice. ‘Well, a Dutch couple called Margareta and Cornelis Janszoon made an appearance today. I heard Margareta inform Mr Jones that her country will win the war we are about to wage.’

Chaloner was surprised: Hollanders tended to keep a low profile in London, on the grounds that they were currently Britain’s most hated adversary. They certainly did not go around speculating on who might triumph in the looming confrontation.

‘But they are not the worst by a long way,’ Marshall went on. ‘Last week, Harley, Newell and Reyner appeared. Now, I know Harley is a colonel, but he is no better than that monster Brinkes.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Chaloner, hoping that Marshall’s loose tongue would not land him in trouble. Brinkes might reward him with the same fate as Captain Pepperell if he knew he was the subject of chatter, while Harley was unlikely to appreciate being discussed either.

‘Because he is evil. Have you seen his eyes? They are like the devil’s — blazing with hate and malice. But even he is not the worst. About a month ago someone even more dreadful joined. Namely Mr Fitzgerald.’ Marshall hissed the name in a way that made it sound decidedly sinister.

‘Not Fitzgerald the pirate?’ asked Chaloner. Could this be George’s last employer?

‘He prefers the term privateer.’ Marshall glanced around, as if he was afraid the man might appear and take umbrage. ‘He lost a lot of money recently, and word is that he is working on plans to get some more. I am surprised at Mr Jones for letting the likes of him join the Piccadilly Company — Mr Jones is such a nice gentleman.’

‘I do not suppose Fitzgerald is the one with the beard and the eye-patch, is he?’ asked Chaloner, amused. The fellow could not have moulded himself more to the popular image of a pirate had he tried. He was lacking only the gold earrings.

Marshall nodded earnestly. ‘And he has an unusually high voice. Listen, you can hear him now, singing. I wish he would not do it. It is horrible!’

As a lover of music, Chaloner had to agree. The sound that came from upstairs was redolent of tortured metal. It was treble in range, but there was a grating quality to it that was far from pleasant.

‘You mentioned him losing a lot of money,’ he said, eager to talk so that he would not have to listen. ‘Do you know how?’

‘His best ship sank during a storm. It was full of French gold, so King Louis arrested him and offered him a choice: repay every penny or execution. Fitzgerald had to sell everything he owned, and it broke him financially. That is why he is in London now — to recoup his losses by embarking on another business venture.’

At that moment there was a clatter of footsteps as the Piccadilly Company took its leave. Uncharitably, Chaloner wondered whether Fitzgerald’s singing had brought the meeting to a premature end, because he would certainly not have wanted to be in the same room with it — it was bad enough from a distance. He leaned forward in his chair, so he could look up the hall and watch them file out.

They left in ones and twos again, with the Dutch woman — Margareta — directing who should go when. Some elected to leave by the back door, which had Chaloner huddling towards the fire to conceal his face; but he need not have worried: no one gave him a second glance.

When everyone had gone, Chaloner claimed his gout had eased and he could walk. Marshall nodded genially and invited him to visit again, but preferably not in the mornings, which tended to be when Fitzgerald and his cronies were in conference. Evenings, he assured his visitor, would see him in far more conducive company.

For a moment, Chaloner thought the three scouts had disappeared, but then he saw them walking north. He assumed they were returning to the house from which they had emerged earlier, but they ducked into another tavern, with broken windows and a sign outside that said it was the Feathers. He followed, then went through an elaborate charade intended to make them think the encounter was coincidence.

‘How nice to see you!’ he exclaimed amiably. ‘I did not think we would meet again.’

His cordiality was not reciprocated. Colonel Harley’s pale ‘devil’ eyes were full of suspicion and Newell fingered his dagger. Reyner smiled, but it was a wary expression, devoid of friendliness.

‘Neither did we,’ said Harley, making it clear that he wished they had not.

‘Well, I suppose it is no surprise to run into you here,’ Chaloner blustered on, pretending not to notice their hostility. ‘I distinctly recall you saying that you hailed from Piccadilly.’

He remembered no such thing, but his gambit worked. Pride suffused Reyner’s face.

‘I was born here, and my mother owns this tavern,’ he said, and the smile became genuine. ‘Meanwhile, Harley and his sister have taken up residence next door, and Newell lives across the street. We prefer Piccadilly’s cleaner air to the foul vapours of the city.’

‘Understandable.’ Sensing the other two were on the verge of sending him packing, Chaloner sat down and began to talk quickly. ‘There was a meeting of the Tangier Committee yesterday.’

Harley regarded him coldly, and Chaloner began to understand what Marshall had meant about the disconcerting quality of his eyes. ‘So what? That town is no longer of interest to us.’

‘The matter of Teviot’s death was raised.’ Chaloner hoped they were not in a position to know he was lying. ‘There is going to be an official inquiry.’

Harley’s gaze did not waver, although Reyner gulped hard enough to be audible. There was a thump, and Reyner leaned down to rub his leg — Newell had dealt him a warning kick under the table. Chaloner continued to meet Harley’s gaze, but he had learned two things already: that Reyner was the weak link in the trio, and that they had reason to fear such an eventuality. It was more than he had gleaned during all the time he had spent on Eagle with them.

‘What will such an inquiry entail?’ asked Newell, when the silence following Chaloner’s announcement had extended to the point where it was uncomfortable.

Chaloner shrugged. ‘It will be conducted by lawyers from the Inns of Court, so you can be certain it will leave no stone unturned.’

Reyner groaned, then winced when Newell kicked him a second time.

‘We have nothing to fear,’ said Newell, more to Reyner than to Chaloner. ‘Jews Hill was clear of Barbary corsairs when we surveyed it, but everyone knows how fast they can move. They waited until we left, and then they crept forward. What happened to Teviot was not our fault.’

‘Impossible,’ said Chaloner immediately. ‘Jews Hill is surrounded by miles of open countryside, and ten thousand men could never lurk there without being seen. Ergo, they were in the woods when you said they were not, and anyone looking at a map will know it. The inquiry will want to know why you lied — why you killed Teviot and half his garrison.’

Harley’s eyes flashed, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. ‘You play a dangerous game, accusing us of wilful murder.’

Chaloner smiled lazily. ‘I have powerful friends at the Inns of Court — men who owe me favours. I may be able to influence the outcome of the inquiry. Would you like me to try?’

‘In return for what?’ asked Reyner, thus reinforcing Chaloner’s suspicion that they had indeed given the hapless Teviot a deliberately misleading report.

‘I will need to know the whole truth,’ he went on, ignoring the question. ‘Clearly, you had a reason for doing what you did. Explain it to me, and I will advise you how to-’

‘We asked what you want in return,’ interrupted Harley. His hand was still on his sword, but the knife that Chaloner always carried in his sleeve was at the ready, and it would be in the colonel’s heart before his weapon was halfway out of its scabbard. Of course, he would be in trouble if the other two attacked at the same time.

‘Information,’ he replied, more to keep them talking than because it was true. ‘Specifically the names of the thieves who are stealing Clarendon House’s supplies. The culprits must use a cart, so the chances are that you have seen them passing.’

‘We have not,’ declared Reyner, before the others could speak. ‘All Piccadilly is talking about those burglaries, but none of us have seen anything. It is a mystery. The villains must travel down St James’s Street, because they certainly do not come this way.’

Newell sneered. ‘I would not tell you even if we did know their names, because I cannot abide that fat, greedy old Clarendon, and his palace is an abomination. Besides, we have nothing to fear from the Teviot affair, because Fitzgerald said-’

This time it was Harley doing the kicking under the table, and Chaloner frowned. He had assumed that the curious happenings in the Crown were unrelated to the Teviot massacre, but Newell’s remark made him reconsider. Fitzgerald was a pirate, and they operated by the dozen around Tangier, so perhaps there was a connection.

‘If you cannot give me information, I will settle for an introduction instead,’ he said, improvising wildly. ‘To Fitzgerald. He may be interested in a certain business proposition I have to offer.’

‘He will not,’ stated Harley firmly. ‘And you would be well advised to keep your mouth shut about Tangier, because you know nothing about it. If you start spreading rumours, all I can say is that you will regret it most bitterly.’

Chaloner could think of no way to prolong the discussion further, so was forced to take his leave. He went back to the Gaming House and stood in its doorway, hidden in the shadows. It was not long before the three scouts emerged from the Feathers. They were arguing, Harley and Newell muttering in fierce whispers at Reyner, who kept shaking his head. Eventually, they parted: Harley and Newell turned north, while Reyner began to walk towards the city alone.

Chaloner followed Reyner and caught up with him near Charing Cross, hauling him into a narrow alley that ran between two tall houses. Reyner scowled when he saw who had ambushed him, but the sly, calculating expression in his eyes said he was not particularly surprised to have been waylaid.

‘Who are you really?’ he asked. ‘Newell thinks you work for Spymaster Williamson, while Harley says you are just a greedy opportunist out for his own ends. But I suspect you are from the Tangier Committee, and that you have been charged to learn the truth about Teviot.’

‘Then you had better be honest,’ said Chaloner, deciding to let him assume what he liked. ‘The murder of five hundred soldiers is a serious matter. A hanging matter.’

‘Four hundred and seventy-two,’ countered Reyner, as if it made a difference. ‘But why does the Tangier Committee care? Everyone knows that Teviot was a corrupt fool who should never have been made governor, and all the men have been replaced. Besides, it happened months ago.’

Chaloner regarded him with contempt. ‘They can never be “replaced”. Nor did they deserve to be hacked to pieces.’

Reyner looked away. ‘It was not our fault that Teviot allowed himself to be ambushed.’

‘Of course it was your fault! He relied on you to provide him with accurate information, and you betrayed that trust by feeding him lies. What I cannot understand is why — why did you arrange the slaughter of your own countrymen?’

Reyner had the decency to wince. ‘It is complicated, and will take a long time to explain.’

‘Then you had better make a start.’

‘I cannot — at least, not now. Harley will be suspicious if I am gone too long.’

‘I do not care whether he is suspicious or not.’

‘Well, I do,’ snapped Reyner, regaining some of his composure. ‘So meet me in the Gaming House gardens at ten o’clock tonight. I will tell you everything then. But in return I want a written pardon from the government — someone from the Tangier Committee should be able to organise it — and two hundred pounds in gold coins.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Anything else?’

Reyner glowered. ‘Do not judge me, Chaloner. I will not be safe once I tell my story — I shall be a marked man, and a lot of powerful people will want me dead. I need that money to disappear.’

‘Why should-’

‘I will explain everything tonight. But bring the pardon and the money, or I am not telling you anything. And for Christ’s sake, make sure you are not followed.’

Chaloner drew his dagger. ‘I do not like this plan. You will tell me your story now.’

Reyner’s gaze was defiant. ‘What will you do? Kill me? Then you will never have the truth. And I am not doing this for myself, anyway — my mother is old and I need to protect her, which I cannot do without funds. Now let me go before you put both our lives in danger.’

He shoved Chaloner away and marched towards the end of the alley. He looked carefully in both directions before slipping out and resuming his journey towards the city.

Chaloner was thoughtful as he walked down King Street, trying to imagine what plan could have required the murder of so many men. Newell’s slip in the Feathers said Fitzgerald was involved, which in turn said the Piccadilly Company warranted further investigation. But what could its members be doing? How had the deaths of Teviot and his garrison benefited them? No answers came, and he supposed he would have to wait until he met Reyner later.

He turned his mind to the Queen’s letter, and went directly to her apartments. He was pleasantly surprised when he was refused entry — security was so lax at White Hall that he was under the impression that anyone could gain access to anywhere he fancied.

‘Her Majesty is vulnerable,’ explained the captain. His name was Appleby, a grizzled veteran with a beard. ‘People do not like her because she is Catholic and barren, but the King will be vexed if she is harmed, so we cannot let anyone inside unless he has an appointment.’

‘How do I make an appointment?’ asked Chaloner.

‘You do not! She is the Queen, man! People cannot wander in off the streets to pass the time of day with her. Besides, she has ladies in there, and the Court rakes are always trying to slip past me to get at them. It is quite a task to keep them out, I can tell you!’

Chaloner knew he could gain access to the Queen if he wanted. Fortunately for her, most people did not possess his particular array of talents — or a wife who was one of Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting, for that matter. Prudently, he changed the subject, and asked what happened when letters were delivered. Appleby explained that he handed all such missives to the Queen’s private secretary. Hyde opened everything she received, and although he claimed to stay out of her personal correspondence, it was a lie.

‘He likes to know what is going on in every aspect of her life,’ said Appleby disapprovingly. ‘I cannot bear the odious prig. He is worse than his father for overbearing manners.’

From what little he had seen of Hyde, Chaloner was inclined to concur.

‘Have you heard the news?’ Appleby asked, changing the subject abruptly. ‘About Proby?’

‘Peter Proby?’ asked Chaloner, recalling what he been told the previous day — that the Adventurers had been obliged to call an emergency meeting because Proby had disappeared.

‘He has been found,’ said Appleby. ‘Well, most of him has been found.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He threw himself off the roof of St Paul’s Cathedral, and landed with such force that parts of him have yet to be discovered. What is the world coming to, when such terrible things happen?’

‘What indeed?’ murmured Chaloner.

When he had finished with Appleby, Chaloner spent the rest of the morning and the first part of the afternoon questioning other members of the Queen’s household, but learned nothing he did not know already — that Her Majesty was unpopular, and so any number of people might have sent malicious letters to see her in trouble. It was a depressing state of affairs, and when he eventually left White Hall he was tired and dispirited.

His gloom intensified when he visited St James’s Fields, an area that had been open countryside at the Restoration, but that was now the domain of developers. There were several such sites in the city, but this was the nearest to Clarendon House. It did not take him long to realise that even if the Earl’s bricks were finding their way there, he would never prove it. Dozens of carts kept the workforce supplied with materials, from hundreds of different sources. Moreover, each house had been tendered out to a different builder, and it would take weeks — perhaps months — to track down the provenance of all their supplies.

He persisted, though, and the sun was setting when he was finally compelled to admit that he was wasting his time. As he walked along The Strand it occurred to him that he had not eaten all day, so he stopped to buy a meat pie from a street vendor. It was cold, greasy and filled with something he supposed might have once belonged to a cow, although he did not like to imagine what part. He ate it, then heartily wished he had not when it lay dense and heavy in his stomach.

Feeling the need to dislodge it with something hot, he went to his favourite coffee house — the Rainbow on Fleet Street — entering its steamy fug with relief after the chill of outside. Most of the regulars were there, enjoying a dish of the beverage that was currently very popular in London. He sat on a bench and listened to the chatter around him, breathing in deeply of the comfortingly familiar aroma of burned beans, pipe smoke and wet mud trampled in from the road.

‘What news?’ called Farr, the owner, voicing the usual coffee-house greeting.

‘The Portuguese ambassador enjoyed having dinner with the King,’ offered Chaloner, repeating what he had read in the newsbook earlier. No one looked very impressed, so he added, ‘Afterwards, he skipped all the way from White Hall to St Paul’s, and one member of the Privy Council was so impressed by his elegance that he has engaged him as a dancing master.’

He expected everyone to know he was being facetious, but Farr nodded sagely. ‘The Portuguese are a strange nation. I am not surprised that one of them knows how to gyrate over long distances.’

‘The Intelligencer did not report the prancing, though,’ said a young printer named Fabian Stedman, who spent so much time in the Rainbow that Chaloner wondered whether he had a home of his own — or a place of work, for that matter. ‘I do not know how it dares call itself a newsbook, because it never contains anything interesting.’

‘Well, what do you expect?’ asked the Rector of St Dunstan-in-the-West. Chaloner liked Joseph Thompson, a kindly, liberal man with a conscience. ‘The government is afraid that we will embark on another civil war if it tells us too much — this time to rid ourselves of King and Parliament, given that neither have proved themselves worthy to rule.’

‘There was a fascinating piece about a fish caught in the River Severn last week, though,’ said Farr. ‘Apparently, it was of great size and uncouth shape.’

‘Does that count as foreign news or domestic?’ mused Stedman. ‘The Severn is in Wales, which is a distant land full of heathens.’

‘Nonsense,’ argued Thompson. ‘I have been to Wales, and it is very nice.’

‘The farthest I have ever been is Chelsey,’ confided Farr. ‘And that was more than foreign enough for me! I was worried about being set on by footpads every inch of the way. Life is very dangerous outside the city.’

‘Have you ever travelled, Chaloner?’ asked Stedman. ‘You hold very controversial opinions, so I imagine you have. For example, you are always telling us that it is wrong to go to war with the Dutch, when the rest of the country cannot wait to start fighting.’

‘Hear, hear!’ cheered Farr. ‘I am thoroughly looking forward to trouncing the Hollanders at sea, and stealing all their trade routes.’

‘War with the Dutch is not a good idea,’ said Chaloner tiredly. He had lost count of the times he had tried to explain the reality of the situation to them. ‘They have faster ships, better-trained sailors, and mountains of materiel that will allow them to stay at sea for months. We do not.’

‘He is right,’ agreed Thompson. ‘Fighting Hollanders would be madness. Besides, they are a Protestant nation that was kind to the King when he was in exile. What purpose will conflict serve?’

‘They are taking slaves from Africa to work on their sugar plantations,’ argued Farr. ‘When we defeat them, we can do it instead, so we shall have cheap sugar — as much as we can eat.’

‘Excellent!’ declared Stedman. ‘Coffee is a lot nicer with sugar.’

Chaloner wondered whether that was why he had yet to acquire a taste for coffee: he did not use sugar, as a silent protest against the plantations. He knew his self-denial made no difference to the slaves, and it was impossible to avoid sugar in all its forms, but he persisted anyway.

‘The slave trade is a vicious, despicable business, and any good Christian should agree with me,’ declared Thompson, uncharacteristically vehement. ‘It is evil.’

‘It is a matter of commerce,’ argued Farr. ‘We need affordable sugar, and slaves are the best way to get it. Morality has nothing to do with-’

‘Of course it does!’ cried Thompson. ‘How can you condone snatching men, women and children from their homes, and forcing them to work for no pay, just so you can have sweet coffee?’

‘If I were an African, I would accept it as my lot,’ declared Farr. ‘The wealthy and powerful have always dominated the weak. God made us that way.’

‘He most certainly did not,’ yelled Thompson, outraged. ‘And if you ever say such a wicked thing again, I will … I will … well, I do not know what I shall do, but you will be sorry.’

Everyone stared at him. Thompson had never lost his temper with Farr before.

‘He is right,’ said Chaloner in the silence that followed. He rarely joined coffee-house debates, because he disliked the attention it earned him. However, this was a matter about which he felt strongly. ‘The slave trade is an abhorrent business.’

‘How do you know?’ pounced Stedman. ‘You appeared last week all brown and healthy after months of absence — which you still have not explained. You were clearly in warmer climes, so where did you go? Barbados? Jamaica? Is that why you hold forth about the slave trade?’

Chaloner was aware that everyone was regarding him with interest, and wished he had held his tongue. ‘Tangier,’ he replied, supposing there was no harm in telling them. His mission had not been secret, and an evasive answer might be more trouble than it was worth.

‘How unpleasant,’ shuddered Farr. ‘I understand it is a vile place, full of snakes and swamps.’

‘No, that is New England,’ countered Stedman. ‘Tangier is in the middle of a desert. The Portuguese were delighted to foist it on us, because it is hot and nasty. Is that not right, Chaloner?’

‘It is certainly hot,’ replied Chaloner, wondering how the Rainbow’s patrons came by such wildly inaccurate information. How could Stedman think Tangier was in the middle of a desert when it was being fortified a sea port?

‘I have been told it will be a useful slaving centre one day,’ said Farr. ‘But Thompson is glaring, so we had better discuss something else. How about this Collection of Curiosities near St Paul’s, which is the talk of the city? Has anyone been to see it? Apparently, it has an “Ant Beare” from Brazil on display. Where is Brazil, exactly? Is it anywhere near China?’

While Stedman obliged him with a lesson in geography, Thompson gave Chaloner a strained smile. ‘I am glad one of my acquaintances has proper views on the slave trade. I preached against it in my sermon on Sunday, but I do not think anyone listened. I have a bad feeling that we will follow the Portuguese into the business, simply because there is money to be made.’

‘Portugal is not a major factor in the trade any longer. Holland has supremacy now.’

‘But the Portuguese do continue to take slaves to Brazil,’ countered Thompson. ‘You should not ignore their role in this evil simply because the Dutch have surpassed them in wickedness. More to the point, did you know that the Adventurers transported more than three thousand people to Caribbean plantations last year? It is disgraceful, barbaric and … and wicked! And it is not as if the Adventurers need more money. They are all fabulously rich already.’

‘Wealth seems to be one of those commodities that no one ever admits to having enough of,’ said Chaloner. ‘The more someone has, the more he itches to acquire.’

‘Yes,’ said Thompson caustically. ‘In my line of work, we call it greed.’

Night had fallen by the time Chaloner left the coffee house, a set of carefully forged documents in his pocket for Reyner — he had borrowed pen and paper from Farr, although it had not been easy to dissuade the other patrons from trying to see what he was doing. Many other pedestrians had hired linkmen — carriers of pitch torches — to light their way, especially north of Charing Cross, where fewer houses meant it was much darker. Chaloner did not bother, although it meant he was in danger of stumbling in potholes or treading in something unpleasant. There was another peril, too: two louts approached him with the clear intent of demanding his purse, but they backed away when his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword and they saw he was able to defend himself.

He reached the Crown and spent a few moments studying it from the shadows cast by the Gaming House opposite. Lights blazed on the ground floor, and a lamp was lit in the attic, but the rooms in between were in darkness. He crossed the road and entered the tavern. It was full and very noisy; Landlord Marshall moved between the tables with a genial smile and amiable conversation.

Still happy to gossip, Marshall informed Chaloner that the Piccadilly Company had permanent hire of the first floor, while the two storeys above it were rented by tenants, namely Pratt and a woman for whom he seemed to hold a fatherly regard. Chaloner sat for a while, watching and listening, and when he was sure no one was looking, he slipped up the stairs.

The Piccadilly Company’s chambers were locked, but it did not take him long to pick the mechanism and let himself inside. He lit a candle from the embers of the fire, shielding it with his hand so it would not be seen from outside.

The first room was an elegantly appointed parlour, with wood-panelled walls and a finely plastered ceiling. Its only furniture comprised a large table of polished oak, with benches set around it. He examined them minutely, then did the same for the panelling, floorboards and chimney, but if there were secret hiding places for documents, then he could not find them. The only evidence that papers had been present was in the hearth, where some had been reduced to ashes.

The second room was a pantry, indicating that refreshments were sometimes served, but a search of it yielded nothing. He returned to the parlour and sat on one of the benches, wondering what it was that Fitzgerald the pirate, the Dutch Janszoons, the nice Mr Jones, the Portuguese man, the three scouts and their cronies discussed. It was clearly something they wanted kept secret, or they would not have hired Brinkes to stand guard downstairs.

Could they be plotting rebellion? There had been dozens of uprisings since the King had reclaimed his crown — by Parliamentarians unwilling to accept that the Republican experiment was over, and by fanatics who believed the throne should have been offered to Jesus instead. They occurred so frequently that the newsbooks no longer bothered to report them, and the only person remotely interested was Spymaster Williamson, whose duty it was to suppress them.

But Chaloner did not think Harley and his fellow scouts were the kind of men who would care about politics — they were too selfish to risk themselves for a principle. However, Fitzgerald had lost his fortune in a storm, and Landlord Marshall believed he intended to make himself wealthy again. Somehow, money seemed a far more likely explanation than insurrection. But what were they planning, exactly? And how did the Tangier massacre fit into it?

As sitting in the parlour was not providing answers, Chaloner stood to leave. He glanced at the ashes in the hearth and, out of desperation, poked among them until he recovered a fragment that had escaped the flames. He tweaked it out, but it had been written in cipher:

iws

ubj

kwy

jvv

rzv

wiy

evj

jvb

rdi

xlp

ell

qcm

ftq

xds

cmr

zva

knt

elq

pad

dpm

znx

pdk

yto

jgw

pup

qpj

rbh

tjo

ufz

moq

iqq

ylz

hjh

ibj

wiq

iaq

oqi

jhn

rtr

shw

qsi

jbx

egq

yin

udh

azd

hag

fcm

dyp

ivy

am

He shoved it in his pocket, thinking it told him one thing for certain: that if the Piccadilly Company was sending or receiving coded messages and then burning them, it was embroiled in something untoward. It was not something that honest people tended to do.

He relocked the door and was about to walk down the stairs when he heard someone coming up them. The person was carrying a lamp, and it cast a shadow on the wall. Chaloner froze in alarm when he recognised the unmistakable bulk of Brinkes — he was about to be caught prying by a man who made his living by violence and murder.