The Piccadilly Plot

Chapter 4

Chaloner was reluctant to fight Brinkes, because he did not want the Piccadilly Company to know it was being monitored. Unfortunately, there was no time to pick the lock on the door again, so he ran silently up the stairs to the next floor. Not surprisingly, Pratt’s rooms were locked, and as he bent to try the handle, his sword scraped against the wall. It was a careless mistake, and he heard Brinkes falter on the floor below. There was a brief pause and then footsteps as the man came to investigate.

With no other option, Chaloner continued upwards to the attic. Luckily, that door was open, so he stepped through it quickly.

The woman sitting in the window spun around in alarm. She was pretty, with brown hair and clear skin, and she recognised him as the man who had seen her watching the street because she smiled. He interpreted it as a sign that she would be willing to help him, so he put his finger to his lips, and had only just managed to duck behind the bed before the door flew open.

Brinkes stood there, one meaty hand clutching a lamp and the other holding a dagger. When he began to stride towards the woman with barefaced menace, Chaloner swore softly, seeing he would have to do battle after all. He started to stand, but sank down again when she began to speak.

‘Do you have a dog?’ she asked in a curiously childish voice. She beamed at Brinkes, an expression that bespoke vacuity, and Chaloner realised with a start that there was something amiss with her wits. ‘James has a dog. A black one. Have you seen it? It is missing.’

‘Your husband is dead,’ said Brinkes, stopping in his tracks to regard her warily. ‘And so is his dog. Do you not remember being told? But never mind that. Did anyone just come in here?’

‘I like visitors,’ declared the woman, rocking back and forth. ‘But I do not have many.’

‘Christ,’ muttered Brinkes. Like many folk, he was unsure how to deal with disturbed minds. Unsettled, he began to back away. ‘Lock the door when I have gone. There are a lot of unpleasant people in this part of the city, and you do not want them coming in.’

The door closed, but Chaloner waited until Brinkes’s footsteps had gone all the way to the ground floor before moving. He stood and smiled gratefully at the woman.

‘I like visitors,’ she announced brightly. ‘My name is Ruth Elliot, and my husband is called James. He has a dog, and it is missing. Have you seen it?’

Chaloner frowned. James Elliot was the name of the man who had fought and killed Cave. ‘When did your husband die, mistress? Yesterday?’

‘He has not been to see me all day, and my brother told me he was dead.’ Then her troubled expression lifted, and she laughed. ‘But it cannot be true, because he was alive on Sunday.’

A miniature line-engraving had pride of place on the table, so Chaloner picked it up. The likeness had been made when Elliot was younger, but the eyes and black wig were the same. Also, Lester had mentioned a Ruth who would be heartbroken if Elliot were harmed, although Chaloner doubted it was the shock of her spouse’s death that had turned her wits: the array of medicines on the cabinet, and the dolls lined up on the bed, suggested they had been awry for some time.

He regarded her thoughtfully. It was a curious coincidence that Elliot’s wife just happened to live in the place that was the object of one of his three investigations. Or was it? There was a connection of sorts, in that Elliot had killed Cave, a man who had travelled home from Tangier on the same ship as the three scouts. And Harley, Newell and Reyner were involved with the Piccadilly Company, which met downstairs.

‘You watch the people who use the rooms below you,’ he said, coming to kneel next to her and trying to gauge her level of intelligence. ‘What do you see?’

‘I do not like them,’ she declared. ‘James said he will stop them from coming, but he forgets.’

‘What do they do?’

‘They talk,’ replied Ruth, pouting. ‘They discuss gravel.’

‘Gravel?’ echoed Chaloner warily.

‘I do not like gravel. I fell over in some once, and it hurt my knee. Look.’

She whipped up her skirts and showed Chaloner a minute scar. Gently, he pulled them down again, hoping she would not do the same to Brinkes, because the leg was shapely.

‘Who are the people you watch? Do you know their names?’

‘Oh, yes! Mr Fitzgerald the pirate. And Mr Jones with the red ribbons. And Mr Harley. And Mr Reyner. And Mr Newell.’ She sang the names rather oddly.

‘What about the others?’

Ruth shook her head and shrank away from him, her expression darkening. ‘They frighten me, and my brother told me that they killed James’s dog. But I do not believe that people would kill dogs — it must have run away. Have you seen it?’

‘Do not look out of the window any more,’ advised Chaloner, standing up. ‘These people will not like being monitored.’

‘But James told me to do it,’ said Ruth, wide-eyed. ‘He told me it was important.’

Chaloner was disgusted that Elliot should have encouraged such a dangerous habit, and wondered what he had been thinking. He took his leave, first ensuring that she locked the door after him, then exited the Crown by its back door, to avoid Brinkes, who was lurking at the front one.

Once outside, he aimed for the Gaming House. It was far earlier than the appointed ten o’clock, but he wanted to watch Reyner arrive, to ensure he was alone. He fingered the papers he had forged earlier, which he hoped would be convincing enough to persuade Reyner that a pardon and two hundred pounds would be his in exchange for information. He felt no guilt over the deception: anyone complicit in the deaths of Teviot’s garrison — and considered them ‘replaceable’ — deserved no better.

Because it was a cold night, the grounds were deserted. Moving silently, Chaloner made his way to the line of trees that divided the bowling green from the formal gardens, intending to use them as cover while he awaited Reyner’s arrival.

He was almost there when he saw a dark shape lying in one of the rose beds. Abandoning all efforts at stealth, because he knew it no longer mattered, he ran towards it. He reached the inert form and felt for a life-beat, not surprised when there was none. He rolled the body over. Reyner’s throat had been cut.

A brief search of the grounds revealed that Reyner’s killer had long gone, so Chaloner returned to stare at the body, disgusted with himself for not pressing the scout to talk earlier. He wondered how he was going to find out what had happened to Teviot now, because Harley and Newell would be far more difficult to crack. He sighed, supposing he would have to pursue the charade of the fictitious official inquiry.

Unwilling to answer the questions that would arise from informing the Gaming House owner that there was a corpse among his roses, Chaloner left, assuming the body would be found the following morning. He was wrong.

He had taken only a few steps along the Haymarket, eager now for home and bed, when there was a shrill shriek, followed by a lot of shouting. Because it would have looked suspicious to continue walking in the opposite direction, he joined the throng that poured into the garden. The alarm had been raised by a serving maid who had gone for a tryst with a card player, and had been distressed to find her favourite flower bed occupied by a cadaver.

By the time Chaloner arrived, torches had been lit, allowing the full extent of Reyner’s injury to be seen. Whoever had cut his throat had used enough force almost to sever his head from his body. It was a vicious attack, and Chaloner wondered who had done it. Harley or Newell, because they knew their comrade was about to betray them? Or Brinkes?

The two scouts were among the crowd. The faces of both were white, and Newell was leaning heavily on Harley’s shoulder. Chaloner eased back into the shadows, reluctant for them to see him, lest they assumed he was responsible. They did not linger long, though, and slouched away when the spectators began to reveal what they knew of the victim.

‘His name is Reyner, and he lives in that shabby old Feathers tavern,’ the serving wench was saying. She added rather sneeringly, ‘With his mother.’

Chaloner brightened. Perhaps Reyner’s dam would know what her son had embroiled himself in. He loitered a while longer, hoping to learn more by listening to the excited speculations, but it soon became clear that no one knew anything useful. He left and aimed for the decrepit Feathers, arriving to see lamps lit: Mrs Reyner already had visitors. He crouched down outside and pretended to fiddle with the buckle on his shoe, pleased when he heard the discussion within emanating through several conveniently cracked and broken windows.

‘Reyner was a good man,’ Newell was saying, his voice tight with fury. ‘We will hunt down who killed him, and slit his throat.’

‘Thank you kindly.’ Mrs Reyner’s voice was slurred, but Chaloner did not think it was from shock at the news she had just received. ‘Pour me another drink, will you? My nerves are all aquiver.’

‘It was Chaloner,’ said Harley softly. ‘It is too much of a coincidence that he should start asking questions about Teviot, and within hours Reyner is dead. He must have thought Reyner was a soft touch and slit his throat when he discovered otherwise.’

‘Chaloner wants to gain our favour, not kill us,’ argued Newell. ‘He is not the culprit. And it cannot be anyone from the Piccadilly Company, so that only leaves one set of suspects: our old adversaries. They killed Reyner because of what happened to Proby.’

‘You may be right,’ conceded Harley. ‘They certainly hate us.’

‘They do,’ said Newell tightly. ‘And when I find out which of them was responsible, I will kill him. I swear it on Reyner’s soul.’

At that point Mrs Reyner knocked over her cup, and there was a fuss as the mess was mopped up. Chaloner frowned his confusion. The only Proby he knew was the Adventurer who had recently jumped from the roof of St Paul’s Cathedral. Was Newell referring to him? But why would he be an enemy of the Piccadilly Company? And who were the ‘old adversaries’?

He continued to listen, but the scouts and Reyner’s mother had repositioned themselves after the spillage and he could no longer hear them clearly. As there was only so long he could pretend to be adjusting his shoe, he stood and began to walk home. He would have to interview Mrs Reyner the following day, when she was alone.

He was relieved that Newell had convinced Harley of his innocence, because it would have been inconvenient to dodge murderous attacks when he had so much else to do. But Reyner’s death was a blow, and he could not escape the feeling that it was his fault. He turned south when he reached Charing Cross, but it had been a frustratingly trying day, and he felt the need to be alone, away from the inquisitive stares of the servants in Tothill Street. He retraced his steps, intending to sleep at Long Acre instead.

Long Acre had once been a fashionable part of the city, with residents that included Oliver Cromwell and the poet John Dryden, but standards had slipped since the Restoration. Most of the elegant people had moved to more salubrious lodgings, and the place was now given over to coach-makers and brothels. It suited Chaloner perfectly. First, it was usually busy, even at night, which meant he was less likely to be noticed — always an important consideration for a spy. Second, it was convenient for White Hall. And third, Landlord Lamb only cared about the rent being paid on time, and never asked questions about his tenants’ business.

The house was a four-storey affair with a cellar, and was neither respectable nor notably seedy. The ground floor and rear garden were occupied by a coach-maker, while the first floor was home to Lamb and his wife. An old Cromwellian major named John Stokes lived in the rooms above, and Chaloner was right at the top.

The attic comprised three tiny chambers, and had the advantage of being reached by two separate staircases. It was also possible to climb out of the windows to the roof next door, further reducing his chances of being trapped. There was a bed and a chest in one chamber; the second was a cosy parlour where he kept his best bass viol; and the third was a cupboard-like pantry.

He was too restless to sleep, so he took his viol and began to play, a sad, lilting melody by Schütz, which matched his mood. He felt the music begin to calm him, and although he knew he should work on the cipher he had found, he continued to play until he could barely keep his eyes open. Then he lay on the bed, fully clothed, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

A loud clatter in the street below woke him the following morning. He was off the bed with his sword in his hand before he was fully cognisant, but soon learned that the noise was nothing to concern him. Red kites liked to range themselves along the roof, from where they swooped down to pick juicy morsels from the filth of the road, and one had dislodged a tile. It had landed on a glazier’s cart, making short work of the finished wares. Needless to say, the glazier was furious, and an argument ensued when he began to demand compensation from an indignantly defensive Landlord Lamb.

Chaloner ignored the clamouring voices as he fetched water from the butt in the hallway. He washed and shaved, then donned a heavily laced shirt, breeches with enough ribbon to satisfy even the most particular of critics, and a green long-coat with buttons to the knees. A white ‘falling band’ — a piece of linen that fell across the chest like a bib — completed the outfit.

He went to White Hall first, to report to the Earl. The dough-faced Sergeant Wright was on duty at the Great Gate, bags under eyes that were rimmed red with tiredness.

‘Bad night?’ asked Chaloner, as Wright stepped in front of him to prevent him from passing.

Wright spat. ‘Your Earl has a vicious tongue. He refused to pay me for the night before last, just because his bricks went missing. It meant I had to stay awake all last night, to make sure it did not happen again. It was damned hard work!’

‘Doing the job you have been paid for can be taxing.’

‘Too right,’ agreed Wright, the irony sailing over his head. ‘I usually find somewhere to snatch a doze, but I did not dare last night, not after what he said to me. Still, I shall manage a nap later this morning. Have you heard the latest news, by the way? About the missing Adventurer?’

‘I thought Proby had been found,’ said Chaloner. ‘After he jumped off St Paul’s Cathedral.’

Wright leaned closer, treating Chaloner to a waft of second-hand onions. ‘They are worried about another of their members now. Mr Grey set out to visit the Hercules’ Pillars Alley brothel last night, but he never arrived.’

‘Perhaps he found somewhere better to take his pleasure along the way.’

‘There is nowhere better.’ The sergeant sighed ruefully. ‘Not that the likes of you and I will ever see it, of course. It is an exclusive establishment, open only to barons or the extremely wealthy.’

Chaloner did not tell him that he had visited that particular bordello on numerous occasions, because he was friends with its owner.

‘I suppose I can let you pass,’ said Wright, looking Chaloner up and down critically, although he was deluding himself if he thought he could stop him. ‘You are almost respectable today.’

Once inside, Chaloner walked across the Great Court towards the Earl’s offices. In the Privy Garden a group of drunken courtiers, which included the Earl’s debauched kinsman Brodrick, were throwing pebbles at Lady Castlemaine’s windows, hoping to secure her attention. There was a cheer when she appeared in a dangerously low-cut robe.

‘I am going to tell my father about Cousin Brodrick. His behaviour is disgraceful!’

Chaloner turned to see Hyde standing there, although he could not help but wonder whether the younger man’s disapproval stemmed from jealousy — the Lady was obviously delighted to flirt with Brodrick, but she had not included Hyde in her sultry salutations.

‘I was hoping to catch you today, Chaloner,’ Hyde went on, reluctantly tearing his attention from the Lady’s generous display of bosom. ‘I found another letter yesterday. This time it was in the hearth, and you can see it is singed. Obviously, the Queen tried to burn it but failed to ensure it was done properly.’

Chaloner took it from him and saw the edge was indeed charred. The writing was identical to the previous missive, and confidently informed the recipient that Pratt would die on St Frideswide’s Day, when the whole Catholic world would rejoice at his demise. Chaloner handed it back.

‘Let me guess: it was placed at the front of the hearth, where it would be seen. And it happened to be there at a time when you were the one most likely to notice it.’

‘It was in a prominent position,’ Hyde acknowledged stiffly. ‘And being a man of habit, I always go to the hearth the moment I arrive at work. But it was not put there for me to find. The Queen is dabbling in dark business, and the sooner we dissuade her from such foolishness by catching her confederates, the sooner she will be safe. Have you unveiled them yet?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But-’

‘Then I suggest you refrain from regaling me with unfounded opinions and do your job,’ interrupted Hyde coldly. His glower intensified. ‘My father should never have appointed a spy — especially one with Parliamentarian leanings.’

He stalked away before Chaloner could inform him that he no longer had leanings one way or the other, being heartily disillusioned with both sides.

The new letter was worrying. It suggested that someone was determined to see the Queen in trouble, and that whoever it was had slipped past Captain Appleby to put his nasty note in a place where he knew it would be discovered by the credulous Hyde. But there were still seven days before the Feast of St Frideswide, so there was ample time to explore the matter. At least, Chaloner hoped so.

When Chaloner arrived at the Earl’s offices, it was to find Chief Usher Dugdale there, rifling through the drawers of a cabinet. Edgeman the secretary was sitting at the desk, also rummaging, while Kipps stood in the window. The Seal Bearer had placed himself so as to secure an unimpeded view of the Lady in her flimsy gown.

‘Where have you been?’ Dugdale demanded, using anger to mask his chagrin at being caught pawing through his master’s belongings. ‘I told you to report to me every day, and you failed to appear yesterday.’

‘Actually,’ countered Chaloner, ‘what you said was that you wanted to know my every move. It is not the same thing.’

‘You insolent dog!’ snarled Dugdale. ‘How dare you talk back to me! Do you-’

Chaloner stepped towards him, fast enough to make him cower involuntarily. ‘Please do not call me names. Unless you want to repeat them on the duelling field?’

‘Duelling is illegal,’ blustered Dugdale. ‘And I do not break the law.’

‘It is only illegal if you are caught,’ said Kipps, tearing his eyes away from the Lady and turning towards them. ‘Do you need a second, Chaloner?’

‘No, he does not,’ cried Dugdale, alarmed. ‘The Earl expects high standards of his gentlemen, and you will never coerce me into behaving disreputably.’

Chaloner looked pointedly at the recently searched cabinet. ‘You need no coercion from me.’

‘Tell me what you intend to do today,’ ordered Dugdale, immediately going on the offensive. ‘I shall then decide whether to give my permission.’

Chaloner had no intention of confiding his plans. ‘It depends on what the Earl says after he has heard my report. Where is he?’

It was Edgeman who replied. He smirked spitefully. ‘You have had a wasted journey. He will come late today, because he is going to watch the King dine at the Banqueting House. I might join him there. It is always an entertaining spectacle.’

‘Is it?’ Chaloner had been once, but had failed to understand the attraction in watching someone else eat. It was not as if His Majesty hurled food around or told clever jokes while he feasted. But it was a popular pastime for many, and the Earl rarely refused an invitation.

‘You are incapable of appreciating the finer things of life,’ sneered Edgeman. ‘Because-’

‘The same might be said of you two,’ interrupted Kipps sharply. ‘I invite you to spend an evening at the best brothel in London, and what do you do? Decline!’

‘Because we do not indulge in sordid wickedness,’ said Edgeman loftily. ‘Do we, Dugdale?’

‘No,’ agreed Dugdale piously. ‘Only low-mannered scum frequent brothels.’

‘The King is a regular at this one.’ Kipps smiled rather wolfishly. ‘Shall I tell him your opinion then? I am sure he will be interested to hear what you think of him.’

He spun on his heel and stalked out. Chaloner followed, wondering what it was about White Hall that seemed to attract such dreadful people. He was sure the foreign courts in which he had worked had not housed such a profusion of them.

‘Baiting them gives me great pleasure,’ confided Kipps, once they were out of earshot. ‘Yet I cannot help but wonder whether it is expensive fun. We shall never have the better of a man like Dugdale, because he is so damned slippery.’

‘Why were they searching the Earl’s drawers?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Were they? I did not notice. I try not to look in their direction whenever possible, especially Dugdale’s. The very sight of him stirs me to violent impulses.’

‘You like him well enough to invite him to brothels.’

‘Only because I knew he would never accept,’ replied Kipps, with a conspiratorial wink.

The first thing Chaloner did after leaving White Hall was to visit Mrs Reyner. It was a pleasant day, and the sun had turned the sky pink in the east. He breathed in deeply, then coughed as grit caught at the back of his throat. As always, London was swathed in a yellow-black haze, from its citizens lighting sea-coal fires for heat, hot water and cooking.

When he reached the Feathers, he listened carefully outside, to ensure Harley and Newell had not kept her company overnight. When he was sure she was alone, he knocked, and when the door was answered, he was hard-pressed to prevent himself from recoiling at the stench of wine on her breath. Clearly, she was a woman who liked to give her sorrows a good dousing.

‘My son is dead,’ she said, sharply. ‘And if he owed you money, then that is too bad, because I am not responsible for his debts.’

‘I heard what happened to him,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘I am sorry.’

She softened at the kindness in his voice. ‘Well? What do you want? It is cruel to keep an old woman on her doorstep in the chill of the morning.’

‘Then I had better come in,’ said Chaloner, stepping past her and entering a dingy hall.

She made no complaint, and only shuffled to a pantry, where she poured herself a generous measure of wine. Her movements were uncoordinated, which he supposed was to his advantage: if she were drunk, she was less likely to wonder why he was interrogating her.

‘You must have been very proud of your son,’ he began. ‘Being a scout in Tangier.’

‘Spying on people was what he did best.’ She nodded. ‘He was always good at it, even as a child. But he did not come home a happy man. He was frightened.’

‘Frightened of what?’

‘He would not tell me, although he did mention that we were going to be rich. Of course, that will not happen now.’ Bitterly, she took a gulp from her mug.

‘No? Surely Harley and Newell will see you are looked after — for his sake?’

‘Those scum! They are furious that he is dead, and promised vengeance. But vengeance does not put wine on the table, does it? I want money!’

‘He belonged to a group called the Piccadilly Company,’ said Chaloner, a little taken aback by her brazen rapacity, especially as Reyner professed to have been fond of her. Naively, he had expected the sentiment to have been reciprocated. ‘Do you know what-’

Mrs Reyner sneered. ‘That Brilliana is a member! She is Colonel Harley’s sister, and an evil witch. The others I do not know. Well, there is Fitzgerald — the one-eyed sailor with the large orange beard — but we do not talk about him, of course.’

‘Why not?’ asked Chaloner, aware that her voice had dropped to a whisper.

‘Because he is a pirate. And he visits brothels, like the one in Hercules’ Pillars Alley.’

‘I see. Is that the best place to find him, then?’

‘No one “finds” Fitzgerald. And you had better hope he does not find you, either.’

Chaloner changed the subject, thinking he would rather have answers about Fitzgerald from the man himself, anyway. ‘Did your son tell you what happened in Tangier the day Lord Teviot died?’

‘He said he was paid handsomely to facilitate an ambush, although I never saw any of the money.’ Mrs Reyner sighed mournfully. ‘And now I never will.’

‘Did he tell you that this ambush resulted in the deaths of almost five hundred men?’

She shrugged. ‘What of it? They were soldiers, and soldiers are supposed to fight. It was hardly my boy’s fault that they were not very good at it.’

There was no point in embarking on a debate about the ethics of the situation, and Chaloner did not try. ‘What else did he tell you about it?’

‘Nothing, except that it plagued his conscience.’ She grimaced. ‘He always was a weakling.’

‘Who do you think killed him?’ asked Chaloner, fighting down his revulsion for the woman.

‘His enemies — the deadly horde that Harley and Newell kept talking about last night. You see, there is the Piccadilly Company, and there are their foes. They hate each other. You should watch yourself, Mr … what did you say your name was?’

‘Thank you for your time,’ said Chaloner. ‘But if this “deadly horde” is as dangerous as you say, you might be wise not to speak to anyone else about your son’s activities in Tangier.’

‘The horde will not harm me,’ stated Mrs Reyner confidently. ‘Because I have this.’

She reached under her skirts, and there followed several moments of rather unseemly rummaging. Chaloner was on the verge of leaving — there was only so much he could be expected to endure for the sake of an inquiry — when she produced a piece of paper with a drunken flourish.

‘It is a list of names, but it is in code, so no one can read it. My son gave it to me, and said it would protect me if his enemies come.’

She brandished it again, but the movement caused her to teeter, obliging Chaloner to grab her arm before she fell. He settled her in a chair, then turned his attention to the paper. On it were written about fifty words, all in cipher. Pen and ink stood on the table, so he began to make a copy.

‘Here!’ she demanded belligerently. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Saving your life. If this horde comes, and you are forced to give them the list, you can tell them there is a duplicate — one that will be made public should anything happen to you.’

‘Who shall I say has it?’ she asked blearily. ‘You have not told me your name.’

Chaloner smothered his exasperation. ‘That is the point! If they do not know me, they cannot order me to hand my copy over, too. They will have to leave you alone, or risk being exposed.’

Such a complex explanation took a while for Mrs Reyner to grasp, but when she did, she grinned. ‘Hurry up, then. But be warned — my boy said the code is impossible to crack, because it came from vinegar.’

‘Vinegar? Do you mean Vigenère?’

She snapped her fingers. ‘That is the man! Do you know him?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, although his heart sank. The polyalphabetic cipher adapted by Vigenère was said to be unbreakable. He handed the scroll back to Mrs Reyner, reminded her what she should say if her son’s enemies came calling, and took his leave. It was time to visit his friend John Thurloe, who had a rare talent for decoding messages not intended for his eyes.

Chaloner took a hackney carriage to Chancery Lane, not because he was tired, but because he was bored with the journey between Piccadilly and the city. Unfortunately, he was not in the coach for long before it rolled to a standstill, and he peered out to see The Strand was in the midst of one of its ‘stops’ — carts, carriages and horses in a jam so dense that nothing was moving.

With a sigh, he clambered out and began to walk, dodging through the traffic until he reached Lincoln’s Inn, one of London’s four great legal foundations. He waved to the duty porter as he stepped through the wicket gate, then made his way to Chamber XIII. He tapped softly on the door, and let himself into the one place in London where he felt truly safe, a comfortable suite of rooms that were full of the cosy, familiar scent of old books, wax polish and wood-smoke.

John Thurloe was sitting by the fire. He was a slight man with large blue eyes, whose unassuming appearance belied the power he had wielded when he was Cromwell’s Secretary of State and Spymaster General. There were those who said the Commonwealth would not have lasted as long as it had without Thurloe’s guidance — he had run a highly efficient intelligence network, of which Chaloner had been a part. He had retired from politics at the Restoration, and now lived quietly, dividing his time between London and his estate in Oxfordshire.

‘Tom!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come in! It is a bitterly cold day, and you must be freezing.’

Chaloner laughed. ‘It is a pleasant morning, and I am hot from walking.’

‘Then you had better take one of these,’ said Thurloe, offering him a tin. ‘We cannot have you overheating. One of Mr Matthew’s Excellent Pills should put you right.’

Thurloe was always concerned about his own health, and declared himself to be fragile, although there was a strength in him that was unmatched by anyone else Chaloner had ever met. He swallowed all manner of cure-alls in his search for one that would make him feel as he had when he was twenty. Chaloner was sure they could not be good for him.

‘Good for slaying fluxes,’ he said, shaking his head as he recalled what he had read about the tablets in The Intelligencer. He did not mention the bit about expelling wind: Thurloe was inclined to be prudish.

‘If you will not accept a pill, then have a sip of this instead,’ said Thurloe, proffering a brightly coloured phial that declared itself to be Sydenham’s Laudanum.

Chaloner shook his head a second time, then watched in alarm as Thurloe drained it in a single swallow. ‘Easy! There might be all manner of unpleasant ingredients in that.’

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Thurloe blithely. ‘But if essence of slug or tincture of quicksilver can restore the spark of vitality that has been missing in me since Cromwell died, I shall not complain.’

‘You will complain if they kill you. Quicksilver is poisonous. I know — I have seen it used.’

‘I doubt there is quicksilver in this. Indeed, it imparts a wonderful sense of well-being, and I feel as though I could raise mountains after my daily dose.’

‘Then do not do it in Lincoln’s Inn. Your fellow benchers would not approve.’

Thurloe gave one of his rare smiles. ‘It is good to see you, Tom. Is this a social call, or have you come to ask what I know about certain happenings in Piccadilly?’

Chaloner gaped at him. Thurloe had inspired deep loyalty among his intelligencers, and many continued to supply him with information, even though he was no longer active in espionage — fortunately, as it happened, because it was what allowed him to stay one step ahead of those who still itched to execute him for the role he had played in the Commonwealth. But even so, Chaloner was startled that the ex-Spymaster should know what he was currently investigating.

Thurloe smiled again. ‘It was a guess, Tom, based on logic. It is obvious that the Earl would order you to find out about his missing bricks, while he cannot be happy with what is happening in the Crown, a place that is virtually his neighbour.’

‘What do you know about the Crown?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Very little, other than that it rents rooms to a group that calls itself the Piccadilly Company. Word is that Spymaster Williamson is trying to probe their business, but with no success. Perhaps his failure is because Swaddell is no longer with him — he has gone to work for the Adventurers.’

‘The Adventurers?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘You mean the wealthy but inept aristocrats who have declared a trading monopoly on Africa? Why would they need an assassin?’

‘I do not know. However, it is not they who meet in the Crown, and whose gatherings are so carefully guarded that no one can eavesdrop. The Piccadilly Company worries me.’

‘I searched their parlour last night and found this.’ Chaloner handed him the singed paper.

Thurloe took it. ‘It looks like a substitution code. You should be able to break it yourself. It will not be difficult, merely time-consuming.’

‘Apparently, the Piccadilly Company has some deadly enemies. These are their names.’ Chaloner passed him Mrs Reyner’s list. ‘They are written in Vigenère’s cipher.’

Thurloe frowned. ‘This represents more of a challenge, so I suggest I tackle it, while you work on the document from the Crown. It will take me too long to do both, and I am busy with an errant kinsman at the moment — one of my wife’s brothers, who has always been recklessly wild.’

‘Do you need help?’

‘I can manage, thank you. Besides, you will have enough to do if you plan to break through the secrecy surrounding the Piccadilly Company.’

‘I think they might have something to do with what happened to Teviot in Tangier.’ Briefly, Chaloner outlined all he had learned and reasoned, including about Reyner’s murder.

‘It sounds as though you are right to make a connection between the massacre and the Piccadilly Company,’ mused Thurloe when he had finished. ‘But I cannot imagine what it might be.’

‘Do you know anything about them? Rumours about their plans? The identities of their members? I know some of them — for example, the three scouts and Harley’s sister Brilliana. But “Mr Jones” is probably an alias, and I suspect the same is true of “Margareta and Cornelis Janszoon”. They are the Dutch couple who attended a meeting in the Crown yesterday.’

‘Why would you think they are using false names?’ asked Thurloe, puzzled.

‘Because they are the Dutch equivalent of John and Mary Smith. They might be genuine, but I seriously doubt it. Fitzgerald is not an alias, though. He is-’

‘Fitzgerald?’ asked Thurloe in horror. ‘Not John Fitzgerald the pirate?’

‘He prefers the term privateer, apparently. Do you know him? He has a ridiculous orange beard, one eye and an extremely peculiar voice.’

Thurloe’s expression was suddenly haunted. ‘Of all the enemies I faced as Spymaster, he was the one I most wish I had bested. His flagship sank recently. I had hoped he was on it.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner in alarm. Thurloe did not usually wish death on his opponents, and the reaction was deeply unsettling. ‘What did he do?’

‘He destroyed a number of Commonwealth vessels and butchered their crews. You must take more than your usual care if he is involved. In fact, you will stay away from him. Do you promise?’

‘No.’ Chaloner did not want his hands to be so tied. ‘He cannot be-’

‘If you tackle him alone, he will kill you. And if you take reinforcements, but lack the evidence to destroy him, he will wriggle free of the charges — and then he will kill you. You must hold back until we understand exactly what he is doing. Do you understand?’

‘But I need to question him-’

‘Please, Tom,’ said Thurloe quietly. ‘I ask you for very little, and I would be grateful if you would oblige me in this. Will you swear to stay away from him? On your mother’s soul?’

Chaloner tried to think of a way to avoid making the promise, but nothing came to mind. ‘I will,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘But-’

‘Good,’ said Thurloe, cutting across him before conditions could be attached. ‘I think I must emerge from retirement if he has returned. We shall work together on this case.’

‘No, we will not.’ Chaloner was even more alarmed. ‘He is not your only enemy — others will attack you if you start meddling with-’

‘I shall meddle where I please, Thomas,’ said Thurloe, rather dangerously. ‘Moreover, I fail to understand your persistent conviction that I need protecting. I do not. Have you forgotten that I was once Spymaster General?’

‘Spymaster, not spy,’ countered Chaloner. ‘There is a world of difference. You organised missions and interpreted information gathered by others. You did not go out and do it yourself.’

Thurloe was silent for a moment. ‘Perhaps you are right. So I shall act as a spymaster again, deciphering what you bring me and collating it with snippets I shall commission from others. Will that satisfy you, or shall we work separately and less efficiently to bring Fitzgerald to task?’

‘We can try to work together,’ agreed Chaloner cautiously. ‘And see how we fare.’

Thurloe wasted no time, and immediately set about writing to old contacts, to see what shreds of information might be gleaned about the Piccadilly Company. Chaloner was detailed to return to the Crown, and engage Landlord Marshall in conversation again.

‘The man loves to gossip,’ Thurloe said. ‘Which means he probably watches the Company very closely. See what else he can tell us.’

It was raining outside, which surprised Chaloner, because the sun had been shining earlier. He was hungry, so he stopped at an ‘ordinary’ — an eating house that sold meals at set prices — on Fleet Street, and ate a venison pastry that was well past its best, although the baker assured him that the meat had spent the previous night in the ground, a popular cure for game that had been allowed to over-ripen. Afterwards, feeling slightly queasy, he took a hackney to Piccadilly.

‘Do you know William Reyner — one of the Piccadilly Company members?’ Marshall asked excitedly when he saw Chaloner, positively bursting with the need to talk. ‘Well, he was murdered last night. Harley and Newell are livid about it — they have vowed to catch the culprit and kill him.’

‘Do they have any suspects?’

‘Not that they told me,’ said Marshall ruefully. ‘But that is not my only news. Reyner’s mother is dead, too. She was found not an hour ago.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘How did she die?’

‘Throat cut, same as her son,’ replied Marshall with ghoulish glee. ‘Perhaps Reyner told her some secret, and she was dispatched to ensure she never revealed it to anyone else — she drank, you see, so was not discreet. Or perhaps Harley or Newell killed her for not being much of a mother to their friend — he doted on her, but she was indifferent towards him.’

‘You are not safe here.’ Chaloner’s stomach churned, and he had the sickening sense that he had sealed Mrs Reyner’s fate just by visiting her. ‘Dangerous people meet in your tavern, and-’

‘Nonsense.’ Marshall raised a hand when Chaloner began to argue. ‘I complained to Mr Jones about the Piccadilly Company’s odd habits this morning, and he explained everything. He said he and his friends still export glassware, but they just do it on a larger scale, which is why they are so keen on secrecy. It is a lucrative business, apparently.’

Chaloner wondered how Marshall could have believed the tale. ‘But Fitzgerald is a-’

‘Mr Jones says Fitzgerald is a changed man now the Royalists are in power,’ interrupted Marshall with a smile. ‘He has given up piracy, and will make his fortune honestly instead.’

‘I seriously doubt-’ began Chaloner.

‘It is true,’ insisted Marshall earnestly. ‘He is respectable now, and has even been granted audiences with the King — he preyed on Cromwell’s ships during the Commonwealth, you see, which is considered patriotic these days. Indeed, he is in the Banqueting House at this very moment, invited there to watch the King devour his dinner.’

Chaloner was astounded. ‘A pirate is welcomed at Court?’

‘The King considers him a hero for what he did to the Roundheads,’ said Marshall. ‘He is a pirate no more. He took Harley and Newell with him, to cheer them up after losing their friend.’

Chaloner tried again to warn him about the danger he was in, but Marshall declined to listen, and there was nothing Chaloner could do to make him. He took his leave and began to walk to White Hall, wishing Thurloe had not shackled him with the promise to stay away from Fitzgerald, because an interview with the man might answer all manner of questions. However, while he was forbidden to approach the pirate, he could still speak to his cronies — and it was high time he had a serious discussion with Harley and Newell.

The Banqueting House was a large, airy building with huge windows and a ceiling painted by Rubens. It was never easy gaining access to it when the King was eating, because it was a popular event and places were limited. Surprisingly, the solution came from Chief Usher Dugdale, who ordered Chaloner to don a liveried hat and coat, and take his place in the Lord Chancellor’s retinue. Chaloner obliged happily, and Dugdale’s eyes narrowed in instant suspicion.

The procession set off, Kipps at the front bearing the seal. Clarendon and his wife were next, followed by their son Hyde, while the gentlemen ushers brought up the rear. All eyes were on the Earl, because he was wearing expensively fashionable shoes that were far too tight, and he waddled outrageously, more of a caricature of himself than anything his cruel mimics could ever manage.

They had not been settled for long in the gallery that overlooked the main hall before the King arrived. He sat at the table that had been set ready for him, his Queen on one side, and his mistress on the other. Poor Katherine was dark and dowdy compared to the glorious Lady Castlemaine. She looked miserable, and it was clear she wished she were somewhere else.

A blaring fanfare heralded the arrival of the food, which not surprisingly was a good deal more appetising than rancid venison pastry. There were huge pieces of roasted meat, elegantly decorated pies, whole baked fish and sweet tarts. The King fell to with an enthusiasm that was heartening, watched intently by spectators who must have numbered in the hundreds. Because it was hot in the Banqueting House with so many of them crammed together, and because best clothes had been donned for the occasion, the air was thick with the reek of sweat and moth-repellent.

Chaloner looked for Fitzgerald, Harley and Newell, but they were nowhere to be seen. He wondered whether they had spun Marshall a yarn, and the pirate was no more welcome at Court than any other man with a brazenly criminal past would be.

There were plenty of other people he recognised, though. They included Leighton, the Adventurers’ secretary, whom Kipps had described as the most dangerous man in London. Was it true? There was definitely something compelling about the fellow, with his button-like eyes and unsettlingly bland face.

Leighton was next to O’Brien and Kitty, whose newly acquired wealth was evident in their fine but tastefully understated clothes. Chaloner recalled being told several times that they were the King’s current favourites — although apparently not enough to be asked to join him at his feast. Kitty looked especially lovely in a green dress that matched her eyes, her auburn hair in tight ringlets around her face. O’Brien’s obvious excitement with the occasion made him seem more boyish than ever, his fair curls bobbing and his eyes flashing with unbridled delight.

Leighton kept tapping O’Brien’s arm to claim his attention, but O’Brien was more interested in the King’s feast, and Chaloner could see them growing exasperated with each other. Meanwhile, Kitty had been cornered by Brodrick, who had a dark, sinister figure at his side — John Swaddell, who had worked for Spymaster Williamson until seduced away by the prospect of better wages. Surely, thought Chaloner uneasily, Brodrick had not hired the man? He doubted the Earl’s cousin could afford him, and he wondered whether there would be a murder to investigate when Swaddell learned he was never going to be paid what he had been promised.

After a few moments, Hyde and Dugdale joined them, and Leighton began to address the whole ensemble, although O’Brien and Kitty were obvious in their preference for watching the King instead, and it was not long before he gave up. Brodrick took up the reins, relating some tale that had them rocking with laughter, and Leighton promptly moved away, his expression difficult to read.

Eventually Chaloner spotted Fitzgerald, Harley and Newell in the opposite gallery, and supposed they must have told Marshall the truth after all. They were with several others he had seen in the Crown, all members of the Piccadilly Company. Chaloner abandoned the Earl and edged towards them, aiming to come close enough to eavesdrop. As he did so, he studied Fitzgerald carefully, curious about the man who had bested Thurloe.

The pirate was wearing a fine blue suit with a matching eye-patch, and his red beard had been allowed to flow free, so it covered his chest and a good part of his stomach. In all, it made for an arresting appearance. His peculiarly high voice was audible over the general hubbub, as he told a sullen Harley a tale about a chest of silver.

Newell was with the swarthy man whose clothes had led Chaloner to assume he was from Lisbon. When a trumpet blast announced the beginning of another course, the fellow jumped in alarm and blurted a curse in Portuguese. Chaloner nodded his satisfaction: he had been right.

A short distance away, ‘the nice Mr Jones’, complete with red ribbons in his boot hose, was chatting to Margareta and Cornelis Janszoon, although people were scowling at them, disliking Hollanders in their midst when the two countries might soon be at war. At first, Chaloner did not rate their chances of escaping the event in one piece, but then he saw that they were accompanied by several burly soldiers. Clearly, they were aware of their unpopularity, and had taken measures to protect themselves.

Chaloner did not think he had ever seen a couple more obviously Dutch. Janszoon looked as though he had stepped directly out of a painting by van Dyck, with a wide-brimmed hat and the kind of collar popular among Amsterdam’s burgomasters. There was a vivid scar on one cheek, which made Chaloner wonder whether an assault had prompted the hire of bodyguards. Margareta’s clothes were dark and sombre, with a maidenly wimple of a kind never seen in England. Perhaps as a sop to London fashions, both had used liberal amounts of face-powder and rouge.

‘The King eats with his fingers,’ she remarked to Jones in heavily accented English. ‘How curious. In Amsterdam, we use forks.’

Her voice had not been loud, but the comment coincided with a lull in other conversations, and those around her heard it quite clearly. There was a collective murmur of indignation, and Jones moved away sharply, his handsome face burning with embarrassment.

‘The Queen’s manners are delicate,’ said Janszoon quickly, also in the clipped, uncertain way of the non-native speaker. He smiled benignly. ‘Not like the … what is the word? Strumpet? Yes, strumpet. The Queen is more delicate than the common strumpet on the King’s left.’

Chaloner winced on his behalf, suspecting that someone had taught him the word as a joke. Then Fitzgerald stepped forward and whispered something. Janszoon was patently puzzled, but nodded agreement, and all three left, the guards at their heels. Chaloner tried to follow, but the press was too great, and he gave up when he realised they would be gone before he could reach the door.

‘Lord!’ came a familiarly peevish voice. ‘I cannot say I approve of that sort of judgement being passed about Lady Castlemaine. She is hardly a common strumpet.’

It was Roger Pratt, and his comment broke the uncomfortable tension that had followed the Janszoons’ departure, because people started to laugh. The architect looked bemused: he had not intended to be droll.

‘They are Dutch,’ explained Jones to the people who still regarded him uncertainly. ‘With poor English, so they cannot be expected to know how to behave in polite society. Unlike the Portuguese.’ He smiled ingratiatingly at the man in black.

Another bray of bugles interrupted any more that might have been added, and then there were coos of wonder, because one of the dishes comprised an enormous gelatine castle, wobbling precariously on a tray of live eels. The King plunged a spoon into one of the towers, accompanied by an encouraging cheer from the audience, but its taste apparently did not equal its appearance, because he pulled a face and did not take any more.

Feeling he should at least try to glean some useful information that day, Chaloner approached Harley and Newell.

‘So you are Clarendon’s creature,’ Newell said in disgust when he saw Chaloner’s uniform. ‘I might have known. The man has a reputation for meddling where he is not wanted.’

‘Reyner is dead,’ said Harley, his devil-eyes boring into Chaloner’s. ‘And if I learn you had anything to do with it, I will slit your throat.’

‘Why would I want Reyner dead?’ asked Chaloner with quiet reason. ‘I barely knew him.’

‘You had better be telling the truth,’ said Harley in a low, menacing voice. ‘I dislike liars.’

‘So do I,’ said Chaloner, returning the scout’s hard stare. ‘Have you thought about my proposal, by the way? The Tangier Committee is now certain to order an inquiry, and-’

Harley moved suddenly, and shoved him against the wall. The knife from Chaloner’s sleeve dropped into his hand, but he did not use it.

‘We do not need your good auspices, because there are others who will protect us,’ the colonel snarled. ‘Now leave us alone, and do not bother us again.’

He released Chaloner and stalked away. Newell followed, and Chaloner saw he would have to find another way to make them tell him what had happened that fateful day on Jews Hill.

The King did not take long to demolish his nine courses, and was leaping up from the table by the time Chaloner returned to the Earl. The entertainment over, people began to file out of the Banqueting House. Clarendon claimed his feet hurt, and sent his Seal Bearer and ushers to find him a sedan chair. As other courtiers wanted them, too, the commission was likely to take some time, so Dugdale ordered Chaloner to wait with him — a number of his enemies were nearby, and Chaloner was the only member of the retinue wearing a sword.

‘Who has cornered my wife?’ asked the Earl, perching on a plinth and slipping his feet out of his tight shoes to waggle his plump toes in relief. ‘Does she look as if she needs rescuing?’

‘That is Ellis Leighton, sir,’ replied Chaloner. ‘The Adventurers’ secretary.’

‘So it is.’ The Earl grimaced, then pointed rather indiscreetly. ‘Do you see that portly man and his skinny companion, talking near the door? They are Sir Edward Turner and Lord Lucas — also Adventurers, and two of the richest men in London. I cannot imagine why they elected a man like Leighton to be their leader. He is said to be a criminal.’

Turner was enormously fat, while Lucas was painfully thin, and they made for a curious pair as they stood together. Both had the smug, self-satisfied air of men who had done well for themselves.

‘They are particular friends,’ the Earl went on. ‘Look! Other Adventurers are going to join them now — like moths around a flame.’

Chaloner recognised most. They were either wealthy or had positions at Court, and he eyed them with distaste, aware that here were the people who owned the nation’s monopoly on the slave trade.

‘Frances is probably asking Secretary Leighton not to lead our son astray,’ said the Earl, his attention snapping back to his wife. ‘But she is wasting her breath. Damn! She is bringing the fellow over, and there is something about him that has always made me uneasy.’

‘My Lord,’ drawled Leighton as he approached. Despite the elegant bow he effected, there was something that said he was anything but submissive, and when the Earl nodded back, it was he who seemed the lesser of the two. ‘I trust you are well?’

‘No, actually,’ replied Clarendon shortly. ‘I am in pain, and my ushers are taking an age to summon me a sedan chair. I knew I should have brought my personal carriage.’

‘Then you must join me in mine,’ said Leighton graciously. He turned to Turner and Lucas, who were suddenly at his heels, clearly eager for an opportunity to ingratiate themselves with the Lord Chancellor. ‘There is room for another, is there not?’

‘Of course,’ gushed Turner, multiple chins wobbling as he nodded. ‘I hope it arrives soon, though. I have not eaten in more than an hour, and the sight of all that food …’

‘It made me feel sick,’ countered Lucas, clutching his concave middle. ‘I think I shall stay with you tonight, Turner. I do not feel equal to riding home after that display of gluttony.’

‘Gluttony?’ asked Turner, startled. ‘They left half of what was provided. Personally, I would not have moved until every last crumb was consumed. It looked far too good to waste.’

Leighton smiled at them, although it was a curious expression and one that made even Chaloner uncomfortable, although he could not have said why. ‘I shall summon my coach.’

The Earl started to decline, but Leighton was already moving towards the gate, using the curious scuttle Chaloner had noticed the first time he had seen him. When Lucas and Turner had gone, too, the Earl shot his wife a pained glance.

‘Leighton is said to treat with felons, and now I am obliged to sit in his coach! I would sooner walk, but I dare not offend him. He might make me disappear, like he has some of his enemies.’

‘Nonsense, dear,’ said Frances mildly. ‘Mr Leighton is perfectly genteel. And he has agreed to ensure that Henry does not fall by the wayside at the Adventurers’ dinners, too. I know you have asked Cousin Brodrick to oblige, but that is rather like putting a fox in charge of the hen coop.’

‘I do not know what you mean,’ said the Earl, offended on his kinsman’s behalf. He started to add more, but was interrupted by the arrival of the son and heir himself, puffed up with importance and towing Kitty and O’Brien in his wake. O’Brien was grinning widely, informing the world at large that watching the King eat had been one of the most delightful experiences of his life. Chaloner could only surmise that he did not get out much.

‘I would like you to meet my new friends, father,’ said Hyde, openly thrilled to have secured the company of the King’s favourites. ‘Kitty and Henry O’Brien.’

‘Upstarts,’ muttered the Earl unpleasantly. ‘Made wealthy from the sale of a bit of copper.’

It was rude, and Chaloner was not surprised when O’Brien looked offended. The nobleman opened his mouth to respond, but was apparently not someone with the intellect for witty ripostes, so he closed it again. Kitty stepped forward and took his arm. Her pretty face was flushed, although with anger or mortification was difficult to say.

‘It has been a long day,’ she said with quiet dignity. ‘And we are all tired, blurting things without thinking. Good afternoon to you, My Lord Chancellor.’

‘The King has invited us to his apartments tomorrow,’ called O’Brien, over his shoulder as she tugged him away. ‘It is to be a small affair for his close friends.’

Chaloner was fairly sure O’Brien was only trying to convey to the Earl that not everyone at Court shunned him because he was newly rich, but the reality was that there were few remarks that could have been more wounding. Clarendon’s prissiness and tendency to nag meant he was losing the King’s affection, and it had been a long time since he had enjoyed a private soirée in the royal apartments. It was the Earl’s turn to flounder for a response.

Meanwhile, Hyde was livid at his father’s lack of courtesy. He spoke through gritted teeth.

‘They may be upstarts, but the King likes them, and it is foolish to alienate people who have his ear. Moreover, Leighton is trying to get them to invest their fortune with the Adventurers, and if they do, we can buy another ship. We shall all be richer if they join, and we have been asked to do what we can to persuade them. That does not include having them insulted by our sires.’

The Earl’s face was puce with fury at being challenged, and to prevent a family spat in a public place, Frances asked before he could speak, ‘Are they resisting, then, Henry?’

Hyde pulled a face. ‘Yes, because they dislike the fact that we trade in slaves. But such scruples have no place in commerce, which they should accept if they are going to join the ranks of the wealthy. Please do not offend them again, father. I do not want Leighton vexed with me.’

He trotted after them, leaving Clarendon spluttering with impotent rage. He caught up with them just as they stopped to exchange words with their friend Spymaster Williamson. Chaloner tuned out the Earl’s furious diatribe, and watched O’Brien greet Williamson with a happy grin; Kitty approached in such a way that her fingers brushed the Spymaster’s thigh. Chaloner gaped in astonishment, but then Kersey’s words flashed into his mind: that Kitty had taken a lover. But surely it could not be Williamson? O’Brien was his oldest friend!

‘We have been asked to the King’s private apartments,’ O’Brien announced with open delight. He was clearly a man for whom invitations were important. ‘What fun!’

‘You will soon have your wish of being accepted into high society,’ said Williamson warmly. ‘God knows, you deserve it. There is no better company in England than you.’

O’Brien laughed his pleasure, but then Hyde grabbed his arm and steered him and Kitty towards a gaggle of Adventurers, leaving Williamson to continue alone. The indulgent smile had been replaced by grim determination by the time the Spymaster reached Chaloner.

‘I need to see you urgently,’ he whispered. ‘Come to my Westminster office tomorrow.’

Chaloner nodded, although he had no intention of complying. They might have reached a truce, but he was not such a fool as to step willingly into Williamson’s lair.

‘Do not go,’ ordered the Earl, when the Spymaster had gone. The whiteness of his lips said he was still seething. ‘His assassin has abandoned him, and word is that he is looking for a replacement. And you work for me.’

Frances cleared her throat, claiming the attention of both of them. She beamed at Chaloner who began to smile back, although he stopped when he saw the Earl’s immediate scowl.

‘No, Frances,’ said Clarendon angrily. ‘He is busy with work I have set him to do.’

Frances ignored him. ‘I appreciate your kindness in dealing with Cave’s body the other day, Mr Chaloner. Or may I call you Thomas? I was fond of him — he often sang at Worcester House.’

‘He had a fine voice, ma’am,’ agreed Chaloner cautiously.

‘Very fine. I questioned Dugdale about his death. He said Cave spat insults until Elliot retaliated with his sword. And Cave cheated, too — he tried to murder Elliot’s unarmed friend.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Chaloner carefully, recalling the wild swing at Lester.

‘He was not himself when he came home from Tangier, and I want to know why.’ Frances raised her chin and regarded her husband defiantly. ‘Indeed, his death sounds almost like suicide to me. Will you ask a few questions on my behalf, Thomas, and discover what really happened?’

The Earl shook of his head vehemently behind her back.

‘The dispute was about who should take the wall, ma’am,’ explained Chaloner gently. ‘Insults were traded, and both parties lost their tempers. That is all.’

He did not mention the curious and suspicious connections he had uncovered since, or the fact that Williamson believed there had been something odd about the altercation.

‘No,’ said Frances. ‘The whole affair is peculiar, and I want the truth. I know you are busy, but you can spare me a few hours. Will you do it?’

Short of an outright refusal, Chaloner had no choice. He nodded reluctantly.