The Piccadilly Plot

Chapter 5

Recalling that Mrs Reyner had mentioned Fitzgerald’s liking for the brothel on Hercules’ Pillars Alley, Chaloner decided to visit it that evening. Unfortunately, it was still too early, so he started to walk towards Tothill Street, thinking it was a good opportunity to spend an hour or two working on the cipher. He was just passing the Westminster Gatehouse when he saw Lester.

Chaloner had not paid him much attention during the spat between Cave and Elliot, but he studied him now as their paths converged. Lester was a burly fellow, with a ruddy face and the slightly rolling gait of a sailor. His clothes were fine but practical, with enough lace to say he was a gentleman, but not enough to interfere with his comfort or movement.

‘Elliot died,’ Lester stated bluntly. ‘I took him to a surgeon, but the wound was too severe.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Chaloner. ‘You were friends?’

Lester’s face clouded. ‘We served on several ships together, when I was master and he was my first officer. He had his faults, but there was no better man in a battle.’

‘Do you know what started the argument between him and Cave?’ asked Chaloner, supposing he may as well begin Lady Clarendon’s investigation, given that a witness was before him.

‘Brilliana Stanley,’ replied Lester bitterly. ‘She was Cave’s mistress before he went to Tangier, and Elliot took her on while Cave was away. I told Elliot no good would come of such a dalliance, but he would not listen. And then Cave returned …’

Chaloner supposed that jealousy might have led to a quarrel. He frowned as he recalled where he had heard the unusual name before. ‘Colonel Harley has a sister called Brilliana.’

Lester nodded. ‘Harley is a malevolent brute, and it would not surprise me to learn that he told Cave his sister’s affections had gone to another man.’

‘I had better visit her,’ said Chaloner, more to himself than Lester.

Lester raised his eyebrows. ‘Why? Are you thinking of taking up where Elliot and Cave left off? I would not recommend it. She might be pretty, but she is as unsavoury as her brother.’

‘I am married,’ said Chaloner shortly.

‘So was Elliot,’ Lester shot back.

Chaloner did not say that he knew this already, although it occurred to him that Elliot might have dallied with Brilliana because Ruth was feeble-minded.

‘Brilliana lives near the Feathers tavern in Piccadilly,’ Lester went on. ‘And it is rumoured that she engages in some very dubious business.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Elliot was one of Williamson’s spies. I do not suppose he was ordered to inveigle himself into Brilliana’s affections in order to monitor this “dubious business”, was he?’

Lester gaped at him. ‘How in God’s name did you know that? I had no idea what Elliot did in his spare time until he confided it to me on his deathbed.’

‘Why did he agree to work for a man like Williamson?’

Lester looked pained. ‘I invested the money we made from capturing Dutch prizes at sea, but his went to the gaming tables. He needed a way to pay his debts.’

‘Did Williamson recruit you, too?’

Lester was affronted. ‘No, he did not! I have no desire to meddle in the affairs of landsmen — they are always complex and sordid. Nothing like being on a ship.’

Chaloner laughed. ‘I have spent time at sea myself, and people are people whether they are afloat or on solid ground.’

‘Which vessels?’ asked Lester keenly. ‘Navy or merchantmen?’

Chaloner waved the question away. Instinctively, he liked Lester, but he was not in the habit of divulging his past to men he barely knew. ‘There was something odd about the fight between Cave and Elliot. Cave was not a man to challenge battle-hardened mariners to swordfights.’

Lester nodded. ‘Others have told me the same. Of course, Cave was in love with Brilliana, and men act oddly when in Cupid’s grip. But I must go. There is a meeting of sea-officers who object to transporting slaves today. Someone must make a stand against that foul business, and we hope that the trade will founder if we refuse to accept human cargo.’

Chaloner was heartened. ‘How many of you are there?’

‘Four. But we aim to recruit more. I was on Henrietta Maria’s maiden voyage, and it was … Suffice to say that I believe God sank her because He was appalled by the venture.’

‘For every one of your four officers, there will be ten willing to take such commissions.’

‘More like a hundred,’ said Lester gloomily. ‘But it is a start, and I cannot stand by and do nothing while greedy villains profit from the misery of others. Call me naive if you will, but it is a matter of conscience.’

‘Then go,’ said Chaloner. ‘You should not be late.’

Chaloner was tired when he reached Tothill Street, and half hoped Hannah would be out. But as soon as he opened the door, he could tell by the acrid stench of burning that not only was she home, but that she was baking. He coughed as smoke seared the back of his throat, and approached the kitchen with caution, knowing that to do otherwise might result in bodily harm — she was not averse to hurling her creations across the room if they did not turn out as she expected. And as her loaves had the shape and consistency of cannonballs, being hit by one was no laughing matter.

She was at the table, peering at a smouldering tray. Joan was next to her, a bucket of water at the ready, while Nan and Susan were scrubbing a wall that looked as though something had exploded up it. All were uncharacteristically subdued. George, resplendent in new clothes of which any courtier would be envious, lounged by the fire, peeling an apple. He glanced up when Chaloner entered, but made no move to stand. Hands on hips, Hannah glared at her husband.

‘I hope you did not go to White Hall dressed like that, Thomas.’

Chaloner looked down at himself. He was perfectly respectable. ‘Why?’

‘Because no one is wearing green this year. And you should have donned a wig. We have been through this before. Dress is a gesture of class consciousness, and an inability to conform means either a slovenly display of bad taste, or a provocative demonstration of nonconformity.’

‘I am not a nonconformist,’ said Chaloner, obliquely referring to the fact that she, as a Catholic, was far more of one than he would ever be.

Hannah’s eyes flashed. ‘Do not take that tone with me. I have had a terrible day.’

‘Have you?’ Chaloner tried to sound sympathetic. ‘Then tell me about it.’

‘Just as long as you promise not to fall asleep, like you did last time. God only knows how long I was talking to myself.’ Finally, it dawned on Hannah that railing at him in front of the servants was unedifying. She grabbed his hand and hauled him towards the door. ‘Put my cakes on a plate, Joan,’ she ordered crisply. ‘And bring them to the drawing room. Tom would like one.’

Normally, Joan, Nan and Susan would have smirked at this notion, and Chaloner was surprised when there was no reaction. He was also aware of George settling himself more comfortably in his chair, at the same time tossing the apple core on to the floor. Nan swooped forward to pick it up.

‘He seems to have settled in,’ Chaloner observed, as he was bundled along the corridor.

When they reached the drawing room, Hannah closed the door and lowered her voice. ‘You made a mistake when you hired him. He is a bully, and our women are terrified of him.’

‘Perhaps they will resign, then,’ said Chaloner hopefully. ‘And I did not hire him, Hannah. You did, no matter what you have led Joan to believe.’

Hannah had the grace to look sheepish, but declined to apologise. ‘You must dismiss him. He will find another post if we give him decent testimonials. He is big, strong and intelligent. Rather alarmingly so.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I caught him reading some of our papers today. They were only deeds about the lease of the house, but it made me uncomfortable even so. He was spying, Tom.’

‘So do Joan, Nan and Susan,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘All the time.’

‘Yes, but they have never worked for Fitzgerald the pirate, have they.’

Chaloner stared at her. ‘You think Fitzgerald ordered him to watch us?’

‘Yes — because I work for the Queen and have influential friends, while you are embroiled in God knows what unsavoury business for your horrible Earl. It is common knowledge that Fitzgerald is short of money, so he probably intends to blackmail us.’

‘Then he will be disappointed, because there is nothing to blackmail us about.’ Chaloner shot her an uneasy glance. ‘Is there?’

‘Not on my account. But even if George is not under Fitzgerald’s orders, I do not want him in my house. You must get rid of him.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘I am sorry, but he is not like the other servants. He is a stranger in our country, and it would not be right to turn him out. You wanted a fashionable household, so you must live with the consequences.’

He expected her to argue, but she only sighed, reminding him that under her sour temper was a decent woman. ‘Then the only way to be free of him is to find him another post. I will start making enquiries tomorrow. Perhaps the Duke will take him.’

She referred to Buckingham, with whom she had developed a rather unfathomable friendship. Chaloner failed to understand what she saw in the man, but she was fond of him and the affection was fully reciprocated. She knew Chaloner disapproved, but maintained that her acquaintances were her own affair, and not to be dictated by a mere husband.

‘Is George the only reason you have had a terrible day?’ he asked with polite concern.

‘No. We had hopes that the Queen might be with child, but it was another false alarm. She was bitterly disappointed, and cried all afternoon. Ah! Here is Joan with your cakes.’

‘They are sure to be delicious,’ said Joan, placing the platter of singed offerings on the table. She smiled maliciously. ‘You will certainly want several.’

As she knew he would not, Chaloner could only suppose it was yet another attempt to create friction between him and his wife. When he hesitated, Hannah slapped one in his hand. It was still hot, obliging him to juggle it, and a tentative gnaw made him wonder whether she wanted him toothless. He tried again, while she waited for a compliment.

‘Very nice,’ he lied, when he had eventually managed to bite a piece off. In truth, it tasted like all her efforts in the kitchen — of charcoal. Disappointed, Joan left, slamming the door behind her.

‘I omitted the sugar on principle,’ said Hannah, tellingly declining to eat one herself. ‘Have you ever been to a sugar plantation? You once mentioned visiting the Caribbean.’

Chaloner nodded, but did not elaborate. It had shocked him, and he was not sure how to begin describing the horrors he had witnessed.

Hannah sighed. ‘It is a good thing I usually have plenty to say, or we would spend all our time together in silence. Is it so much to ask that you tell me about your travels? Talk to me, Tom!’

‘Sugar is made by extracting syrup from a certain type of cane, which-’

‘No! I want your opinion of these places, not a lesson in botany. No wonder I sometimes feel as if we do not know each other at all. You are wholly incapable of communicating your feelings.’

Chaloner knew the accusation was true, because even thus berated, he struggled for the right words. Then, when he thought he had them, Hannah grew tired of waiting and changed the subject.

‘I am going out this evening. You are invited, too, but I imagine your Earl expects you to lurk under more tarpaulins. It is a pity, because there will be music.’

‘Music?’ asked Chaloner keenly.

Hannah nodded. ‘Henry and Kitty O’Brien are holding a soirée for select courtiers. Have you met them? They are great fun and extremely rich, so everyone wants to be in their company. Everyone except your Earl, that is. Apparently, he thinks they are upstarts.’

Somewhat disingenuously, Chaloner informed Hannah that it would be rude for him to ignore the O’Briens’ invitation, strenuously denying the accusation that he was only interested in the music. It would be better to visit the Hercules’ Pillars Alley brothel later anyway, he told himself, when it would be busier and Fitzgerald was more likely to be there.

Hannah was pleased to have his company, although she made him change first. Once clad in their best clothes, they walked to the O’Briens’ mansion in Cannon Row, just south of White Hall. George preceded them, toting a pitch torch, although he held it for his own convenience, and Chaloner was obliged to tell him several times to adjust it so that Hannah could see where she was going.

‘Would you like me to carry her?’ asked George, the fourth time it was mentioned.

Chaloner peered at him in the darkness, not sure whether the man was serious or being insolent. ‘We will settle for you holding the torch properly,’ he replied curtly.

George must have heard the warning in his voice, because he did not need to be told again. But Hannah’s suspicions about his spying were still in Chaloner’s mind, and it seemed as good a time as any to question the man — better, in that Joan, Nan and Susan were not there to eavesdrop.

‘Why were you reading our papers this morning?’ he asked, opting for a blunt approach. He felt Hannah stiffen beside him, and supposed she had not wanted George to know that she had tattled.

‘I was looking for tobacco,’ replied the footman curtly. ‘I smoke.’

Even Chaloner was taken aback at the bald admission that George felt entitled to rummage among his employers’ possessions in search of a commodity that, if found, would effectively be stolen. Hannah gasped her disbelief.

‘Did you hunt for tobacco among Fitzgerald’s belongings, too?’ asked Chaloner coolly.

‘Of course,’ replied George, unruffled. ‘What else was I to do when I wanted a pipe?’

‘Even if we did smoke,’ said Hannah, ‘we would not keep tobacco among our legal documents.’

‘So I have learned. I shall not look there again.’

Chaloner gaped at the man’s unrepentant audacity, but when he stole a glance at Hannah, he saw she was laughing.

‘Lord!’ she whispered. ‘Perhaps we had better buy him some, or who knows where he might pry next. Unfortunately, Joan disapproves of smoking …’

‘I will bring him some tomorrow,’ said Chaloner, thinking it would kill two birds with one stone: relieve George’s cravings and annoy the housekeeper. Of course, he thought, as he watched George pause to see Hannah over a rutted section of road, the man still might be a spy.

The O’Briens had rented a pleasant house with attractive gardens, and their great wealth was reflected in the number of lights that blazed from their windows. As they entered, Hannah was immediately claimed by Buckingham, who whisked her away to meet some of his friends.

Chaloner loitered at the edge of the gathering, aware that it included a lot of very well-connected individuals, many of them Adventurers. There was, however, no one from the Piccadilly Company. He was not sure what it meant — perhaps just that the two groups were drawn from different sections of society, with the Adventurers comprising the uppermost echelons, and the Piccadilly Company admitting men like Fitzgerald the pirate and the Tangier scouts.

Secretary Leighton was by the fire, surrounded by fellow Adventurers. They included a man with an exceptionally large nose named Congett. Congett was a drunk, who had earned himself a certain notoriety by mistaking a French cabinet for the King at His Majesty’s birthday party, and informing it of his undying loyalty. Only the fact that he was immensely wealthy had saved him from being laughed out of Court.

‘Turner and Lucas promised to be here,’ Leighton was saying. He sounded annoyed, and Chaloner was under the impression that the pair would be in trouble when he next saw them. ‘I wanted them to work on O’Brien, and persuade him to join us.’

‘I hope no harm has befallen them,’ slurred Congett worriedly. ‘Especially after Proby …’

‘A vile business,’ said Leighton, with a marked lack of feeling. His button eyes glittered. ‘And now poor Grey is missing, too. He disappeared en route to a brothel.’

‘If I did not know better,’ whispered Congett, ‘I would say someone is targeting Adventurers.’

‘Why would anyone do that?’ Leighton’s face was impossible to read.

‘Well, I do not believe Proby threw himself off St Paul’s,’ replied Congett. ‘I think he was pushed — murdered. And I think there will be more deaths to come.’

‘Nonsense,’ snapped Leighton. ‘There is no evidence to suggest such a thing, and we all know he was upset when his wife died. But this is no subject for a fine evening. Let us talk of happier matters. Have you heard that the price of gold has risen again? It is good news for our company.’

Once the discussion turned fiscal, Chaloner wandered away. He went to where a quartet of musicians was playing. They invited him to join them, and he was soon lost in a complex piece by Lawes. He came back to Earth abruptly when he became aware that he was the subject of scrutiny.

‘I had no idea you were so talented,’ said Spymaster Williamson.

‘It is a pastime, no more,’ lied Chaloner, standing and nodding his thanks to the musicians. He was horrified to have exposed such a vulnerable part of himself to a man he did not like.

‘Personally, I have never cared for music,’ said Williamson. ‘I prefer collecting moths.’

‘Do you?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘There are plenty in the curtains. Shall I shake them out?’

Williamson smiled. ‘It is a kind offer, but I am more interested in the rarer varieties. You will not forget to visit me tomorrow, will you? There is something important we must discuss.’

‘There you are, Joseph!’ came a voice from behind them. It was Kitty, radiant in a bodice of blue with skirts to match. Something sparkled in her auburn hair — a delicate net with tiny diamonds sewn into it. ‘We have been looking for you.’

She grabbed the Spymaster’s hand, and they exchanged a look of such smouldering passion that Chaloner was embarrassed. He was amazed, not only that a fine woman like Kitty should have such poor taste in men, but that Williamson should unbend enough to embark on a liaison. Or had it been Kitty who had done the seducing? Then O’Brien arrived, and she tugged her hand away.

‘I was just telling Chaloner about my moths,’ said Williamson smoothly. ‘He is very interested.’

‘Is he?’ O’Brien flung a comradely arm around the Spymaster’s shoulders, addressing Chaloner as he did so. ‘Williamson always enjoyed peculiar pastimes, even at Oxford. Now those were good days! It was just one invitation after another.’

‘It was,’ agreed Williamson, although with considerably less enthusiasm. ‘Of course, Chaloner was at Cambridge. Perhaps that explains his unaccountable liking for music.’

‘I adore music,’ said Kitty warmly. ‘Especially Locke. He is my favourite composer.’

He was one of Chaloner’s, too, and he felt himself losing his heart to Kitty. Then she and O’Brien began a lively debate about the best compositions for the viola da gamba, while Williamson listened with an indulgent smile. It was obvious that he was fond of both, and Chaloner wondered what would happen when O’Brien learned about their betrayal.

As the evening progressed, Kitty showed herself to be vivacious, intelligent and amusing, with a talent for making people feel at ease. It was clear that her servants worshipped her, while her guests positively fawned. O’Brien encouraged her to shine, and Chaloner soon understood why: the man wanted to be accepted into high society on the basis of their popularity, not because they were rich. It was pitiful, yet there was something charming about his eager naivety, and Chaloner hoped he would not be too badly savaged by the ruthless vultures of Court.

‘Thank you, Leighton,’ he was saying, clapping his hands in unbridled pleasure. ‘We should love to attend a reception on a ship next week. However, you must promise that you will not spend the entire evening trying to convince us to become Adventurers.’

‘It would be to your advantage,’ said Leighton immediately. ‘You could double your money.’

‘And what good would that do?’ asked O’Brien, laughing. ‘We already have more than we can spend. Besides, the Adventurers deal in slaves, and we do not approve of that.’

‘No,’ agreed Kitty vehemently. ‘It is a wicked business. But I firmly believe that the trade will founder eventually, and then anyone who participated in it will live in shame.’

Chaloner, listening in the shadows, felt himself warm to her more than ever.

‘It is a very small part of our operation,’ said Leighton coaxingly. ‘We also trade in gold, ivory, nuts, gum and feathers. Africa is dripping with riches just for the taking. You should let me show you our accounts. I promise you will be impressed.’

‘Oh, probably,’ said O’Brien, with careless indifference. ‘But we should not talk about commerce when we are supposed to be enjoying ourselves. Who would like to dance?’

Williamson and Kitty were the first couple to take the floor, encouraged by a delighted O’Brien. Chaloner felt sorry for him — a man prepared to challenge the likes of Leighton on a question of ethics deserved better. But it was getting late, and time for him to leave the merry comfort of O’Brien’s home to be about his work for the Earl.

Temperance North had once been a prim Puritan maid, but the death of her parents two years before had prompted a change in her outlook on life. She had used her inheritance to found a ‘gentleman’s club’, an establishment that catered to the needs of very wealthy clients. It earned her a fortune, and was frequented by royalty and other influential people. It was located in Hercules’ Pillars Alley, a lane named for a nearby tavern, and the hours between ten and dawn tended to be its busiest time.

Because it was popular and fashionable, it had been necessary to hire a doorman to exclude undesirable elements. A nonconformist fanatic called Preacher Hill had been hired for the job, a post he loved, because it left his days free to deliver public sermons on the dangers of licentious behaviour. He did not like Chaloner, and as getting past him was invariably a trial, the spy climbed over a wall and entered the brothel via the back door. He was greeted by bedlam.

The temperamental French cook was standing in the middle of his domain, shrieking orders in an eclectic array of languages, none of which were English. The scent of fresh bread and roasted meat vied with the less appealing aroma of burning, where things had not gone according to plan.

‘You used too much oil,’ translated Chaloner, as he weaved his way through the chaos.

There was a collective sigh of understanding, and the assistants hurried to rectify the matter. Chaloner walked along a hall to the club itself, where a different frenetic activity was in progress.

The club comprised an enormous parlour on the ground floor, where its patrons could enjoy fine wine, good food and popular melodies played by members of the King’s Private Musick. If a gentleman wanted a lady, he would inform one of the scantily clad girls who flounced around the place, and his request would be passed to Maude, the formidable matron who guarded the foot of the stairs. When the woman of his choice was ready, he was escorted discreetly to an upstairs chamber.

When the club’s doors first opened, the conversation was genteel and the violists played to an appreciative audience, but it was nearing midnight by the time Chaloner arrived, and any pretensions of civility had long since been abandoned. The atmosphere was debauched, and the place reeked of spilled wine and vomit. The musicians had been provided with far too much free claret, and only two of the quartet were still conscious — and it was probably fortunate that cheers and raucous laughter drowned out their efforts.

As Chaloner stepped into the parlour, he was obliged to duck smartly when a decanter sailed through the air to smash against the wall behind him. It was closely followed by a jelly, which slid gracefully down the plaster leaving a trail behind it, like a slug. He was barely upright again before coming under assault from a battery of fruit tarts, forcing him to take refuge behind a statue.

He looked for Fitzgerald, recognising as he did so several members of the Privy Council, two admirals and three prominent clerics. Then there were the Court debauchees, men who had nothing better to do than amuse themselves in increasingly wild ways.

He was astonished to see Dugdale and Edgeman there, though, given that they had so vigorously denounced such places earlier that day. The Chief Usher’s eyes were glazed, while the secretary was singing at the top of his voice. They seemed at home, suggesting they were regular visitors. Chaloner wondered where they got their money, because the club was expensive and the Earl was not exactly generous with his retainers’ salaries.

They formed a distinct party with several other men who looked prosperous and important. Chaloner surmised that they were Adventurers when he recognised one as the missing Grey — the man who had ‘disappeared’ en route to the brothel the previous night.

The group also included Swaddell the assassin, who despite the gaiety of the occasion was clad in his trademark black. His restless eyes were everywhere, and it was not long before they spotted Chaloner. He left his companions and sidled towards him.

‘I was relieved to discover Grey alive and well,’ he said in a pleasantly conversational voice that belied his true nature as a vicious, dispassionate killer. ‘People were beginning to fear that he had met an unpleasant end. Like Proby.’

‘Where has he been?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Did he say?’

Swaddell smirked. ‘With a woman. Where else?’

‘It was not you who pushed Proby off the cathedral, was it?’

A pained expression crossed Swaddell’s face. ‘No, and I am getting tired of people asking me that. Just because I have dispatched one or two worthless individuals in the past does not mean I am responsible for every death in London. Proby committed suicide — he was an unhappy man.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, supposing he was telling the truth. Besides, Swaddell’s preferred method of execution was throat slitting. He recalled what had happened to Reyner and his mother.

‘Were you anywhere near Piccadilly last night?’

‘I was with Congett and Leighton from six until midnight, standing guard while they went over the Adventurer account books. Why? Did someone die there, too, and you think to blame me?’

‘It does not matter.’ Chaloner believed him: his alibi was one that could be checked, and the assassin was too experienced an operative to concoct stories that would show him to be a liar.

‘Have you heard that I am no longer in Williamson’s service?’ Swaddell asked casually. ‘I work for Leighton now — he is secretary of the Adventurers, and a very wealthy man.’

‘I cannot imagine Leighton having much use for an assassin. Besides, he looks as though he can manage that side of the business himself.’

‘I do more than just kill people, you know,’ said Swaddell irritably. ‘Do not underestimate me, Chaloner. Men have done it before, and lived to regret it.’

Or not lived to regret it, thought Chaloner. He was not afraid of Swaddell, although there was no disputing that the assassin was an unsettlingly sinister individual. But there was no point in making enemies needlessly, and he had enough to do without dodging attempts on his life by professional killers. He nodded an amiable farewell and moved away.

The revellers on the far side of the parlour were wearing masks, although Chaloner was not sure why — perhaps as part of some exotic game. It was easy to identify Fitzgerald, though, despite the grinning crocodile-head he had donned; his massive red beard had been carefully fluffed up for the occasion and it stood out like a beacon.

Chaloner stole a mask from someone too intoxicated to notice, found a corner where he could pretend to be slumped in a drunken stupor, and settled down to watch the pirate at play.

His earlier assumption that Adventurers and the Piccadilly Company did not mix was wrong, because members of both were in Fitzgerald’s party. The Adventurers were represented by Brodrick, safe in the knowledge that his prim cousin would never believe anyone who told on him; and by Congett, who had apparently not consumed enough wine at O’Brien’s house earlier and was busily rectifying the matter. Both wore visors, but Chaloner recognised them by their clothes. Then Dugdale and Edgeman tottered across to join them, disguised as an ape and a toad, respectively.

Several Piccadilly Company members were also readily identifiable, despite their elaborate headdresses. ‘The nice Mr Jones’ was wearing his trademark red boot-ribbons, while Cornelis Janszoon appeared brazenly foreign in his sombre Dutch suit. Chaloner glanced around quickly and saw three henchmen lurking in the shadows near the door; Janszoon was still taking no chances with his safety.

There were two others he recognised, too, although he doubted they were Adventurers or from the Piccadilly Company: Pratt the architect was betrayed by his haughty bearing, while his assistant Oliver still contrived to look morose despite the merrily beaming imp that concealed his face.

Everyone was laughing uproariously, because Jones was encouraging Pratt to describe the mansions he had designed before Clarendon House. Jones was making much of the fact that Pratt could only lay claim to three, which should not have been sufficient for him to have formed such an elevated opinion of himself. Pratt did not know he was being practised upon, and his bragging replies unwittingly emphasised his foolish vanity.

‘Clarendon House is effluence,’ declared Janszoon suddenly, cutting across Pratt’s declaration that his buildings were the best in the country. ‘And all London’s architects are repulsive and bald.’

Chaloner knew the revellers were far too drunk to understand that the Hollander was remarking on Clarendon House’s affluence, and the impulsive boldness of the capital’s builders. He braced himself for trouble, and saw the guards do the same.

‘British architects are the greatest in the world, sir,’ slurred Congett indignantly. ‘Whereas you Dutch never build anything except warehouses in which to store butter.’

‘Or cheese,’ added Brodrick, while Oliver nodded at his side.

‘I like Dutch cheese,’ said Janszoon gravely. ‘But England’s is odious.’

Chaloner suspected he had confused ‘odious’ with ‘odoriferous’, and was merely commenting on the fact that British cheeses tended to smell riper than their milder Dutch counterparts. But eyes were immediately narrowed at the perceived slur.

‘Nonsense,’ snapped Dugdale. He struggled to enunciate the next sentence. ‘There is nothing odious about England. God save the King!’

The cry was taken up by others, and the atmosphere turned raucously genial again, indignation forgotten. One of the guards slipped up to Janszoon at that point, and whispered in his ear. Janszoon nodded to whatever was said, and aimed for the door, his protectors at his heels.

‘Good,’ said Dugdale viciously, watching them go. ‘That butter-eater did nothing but abuse us from the moment he arrived, and I might have punched him had he persisted.’

‘Would you?’ asked Fitzgerald softly, his one eye gleaming oddly beneath his mask. ‘You sat back all night and let him bray all manner of insults about our country, our King and our food. I imagine he will always be perfectly safe from your fists.’

His voice dripped scorn, and Chaloner sensed he was more disgusted with the Chief Usher for failing to defend their nation’s honour than with Janszoon for uttering the remarks in the first place.

‘We came here for fun,’ objected Dugdale defensively. ‘Not to trounce impudent foreigners. Besides, Temperance does not approve of fighting in her parlour, and I do not want to be ousted while the night is still young.’

Pratt spoke up at that point, eager to reclaim the attention. ‘Have you heard that I am the subject of a planned assassination?’ he enquired smugly. ‘Someone hates my work enough to kill me.’

‘Congratulations,’ came an unpleasantly acidic voice from a man wearing the face of a dog. Chaloner recognised it as Newell’s, and supposed the hawk next to him was Harley. ‘No architect can claim notoriety until at least one person itches to dispatch him for the hideousness of his creations.’

Pratt frowned as he tried to gauge whether he had just been insulted. Newell opened his mouth to add more, but Fitzgerald was there first, laying his hand on the scout’s shoulder.

‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘Pratt is our friend — a member of our Company. It is unkind to tease him.’

Chaloner was surprised to learn that the architect was a member of the Piccadilly Company, but supposed he should not be — Pratt lived in the place where it met, and would have money to invest. Of course he would be recruited to its ranks.

‘He deserves to be jibed,’ said Newell sullenly. ‘He is an arrogant dolt. Besides, Janszoon is a friend and a member of the Company too, but you just castigated that courtier for not hitting him.’

‘I did nothing of the kind,’ said Fitzgerald, and although his voice was mild, there was a definite warning in it. ‘I merely dislike people who make casual reference to violence. If they mean it, they should carry it through. I have never made an idle threat in my life.’

Newell was clearly unsettled by the remark, because he flung off his mask, grabbed a jug of wine from a table and began to drain it. When they saw what was happening, the other revellers egged him on with boisterous chants. Fitzgerald turned away, but the crocodile head prevented Chaloner from telling whether he was angry, amused or disgusted by the scout’s antics.

When the jug was empty, Newell slammed it on the table and slumped into a chair. Chaloner homed in on him when the revellers drifted to another part of the room, and tried to rouse him, but it was hopeless — the scout would still be sleeping off his excesses at noon the following day.

Meanwhile, the Portuguese man had seized another jug and looked set to follow Newell’s example, but once again, Fitzgerald was there to intervene.

‘No, Meneses,’ he piped, removing it firmly. ‘You have much to do tomorrow, and you will need a clear head. Allow me to summon a carriage to take you home.’

Meneses opened his mouth to argue, but Fitzgerald gripped his arm and began to lead him towards the door. Meneses tried to pull away, but was far too drunk for a serious struggle, and he desisted altogether when Harley came to take his other arm. Chaloner followed, staying well back and hiding as the trio reached the hall and Fitzgerald sent Preacher Hill to fetch a hackney.

‘What do you think, Fitzgerald?’ asked Harley in a low voice, propping Meneses up against a wall while they waited for the coach to arrive. ‘How do we fare?’

‘Well, enough,’ replied the pirate. ‘Our master will be pleased, because tonight I have achieved two things: avenged Reyner’s murder, and let those who oppose us know that we are a potent force. Killing Reyner and his mother in revenge for Proby was rude, and I have taught them a lesson.’

Harley nodded slowly. ‘Do you know who killed Reyner, then?’

‘No, but he will not live long, I promise — our St Frideswide’s Day plans will take care of him. Next Wednesday, our master will show everyone that he can organise noteworthy events, too.’

In the shadows, Chaloner frowned his bemusement. St Frideswide’s Day was when Pratt was supposed to be murdered, but Fitzgerald had just saved him from ridicule and described him as a friend and a fellow Piccadilly Company member. Surely, he — or his mysterious master — could not be the author of that plot? Or was Fitzgerald actually saying that there was a second unpleasant event planned for the same day, one that would outshine the other in its viciousness?

‘Good,’ said Harley. ‘Then let us hope we succeed, because it has been months in the planning, and I am eager for it to be finished. But what exactly did you do tonight?’

‘You will see. Our enemies and all London will be agog with the news tomorrow.’

The coach arrived at that point, and they manhandled Meneses into it. As the hackneyman declined to take a near-unconscious man unaccompanied, Harley went, too, while Fitzgerald returned to the parlour.

Chaloner mulled over what he had heard, wondering who the pirate considered to be his enemies. Frustrated, he realised he had a list of them from Reyner’s mother, but until Thurloe broke the code, their names would remain a mystery. He hoped the ex-Spymaster would not take long, because they were obviously in danger, and needed to be warned. He cursed the promise that Thurloe had forced out of him, because the obvious way forward was to corner Fitzgerald and demand some answers, most particularly the name of his master.

His musings were interrupted suddenly when the hall filled with laughing, shrieking courtiers, all involved in a riotous game of chase. The curtain behind which he had taken refuge was hauled from its rail by someone struggling to stay upright, and he only just managed to hurl himself into the mêlée in time to prevent being exposed as someone who hid behind the draperies — and while most patrons were too drunk to notice or care, it was not a risk he was willing to take.

As he scrambled to his feet, pretending to totter as he did so, a figure materialised in front of him. It was Fitzgerald. He itched to initiate a conversation, sure he could extract some information from the pirate without arousing his suspicions.

‘Allow me to help,’ Fitzgerald said, reaching out to steady him. ‘Mistress North’s wine has flowed very freely tonight, and not everyone can take it.’

‘But you can?’ slurred Chaloner.

‘I am a sailor,’ replied Fitzgerald, intensifying his grip to the point where it hurt. Chaloner was not sure whether the pirate was genuinely trying to hold him up, or whether there was a warning in the steel-like fingers. ‘We are more used to powerful brews than the average man. Indeed, we are a breed to be respected in many ways.’

He escorted Chaloner to a nearby chair, where the spy pretended to fall asleep. Fitzgerald watched him for a moment, then turned and made for the door, apparently deciding that he had had enough of the club and its entertainments. Chaloner found himself inexplicably relieved when he had gone — there was definitely something unsettling about him, and he was beginning to understand why Thurloe considered him such a daunting opponent.

Back inside the parlour, the merrymaking continued unabated, and all manner of food was still flying through the air. Pratt was lying on the floor, liberally splattered with custard, and an inanely grinning Oliver — an expression that did not sit well on his naturally melancholy face, now devoid of its mask — was sitting astride the architect, rummaging in his clothes.

‘I am looking for the key to Clarendon House,’ he explained, as Chaloner approached. ‘Pratt usually keeps it round his neck, see.’

Chaloner helped him search with the express intention of taking it — he did not think Oliver or Pratt should have possession of it that night. It was not there, indicating either that the architect had been sensible enough to leave it at home, or someone else had got to it first.

‘Damn,’ said Oliver, reeling as he sat back on his heels. ‘He always gives it to me when he knows he is going to be late for work. And he will be late tomorrow, because he will still be drunk.’

‘Does he often come here?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Oh, yes — he is always waxing lyrical about it. Usually it is barred to the likes of me, but the King is being entertained elsewhere tonight, so Mistress North said her regulars could bring a friend. Just this once. And Mr Pratt invited me, which was nice.’

He sounded ridiculously pleased, giving Chaloner the impression that it would be the highlight of his year. Then the grin slowly disappeared, and he mumbled something about needing to close his eyes for a moment, before sinking down on top of Pratt and beginning to snore.

Chaloner was about to go home when he saw Jones pouring himself more wine. The man was perfectly steady, and was one of few sober people in the room.

‘Temperance is canny,’ Jones said affably, wincing as he sipped. ‘The claret was excellent earlier in the evening, but now few are in a position to savour quality, she has brought out the slop.’

‘You are a member of the Piccadilly Company,’ said Chaloner, deciding the environment was right for a frontal attack — everyone else was blurting whatever entered their heads, so why should he not do likewise? ‘May I join?’

Jones blinked. ‘You are very direct! How did you find out about us?’

It was on the tip of Chaloner’s tongue to say that Harley and Newell had told him, but he remembered what had happened to Reyner, and baulked. He did not want another death on his conscience, not even theirs. ‘I listen,’ he said instead.

Jones smiled apologetically. ‘Personally, I would love a new member, because our meetings are tedious and you might liven them up. Unfortunately, my colleagues have decided that our business has reached its optimum size of thirty investors, and they will not enrol anyone else.’

‘Should I ask Fitzgerald to make an exception?’

Jones considered the question carefully. ‘You could try, although I am told he is not always very friendly. I have never found him so, but there you are.’

‘What is the Piccadilly Company, exactly?’

Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘You do not know its nature, yet you want to enlist?’

‘I have heard it is a lucrative venture,’ lied Chaloner.

Jones laughed and clapped his hands. ‘Then you heard right! It is very profitable. We export fine glassware to New England, and we bring gravel back.’

‘Gravel?’ echoed Chaloner. Ruth had mentioned gravel, too.

Jones shrugged. ‘No ship wants to travel one way empty, and there is always a great demand for gravel. It is useful for building roads, apparently.’

‘Who is in charge of your company?’ asked Chaloner. ‘The man Fitzgerald calls his master?’

Jones looked puzzled. ‘He does not have a master. What are you talking about?’

Chaloner could only surmise that Jones was not trusted to the same degree as Harley. ‘What is your name?’ he asked. ‘And do not say Jones, because we both know that is an alias.’

‘Do we indeed?’ Jones seemed more amused than offended as he raised his cup in a salute. ‘People really are called Jones, you know — there are dozens of us in London alone.’

Once Jones had gone, Chaloner aimed for the hall again, bored with wealthy hedonists and their secrets, and keen to go home. His hand dropped to his dagger when someone intercepted him, but it was only Lester. Chaloner smothered a smile when he saw the captain had chosen to wear a mask of delicate silver lace, which had been intended for a woman. It would have made him conspicuous if anyone had been sufficiently sober to notice.

‘Everything here costs a fortune,’ Lester said disagreeably, watching the antics in the parlour with prim disapproval. He winced and ducked as a syllabub missed its intended target and flew through the door towards him. ‘I hope Williamson reimburses me.’

‘So you are working for him?’ Chaloner was unimpressed. ‘You told me you were not.’

Lester grimaced. ‘I was a free agent when we spoke this morning, but he has since learned of a certain weakness of mine, and holds me to ransom over it.’

‘A weakness?’

Lester shot him a cool glance. ‘One I am not prepared to discuss. However, the upshot is that he thinks there was more to Elliot’s death than a fight over a woman, and has ordered me to look into it. I do not suppose you would help, would you? I am rather out of my depth.’

‘So would I be,’ said Chaloner shortly.

‘Not according to Williamson. He says you are the most resourceful man he has ever met.’

‘Does he?’ Chaloner was uneasy to learn that the Spymaster talked about him to all and sundry.

‘I suspect he is right to order an investigation into the Cave-Elliot affair, though,’ Lester went on soberly. ‘I have been considering the matter, and I believe it may be connected to the murder of one Captain Pepperell. Have you heard of him? He was stabbed in Queenhithe two Mondays ago.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because it is odd that two sea-officers should die in suspicious circumstances within a week.’

‘London is a big place. People are unlawfully killed here every day.’

‘But the matter stinks! I have already learned that Cave sang duets with O’Brien, who seems a decent fellow, and Fitzgerald, who is a damned pirate! I cannot abide the breed. Privateers should be hanged at the yardarm, and-’

‘What else do you know about Fitzgerald?’ Chaloner headed off what promised to become a rant.

‘Is being a pirate not enough?’ demanded Lester. Then he relented. ‘Tonight, I heard him say that something terrible was going to be common knowledge tomorrow. He also mentioned gravel.’

Chaloner regarded him narrowly. ‘What is gravel?’

Lester’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Small bits of stone, man! How much claret have you had?’

‘It must mean something else, too. Fitzgerald is in London to recoup his losses after losing a ship full of treasure. He will not do that by trading in grit.’

‘If it is code for another commodity, then it is one I do not know.’

‘Have you heard whether Fitzgerald is working for anyone else?’ asked Chaloner.

Lester shook his head, but was more concerned with his own enquiries than in answering questions. ‘I suppose I shall have to visit all Elliot’s old haunts to ask whether Pepperell was ever with him, because I am sure I shall discover a connection between them. It will not be easy, though. I do not have a way with words, and both were average men, difficult to describe.’

Chaloner had taken a liking to Lester, although he could not have said why. Perhaps it was his hearty, bluff manner, or the stance he had taken over the slave trade. Regardless, he sensed a decency in him that was missing from virtually everyone else at Temperance’s club.

‘I will send you something that might help. It will arrive tomorrow.’

‘What is it?’

Chaloner smiled. ‘You will have to wait and see.’

Lester drew him into an alcove when Brodrick lurched past. Behind the Earl’s cousin, clinging drunkenly to his waist, was Dugdale with Edgeman clutching him, all three in a state of semi-undress. Chaloner was sure the Earl would be appalled if he could see them. Then came several Privy Councillors and five Members of Parliament, singing a popular tavern song at the tops of their voices as they danced along in a single, weaving line. They jigged out of the front door, took a turn around the courtyard, and trotted back in again before aiming for the kitchens. The screech of outrage from the French cook would have been audible in Chelsey.

‘It is good to know our country is in such capable hands,’ said Lester contemptuously. ‘God save us! Is this why I risk my life in the navy? So these monkeys can sit in authority over us?’

‘Easy! It is hardly sensible to bawl treasonous remarks when half the government might hear.’

Lester rubbed his eyes. ‘My apologies. Incidentally, Williamson said that if I saw you, I was to urge you to go to his office. Normally, I would tell you where to put such an invitation, but I have a bad feeling about whatever is unfolding in Piccadilly. I recommend you oblige him.’

Chaloner nodded, but had no intention of following the advice as long as Thurloe was helping him. If the ex-Spymaster proved lacking, then he might see whether Williamson was prepared to trade information, but he was certainly not ready to go down that road yet, aware that there would be a price for collaboration — and he was not sure whether it was one he would be willing to pay.

Chaloner was about to leave the club and go home when he remembered that he had not paid his respects to Temperance, and while they were not the close friends they once were, he was loath to hurt her feelings. He found her in an antechamber with Wiseman. The surgeon was asleep, and she was in the process of covering him with a blanket.

‘He is exhausted, poor lamb,’ she whispered, although if Wiseman could slumber through the drunken revels in the parlour, then she had no need to lower her voice. ‘Because of that terrible business with Sir Edward Turner. Richard was the first medicus on the scene, you see.’

Temperance was a large young woman, who should not have worn gowns designed for those with slimmer figures. She had once owned glorious chestnut curls, but had shaved them off to don a wig, which was seen as more fashionable. The upshot was that she was fat, plain and bald, although Wiseman did not seem to mind, because they had been lovers for months.

‘What terrible business?’ asked Chaloner, recalling how he had seen the obese Adventurer not many hours before, watching the King dine in the Banqueting House. The spectacle had made Turner hungry, he recalled, while his thin friend Lord Lucas had been sickened by the sight of such plenty.

‘You will hear about it tomorrow. All London will be appalled by the news.’

Chaloner stared at her. Could this be what Fitzgerald had mentioned? ‘Tell me about it.’

Temperance smoothed Wiseman’s hair back from his face in a gesture of infinite tenderness. Chaloner felt a mild twinge of envy; Hannah was never so loving with him.

‘Turner’s house caught fire, and he and his household were roasted alive.’

‘How many?’ asked Chaloner, his stomach churning.

‘Turner and his wife, their three children and six servants. Lucas was staying with him, so he was caught in the inferno, too. Still, we should not be surprised. The last time Turner came here, he quarrelled with Fitzgerald, and only a fool does that.’

‘Are you saying Fitzgerald is responsible?’ Chaloner wondered whether the man had set the blaze himself, or whether he had hired a minion to do it while he cavorted at the club.

Temperance glanced around in alarm. ‘Not so loud, Tom! I do not want him coming after me.’

‘You cannot be afraid of him — he is one of your patrons. You would not admit him if-’

‘I wish I could refuse him entry, but I do not dare. He is a pirate, and you cannot be too careful with those. They are depraved monsters, who love to kill and maim.’

‘If he did set Turner’s house alight, he will be punished for it. Spymaster Williamson-’

‘Will never get the evidence he needs to make a case. And if you do not believe me, ask Mr Thurloe. That is why he never managed to bring Fitzgerald down.’

‘I do not suppose you have heard rumours about Fitzgerald working for someone else, have you?’ asked Chaloner hopefully. ‘That another man dictates his actions in London?’

Temperance shook her head. ‘But if there is such a fellow, I should not like to meet him. He would have to be very evil and powerful to control a pirate.’

The food-fight in the parlour was getting out of hand. The ceiling and walls were now heavily splattered, and so were most of the guests. Chaloner saw Congett pick up a huge pot of brawn, and quickly pulled Temperance out of harm’s way, wincing when the bowl crashed into the wall behind them and dented the plaster. There was a wild whoop of glee at the resulting mess.

Smiling indulgently, as if she considered these foolish, middle-aged men her unruly children, Temperance led Chaloner to the small room near the kitchen where she and Maude counted their nightly takings. There were already several full purses on the table, and their ledger registered more money than Chaloner earned in a month. She flopped into one of the fireside chairs, removed her wig and reached for a pipe. She was not yet two years and twenty, but the eyes that studied Chaloner through the haze of smoke were far older.

‘Have you been away, Tom? I do not recall seeing you for a while.’

There was a time when Chaloner would have been hurt by the fact that she had not noticed an absence of three months, but he had learned to accept that he was no longer very important to her.

‘Tangier,’ he replied.

‘What were you doing there? Learning Arabic? I know you have a talent for languages, but you should not bother. Every civilised person speaks English these days. Except that evil Queen.’

‘She is not evil,’ said Chaloner coldly. ‘And she is learning as fast as she can.’

Temperance shot him a sour look. ‘I had forgotten your unfathomable liking for the woman. I cannot imagine why, when the rest of the country wishes her gone to the devil. She will never give the King an heir, and it is all your Earl’s fault. He deliberately picked a barren princess.’

‘He could not have known-’

Temperance cut across him. ‘Of course he knew! It is common knowledge in Lisbon that she is infertile. Did you know that she plans to buy a child, and pass it off as her own?’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘I imagine even the dim-witted rabble currently destroying your parlour would be suspicious if she produced a baby without being pregnant first.’

Temperance shrugged. ‘I am only repeating what Count Memphis of America told me.’

‘That is his real name?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.

‘Or something similar. I rarely pay attention to foreigners. They are not worth my notice.’

Chaloner gazed at her, wondering whether she had purposely set out to shock him. He had come to terms with her smoking, drinking, shaven head and relationship with Wiseman, but she had never displayed a streak of xenophobia before. And he did not like it.

She smirked at his response, then changed the subject. ‘Why did you come here tonight? To hear the latest gossip about my clients so you can repeat it to your horrid Earl?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, standing abruptly. He was too tired for a spat. ‘I came to see you.’

‘I am sorry, Tom,’ she said quickly. When he hesitated, she reached out to take his hand. ‘Please stay. I am upset about Turner and Lucas, and it has barbed my tongue. And I will never tell anyone else, but I think Fitzgerald had the atrocity planned before he came here tonight.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Chaloner, sitting again.

Temperance stared at the embers of the dying fire. ‘Because I heard him tell Harley that Turner would not be a problem for much longer at about nine o’clock tonight, and Richard told me the fire started at ten — a whole hour later.’

‘Then you must inform Williamson what-’

‘No!’ Temperance looked genuinely frightened. ‘Peter Proby challenged Fitzgerald, and look what happened to him. And you must not tackle him, either. I would not like to think of you smashed into pieces outside St Paul’s Cathedral.’

‘At least someone would not,’ sighed Chaloner.

‘Hannah?’ asked Temperance sympathetically. ‘I could have told you not to marry her.’

‘You could?’ asked Chaloner, taken aback by the turn the discussion had taken.

Temperance nodded. ‘She is a nice lady, but you are ill-matched. I wish you had asked my advice before you agreed to wed her, because you will make each other very unhappy.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner, not sure how else to respond, at least in part because he knew she was right.

‘Will she be attending Cave’s funeral?’ asked Temperance, tactfully changing the subject. ‘It will be the social event of the month, and everyone at Court plans to be seen there. People have already started to buy new black clothes, as is the fashion. I imagine it will be next week, because it will take some time to organise such a grand occasion. Richard will go, and I shall accompany him.’

‘You knew Cave?’

‘He came here on occasion, although I never liked him much — he was never very friendly.’

As Temperance and Chaloner rarely shared the same opinions, he was surprised that her assessment of Cave was the same as his own — the singer had made no effort to be pleasant on the voyage from Tangier, and had endured Chaloner’s company only because he played the viol. It had suited Chaloner, though; he had not extended himself to be sociable, either.

‘What else do you know about him?’

‘Nothing, because he only ever talked about music. He was a bore, to tell you the truth.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘The Chapel Royal choir are going to sing at his burial, and that alone will encourage many to come. They are extremely good.’

‘The best in the country,’ agreed Chaloner, deciding to do whatever was necessary to secure a place at the ceremony. He told himself it was to explore Cave’s peculiar death, even though he knew nothing could be accomplished while the service was underway.

‘Do not worry about Hannah,’ said Temperance kindly a short while later, as she was accompanying him to the front door. ‘I know many couples who dislike each other, yet still function perfectly well together in society. You will soon work out rules and boundaries.’

‘I do not dislike Hannah,’ exclaimed Chaloner, startled.

‘No,’ said Temperance softly. ‘Not yet.’

Chaloner did not feel like returning to Tothill Street after Temperance’s bleak remarks, and found himself walking towards Piccadilly instead. It was cold after the muggy heat of the club, so he strode briskly to keep the chill at bay. He soon left the city behind, and then the only sounds were the hoot of owls and the whisper of wind in the trees.

When he reached the hamlet, he made for the back of the Feathers, and let himself in through a broken window. There were two coffins in the parlour, mother and son lying side by side. Chaloner struggled to mask his distaste as he lifted Mrs Reyner’s skirts to hunt for the encrypted paper. He was not surprised to find it gone, especially when he saw her lip was swollen. He could only suppose she had handed it over when violence was used, although it had not saved her — the wound to her throat was every bit as vicious as the one that had killed her son.

He stared at her. She reeked of wine, and it occurred to him that she might not have been sober enough to tell her attackers that the list had been copied. Or had they not cared, because it was not as important as Reyner had believed? Chaloner supposed he would not know until it was decoded, which needed to happen now as a matter of urgency.

Carefully leaving all as he had found it, he made for Clarendon House, unimpressed to find not a single guard on duty, although a banked fire indicated that they intended to return at some point during the night. He checked the supplies that were stored outside, and then approached the building itself, idly counting the number of ways he could get in — four doors, two loose windows and a badly secured coal hatch. He entered through the grand portico because it represented the biggest challenge, and he felt like honing his burgling skills.

Once inside, he wandered aimlessly. It seemed especially vast in the dark, like a church. It smelled of damp plaster and new wood, and he felt his dislike of it mount with every step. Why did the Earl have to build himself such a shameless monstrosity?

He left eventually, but rather than cut across St James’s Park towards home, he took the longer route via Piccadilly and the Haymarket. As he passed the Crown, all was in darkness except Pratt’s room, in which several lanterns blazed. It had not been so when he had gone by earlier, and afraid something was amiss, he decided he had better investigate.

There were no lights in the tavern, but there were snores, and it did not take him long to see that Wright and his men had bedded down near the embers of the fire. There were eight of them, and he wondered what tale Wright would spin if materials went missing again.

Disgusted, he climbed the stairs, treading on the edges, which were less likely to creak and give him away. When he reached Pratt’s door he listened intently but could hear nothing. He tried the handle and was alarmed to find it unlocked. He opened it to see Pratt lying fully clothed on the bed with his mouth agape. Certain he was dead, Chaloner felt for a life-beat, then leapt away in shock when the architect’s eyes fluttered open.

‘Snowflake!’ Pratt purred, raising his arms enticingly. Then he became aware that he was not at Temperance’s brothel. ‘Chaloner? What are you doing here?’

Heart still pounding, Chaloner began to douse the lamps, unwilling to leave so many burning when he left, lest Pratt knocked one over in his drunken clumsiness and started a fire. The thought reminded him of what had happened to the two Adventurers.

‘Did you hear about Turner and Lucas?’ he asked.

‘One wants me to design him a stately home, but I cannot recall which. Lord, my head aches! I should have stayed with Lydcott in Charing Cross tonight. I wish I had, because then you would not be looming over me like the Angel of Death.’

‘Who is Lydcott?’

‘A dear friend. He was a Parliamentarian in the wars, but is a Royalist now — he knows how to survive turbulent times! He is an excellent horseman, too. Did you hear that someone thinks enough of my work to threaten me with death, by the way? Not even Wren has achieved that accolade!’

‘How do you know Harley and Fitzgerald?’ asked Chaloner. The architect was far too haughty to converse with him when he was sober, so it made sense to do it while he was intoxicated.

‘They are members of the Piccadilly Company,’ replied Pratt drowsily. ‘As am I. We trade in glassware and gravel. I have invested heavily, and it will make me richer than ever.’

‘How can gravel be lucrative?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Or glassware, for that matter. There cannot be a massive demand for it in New England, because none of the colonies are very big.’

But Pratt was asleep. Chaloner tried to shake him awake, but he responded only by mumbling more incoherent nonsense about Lydcott. When he began to mutter about Snowflake, too, Chaloner decided it was time to leave.

He was passing the table when he saw the key to Clarendon House, the silken cord still attached. He considered pocketing it, but common sense prevailed — Pratt might remember his visit the following morning, and he did not want to be accused of theft. So, working quickly, he melted a candle into a pill box, and waited for it to set. While it was still malleable, he pressed both sides of the key into it, then eased it out. He cleaned it, put the mould in his pocket, and left as silently as he had arrived. He could not steal Pratt’s key, but he could certainly make one of his own.

Downstairs, he gave Wright the fright of his life by sneaking up behind him and putting a knife to his throat. He kept the sergeant’s cronies at bay by brandishing his sword.

‘You are supposed to be guarding Pratt,’ he informed them shortly. ‘So why is no one outside his door? And who is watching Clarendon House? I have just been there, and it is deserted.’

‘If it is deserted, then there is no need to watch it,’ argued Wright. ‘Let me go, Chaloner, or I will tell Dugdale that you picked a fight with me. He offered to pay me for any bad tales about you.’

Chaloner released him with a shove that made him stagger. ‘Go to the house, or the Earl will learn that he is paying you to sleep in a tavern all night.’

Wright started to draw a knife, but thought better of it when Chaloner pointed the sword at him. Glowering, he slouched out, five of his men at his heels. The others reluctantly abandoned the fire, and went to take up station outside Pratt’s door, although Chaloner doubted they would stay there long once he had gone.

He went home, where the hour candle said it was three o’clock, but although he was tired, he did not feel like going to bed. He went to the drawing room, intending to doze for an hour before resuming his enquiries, but his mind was too active. He took the cipher from his pocket and began to work on it. Unfortunately, while he was too restless for sleep, he was not sufficiently alert for such an exacting task, and it was not long before he gave up. He stared at the empty hearth, then whipped around with a knife in his hand when he became aware of someone standing behind him.

‘I came to light the fire,’ said George, eyeing the blade with a cool disdain that told Chaloner he was more familiar with such situations than was appropriate for a footman in a respectable house.

Chaloner indicated with an irritable flick of his hand that he was to carry on. ‘Please do not creep up on me again. You might find yourself harmed.’

‘I doubt it. Fitzgerald was much freer with weapons than you, and I survived him.’

‘If he attacked you, why did you stay with him for ten years?’

The sour expression on George’s face said Chaloner had touched on a sore point. ‘Ten years! And he dismissed me like so much rubbish.’

If George had behaved as sullenly with the pirate as he did in Tothill Street, then he was lucky he had not suffered a worse fate, thought Chaloner. He changed the subject, sure he would not be given an answer, but supposing there was no harm in trying.

‘What is the nature of Fitzgerald’s current business in London?’ By means of a bribe, he passed George a plug of tobacco he had palmed in Temperance’s club, where the stuff had been lying around for its patrons to enjoy.

George almost snatched it from him, and set about tamping the pipe he pulled from his pocket. ‘He did not tell me, but it will involve death and destruction, because he was singing about it. At sea, he always sang before he attacked another ship.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘I am afraid not,’ replied George, through a haze of smoke.

‘Does he have any powerful friends here? Ones he might refer to as his master?’

George regarded him oddly. ‘Not that I am aware.’

‘You cannot name any of his London acquaintances?’

‘No.’ George regarded Chaloner thoughtfully, then reached inside his shirt and produced an old leather pouch. ‘But if you intend to go after him — as your questions suggest you might — take this.’

‘What is it?’ asked Chaloner, disconcerted that George should read him so easily.

‘Dust from Tangier, which contains something that always sets him to uncontrollable sneezing. It should not affect you, but it will render him helpless.’

Chaloner did not take it. ‘And what am I supposed to do with it?’

‘Throw it in his face, should he decide to come at you.’ George tossed the pouch into Chaloner’s lap. ‘It works, believe me.’

Chaloner was thoughtful as George busied himself at the hearth. He had not forgotten Hannah’s conviction that the footman had been ordered to spy, and George’s inept fiddling with the fire said he was not skilled at the duties that usually went with being a footman. Or a captain’s steward, for that matter. If that were the case, why had he given Chaloner something with which to defeat his former master? Or was it a ploy that would see him in danger?

He doubted a direct enquiry would yield a truthful response, so he sat at the table instead and, recalling his promise to Lester, began to make sketches of Captain Pepperell and Elliot. He had a talent for drawing, and had been trained to remember faces, so it was not long before he had reasonable likenesses. He folded them in half, and as he did not know where Lester lived, told George to take them to Williamson’s offices in Westminster.

‘The Spymaster?’ asked George uneasily. ‘You want me to visit him?’

‘Just his clerks. Why? Have you done something to excite his interest?’

‘No more than any other man in London.’ George glanced out of the window without enthusiasm. ‘Shall I go now? It is still dark.’

‘Take a torch,’ said Chaloner shortly.