The Piccadilly Plot

Chapter 9

Thurloe talked all the way to St Paul’s, and his calm voice and rational analyses of the information they had gathered did much to lift the dark mood that had descended on Chaloner. By the time they arrived, all that remained was an acute sense of unease, arising partly from the fact that they had less than three days to prevent whatever catastrophes the Piccadilly Company and their rivals intended to inflict on London, but mostly because he had finally come to accept the realisation that it had been a mistake to marry Hannah.

He was fond of her — he supposed it might even be love — but they had nothing in common, and he knew now that they would make each other increasingly unhappy as the gulf between them widened. But these were painful, secret thoughts, and he doubted he would ever be able to share them with another person. Not even Thurloe, who was as close a friend as any. He pushed them from his mind as they neared St Paul’s, and tried to concentrate on the task at hand.

Because it was Sunday, the cathedral was busy. Canons, vicars and vergers hurried here and there in ceremonial robes, and a large congregation was massing. It was a fabulous building, with mighty towers and soaring pinnacles that dominated the city’s skyline. Unfortunately, time had not treated it well: there were cracks in its walls, its stonework was crumbling, and several sections were being held up by precarious messes of scaffolding. Ambitious architects — Pratt among them — clamoured for it to be demolished, but Londoners loved it, and strenuously resisted all efforts to provide them with a new-fangled replacement.

‘The exhibition is at the Mitre,’ said Chaloner, as they walked. ‘At the western end of the cathedral.’

‘The Mitre,’ said Thurloe disapprovingly. ‘Even in Cromwell’s time it was a place that catered to the bizarre. We should have suppressed it.’

The tenement in question was sandwiched between a coffee house and a bookshop. Its ground floor was a tavern, while the upper storey had a spacious hall that was used for travelling expositions. It was virtually deserted when Chaloner and Thurloe arrived, with only one or two clerics poring over the artefacts, killing time before attending to their religious duties.

‘We are too early,’ murmured Thurloe. ‘But it does not matter — there is much to entertain us while we wait. I have never seen a tropic bird. Or a remora, come to that.’

‘What is a remora?’ asked Chaloner.

Thurloe shrugged. ‘I imagine we shall know by the time we leave.’

Chaloner wandered restlessly, intrigued by some exhibits and repelled by others. The Egyptian mummy held pride of place, although moths had been at its bandages, and some of its ‘hieroglyphicks’ had been over-painted by someone with a sense of humour, because one of the oft-repeated symbols bore a distinct resemblance to the King in his wig.

‘Apparently, the tropic bird has not survived London’s climate,’ reported Thurloe, having gone to enquire after its whereabouts. ‘I am sorry. I would have liked to have made its acquaintance.’

At that moment the door opened and Lady Castlemaine strutted in, a number of admirers at her heels. Immediately, the atmosphere went from hushed and scholarly to boisterously puerile. The exhibits were poked, mocked and hooted at, and the situation degenerated further still as more courtiers arrived. Soon, the place was so packed that it was difficult to move.

‘There is your brother-in-law,’ said Chaloner, nodding to where Lydcott was peering at the moon fish, a sad beast in a tank of cloudy water that looked as if it would soon join the tropic bird and become a casualty of London’s insatiable demand for the bizarre.

‘I cannot greet him,’ said Thurloe. ‘I am in disguise, and he is the kind of man to blurt out my name if I speak to him and he recognises my voice. I shall attempt to engage the Janszoon couple in conversation instead, to see what I can learn about the Piccadilly Company.’

He moved away, although he was not in time to prevent Margareta from informing the entire room that English curiosities were ‘a deal more meretricious’ than ones in Amsterdam.

‘She means “meritorious”,’ explained Thurloe quickly. ‘An easy mistake, even for native English speakers. She intended a compliment, not an insult.’

‘I do not need interpolation,’ she objected indignantly. ‘My English is excellent.’

‘It is excellent,’ said Lady Castlemaine, regarding Thurloe coolly. ‘Which means she knew exactly what she was saying — and it was nothing polite.’

Thurloe bowed to her, then took Margareta’s arm and ushered her away, aiming for the giant’s thigh-bone, an object that clearly had once been part of a cow. Janszoon followed, and so did the three guards. Chaloner thought the couple was right to ensure that someone was there to protect them, given that they seemed unable to speak without causing offence.

‘What an extraordinarily ugly creature,’ said Lydcott, glancing up at Chaloner and then returning his gaze to the moon fish. ‘Do you think God was intoxicated when He created it?’

‘Is Fitzgerald here?’ asked Chaloner. God’s drinking habits were certainly not something he was prepared to discuss in a public place. Men had been executed for less.

‘No — he came last week.’ Lydcott turned to him suddenly, his expression earnest. ‘Thurloe says the Piccadilly Company is being used to disguise some great wickedness engineered by Fitzgerald, and I have been thinking about his claims ever since. Indeed, I spent most of last night doing it.’

‘And what did you conclude?’

‘That he is mistaken. I admit that I am sent more frequently than anyone else to fetch refreshments, but I cannot believe they use the opportunity to plot terrible things. He is wrong.’

‘Have you ever heard them discussing an event planned for this coming Wednesday?’

Lydcott shook his head. ‘Not specifically. Why?’

‘It might be a good idea for you to leave London,’ said Chaloner, suspecting Thurloe’s gentle wife would be heartbroken if anything were to happen to her silly brother. ‘For your own safety.’

‘No,’ stated Lydcott emphatically. ‘For the first time in my life I am involved in a successful venture, and I am not going to abandon it just because Thurloe dislikes Fitzgerald. Besides, if he is right — which I am sure he is not — then staying here will allow me to thwart whatever it is. It is still my business, so I have some say in what happens.’

Chaloner doubted it. ‘It is too risky to-’

‘Pratt is coming our way,’ interrupted Lydcott. ‘We had better talk about something else, because he has invested a lot of money with us, and I do not want him to withdraw it, just because my brother-in-law is a worrier. Pratt! Did you find the key you lost?’

‘What key?’ asked Chaloner in alarm.

‘The one to Clarendon House,’ replied Pratt, reaching inside his shirt and producing it. He glared at Lydcott. ‘And it was not lost. It was mislaid — dropped between two floorboards.’

‘What if you had lost it?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Would you cut a copy from the Earl’s?’

‘Certainly not! More keys mean decreased security. I argued against there being more than one in the first place, but the Earl overrode me. Still, it is his house, so I suppose he has a right to two if he wants them.’

‘I am sure he will be pleased to hear it,’ said Chaloner.

Pratt and Lydcott did not stay with Chaloner long — they went to talk to the Janszoons. Thurloe bowed and left quickly, unwilling to risk being unmasked by his foolish brother-in-law. Chaloner retreated behind the tank holding the eel-like remora to watch the gathering, noting that two other Piccadilly Company members had gravitated towards each other, too — Harley was with Meneses.

Lester had also arrived, apparently hoping for an opportunity to further his investigation. Chaloner winced when Thurloe homed in on him, and could tell by the bemused expression on the captain’s face that he was being interrogated with some vigour.

Meanwhile, a clot of Adventurers clustered around Leighton, listening politely as he pontificated. Swaddell was among them, but there was a distance between him and the others, and it was clear that he would never be fully trusted. He was wasting his time, and Chaloner thought he should cut his losses and return to Williamson.

Then O’Brien and Kitty appeared, at which point Leighton abandoned his companions and scuttled to greet them. O’Brien was all boyish enthusiasm for the exhibits, although Kitty’s eyes filled with compassionate tears at the plight of the hapless moon fish.

‘If you join the Adventurers, you will receive many invitations like this one,’ Chaloner heard Leighton whisper to them. ‘You will spend all your time in high society.’

‘That would be pleasant.’ There was real yearning in O’Brien’s voice. ‘But Kitty says we cannot join an organisation that profits from slavery. And she is right. It is unethical to-’

‘Mr O’Brien!’ The speaker was Lady Castlemaine, who swept forward with a predatory smile. ‘Do come and inspect the salamanders with me. You can tell me all about them, I am sure.’

‘It is astonishing how our wealth makes us instant experts with opinions worth hearing,’ Kitty remarked to Leighton as she prepared to follow. ‘Last year, when we had less of it, no one was very interested in what we thought.’

Leighton opened his mouth to respond, but Kitty had gone, leaving him alone. Chaloner started to move away too, but suddenly Leighton was next to him. The Adventurers’ secretary gestured to the remora, which floated miserably in water that was every bit as foul as that of the moon fish.

‘We should all take a lesson from this sorry beast,’ he said softly. ‘It ventured into a place where it should not have gone, and it is now a thing to be laughed at by fools.’

Chaloner was not entirely sure what he meant. Had he just been warned off? Or informed that the Court comprised a lot of idiots? He realised that one of the most unsettling things about Leighton was the fact that he was near-impossible to read. Was he dangerous, as so many people believed, with ties to the criminal world in which he was said to have made his fortune? Or was he just a clever courtier with hidden depths?

‘Is it dead?’ asked Leighton, still staring at the fish. ‘Or just pretending?’

‘Speaking of dead things, I understand you witnessed an accident,’ said Chaloner. ‘Newell.’

Leighton’s eyes bored into Chaloner’s with such intensity that it was difficult not to look away. ‘Apparently, the trigger needed no more than a breath to set it off, and he had a heavy hand.’

‘Do you think someone ordered it made so?’ asked Chaloner, recalling the conversation in the gunsmiths’ shop, where Leighton had gone to have his own weapon adjusted in just such a manner.

‘I imagine its owner did not want to be yanking like the devil while his life was in danger. But Newell was a professional soldier, who should have been more careful. Incidentally, Harley was so distressed by his companion’s demise that he hurled the offending weapon into the river. It was unfortunate, because now no one can examine it.’

He scuttled away, leaving Chaloner with a mind full of questions. Chaloner looked for Harley, and saw him studying a device that claimed to launch arrows so poisonous that the victim would be dead before he hit the ground. Fortunately, it was encased in thick glass, because the devil-eyed colonel looked as though nothing would give him greater pleasure than to snatch it up and launch a few into the throng that surged around him.

‘I was sorry to hear about Newell,’ said Chaloner, watching him jump at the voice so close to his ear. ‘You must feel uneasy, now you are the only Tangier scout left alive.’

Harley glowered. ‘Newell and Reyner were careless. I am not.’

Chaloner raised his hands placatingly. ‘I am not the enemy. And if you had let me help you last week, you might not be missing two friends now.’

Harley sneered. ‘I am not discussing Teviot, so you had better back off, or your corpse will be the next Curiosity to attract the attention of these ghouls.’

Chaloner was unmoved by the threat. ‘You threw the gun that killed Newell in the river. Why?’

Harley’s scowl deepened. ‘I should have kept it, to identify the bastard who gave it to him, but I was angry. The trigger had been set to go off at the slightest touch, and not even an experienced soldier stood a chance. But I am not discussing that with you, either. It is none of your affair.’

‘Perhaps we can talk about Jane instead, then,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘Carrying gravel.’

Harley stared at him, eyes blazing. ‘Do you want to die? Is that why you insist on meddling with matters that do not concern you?’

‘They do concern me,’ argued Chaloner. ‘I am interested in gravel. And fine glassware.’

‘Then buy a book about them,’ snapped Harley curtly. ‘And-’

They both turned at a shriek from the Lady, who had managed to slide her hand inside the case that held the ‘Twenty-foot Serpent’ to see whether it was alive. It was, and objected to being poked. Her fast reactions had saved her from serious harm, but the creature had drawn blood. Harley escaped in the ensuing commotion, after which there was a general exodus as the Court moved on to its next entertainment. It was not long before only those genuinely interested in science remained. They included Kitty and O’Brien, so Chaloner went to see what they could tell him about Newell.

They were inspecting the ‘Ant Beare of Brasil’, a sleek creature with a long snout and three legs, although there was nothing to tell the visitor whether all members of that species were tripedal, or just that particular individual.

‘Have you ever been to Brazil, Chaloner?’ asked O’Brien amiably.

‘It is full of plantations,’ said Kitty in distaste. ‘Run on slave labour — which is wicked.’

‘Leighton is still trying to persuade us to become Adventurers,’ said O’Brien unhappily. ‘The irony is that we were keen to join last year, but our copper sales had not made us rich enough, and we were rejected. Now we have ample funds, but have learned that it is an unethical venture — although their social events are certainly enticing.’

‘Leighton pesters us constantly to join,’ said Kitty. ‘Horrible man!’

‘I understand that you had another unpleasant experience recently, too,’ said Chaloner. ‘You saw Newell killed in St James’s Park.’

Kitty paled, and her husband put a protective arm around her shoulders. ‘It was dreadful,’ he said weakly. ‘Leighton was with us, but he said and did nothing. In fact, he looked like the serpent that just tried to eat Lady Castlemaine — evil and dispassionate at the same time.’

‘Do you think he knew what was about to happen?’ asked Chaloner.

Kitty and O’Brien looked at each other. ‘I would not have thought so,’ said O’Brien eventually, although without much conviction. ‘How could he have done?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Kitty cautiously. ‘It must have been an accident. But let us talk about something else. Newell’s death was horrible, and we shall all have nightmares if we persist.’

‘We have been invited to a soirée tomorrow and a reception on Tuesday,’ said O’Brien, forcing a smile. ‘The soirée is at Brodrick’s house, and he promises us a memorable time.’

‘I am sure you will have it,’ said Chaloner, knowing from experience that Brodrick’s parties usually began well, but degenerated as the night progressed and the wine flowed.

‘Tuesday’s event is a pageant to welcome the Swedish ambassador,’ O’Brien went on. This time the grin was more genuine. ‘I do love a good ceremony, and London is very good at them.’

‘Will you be there, Mr Chaloner?’ asked Kitty. ‘Joseph says he will need to be in disguise, to spy on people with wicked intentions. It means he cannot talk to us, lest he gives himself away.’

‘He told us he will be in pursuit of traitors and scoundrels,’ said O’Brien, laughing at the notion. ‘But I cannot imagine there are many of those at White Hall.’

‘You would be surprised,’ murmured Chaloner.

Soon, even those of a scientific bent took their leave, and Chaloner and Thurloe adjourned to a nearby coffee house to discuss their findings. It did not take them long to know that they had uncovered very little in the way of clues, and that most of what they had learned was no more than rumour and speculation.

‘In other words,’ Thurloe concluded grimly, ‘we still do not know who is giving orders to Fitzgerald, or what he intends to do on Wednesday. We also have no idea who wants the Queen blamed for plotting to kill Pratt, although we suspect the culprit will transpire to be an Adventurer.’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner, troubled. ‘But the Queen is an Adventurer, too. So much for loyalty.’

‘She signed the charter and invested money, but that is all. She will never be part of them — at least, not until she produces an heir. My chief suspect is Leighton, on the grounds that he is a sinister individual who may have brought about Newell’s demise with a faulty gun.’

‘Which Harley promptly tossed into the river.’ Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘My chief suspect for the letters remains Hyde — also an Adventurer. And you did tell me to be wary of him.’

‘I did,’ acknowledged Thurloe. ‘However, he would never do anything to endanger his father — and Clarendon would suffer if the Queen is accused, because he is the one who recommended her as a bride for the King. Of course, there are other members of the Earl’s household …’

‘Dugdale and Edgeman,’ said Chaloner, nodding. ‘They would betray the Earl in an instant if they thought it would benefit them.’

‘So would Kipps.’ Thurloe held up his hand to silence Chaloner’s objections. ‘We will not argue about this, Tom, because there is no point — neither of us has the evidence to prove or disprove our beliefs. All we have is suspicion and conjecture.’

Chaloner accepted his point, and returned to their list of unanswered questions. ‘We still do not know why Fitzgerald took over the Piccadilly Company, either.’

‘I cornered the Janszoons, Meneses and Pratt, but they all claimed a passion for glassware prompted their interest in Lydcott’s business. However, none of them know the first thing about it, which tells me they were lying.’

Chaloner was beginning to feel despondent. ‘We have less than three days before some diabolical plot swings into action, but how are we to prevent it when we are thwarted at every turn? Or worse, locked in vaults with chests of hungry rats.’

Thurloe regarded him sympathetically. ‘My favoured suspect for that piece of nastiness remains Fitzgerald, on the grounds that he is famous for inventing unusual ways to dispatch his victims. Or perhaps the savage imagination is his master’s.’

‘Or Leighton’s, whose indifferent reaction to Newell’s death suggests he is used to gore. Or a brick-thief, because my enquiries are becoming a nuisance. The list is endless.’

Thurloe finished his coffee and stood. ‘I am going to visit a few old haunts in and around Piccadilly, then I shall prod Wallis over decoding Mrs Reyner’s list. Will you come with me?’

‘I wish I could, but I am condemned to spend the afternoon at Clarendon House. I hate the place. If it burned down, do you think the Earl would know I did it?’

‘No, but he would order you to investigate, which would be awkward, to say the least. Do not commit arson just yet, Tom — if you fail to save the Queen and she falls from grace, Clarendon will tumble with her. It is possible that he may not survive to inhabit his mansion.’

‘Is that meant to make me feel better?’ asked Chaloner, shocked.

‘It is an outcome you should bear in mind,’ replied Thurloe soberly. ‘Along with the possibility that Fitzgerald might win this contest. He bested me on innumerable occasions when I was spymaster, and there is no reason to assume he will not do so again.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner with quiet determination. ‘I will not stand by while the Queen is used in so vile a manner. Or the Earl. He may not be much of an employer, but he is all I have.’

Thurloe smiled briefly. ‘Then let us see what we can do to protect them.’

They took a hackney carriage to Piccadilly, where Thurloe disappeared into the dark recesses of the Feathers, and Chaloner walked to Clarendon House. Oliver was just leaving for the day, his dusting completed, while the Earl was still wandering about inside with Frances.

‘I shall spend the rest of the day at home,’ said Oliver, his gloomy face a mask of dejection. ‘Alone, with only my ferret for company. Being an architect’s assistant is a lonely occupation, because the unsociable hours prevent me from meeting ladies …’

‘You have a ferret?’ asked Chaloner, not sure how else to respond to the confidence.

Oliver nodded, and arranged his morose features into what passed as a smile. ‘They are cheaper to feed than dogs, and more affectionate than birds. They also keep a kitchen free of rats, and I cannot abide rats.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner unhappily, as he turned to enter Clarendon House, his mind full of the strongroom and what had happened to him in it.

It was not easy to step inside the mansion, and he was uncomfortably aware of the vast emptiness of the place as he walked through it, treading softly to prevent his footsteps from echoing. He found the Earl and Frances in the Great Parlour, a huge room in one of the wings that was accessed by a set of double doors that were as grand as any in White Hall. It was lit by windows in the ceiling, which would be almost impossible to clean, and there was a ridiculous number of marble pillars and plinths.

‘I do not like it, dear,’ Frances was saying, looking around in dismay. ‘This is the chamber where you and I will spend cosy evenings together, but it is about as snug as a tomb. It does not even have a fireplace. Perhaps we should have hired a different architect.’

‘We shall be very happy here,’ declared the Earl firmly. ‘Ah, there you are, Chaloner. I was beginning to think you had decided to spend the afternoon elsewhere. Have you seen my vault, by the way? You should approve, being mindful of security.’

‘Mr Kipps spent a lot of time inspecting it on Friday,’ said Frances, smiling a greeting at the spy. ‘He was greatly admiring of it, and said it is the safest depository in London.’

‘On Friday?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. He had been locked in on Friday.

‘We shall be late for church if we stand here chatting,’ said the Earl briskly. ‘My house is in your hands, Chaloner, although you will have to mind it from the garden, because I must lock up.’

When they had gone, Chaloner let himself back in with his own key and prowled, trying to learn how the thief he had chased the previous day — assuming it was not Pratt — had disappeared. But although he paced corridors and tapped on walls, he could find no hidden doorways that the fellow might have used.

He considered the stolen bricks. The conversation he had overheard on the portico told him that the thieves were known to the Earl. But who were they? Someone from his household, such as Edgeman or Dugdale? He refused to think it might be Kipps — working for Clarendon would verge on the intolerable if the one man who was friendly towards him was dismissed as a villain.

The discussion had also indicated that there might be more to the matter than the removal of materials, although he could not imagine what. Moreover, he was still sure they were disappearing during the day rather than at night, although the conviction did nothing to help him with answers.

He turned his mind to his other enquiries. First, Cave. What had induced him to fight Elliot? Did he have a brother named Jacob, or had Elliot recovered sufficiently from his wound to invent him? Lester had not seen Elliot die, and Chaloner doubted he had looked in the coffin before it was buried in St Giles-in-the-Fields.

Second, there were the letters. He was inclined to accept Thurloe’s contention that an Adventurer was responsible — Pratt was a member of the rival Piccadilly Company, after all. Moreover, the Queen was unpopular at Court, and many Adventurers were eager to secure His Majesty a fertile Protestant bride in her place. Was Secretary Leighton one of them? Or Edgeman and Dugdale?

And finally, there was the Tangier massacre. It was clear that Harley, Newell and Reyner had sent Lord Teviot into the ambush deliberately, and that the reason was tied up with the Piccadilly Company. But what was of such importance that the lives of five hundred men were seen as an acceptable sacrifice?

Of course, the soldiers were not the only casualties of whatever war was raging. Proby, Turner, Lucas, Congett, Reyner and his mother, and Newell were victims, too. And what was the significance of gravel? Was it just a convenient cargo to transport on return voyages, as Lydcott claimed? Or was it code for some other commodity?

Frustrated when no answers came, Chaloner descended to the basement, prowling the kitchens, laundries and pantries. He paused at the top of the cellar stairs and listened, but the place was silent, and wild horses would not have induced him to go down there again.

He left the house to walk outside, carefully locking the door behind him. The site was deserted, and he kicked his heels restlessly as the afternoon crept by, fretting at the hours that could have been used more profitably.

Predictably, it was late before Wright and his men arrived, although they were unrepentant when he complained. The clocks were striking eight before he was able to leave, and it had been dark for some time.

Sure the answers to almost all his questions lay in Piccadilly, Chaloner took up station in the shadows surrounding the Gaming House and began to watch the Crown tavern. It did not take him long to realise that someone else was doing the same. He drew his dagger and crept forward.

‘Tom!’ exclaimed Thurloe, once Chaloner, recognising his muffled cry of alarm, had released him. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘The same as you.’ Chaloner slipped the knife back up his sleeve. ‘Is anything happening?’

Thurloe nodded. ‘The Piccadilly Company is gathering. Robert knows nothing of it, though, because he told me only an hour ago that they will not meet again until the end of next week.’

‘Who has arrived so far?’

‘Fitzgerald, Meneses, Harley, Brilliana and others who have disguised themselves so well that I cannot recognise them — about a dozen in all. Brinkes and his henchmen have ousted the drinkers from the tavern, which says something sensitive is about to be aired, because he should not need to clear a downstairs room when they meet on an upper floor.’

‘Then we had better eavesdrop.’

‘Yes, but how?’ asked Thurloe impatiently. ‘Brinkes will be watching the stairs.’

‘Stairs are not the only way to gain access to upper floors.’

‘You mean I should climb up the back of the house and listen at a window?’ asked Thurloe, raising his eyebrows. ‘I doubt I could do it, not with my fragile constitution. Besides, Brinkes has posted two guards there, and he checks them every few minutes. He is nothing if not thorough.’

‘Then create a diversion while I try.’

Thurloe’s eyes gleamed. ‘It will be dangerous, but worth it. Standing out here is a waste of time.’

Chaloner made his way to the rear of the tavern, and after a few moments something began to happen. There was a lot of girlish laughter, and suddenly three near-naked prostitutes burst into the Crown’s garden. It went without saying that the guards hurried towards them and demanded to know what they were doing. The men’s voices were angry, but their eyes said they were not averse to the interruption. Chaloner began his ascent.

It was easier than he had expected, because the building was old, and crumbling bricks provided plenty of handholds. He was soon outside the first-floor window, where he peered through the glass to see Fitzgerald sitting at the table and his associates gathered around him. The pirate’s soprano voice was clearly audible, and Chaloner was under the impression that he was in a sulk.

‘… do not see why it cannot be done. Our master will not be impressed, and neither am I.’

Chaloner tensed when Brinkes came to find out what was happening in the garden, but the henchman stormed straight towards the girls, and did not once look up at the window. In case he did, Chaloner eased to one side, using darkness and the ivy that grew up the wall to conceal himself. He turned his attention back to the meeting.

‘… rumours of our plans,’ Harley was saying. ‘I am not saying we-’

‘Jane will arrive on Wednesday, and that is that,’ snarled Fitzgerald. ‘The plan will go ahead — on St Frideswide’s Day, just as we have intended from the start.’

‘Yes,’ said Harley, clearly struggling for patience. ‘I am not saying we should delay. I am merely reiterating the need for caution, because half of London knows something is afoot.’

Down below, Brinkes had declined the prostitutes’ offer of a free session in the bushes, and was ordering his men back to their posts. The women were shoved unceremoniously through the gate, while he began a systematic search of the garden, using his sword in a way that said he would have no problem skewering interlopers.

‘You advise caution?’ Fitzgerald demanded, the anger in his voice reclaiming Chaloner’s attention. ‘I expected you to dispatch Teviot quietly, and what did you do? Send him into an ambush with hundreds of men! If you had shown a little caution then, our business might have been able to proceed more smoothly.’

‘It was not my idea,’ snapped Harley. ‘I was under orders, too.’

No one at the table looked as though they believed him, and Chaloner was not sure he did, either.

‘That escapade obliged us to rein back for weeks,’ said Meneses, in heavily accented English. ‘And now you say there might be an official inquiry.’

‘The next time Chaloner offers to influence matters, hear him out,’ said a man whose back was to the window. His voice was familiar, although the spy could not place it.

‘No,’ countered Brilliana sharply. She looked especially lovely that night, in a low-cut gown with a simple but expensive pendant at her throat. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that he killed Newell and Reyner, to make my brother think he has no choice but to reveal what he knows. But his tactics will not work. We shall weather this storm, just as we weathered Teviot.’

‘The gravel will make everything worthwhile,’ said Meneses. There was a gleam in his eyes that was immediately recognisable as greed, and it was echoed in every person around the table.

Then disaster struck. The windowsill to which Chaloner clung gave a sudden creak, and although no one in the parlour seemed to have heard it, Brinkes and the guards immediately gazed upwards. They could not see him, but they knew something was amiss.

‘It must be that damned Ruth,’ said Brinkes. ‘She is always spying on us. Well, this time will be her last. You two take her to the woods and cut her throat. I shall stay here. They must be almost finished by now — they told me they would not be long tonight.’

‘Why not kill her here?’ asked one of the men.

‘Because it will be messy, and we do not want Lester making a fuss,’ replied Brinkes shortly. ‘This way, he will assume that she wandered off. God knows, she is lunatic enough.’

Chaloner knew he had to act fast if he wanted to save her. Unfortunately, he could do nothing while Brinkes was standing guard — he would be shot or stabbed long before he reached the ground. Agonising minutes ticked by, but the henchman showed no sign of moving. In the end, Chaloner took one of his daggers and lobbed it, heaving a sigh of relief when Brinkes hurtled after the sound like a bloodhound. It kept him occupied just long enough to allow Chaloner to slither to the ground and slip unseen through the gate.

‘I doubt my ladies gave you long enough to learn anything useful,’ said Thurloe, appearing suddenly out of the shadows in the street. ‘They were ousted too soon, and-’

‘I made a noise, and Brinkes thinks it was Ruth,’ interrupted Chaloner tersely. ‘He has sent men to kill her.’

Thurloe was too experienced an operative to ask questions when a life was at stake. He ran with Chaloner to the Crown, but the attic was already empty. Stomach churning, Chaloner set off along Piccadilly, hoping the guards had not taken her to some other dark road to carry out their grisly orders. Then he saw them some distance ahead. When Ruth tried to pull free, one slapped her.

Chaloner charged forward, and cracked him over the head with the hilt of another of his daggers. The fellow dropped to the ground senseless. The second henchman hurled Ruth away, and drew his knife. He lunged, but Chaloner parried the blow with his arm, simultaneously driving his other fist into his opponent’s throat. The guard collapsed, gagging and struggling to breathe.

‘Did I teach you to do that?’ asked Thurloe in distaste. ‘Or is it something you learned yourself?’

‘She cannot go back to the Crown,’ said Chaloner, wrapping his coat around the terrified, shivering woman. ‘I will take her to Long Acre. Will you send word to Lester? I have no idea where he lives, but Williamson will.’

Chaloner spent a long and restless night in his garret, although Ruth seemed none the worse for her experiences. She curled up on the bed and went to sleep almost immediately, instinctively trusting him to look after her. Lester did not arrive until dawn. He flew to his sister’s side, then closed his eyes in relief when he saw she was unharmed.

‘I thought you would come sooner,’ said Chaloner, irked to have spent the entire night playing nursemaid. He had not liked to leave Ruth, lest she woke and was frightened by her strange surroundings. Or worse, wandered off. He had not even been able to use the time to work on the cipher, because it was in Tothill Street, concealed in his boot.

‘Williamson did not know where to find me — I was out all night, monitoring courtiers. I can scarcely credit their capacity for merriment. Indeed, Brodrick and Buckingham are still at it, although Grey and Kipps are finally unconscious. What happened to my sister?’

Chaloner told him, half tempted to include what he had overheard in the Crown, too. He resisted, but because of his habitual reluctance to share intelligence, not because of Thurloe’s warnings.

‘I should have taken her away from that place the moment she told me there was something amiss,’ said Lester, reaching out to stroke her hair. ‘It was obvious that her fascination with its comings and goings would bring her trouble.’

Chaloner agreed. ‘So why did you leave her there?’

‘Because Landlord Marshall and his wife are kind to her,’ Lester explained. ‘And she finds comfort in familiarity. If I took her to my own home, she would be alone and miserable.’

‘What will you do with her now? She cannot go back.’

‘I shall hire a woman to sit with her. Here, if you would not mind, just until this mischief is over. It is as safe a place as any, and it will not be for more than a day or two.’

Chaloner nodded acquiescence, feeling he owed Ruth something, given that it was his fault she had almost been murdered.

‘I would stay myself,’ Lester went on. ‘But Williamson has ordered me to White Hall, where the Adventurers are holding one of their meetings — it will be followed by a reception to which he has inveigled me an invitation, so it is a unique and valuable opportunity to spy. But I shall come and play my flute tonight. That will soothe her.’

‘What time?’ asked Chaloner. Ruth was not the only one in need of calming music.

‘As soon as I finish. Perhaps we can play her a duet.’

Chaloner nodded keenly. ‘I am going to visit the surgeon who tended Elliot today — Jeremiah King. I want to be sure your brother-in-law is really dead.’

‘Of course he is dead,’ said Lester impatiently. ‘Do you think that I, a sailor who has weathered numerous battles, am incapable of identifying a corpse?’

‘How did you identify it? Did you put a glass to its mouth to test for breath? Touch its eyes to see if it flinched? Feel for a heartbeat or a pulse?’

‘Well, no, but Elliot’s face was waxen, and he looked dead.’

‘So does half the Court first thing in the morning. It means nothing.’

‘You are wrong, but talk to the surgeon if you must. He will confirm my tale.’

Chaloner wanted to go immediately, but there was another delay while Lester hired a nurse, and it was nearing ten o’clock by the time Ruth was settled. Chaloner and Lester set out to Westminster together. It was a glorious day, although frost dusted the rooftops and the red-gold leaves of trees.

‘Tell Williamson that whatever mischief is planned for the day after tomorrow may involve Jane and gravel,’ said Chaloner, deciding suddenly that it was time to demonstrate a little trust. He was sure Thurloe was wrong about Lester, and they needed all the help they could get. ‘The Piccadilly Company believe it will make them very rich.’

Lester nodded his thanks, then strode off towards New Palace Yard, while Chaloner entered the little court named Axe Yard, which comprised some very smart houses and some extremely shabby ones. Jeremiah King was home, sewing up a fearsome wound in the leg of someone who had fallen under a speeding carriage. Even at that hour of the day, he was far from sober.

‘Elliot,’ he mused, swaying unsteadily, needle and thread clutched in his bloody hand. ‘Was he the man who was really a woman?’

‘I would not have thought so,’ said Chaloner, regarding him askance. ‘He had a knife wound.’

‘Oh, him. He was brought here by a sea-officer — a burly, bossy fellow who accused me of not knowing my trade. But his friend was past Earthly help anyway, and died.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Chaloner.

King fixed him with a bleary eye. ‘Do you think I cannot tell the difference?’

‘Very possibly.’ Chaloner nodded at the patient on the table. ‘You have been stitching him with infinite care, but he has been dead ever since I arrived.’

King peered down at the victim. ‘Oh, damnation! When did that happen?’

Chaloner left even more convinced that Elliot was still in the world of the living, and headed for Covent Garden, where a helpful urchin was more than happy to earn a penny by taking him to the rooms occupied by a loutish man with an unusually black wig. Chaloner rapped on the door, but there was no reply.

‘He is dead,’ said the elderly woman who emerged from the garret above to see what was happening. ‘A week ago now.’

‘What was his name?’ asked Chaloner tiredly.

‘James Elliot,’ replied the woman. ‘He was a sea-captain, although he gambled and had debts. I am not surprised that someone made an end of him.’

‘Have you heard of a man named Jacob Cave?’

‘No, and I have lived in this area all my life. There is no one in Covent Garden of that name.’

Chaloner thanked her and took his leave. He was now certain Jacob did not exist, and that Elliot had invented him in order to bury Cave without a grand funeral. So where was Elliot now? Had he taken the opportunity afforded by his own ‘death’ to disappear and start a new life? Or was he still in the city?

Chaloner’s next task was to ask Reverend Addison what he knew about Tangier. His eavesdropping at the Crown had told him that Harley had been under orders — presumably from the same ‘master’ who commanded Fitzgerald — to orchestrate the massacre, but he still needed to know why Teviot had warranted such a fate.

Addison had rented a house near the Maypole, a landmark demolished to a stump by Cromwell, but restored to its full splendour by the King. Somewhat typically, people had complained bitterly when it was not available, but rarely used it now it was.

‘Chaloner!’ exclaimed Addison. ‘I did not think we would meet again. On Eagle, you were more interested in making music with Cave than in talking to me, which was a pity, because I am very interested in military engineering, and I suspect you are, too. You certainly asked a lot of questions about Tangier’s splendid sea wall — the mole — when you were there.’

‘Only because I wanted to know why it is costing the tax-payer so much money.’

Addison’s smile faded. ‘Unfortunately, the opportunity to cheat the government is too great a temptation for those in authority. It is a shame, because the project is ingenious and daring. However, it should cost a fraction of what is being demanded, and every governor we get seems worse than his predecessor for dishonesty and greed.’

‘Was Teviot corrupt?’

Addison sighed unhappily. ‘I have no idea why you should ask me this now, but I cannot lie. He amassed himself a fortune by stealing the funds intended for the mole.’

‘Could it have had a bearing on his death?’

Addison nodded slowly. ‘I strongly suspected so at the time. Along with Jane.’

‘The privateer ship? How does she fit into it?’

‘Teviot refused her permission to dock, although her captain was adept at bribing the soldiers who had been ordered to repel her. But even so, she only managed to put in occasionally when he was in charge. Now Bridge is governor, Jane regularly trades in Tangier.’

‘I am confused. Was Teviot killed because he was corrupt, or because he declined to let a privateer do business in Tangier?’

‘Why should they be exclusive? Banning a ship from port is a kind of corruption — you should ask yourself why he did it. Before you ask, I do not know the answer but I can tell you that he will have been motivated by money.’

‘I was in Tangier for almost three months, but I never heard talk of a vessel called Jane.’

Addison shrugged. ‘That is no surprise. She would not have been there legally, so her arrival was never blared from the rooftops.’

Chaloner stared at him, the germ of a solution beginning to unfold in his mind. ‘The Adventurers own a monopoly on African trade, but Jane is a privateer. Perhaps Teviot’s reason for refusing her a berth was because he did not want to anger a wealthy and influential group of courtiers.’

‘It is possible, although I imagine he would have yielded if Jane had paid him enough.’

‘Not if he was an Adventurer himself, and Jane was stealing custom that would have made him richer. Do you know what cargo she carried?’

‘No idea, although I did once hear that she carried a quantity of gravel.’

Chaloner sighed. ‘I was afraid you might say that.’

‘Well, the mole needs a lot of it. But Africa is full of valuable goods, and Tangier is strategically placed at the end of caravan routes, along which gold, ivory, cotton, kola nuts and even slaves are transported.’ Addison’s expression darkened. ‘Slavery is a despicable business. Were you there when Henrietta Maria went down? That cost the Adventurers a pretty penny, I can tell you.’

‘So I have been told,’ said Chaloner, wondering what would happen to him if the likes of Leighton ever discovered his role in the affair.

‘They were livid,’ Addison went on gleefully. ‘They blamed a corporation called the Piccadilly Company, but they have no evidence. I know who did it, of course.’

‘You do?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

Addison nodded. ‘Harley, Newell and Reyner. And do you know why? Because they slunk away from Tangier within hours of the sinking.’

‘So did you,’ Chaloner pointed out, not adding that he had, too.

‘Yes, but I am not the type to commit criminal damage,’ said Addison. ‘Of course, I have since learned that Harley and his cronies are members of this Piccadilly Company, so I imagine it will not be long before the Adventurers exact revenge.’

‘Perhaps they already have,’ said Chaloner, uncomfortably realising that here was another reason why he was responsible for what had happened to Newell and Reyner. ‘Because two of them are dead.’

Addison stared at him. ‘Then I wager you my treasured copy of Harbottle Grimston’s Duties of a Christian Life that Harley is the one who is still alive.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because he is the most unscrupulous of the three, and the one most dedicated to himself.’

* * *

His mind a whirl of questions, Chaloner aimed for Lincoln’s Inn, hoping Thurloe might have learned something useful, and was just crossing Dial Court when he was intercepted by William Prynne. Prynne was the inn’s most repellent resident, a pamphleteer with deeply bigoted opinions, and someone to be avoided by decent people. He was pulling down the long cap he always wore, to hide the fact that his ears had been lopped off as punishment for ‘seditious libel’ — not that it had taught him to moderate his thoughts. If anything, it had made him more poisonous than ever.

‘They are Satan’s spawn,’ he snarled, launching into one of his tirades without preamble. ‘And the dissolute and unhappy constitution of our depraved times made me wonder whether to sit mute and silent over these overspreading abominations, or whether I should lift up my voice like a trumpet and cry against them to my power.’

‘I assume you opted for the latter,’ said Chaloner drily, certain the opportunity to bray like a trumpet was one Prynne would not have been able to resist. When he started to move away, the old man snatched his sleeve with a claw-like hand of surprising strength and kept him there.

‘It occurred to me to bend my pen against them, as I have done against other sinful and unchristian vanities, but my thoughts informed me that I would only earn the reproach and scorn of the histrionic and profaner sort, whose tongues are set on fire of Hell against all such as dare affront their infernal practices.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Chaloner, trying again to escape. He could have broken the grip on his arm, but he was not in the habit of using force against the elderly, not even loathsome specimens like Prynne.

‘I am talking about that Dutch pair,’ shouted Prynne, having worked himself into a frenzy. ‘Cornelis and Margareta Janszoon. You must hunt them down, or the mischievous and pestiferous fruits of hellish wickedness that issues from their noxious and infectious nature will-’

‘Please, Mr Prynne,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘I really do not understand what you are saying.’

‘Then I shall speak in simple terms,’ said Prynne, calming himself with an effort. ‘Although I expected more of you — Thurloe tells me you are highly intelligent. The Janszoons are saying terrible things, and you must stop them.’

‘Me? Why? I have no jurisdiction to-’

‘You must,’ cried Prynne. ‘I do not know who else to ask, and you are often at Court. Silence this couple before they do serious harm. Do you know what they said in church yesterday? That the Dutch will send a plague to kill us all.’

‘You misunderstood. Or, more likely, they said something they never intended.’

Prynne scowled. ‘Rubbish! How else can you interpret “we ply you with boils”? And right in the middle of an innocent discussion about games, too!’

‘Then I imagine what they meant was “we play you at bowls”,’ said Chaloner.

Prynne stared at him. ‘I suppose you might be right — it would certainly explain the sudden change in topics. But people took offence and damage was done anyway. You must make them curb their tongues, or they will have the entire city baying for war, and I am currently fond of the Dutch — they have decent Protestant views about religion.’

‘You oppose war?’

‘I do,’ declared Prynne, although Chaloner could not help but wonder whether he had taken that particular stance because almost everyone else would disagree; Prynne was famous for expounding opinions that few others held. ‘It would be contrary to the will of God.’

‘The Janszoons have hired henchmen to protect-’

‘To protect them from harm. But what about the damage they cause with their silly remarks? Other Dutchmen will pay the price, and we shall have a bloodbath. Not to mention a war.’

Sympathetic to anyone struggling with the vagaries of spoken English, Chaloner promised to explain the situation when he next saw them. He resumed his journey to Chamber XIII, where he found Thurloe sitting at a table surrounded by paper. The ex-Spymaster had been working on decrypting both the half-burned letter from the Crown and Mrs Reyner’s list.

‘Any luck?’ asked Chaloner hopefully.

‘None whatsoever, and neither has Wallis,’ replied Thurloe. ‘But I have decided that they must be broken as a matter of urgency, and I shall sit here all day if necessary. What are your plans?’

Chaloner removed his coat and dropped it on to the back of a chair, before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. ‘To help you.’

Chaloner worked with Thurloe until well past midnight, by which time he was stiff from sitting hunched over the table, and his head ached. With a pang of regret, he recalled the tentative plan to play a duet with Lester, but did not mention it to Thurloe, sure he would disapprove.

He tossed down his pen and went to the tray of food Thurloe’s manservant had brought some hours before. The bread had gone hard and the cheese had been left too near the fire, so was molten, but he ate some anyway. Thurloe opted for several pills that he shook from an elegantly enamelled pot. Chaloner rubbed his eyes, trying to summon the energy to return to his labours.

‘Yes!’ the ex-Spymaster exclaimed suddenly. ‘God be praised! I have made sense of the scrap of paper you found in the Crown.’

‘What does it say?’ demanded Chaloner, darting to the table, weariness forgotten.

‘It is really very simple,’ said Thurloe in satisfaction. ‘As I predicted, it was a substitution code, where a code of one-two-three means you move the first letter of your message one place to the right, the second letter two places, and so on. So ‘cat’ becomes ‘dcw’.’

‘I know that,’ said Chaloner impatiently, trying to see Thurloe’s translation. ‘We have been struggling over different combinations for hours.’

‘In this case, the sequence is three-five-four-eight, repeated again and again.’

Chaloner regarded him blankly. ‘What is the significance of that number?’

‘It is the latitude of Tangier.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, thinking that he could have worked on the cipher for years and not tried that particular combination. ‘What does the message say?’

Thurloe read it. ‘From ye Governour of Tanger to ye Pikadilye Companye our ship will sayle with a fulle complimente of gravelle in three dayes and wille be in Londonne by Saynte Frydswyds Daye at last we …’

Chaloner stared at it in dismay. ‘It tells us nothing new!’

‘On the contrary, it informs us that Governor Bridge sends coded messages to the Piccadilly Company, which is evidence that Fitzgerald and his cronies did dispose of Teviot so that a malleable successor could be appointed. Reverend Addison said Jane is more often in Tangier now that Bridge is in command, and here is more proof of it.’

‘So “our ship” refers to Jane, and she left Tangier carrying gravel.’ Chaloner was becoming despondent, feeling he had wasted time he could ill afford. ‘But we already knew she trades in that particular commodity. And that she was due to arrive here on St Frideswide’s Day — I heard the Piccadilly Company say so when I eavesdropped.’

‘Yes, but we did not know she was coming from Tangier. No wonder Fitzgerald and his cronies burned the letter! It is a valuable clue.’

‘It is?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.

‘Yes! You must make enquiries along the river and ascertain where Jane will berth,’ said Thurloe urgently, handing Chaloner his coat. ‘Someone will know at which wharf she is expected. And then we shall go and inspect this gravel for ourselves.’

‘Now?’ asked Chaloner without enthusiasm. ‘In the middle of the night?’

Thurloe glanced at the window, startled to see it was dark outside. He snatched the coat back again. ‘Rest for an hour or two, and then go.’

‘What will you do while I trawl the docks?’ asked Chaloner, daunted by the task he had been set — the Thames was thick with them, all the way from Wapping to Westminster.

Thurloe pointed to the Reyners’ list. ‘We must decode it as soon as possible.’

Chaloner did not think he would sleep, given that his mind was full of worries and questions, but he did. Thurloe prodded him awake when it was still dark, although the rumble of traffic said London was coming to life. The ex-Spymaster’s face was pale, and he shook his head tiredly to Chaloner’s raised eyebrows — the cipher continued to elude him.

Even at that early hour, the air was full of soot as fires were lit all over the city. The Thames had produced a heavy fog that mingled unpleasantly with it, making breathing difficult. It enveloped shops and warehouses, and gave them an eerie, other-worldly appearance.

Feeling he had been set an impossible challenge, Chaloner began at Black Friars Stairs, where lamps had been lit to illuminate a frenzied scene — its work was driven by tides, not clocks, so it was often busy during the hours of darkness. Meeting with no success, he went to Puddle Wharf, because it was famous for dubious transactions. It required a hefty bribe before he learned that Jane was not expected.

He approached Queenhithe next, fighting down his rising agitation — it was all taking far too long, and he was acutely aware that whatever atrocity Fitzgerald’s master had planned might well take place in less than twenty-four hours. He asked his question distractedly, not expecting an answer, and so was astonished when the harbour-master nodded.

‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ the fellow replied, pocketing the coins Chaloner had offered for a moment of his time. ‘The Bridge is scheduled to open for ships at midnight tonight and noon tomorrow, and Jane is expected at noon. She has booked a berth here at three o’clock.’

‘What will she be carrying?’

‘We shall not know that until she arrives, but it will not be anything heavy. She is a dog, and too much weight would take her under.’

‘Not gravel, then?’

The harbour-master shrugged. ‘If so, then there will not be very much of it.’

Chaloner hurried back to Lincoln’s Inn. Assuming that the Piccadilly Company’s plan would coincide with Jane’s arrival — or at least, not swing into action until she was safely moored — it meant they had a day and a half to work out what was happening and stop it.

‘I may not have cracked this cipher, but our mysteries have been simmering in the back of my mind,’ said Thurloe, after listening carefully. ‘Fitzgerald is powerful and dangerous, but he has no money — he was obliged to dismiss all his servants after his gold-laden ship sank.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner impatiently. ‘Everyone says he is in London to recoup his losses after the disaster. What of it?’

‘Hiring Brinkes and his henchmen will require cash. So will investing in a struggling glassware business. Ergo, it is his master who has money at his disposal. We can eliminate the Adventurers as suspects, because they are on the opposing side.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘Your brother-in-law told us that some of their thirty members are wealthy merchants or nobles. And he said Pratt has invested heavily.’

‘Pratt might be the master,’ conceded Thurloe. ‘He is earning a fortune from your Earl, so he will have plenty of funds at his disposal. Of course, it would mean that the threat against his life is a ruse, to throw us off his scent. Another candidate for arch-villain is Lester-’

‘No! There is nothing to say he is a member of the Piccadilly Company — indeed, Williamson has charged him to monitor them. Besides, his sister was almost murdered by Fitzgerald’s henchmen. I doubt that would have happened if he were their leader.’

‘His sister was taken along a dark lane to be rescued by you,’ corrected Thurloe. ‘Perhaps she was never in any danger. And I have never liked his role in all this — he just happened to be there when Cave and Elliot fought; he just happens to have a mad sibling whom Williamson uses to secure his services. I have not forgotten that he and Fitzgerald were once shipmates, either.’

‘Who else?’ asked Chaloner, declining to argue.

‘Meneses. He was Governor of Tangier, and we all know how talented they are at making themselves rich — and he was so brazen about it that he was dismissed. I am bothered by Leighton, too. He is the Adventurers’ secretary, but he has criminal connections. It would not surprise me to learn that he is pitting two powerful and greedy organisations against each other for his own ends.’

‘What about Dugdale and Edgeman?’ suggested Chaloner. ‘They are Adventurers, but both are treacherous types who would think nothing of betraying friends. They serve the Earl, yet they consort with his enemies. It is suspicious.’

‘Possible but unlikely — I doubt the Earl pays them enough. Of course, they may have access to a source of wealth that we do not know about. Kipps is rich, too, but his application to enrol as an Adventurer was rejected. I imagine he bears them a grudge …’

‘Yes, but that does not mean he would act on it,’ said Chaloner defensively.

‘Then there are those who are openly villainous,’ Thurloe went on. ‘Brilliana, the wealthy courtesan; her brother Harley, who must have been well paid to carry out the Tangier massacre; and the Janszoons, who know nothing about the glassware that their Company exports …’

‘And whose shaky English is stirring up anti-Dutch sentiments,’ finished Chaloner. ‘I am not surprised that they never go anywhere without guards to protect them.’

‘We cannot dismiss Ruth as a suspect, either,’ Thurloe went on. ‘She lives in the Crown, is sister to the sinister Lester, and wife to Elliot — who is said to be dead but is probably alive. Most men do not marry lunatics, so you must ask yourself whether she is as fey-witted as she would have us believe. After all, it would not be the first time a devious plot was masterminded by a lady.’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘She is not wealthy. Neither is Lester.’

‘On the contrary,’ argued Thurloe. ‘Lester did very well for himself in the navy, and captured several enemy ships that were later sold for princely sums. He is extremely rich, and would certainly share his good fortune with a much-loved sister.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. Lester did not give the impression of being well off, while Ruth’s lodgings in the Crown were hardly palatial. Of course, he had no idea where Lester lived — it might be a mansion on The Strand, for all he knew. But he liked the man, and his instincts still told him to ignore Thurloe’s reservations.

‘And finally, I am not happy with Kitty O’Brien,’ Thurloe went on. ‘She has seduced Williamson, perhaps to distract him from her crimes. Her husband is more interested in inveigling himself into high society than in plotting, and he certainly does not need more money — his copper sales have made him fabulously rich already.’

‘Then the same applies to Kitty,’ argued Chaloner.

‘Only if he lets her into the family purse. She may as well be poor if he ekes out every penny. Incidentally, I received a report from one of my old spies when you were out. It seems Fitzgerald is not the only one who has plans for tomorrow.’

‘Yes?’

‘Leighton has arranged for the Adventurers to dine aboard Royal Katherine at dusk. It will be a glittering occasion, and several dozen Adventurers and their spouses are expected to attend.’

‘In Woolwich?’

‘Yes — that is where Royal Katherine is moored.’

‘Do you think he arranged it so that he and his cronies will be away from the city when Fitzgerald strikes?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. ‘Or, if Leighton is Fitzgerald’s master, that he plans to keep the Adventurers alive, because he cannot be secretary if there is no corporation?’

Thurloe sighed tiredly. ‘Who knows? We have too many questions and too few answers.’

‘There is one thing we can do,’ said Chaloner suddenly. ‘Williamson refuses to arrest Fitzgerald of his own volition, so we must persuade the Earl to order him to do it. Perhaps the plan will founder without Fitzgerald to see it through.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Thurloe, although he did not look convinced. ‘What then?’

‘The Swedish Ambassador is visiting White Hall at noon, and all our suspects are likely to be watching the ceremonies. It will afford me a final opportunity to eavesdrop.’

‘Then I shall join you,’ determined Thurloe.

‘No!’ Chaloner was horrified. ‘It is not a good idea for ex-spymasters to invade White Hall.’

‘Credit me with some sense, Thomas,’ said Thurloe irritably. ‘I shall go in disguise. And do not say it is a risk I need not take, because I was doing it before you were born.’