The Piccadilly Plot (11 page)

‘Modestly put,’ said Chaloner drily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*     *     *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Then why do you let him in?’

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

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

‘Who are “them upstairs”?’ he asked.

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

‘To chat about what?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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