The Piccadilly Plot (12 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Then you had better make a start.’

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

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

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

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Anything else?’

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

‘Why should—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What indeed?’ murmured Chaloner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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