The Piccadilly Plot (19 page)

‘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.