The Piccadilly Plot (2 page)

‘With you as master?’ asked Addison in distaste.

‘Why not?’ Young shrugged. ‘I know
Eagle
and her crew. There is no one better.’

‘Damn you!’ snarled Pepperell with the last vestiges of his strength.

‘Who is he cursing?’ asked Addison uneasily. ‘Chaloner for failing to catch his killer; Young for taking his ship; or all
of us for not knowing what he is talking about?’

‘We will never know,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘He is dead.’

Piccadilly, mid October 1664

It had been raining all night, and Thomas Chaloner was cold, wet and tired, so when the workmen arrived he left his hiding
place with relief, hobbling slightly on legs that were stiff from staying still too long. Chatting and laughing, the men set
about lighting a fire and balancing a pot above it: no self-respecting labourer began the day without a cup of warmed ale
inside him. Chaloner would have liked to have joined them at the brazier, but he kept his distance until Roger Pratt arrived.

Pratt was reputed to be one of the country’s most innovative architects, although Chaloner was inclined to suspect that ‘innovative’
was a euphemism for ‘overrated and expensive’. He was a haughty, self-important man, who always managed to appear coolly elegant
in his Court finery. By comparison, Chaloner was a dishevelled mess. No wig covered his brown hair, and his clothes had suffered
from their night under a tarpaulin. Pratt eyed him disparagingly, although Chaloner was tempted to ask what else he expected
after such a miserable night.

‘Well?’ the architect demanded curtly.

Chaloner fought down his resentment at the brusque greeting. ‘Nothing. Again. Perhaps your bricks, nails and wood are going
missing during the day.’

‘Impossible,’ snapped Pratt. ‘We hire upwards of sixty men here, and thieves would be noticed. The villains come at night,
and I am disgusted by your inability to catch them. These thefts are costing your master a fortune, and Clarendon House is
not a cheap venture to begin with.’

Chaloner looked at the place he had been guarding since he had returned from Tangier the week before. When he had left London
at the beginning of July, the imposing H-shaped mansion had been nothing but foundations, but walls and a roof had flown up
in his absence, and windows and doors had been installed. Now, most of the remaining work was internal – plastering, tiling
and decorating.

‘It will be hailed as the finest building in London,’ said Pratt, allowing himself a smile of satisfaction as he followed
the direction of Chaloner’s gaze. ‘I was delighted when the Earl of Clarendon chose me to be his architect. Clarendon House
will be the best of all my work, a fabulous stately home within walking distance of White Hall and Westminster.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner unhappily. He had always felt the project was a bad idea: it was too sumptuous, too ostentatious and
too costly, and he was sure it would bring his employer trouble. ‘That is the problem. As most of London is poor, it will
attract resentful—’

‘No one begrudges the Earl a nice place to live,’ interrupted Pratt. ‘He is the Lord Chancellor, for God’s sake. He
should
have a decent home.’

‘But Clarendon House is not a “decent home”,’ argued Chaloner. ‘It is a palace – and far more luxurious than any of the ones
owned by the King.’

‘Do you think so?’ asked Pratt, flattered, although Chaloner had not meant it as a compliment.

‘His enemies will use it against him, and—’

‘The Earl does not have enemies,’ snapped Pratt. ‘He is a lovely man, and everyone reveres and respects him.’

Chaloner struggled not to gape, because the Earl was neither revered nor respected, and ‘lovely’ was certainly not a word
many would have used to describe him. He was vain, petty and selfish, and Chaloner would have abandoned him for other work
in an instant. Unfortunately, opportunities for former Parliamentarian spies were few and far between in Royalist London,
and the Earl had been the only one willing to overlook Chaloner’s past allegiances and hire him. Thus Chaloner was stuck with
Clarendon, regardless of his personal feelings towards the man.

The antipathy was wholly reciprocated. The Earl needed Chaloner’s range of unorthodox skills to stay one step ahead of his
many rivals, but he made no secret of the fact that he disapproved of Chaloner, his past
and
his profession. He had promoted him to the post of gentleman usher a few months before, but only because Chaloner had married
a lady for whom the Earl felt a fatherly affection – an affection that was certainly not extended to her husband.

Yet despite his dislike, Chaloner hoped the Earl would survive the political maelstrom that surged around him, because if
he were to fall from grace, then his intelligencer would fall with him. Worse, Chaloner’s wife might be dismissed from her
post as lady-in-waiting to the Queen,
simply because of whom she had married. Chaloner winced. Hannah would be devastated if that happened: she loved her work,
her status at Court and Queen Katherine in equal measure.

When there was no reply to his remarks, Pratt strode away to talk to the workmen. Chaloner watched, wondering how many of
them knew more than was innocent about the missing materials, because he was sure the thieves could not operate so efficiently
without inside help.

One man returned the stare. His expression was distinctly unfriendly, as if he had guessed what Chaloner was thinking. His
name was Vere, a woodmonger who had been hired to act as supervisor. He was a thickset fellow with greasy ginger hair, and
he continued to glare until Chaloner, too cold and tired for needless confrontations, looked away.

Next to Vere was John Oliver, Pratt’s assistant, a gangly, shambling man with a pear-shaped face, sad eyes, and shoulders
that seemed perpetually slumped in defeat. When he spoke, his words were often preceded by a gloomy shake of the head, as
if to warn the listener that any news
he
had to impart would not be good.

As Pratt told the workmen that their materials had survived another night intact, Chaloner was alert for a furtive glance
or a sly nod that might indicate guilt, but he was wasting his time: there was no discernible reaction from anyone. Then
Pratt started to issue orders, which had them hurrying in all directions to obey. While the architect was busy, Oliver came
to talk to Chaloner.

‘It means the villains will come tonight instead,’ he predicted morosely. ‘Or tomorrow. And you cannot stand guard indefinitely.
Is it true that Clarendon ordered you back from Tangier specifically to investigate the matter?’

Chaloner nodded. The Earl had hated being the victim of a crime, and the summons to return on the next available ship had
been curt and angry, as if it were Chaloner’s fault that he had not been to hand when he was needed. Chaloner had been relieved
though, because he had been in Tangier disguised as a diplomat for almost ten weeks, and was beginning to think the Earl had
forgotten him – that he was doomed to spend the rest of his life in the hot, dirty, dangerous little outpost pretending to
be something he was not.

‘I doubt you will succeed,’ said Oliver, when no other answer was forthcoming. ‘It is almost as if they spirit our bricks
away by magic.’

‘I have succeeded in that nothing has disappeared since I arrived,’ said Chaloner defensively.

‘Well, yes,’ acknowledged Oliver grudgingly. ‘That is true. But I worry for you. Your presence may have deterred them so far,
but what happens when they get desperate? I imagine they are ruthless villains, and they may do you harm. You are, after all,
only one man.’

Chaloner smiled. Before he had been recruited as a spy, he had been a soldier in Cromwell’s New Model Army, and was better
able than most to look after himself. But no one else had expressed any care for his safety, and he appreciated Oliver’s concern.

‘Pratt is calling you,’ he said. ‘It is time for you to begin work, and for me to finish.’

He made one last circuit around the house, and took his leave.

It was still not fully light as Chaloner walked home. The day was unseasonably cold, and a bitter breeze blew from the north,
so he strode briskly in an effort to work some
warmth into his limbs. Normally, he would have cut through St James’s Park to reach his house in Tothill Street, but that
would have entailed scaling two high walls, and his hands and feet were far too numb for such antics. He went east instead,
along the muddy, rutted country lane named Piccadilly.

He hoped Hannah would still be in bed when he arrived, because sliding between icy blankets held scant appeal that day. It
was likely that he would be in luck, because her duties with the Queen meant she often worked late, but even if not, she hated
rising early. Or perhaps one of the maids would have lit a fire in the parlour, and he could doze next to it for an hour or
two before going to report to the Earl in White Hall.

It was a quarter of a mile before he reached the first signs of civilisation – a cluster of tenements and taverns where Piccadilly
met the busy thoroughfare called the Haymarket. The most prominent building was the Gaming House, once a fashionable resort,
but like many such establishments, it had been allowed to fall into shabby decline under Cromwell’s Puritans.

It was apparently closing time, because a number of patrons were emerging. Some sang happily after a night of freely flowing
wine, while others moved with the slouched, defeated air that said their losses at the card tables had been heavy.

Opposite was a tavern called the Crown, and Chaloner was amused to note that
its
customers were using the Gaming House’s commotion as an opportunity to slink away in dribs and drabs. An extremely attractive
woman was directing people out, timing their departures so they could blend into the throng that staggered noisily towards
London. It was natural for any spy to be intrigued by
brazenly suspicious behaviour, so Chaloner ducked behind a stationary milk-cart to watch almost without conscious thought.

First to emerge was a man with an eye-patch and an orange beard so massive that its end had been tucked into his belt, presumably
to prevent it from flying up and depriving him of the sight in the other eye. He walked with a confident swagger, and when
he replied to a slurred greeting from one of the Gaming House’s patrons, his voice was unusually high, like that a boy.

Next out was a fellow wearing the kind of ruffs and angular shoes that had been fashionable when Chaloner had last visited
Lisbon; the man’s complexion was olive, and he had dark, almost black, eyes. His companion wore a wide-brimmed hat that concealed
his face, although the red ribbons he had threaded through the lace around his knees were distinctive and conspicuous.

Chaloner was surprised to recognise the next three. They were Harley, Newell and Reyner, the scouts who had sailed home with
him on
Eagle
. Rather than aim for the city, they turned north. He watched them go, thinking the surly trio were certainly the kind of
men to embroil themselves in dubious business. And there was definitely something untoward going on in the Crown, given the
manner in which its customers were sneaking out.

He was about to leave when someone else emerged whom he recognised. It was the fellow who had stabbed Captain Pepperell –
Brinkes, the felon said to do anything for money. Chaloner eased farther behind the cart as he recalled Pepperell’s dying
words: ‘Piccadilly’ and ‘trade’. Had the captain been naming the place where his killer liked to do business?

Chaloner thought back to the murder. It had occurred exactly a week before, but the authorities had made no effort to arrest
the culprit, mostly, it appeared, because they were afraid Brinkes might not like it – it had not taken Chaloner long to realise
that those in charge of Queenhithe were frightened of the man, and were loath to do anything that might annoy him. Chaloner
had done his best to see justice done, but his efforts had been ignored.

Did the fact that Harley and his scouts frequented the same tavern mean that
they
had hired Brinkes to kill Pepperell? But how could they have done, when they had been in Tangier for the last two years?
And what reason could they have for wanting Pepperell dead, anyway? The captain had not been pleasant, with his sulky temper
and rough manners, but that was hardly a reason to dispatch him. Or, more likely, had they been so impressed by Brinkes’s
efficiency with a knife that they had hired him for business of their own?

Outside the Crown, Brinkes paused to light his pipe. Chaloner watched, wondering whether to grab him and drag him to the nearest
magistrate. Unfortunately, he had no idea where that might be, and Brinkes was unlikely to go quietly. Moreover, given the
authorities’ reluctance to act so far, he suspected Brinkes would not stay in custody for long, at which point Chaloner would
have a vengeful assassin on his trail. With a sigh, he decided to leave matters well alone.

Once Brinkes had gone, the woman withdrew and the Crown’s door was closed. It was then that Chaloner glimpsed a flicker of
movement in an upper window that told him he had not been the only one watching. A young lady gazed out, and even from a distance
Chaloner could
see she was troubled. He was aware of her eyes on him as he resumed his walk, and, on an impulse, he waved – the furtive
exodus said the Crown’s patrons were keen to maintain a low profile, and his gesture would tell her that she needed to be
more careful if she intended to spy.

He was somewhat disconcerted when she waved back, and a beaming smile transformed her into something quite lovely – he had
expected her to duck away in alarm. Bemused, he went on his way.

He was almost at Charing Cross when he heard someone calling his name. The Earl’s Chief Usher was hurrying towards him, waving
frantically. Chaloner struggled to keep a straight face. John Dugdale was not built for moving at speed: his arms flapped
as though he were trying to fly, and his long legs flailed comically. He was not an attractive specimen, despite the care
he took with his appearance. His skeletal frame and round shoulders made even the finest clothes hang badly, and his beautiful
full-cut breeches only accentuated the ridiculous skinniness of his calves.