The Piccadilly Plot (3 page)

‘You heard me shouting,’ he gasped accusingly when he caught up. ‘But you ignored me so I would have farther to run.’

Chaloner had done nothing of the kind, but there was no point in saying so. Dugdale disliked him for a variety of reasons,
the two most important being that he did not consider it right for ex-Parliamentarians to be made ushers, no matter how high
the Earl’s regard for their wives; and that Chaloner’s clandestine activities on the Earl’s behalf meant that Dugdale could
not control him as he did the other gentlemen under his command.

‘Nothing was stolen last night,’ said Chaloner,
supposing Dugdale had come for a report on their employer’s bricks. ‘I am not sure Pratt is right to claim they go missing
at—’

‘I do not want to know,’ snapped Dugdale. ‘Lying in wait for thieves is hardly a suitable pastime for a courtier, and I condemn
it most soundly.’

‘Shall I tell the Earl that I cannot oblige him tonight because you disapprove, then?’ asked Chaloner, suspecting that if
he did, the resulting fireworks would be apocalyptic.

Dugdale did not deign to acknowledge the remark. Instead, he looked Chaloner up and down with open disdain. ‘Decency dictates
that you should change before setting foot in his presence, but he says he needs you urgently, so there is no time. He will
have to endure you as you are. Just make sure you do not put your filthy feet on his new Turkey carpets.’

The church bells were chiming eight o’clock as Chaloner and Dugdale reached Charing Cross. The square was a chaos of carts
and carriages, most containing goods that were to be sold in the city’s markets or ferrying merchants to their places of business,
but others held bleary-eyed revellers, making their way home after a riotous night out.

The noise was deafening, with iron-clad cartwheels rattling across cobblestones, animals lowing, bleating and honking as they
were driven to the slaughterhouses, and street vendors advertising wares at the tops of their voices. The smell was breathtaking,
too, a nose-searing combination of sewage, fish and unwashed bodies, all overlain with the acrid stench of coal fires. Chaloner
coughed. He rarely noticed London’s noxious atmosphere when
he was in it, but a spell in the cleaner air around Piccadilly always reminded him that his country’s capital was a foul
place to be.

He started to turn towards White Hall, where the Earl had been provided with a suite of offices overlooking the Privy Gardens
– Clarendon worked hard, and was at his desk hours before most other courtiers were astir – but Dugdale steered him towards
The Strand instead.

‘He is at home today,’ he explained shortly. ‘Gout.’

Chaloner groaned. The Earl was not pleasant when he was well, but when he was ill he became an implacable tyrant, and the
fact that Chaloner had been summoned to his presence did not augur well. He racked his brains for something he had done wrong,
but nothing came to mind – he had spent the past week investigating the stolen bricks, so had had scant opportunity to err.
Unfortunately, the Earl was easily annoyed, so any small thing might have upset him.

‘I imagine he wants you to tell him about Tangier,’ predicted Dugdale. ‘You have barely spoken to him since you returned,
so you cannot blame him for becoming impatient.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. He had written a lengthy report about his findings, and had offered a verbal account on several
occasions, but had been given short shrift each time, leading him to assume that the Earl was no longer interested in knowing
why Tangier was costing the government so much money. It would not be prudent to say so to Dugdale, though, who would almost
certainly repeat it out of context, so he held his tongue.

‘You have not told me, either,’ said Dugdale coldly. ‘And I am your superior.’

Manfully, Chaloner suppressed the urge to argue,
heartily wishing that Dugdale’s kindly, genial predecessor had not retired. It had been a shock to find a new chief usher
in place on his return, especially one who was determined to subdue the people under his command by bullying. Dugdale sensed
his resentment, and his expression hardened.

‘It is my duty to keep our master’s household respectable, so there will be no more of this running about on your own. You
will keep me appraised of your every move.’

‘Very well,’ said Chaloner, with no intention of complying. He had worked alone for years, confiding in no one, and was not
about to change the habits that had kept him alive for so long.

‘Then tell me about Tangier,’ instructed Dugdale. ‘Why is it costing us so much in taxes?’

Chaloner might have replied that he had never seen a place so steeped in corruption, and that for every penny spent on the
new defences, another ten were siphoned off by dishonest officials – from the governor down to the lowliest clerk. But Dugdale
gossiped, and Chaloner did not want to be responsible for a rumour that said the King made mistakes in his choice of bureaucrats.

‘It is under constant attack from Barbary pirates,’ he said instead. ‘In order to repel them, the settlement needs a sea wall
and a fortress. Naturally, these are expensive to build.’

Dugdale narrowed his eyes. ‘The Earl said you were involved in several skirmishes there. Such activities are beneath a gentleman
usher, and I forbid you to engage in them again.’

‘There is nothing I would like more,’ said Chaloner fervently. The civil wars that had erupted when he was
a child, followed by twelve years in espionage when they were over, made him feel as though he had been fighting all his
life, and he was tired of it. ‘However, it is not always practical to—’

‘Then make it practical. You are said to be blessed with sharp wits, so use them instead of a sword. But tell me more about
Tangier. Who is to blame for these escalating costs? The new governor, Sir Tobias Bridge? His was not a sensible appointment.’

Bridge had taken over the running of the desolate little outpost after Lord Teviot’s brutal death.

‘No?’ Chaloner seized the opportunity to sidetrack the discussion. ‘Why not?’

‘Because he fought for Parliament during the wars, so he is by definition devious and wicked. No one who supported Cromwell
can be considered as anything else.’

It was Dugdale’s way of telling Chaloner – yet again – what he thought of his former allegiances. Fortunately, there was a
flurry of excited yells from the opposite side of the street at that moment, and Chaloner’s dubious history was promptly forgotten.

‘A swordfight,’ said Dugdale, with rank disapproval. ‘I see one of the combatants is James Elliot. He works for Spymaster
Williamson.’

Williamson ran the country’s intelligence network, and Chaloner had expected to continue serving overseas under him when the
Royalists had been returned to power – the King needed information on foreign enemies just as much as Cromwell had. But all
the old spies had been dismissed, and long-term Royalists appointed in their place. Even so, Chaloner harboured a faint hope
that Williamson would see sense one day, and send him to Holland, France or Spain.

‘Elliot’s opponent is John Cave,’ he said, recognising the singer who had sailed from Tangier with him on
Eagle
. ‘A tenor from the Chapel Royal.’

It was odd that he should see so many fellow passengers – Harley, Newell, Reyner
and
Cave – within an hour of each other, especially as he had not set eyes on any since disembarking the week before. But London
was like that – the biggest city in Europe on the one hand, with a population of some three hundred thousand souls, but a
village on the other, in which residents frequently met friends and family just by strolling along its thoroughfares.

Dugdale shot Chaloner another distaste-filled glance. ‘I cannot imagine how
you
come to be acquainted with Court musicians. The Earl tells me that you have spent virtually your entire adult life in foreign
countries, and that you know nothing of London.’

Chaloner was the first to admit that his knowledge of the capital was lacking – and it was unlikely to improve if the Earl
kept sending him to places like Tangier, either – but it was not for Dugdale to remark on it. He scowled, but the Chief Usher
was not looking at him.

‘You had better intervene,’ Dugdale was saying. ‘Elliot will kill Cave, and we cannot have members of Court skewered on public
highways.’

It was anathema for a spy to put himself in a position where he would be noticed, and the altercation had already attracted
a sizeable gathering. Moreover, although Chaloner had accompanied Cave’s singing for hours aboard
Eagle
, their association had been confined solely to music: they had not been friends in any sense of the word, and he was not
sure Cave would appreciate the interference.

‘You just ordered me not to take up arms again,’ he hedged. ‘And—’

‘Do not be insolent! Now disarm Elliot, or shall I tell the Earl that you stood by and did nothing while a fellow courtier
was murdered?’

Aware that Dugdale might well do what he threatened, Chaloner moved forward. The argument was taking place outside the New
Exchange, a large, grand building with a mock-gothic façade. It comprised two floors of expensive shops, and a piazza where
merchants met to discuss trade. It was always busy, and most of those watching the quarrel were wealthy men of business.

As he approached, Chaloner thought that Elliot looked exactly like the kind of fellow who would appeal to Williamson – the
Spymaster had yet to learn that there was more to espionage than being handy in a brawl. Elliot was well-dressed and wore
a fine wig made from unusually black hair, but his pugilistic demeanour and the scars on his meaty fists exposed him as a
lout. By contrast, Cave was smaller, and held his fancy ‘town sword’ as if it had never been out of its scabbard – and now
that it was, he was not entirely sure what to do with it.

‘Chaloner!’ he cried. ‘You can be my witness, because I am going to kill this impudent dog!’

‘You can try,’ said Elliot shortly. ‘Because no man tells
me
not to take the wall.’

In London, ‘taking the wall’ was preferable to walking farther out into the street, because it was better protected from those
who were in the habit of emptying chamber pots out of over-jutting upstairs windows. Disputes about who should have the more
favourable spot were frequent and often ended in scuffles. Few drew weapons over it,
though, and Chaloner was astonished that Cave should think such a matter was worth his life.

‘Cave, stop,’ he said softly. ‘Come away with me. Now.’

‘Never,’ flared the musician. ‘He insulted me, and I demand satisfaction.’

‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Chaloner. That would afford ample time for tempers to cool and apologies to be sent. ‘In Lincoln’s
Inn Fields at dawn.’

‘He is right,’ said a man at Elliot’s side. Of burly build, he had a ruddy face and sun-bleached hair that indicated a preference
for outdoors living. ‘Listen to him. There is no need for this.’

‘There is every need, Lester,’ snarled Elliot. ‘You heard what Cave said. He called me a—’

‘For God’s sake!’ hissed Lester. ‘You will kill him, and then not even Williamson will be able to save you from the noose.
This little worm is not worth it! Come away before it goes any further.’

With a roar of outrage, Cave surged forward and blades flashed. As it quickly became apparent that Elliot was by far the superior
swordsman, Chaloner waited for him to relent – and for Cave to yield when he realised the extent to which he was outgunned.
But although the singer was stumbling backwards, struggling desperately to defend himself, Elliot continued to advance, doing
so with a lazy grace that said he was more amused than threatened by Cave’s clumsy flailing.

Cave’s eyes were wide with alarm, and he gasped in shock when Elliot scored a shallow cut on his cheek. Elliot seemed surprised,
too, and Chaloner suspected it had been an accident – that Elliot had overestimated the singer’s ability to deflect the blow.
Hand to his bleeding
cheek, Cave darted behind Chaloner, and several onlookers began to laugh.

‘Enough,’ said Lester firmly, grabbing his friend’s arm and jerking him back. ‘Think of Ruth. She will be heart-broken if
you are hanged for murder, and—’

Suddenly and wholly unexpectedly, Cave shot out from behind Chaloner and attacked not Elliot but Lester. Chaloner managed
to shove him, deflecting what would have been a fatal blow, but it was a close call, and there was a hiss of disapproval from
the crowd: Lester was unarmed.

Elliot’s face went taut with anger, and he advanced with sudden determination. His first lunge struck home, and Cave dropped
to his knees, hand to his chest. Blood trickled between his fingers, thick, red and plentiful. With such volume, Chaloner
had no doubt that the wound was mortal.

The onlookers were stunned into silence, and the only sound was that of Cave struggling to breathe. Lester quickly disarmed
Elliot, who gazed at his victim with an expression that was difficult to read. Chaloner knelt next to the stricken man, but
Cave pushed his hands away when he tried to inspect the wound.

‘There is no pain. Please do not make it otherwise by attempting to physick me – I know my case is hopeless.’

‘You know nothing of the kind,’ argued Chaloner, fumbling to unbutton Cave’s coat. ‘I may be able to stem the bleeding until
a surgeon arrives.’

‘But a surgeon will do unspeakable things.’ Cave grabbed Chaloner’s hand and gripped it with surprising strength. ‘And I am
not brave. Besides, I am ready to die.’

‘No!’ cried Lester, horrified. He turned to the crowd. ‘Fetch help! Hurry!’

No one obliged, partly because it was more interesting to watch the situation unfold than to dash away on an errand of mercy,
but mostly because any medical man would almost certainly demand a down-payment from the Good Samaritan before answering the
summons. Lester was almost beside himself with agitation, while Elliot’s face was whiter than that of his victim.

‘I want …’ Cave gasped. His flicked a hand at Elliot. ‘Him … I must …’