Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

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.