Susanna Gregory: The Piccadilly Plot

He turned when he heard a shout, and saw two men running towards him, one in a brown coat and the other resplendent in a red uniform with a plumed Cavalier hat. He waited, supposing their business with him must be urgent, or they would not be racing about like madmen.

By the time he realised they meant him harm, it was far too late to think of defending himself. The man in brown lashed out with a knife, and Pepperell felt it slice deep into his innards. He gasped in pain and shock as he dropped to the ground, and tried to shout for help. He could only manage a strangled whisper, barely audible over the hammering footsteps as his assailants sped away.

Chaloner heard it, though, and Pepperell could have wept with relief when the diplomat snapped into action, yelling for his fellow passengers to tend the wounded captain even as he vaulted over the rail to give chase. Unfortunately, the others were slower to react, and several long, agonising minutes had passed before they came to cluster at Pepperell’s side.

‘Thieves!’ muttered Young, shaking his head in disgust as he tried to stem the flow of blood with his cap. ‘The scourge of every port in Christendom.’

‘But the captain still has his purse,’ Reverend Addison pointed out, kneeling to lay a comforting hand on Pepperell’s shoulder. ‘Besides, I recognise the man who stabbed him. He is Josiah Brinkes, a vicious scoundrel who can be hired by anyone wanting dirty business done. This was not robbery — it was assassination!’

‘Rubbish!’ declared Harley the scout, staring dispassionately at the dying man. ‘They intended to steal the purse, but Chaloner was after them too fast — they were forced to run before they could lay hold of it.’

But Pepperell knew the truth. He tried to grab Addison’s sleeve, to draw him nearer so he could explain, but there was no strength in his fingers. Then Chaloner arrived back, panting hard from his exertions, and the chaplain did not notice Pepperell’s desperate attempts to claim his attention.

‘Escaped, did they?’ Harley smiled unpleasantly. ‘Well, I cannot say I blame you for deciding to let them go. Dockyard felons can be notoriously brutal, and there were two of them.’

‘Then you should have gone with him,’ said Addison admonishingly, still oblivious to Pepperell’s weak but increasingly frantic gestures. ‘You claim to be a professional soldier.’

Chaloner silenced them with a glare, then leaned close to the captain, straining to hear what he was struggling to say.

‘Picc … a … dilly …’

Chaloner regarded him in confusion. ‘Do you mean the street?’

Pepperell’s world was growing darker as his life drained away. He tried again. ‘Tr … trade …’

‘I had better see to the ship.’ Young’s eyes gleamed as he looked at the vessel that was now his to command. ‘Her owners will not let this unfortunate incident interfere with her itinerary — they will still expect her to sail on the evening tide.’

‘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.