Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

Chaloner followed Reyner and caught up with him near Charing Cross, hauling him into a narrow alley that ran between two tall houses. Reyner scowled when he saw who had ambushed him, but the sly, calculating expression in his eyes said he was not particularly surprised to have been waylaid.

‘Who are you really?’ he asked. ‘Newell thinks you work for Spymaster Williamson, while Harley says you are just a greedy opportunist out for his own ends. But I suspect you are from the Tangier Committee, and that you have been charged to learn the truth about Teviot.’

‘Then you had better be honest,’ said Chaloner, deciding to let him assume what he liked. ‘The murder of five hundred soldiers is a serious matter. A hanging matter.’

‘Four hundred and seventy-two,’ countered Reyner, as if it made a difference. ‘But why does the Tangier Committee care? Everyone knows that Teviot was a corrupt fool who should never have been made governor, and all the men have been replaced. Besides, it happened months ago.’

Chaloner regarded him with contempt. ‘They can never be “replaced”. Nor did they deserve to be hacked to pieces.’

Reyner looked away. ‘It was not our fault that Teviot allowed himself to be ambushed.’

‘Of course it was your fault! He relied on you to provide him with accurate information, and you betrayed that trust by feeding him lies. What I cannot understand is why — why did you arrange the slaughter of your own countrymen?’

Reyner had the decency to wince. ‘It is complicated, and will take a long time to explain.’

‘Then you had better make a start.’

‘I cannot — at least, not now. Harley will be suspicious if I am gone too long.’

‘I do not care whether he is suspicious or not.’

‘Well, I do,’ snapped Reyner, regaining some of his composure. ‘So meet me in the Gaming House gardens at ten o’clock tonight. I will tell you everything then. But in return I want a written pardon from the government — someone from the Tangier Committee should be able to organise it — and two hundred pounds in gold coins.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Anything else?’

Reyner glowered. ‘Do not judge me, Chaloner. I will not be safe once I tell my story — I shall be a marked man, and a lot of powerful people will want me dead. I need that money to disappear.’

‘Why should-’

‘I will explain everything tonight. But bring the pardon and the money, or I am not telling you anything. And for Christ’s sake, make sure you are not followed.’

Chaloner drew his dagger. ‘I do not like this plan. You will tell me your story now.’

Reyner’s gaze was defiant. ‘What will you do? Kill me? Then you will never have the truth. And I am not doing this for myself, anyway — my mother is old and I need to protect her, which I cannot do without funds. Now let me go before you put both our lives in danger.’

He shoved Chaloner away and marched towards the end of the alley. He looked carefully in both directions before slipping out and resuming his journey towards the city.

Chaloner was thoughtful as he walked down King Street, trying to imagine what plan could have required the murder of so many men. Newell’s slip in the Feathers said Fitzgerald was involved, which in turn said the Piccadilly Company warranted further investigation. But what could its members be doing? How had the deaths of Teviot and his garrison benefited them? No answers came, and he supposed he would have to wait until he met Reyner later.

He turned his mind to the Queen’s letter, and went directly to her apartments. He was pleasantly surprised when he was refused entry — security was so lax at White Hall that he was under the impression that anyone could gain access to anywhere he fancied.

‘Her Majesty is vulnerable,’ explained the captain. His name was Appleby, a grizzled veteran with a beard. ‘People do not like her because she is Catholic and barren, but the King will be vexed if she is harmed, so we cannot let anyone inside unless he has an appointment.’

‘How do I make an appointment?’ asked Chaloner.

‘ You do not! She is the Queen, man! People cannot wander in off the streets to pass the time of day with her. Besides, she has ladies in there, and the Court rakes are always trying to slip past me to get at them. It is quite a task to keep them out, I can tell you!’

Chaloner knew he could gain access to the Queen if he wanted. Fortunately for her, most people did not possess his particular array of talents — or a wife who was one of Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting, for that matter. Prudently, he changed the subject, and asked what happened when letters were delivered. Appleby explained that he handed all such missives to the Queen’s private secretary. Hyde opened everything she received, and although he claimed to stay out of her personal correspondence, it was a lie.

‘He likes to know what is going on in every aspect of her life,’ said Appleby disapprovingly. ‘I cannot bear the odious prig. He is worse than his father for overbearing manners.’

From what little he had seen of Hyde, Chaloner was inclined to concur.

‘Have you heard the news?’ Appleby asked, changing the subject abruptly. ‘About Proby?’

‘Peter Proby?’ asked Chaloner, recalling what he been told the previous day — that the Adventurers had been obliged to call an emergency meeting because Proby had disappeared.

‘He has been found,’ said Appleby. ‘Well, most of him has been found.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He threw himself off the roof of St Paul’s Cathedral, and landed with such force that parts of him have yet to be discovered. What is the world coming to, when such terrible things happen?’

‘What indeed?’ murmured Chaloner.

When he had finished with Appleby, Chaloner spent the rest of the morning and the first part of the afternoon questioning other members of the Queen’s household, but learned nothing he did not know already — that Her Majesty was unpopular, and so any number of people might have sent malicious letters to see her in trouble. It was a depressing state of affairs, and when he eventually left White Hall he was tired and dispirited.

His gloom intensified when he visited St James’s Fields, an area that had been open countryside at the Restoration, but that was now the domain of developers. There were several such sites in the city, but this was the nearest to Clarendon House. It did not take him long to realise that even if the Earl’s bricks were finding their way there, he would never prove it. Dozens of carts kept the workforce supplied with materials, from hundreds of different sources. Moreover, each house had been tendered out to a different builder, and it would take weeks — perhaps months — to track down the provenance of all their supplies.

He persisted, though, and the sun was setting when he was finally compelled to admit that he was wasting his time. As he walked along The Strand it occurred to him that he had not eaten all day, so he stopped to buy a meat pie from a street vendor. It was cold, greasy and filled with something he supposed might have once belonged to a cow, although he did not like to imagine what part. He ate it, then heartily wished he had not when it lay dense and heavy in his stomach.

Feeling the need to dislodge it with something hot, he went to his favourite coffee house — the Rainbow on Fleet Street — entering its steamy fug with relief after the chill of outside. Most of the regulars were there, enjoying a dish of the beverage that was currently very popular in London. He sat on a bench and listened to the chatter around him, breathing in deeply of the comfortingly familiar aroma of burned beans, pipe smoke and wet mud trampled in from the road.