Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

He regarded her thoughtfully. It was a curious coincidence that Elliot’s wife just happened to live in the place that was the object of one of his three investigations. Or was it? There was a connection of sorts, in that Elliot had killed Cave, a man who had travelled home from Tangier on the same ship as the three scouts. And Harley, Newell and Reyner were involved with the Piccadilly Company, which met downstairs.

‘You watch the people who use the rooms below you,’ he said, coming to kneel next to her and trying to gauge her level of intelligence. ‘What do you see?’

‘I do not like them,’ she declared. ‘James said he will stop them from coming, but he forgets.’

‘What do they do?’

‘They talk,’ replied Ruth, pouting. ‘They discuss gravel.’

‘Gravel?’ echoed Chaloner warily.

‘I do not like gravel. I fell over in some once, and it hurt my knee. Look.’

She whipped up her skirts and showed Chaloner a minute scar. Gently, he pulled them down again, hoping she would not do the same to Brinkes, because the leg was shapely.

‘Who are the people you watch? Do you know their names?’

‘Oh, yes! Mr Fitzgerald the pirate. And Mr Jones with the red ribbons. And Mr Harley. And Mr Reyner. And Mr Newell.’ She sang the names rather oddly.

‘What about the others?’

Ruth shook her head and shrank away from him, her expression darkening. ‘They frighten me, and my brother told me that they killed James’s dog. But I do not believe that people would kill dogs — it must have run away. Have you seen it?’

‘Do not look out of the window any more,’ advised Chaloner, standing up. ‘These people will not like being monitored.’

‘But James told me to do it,’ said Ruth, wide-eyed. ‘He told me it was important.’

Chaloner was disgusted that Elliot should have encouraged such a dangerous habit, and wondered what he had been thinking. He took his leave, first ensuring that she locked the door after him, then exited the Crown by its back door, to avoid Brinkes, who was lurking at the front one.

Once outside, he aimed for the Gaming House. It was far earlier than the appointed ten o’clock, but he wanted to watch Reyner arrive, to ensure he was alone. He fingered the papers he had forged earlier, which he hoped would be convincing enough to persuade Reyner that a pardon and two hundred pounds would be his in exchange for information. He felt no guilt over the deception: anyone complicit in the deaths of Teviot’s garrison — and considered them ‘replaceable’ — deserved no better.

Because it was a cold night, the grounds were deserted. Moving silently, Chaloner made his way to the line of trees that divided the bowling green from the formal gardens, intending to use them as cover while he awaited Reyner’s arrival.

He was almost there when he saw a dark shape lying in one of the rose beds. Abandoning all efforts at stealth, because he knew it no longer mattered, he ran towards it. He reached the inert form and felt for a life-beat, not surprised when there was none. He rolled the body over. Reyner’s throat had been cut.

A brief search of the grounds revealed that Reyner’s killer had long gone, so Chaloner returned to stare at the body, disgusted with himself for not pressing the scout to talk earlier. He wondered how he was going to find out what had happened to Teviot now, because Harley and Newell would be far more difficult to crack. He sighed, supposing he would have to pursue the charade of the fictitious official inquiry.

Unwilling to answer the questions that would arise from informing the Gaming House owner that there was a corpse among his roses, Chaloner left, assuming the body would be found the following morning. He was wrong.

He had taken only a few steps along the Haymarket, eager now for home and bed, when there was a shrill shriek, followed by a lot of shouting. Because it would have looked suspicious to continue walking in the opposite direction, he joined the throng that poured into the garden. The alarm had been raised by a serving maid who had gone for a tryst with a card player, and had been distressed to find her favourite flower bed occupied by a cadaver.

By the time Chaloner arrived, torches had been lit, allowing the full extent of Reyner’s injury to be seen. Whoever had cut his throat had used enough force almost to sever his head from his body. It was a vicious attack, and Chaloner wondered who had done it. Harley or Newell, because they knew their comrade was about to betray them? Or Brinkes?

The two scouts were among the crowd. The faces of both were white, and Newell was leaning heavily on Harley’s shoulder. Chaloner eased back into the shadows, reluctant for them to see him, lest they assumed he was responsible. They did not linger long, though, and slouched away when the spectators began to reveal what they knew of the victim.

‘His name is Reyner, and he lives in that shabby old Feathers tavern,’ the serving wench was saying. She added rather sneeringly, ‘With his mother.’

Chaloner brightened. Perhaps Reyner’s dam would know what her son had embroiled himself in. He loitered a while longer, hoping to learn more by listening to the excited speculations, but it soon became clear that no one knew anything useful. He left and aimed for the decrepit Feathers, arriving to see lamps lit: Mrs Reyner already had visitors. He crouched down outside and pretended to fiddle with the buckle on his shoe, pleased when he heard the discussion within emanating through several conveniently cracked and broken windows.

‘Reyner was a good man,’ Newell was saying, his voice tight with fury. ‘We will hunt down who killed him, and slit his throat.’

‘Thank you kindly.’ Mrs Reyner’s voice was slurred, but Chaloner did not think it was from shock at the news she had just received. ‘Pour me another drink, will you? My nerves are all aquiver.’

‘It was Chaloner,’ said Harley softly. ‘It is too much of a coincidence that he should start asking questions about Teviot, and within hours Reyner is dead. He must have thought Reyner was a soft touch and slit his throat when he discovered otherwise.’

‘Chaloner wants to gain our favour, not kill us,’ argued Newell. ‘He is not the culprit. And it cannot be anyone from the Piccadilly Company, so that only leaves one set of suspects: our old adversaries. They killed Reyner because of what happened to Proby.’

‘You may be right,’ conceded Harley. ‘They certainly hate us.’

‘They do,’ said Newell tightly. ‘And when I find out which of them was responsible, I will kill him. I swear it on Reyner’s soul.’

At that point Mrs Reyner knocked over her cup, and there was a fuss as the mess was mopped up. Chaloner frowned his confusion. The only Proby he knew was the Adventurer who had recently jumped from the roof of St Paul’s Cathedral. Was Newell referring to him? But why would he be an enemy of the Piccadilly Company? And who were the ‘old adversaries’?

He continued to listen, but the scouts and Reyner’s mother had repositioned themselves after the spillage and he could no longer hear them clearly. As there was only so long he could pretend to be adjusting his shoe, he stood and began to walk home. He would have to interview Mrs Reyner the following day, when she was alone.

He was relieved that Newell had convinced Harley of his innocence, because it would have been inconvenient to dodge murderous attacks when he had so much else to do. But Reyner’s death was a blow, and he could not escape the feeling that it was his fault. He turned south when he reached Charing Cross, but it had been a frustratingly trying day, and he felt the need to be alone, away from the inquisitive stares of the servants in Tothill Street. He retraced his steps, intending to sleep at Long Acre instead.