Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

Long Acre had once been a fashionable part of the city, with residents that included Oliver Cromwell and the poet John Dryden, but standards had slipped since the Restoration. Most of the elegant people had moved to more salubrious lodgings, and the place was now given over to coach-makers and brothels. It suited Chaloner perfectly. First, it was usually busy, even at night, which meant he was less likely to be noticed — always an important consideration for a spy. Second, it was convenient for White Hall. And third, Landlord Lamb only cared about the rent being paid on time, and never asked questions about his tenants’ business.

The house was a four-storey affair with a cellar, and was neither respectable nor notably seedy. The ground floor and rear garden were occupied by a coach-maker, while the first floor was home to Lamb and his wife. An old Cromwellian major named John Stokes lived in the rooms above, and Chaloner was right at the top.

The attic comprised three tiny chambers, and had the advantage of being reached by two separate staircases. It was also possible to climb out of the windows to the roof next door, further reducing his chances of being trapped. There was a bed and a chest in one chamber; the second was a cosy parlour where he kept his best bass viol; and the third was a cupboard-like pantry.

He was too restless to sleep, so he took his viol and began to play, a sad, lilting melody by Schütz, which matched his mood. He felt the music begin to calm him, and although he knew he should work on the cipher he had found, he continued to play until he could barely keep his eyes open. Then he lay on the bed, fully clothed, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

A loud clatter in the street below woke him the following morning. He was off the bed with his sword in his hand before he was fully cognisant, but soon learned that the noise was nothing to concern him. Red kites liked to range themselves along the roof, from where they swooped down to pick juicy morsels from the filth of the road, and one had dislodged a tile. It had landed on a glazier’s cart, making short work of the finished wares. Needless to say, the glazier was furious, and an argument ensued when he began to demand compensation from an indignantly defensive Landlord Lamb.

Chaloner ignored the clamouring voices as he fetched water from the butt in the hallway. He washed and shaved, then donned a heavily laced shirt, breeches with enough ribbon to satisfy even the most particular of critics, and a green long-coat with buttons to the knees. A white ‘falling band’ — a piece of linen that fell across the chest like a bib — completed the outfit.

He went to White Hall first, to report to the Earl. The dough-faced Sergeant Wright was on duty at the Great Gate, bags under eyes that were rimmed red with tiredness.

‘Bad night?’ asked Chaloner, as Wright stepped in front of him to prevent him from passing.

Wright spat. ‘Your Earl has a vicious tongue. He refused to pay me for the night before last, just because his bricks went missing. It meant I had to stay awake all last night, to make sure it did not happen again. It was damned hard work!’

‘Doing the job you have been paid for can be taxing.’

‘Too right,’ agreed Wright, the irony sailing over his head. ‘I usually find somewhere to snatch a doze, but I did not dare last night, not after what he said to me. Still, I shall manage a nap later this morning. Have you heard the latest news, by the way? About the missing Adventurer?’

‘I thought Proby had been found,’ said Chaloner. ‘After he jumped off St Paul’s Cathedral.’

Wright leaned closer, treating Chaloner to a waft of second-hand onions. ‘They are worried about another of their members now. Mr Grey set out to visit the Hercules’ Pillars Alley brothel last night, but he never arrived.’

‘Perhaps he found somewhere better to take his pleasure along the way.’

‘There is nowhere better.’ The sergeant sighed ruefully. ‘Not that the likes of you and I will ever see it, of course. It is an exclusive establishment, open only to barons or the extremely wealthy.’

Chaloner did not tell him that he had visited that particular bordello on numerous occasions, because he was friends with its owner.

‘I suppose I can let you pass,’ said Wright, looking Chaloner up and down critically, although he was deluding himself if he thought he could stop him. ‘You are almost respectable today.’

Once inside, Chaloner walked across the Great Court towards the Earl’s offices. In the Privy Garden a group of drunken courtiers, which included the Earl’s debauched kinsman Brodrick, were throwing pebbles at Lady Castlemaine’s windows, hoping to secure her attention. There was a cheer when she appeared in a dangerously low-cut robe.

‘I am going to tell my father about Cousin Brodrick. His behaviour is disgraceful!’

Chaloner turned to see Hyde standing there, although he could not help but wonder whether the younger man’s disapproval stemmed from jealousy — the Lady was obviously delighted to flirt with Brodrick, but she had not included Hyde in her sultry salutations.

‘I was hoping to catch you today, Chaloner,’ Hyde went on, reluctantly tearing his attention from the Lady’s generous display of bosom. ‘I found another letter yesterday. This time it was in the hearth, and you can see it is singed. Obviously, the Queen tried to burn it but failed to ensure it was done properly.’

Chaloner took it from him and saw the edge was indeed charred. The writing was identical to the previous missive, and confidently informed the recipient that Pratt would die on St Frideswide’s Day, when the whole Catholic world would rejoice at his demise. Chaloner handed it back.

‘Let me guess: it was placed at the front of the hearth, where it would be seen. And it happened to be there at a time when you were the one most likely to notice it.’

‘It was in a prominent position,’ Hyde acknowledged stiffly. ‘And being a man of habit, I always go to the hearth the moment I arrive at work. But it was not put there for me to find. The Queen is dabbling in dark business, and the sooner we dissuade her from such foolishness by catching her confederates, the sooner she will be safe. Have you unveiled them yet?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But-’

‘Then I suggest you refrain from regaling me with unfounded opinions and do your job,’ interrupted Hyde coldly. His glower intensified. ‘My father should never have appointed a spy — especially one with Parliamentarian leanings.’

He stalked away before Chaloner could inform him that he no longer had leanings one way or the other, being heartily disillusioned with both sides.

The new letter was worrying. It suggested that someone was determined to see the Queen in trouble, and that whoever it was had slipped past Captain Appleby to put his nasty note in a place where he knew it would be discovered by the credulous Hyde. But there were still seven days before the Feast of St Frideswide, so there was ample time to explore the matter. At least, Chaloner hoped so.

When Chaloner arrived at the Earl’s offices, it was to find Chief Usher Dugdale there, rifling through the drawers of a cabinet. Edgeman the secretary was sitting at the desk, also rummaging, while Kipps stood in the window. The Seal Bearer had placed himself so as to secure an unimpeded view of the Lady in her flimsy gown.

‘Where have you been?’ Dugdale demanded, using anger to mask his chagrin at being caught pawing through his master’s belongings. ‘I told you to report to me every day, and you failed to appear yesterday.’

‘Actually,’ countered Chaloner, ‘what you said was that you wanted to know my every move. It is not the same thing.’