Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

‘You insolent dog!’ snarled Dugdale. ‘How dare you talk back to me! Do you-’

Chaloner stepped towards him, fast enough to make him cower involuntarily. ‘Please do not call me names. Unless you want to repeat them on the duelling field?’

‘Duelling is illegal,’ blustered Dugdale. ‘And I do not break the law.’

‘It is only illegal if you are caught,’ said Kipps, tearing his eyes away from the Lady and turning towards them. ‘Do you need a second, Chaloner?’

‘No, he does not,’ cried Dugdale, alarmed. ‘The Earl expects high standards of his gentlemen, and you will never coerce me into behaving disreputably.’

Chaloner looked pointedly at the recently searched cabinet. ‘You need no coercion from me.’

‘Tell me what you intend to do today,’ ordered Dugdale, immediately going on the offensive. ‘I shall then decide whether to give my permission.’

Chaloner had no intention of confiding his plans. ‘It depends on what the Earl says after he has heard my report. Where is he?’

It was Edgeman who replied. He smirked spitefully. ‘You have had a wasted journey. He will come late today, because he is going to watch the King dine at the Banqueting House. I might join him there. It is always an entertaining spectacle.’

‘Is it?’ Chaloner had been once, but had failed to understand the attraction in watching someone else eat. It was not as if His Majesty hurled food around or told clever jokes while he feasted. But it was a popular pastime for many, and the Earl rarely refused an invitation.

‘You are incapable of appreciating the finer things of life,’ sneered Edgeman. ‘Because-’

‘The same might be said of you two,’ interrupted Kipps sharply. ‘I invite you to spend an evening at the best brothel in London, and what do you do? Decline!’

‘Because we do not indulge in sordid wickedness,’ said Edgeman loftily. ‘Do we, Dugdale?’

‘No,’ agreed Dugdale piously. ‘Only low-mannered scum frequent brothels.’

‘The King is a regular at this one.’ Kipps smiled rather wolfishly. ‘Shall I tell him your opinion then? I am sure he will be interested to hear what you think of him.’

He spun on his heel and stalked out. Chaloner followed, wondering what it was about White Hall that seemed to attract such dreadful people. He was sure the foreign courts in which he had worked had not housed such a profusion of them.

‘Baiting them gives me great pleasure,’ confided Kipps, once they were out of earshot. ‘Yet I cannot help but wonder whether it is expensive fun. We shall never have the better of a man like Dugdale, because he is so damned slippery.’

‘Why were they searching the Earl’s drawers?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Were they? I did not notice. I try not to look in their direction whenever possible, especially Dugdale’s. The very sight of him stirs me to violent impulses.’

‘You like him well enough to invite him to brothels.’

‘Only because I knew he would never accept,’ replied Kipps, with a conspiratorial wink.

The first thing Chaloner did after leaving White Hall was to visit Mrs Reyner. It was a pleasant day, and the sun had turned the sky pink in the east. He breathed in deeply, then coughed as grit caught at the back of his throat. As always, London was swathed in a yellow-black haze, from its citizens lighting sea-coal fires for heat, hot water and cooking.

When he reached the Feathers, he listened carefully outside, to ensure Harley and Newell had not kept her company overnight. When he was sure she was alone, he knocked, and when the door was answered, he was hard-pressed to prevent himself from recoiling at the stench of wine on her breath. Clearly, she was a woman who liked to give her sorrows a good dousing.

‘My son is dead,’ she said, sharply. ‘And if he owed you money, then that is too bad, because I am not responsible for his debts.’

‘I heard what happened to him,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘I am sorry.’

She softened at the kindness in his voice. ‘Well? What do you want? It is cruel to keep an old woman on her doorstep in the chill of the morning.’

‘Then I had better come in,’ said Chaloner, stepping past her and entering a dingy hall.

She made no complaint, and only shuffled to a pantry, where she poured herself a generous measure of wine. Her movements were uncoordinated, which he supposed was to his advantage: if she were drunk, she was less likely to wonder why he was interrogating her.

‘You must have been very proud of your son,’ he began. ‘Being a scout in Tangier.’

‘Spying on people was what he did best.’ She nodded. ‘He was always good at it, even as a child. But he did not come home a happy man. He was frightened.’

‘Frightened of what?’

‘He would not tell me, although he did mention that we were going to be rich. Of course, that will not happen now.’ Bitterly, she took a gulp from her mug.

‘No? Surely Harley and Newell will see you are looked after — for his sake?’

‘Those scum! They are furious that he is dead, and promised vengeance. But vengeance does not put wine on the table, does it? I want money!’

‘He belonged to a group called the Piccadilly Company,’ said Chaloner, a little taken aback by her brazen rapacity, especially as Reyner professed to have been fond of her. Naively, he had expected the sentiment to have been reciprocated. ‘Do you know what-’

Mrs Reyner sneered. ‘That Brilliana is a member! She is Colonel Harley’s sister, and an evil witch. The others I do not know. Well, there is Fitzgerald — the one-eyed sailor with the large orange beard — but we do not talk about him, of course.’

‘Why not?’ asked Chaloner, aware that her voice had dropped to a whisper.

‘Because he is a pirate. And he visits brothels, like the one in Hercules’ Pillars Alley.’

‘I see. Is that the best place to find him, then?’

‘No one “finds” Fitzgerald. And you had better hope he does not find you, either.’

Chaloner changed the subject, thinking he would rather have answers about Fitzgerald from the man himself, anyway. ‘Did your son tell you what happened in Tangier the day Lord Teviot died?’

‘He said he was paid handsomely to facilitate an ambush, although I never saw any of the money.’ Mrs Reyner sighed mournfully. ‘And now I never will.’

‘Did he tell you that this ambush resulted in the deaths of almost five hundred men?’

She shrugged. ‘What of it? They were soldiers, and soldiers are supposed to fight. It was hardly my boy’s fault that they were not very good at it.’

There was no point in embarking on a debate about the ethics of the situation, and Chaloner did not try. ‘What else did he tell you about it?’

‘Nothing, except that it plagued his conscience.’ She grimaced. ‘He always was a weakling.’

‘Who do you think killed him?’ asked Chaloner, fighting down his revulsion for the woman.

‘His enemies — the deadly horde that Harley and Newell kept talking about last night. You see, there is the Piccadilly Company, and there are their foes. They hate each other. You should watch yourself, Mr … what did you say your name was?’

‘Thank you for your time,’ said Chaloner. ‘But if this “deadly horde” is as dangerous as you say, you might be wise not to speak to anyone else about your son’s activities in Tangier.’

‘The horde will not harm me,’ stated Mrs Reyner confidently. ‘Because I have this.’

She reached under her skirts, and there followed several moments of rather unseemly rummaging. Chaloner was on the verge of leaving — there was only so much he could be expected to endure for the sake of an inquiry — when she produced a piece of paper with a drunken flourish.