Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

A blaring fanfare heralded the arrival of the food, which not surprisingly was a good deal more appetising than rancid venison pastry. There were huge pieces of roasted meat, elegantly decorated pies, whole baked fish and sweet tarts. The King fell to with an enthusiasm that was heartening, watched intently by spectators who must have numbered in the hundreds. Because it was hot in the Banqueting House with so many of them crammed together, and because best clothes had been donned for the occasion, the air was thick with the reek of sweat and moth-repellent.

Chaloner looked for Fitzgerald, Harley and Newell, but they were nowhere to be seen. He wondered whether they had spun Marshall a yarn, and the pirate was no more welcome at Court than any other man with a brazenly criminal past would be.

There were plenty of other people he recognised, though. They included Leighton, the Adventurers’ secretary, whom Kipps had described as the most dangerous man in London. Was it true? There was definitely something compelling about the fellow, with his button-like eyes and unsettlingly bland face.

Leighton was next to O’Brien and Kitty, whose newly acquired wealth was evident in their fine but tastefully understated clothes. Chaloner recalled being told several times that they were the King’s current favourites — although apparently not enough to be asked to join him at his feast. Kitty looked especially lovely in a green dress that matched her eyes, her auburn hair in tight ringlets around her face. O’Brien’s obvious excitement with the occasion made him seem more boyish than ever, his fair curls bobbing and his eyes flashing with unbridled delight.

Leighton kept tapping O’Brien’s arm to claim his attention, but O’Brien was more interested in the King’s feast, and Chaloner could see them growing exasperated with each other. Meanwhile, Kitty had been cornered by Brodrick, who had a dark, sinister figure at his side — John Swaddell, who had worked for Spymaster Williamson until seduced away by the prospect of better wages. Surely, thought Chaloner uneasily, Brodrick had not hired the man? He doubted the Earl’s cousin could afford him, and he wondered whether there would be a murder to investigate when Swaddell learned he was never going to be paid what he had been promised.

After a few moments, Hyde and Dugdale joined them, and Leighton began to address the whole ensemble, although O’Brien and Kitty were obvious in their preference for watching the King instead, and it was not long before he gave up. Brodrick took up the reins, relating some tale that had them rocking with laughter, and Leighton promptly moved away, his expression difficult to read.

Eventually Chaloner spotted Fitzgerald, Harley and Newell in the opposite gallery, and supposed they must have told Marshall the truth after all. They were with several others he had seen in the Crown, all members of the Piccadilly Company. Chaloner abandoned the Earl and edged towards them, aiming to come close enough to eavesdrop. As he did so, he studied Fitzgerald carefully, curious about the man who had bested Thurloe.

The pirate was wearing a fine blue suit with a matching eye-patch, and his red beard had been allowed to flow free, so it covered his chest and a good part of his stomach. In all, it made for an arresting appearance. His peculiarly high voice was audible over the general hubbub, as he told a sullen Harley a tale about a chest of silver.

Newell was with the swarthy man whose clothes had led Chaloner to assume he was from Lisbon. When a trumpet blast announced the beginning of another course, the fellow jumped in alarm and blurted a curse in Portuguese. Chaloner nodded his satisfaction: he had been right.

A short distance away, ‘the nice Mr Jones’, complete with red ribbons in his boot hose, was chatting to Margareta and Cornelis Janszoon, although people were scowling at them, disliking Hollanders in their midst when the two countries might soon be at war. At first, Chaloner did not rate their chances of escaping the event in one piece, but then he saw that they were accompanied by several burly soldiers. Clearly, they were aware of their unpopularity, and had taken measures to protect themselves.

Chaloner did not think he had ever seen a couple more obviously Dutch. Janszoon looked as though he had stepped directly out of a painting by van Dyck, with a wide-brimmed hat and the kind of collar popular among Amsterdam’s burgomasters. There was a vivid scar on one cheek, which made Chaloner wonder whether an assault had prompted the hire of bodyguards. Margareta’s clothes were dark and sombre, with a maidenly wimple of a kind never seen in England. Perhaps as a sop to London fashions, both had used liberal amounts of face-powder and rouge.

‘The King eats with his fingers,’ she remarked to Jones in heavily accented English. ‘How curious. In Amsterdam, we use forks.’

Her voice had not been loud, but the comment coincided with a lull in other conversations, and those around her heard it quite clearly. There was a collective murmur of indignation, and Jones moved away sharply, his handsome face burning with embarrassment.

‘The Queen’s manners are delicate,’ said Janszoon quickly, also in the clipped, uncertain way of the non-native speaker. He smiled benignly. ‘Not like the … what is the word? Strumpet? Yes, strumpet. The Queen is more delicate than the common strumpet on the King’s left.’

Chaloner winced on his behalf, suspecting that someone had taught him the word as a joke. Then Fitzgerald stepped forward and whispered something. Janszoon was patently puzzled, but nodded agreement, and all three left, the guards at their heels. Chaloner tried to follow, but the press was too great, and he gave up when he realised they would be gone before he could reach the door.

‘Lord!’ came a familiarly peevish voice. ‘I cannot say I approve of that sort of judgement being passed about Lady Castlemaine. She is hardly a common strumpet.’

It was Roger Pratt, and his comment broke the uncomfortable tension that had followed the Janszoons’ departure, because people started to laugh. The architect looked bemused: he had not intended to be droll.

‘They are Dutch,’ explained Jones to the people who still regarded him uncertainly. ‘With poor English, so they cannot be expected to know how to behave in polite society. Unlike the Portuguese.’ He smiled ingratiatingly at the man in black.

Another bray of bugles interrupted any more that might have been added, and then there were coos of wonder, because one of the dishes comprised an enormous gelatine castle, wobbling precariously on a tray of live eels. The King plunged a spoon into one of the towers, accompanied by an encouraging cheer from the audience, but its taste apparently did not equal its appearance, because he pulled a face and did not take any more.

Feeling he should at least try to glean some useful information that day, Chaloner approached Harley and Newell.

‘So you are Clarendon’s creature,’ Newell said in disgust when he saw Chaloner’s uniform. ‘I might have known. The man has a reputation for meddling where he is not wanted.’

‘Reyner is dead,’ said Harley, his devil-eyes boring into Chaloner’s. ‘And if I learn you had anything to do with it, I will slit your throat.’

‘Why would I want Reyner dead?’ asked Chaloner with quiet reason. ‘I barely knew him.’

‘You had better be telling the truth,’ said Harley in a low, menacing voice. ‘I dislike liars.’

‘So do I,’ said Chaloner, returning the scout’s hard stare. ‘Have you thought about my proposal, by the way? The Tangier Committee is now certain to order an inquiry, and-’

Harley moved suddenly, and shoved him against the wall. The knife from Chaloner’s sleeve dropped into his hand, but he did not use it.