Susanna Gregory: The Piccadilly Plot

When there was no reply to his remarks, Pratt strode away to talk to the workmen. Chaloner watched, wondering how many of them knew more than was innocent about the missing materials, because he was sure the thieves could not operate so efficiently without inside help.

One man returned the stare. His expression was distinctly unfriendly, as if he had guessed what Chaloner was thinking. His name was Vere, a woodmonger who had been hired to act as supervisor. He was a thickset fellow with greasy ginger hair, and he continued to glare until Chaloner, too cold and tired for needless confrontations, looked away.

Next to Vere was John Oliver, Pratt’s assistant, a gangly, shambling man with a pear-shaped face, sad eyes, and shoulders that seemed perpetually slumped in defeat. When he spoke, his words were often preceded by a gloomy shake of the head, as if to warn the listener that any news he had to impart would not be good.

As Pratt told the workmen that their materials had survived another night intact, Chaloner was alert for a furtive glance or a sly nod that might indicate guilt, but he was wasting his time: there was no discernible reaction from anyone. Then Pratt started to issue orders, which had them hurrying in all directions to obey. While the architect was busy, Oliver came to talk to Chaloner.

‘It means the villains will come tonight instead,’ he predicted morosely. ‘Or tomorrow. And you cannot stand guard indefinitely. Is it true that Clarendon ordered you back from Tangier specifically to investigate the matter?’

Chaloner nodded. The Earl had hated being the victim of a crime, and the summons to return on the next available ship had been curt and angry, as if it were Chaloner’s fault that he had not been to hand when he was needed. Chaloner had been relieved though, because he had been in Tangier disguised as a diplomat for almost ten weeks, and was beginning to think the Earl had forgotten him — that he was doomed to spend the rest of his life in the hot, dirty, dangerous little outpost pretending to be something he was not.

‘I doubt you will succeed,’ said Oliver, when no other answer was forthcoming. ‘It is almost as if they spirit our bricks away by magic.’

‘I have succeeded in that nothing has disappeared since I arrived,’ said Chaloner defensively.

‘Well, yes,’ acknowledged Oliver grudgingly. ‘That is true. But I worry for you. Your presence may have deterred them so far, but what happens when they get desperate? I imagine they are ruthless villains, and they may do you harm. You are, after all, only one man.’

Chaloner smiled. Before he had been recruited as a spy, he had been a soldier in Cromwell’s New Model Army, and was better able than most to look after himself. But no one else had expressed any care for his safety, and he appreciated Oliver’s concern.

‘Pratt is calling you,’ he said. ‘It is time for you to begin work, and for me to finish.’

He made one last circuit around the house, and took his leave.

It was still not fully light as Chaloner walked home. The day was unseasonably cold, and a bitter breeze blew from the north, so he strode briskly in an effort to work some warmth into his limbs. Normally, he would have cut through St James’s Park to reach his house in Tothill Street, but that would have entailed scaling two high walls, and his hands and feet were far too numb for such antics. He went east instead, along the muddy, rutted country lane named Piccadilly.

He hoped Hannah would still be in bed when he arrived, because sliding between icy blankets held scant appeal that day. It was likely that he would be in luck, because her duties with the Queen meant she often worked late, but even if not, she hated rising early. Or perhaps one of the maids would have lit a fire in the parlour, and he could doze next to it for an hour or two before going to report to the Earl in White Hall.

It was a quarter of a mile before he reached the first signs of civilisation — a cluster of tenements and taverns where Piccadilly met the busy thoroughfare called the Haymarket. The most prominent building was the Gaming House, once a fashionable resort, but like many such establishments, it had been allowed to fall into shabby decline under Cromwell’s Puritans.

It was apparently closing time, because a number of patrons were emerging. Some sang happily after a night of freely flowing wine, while others moved with the slouched, defeated air that said their losses at the card tables had been heavy.

Opposite was a tavern called the Crown, and Chaloner was amused to note that its customers were using the Gaming House’s commotion as an opportunity to slink away in dribs and drabs. An extremely attractive woman was directing people out, timing their departures so they could blend into the throng that staggered noisily towards London. It was natural for any spy to be intrigued by brazenly suspicious behaviour, so Chaloner ducked behind a stationary milk-cart to watch almost without conscious thought.

First to emerge was a man with an eye-patch and an orange beard so massive that its end had been tucked into his belt, presumably to prevent it from flying up and depriving him of the sight in the other eye. He walked with a confident swagger, and when he replied to a slurred greeting from one of the Gaming House’s patrons, his voice was unusually high, like that a boy.

Next out was a fellow wearing the kind of ruffs and angular shoes that had been fashionable when Chaloner had last visited Lisbon; the man’s complexion was olive, and he had dark, almost black, eyes. His companion wore a wide-brimmed hat that concealed his face, although the red ribbons he had threaded through the lace around his knees were distinctive and conspicuous.

Chaloner was surprised to recognise the next three. They were Harley, Newell and Reyner, the scouts who had sailed home with him on Eagle . Rather than aim for the city, they turned north. He watched them go, thinking the surly trio were certainly the kind of men to embroil themselves in dubious business. And there was definitely something untoward going on in the Crown, given the manner in which its customers were sneaking out.

He was about to leave when someone else emerged whom he recognised. It was the fellow who had stabbed Captain Pepperell — Brinkes, the felon said to do anything for money. Chaloner eased farther behind the cart as he recalled Pepperell’s dying words: ‘Piccadilly’ and ‘trade’. Had the captain been naming the place where his killer liked to do business?

Chaloner thought back to the murder. It had occurred exactly a week before, but the authorities had made no effort to arrest the culprit, mostly, it appeared, because they were afraid Brinkes might not like it — it had not taken Chaloner long to realise that those in charge of Queenhithe were frightened of the man, and were loath to do anything that might annoy him. Chaloner had done his best to see justice done, but his efforts had been ignored.

Did the fact that Harley and his scouts frequented the same tavern mean that they had hired Brinkes to kill Pepperell? But how could they have done, when they had been in Tangier for the last two years? And what reason could they have for wanting Pepperell dead, anyway? The captain had not been pleasant, with his sulky temper and rough manners, but that was hardly a reason to dispatch him. Or, more likely, had they been so impressed by Brinkes’s efficiency with a knife that they had hired him for business of their own?

Outside the Crown, Brinkes paused to light his pipe. Chaloner watched, wondering whether to grab him and drag him to the nearest magistrate. Unfortunately, he had no idea where that might be, and Brinkes was unlikely to go quietly. Moreover, given the authorities’ reluctance to act so far, he suspected Brinkes would not stay in custody for long, at which point Chaloner would have a vengeful assassin on his trail. With a sigh, he decided to leave matters well alone.