Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

Several Piccadilly Company members were also readily identifiable, despite their elaborate headdresses. ‘The nice Mr Jones’ was wearing his trademark red boot-ribbons, while Cornelis Janszoon appeared brazenly foreign in his sombre Dutch suit. Chaloner glanced around quickly and saw three henchmen lurking in the shadows near the door; Janszoon was still taking no chances with his safety.

There were two others he recognised, too, although he doubted they were Adventurers or from the Piccadilly Company: Pratt the architect was betrayed by his haughty bearing, while his assistant Oliver still contrived to look morose despite the merrily beaming imp that concealed his face.

Everyone was laughing uproariously, because Jones was encouraging Pratt to describe the mansions he had designed before Clarendon House. Jones was making much of the fact that Pratt could only lay claim to three, which should not have been sufficient for him to have formed such an elevated opinion of himself. Pratt did not know he was being practised upon, and his bragging replies unwittingly emphasised his foolish vanity.

‘Clarendon House is effluence,’ declared Janszoon suddenly, cutting across Pratt’s declaration that his buildings were the best in the country. ‘And all London’s architects are repulsive and bald.’

Chaloner knew the revellers were far too drunk to understand that the Hollander was remarking on Clarendon House’s affluence, and the impulsive boldness of the capital’s builders. He braced himself for trouble, and saw the guards do the same.

‘British architects are the greatest in the world, sir,’ slurred Congett indignantly. ‘Whereas you Dutch never build anything except warehouses in which to store butter.’

‘Or cheese,’ added Brodrick, while Oliver nodded at his side.

‘I like Dutch cheese,’ said Janszoon gravely. ‘But England’s is odious.’

Chaloner suspected he had confused ‘odious’ with ‘odoriferous’, and was merely commenting on the fact that British cheeses tended to smell riper than their milder Dutch counterparts. But eyes were immediately narrowed at the perceived slur.

‘Nonsense,’ snapped Dugdale. He struggled to enunciate the next sentence. ‘There is nothing odious about England. God save the King!’

The cry was taken up by others, and the atmosphere turned raucously genial again, indignation forgotten. One of the guards slipped up to Janszoon at that point, and whispered in his ear. Janszoon nodded to whatever was said, and aimed for the door, his protectors at his heels.

‘Good,’ said Dugdale viciously, watching them go. ‘That butter-eater did nothing but abuse us from the moment he arrived, and I might have punched him had he persisted.’

‘Would you?’ asked Fitzgerald softly, his one eye gleaming oddly beneath his mask. ‘You sat back all night and let him bray all manner of insults about our country, our King and our food. I imagine he will always be perfectly safe from your fists.’

His voice dripped scorn, and Chaloner sensed he was more disgusted with the Chief Usher for failing to defend their nation’s honour than with Janszoon for uttering the remarks in the first place.

‘We came here for fun,’ objected Dugdale defensively. ‘Not to trounce impudent foreigners. Besides, Temperance does not approve of fighting in her parlour, and I do not want to be ousted while the night is still young.’

Pratt spoke up at that point, eager to reclaim the attention. ‘Have you heard that I am the subject of a planned assassination?’ he enquired smugly. ‘Someone hates my work enough to kill me.’

‘Congratulations,’ came an unpleasantly acidic voice from a man wearing the face of a dog. Chaloner recognised it as Newell’s, and supposed the hawk next to him was Harley. ‘No architect can claim notoriety until at least one person itches to dispatch him for the hideousness of his creations.’

Pratt frowned as he tried to gauge whether he had just been insulted. Newell opened his mouth to add more, but Fitzgerald was there first, laying his hand on the scout’s shoulder.

‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘Pratt is our friend — a member of our Company. It is unkind to tease him.’

Chaloner was surprised to learn that the architect was a member of the Piccadilly Company, but supposed he should not be — Pratt lived in the place where it met, and would have money to invest. Of course he would be recruited to its ranks.

‘He deserves to be jibed,’ said Newell sullenly. ‘He is an arrogant dolt. Besides, Janszoon is a friend and a member of the Company too, but you just castigated that courtier for not hitting him.’

‘I did nothing of the kind,’ said Fitzgerald, and although his voice was mild, there was a definite warning in it. ‘I merely dislike people who make casual reference to violence. If they mean it, they should carry it through. I have never made an idle threat in my life.’

Newell was clearly unsettled by the remark, because he flung off his mask, grabbed a jug of wine from a table and began to drain it. When they saw what was happening, the other revellers egged him on with boisterous chants. Fitzgerald turned away, but the crocodile head prevented Chaloner from telling whether he was angry, amused or disgusted by the scout’s antics.

When the jug was empty, Newell slammed it on the table and slumped into a chair. Chaloner homed in on him when the revellers drifted to another part of the room, and tried to rouse him, but it was hopeless — the scout would still be sleeping off his excesses at noon the following day.

Meanwhile, the Portuguese man had seized another jug and looked set to follow Newell’s example, but once again, Fitzgerald was there to intervene.

‘No, Meneses,’ he piped, removing it firmly. ‘You have much to do tomorrow, and you will need a clear head. Allow me to summon a carriage to take you home.’

Meneses opened his mouth to argue, but Fitzgerald gripped his arm and began to lead him towards the door. Meneses tried to pull away, but was far too drunk for a serious struggle, and he desisted altogether when Harley came to take his other arm. Chaloner followed, staying well back and hiding as the trio reached the hall and Fitzgerald sent Preacher Hill to fetch a hackney.

‘What do you think, Fitzgerald?’ asked Harley in a low voice, propping Meneses up against a wall while they waited for the coach to arrive. ‘How do we fare?’

‘Well, enough,’ replied the pirate. ‘Our master will be pleased, because tonight I have achieved two things: avenged Reyner’s murder, and let those who oppose us know that we are a potent force. Killing Reyner and his mother in revenge for Proby was rude, and I have taught them a lesson.’

Harley nodded slowly. ‘Do you know who killed Reyner, then?’

‘No, but he will not live long, I promise — our St Frideswide’s Day plans will take care of him. Next Wednesday, our master will show everyone that he can organise noteworthy events, too.’

In the shadows, Chaloner frowned his bemusement. St Frideswide’s Day was when Pratt was supposed to be murdered, but Fitzgerald had just saved him from ridicule and described him as a friend and a fellow Piccadilly Company member. Surely, he — or his mysterious master — could not be the author of that plot? Or was Fitzgerald actually saying that there was a second unpleasant event planned for the same day, one that would outshine the other in its viciousness?

‘Good,’ said Harley. ‘Then let us hope we succeed, because it has been months in the planning, and I am eager for it to be finished. But what exactly did you do tonight?’

‘You will see. Our enemies and all London will be agog with the news tomorrow.’

The coach arrived at that point, and they manhandled Meneses into it. As the hackneyman declined to take a near-unconscious man unaccompanied, Harley went, too, while Fitzgerald returned to the parlour.