Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

Chaloner mulled over what he had heard, wondering who the pirate considered to be his enemies. Frustrated, he realised he had a list of them from Reyner’s mother, but until Thurloe broke the code, their names would remain a mystery. He hoped the ex-Spymaster would not take long, because they were obviously in danger, and needed to be warned. He cursed the promise that Thurloe had forced out of him, because the obvious way forward was to corner Fitzgerald and demand some answers, most particularly the name of his master.

His musings were interrupted suddenly when the hall filled with laughing, shrieking courtiers, all involved in a riotous game of chase. The curtain behind which he had taken refuge was hauled from its rail by someone struggling to stay upright, and he only just managed to hurl himself into the mêlée in time to prevent being exposed as someone who hid behind the draperies — and while most patrons were too drunk to notice or care, it was not a risk he was willing to take.

As he scrambled to his feet, pretending to totter as he did so, a figure materialised in front of him. It was Fitzgerald. He itched to initiate a conversation, sure he could extract some information from the pirate without arousing his suspicions.

‘Allow me to help,’ Fitzgerald said, reaching out to steady him. ‘Mistress North’s wine has flowed very freely tonight, and not everyone can take it.’

‘But you can?’ slurred Chaloner.

‘I am a sailor,’ replied Fitzgerald, intensifying his grip to the point where it hurt. Chaloner was not sure whether the pirate was genuinely trying to hold him up, or whether there was a warning in the steel-like fingers. ‘We are more used to powerful brews than the average man. Indeed, we are a breed to be respected in many ways.’

He escorted Chaloner to a nearby chair, where the spy pretended to fall asleep. Fitzgerald watched him for a moment, then turned and made for the door, apparently deciding that he had had enough of the club and its entertainments. Chaloner found himself inexplicably relieved when he had gone — there was definitely something unsettling about him, and he was beginning to understand why Thurloe considered him such a daunting opponent.

Back inside the parlour, the merrymaking continued unabated, and all manner of food was still flying through the air. Pratt was lying on the floor, liberally splattered with custard, and an inanely grinning Oliver — an expression that did not sit well on his naturally melancholy face, now devoid of its mask — was sitting astride the architect, rummaging in his clothes.

‘I am looking for the key to Clarendon House,’ he explained, as Chaloner approached. ‘Pratt usually keeps it round his neck, see.’

Chaloner helped him search with the express intention of taking it — he did not think Oliver or Pratt should have possession of it that night. It was not there, indicating either that the architect had been sensible enough to leave it at home, or someone else had got to it first.

‘Damn,’ said Oliver, reeling as he sat back on his heels. ‘He always gives it to me when he knows he is going to be late for work. And he will be late tomorrow, because he will still be drunk.’

‘Does he often come here?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Oh, yes — he is always waxing lyrical about it. Usually it is barred to the likes of me, but the King is being entertained elsewhere tonight, so Mistress North said her regulars could bring a friend. Just this once. And Mr Pratt invited me, which was nice.’

He sounded ridiculously pleased, giving Chaloner the impression that it would be the highlight of his year. Then the grin slowly disappeared, and he mumbled something about needing to close his eyes for a moment, before sinking down on top of Pratt and beginning to snore.

Chaloner was about to go home when he saw Jones pouring himself more wine. The man was perfectly steady, and was one of few sober people in the room.

‘Temperance is canny,’ Jones said affably, wincing as he sipped. ‘The claret was excellent earlier in the evening, but now few are in a position to savour quality, she has brought out the slop.’

‘You are a member of the Piccadilly Company,’ said Chaloner, deciding the environment was right for a frontal attack — everyone else was blurting whatever entered their heads, so why should he not do likewise? ‘May I join?’

Jones blinked. ‘You are very direct! How did you find out about us?’

It was on the tip of Chaloner’s tongue to say that Harley and Newell had told him, but he remembered what had happened to Reyner, and baulked. He did not want another death on his conscience, not even theirs. ‘I listen,’ he said instead.

Jones smiled apologetically. ‘Personally, I would love a new member, because our meetings are tedious and you might liven them up. Unfortunately, my colleagues have decided that our business has reached its optimum size of thirty investors, and they will not enrol anyone else.’

‘Should I ask Fitzgerald to make an exception?’

Jones considered the question carefully. ‘You could try, although I am told he is not always very friendly. I have never found him so, but there you are.’

‘What is the Piccadilly Company, exactly?’

Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘You do not know its nature, yet you want to enlist?’

‘I have heard it is a lucrative venture,’ lied Chaloner.

Jones laughed and clapped his hands. ‘Then you heard right! It is very profitable. We export fine glassware to New England, and we bring gravel back.’

‘Gravel?’ echoed Chaloner. Ruth had mentioned gravel, too.

Jones shrugged. ‘No ship wants to travel one way empty, and there is always a great demand for gravel. It is useful for building roads, apparently.’

‘Who is in charge of your company?’ asked Chaloner. ‘The man Fitzgerald calls his master?’

Jones looked puzzled. ‘He does not have a master. What are you talking about?’

Chaloner could only surmise that Jones was not trusted to the same degree as Harley. ‘What is your name?’ he asked. ‘And do not say Jones, because we both know that is an alias.’

‘Do we indeed?’ Jones seemed more amused than offended as he raised his cup in a salute. ‘People really are called Jones, you know — there are dozens of us in London alone.’

Once Jones had gone, Chaloner aimed for the hall again, bored with wealthy hedonists and their secrets, and keen to go home. His hand dropped to his dagger when someone intercepted him, but it was only Lester. Chaloner smothered a smile when he saw the captain had chosen to wear a mask of delicate silver lace, which had been intended for a woman. It would have made him conspicuous if anyone had been sufficiently sober to notice.

‘Everything here costs a fortune,’ Lester said disagreeably, watching the antics in the parlour with prim disapproval. He winced and ducked as a syllabub missed its intended target and flew through the door towards him. ‘I hope Williamson reimburses me.’

‘So you are working for him?’ Chaloner was unimpressed. ‘You told me you were not.’

Lester grimaced. ‘I was a free agent when we spoke this morning, but he has since learned of a certain weakness of mine, and holds me to ransom over it.’

‘A weakness?’

Lester shot him a cool glance. ‘One I am not prepared to discuss. However, the upshot is that he thinks there was more to Elliot’s death than a fight over a woman, and has ordered me to look into it. I do not suppose you would help, would you? I am rather out of my depth.’

‘So would I be,’ said Chaloner shortly.

‘Not according to Williamson. He says you are the most resourceful man he has ever met.’

‘Does he?’ Chaloner was uneasy to learn that the Spymaster talked about him to all and sundry.