Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

‘Have you been away, Tom? I do not recall seeing you for a while.’

There was a time when Chaloner would have been hurt by the fact that she had not noticed an absence of three months, but he had learned to accept that he was no longer very important to her.

‘Tangier,’ he replied.

‘What were you doing there? Learning Arabic? I know you have a talent for languages, but you should not bother. Every civilised person speaks English these days. Except that evil Queen.’

‘She is not evil,’ said Chaloner coldly. ‘And she is learning as fast as she can.’

Temperance shot him a sour look. ‘I had forgotten your unfathomable liking for the woman. I cannot imagine why, when the rest of the country wishes her gone to the devil. She will never give the King an heir, and it is all your Earl’s fault. He deliberately picked a barren princess.’

‘He could not have known-’

Temperance cut across him. ‘Of course he knew! It is common knowledge in Lisbon that she is infertile. Did you know that she plans to buy a child, and pass it off as her own?’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘I imagine even the dim-witted rabble currently destroying your parlour would be suspicious if she produced a baby without being pregnant first.’

Temperance shrugged. ‘I am only repeating what Count Memphis of America told me.’

‘That is his real name?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.

‘Or something similar. I rarely pay attention to foreigners. They are not worth my notice.’

Chaloner gazed at her, wondering whether she had purposely set out to shock him. He had come to terms with her smoking, drinking, shaven head and relationship with Wiseman, but she had never displayed a streak of xenophobia before. And he did not like it.

She smirked at his response, then changed the subject. ‘Why did you come here tonight? To hear the latest gossip about my clients so you can repeat it to your horrid Earl?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, standing abruptly. He was too tired for a spat. ‘I came to see you.’

‘I am sorry, Tom,’ she said quickly. When he hesitated, she reached out to take his hand. ‘Please stay. I am upset about Turner and Lucas, and it has barbed my tongue. And I will never tell anyone else, but I think Fitzgerald had the atrocity planned before he came here tonight.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Chaloner, sitting again.

Temperance stared at the embers of the dying fire. ‘Because I heard him tell Harley that Turner would not be a problem for much longer at about nine o’clock tonight, and Richard told me the fire started at ten — a whole hour later.’

‘Then you must inform Williamson what-’

‘No!’ Temperance looked genuinely frightened. ‘Peter Proby challenged Fitzgerald, and look what happened to him. And you must not tackle him, either. I would not like to think of you smashed into pieces outside St Paul’s Cathedral.’

‘At least someone would not,’ sighed Chaloner.

‘Hannah?’ asked Temperance sympathetically. ‘I could have told you not to marry her.’

‘You could?’ asked Chaloner, taken aback by the turn the discussion had taken.

Temperance nodded. ‘She is a nice lady, but you are ill-matched. I wish you had asked my advice before you agreed to wed her, because you will make each other very unhappy.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner, not sure how else to respond, at least in part because he knew she was right.

‘Will she be attending Cave’s funeral?’ asked Temperance, tactfully changing the subject. ‘It will be the social event of the month, and everyone at Court plans to be seen there. People have already started to buy new black clothes, as is the fashion. I imagine it will be next week, because it will take some time to organise such a grand occasion. Richard will go, and I shall accompany him.’

‘You knew Cave?’

‘He came here on occasion, although I never liked him much — he was never very friendly.’

As Temperance and Chaloner rarely shared the same opinions, he was surprised that her assessment of Cave was the same as his own — the singer had made no effort to be pleasant on the voyage from Tangier, and had endured Chaloner’s company only because he played the viol. It had suited Chaloner, though; he had not extended himself to be sociable, either.

‘What else do you know about him?’

‘Nothing, because he only ever talked about music. He was a bore, to tell you the truth.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘The Chapel Royal choir are going to sing at his burial, and that alone will encourage many to come. They are extremely good.’

‘The best in the country,’ agreed Chaloner, deciding to do whatever was necessary to secure a place at the ceremony. He told himself it was to explore Cave’s peculiar death, even though he knew nothing could be accomplished while the service was underway.

‘Do not worry about Hannah,’ said Temperance kindly a short while later, as she was accompanying him to the front door. ‘I know many couples who dislike each other, yet still function perfectly well together in society. You will soon work out rules and boundaries.’

‘I do not dislike Hannah,’ exclaimed Chaloner, startled.

‘No,’ said Temperance softly. ‘Not yet.’

Chaloner did not feel like returning to Tothill Street after Temperance’s bleak remarks, and found himself walking towards Piccadilly instead. It was cold after the muggy heat of the club, so he strode briskly to keep the chill at bay. He soon left the city behind, and then the only sounds were the hoot of owls and the whisper of wind in the trees.

When he reached the hamlet, he made for the back of the Feathers, and let himself in through a broken window. There were two coffins in the parlour, mother and son lying side by side. Chaloner struggled to mask his distaste as he lifted Mrs Reyner’s skirts to hunt for the encrypted paper. He was not surprised to find it gone, especially when he saw her lip was swollen. He could only suppose she had handed it over when violence was used, although it had not saved her — the wound to her throat was every bit as vicious as the one that had killed her son.

He stared at her. She reeked of wine, and it occurred to him that she might not have been sober enough to tell her attackers that the list had been copied. Or had they not cared, because it was not as important as Reyner had believed? Chaloner supposed he would not know until it was decoded, which needed to happen now as a matter of urgency.

Carefully leaving all as he had found it, he made for Clarendon House, unimpressed to find not a single guard on duty, although a banked fire indicated that they intended to return at some point during the night. He checked the supplies that were stored outside, and then approached the building itself, idly counting the number of ways he could get in — four doors, two loose windows and a badly secured coal hatch. He entered through the grand portico because it represented the biggest challenge, and he felt like honing his burgling skills.

Once inside, he wandered aimlessly. It seemed especially vast in the dark, like a church. It smelled of damp plaster and new wood, and he felt his dislike of it mount with every step. Why did the Earl have to build himself such a shameless monstrosity?

He left eventually, but rather than cut across St James’s Park towards home, he took the longer route via Piccadilly and the Haymarket. As he passed the Crown, all was in darkness except Pratt’s room, in which several lanterns blazed. It had not been so when he had gone by earlier, and afraid something was amiss, he decided he had better investigate.

There were no lights in the tavern, but there were snores, and it did not take him long to see that Wright and his men had bedded down near the embers of the fire. There were eight of them, and he wondered what tale Wright would spin if materials went missing again.