Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

‘The Earl has ordered me to go, too. He says his enemies will be there, and he thinks the culprit will be braying to all and sundry about the missing bricks.’

‘Then we had better listen carefully,’ said Thurloe with a smile. He glanced up at the grey clouds that scudded overhead. ‘I am not going by boat, though. There is a stiff wind, which will blow directly against the current. It will make for a most unpleasant journey.’

Poor Hannah, thought Chaloner. ‘Shall we hire horses?’

‘In this weather?’ Thurloe was aghast. ‘I think not! I have asked the porter to fetch me a hackney carriage. It will scarcely be comfortable, but it will have to suffice.’

Woolwich lay on the south bank of the river, dominated by the largest and oldest of the Thames shipyards. It employed some three hundred workers, whose cottages crouched along muddy lanes behind the dry docks. Cannons boomed as the hackney approached, and Chaloner tensed. He had been wary of artillery ever since the Battle of Naseby.

‘They are announcing His Majesty’s arrival with a royal salute,’ explained Thurloe. ‘There will be another when the Queen disembarks, so do not let it startle you.’

They alighted to find the dockyard already full. Most of the Court was there, many looking as though they had come straight from whatever wild entertainment they had enjoyed the night before. They mingled with officials from the admiralty, including Samuel Pepys, who had inveigled himself a choice spot near the King and the Duke of York.

Royal Katherine was the centre of attention. She was a three-masted warship of eighty-four guns, attractively painted in black, red and gold. Vast windows at her stern indicated that whoever commanded her would be very comfortably accommodated.

‘We shall separate,’ determined Thurloe. ‘We will learn more that way.’

They headed in opposite directions, and the first person Chaloner met was Williamson, who had donned a disguise so bad it was laughable — a landsman’s idea of what a sea-officer would wear, complete with an empty coat-sleeve to denote an amputated arm. The Spymaster was gazing at someone with open yearning, and Chaloner followed the direction of his gaze to Kitty. She and O’Brien were with Brodrick, whose company they seemed to be enjoying, and Secretary Leighton, whose presence was obviously unwelcome.

Williamson reddened when he saw that Chaloner had witnessed a look that should never have been given in public, and moved forward to speak.

‘You did not visit me yesterday,’ he snapped, concealing his mortification by going on the offensive.

‘I was busy.’

Williamson glared. ‘Then come tonight at six o’clock. Do not be late — I am invited to O’Brien’s home afterwards, before he attends some public event in Westminster.’

Chaloner was about to inform him that he had other plans when the Spymaster hurried away abruptly, and he turned to see Kitty and O’Brien approaching. The amused gleam in Kitty’s green eyes said she had not been fooled by the Spymaster’s disguise, although Chaloner was fairly certain O’Brien remained in ignorance. Leighton was still with them, and so was Brodrick.

‘Chaloner!’ O’Brien cried in obvious delight. ‘I was just telling Brodrick here about your remarkable talent on the viol.’

‘I have heard him play many times,’ said Brodrick. ‘He is especially good at Ferrabosco and Schütz, whose arpeggios are notably demanding. Their interludes require an exacting sense of rhythm, which separates the integral harmony from the …’

He trailed off as Leighton, eyes glazed, scuttled away.

‘At last!’ exclaimed O’Brien, laughing. ‘I did not believe you when you said you could bore him into leaving us alone, Brodrick, but you have succeeded admirably. Personally, I thought we were going to be stuck with him all day, and there is something about him I cannot like.’

‘Nor I,’ agreed Kitty. ‘He makes me shudder, although I would be hard-pressed to say why. Perhaps it is because he is an advocate of the slave trade.’

‘Actually, it is because he is innately evil,’ supplied Brodrick matter-of-factly. ‘But speaking of evil, there is Fitzgerald. Come away quickly before he engages us in conversation. We have our reputations to consider, and they will not be enhanced if we are seen conversing with a pirate.’

Chaloner had no reason to flee, so he held his ground as Fitzgerald approached. The pirate was wearing exquisitely made clothes, but they were slightly worn, indicating that the gossips were right: he probably was a wealthy man who had recently fallen on hard times.

‘I know you,’ he said in his oddly high voice, although his single eye was fixed on the retreating figures of Brodrick and the O’Briens. ‘We met at the bawdy house. I recognise your eyes.’

‘Did we?’ Chaloner smiled, although he was disconcerted that the man had managed to see beneath the mask he had worn, especially as his eyes were not particularly distinctive. ‘I am afraid I recall very little from my evenings there.’

‘Wine is a treacherous thing,’ said Fitzgerald softly. ‘It puts a man out of his wits, and that is never wise when there are so many dangerous individuals at large.’

Leaving Chaloner wondering whether he had just been threatened, Fitzgerald sauntered away. People gave him a wide berth, including several Adventurers and Swaddell, all of whom looked pointedly the other way as he passed.

Some sixth sense told Chaloner he was being watched, and he turned to see Leighton, who was regarding him with a blank expression that was nevertheless unsettling. He returned the stare, and it was the secretary who broke it, because Margareta Janszoon collided heavily with him.

‘I retard your impotence,’ she said breezily. Her guards immediately tensed nervously.

‘Impetus, madam,’ said Leighton stiffly, as several courtiers began to laugh. ‘It means forward movement. Impotence, on the other hand, has a rather different sense.’

‘You correct my speech?’ asked Margareta indignantly. ‘How rude!’

Chaloner felt his jaw drop as she removed a piece of cheese from her purse and began to eat it. Did she want to perpetuate the stereotype of the dairy-produce-loving Hollander?

‘I wonder if her husband has a pat of butter on his person,’ murmured Thurloe in Chaloner’s ear. He sounded amused. ‘Incidentally, I saw you break your promise to me just now. Fitzgerald.’

‘He approached me,’ objected Chaloner defensively. ‘And all he did was mutter about dangerous men.’

Thurloe regarded him uneasily. ‘What did he mean?’

‘I have no idea, but I do not believe he is as deadly as everyone claims.’

‘Do not underestimate him, Tom. He … Oh, heavens! He is going to sing. I hope Royal Katherine does not have much in the way of expensive glassware, because if so, it is in grave peril.’

He was not the only one with a low opinion of Fitzgerald’s talents. O’Brien promptly began to run, aiming to put as much distance between him and the performer as possible; Kitty and Brodrick trotted after him, both struggling to mask their laughter. Then the first notes of an aria began to waft around the shipyard.

The sound was indescribable. The notes were mostly true, but had a curious, metallic quality that was deeply unpleasant. They did not sound human, and had Chaloner not been able to see Fitzgerald opening and closing his mouth, he might have assumed they derived from an artificial source. The hubbub of genteel conversation died away.

There was a general a sigh of relief when the great guns roared an interruption. They heralded the arrival of the Queen, whose barge was rowed ashore with great ceremony. Her Majesty alighted jauntily enough, but Hannah was green, and so were several other ladies. Cruelly, the King released a bellow of mocking laughter.