Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

‘It was horrible,’ Hannah whispered, when Chaloner went to help her. ‘The wind blew the river into great waves, and I seriously considered throwing myself overboard, just to end my misery.’

‘I will take you home by land when you have recovered.’

Hannah gave a wan smile. ‘I wish you could, but Meneses has attached himself to our party, and I am not leaving the Queen alone with him .’

Chaloner looked to where she pointed, and saw Meneses had indeed fastened himself to the Queen, a fawning, oily presence that deterred anyone else from greeting her. Hannah snagged the Duke of Buckingham’s arm as he passed.

‘Come and tell the Queen you like the ship that is being named in her honour,’ she ordered. The Duke looked as if he would decline, but Hannah tightened her grip. ‘It will please her.’

With no choice, Buckingham went to oblige, leaving Chaloner alone again. Thurloe joined him, and started to speak, but was distracted by a commotion on the other side of the dockyard. Apparently, one of the Janszoons had made another faux pas.

‘But Royal Katherine is a dog,’ Margareta was objecting crossly. ‘Many sailors have told us so.’

‘It means she has fast legs and strong teeth,’ elaborated Janszoon, clearly nervous as he glanced around to ensure his henchmen were to hand. ‘There is nothing wrong with dogs.’

‘Perhaps I should call Katherine a fish,’ said Margareta waspishly. ‘Is that a better epitaph?’

‘Epithet,’ corrected Leighton, unable to help himself.

Margareta scowled, but the King prevented a spat by announcing that he intended to go aboard. There was an immediate scramble as everyone tried to accompany him, and Chaloner was sure the great ship listed from the weight that suddenly descended on her. The Janszoons followed with rather more dignity.

‘Do they work at being so stupid?’ muttered Janszoon. He spoke English and Chaloner wondered why he did not revert to his native tongue, given that his words were intended for Margareta’s ears only. ‘Or does it come naturally to them?’

Chaloner did not hear her reply, because he was suddenly aware of someone close behind him. It was Lester, who was more soft-footed than Chaloner would have expected for a man of his size.

‘They must have eavesdropped on a conversation between seamen,’ Lester explained. ‘ Katherine is a dog, but the description has nothing to do with speed and strength. Rather, it means she sails like a bucket, and will wallow like the devil in a swell. I should not like to command her.’

‘Then perhaps it is as well that you are unlikely ever to do so,’ said Thurloe coolly.

‘Thurloe?’ said Lester, peering at him. ‘Good God! I almost did not recognise you in that dreadful old cloak. How are you? It must be eight years since we last met. Now where was it?’

‘Dover,’ replied Thurloe promptly and without a hint of friendliness. ‘You were about to travel to Portugal. Fitzgerald was among your crew, if I recall correctly.’

‘Yes!’ Lester exclaimed, seemingly unperturbed by Thurloe’s icy tone. ‘That was before he turned to privateering, of course.’ He turned to Chaloner. ‘Thank you for the drawings of Pepperell and Elliot, by the way. They have already proved useful.’

‘How?’ asked Chaloner, wondering why Lester had not mentioned sailing with Fitzgerald when they had discussed him at the club two nights before.

‘By allowing me to prove for certain that they knew each other and that they had argued,’ replied Lester. ‘I am not sure what about, but I will tell you when I find out.’

‘I had not remembered until now that he and Fitzgerald were crewmates,’ said Thurloe, when the captain had walked away. ‘It makes me more wary of him than ever.’

‘I imagine they have both sailed with lots of people if they have spent most of their lives at sea,’ said Chaloner, instinctively defensive. ‘It almost certainly means nothing.’

‘We are wasting our time here,’ said Thurloe, declining to debate the matter. ‘You were right: Fitzgerald is far too clever to let anything slip in public, while I suspect most of the Piccadilly Company has no idea that he is taking orders from a higher authority.’

‘I have heard no rumours about what is planned for next Wednesday, either,’ said Chaloner gloomily. ‘Or so much as a whisper about the Earl’s bricks. Shall we go home?’

‘Not yet. Someone may drink too much wine and become indiscreet. We can but hope.’

Thurloe and Chaloner remained at Woolwich long after the King had galloped away on a fine stallion, his more athletic courtiers streaming at his heels. Meneses was still with the Queen when she clambered on her barge for the homeward journey, and thus so was Hannah. The other ladies-in-waiting were nowhere to be seen, though: they had secured themselves rides in coaches, unwilling to endure a second ordeal on the turbulent Thames.

When they had gone, Chaloner saw Harley and Newell standing near the place where wine was being served, and tried to start a conversation. They turned away, and did not react even when he made provocative remarks about Reyner’s murder. Faced with such taciturnity, he was forced to concede defeat and wandered to where Fitzgerald was talking to several people, all of whom were so well wrapped against the weather that it was impossible to tell who they were. When he moved closer, intending to eavesdrop, Brinkes blocked his way.

Chaloner retreated, then started to approach from a different direction, but Thurloe appeared at his side and shook his head warningly. Frustrated by their lack of progress, Chaloner was inclined to ignore him, but a flash of steely blue eyes told him he would be in trouble if he did.

Heartily wishing he had never made the promise, Chaloner watched Fitzgerald and his companions disperse, wondering whether anything would be served by whisking one down a dark alley and demanding answers at knifepoint. Of course, there would be hell to pay if his victim transpired to be someone influential. One of the gaggle walked jauntily towards them, and Chaloner glimpsed red ribbons in the lace around his boots, all but hidden under a long, thick cloak.

‘Robert!’ the ex-Spymaster exclaimed in astonishment. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I move in auspicious company these days,’ replied Jones with an engaging grin, once Thurloe had removed his hat to reveal his face. ‘The glassware trade is thriving, as I explained to my sister in the letters I wrote.’

Thurloe turned to Chaloner. ‘This is my wife’s brother. Robert Lydcott.’

‘Lydcott,’ repeated Chaloner flatly. ‘I knew it was not Jones.’

Lydcott shrugged. ‘If you were kin to an ex-Spymaster, you would change your name, too. No one wants to know a Lydcott these days. It is almost as bad as being a Cromwell.’

Chaloner was not unsympathetic: he shared his name with a man who had signed the old king’s death warrant, and it was awkward to say the least. But using an alias was not Lydcott’s only crime.

‘He is a member of the Piccadilly Company,’ he said to Thurloe. ‘In fact, he founded it.’

‘He did what?’ exploded Thurloe, shocked.

‘Where lies the problem?’ asked Lydcott, bemused. ‘Exporting glassware to New England is a perfectly legitimate venture. Profitable, too. At least, it is now. It was rocky before Fitzgerald came along and offered to invest, but now it is doing splendidly.’

‘Robert!’ cried Thurloe, appalled. ‘Will you never learn? You know what kind of man Fitzgerald is. How can you have been so reckless as to go into business with him?’

‘It was a sound commercial decision,’ objected Lydcott, stung. ‘My company was on the verge of bankruptcy, but he made it viable again. We have been doing well for weeks now. And in case you were wondering, I did not tell you because I knew how you would react. I wrote to Ann about my change in fortunes last month, and she will be proud of me, even if you-’