Susanna Gregory: The Piccadilly Plot

‘A swordfight,’ said Dugdale, with rank disapproval. ‘I see one of the combatants is James Elliot. He works for Spymaster Williamson.’

Williamson ran the country’s intelligence network, and Chaloner had expected to continue serving overseas under him when the Royalists had been returned to power — the King needed information on foreign enemies just as much as Cromwell had. But all the old spies had been dismissed, and long-term Royalists appointed in their place. Even so, Chaloner harboured a faint hope that Williamson would see sense one day, and send him to Holland, France or Spain.

‘Elliot’s opponent is John Cave,’ he said, recognising the singer who had sailed from Tangier with him on Eagle . ‘A tenor from the Chapel Royal.’

It was odd that he should see so many fellow passengers — Harley, Newell, Reyner and Cave — within an hour of each other, especially as he had not set eyes on any since disembarking the week before. But London was like that — the biggest city in Europe on the one hand, with a population of some three hundred thousand souls, but a village on the other, in which residents frequently met friends and family just by strolling along its thoroughfares.

Dugdale shot Chaloner another distaste-filled glance. ‘I cannot imagine how you come to be acquainted with Court musicians. The Earl tells me that you have spent virtually your entire adult life in foreign countries, and that you know nothing of London.’

Chaloner was the first to admit that his knowledge of the capital was lacking — and it was unlikely to improve if the Earl kept sending him to places like Tangier, either — but it was not for Dugdale to remark on it. He scowled, but the Chief Usher was not looking at him.

‘You had better intervene,’ Dugdale was saying. ‘Elliot will kill Cave, and we cannot have members of Court skewered on public highways.’

It was anathema for a spy to put himself in a position where he would be noticed, and the altercation had already attracted a sizeable gathering. Moreover, although Chaloner had accompanied Cave’s singing for hours aboard Eagle , their association had been confined solely to music: they had not been friends in any sense of the word, and he was not sure Cave would appreciate the interference.

‘You just ordered me not to take up arms again,’ he hedged. ‘And-’

‘Do not be insolent! Now disarm Elliot, or shall I tell the Earl that you stood by and did nothing while a fellow courtier was murdered?’

Aware that Dugdale might well do what he threatened, Chaloner moved forward. The argument was taking place outside the New Exchange, a large, grand building with a mock-gothic façade. It comprised two floors of expensive shops, and a piazza where merchants met to discuss trade. It was always busy, and most of those watching the quarrel were wealthy men of business.

As he approached, Chaloner thought that Elliot looked exactly like the kind of fellow who would appeal to Williamson — the Spymaster had yet to learn that there was more to espionage than being handy in a brawl. Elliot was well-dressed and wore a fine wig made from unusually black hair, but his pugilistic demeanour and the scars on his meaty fists exposed him as a lout. By contrast, Cave was smaller, and held his fancy ‘town sword’ as if it had never been out of its scabbard — and now that it was, he was not entirely sure what to do with it.

‘Chaloner!’ he cried. ‘You can be my witness, because I am going to kill this impudent dog!’

‘You can try,’ said Elliot shortly. ‘Because no man tells me not to take the wall.’

In London, ‘taking the wall’ was preferable to walking farther out into the street, because it was better protected from those who were in the habit of emptying chamber pots out of over-jutting upstairs windows. Disputes about who should have the more favourable spot were frequent and often ended in scuffles. Few drew weapons over it, though, and Chaloner was astonished that Cave should think such a matter was worth his life.

‘Cave, stop,’ he said softly. ‘Come away with me. Now.’

‘Never,’ flared the musician. ‘He insulted me, and I demand satisfaction.’

‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Chaloner. That would afford ample time for tempers to cool and apologies to be sent. ‘In Lincoln’s Inn Fields at dawn.’

‘He is right,’ said a man at Elliot’s side. Of burly build, he had a ruddy face and sun-bleached hair that indicated a preference for outdoors living. ‘Listen to him. There is no need for this.’

‘There is every need, Lester,’ snarled Elliot. ‘You heard what Cave said. He called me a-’

‘For God’s sake!’ hissed Lester. ‘You will kill him, and then not even Williamson will be able to save you from the noose. This little worm is not worth it! Come away before it goes any further.’

With a roar of outrage, Cave surged forward and blades flashed. As it quickly became apparent that Elliot was by far the superior swordsman, Chaloner waited for him to relent — and for Cave to yield when he realised the extent to which he was outgunned. But although the singer was stumbling backwards, struggling desperately to defend himself, Elliot continued to advance, doing so with a lazy grace that said he was more amused than threatened by Cave’s clumsy flailing.

Cave’s eyes were wide with alarm, and he gasped in shock when Elliot scored a shallow cut on his cheek. Elliot seemed surprised, too, and Chaloner suspected it had been an accident — that Elliot had overestimated the singer’s ability to deflect the blow. Hand to his bleeding cheek, Cave darted behind Chaloner, and several onlookers began to laugh.

‘Enough,’ said Lester firmly, grabbing his friend’s arm and jerking him back. ‘Think of Ruth. She will be heart-broken if you are hanged for murder, and-’

Suddenly and wholly unexpectedly, Cave shot out from behind Chaloner and attacked not Elliot but Lester. Chaloner managed to shove him, deflecting what would have been a fatal blow, but it was a close call, and there was a hiss of disapproval from the crowd: Lester was unarmed.

Elliot’s face went taut with anger, and he advanced with sudden determination. His first lunge struck home, and Cave dropped to his knees, hand to his chest. Blood trickled between his fingers, thick, red and plentiful. With such volume, Chaloner had no doubt that the wound was mortal.

The onlookers were stunned into silence, and the only sound was that of Cave struggling to breathe. Lester quickly disarmed Elliot, who gazed at his victim with an expression that was difficult to read. Chaloner knelt next to the stricken man, but Cave pushed his hands away when he tried to inspect the wound.

‘There is no pain. Please do not make it otherwise by attempting to physick me — I know my case is hopeless.’

‘You know nothing of the kind,’ argued Chaloner, fumbling to unbutton Cave’s coat. ‘I may be able to stem the bleeding until a surgeon arrives.’

‘But a surgeon will do unspeakable things.’ Cave grabbed Chaloner’s hand and gripped it with surprising strength. ‘And I am not brave. Besides, I am ready to die.’

‘No!’ cried Lester, horrified. He turned to the crowd. ‘Fetch help! Hurry!’

No one obliged, partly because it was more interesting to watch the situation unfold than to dash away on an errand of mercy, but mostly because any medical man would almost certainly demand a down-payment from the Good Samaritan before answering the summons. Lester was almost beside himself with agitation, while Elliot’s face was whiter than that of his victim.

‘I want …’ Cave gasped. His flicked a hand at Elliot. ‘Him … I must …’

Elliot approached reluctantly. He knelt when Cave started to speak, but the singer’s words were inaudible, and he was obliged to lean closer. Cave’s arm jerked suddenly, and Elliot bellowed in pain. When Elliot recoiled, there was a dagger protruding from his stomach. Chaloner stared at Cave in disbelief, and did not think he had ever seen an expression of such black malice on the face of a dying man.