Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

‘I have taken enough of your time,’ said Chaloner, his mind full of questions he knew Brilliana was unlikely to answer. ‘Thank you for the chocolate.’

‘You have not touched it. At least take a sip before you leave. It is expensive.’

‘You have not touched yours, either,’ said Chaloner, glad a career in espionage had taught him never to partake of anything his host had not tasted first.

She smiled, although it was not a pleasant expression. ‘You must come to see me again. I always have chocolate waiting for guests like you.’

Chaloner was sure she did.

It was not far from Piccadilly to St Margaret’s Church in Westminster, but the journey yielded little in the way of information. The young curate who had conducted Cave’s funeral burst into tears when Chaloner started to ask questions about the musician’s hasty send-off.

‘I did not know! I thought he was just another pauper from the rookeries — we get lots of them in here, and it is my job to deal with them quickly so they do not distress our wealthier parishioners. His brother never said he was a courtier, and now everyone at White Hall thinks me a villain for depriving them of music by the Chapel Royal choir and a homily by the Bishop …’

‘Did Cave’s brother look like a pauper himself?’ asked Chaloner.

The curate shook his head. ‘But I did not think anything about it at the time.’

Still sniffling, he led the way to a mound in the churchyard, one in a line of several, which suggested he was telling the truth about the number of cheap and nasty interments he conducted.

‘What did Jacob look like?’ asked Chaloner, staring down at it.

‘He wore decent clothes and an oddly black wig, but there was something of the lout about him. However, he said and did nothing that made me suspect he was trying to avoid paying for a grand funeral. I assumed he just wanted his brother buried quickly because he was busy.’

Chaloner supposed he would have to visit the charnel house, to see whether Kersey knew where Cave’s brother lived — Jacob would have had to supply an address when he had collected the corpse. He started to walk there but then changed his mind and aimed for Lincoln’s Inn instead. He listened outside Chamber XIII for a moment, where the scratch of a pen on paper told him his friend was alone, then tapped softly and entered.

Thurloe was still in his nightclothes, his hair flowing from beneath a cap that might have looked comical on a man with less natural dignity.

‘I am writing to my wife about Robert,’ the ex-Spymaster said tiredly. ‘The man is a fool.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘But a wealthy one. He lodges in the Mews on Charing Cross, which is sufficiently grand that Pratt likes to stay with him when his own rooms in the Crown are too noisy. Fitzgerald seems to have made him very rich.’

Thurloe looked pained. ‘I am tempted to order him away from London for his own good. Unfortunately, I doubt he would go.’

Chaloner hesitated. ‘Are you fond of him?’

‘He is family — fondness is immaterial. Why?’

‘Because if you do not mind placing him in danger by “turning” him, he could be useful to us. For a start, he could tell us what Piccadilly Company meetings entail, and why they take place at odd times. Like early this morning.’

Thurloe sighed. ‘I interrogated him for hours last night — for so long that I overslept this morning, which is why I am still in my nightclothes.’

‘What did he tell you?’

‘Nothing, because he is entrusted with nothing. He believes his business is legal, and there was no persuading him otherwise. He is being used — his glass-exporting venture provides a legitimate front for something else. They do not invite him to all their meetings, and he is sent to prepare refreshments when anything significant is discussed at the ones he is permitted to attend.’

Chaloner was sorry that Thurloe was distressed, and disappointed to learn that even knowing a member of the Piccadilly Company was going to be of no use to them.

‘It is a pity,’ Thurloe went on. ‘Robert is a superb horseman and could have used that talent to earn a respectable living. Instead he prefers to dabble in silly commercial ventures that always fail.’

‘This one is not failing,’ Chaloner pointed out.

Thurloe sighed. ‘I imagine it is — or the legal side of it is, at least. But never mind Robert: he is my problem, not yours. Tell me what has happened to you. It was something unpleasant, because you have the look of a man who did not sleep well, and your hand has been injured.’

Chaloner told him about Clarendon House, unfolding the piece of paper that had been left on the chest. ‘The trap may not have been meant for me, though, because these words mean nothing.’

‘On the contrary — they mention death, darkness and small jaws, which neatly sums up the fate you were meant to suffer. I suspect it is Fitzgerald’s work, because he has always enjoyed inventing unusual ways to dispatch his victims. And if you do not believe me, then look at what happened to Proby, Turner, Lucas and Congett.’

‘Wiseman told me about Congett. He suggested shock as a cause of death, but I imagine it was poison. The rat probably bit him after his body was left on the banks of the Thames.’

Thurloe nodded slowly. ‘But it was a kinder end than the one devised for you.’

Chaloner did not want to dwell about his time in the strongroom, and changed the subject. ‘Have you heard from Wallis about Reyner’s cipher yet? We need those names — enemies of the Piccadilly Company may be friends to us. But even if not, we should warn them. We might have been able to save Congett, and perhaps Turner and Lucas, too, had we been able to translate it.’

‘I disagree. If they have pitted themselves against Fitzgerald, they will need no advice from us to be on their guard. They will know it already.’

‘We cannot take that chance. However, as all four victims were Adventurers, perhaps we should assume that Fitzgerald considers all Adventurers to be his enemies, and warn the lot of them.’

‘That would entail notifying the King, the Queen and other members of the royal family, and I doubt they have decided to challenge a viciously ruthless pirate. Fitzgerald’s adversaries will not be the Adventurers as a whole, but a particular section.’

‘But-’

Thurloe held up his hand. ‘The only way to be certain is to decode that list. Wallis is working as fast as he can, but that particular cipher is fiendishly difficult to break. How are you managing with the other one?’

‘Not well.’

‘Send me a copy. We shall both study it in our free moments.’

Chaloner told Thurloe about his failures that morning — losing the thieves, accusing Pratt, and entering Brilliana’s lair but gaining nothing except the sense that she had tried to poison him.

‘And it is barely ten o’clock,’ he concluded morosely. ‘I suppose I should visit Kersey next. Then I should ask Lester whether Elliot might still be alive — and if he is, track him down and ask whether he encouraged Jacob to bury his brother with such indecent haste.’

Thurloe winced at the mention of a man he did not trust. ‘If Elliot did survive Cave’s attack, then Lester will be complicit in a hoax. I doubt Lester will admit to lying.’

‘I was not planning to ask if he lied,’ said Chaloner, a little irritably. ‘Just whether he might have been mistaken. It is not always easy to tell the living from the dead.’

Thurloe nodded, but his expression said he thought Chaloner was wasting his time. ‘What will you do about Teviot? How will you persuade Harley and Newell to break their silence and talk?’

‘I will visit Revered Addison today and ask what he knows about the matter.’