Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

He drew his sword with one hand and the gun with the other, and stood with his back to the wall, waiting to see which side would strike first. He could not win against so many, but if he was going to die, then he would not be the only one to meet his Maker that day.

‘There is no need for that,’ said the man in the lead, faltering. Behind him, his fellows drew an assortment of swords and knives. ‘We only want a word.’

Chaloner indicated with a gesture that he was to speak.

‘Not here,’ said the man. ‘Come with us.’

‘No.’ Chaloner levelled the gun at him.

‘We have orders to take you somewhere,’ said the man, eyeing it uneasily. ‘And it will be a lot more pleasant for everyone if you put down the weapons and come quiet, like.’

‘Orders from whom?’ demanded Chaloner.

‘We cannot say, but if you come with us, you will find out.’

‘Then I decline.’

The man sighed and indicated that his cronies should advance. They obliged, slowly at first, but then in a rush when a puff of smoke told them that Chaloner’s dag had misfired. Cursing the thing, Chaloner used it as a club, bruising at least two of his assailants, while three others reeled away from his sword. But it was an unequal contest and it was not long before he went down under a hail of cudgels, fists and feet. A sack was pulled over his head and tugged so tight that it was difficult to breathe. He managed to free one hand, though, and heard a yelp of pain as he lashed out with it.

‘Tie him,’ ordered the leader urgently. ‘Quickly, before he injures anyone else.’

‘Easy for you to say, Doines,’ someone grumbled. ‘Standing there, giving orders, while we do battle with the devil.’

Chaloner continued to struggle long after he was rendered helpless by an array of ropes, desperately seeking a weakness in his bonds. There was none, and he felt himself lifted and tossed into the back of a cart. Doines clicked his tongue to a horse, which began to trot.

He was not sure how many men piled themselves on top of him, but he could not ever recall a more uncomfortable journey. He tried to ask whether their orders entailed him arriving dead, but the sack muffled his words, and the sound he made encouraged someone to hit him. He felt himself grow light-headed from lack of air, and soon lost any sense of where he was being taken.

By the time they arrived at their destination, Chaloner was dizzy and disoriented. He was aware of being carried, but did not have the strength to resist. He heard a swirl of voices as the sack was hauled off, but kept his eyes closed, to see what might be learned about his captors by feigning unconsciousness. The ropes were removed, and he was dragged forward.

‘What have you done to him?’ Chaloner’s heart sank when he recognised Williamson’s voice. ‘I specifically told you to invite him nicely.’

‘We did,’ came Doines’s aggrieved reply. ‘But he started to fight, and injured five of us. You cannot blame us for taking him down before he could do any more damage.’

‘I can and I do,’ snapped Williamson. ‘I need his help, and he is hardly going to agree to work with me now you have knocked him senseless, is he!’

‘I told you to let me fetch him,’ came another voice. It was Lester, and he sounded angry. ‘You should have listened.’

Chaloner felt himself laid gently on a bench. Then a cloth began to wipe his face. He opened his eyes a fraction and saw the ministering angel was Lester, his ruddy face full of concern.

‘He would not have obliged you,’ argued Williamson. ‘I asked him to come here several times, and even sent a polite note with his wife. All were ignored. He does not like me, although I cannot imagine why. I have graciously overlooked all manner of injustices, insults and violations in the past — ones I would have killed another man for committing against me.’

‘This is not my fault,’ said Doines sullenly. ‘You said not to mention that it was you who wanted to see him, but he got suspicious when we refused to answer. It was-’

‘Leave,’ snapped Williamson. ‘Before I decline to pay you.’

Footsteps crossed the floor, then a door opened and closed. Chaloner opened his eyes a little more, and saw he was in Williamson’s Westminster office. Lester was still looming over him, but the Spymaster had gone to sit at his desk. As far as he could tell there was no one else in the room, but in order to get free he would have to incapacitate both, and make an escape from a building that was full of Williamson’s clerks, spies and ruffians. Could he do it?

‘Perhaps we should summon a surgeon,’ said Lester worriedly. ‘Wiseman is the best. He is expensive, but I will bear the cost. This should not have happened.’

Chaloner knew then that it was time to pretend to regain his wits, because Wiseman would not be fooled by his act. He sat up.

‘Thank God!’ exclaimed Lester. ‘I thought they had done you serious harm.’

‘He is awake?’ asked Williamson, coming to stand over them. ‘Good. Can he speak?’

‘Give him a moment to recover,’ snapped Lester. Then his voice softened. ‘Sit quietly for as long as you like, Chaloner. We shall talk only when you are ready.’

‘I am ready now,’ said Chaloner, unwilling to prolong the experience. ‘What do you want?’

‘I am sorry violence was used to bring you here,’ said Williamson stiffly. ‘But a situation has arisen that means we must put aside our differences and work together. As we did in June.’

‘What situation?’ asked Chaloner, hoping he was not about to be given another mystery to unravel. He was struggling with the ones he had already.

‘One involving powerful men,’ replied Williamson soberly. ‘Members of government, wealthy merchants, and several less salubrious characters. Such as Fitzgerald the pirate. Do you know him?’

‘Not personally.’

‘He is an extremely dangerous individual,’ Williamson went on. ‘And I have reason to believe that he is behind the tragic deaths of Sir Edward Turner and Lord Lucas.’

‘Then arrest him,’ suggested Chaloner.

‘I cannot — I do not have evidence that will secure a conviction in a court of law.’

‘That has never stopped you before.’

Williamson had cells for people whose trials would not win a verdict that he deemed to be in the public interest, and assassins available should he decide on a more permanent solution.

‘He is too prominent and well connected,’ explained Williamson. ‘And if you do not believe me, then ask your friend Thurloe. He was as wily a spymaster as ever lived, but even he could not defeat Fitzgerald. The man is not a normal criminal.’

‘I overheard him talking,’ said Chaloner. He spoke hesitantly, because it went against the grain to share information with someone he distrusted. ‘He said he has a master who gives him orders.’

‘Who is it?’ demanded Williamson, clearly horrified.

‘I do not know. Another member of the Piccadilly Company, perhaps.’

‘And there are plenty in that sinister organisation to choose from,’ interposed Lester grimly. ‘Brilliana and her brother Harley, Newell, Meneses, Margareta and Cornelis Janszoon, Jones, Pratt the architect. And those are just the ones we have identified. Most of them wear disguises to their gatherings.’

Chaloner was about to point out that ‘Jones’ was stupid, rather than sinister, but there was always the possibility that Williamson did not know he was Thurloe’s brother-in-law, and there was no need to highlight the connection unnecessarily.

‘Newell is dead,’ he said instead.

Williamson’s eyes opened wide. ‘How do you know?’