Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

‘You mean you were not Governor of Tangier?’

‘I have never been there,’ replied Meneses smoothly. ‘But if it amuses her to think I held the title of governor, then where is the harm in letting her dream?’

He bowed and set off after her before Chaloner could ask more. The man was lying, but about what? Had he awarded himself fictitious titles to gain her favour? Or was he reluctant for anyone other than her — whose poor English did not permit her to gossip — to know of his Tangier connections, especially given his association with Fitzgerald and the Piccadilly Company?

As Meneses turned to close the door behind him, he caught Chaloner staring, and a combination of unease and anger flitted across his face. Chaloner looked away, but too late. Meneses knew he was suspicious, and Chaloner had a very bad feeling that might prove to be dangerous.

The next day was Sunday, and Chaloner awoke long before dawn when two cats elected to hold a brawl under his bedroom window. The moment he opened his eyes, he was aware of an immediate sense of frustration.

He had collected Thurloe after leaving the Queen’s lodgings, and the two of them had spent the evening being thwarted at every turn. First, Reverend Addison had been out. Second, Harley had declined to answer his door and Thurloe had baulked at breaking in. Third, they had been unable to locate Jacob’s house in Covent Garden. Fourth, Leighton had taken a number of Adventurers for a jaunt on the river; his guests included Kitty and O’Brien, so none of the three were available to describe what had happened to Newell. And finally, enquiries in the Piccadilly taverns had failed to yield a single shred of useful information.

Hannah had not been home when Chaloner had returned, and he was not sure how long he had been asleep before she had arrived. He had snapped awake with a dagger in his hand when she slid into bed beside him, although he had managed to shove it under the pillow before she saw it. Exhausted, he had dozed again, and had not woken until the cats had started yowling.

He rose quietly and went into the dressing room to hunt for fresh clothes. Then, because his stomach was tender and acidic from days of missed or hastily snatched meals, he went to the kitchen, to see whether there was anything nice to eat.

‘It is far too early for breakfast,’ stated Joan, the moment she saw him. She was still wearing nightclothes, although Nan was dressed. There was no sign of George or Susan. ‘The mistress gave strict instructions that nothing was to be served before ten o’clock on a Sunday.’

‘Well, I am not the mistress,’ replied Chaloner coolly, going to the larder. There was a pie, but remembering his injunction to George about the possibility of poison, he settled for a cup of milk instead.

‘Do not drink that,’ ordered Joan. ‘Cold milk is dangerous.’

Chaloner took a larger gulp than he might otherwise have done, and stalked past her, wishing he had stayed in Long Acre. He went to the drawing room and retrieved the singed document he had hidden in the skirting board — the one he had found in the Piccadilly Company’s rooms in the Crown. Then he opened his pen-box, and was unimpressed to note that it had been searched a second time — a pot of violet ink, which he liked for its unusual colour, had been moved. There was nothing significant in the box for the culprit to find, but it was unsettling nevertheless.

He settled down to work, trying all manner of exotic formulae, and using reams of paper in the process, but he met with no success. Bored, he leaned back in his chair to ease the cramped muscles in his shoulders, and his eye lit on his second-best viol, which he had neglected to put away the last time he had played it. He walked over to it and ran his fingers across its cool, silky wood. Then he took a sheet of music and began to go through it in his mind. A draught on the back of his neck told him someone was watching. He whipped around to see Nan.

‘Joan sent me to tell you not to make a noise,’ she said boldly. ‘It disturbs the neighbours, and the mistress is still resting.’

Chaloner had not been going to play, but the directive prompted him to bow a rather tempestuous fantasy by Henry Lawes, which expressed his feelings far more accurately than words ever could. It was not long before Joan appeared.

‘You will wake the mistress,’ she snapped, going immediately to the table where the cipher still lay. Chaloner stood quickly and went to put it in his pocket. ‘And she worked very late last night. She needs her sleep, and you are disturbing her.’

It was difficult to argue with such a remark, so Chaloner burned the useless decrypting notes in the hearth, then went to stand in the garden, craving fresh air and peace.

He was not sure of the time, but the sky was lightening in the east, and London was coming awake. It was too early for bells to summon the faithful to church, but there was a low and constant hum as carts, carriages and coaches rumbled their way along the capital’s cobbled streets. Dogs barked, a baby cried, someone was singing and there was a metallic clatter from the ironmonger’s shop three doors down. It was hardly restful, but he breathed in deeply, relishing the cool, earthy scent of the open fields that lay not far to the west.

He was not left alone to enjoy it for long. George appeared, carrying a lamp — a luxury Chaloner had certainly not considered claiming for himself. Clearly, the footman had not taken long to make himself at home in Tothill Street.

‘A smoke is the only way to start the day,’ he said, blowing great clouds of it towards the last of the season’s cabbages. He was wearing a curious combination of clothes to ward off the early morning chill, including what looked suspiciously like Chaloner’s best hat. ‘Clears the mind.’

‘Does it?’ Chaloner glanced at him, and as the footman’s fingers closed round the bowl of his pipe, he saw a smudge of violet ink on his hand, starkly visible in the lamp light. He grabbed it and inspected it more closely.

‘An accident,’ said George, freeing himself with more vigour than was appropriate between master and servant.

‘Explain,’ ordered Chaloner curtly.

‘I was cleaning the pens in your box,’ replied George, not looking at him. ‘And the ink spilled.’

‘None of my pens appeared to be clean.’

George looked him directly in the eye. ‘Then it seems I am no better at that duty then I am at most others in the stewarding line. No wonder Fitzgerald dismissed me.’

‘Speaking of Fitzgerald, did you ever sail with him on Jane ?’

‘ Jane ? Never heard of her.’

‘Then were you with him when he traded in gravel?’

George shrugged, and produced so much smoke that it was difficult to see his face. ‘He never told me what was in his holds. And I never asked.’

A sudden screech from the kitchen made Chaloner run back inside the house in alarm, although George ignored it. He arrived to find Joan had cornered a massive rat in the pantry.

‘Fetch your gun and shoot it!’ she ordered. ‘I know you have one, because I have seen it.’

It was a brazen admission that she had been through his belongings, because he had taken care to hide the weapon at the bottom of a drawer. He stared at her, wondering whether all servants considered it their bounden duty to pry into their employers’ affairs.

‘Do not just stand there!’ she shrieked. ‘Fetch the pistol and make an end of the beast.’

‘The neighbours will complain about the noise,’ he objected. ‘Chase it out with a-’

He stopped in disgust when she swooped forward and brought a broom down on the rodent’s head. The resulting gore was far worse than death from a gun, and he was sorry for Nan, who was given the task of cleaning it up.