Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

‘I would not have thought so,’ said Chaloner, regarding him askance. ‘He had a knife wound.’

‘Oh, him. He was brought here by a sea-officer — a burly, bossy fellow who accused me of not knowing my trade. But his friend was past Earthly help anyway, and died.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Chaloner.

King fixed him with a bleary eye. ‘Do you think I cannot tell the difference?’

‘Very possibly.’ Chaloner nodded at the patient on the table. ‘You have been stitching him with infinite care, but he has been dead ever since I arrived.’

King peered down at the victim. ‘Oh, damnation! When did that happen?’

Chaloner left even more convinced that Elliot was still in the world of the living, and headed for Covent Garden, where a helpful urchin was more than happy to earn a penny by taking him to the rooms occupied by a loutish man with an unusually black wig. Chaloner rapped on the door, but there was no reply.

‘He is dead,’ said the elderly woman who emerged from the garret above to see what was happening. ‘A week ago now.’

‘What was his name?’ asked Chaloner tiredly.

‘James Elliot,’ replied the woman. ‘He was a sea-captain, although he gambled and had debts. I am not surprised that someone made an end of him.’

‘Have you heard of a man named Jacob Cave?’

‘No, and I have lived in this area all my life. There is no one in Covent Garden of that name.’

Chaloner thanked her and took his leave. He was now certain Jacob did not exist, and that Elliot had invented him in order to bury Cave without a grand funeral. So where was Elliot now? Had he taken the opportunity afforded by his own ‘death’ to disappear and start a new life? Or was he still in the city?

Chaloner’s next task was to ask Reverend Addison what he knew about Tangier. His eavesdropping at the Crown had told him that Harley had been under orders — presumably from the same ‘master’ who commanded Fitzgerald — to orchestrate the massacre, but he still needed to know why Teviot had warranted such a fate.

Addison had rented a house near the Maypole, a landmark demolished to a stump by Cromwell, but restored to its full splendour by the King. Somewhat typically, people had complained bitterly when it was not available, but rarely used it now it was.

‘Chaloner!’ exclaimed Addison. ‘I did not think we would meet again. On Eagle , you were more interested in making music with Cave than in talking to me, which was a pity, because I am very interested in military engineering, and I suspect you are, too. You certainly asked a lot of questions about Tangier’s splendid sea wall — the mole — when you were there.’

‘Only because I wanted to know why it is costing the tax-payer so much money.’

Addison’s smile faded. ‘Unfortunately, the opportunity to cheat the government is too great a temptation for those in authority. It is a shame, because the project is ingenious and daring. However, it should cost a fraction of what is being demanded, and every governor we get seems worse than his predecessor for dishonesty and greed.’

‘Was Teviot corrupt?’

Addison sighed unhappily. ‘I have no idea why you should ask me this now, but I cannot lie. He amassed himself a fortune by stealing the funds intended for the mole.’

‘Could it have had a bearing on his death?’

Addison nodded slowly. ‘I strongly suspected so at the time. Along with Jane .’

‘The privateer ship? How does she fit into it?’

‘Teviot refused her permission to dock, although her captain was adept at bribing the soldiers who had been ordered to repel her. But even so, she only managed to put in occasionally when he was in charge. Now Bridge is governor, Jane regularly trades in Tangier.’

‘I am confused. Was Teviot killed because he was corrupt, or because he declined to let a privateer do business in Tangier?’

‘Why should they be exclusive? Banning a ship from port is a kind of corruption — you should ask yourself why he did it. Before you ask, I do not know the answer but I can tell you that he will have been motivated by money.’

‘I was in Tangier for almost three months, but I never heard talk of a vessel called Jane .’

Addison shrugged. ‘That is no surprise. She would not have been there legally, so her arrival was never blared from the rooftops.’

Chaloner stared at him, the germ of a solution beginning to unfold in his mind. ‘The Adventurers own a monopoly on African trade, but Jane is a privateer. Perhaps Teviot’s reason for refusing her a berth was because he did not want to anger a wealthy and influential group of courtiers.’

‘It is possible, although I imagine he would have yielded if Jane had paid him enough.’

‘Not if he was an Adventurer himself, and Jane was stealing custom that would have made him richer. Do you know what cargo she carried?’

‘No idea, although I did once hear that she carried a quantity of gravel.’

Chaloner sighed. ‘I was afraid you might say that.’

‘Well, the mole needs a lot of it. But Africa is full of valuable goods, and Tangier is strategically placed at the end of caravan routes, along which gold, ivory, cotton, kola nuts and even slaves are transported.’ Addison’s expression darkened. ‘Slavery is a despicable business. Were you there when Henrietta Maria went down? That cost the Adventurers a pretty penny, I can tell you.’

‘So I have been told,’ said Chaloner, wondering what would happen to him if the likes of Leighton ever discovered his role in the affair.

‘They were livid,’ Addison went on gleefully. ‘They blamed a corporation called the Piccadilly Company, but they have no evidence. I know who did it, of course.’

‘You do?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

Addison nodded. ‘Harley, Newell and Reyner. And do you know why? Because they slunk away from Tangier within hours of the sinking.’

‘So did you,’ Chaloner pointed out, not adding that he had, too.

‘Yes, but I am not the type to commit criminal damage,’ said Addison. ‘Of course, I have since learned that Harley and his cronies are members of this Piccadilly Company, so I imagine it will not be long before the Adventurers exact revenge.’

‘Perhaps they already have,’ said Chaloner, uncomfortably realising that here was another reason why he was responsible for what had happened to Newell and Reyner. ‘Because two of them are dead.’

Addison stared at him. ‘Then I wager you my treasured copy of Harbottle Grimston’s Duties of a Christian Life that Harley is the one who is still alive.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because he is the most unscrupulous of the three, and the one most dedicated to himself.’

* * *

His mind a whirl of questions, Chaloner aimed for Lincoln’s Inn, hoping Thurloe might have learned something useful, and was just crossing Dial Court when he was intercepted by William Prynne. Prynne was the inn’s most repellent resident, a pamphleteer with deeply bigoted opinions, and someone to be avoided by decent people. He was pulling down the long cap he always wore, to hide the fact that his ears had been lopped off as punishment for ‘seditious libel’ — not that it had taught him to moderate his thoughts. If anything, it had made him more poisonous than ever.

‘They are Satan’s spawn,’ he snarled, launching into one of his tirades without preamble. ‘And the dissolute and unhappy constitution of our depraved times made me wonder whether to sit mute and silent over these overspreading abominations, or whether I should lift up my voice like a trumpet and cry against them to my power.’

‘I assume you opted for the latter,’ said Chaloner drily, certain the opportunity to bray like a trumpet was one Prynne would not have been able to resist. When he started to move away, the old man snatched his sleeve with a claw-like hand of surprising strength and kept him there.