Susanna Gregory: The Piccadilly Plot

‘Beautiful, clever and distantly related to the King,’ supplied Kersey. ‘Every man in London longs to be in her company, but she already has a lover.’

‘She does not!’ declared Wiseman. ‘She is a decent lady — upright, honourable and kind.’

‘Those qualities do not preclude her from taking a lover,’ argued Kersey. He turned to Chaloner. ‘Suffice to say that O’Brien’s wealth and Kitty’s beauty means that people are keen to fête them, and soirées are always being held in their honour. He will be grieved when he hears his singing partner is dead. Who killed him, did you say?’

‘A man named James Elliot,’ replied Chaloner. ‘He is one of Williamson’s spies, apparently.’

Wiseman pulled a face to indicate his distaste. ‘Elliot is married to a sweet girl named Ruth, and she will be heartbroken when he is hanged for murdering a courtier. But she will be better off without him in the long run. He is a greedy, unscrupulous devil.’

‘He may not live long enough to hang,’ said Chaloner soberly. ‘Cave stabbed him.’

‘We can but hope,’ said Wiseman ruthlessly.

The clocks were striking ten by the time Chaloner left the charnel house. Wiseman walked with him, chatting about all that had happened during the time the spy had been away. Chaloner listened, not because he liked gossip, but because Dugdale’s remarks about him being poorly versed in London’s affairs had reminded him that he needed to rectify the matter — only foolish spies did not take the time to acquaint themselves with the society in which they were obliged to move.

‘O’Brien and Kitty are the King’s current favourites,’ Wiseman was saying, jostling a beefy soldier out of his way. The surgeon had always been large, but he had made himself even more powerful by a regime of lifting heavy stones each morning. He claimed it was to improve his general well-being, but the practice had given him the arms and shoulders of a wrestler, and meant prudent people were inclined to overlook any insults he might dole out, physical or verbal. Hence the soldier bristled at the rough treatment, but made no other response.

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Because they are wealthy, or because she is pretty?’

‘Have a care!’ Wiseman glanced around uneasily. ‘There is no need to announce to everyone that our King is an unscrupulous womaniser with a voracious appetite for his subjects’ money.’

‘Your words, not mine,’ said Chaloner, supposing His Majesty must have reached new depths of depravity, if even a loyal follower like Wiseman voiced reservations about his character.

‘Still, at least O’Brien and Kitty are not Adventurers. And as I am sure you have no idea what I am talking about, let me explain. It means they are not members of that shameful organisation of gold-grabbing nobles commonly called the Company of Royal Adventurers Trading into Africa.’

‘I have heard of it,’ said Chaloner drily. ‘In case you did not know, Tangier is in Africa, and the place was full of talk about the Adventurers.’

‘What talk?’ asked Wiseman curiously.

‘Mostly that their charter forbids other Britons from buying or selling goods that originate in Africa. They have secured themselves a monopoly on gold, silver, hides, feathers, ivory, slaves-’

Wiseman’s expression turned fierce. ‘Slaves?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘The Portuguese used to dominate that particular trade — most of their “cargos” go to the sugar plantations in Brazil. But the Portuguese are no longer quite so powerful at sea, and the Dutch now control the best routes.’

‘Do they, by God?’ growled Wiseman. Britain was on the verge of war with the Dutch, so even mentioning them was likely to provoke a hostile response from most Londoners.

‘It is a lucrative business,’ Chaloner went on. ‘And the British merchants in Tangier itch to join in. But the Adventurers’ charter means they cannot.’

‘I do not approve of the slave trade,’ declared Wiseman hotly.

‘No decent person does.’

Wiseman brightened. ‘I read in The Newes a week ago that a slaving ship named Henrietta Maria sank mysteriously in Tangier harbour. It went down before it could be loaded, and the delay allowed many captives to escape.’ He stared at Chaloner. ‘It happened when you were there. Did you …’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

Wiseman clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I might have known! The loss set the Adventurers back a pretty penny, too! They had invested a fortune in fitting it out for transporting humans.’

‘It will make no difference in the end,’ said Chaloner despondently. ‘They will just build another. And another and another, until the sea is full of the damned things.’

‘You and I are not the only ones to be repelled. Others will make a stand, and the business will founder. You will see.’

Chaloner said nothing, but thought Wiseman’s optimism was sadly misplaced. People probably would be appalled by the barbaric way sugar was produced on the plantations, but they would buy the stuff anyway, and that would create a market. The ethics of the matter would be swept under the carpet and quietly forgotten.

Wiseman changed the subject. ‘I cannot say I like Roger Pratt the architect, by the way. I am beginning to think you were right when you said Clarendon House will bring our Earl trouble.’

‘What made you change your mind?’ asked Chaloner, surprised. Wiseman was one of those who firmly believed that Clarendon had every right to an extravagant mansion.

‘Pratt himself. He is arrogant and thinks himself some kind of god. I cannot bear such people.’

Chaloner smothered a smile, thinking the description applied rather well to Wiseman himself.

* * *

The Earl lived in a rambling Tudor palace onThe Strand, which he had never liked and that he complained about constantly. Indeed, Chaloner suspected that Worcester House’s poky rooms and leaking ceilings were largely responsible for his master’s wild extravagance over his new home.

‘You missed him,’ said a gardener, straightening from his labours as Chaloner walked past. ‘He left for White Hall an hour ago.’

‘I thought he was ill,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether he was destined to spend the entire day traipsing around London. He hoped not: he was cold, damp and wanted to go home.

‘He recovered.’ The man sounded disappointed; the Earl was not popular with his staff.

‘That was fast. Gout usually keeps him in bed for days.’

The gardener grinned evilly. ‘He told everyone it was gout, but if you knew what he ate for his supper, you would not be surprised that he spent half the night clutching his innards. But a tonic restored him, and he sent for his coach shortly afterwards. It is not far to White Hall, but the lazy goat never walks. No wonder he is so fat.’

Wearily, Chaloner retraced his steps. White Hall was the King’s official London residence, and a number of his ministers had quarters there. It represented power and authority, as well as being the place where the King and his dissipated friends frolicked until the small hours of the morning, doing things that invariably transpired to be expensive for the tax-payer.

The palace was ancient, but had developed in a haphazard manner, depending on when money had been available for building and repairs. It was said to contain more than two thousand rooms, ranging from the spacious apartments occupied by the King and his nobles, to the cramped, badly ventilated attics that housed laundresses, grooms and scullions.

Chaloner was about to walk through the gate when a carriage drew up beside him. A face peered out and Chaloner recognised Spymaster Williamson, a tall, aloof man who had been an Oxford academic before deciding that his slippery talents would be more useful in government. He was feared by his employees, treated with extreme caution by his superiors, and detested by his equals.