Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

‘It occurred to me to bend my pen against them, as I have done against other sinful and unchristian vanities, but my thoughts informed me that I would only earn the reproach and scorn of the histrionic and profaner sort, whose tongues are set on fire of Hell against all such as dare affront their infernal practices.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Chaloner, trying again to escape. He could have broken the grip on his arm, but he was not in the habit of using force against the elderly, not even loathsome specimens like Prynne.

‘I am talking about that Dutch pair,’ shouted Prynne, having worked himself into a frenzy. ‘Cornelis and Margareta Janszoon. You must hunt them down, or the mischievous and pestiferous fruits of hellish wickedness that issues from their noxious and infectious nature will-’

‘Please, Mr Prynne,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘I really do not understand what you are saying.’

‘Then I shall speak in simple terms,’ said Prynne, calming himself with an effort. ‘Although I expected more of you — Thurloe tells me you are highly intelligent. The Janszoons are saying terrible things, and you must stop them.’

‘Me? Why? I have no jurisdiction to-’

‘You must,’ cried Prynne. ‘I do not know who else to ask, and you are often at Court. Silence this couple before they do serious harm. Do you know what they said in church yesterday? That the Dutch will send a plague to kill us all.’

‘You misunderstood. Or, more likely, they said something they never intended.’

Prynne scowled. ‘Rubbish! How else can you interpret “we ply you with boils”? And right in the middle of an innocent discussion about games, too!’

‘Then I imagine what they meant was “we play you at bowls”,’ said Chaloner.

Prynne stared at him. ‘I suppose you might be right — it would certainly explain the sudden change in topics. But people took offence and damage was done anyway. You must make them curb their tongues, or they will have the entire city baying for war, and I am currently fond of the Dutch — they have decent Protestant views about religion.’

‘You oppose war?’

‘I do,’ declared Prynne, although Chaloner could not help but wonder whether he had taken that particular stance because almost everyone else would disagree; Prynne was famous for expounding opinions that few others held. ‘It would be contrary to the will of God.’

‘The Janszoons have hired henchmen to protect-’

‘To protect them from harm. But what about the damage they cause with their silly remarks? Other Dutchmen will pay the price, and we shall have a bloodbath. Not to mention a war.’

Sympathetic to anyone struggling with the vagaries of spoken English, Chaloner promised to explain the situation when he next saw them. He resumed his journey to Chamber XIII, where he found Thurloe sitting at a table surrounded by paper. The ex-Spymaster had been working on decrypting both the half-burned letter from the Crown and Mrs Reyner’s list.

‘Any luck?’ asked Chaloner hopefully.

‘None whatsoever, and neither has Wallis,’ replied Thurloe. ‘But I have decided that they must be broken as a matter of urgency, and I shall sit here all day if necessary. What are your plans?’

Chaloner removed his coat and dropped it on to the back of a chair, before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. ‘To help you.’

Chaloner worked with Thurloe until well past midnight, by which time he was stiff from sitting hunched over the table, and his head ached. With a pang of regret, he recalled the tentative plan to play a duet with Lester, but did not mention it to Thurloe, sure he would disapprove.

He tossed down his pen and went to the tray of food Thurloe’s manservant had brought some hours before. The bread had gone hard and the cheese had been left too near the fire, so was molten, but he ate some anyway. Thurloe opted for several pills that he shook from an elegantly enamelled pot. Chaloner rubbed his eyes, trying to summon the energy to return to his labours.

‘Yes!’ the ex-Spymaster exclaimed suddenly. ‘God be praised! I have made sense of the scrap of paper you found in the Crown.’

‘What does it say?’ demanded Chaloner, darting to the table, weariness forgotten.

‘It is really very simple,’ said Thurloe in satisfaction. ‘As I predicted, it was a substitution code, where a code of one-two-three means you move the first letter of your message one place to the right, the second letter two places, and so on. So ‘cat’ becomes ‘dcw’.’

‘I know that,’ said Chaloner impatiently, trying to see Thurloe’s translation. ‘We have been struggling over different combinations for hours.’

‘In this case, the sequence is three-five-four-eight, repeated again and again.’

Chaloner regarded him blankly. ‘What is the significance of that number?’

‘It is the latitude of Tangier.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, thinking that he could have worked on the cipher for years and not tried that particular combination. ‘What does the message say?’

Thurloe read it. ‘ From ye Governour of Tanger to ye Pikadilye Companye our ship will sayle with a fulle complimente of gravelle in three dayes and wille be in Londonne by Saynte Frydswyds Daye at last we …’

Chaloner stared at it in dismay. ‘It tells us nothing new!’

‘On the contrary, it informs us that Governor Bridge sends coded messages to the Piccadilly Company, which is evidence that Fitzgerald and his cronies did dispose of Teviot so that a malleable successor could be appointed. Reverend Addison said Jane is more often in Tangier now that Bridge is in command, and here is more proof of it.’

‘So “our ship” refers to Jane , and she left Tangier carrying gravel.’ Chaloner was becoming despondent, feeling he had wasted time he could ill afford. ‘But we already knew she trades in that particular commodity. And that she was due to arrive here on St Frideswide’s Day — I heard the Piccadilly Company say so when I eavesdropped.’

‘Yes, but we did not know she was coming from Tangier. No wonder Fitzgerald and his cronies burned the letter! It is a valuable clue.’

‘It is?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.

‘Yes! You must make enquiries along the river and ascertain where Jane will berth,’ said Thurloe urgently, handing Chaloner his coat. ‘Someone will know at which wharf she is expected. And then we shall go and inspect this gravel for ourselves.’

‘Now?’ asked Chaloner without enthusiasm. ‘In the middle of the night?’

Thurloe glanced at the window, startled to see it was dark outside. He snatched the coat back again. ‘Rest for an hour or two, and then go.’

‘What will you do while I trawl the docks?’ asked Chaloner, daunted by the task he had been set — the Thames was thick with them, all the way from Wapping to Westminster.

Thurloe pointed to the Reyners’ list. ‘We must decode it as soon as possible.’

Chaloner did not think he would sleep, given that his mind was full of worries and questions, but he did. Thurloe prodded him awake when it was still dark, although the rumble of traffic said London was coming to life. The ex-Spymaster’s face was pale, and he shook his head tiredly to Chaloner’s raised eyebrows — the cipher continued to elude him.

Even at that early hour, the air was full of soot as fires were lit all over the city. The Thames had produced a heavy fog that mingled unpleasantly with it, making breathing difficult. It enveloped shops and warehouses, and gave them an eerie, other-worldly appearance.

Feeling he had been set an impossible challenge, Chaloner began at Black Friars Stairs, where lamps had been lit to illuminate a frenzied scene — its work was driven by tides, not clocks, so it was often busy during the hours of darkness. Meeting with no success, he went to Puddle Wharf, because it was famous for dubious transactions. It required a hefty bribe before he learned that Jane was not expected.