Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

But from what Chaloner had seen of the spat, it had been Cave who had engineered the quarrel. He shook his head slowly, not sure what to think.

It was not easy to convert the Banqueting House into a state room after its interlude as the King’s personal playhouse, and the difficulties were compounded when the ambassador arrived early. The King, pursued by valets still fussing with his ceremonial finery, rushed into the Great Court to greet him, hoping to gain the frantic servants and their noble helpers a few more minutes to prepare.

Lady Castlemaine was hot on his heels, clad in a robe that accentuated her ample frontage and narrow waist. She expected to be admired, and her jaw dropped in astonishment when the ambassador barely spared her a glance. It was the Queen who saved the day, by engaging him in a discussion about herring, a subject that made his eyes light up. As every remark needed to be translated, the ensuing conversation took some time.

‘She is a great diplomat,’ whispered Hannah proudly. ‘She took care to learn about his interests, you see. Unlike the Lady, who assumes a display of bosom will keep him transfixed.’

‘It seems to have transfixed the King,’ said Chaloner, aware that His Majesty was far more interested in the Lady than his guest’s ramblings about salting processes.

But even the Queen could not maintain a discussion about fish indefinitely, and when it eventually faltered, the ambassador began to move towards the Banqueting House again. The King heaved a sigh of relief when Buckingham winked to say all was more or less in order, and if the emissary noticed that the interior décor was somewhat unusual, he was too polite to show it.

The occasion was a large one, and guests included virtually everyone Chaloner had met since returning from Tangier. Both Adventurers and members of the Piccadilly Company were present, rubbing shoulders with naval and military officers, clerics, courtiers, merchants, servants and even local shopkeepers. Chaloner was startled to see Joan and George there, having apparently persuaded Hannah to get them in. There was a pipe clamped between George’s teeth, and his eyes were everywhere. Chaloner watched him, thinking that while it may have been Susan who had been caught spying, there was still something very questionable about the footman.

‘Fitzgerald has been invited,’ came a voice in his ear. Chaloner turned, and it took him a moment to recognise that the choleric churchman in the orange wig was Thurloe. ‘When he arrives, leave him to me — along with Lester, who is currently talking to Kipps.’

Chaloner had not known that Lester and Kipps were acquainted, but said nothing, unwilling to fuel Thurloe’s suspicions about the captain.

‘I will corner Meneses,’ he said instead. ‘I think he was the one who planted the letters in the Queen’s purses, and he has turned cool towards her now we are on the eve of Pratt’s so-called murder. Moreover, he was strangely eager for me to be disabused of the notion that he has a connection with Tangier.’

‘But he is not an Adventurer,’ Thurloe whispered. ‘And it seems to me that they are the ones who want the Queen implicated in a treasonous plot.’

‘Perhaps he infiltrated the Piccadilly Company in order to spy. It seems Cave may have been an intelligencer, too, and I cannot help but wonder whether he was sent to discover what really happened to Teviot.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Thurloe. ‘He was not the kind of man I would have entrusted with such a difficult and dangerous mission. Who else will you monitor, besides Meneses?’

‘Leighton,’ replied Chaloner promptly. ‘And I will listen to as many Adventurers and Piccadilly Company members as I can. I do not suppose you have cracked the cipher, have you?’

‘No, but Wallis did.’ Chaloner started to smile in surprise, but the ex-Spymaster’s expression was bleak. ‘Reyner told his mother that it was a list of his enemies, but either he lied to her or he was mistaken. It was actually a description of Jews Hill in Tangier — the kind of report that a scout might send to his commanding officer, detailing dips, rises and the number of trees.’

‘So it was nothing?’ asked Chaloner, acutely disappointed. ‘All that time we spent on it …’

‘Was wasted,’ agreed Thurloe grimly. ‘We must learn something today, Tom, or Fitzgerald will succeed tomorrow, and we shall all be the losers.’

Chaloner’s reply was drowned out by a sudden blast of trumpets. The King sat down on his great throne, his courtiers clustered around him so tightly that Buckingham’s face was full of Clarendon’s wig, and the Lady was pressed hard against the Bishop of Winchester. She gave the prelate a long, slow wink, and he recoiled in alarm.

There was another fanfare and the speeches began, unusually brief because no one had had time to prepare anything. The ambassador opened his mouth to remark on it, clearly interpreting the brevity as a diplomatic snub, but the King invited him to dine before he could do so, steering him towards the tables and chatting about the dancing that had been arranged for later. The Earl was one of the first to take his place at the table, knife in one chubby hand, and spoon in the other.

Only the elite had been asked to eat, and O’Brien’s face was a mask of disappointment when he realised he was not to be one of them. Kitty patted his hand consolingly, and led him away.

‘We were sorry you did not attend Brodrick’s soirée last night,’ she said, when their route took them past Chaloner. ‘We were hoping for some decent music, but there were only flageolets and drums. Moreover, the occasion became rather wild as the evening progressed.’

‘It was unruly,’ agreed O’Brien, in what was almost certainly an understatement. He started to add something else, but stopped when a shadow materialised at his side. It was Leighton.

‘I have just heard a rumour,’ said the Adventurers’ secretary silkily. ‘About Cave’s brother.’

‘I hope you do not intend to criticise him for burying Cave in St Margaret’s Church,’ said Kitty, regarding him with dislike. ‘The Chapel Royal choir had arranged a very expensive ceremony without consulting him, so I do not blame the fellow for taking matters into his own hands.’

‘Nor do I,’ agreed O’Brien stoutly. Then he grimaced. ‘Although I was rather looking forward to attending a funeral in Westminster Abbey. The music would have been fabulous.’

‘Actually, I was going to tell you something else entirely,’ said Leighton, a little coolly. ‘Namely that James Elliot — the man who killed Cave in the swordfight — pretended to be Jacob, and buried him early for spite.’

Chaloner stared at him. How had he heard that story? The only people he had told of his suspicions were Thurloe and Lester. Thurloe would never have gossiped, so did that mean Lester had spread the tale? But why would he do such a thing when it reflected badly on a man who was his friend and brother-in-law? Or had someone else reached the same conclusion, and was more inclined to chat about it?

‘Well, that cannot be true,’ said Kitty stiffly, ‘because Elliot is dead, too. Joseph Williamson told us so. Elliot was buried on Friday.’

‘Well, if he has been buried, then he must be dead,’ said Leighton slyly. ‘We are not in the habit of interring people alive in London. I cannot imagine it would be pleasant. Rats might come.’

Chaloner glanced at him sharply. Was it a random remark or one that carried a greater meaning? But Leighton’s face was impossible to read, as usual.

‘I am not discussing this,’ said Kitty firmly. ‘It is repugnant. Mr Cave was our friend.’

‘You are quite right,’ said O’Brien, taking her arm. ‘Come, we must pay our respects to Buckingham. He is having a dinner next week, and has intimated that we are to be invited.’