Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

‘I shall put in a good word for you,’ Leighton called after them. ‘And do not forget the Adventurers’ event tomorrow at dusk. You will not be disappointed with that , I assure you.’

When they had gone, Chaloner saw a number of Adventurers had gathered together. Swaddell was with them, dark eyes alert and reptilian. His companions had been drinking, and their loud, self-congratulatory discussion was generating considerable distaste among those near enough to hear.

‘Personally, I believe their monopoly on African trade is unpatriotic,’ said Kipps, coming to stand next to Chaloner and glaring at them. ‘It means that Dutch ship-owners are growing fat on Gold Coast slaves, whereas if Africa was open to everyone, I could reap some of this profit.’

‘Are you saying you would invest in the slave trade if the Adventurers’ charter did not forbid it?’ Chaloner was shocked, because he had expected Kipps to be more principled.

‘Of course. Slaves are no different from any other commodity, and I predict they will be more profitable than gold in time.’

Chaloner itched to tell him what he thought of people who dabbled in that particular business, but Kipps’s voice had been loud, and a number of people were looking at them. They included Adventurers and several members of the Piccadilly Company. Kitty and O’Brien had also turned, while Leighton was watching the scene unfold with aloof amusement.

‘What about gravel?’ asked Chaloner. It was a reckless question in front of so many people, but he was desperate enough for clues to take the risk.

‘There is plenty of that in the Thames,’ drawled Leighton, his expression curiously bland. ‘So we have no need to import it from Africa.’

There was a hoot of mocking laughter from the Adventurers, and a meaningful exchange of glances between members of the Piccadilly Company.

‘That was an idiotic remark, Chaloner,’ said Kipps, scowling at the still-snickering merchants. ‘Gravel indeed! Have you been drinking?’

‘I hear many idiotic remarks at White Hall,’ brayed Margareta Janszoon. Her henchmen exchanged uneasy glances, and Chaloner recalled his promise to Prynne to suggest that she and her husband refrained from joining discussions they did not understand. ‘I have never heard English spoke with such greasy charm.’

‘Yes,’ said Janszoon, nodding gravely. That evening, his scar was less pronounced, slathered as it was with fashionable face pastes. ‘Everyone here is a champion at greasy charm.’

There was an angry murmur from Adventurers and Piccadilly Company members alike.

‘She is praising our command of the English language,’ explained Brodrick quickly. ‘She meant “idiomatic”, and the smooth way in which we courtiers can-’

‘Actually, I think she intended an insult,’ interrupted O’Brien, troubled. ‘She called us “greasy”.’

‘She did,’ agreed Leighton softly. ‘And I shall be glad when we go to war and defeat the Dutch at sea. They are all arrogant, impertinent and untrustworthy.’

Neither Janszoon nor Margareta had any trouble understanding that remark, and both paled. Their soldiers closed around them, hands on the hilts of their swords.

‘You call us names?’ asked Janszoon indignantly. ‘When the English leave much to be desired?’

‘How dare you!’ cried O’Brien, incensed. ‘We are the greatest nation in the world!’

‘Let us see if there is any more wine, O’Brien,’ said Brodrick loudly. He lowered his voice as he hauled his friend away. ‘Easy, man! We do not want the Swedes to think us barbarians.’

The Adventurers were more than happy to avail themselves of liquid refreshment, and followed eagerly, Leighton scuttling among them. Janszoon opened his mouth to yell something to their retreating backs, but Thurloe was suddenly in front of him.

‘Your wife has dropped her fan,’ he said, bending to scoop it up. ‘And you are quite pale. Allow me to escort you both to a place where there is more air.’

‘We do not-’ Margareta began angrily, but there was something in Thurloe’s steely gaze that made her accept the proffered arm. The guards and Janszoon followed, and so did Chaloner.

‘Your English is very good,’ Thurloe began politely, once they were outside. ‘But there are nuances in our language that are difficult for foreigners to comprehend. You might be advised to keep quiet until you are sure you understand them.’

‘We understand them,’ began Janszoon, outraged. ‘We are fluent in-’

Thurloe’s baleful eye silenced him abruptly. ‘It might be time to leave London and return home. It cannot be comfortable here for you, with our two countries on the edge of war.’

‘No,’ agreed Margareta sullenly. ‘We shall go as soon as we find a suitable ship. London is a hateful place, and we will be glad to leave it.’

‘Where in Amsterdam do you live?’ asked Chaloner in Dutch, more to placate them than for information. ‘I know it well, and-’

‘It is rude to use foreign languages here,’ snapped Margareta in English. She indicated Thurloe. ‘He did not understand what you said. My mother was right: London is full of unmannerly savages.’

‘Go home,’ said Thurloe shortly. ‘And I do not mean to your lodgings — I mean to Holland. The situation here will only grow more uneasy as we inch towards a conflict. You know you are in danger, or you would not have felt the need to hire guards.’

‘It does feel dangerous,’ agreed Janszoon, still nettled. ‘And I grow to hate the English. They are stupid if they think they can win the war.’

He took Margareta’s arm and led her towards the gate. They held their heads high, but people shot them unfriendly glances as they passed, and their guards were tense and alert.

‘Prynne was right,’ said Chaloner, watching them. ‘They are a danger to peace.’

‘I imagine any Hollander in London is a danger to peace at the moment, regardless of the quality of their English. London is itching to lynch one.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘Why do they not learn from their experiences and keep quiet at these courtly gatherings? Or do you think they are actually clever Dutch spies, sent to needle us into war before we are ready? Shall we follow them, and demand answers?’

‘Not unless you feel equal to dispatching their guards first — I imagine they will be under orders to prevent such a situation. No, Tom, we must look to others for our answers.’

‘Fitzgerald?’

‘He has sent his apologies, saying he is unavoidably detained and cannot be here. It is bad news, because it means he is working on his plans for tomorrow. I only hope we overhear something that will allow us to thwart him, because time is fast running out.’

The heat and crowded conditions in the Banqueting House had driven many people out into the Great Court, where they congregated in groups. It was a clear autumn afternoon, and the sun was shining, so it was pleasantly warm. Thurloe slipped away to eavesdrop on Harley, who was engaged in urgent conversation with Kipps, so Chaloner aimed for Lydcott in the hope that he might have learned something useful. He was intercepted before he could reach him.

‘Today, I decided to arrest Fitzgerald and damn the consequences,’ said Williamson in a low voice. He had attempted to disguise himself, but was instantly recognisable by his haughty strut. Lester was at his side, resplendent in a fine blue coat that made him look every inch the successful sea-officer. ‘But he must have had wind of it, because he has disappeared.’

‘He will be busy making arrangements for tomorrow,’ predicted Lester soberly. ‘The threat of incarceration is not responsible for his flight, because he considers us an irrelevancy.’