Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

Williamson glared at him. ‘But we have made some progress in learning what is to happen. Swaddell overheard a conversation between Leighton and some of his Adventurers today — they plan to attack and burn Jane . Unfortunately, he did not catch where or when.’

‘Queenhithe,’ supplied Chaloner. ‘She will dock there at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon, but arson is better managed in the dark than in daylight, so I imagine they will strike tomorrow night.’

Williamson nodded his thanks for the information. ‘Then at least we shall prevent one crime. Obviously, I do not condone piracy, but we cannot allow Jane ’s crew to be roasted alive. Or a conflagration set that might destroy half of London — Queenhithe has wooden warehouses.’

‘I understand you sent Cave to spy in Tangier,’ began Chaloner. ‘And-’

‘I did nothing of the kind,’ interrupted Williamson sharply. ‘I have intelligencers there, of course, but they are soldiers. What use would a musician be in such a place?’

‘ Who hired him, then?’ mused Chaloner, more to himself than the others. ‘The Adventurers?’

‘Possibly,’ replied Williamson, although Chaloner had not expected an answer. ‘But here is Swaddell, come to make his report. We shall ask him.’

Chaloner was horrified. ‘He will tell you his findings here? With half the Court watching? I thought you wanted everyone to believe that he has broken with you.’

‘I do,’ replied Williamson. ‘But if we do it in full view of everyone — ensuring we look strained and angry — it eliminates the need for meeting secretly. It is safer for him.’

Chaloner would not have been fooled by such a ruse, and doubted others would, either, but it was too late to say so, because the assassin was there. He bowed stiffly to Williamson.

‘Nothing,’ he said, pointing as though he was remarking on the Banqueting House’s roof. It was patently transparent, and Chaloner cringed. ‘All they ever talk about is money. However …’

He paused as several people walked past, and resumed when they had gone. Chaloner winced a second time. He did not like Swaddell, and thought London would be a better place without him, but the man was risking his life with such reckless amateurism.

‘… they certainly plan to sink Jane . Or rather, hired hands will. The Adventurers themselves will be on Royal Katherine in Woolwich, so they can later claim ignorance of the affair.’

‘You must have heard something else,’ said Williamson in exasperation. ‘For God’s sake man!’

Swaddell glared at him. ‘I am doing my best. Unfortunately, they still do not trust me.’

‘Have you heard anyone mention gravel?’ asked Chaloner.

Swaddell frowned. ‘Leighton said Teviot had wanted some. I assume it was for the mole. Why?’

‘Do you know whether Cave was spying for the Adventurers?’ asked Williamson.

‘He was not,’ replied Swaddell with conviction. ‘He worked for the Piccadilly Company. I know, because I heard Congett tell Leighton so. He also said that he was glad Elliot had killed him.’

‘I wish we had known that sooner,’ said Lester with an irritable sigh.

‘I did not think it was important,’ snapped Swaddell. ‘But I should go or they will be suspicious.’

He bowed again and moved away, although Chaloner saw the exchange had been observed by several Adventurers, including Leighton, all of whom were smirking: they knew perfectly well that Swaddell had been sent to infiltrate them. Chaloner felt a surge of exasperation that Williamson should have employed such clumsy tactics to tackle a group of powerful and intelligent people.

‘I want your help later, Lester,’ he said, when Swaddell had gone. ‘Meet me by the Great Gate at eight o’clock.’

‘Why?’ asked Lester. ‘To play the duet we missed last night?’

‘No. We are going to solve the riddle of Elliot, Cave and Jacob once and for all.’

* * *

Leaving before Williamson could ask questions, Chaloner resumed his walk towards Lydcott. Thurloe’s errant kinsman was half-hidden behind a fountain, watching Pratt and Oliver. The pair were trying to converse with Meneses, who was pretending not to understand them.

‘This is hilarious,’ Lydcott whispered gleefully. ‘Fitzgerald has asked Pratt to keep Meneses away from any Adventurers today. Apparently, he is afraid that Meneses will tell them how successful our glassware venture has become.’

‘Why should that matter?’ asked Chaloner.

‘If they hear how profitable we are, they might decide to do something similar,’ explained Lydcott. ‘And we do not want the competition.’

Chaloner stared into Lydcott’s wide, guileless eyes, staggered by the man’s credulity. ‘Why should Meneses be a greater risk than the other members of the Piccadilly Company?’

Lydcott waved an airy hand. ‘Who knows, but I trust Fitzgerald to look after us. Four of the Adventurers — Turner, Lucas, Proby and Congett — said nasty things about us, and Fitzgerald predicted that God would disapprove of such malice. Sure enough, within days they were dead. He has an uncanny knack for prophecy.’

‘Very uncanny,’ agreed Chaloner drily. ‘I do not suppose it has occurred to you that he might have killed them himself?’

Lydcott stared at him in distaste. ‘You are just like Thurloe — so twisted by your profession that you cannot see the good in people. Fitzgerald is a decent gentleman, as I have said before.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner. ‘Where is he tonight? It is unlike him to miss a glittering occasion.’

‘ Jane will arrive in London soon, and he has a lot of paperwork to complete. We are all pleased. Her coming means money for us — another voyage successfully completed.’

‘Has he mentioned any plans for tomorrow?’ asked Chaloner, declining to inform him that Jane was coming from Tangier, not New England, and that any profit would not be derived from fine glassware. ‘Anything might help. Even where he intends to eat his breakfast.’

Lydcott shook his head. ‘He is a private man, and keeps his personal life to himself. But I had better not spend any longer lurking behind a statue — I do not want folk to think me odd. Good day, Chaloner. Give my regards to Thurloe when you see him.’

He sauntered away, whistling, and Chaloner turned his attention to Pratt, Oliver and Meneses. He needed to speak to Meneses anyway, so he abandoned his hiding place and walked to where the architect and his assistant were speaking ever more loudly in an effort to make Meneses understand them, clearly of the opinion that all foreigners would comprehend English if it was bellowed at sufficiently high volume.

‘I have heard that Lisbon is very nice,’ Oliver was yelling. The finery he had donned for the occasion had turned green with age, which did nothing to dispel the aura of mournful shabbiness that hung about him. Moreover, he had stuffed his pockets with pens and papers, which made him oddly bulky around the hips. ‘It is by the sea, I believe.’

Meneses shook his head blankly, although the gleam in his eyes indicated he was enjoying himself at the Englishmen’s expense.

‘Perhaps you can help us, Chaloner,’ said Pratt. He looked pained as he lowered his voice. ‘I have been charged to entertain this fellow, but he does not understand a word we are saying.’

‘Ask whether he enjoyed himself at Temperance North’s brothel the other night,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Perhaps that will remind him that he can speak perfectly good English when he wants.’

‘Can he?’ asked Pratt doubtfully, as a flash of irritation crossed Meneses’ face. ‘I have never seen evidence of it — he always looks confused at Piccadilly Company meetings, too. But the Earl tells me you have a talent with languages, so you speak to him.’