Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

Chaloner shook his head, and indicated Oliver should turn, so he could use his back as a desk. Employing a cipher known only to him and Thurloe, he quickly outlined all he had learned and asked the ex-Spymaster to pass whatever he deemed appropriate to Williamson. He concluded by saying that he would visit him at three o’clock the next morning in Lincoln’s Inn, sure that would give him ample time to complete everything he needed to do first. As he worked, a small pink nose poked from under Oliver’s collar. He jumped in alarm.

‘Christ! Is that a rat?’

Oliver’s mournful eyes were reproachful. ‘It is my ferret — I have mentioned him to you before. He was unwell this morning, so I brought him with me.’

He glanced around furtively before pulling the animal from his coat and affectionately stroking its silky fur. It was a pretty creature, but hardly something that should have attended a diplomatic reception. While he petted it, Oliver continued to pontificate on the Earl’s supplies.

‘Personally, I think he is making a fuss over nothing. All wealthy people should expect to lose a few bricks on occasion. It is the way builders work.’

‘Do you have a list of what has gone missing so far?’

Oliver rummaged again. ‘Yes — the Earl is in the habit of asking for it.’

‘Did you write it yourself?’ asked Chaloner, scanning the neat figures before passing it back. The losses were heavier than he had thought, and he did not blame the Earl for objecting.

‘Hyde did. He started to keep a tally at his father’s request.’

‘How will you spend the rest of your evening?’ asked Chaloner conversationally, going back to his note to Thurloe.

‘At home with my ferret,’ replied Oliver glumly. ‘Unless you happen to know any nice young ladies who might keep a lonely Westminster man company? In fact, I had better go now — he is getting restless, and I should not like him to escape. Someone might keep him.’

Chaloner was thoughtful as he and Oliver parted, aware that he now had more than enough clues to solve one of his mysteries. He walked towards the gate, where a number of black servants had assembled. George was among them, taller than most by a head, and a sullen, looming presence that inhibited the friendly chatter that would normally have characterised such a gathering. Chaloner beckoned him out, noting the relieved glances that were immediately exchanged. George was as unpopular there as he was in Tothill Street.

‘I want you to deliver this note to a choleric minister who wears an orange wig,’ said Chaloner, passing it to him. ‘He should be here somewhere, so there is no need to leave White Hall.’

‘Good,’ said George. ‘Because I have just heard that there is to be dancing in the Banqueting House later. And there is nothing so entertaining as watching white men dance.’

‘Really,’ said Chaloner coolly. ‘And how do you do it?’

‘With passion. And colour and noise.’

‘Well, do not do it here. Hannah might not like it, especially if you invite Joan to take the floor with you.’

Amusement gleamed briefly in George’s eyes at the notion. ‘When I was on Jane -’ He stopped suddenly, disgusted at the inadvertent slip.

‘ Jane ?’ asked Chaloner mildly. ‘You told me you had never heard of her.’

George shrugged and looked away. ‘I was mistaken. She is not a memorable ship.’

‘And what about the gravel she carried? Is that forgettable, too? What is it? Another word for diamonds? Or perhaps for some exotic spice? Or sugar from the plantations?’

‘It is gravel ,’ replied George sullenly. ‘Stones and dirt.’

‘Fitzgerald may well have transported gravel to Tangier,’ acknowledged Chaloner. ‘The mole will need a lot of it. But what did he transport out ?’

‘You will have to ask him. Although I would not recommend it. He has a temper.’

‘So do I,’ said Chaloner shortly. ‘And it is beginning to fray with you. You cannot have sailed with Fitzgerald and not known what he carried in his holds. You are neither blind nor stupid.’

‘No,’ agreed George. ‘But I did not choose to pry.’

‘You pry when it suits you,’ Chaloner retorted. ‘Did you translate the cipher you found in my pen-box, by the way, or would you like me to help you?’

George regarded him with steady eyes. ‘You confuse me with Susan. She was the spy.’

Chaloner threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Fine! Can I trust you to deliver that message or shall I hire one of these others?’

‘You can trust me,’ said George. He looked offended, and perhaps it was the suggestion that he was unreliable that encouraged him to attempt an explanation. ‘There was always gravel in Jane ’s holds. Even in Tangier, when Fitzgerald could have sold the lot, he kept some back. Thus any customs official boarding her will find gravel at any time in her voyage. As is written in her log.’

Chaloner stared at him, struggling to understand what he was being told. ‘Fitzgerald lost a ship carrying gold, which is valuable but that does not require much space. It could have been concealed under a pile of gravel …’

George gave a brief smile. ‘Well, then. Perhaps that is all you need to know.’

He bowed and walked away, leaving Chaloner with the glimmer of another solution as facts came together in his mind. If the Piccadilly Company’s business was trading small but highly valuable items, then it was not surprising that Teviot had objected to Jane ’s presence in Tangier — as an Adventurer, he would have preferred the profits to go to himself and his friends. It made sense, therefore, that the Piccadilly Company would want a more amenable governor, although Chaloner was appalled that nearly five hundred men had to die to make it happen. Meneses was right: Fitzgerald and his master would do anything to smash a powerful monopoly.

Chaloner was hovering by the Great Gate as the clocks struck eight. It was moonless, but clear, although the stars were invisible because plummeting temperatures were beginning to produce another thick fog. Chaloner did not mind. It would conceal him, and make his next task easier.

‘We should be listening for rumours about tomorrow,’ said Lester, arriving a few moments later. ‘Not wasting time with this errand. What is it, anyway?’

‘We are going to St Giles-in-the-Fields.’

‘Why? To look in the register of burials to convince yourself that Elliot is dead? I assure you, I did not imagine attending his funeral. It would be better to stay here, and-’

‘Williamson can eavesdrop without us. Of course, there is a reason why his enquiries have been so spectacularly unsuccessful: there was a spy in his organisation.’

‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Lester, matching the brisk pace Chaloner set. ‘He is not a man who commands loyalty, and I imagine a lot of his agents take the traitor’s penny. But what does this have to do with Elliot? Or do you think he was such a fellow?’

‘Yes, and I believe that is why Cave challenged him.’

‘I suppose it is possible.’ Lester looked troubled. ‘Elliot was an excellent man to have at one’s back at sea, but he became a different fellow once on land. I should never have let him marry Ruth. He gambled, which made him greedy for money, and that led him down dark paths. My enquiries have revealed that he was definitely involved in Pepperell’s murder.’

The stabbing of the Eagle ’s captain the day she had docked at Queenhithe seemed a long time ago, although it was only a little more than two weeks. Chaloner recalled what he had seen.

‘Brinkes murdered Pepperell. I watched it happen, and so did several other-’