Susanna Gregory: The Piccadilly Plot

‘I am not sure you are right about Pratt,’ the ex-Spymaster said when he had finished. ‘I know you have good reasons for accusing him, but I remain unconvinced.’

‘We might have known for certain if you had not forced me to make that ridiculous promise,’ said Chaloner bitterly, clinging to the carriage’s side as it lurched across a pothole. ‘I could have tackled Fitzgerald and had answers directly.’

‘You would have been dead,’ said Thurloe harshly. ‘He is not in the habit of revealing all to anyone who asks. But never mind recriminations: we need a plan of attack, because if we charge into Clarendon House without one, he will kill us. How many helpmeets will he have?’

Chaloner swore when the coach swerved so violently that he was almost hurled out. ‘Brinkes and his men number about a dozen. Then there are thirty members of the Piccadilly Company …’

‘I doubt all of them are involved,’ said Thurloe. ‘Some will have been recruited to provide a veneer of respectability and funds for investments.’

‘Even so, you were reckless when you offered to confront them. I doubt we will succeed.’

‘Of course we will,’ said Thurloe with quiet determination. ‘We shall use our wits. Now think of something — anything — that might give us an edge over them.’

Chaloner racked his brains. ‘The secret passages …’

He reached into his coat and retrieved the roll of plans he had taken from Oliver. Fortunately, they had been tucked high enough to avoid a soaking when he had been forced into Jane ’s flooded hold. He handed them to Thurloe, then clung on for dear life as the coach rounded a corner. For a moment, only two wheels were on the road, but then the others came down with a bone-jarring thump, and they picked up speed again.

It was not easy to read when the carriage was pitching about like a ship in a storm. Chaloner glanced out of the window once and hoped the driver knew where he was because he could tell nothing from the occasional flash of building through the mist. Then he glimpsed the familiar line of the Gaming House walls. They were almost there.

‘The Crown is all shut up,’ said Thurloe, who was looking in the opposite direction. ‘I am sure you are right to predict that these villains will go to Clarendon House.’

‘Have you thought of a plan yet?’ Chaloner banged on the ceiling to make the driver stop. It would not be a good idea to hurtle up to the front gates and warn their enemies of their arrival.

Thurloe regarded him sombrely. ‘No, and all I can hope is that these secret passages will work to our advantage. If not, God help us, because Fitzgerald will have no mercy, and neither will his master.’

The fog was so dense along Piccadilly that Chaloner was obliged to hold Thurloe’s wrist to ensure they did not lose each other. Fine droplets of moisture glistened on their clothes and caught at the back of their throats. The urge to cough was strong, but they resisted, not knowing who might be nearby.

Eventually, they reached Clarendon House’s distinctive gateposts, where the winged pigs looked almost evil in the shifting mist. Following the ruts made by the labourers’ wheelbarrows, Chaloner aimed for the portico. He climbed the steps, aware that the silence was absolute, because the fog deadened all the usual noises, so there was not so much as a twitter from a bird or a bark from a dog. There were certainly no human sounds.

‘Most of the workmen will be under arrest,’ whispered Thurloe. ‘Or still running away from Doines. The Piccadilly Company will have the house and grounds to themselves.’

Chaloner pulled out his key and opened the door to reveal darkness within. All the window shutters were closed, and what meagre light did filter inside was dull and did little to illuminate the place. He secured the door behind them, and began to move stealthily towards the Great Parlour, which seemed the obvious place for a large group of people to gather.

‘I can hear something,’ whispered Thurloe, stopping abruptly. ‘Voices.’

‘Brinkes and his men. Step carefully — the builders leave their tools lying around.’

Chaloner’s heart thudded as they crept forward. How many villains would they have to confront? Would Pratt and Fitzgerald be there, or were they in another part of the house?

Eventually, he detected a glimmer of light, which grew stronger as he and Thurloe inched towards it. They reached the Great Parlour, and heard voices. The handsome double doors stood open to reveal Brinkes inside, serving ale to his cronies.

‘It is almost over, lads,’ he was saying encouragingly. ‘And then we shall be rich.’

‘Good,’ said one fervently. ‘It has been a dirty business, especially Turner’s children. Our employers are too brutal for me, and I shall not weep if I never see them again.’

The others growled assent, even Brinkes, which did nothing to ease Chaloner’s growing anxiety. If callous louts like them thought Pratt and Fitzgerald too ruthless, then what chance did he and Thurloe stand against them? But it was no time for faint-hearted thoughts, and he turned his attention to neutralising Brinkes and his henchmen.

The windows in the Great Parlour were so high as to be unreachable, which meant there was only one way in or out of the room — through the thick, heavy doors that opened outwards into the hall in which he and Thurloe were standing. He glanced at his friend, and saw the ex-Spymaster understood exactly what he was thinking: that if they could shut and lock them, imprisoning Brinkes and his friends inside, it might even the odds while they tackled Fitzgerald and Pratt.

The left-hand door would have to be closed first, because it contained a lever — located near the doorknob — which snapped bolts into the ceiling and floor. Then the right-hand door could be shut and locked with the key. Chaloner pulled the key from his pocket and inserted it soundlessly, testing it to make sure it turned. Thurloe took the side with the key, Chaloner the one with the lever.

His inclination was to slam it shut and yank on the lever as quickly as possible, but Brinkes and his men were too near — they would be out and fighting before Thurloe could manage his side. With agonising slowness, he eased it closed little by little, relieved to discover that its hinges did not creak. He had almost succeeded when Brinkes happened to glance at it.

There was no time to hesitate. Chaloner leaned all his weight on it, so it cracked into place, then grabbed the lever, aware as he did so of Thurloe beginning to shove his side. Brinkes leapt forward, hauling out his dagger. The lever was stiffer than Chaloner had anticipated, and took all his strength to tug. While he wrestled with it, Thurloe’s door moved faster and faster towards him, threatening to crush him.

Just when he thought he was going to be squashed between the two doors, an unmoving target for Brinkes to stab, the bolts clicked into place, and he was able to twist away. The door slammed shut an instant later, and he saw Thurloe reach for the key. But the door had banged so hard that it had popped partly open again, just enough to prevent the key from turning.

Chaloner hurled himself at it, and pushed with every fibre of his being, hearing the blood roar in his ears. Brinkes was doing the same on the other side. The henchmen were yelling, and Chaloner was sure they were racing to help Brinkes — and when they did, the door would fly open and he and Thurloe would die. The thought of losing his friend was just enough for a final, massive effort. The door closed and the locks snapped into place. They had done it.

‘Come,’ said Thurloe urgently, hauling Chaloner to his feet. ‘We must tackle the others before Brinkes escapes — these are sturdy doors, but they will not hold him for long.’