The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Read online

  Also by Susanna Gregory

  The Thomas Chaloner Series

  A Conspiracy of Violence

  Blood on the Strand

  The Butcher of Smithfield

  The Westminster Poisoner

  A Murder on London Bridge

  The Body in the Thames

  The Matthew Bartholomew Series

  A Plague on Both Your Houses

  An Unholy Alliance

  A Bone of Contention

  A Deadly Brew

  A Wicked Deed

  A Masterly Murder

  An Order for Death

  A Summer of Discontent

  A Killer in Winter

  The Hand of Justice

  The Mark of a Murderer

  The Tarnished Chalice

  To Kill or Cure

  The Devil’s Disciples

  A Vein of Deceit

  The Killer of Pilgrims

  Mystery in the Minster

  Copyright

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 978-0-748-12105-2

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 Susanna Gregory

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  For Bernard and Jean Knight

  Contents

  Also by Susanna Gregory

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Prologue

  Tangier, 4 May 1664

  William Reyner watched Lord Teviot lead the five hundred soldiers to their deaths. It would be easy to prevent the massacre – just gallop after the column and tell Teviot that more than ten thousand Barbary corsairs were lying in wait ahead – but he made no move to do so. A large amount of money was at stake, and that was considered far more important than the lives of mere warriors. Besides, Reyner had never liked Teviot: the man was a greedy fool, who should never have been appointed Governor of Tangier in the first place.

  He glanced around him. Tangier had come to England as part of Queen Katherine’s dowry, but it was a paltry place – a few winding streets huddled on a hill, rich with the scent of exotic spices, sun-baked manure and the salty aroma of the sea. It was being fortified, in the hope that it would provide British ships with a secure Mediterranean anchorage, although personally Reyner thought the King should have held out for something better. Tangier’s harbour was too shallow and too exposed, while the surrounding countryside was full of hostile Moors.

  When the last infantryman had marched through the town gate, Reyner and his fellow scouts followed on horseback. Colonel Harley was in the lead, sullen and scowling as usual, while the impassive Robert Newell brought up the rear. All three were careful to keep their distance: they did not want to become entangled in the slaughter that was about to take place.

  Teviot’s destination was a wood named Jews Hill; a place where corsairs often gathered to harry the town. The three scouts had assured him that it was safe that day – a good time to chop down some of the trees and make it more difficult for raiders to use in the future. The reality was that it had never been more dangerous.

  It was not long before the first sounds of battle drifted back on the hot, dusty breeze – the yells of men roaring an attack and the spluttering crack of gunfire. Reyner, Harley and Newell pulled up.

  Although Reyner did not care about Teviot, he had always been uncomfortable with sacrificing half the town’s garrison into the bargain. Harley and Newell had scoffed at his faint-heartedness, reminding him of the fabulous rewards they would reap when the deed was done, but he could not escape the conviction that the plan was unnecessarily brutal, and that a less bloody way should have been devised to realise their master’s plans.

  The first skirmish did not last long, and the British cheered when the Moors turned and ran. Reyner stared hard at Harley: there was still time to stop what had been set in motion, to warn Teviot that the first attack was a ruse to lure him and his men deeper into the woods. But Harley ignored him. Oblivious to the peril, Teviot rallied his troops and led an advance up the hill.

  The British were jubilant at the enemy’s ‘flight’, and it was clear they felt invincible. They walked a little taller in the wavering heat, the fierce African sunlight glinting off their helmets and weapons. Teviot was at their head, a tall, athletic figure on his white horse. He looked like a god, although Reyner knew he was anything but: the Governor of Tangier was a vain, stupid man, whose incompetence was matched only by his venality.

  The corsair commander timed his ambush perfectly, splintering Teviot’s column into clusters. There was immediate panic: the British had been trained to fight in a specific formation, and did not know what to do once their orderly line had been broken. Teviot did his best, bawling orders and laying about him like a demon. Grudgingly, Reyner admitted that, for all his faults, the man was no coward.

  The battle was short and brutal. Pikes and short swords were no match for ten thousand scything scimitars, and the British were cut down in ruthless hand-to-hand skirmishing. Teviot managed to rally a few men at the top of the hill, where he mounted a brave last stand, but it was hopeless. The Moors advanced in an almost leisurely fashion, and Teviot was hacked to pieces.

  Without a word, Reyner, Harley and Newell rode back to Tangier, ready to feign shock when news of the catastrophe reached the town. They did not have long to wait. Miraculously, about thirty soldiers had managed to escape. They stumbled through the gate, shaken and bloody, gasping their tale to the settlement’s horrified residents.

  Reyner closed his ears to the wails of shock and disbelief, telling himself that the massacre was Teviot’s own fault for choosing the wrong side in the struggle for riches and power – his master had had no choice but to order his elimination. But he was uneasy, even so. The order to kill Teviot had been delivered with a ruthless insouciance, and Reyner had sensed a dark and deadly power.

  Not for the first time since he had been recruited, he wondered whether he had been right to throw in his lot with such a person. He had been promised a handsome payment, it was true, but what good was a fortune if he was not alive to enjoy it – if it was decided that those who had engineered the atrocity were too great a liability, and should be dispatched themselves?

  But what was done was done, and there was no going back. He, Harley and Newell would just have to ensure that no one ever learned the truth about what had transpired on Jews Hill that pretty spring morning. And if that entailed more murders, then so be it.

  Queenhithe, early October 1664

  It had been a pleasant voyage for the passengers and crew of Eagle. The sea had been calm, even across the notorious Bay of Biscay, and the winds favourable. The cargo compris
ed luxury goods from the eastern Mediterranean, so there were no noxious odours from the holds to contend with, and the journey from Tangier had been made in record time.

  Now they were almost home. They had sailed up the River Thames that morning, arriving at London Bridge just as the drawbridge was being raised to let masted ships through. The timing could not have been better, and Captain Pepperell was pleased with himself as he conned his ship towards Queenhithe. Then he glanced at his passengers, who had gathered on deck to watch Eagle dock, and felt his good humour slip a little.

  An irascible, unfriendly man, Pepperell much preferred those journeys where the guest cabins were empty. Still, he had been paid to monitor these particular passengers, although it had not been easy – they had been almost as reluctant to socialise as he himself, and the information he had gathered was meagre. Of course, that was not to say it was unimportant, and he believed it would be very gratefully received.

  They were the usual mixed bag. Reverend Addison was Tangier’s chaplain, returning to London for a holiday; Thomas Chaloner was some sort of diplomat; Harley, Newell and Reyner were army scouts – surly, mean-spirited individuals whom the crew disliked; and John Cave was a musician who had been sent to entertain the troops.

  The Captain smirked as he recalled the garrison’s stunned disbelief when Cave had embarked on a medley of elegant arias. They liked bawdy tavern songs, and excerpts from Italian operas were definitely not what they had wanted to hear. Yet for all that, thought Pepperell, Cave did sing prettily. Chaloner played the bass viol, and even Pepperell – not a man given to foolish sentiment – had been moved by the haunting beauty of some of the duets they had performed on the voyage home.

  He gave the last few orders that saw Eagle safely moored, then left his second-in-command, Anthony Young, to supervise the unloading, while he went to complete landing formalities with the harbour master. He strode towards the customs building, a little unsteady on legs that were more attuned to the roll of the sea.

  He turned when he heard a shout, and saw two men running towards him, one in a brown coat and the other resplendent in a red uniform with a plumed Cavalier hat. He waited, supposing their business with him must be urgent, or they would not be racing about like madmen.

  By the time he realised they meant him harm, it was far too late to think of defending himself. The man in brown lashed out with a knife, and Pepperell felt it slice deep into his innards. He gasped in pain and shock as he dropped to the ground, and tried to shout for help. He could only manage a strangled whisper, barely audible over the hammering footsteps as his assailants sped away.

  Chaloner heard it, though, and Pepperell could have wept with relief when the diplomat snapped into action, yelling for his fellow passengers to tend the wounded captain even as he vaulted over the rail to give chase. Unfortunately, the others were slower to react, and several long, agonising minutes had passed before they came to cluster at Pepperell’s side.

  ‘Thieves!’ muttered Young, shaking his head in disgust as he tried to stem the flow of blood with his cap. ‘The scourge of every port in Christendom.’

  ‘But the captain still has his purse,’ Reverend Addison pointed out, kneeling to lay a comforting hand on Pepperell’s shoulder. ‘Besides, I recognise the man who stabbed him. He is Josiah Brinkes, a vicious scoundrel who can be hired by anyone wanting dirty business done. This was not robbery – it was assassination!’

  ‘Rubbish!’ declared Harley the scout, staring dispassionately at the dying man. ‘They intended to steal the purse, but Chaloner was after them too fast – they were forced to run before they could lay hold of it.’

  But Pepperell knew the truth. He tried to grab Addison’s sleeve, to draw him nearer so he could explain, but there was no strength in his fingers. Then Chaloner arrived back, panting hard from his exertions, and the chaplain did not notice Pepperell’s desperate attempts to claim his attention.

  ‘Escaped, did they?’ Harley smiled unpleasantly. ‘Well, I cannot say I blame you for deciding to let them go. Dockyard felons can be notoriously brutal, and there were two of them.’

  ‘Then you should have gone with him,’ said Addison admonishingly, still oblivious to Pepperell’s weak but increasingly frantic gestures. ‘You claim to be a professional soldier.’

  Chaloner silenced them with a glare, then leaned close to the captain, straining to hear what he was struggling to say.

  ‘Picc … a … dilly …’

  Chaloner regarded him in confusion. ‘Do you mean the street?’

  Pepperell’s world was growing darker as his life drained away. He tried again. ‘Tr … trade …’

  ‘I had better see to the ship.’ Young’s eyes gleamed as he looked at the vessel that was now his to command. ‘Her owners will not let this unfortunate incident interfere with her itinerary – they will still expect her to sail on the evening tide.’

  ‘With you as master?’ asked Addison in distaste.

  ‘Why not?’ Young shrugged. ‘I know Eagle and her crew. There is no one better.’

  ‘Damn you!’ snarled Pepperell with the last vestiges of his strength.

  ‘Who is he cursing?’ asked Addison uneasily. ‘Chaloner for failing to catch his killer; Young for taking his ship; or all of us for not knowing what he is talking about?’

  ‘We will never know,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘He is dead.’

  Chapter 1

  Piccadilly, mid October 1664

  It had been raining all night, and Thomas Chaloner was cold, wet and tired, so when the workmen arrived he left his hiding place with relief, hobbling slightly on legs that were stiff from staying still too long. Chatting and laughing, the men set about lighting a fire and balancing a pot above it: no self-respecting labourer began the day without a cup of warmed ale inside him. Chaloner would have liked to have joined them at the brazier, but he kept his distance until Roger Pratt arrived.

  Pratt was reputed to be one of the country’s most innovative architects, although Chaloner was inclined to suspect that ‘innovative’ was a euphemism for ‘overrated and expensive’. He was a haughty, self-important man, who always managed to appear coolly elegant in his Court finery. By comparison, Chaloner was a dishevelled mess. No wig covered his brown hair, and his clothes had suffered from their night under a tarpaulin. Pratt eyed him disparagingly, although Chaloner was tempted to ask what else he expected after such a miserable night.

  ‘Well?’ the architect demanded curtly.

  Chaloner fought down his resentment at the brusque greeting. ‘Nothing. Again. Perhaps your bricks, nails and wood are going missing during the day.’

  ‘Impossible,’ snapped Pratt. ‘We hire upwards of sixty men here, and thieves would be noticed. The villains come at night, and I am disgusted by your inability to catch them. These thefts are costing your master a fortune, and Clarendon House is not a cheap venture to begin with.’

  Chaloner looked at the place he had been guarding since he had returned from Tangier the week before. When he had left London at the beginning of July, the imposing H-shaped mansion had been nothing but foundations, but walls and a roof had flown up in his absence, and windows and doors had been installed. Now, most of the remaining work was internal – plastering, tiling and decorating.

  ‘It will be hailed as the finest building in London,’ said Pratt, allowing himself a smile of satisfaction as he followed the direction of Chaloner’s gaze. ‘I was delighted when the Earl of Clarendon chose me to be his architect. Clarendon House will be the best of all my work, a fabulous stately home within walking distance of White Hall and Westminster.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner unhappily. He had always felt the project was a bad idea: it was too sumptuous, too ostentatious and too costly, and he was sure it would bring his employer trouble. ‘That is the problem. As most of London is poor, it will attract resentful—’

  ‘No one begrudges the Earl a nice place to live,’ interrupted Pratt. ‘He is the Lord Chancellor, for God’s sake
. He should have a decent home.’

  ‘But Clarendon House is not a “decent home”,’ argued Chaloner. ‘It is a palace – and far more luxurious than any of the ones owned by the King.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ asked Pratt, flattered, although Chaloner had not meant it as a compliment.

  ‘His enemies will use it against him, and—’

  ‘The Earl does not have enemies,’ snapped Pratt. ‘He is a lovely man, and everyone reveres and respects him.’

  Chaloner struggled not to gape, because the Earl was neither revered nor respected, and ‘lovely’ was certainly not a word many would have used to describe him. He was vain, petty and selfish, and Chaloner would have abandoned him for other work in an instant. Unfortunately, opportunities for former Parliamentarian spies were few and far between in Royalist London, and the Earl had been the only one willing to overlook Chaloner’s past allegiances and hire him. Thus Chaloner was stuck with Clarendon, regardless of his personal feelings towards the man.

  The antipathy was wholly reciprocated. The Earl needed Chaloner’s range of unorthodox skills to stay one step ahead of his many rivals, but he made no secret of the fact that he disapproved of Chaloner, his past and his profession. He had promoted him to the post of gentleman usher a few months before, but only because Chaloner had married a lady for whom the Earl felt a fatherly affection – an affection that was certainly not extended to her husband.

  Yet despite his dislike, Chaloner hoped the Earl would survive the political maelstrom that surged around him, because if he were to fall from grace, then his intelligencer would fall with him. Worse, Chaloner’s wife might be dismissed from her post as lady-in-waiting to the Queen, simply because of whom she had married. Chaloner winced. Hannah would be devastated if that happened: she loved her work, her status at Court and Queen Katherine in equal measure.

  When there was no reply to his remarks, Pratt strode away to talk to the workmen. Chaloner watched, wondering how many of them knew more than was innocent about the missing materials, because he was sure the thieves could not operate so efficiently without inside help.