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

  One man returned the stare. His expression was distinctly unfriendly, as if he had guessed what Chaloner was thinking. His name was Vere, a woodmonger who had been hired to act as supervisor. He was a thickset fellow with greasy ginger hair, and he continued to glare until Chaloner, too cold and tired for needless confrontations, looked away.

  Next to Vere was John Oliver, Pratt’s assistant, a gangly, shambling man with a pear-shaped face, sad eyes, and shoulders that seemed perpetually slumped in defeat. When he spoke, his words were often preceded by a gloomy shake of the head, as if to warn the listener that any news he had to impart would not be good.

  As Pratt told the workmen that their materials had survived another night intact, Chaloner was alert for a furtive glance or a sly nod that might indicate guilt, but he was wasting his time: there was no discernible reaction from anyone. Then Pratt started to issue orders, which had them hurrying in all directions to obey. While the architect was busy, Oliver came to talk to Chaloner.

  ‘It means the villains will come tonight instead,’ he predicted morosely. ‘Or tomorrow. And you cannot stand guard indefinitely. Is it true that Clarendon ordered you back from Tangier specifically to investigate the matter?’

  Chaloner nodded. The Earl had hated being the victim of a crime, and the summons to return on the next available ship had been curt and angry, as if it were Chaloner’s fault that he had not been to hand when he was needed. Chaloner had been relieved though, because he had been in Tangier disguised as a diplomat for almost ten weeks, and was beginning to think the Earl had forgotten him – that he was doomed to spend the rest of his life in the hot, dirty, dangerous little outpost pretending to be something he was not.

  ‘I doubt you will succeed,’ said Oliver, when no other answer was forthcoming. ‘It is almost as if they spirit our bricks away by magic.’

  ‘I have succeeded in that nothing has disappeared since I arrived,’ said Chaloner defensively.

  ‘Well, yes,’ acknowledged Oliver grudgingly. ‘That is true. But I worry for you. Your presence may have deterred them so far, but what happens when they get desperate? I imagine they are ruthless villains, and they may do you harm. You are, after all, only one man.’

  Chaloner smiled. Before he had been recruited as a spy, he had been a soldier in Cromwell’s New Model Army, and was better able than most to look after himself. But no one else had expressed any care for his safety, and he appreciated Oliver’s concern.

  ‘Pratt is calling you,’ he said. ‘It is time for you to begin work, and for me to finish.’

  He made one last circuit around the house, and took his leave.

  It was still not fully light as Chaloner walked home. The day was unseasonably cold, and a bitter breeze blew from the north, so he strode briskly in an effort to work some warmth into his limbs. Normally, he would have cut through St James’s Park to reach his house in Tothill Street, but that would have entailed scaling two high walls, and his hands and feet were far too numb for such antics. He went east instead, along the muddy, rutted country lane named Piccadilly.

  He hoped Hannah would still be in bed when he arrived, because sliding between icy blankets held scant appeal that day. It was likely that he would be in luck, because her duties with the Queen meant she often worked late, but even if not, she hated rising early. Or perhaps one of the maids would have lit a fire in the parlour, and he could doze next to it for an hour or two before going to report to the Earl in White Hall.

  It was a quarter of a mile before he reached the first signs of civilisation – a cluster of tenements and taverns where Piccadilly met the busy thoroughfare called the Haymarket. The most prominent building was the Gaming House, once a fashionable resort, but like many such establishments, it had been allowed to fall into shabby decline under Cromwell’s Puritans.

  It was apparently closing time, because a number of patrons were emerging. Some sang happily after a night of freely flowing wine, while others moved with the slouched, defeated air that said their losses at the card tables had been heavy.

  Opposite was a tavern called the Crown, and Chaloner was amused to note that its customers were using the Gaming House’s commotion as an opportunity to slink away in dribs and drabs. An extremely attractive woman was directing people out, timing their departures so they could blend into the throng that staggered noisily towards London. It was natural for any spy to be intrigued by brazenly suspicious behaviour, so Chaloner ducked behind a stationary milk-cart to watch almost without conscious thought.

  First to emerge was a man with an eye-patch and an orange beard so massive that its end had been tucked into his belt, presumably to prevent it from flying up and depriving him of the sight in the other eye. He walked with a confident swagger, and when he replied to a slurred greeting from one of the Gaming House’s patrons, his voice was unusually high, like that a boy.

  Next out was a fellow wearing the kind of ruffs and angular shoes that had been fashionable when Chaloner had last visited Lisbon; the man’s complexion was olive, and he had dark, almost black, eyes. His companion wore a wide-brimmed hat that concealed his face, although the red ribbons he had threaded through the lace around his knees were distinctive and conspicuous.

  Chaloner was surprised to recognise the next three. They were Harley, Newell and Reyner, the scouts who had sailed home with him on Eagle. Rather than aim for the city, they turned north. He watched them go, thinking the surly trio were certainly the kind of men to embroil themselves in dubious business. And there was definitely something untoward going on in the Crown, given the manner in which its customers were sneaking out.

  He was about to leave when someone else emerged whom he recognised. It was the fellow who had stabbed Captain Pepperell – Brinkes, the felon said to do anything for money. Chaloner eased farther behind the cart as he recalled Pepperell’s dying words: ‘Piccadilly’ and ‘trade’. Had the captain been naming the place where his killer liked to do business?

  Chaloner thought back to the murder. It had occurred exactly a week before, but the authorities had made no effort to arrest the culprit, mostly, it appeared, because they were afraid Brinkes might not like it – it had not taken Chaloner long to realise that those in charge of Queenhithe were frightened of the man, and were loath to do anything that might annoy him. Chaloner had done his best to see justice done, but his efforts had been ignored.

  Did the fact that Harley and his scouts frequented the same tavern mean that they had hired Brinkes to kill Pepperell? But how could they have done, when they had been in Tangier for the last two years? And what reason could they have for wanting Pepperell dead, anyway? The captain had not been pleasant, with his sulky temper and rough manners, but that was hardly a reason to dispatch him. Or, more likely, had they been so impressed by Brinkes’s efficiency with a knife that they had hired him for business of their own?

  Outside the Crown, Brinkes paused to light his pipe. Chaloner watched, wondering whether to grab him and drag him to the nearest magistrate. Unfortunately, he had no idea where that might be, and Brinkes was unlikely to go quietly. Moreover, given the authorities’ reluctance to act so far, he suspected Brinkes would not stay in custody for long, at which point Chaloner would have a vengeful assassin on his trail. With a sigh, he decided to leave matters well alone.

  Once Brinkes had gone, the woman withdrew and the Crown’s door was closed. It was then that Chaloner glimpsed a flicker of movement in an upper window that told him he had not been the only one watching. A young lady gazed out, and even from a distance Chaloner could see she was troubled. He was aware of her eyes on him as he resumed his walk, and, on an impulse, he waved – the furtive exodus said the Crown’s patrons were keen to maintain a low profile, and his gesture would tell her that she needed to be more careful if she intended to spy.

  He was somewhat disconcerted when she waved back, and a beaming smile transformed her into something quite lovely – he had expected her to duck away in alarm. Bemused, he went on his way.


  He was almost at Charing Cross when he heard someone calling his name. The Earl’s Chief Usher was hurrying towards him, waving frantically. Chaloner struggled to keep a straight face. John Dugdale was not built for moving at speed: his arms flapped as though he were trying to fly, and his long legs flailed comically. He was not an attractive specimen, despite the care he took with his appearance. His skeletal frame and round shoulders made even the finest clothes hang badly, and his beautiful full-cut breeches only accentuated the ridiculous skinniness of his calves.

  ‘You heard me shouting,’ he gasped accusingly when he caught up. ‘But you ignored me so I would have farther to run.’

  Chaloner had done nothing of the kind, but there was no point in saying so. Dugdale disliked him for a variety of reasons, the two most important being that he did not consider it right for ex-Parliamentarians to be made ushers, no matter how high the Earl’s regard for their wives; and that Chaloner’s clandestine activities on the Earl’s behalf meant that Dugdale could not control him as he did the other gentlemen under his command.

  ‘Nothing was stolen last night,’ said Chaloner, supposing Dugdale had come for a report on their employer’s bricks. ‘I am not sure Pratt is right to claim they go missing at—’

  ‘I do not want to know,’ snapped Dugdale. ‘Lying in wait for thieves is hardly a suitable pastime for a courtier, and I condemn it most soundly.’

  ‘Shall I tell the Earl that I cannot oblige him tonight because you disapprove, then?’ asked Chaloner, suspecting that if he did, the resulting fireworks would be apocalyptic.

  Dugdale did not deign to acknowledge the remark. Instead, he looked Chaloner up and down with open disdain. ‘Decency dictates that you should change before setting foot in his presence, but he says he needs you urgently, so there is no time. He will have to endure you as you are. Just make sure you do not put your filthy feet on his new Turkey carpets.’

  The church bells were chiming eight o’clock as Chaloner and Dugdale reached Charing Cross. The square was a chaos of carts and carriages, most containing goods that were to be sold in the city’s markets or ferrying merchants to their places of business, but others held bleary-eyed revellers, making their way home after a riotous night out.

  The noise was deafening, with iron-clad cartwheels rattling across cobblestones, animals lowing, bleating and honking as they were driven to the slaughterhouses, and street vendors advertising wares at the tops of their voices. The smell was breathtaking, too, a nose-searing combination of sewage, fish and unwashed bodies, all overlain with the acrid stench of coal fires. Chaloner coughed. He rarely noticed London’s noxious atmosphere when he was in it, but a spell in the cleaner air around Piccadilly always reminded him that his country’s capital was a foul place to be.

  He started to turn towards White Hall, where the Earl had been provided with a suite of offices overlooking the Privy Gardens – Clarendon worked hard, and was at his desk hours before most other courtiers were astir – but Dugdale steered him towards The Strand instead.

  ‘He is at home today,’ he explained shortly. ‘Gout.’

  Chaloner groaned. The Earl was not pleasant when he was well, but when he was ill he became an implacable tyrant, and the fact that Chaloner had been summoned to his presence did not augur well. He racked his brains for something he had done wrong, but nothing came to mind – he had spent the past week investigating the stolen bricks, so had had scant opportunity to err. Unfortunately, the Earl was easily annoyed, so any small thing might have upset him.

  ‘I imagine he wants you to tell him about Tangier,’ predicted Dugdale. ‘You have barely spoken to him since you returned, so you cannot blame him for becoming impatient.’

  Chaloner regarded him askance. He had written a lengthy report about his findings, and had offered a verbal account on several occasions, but had been given short shrift each time, leading him to assume that the Earl was no longer interested in knowing why Tangier was costing the government so much money. It would not be prudent to say so to Dugdale, though, who would almost certainly repeat it out of context, so he held his tongue.

  ‘You have not told me, either,’ said Dugdale coldly. ‘And I am your superior.’

  Manfully, Chaloner suppressed the urge to argue, heartily wishing that Dugdale’s kindly, genial predecessor had not retired. It had been a shock to find a new chief usher in place on his return, especially one who was determined to subdue the people under his command by bullying. Dugdale sensed his resentment, and his expression hardened.

  ‘It is my duty to keep our master’s household respectable, so there will be no more of this running about on your own. You will keep me appraised of your every move.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Chaloner, with no intention of complying. He had worked alone for years, confiding in no one, and was not about to change the habits that had kept him alive for so long.

  ‘Then tell me about Tangier,’ instructed Dugdale. ‘Why is it costing us so much in taxes?’

  Chaloner might have replied that he had never seen a place so steeped in corruption, and that for every penny spent on the new defences, another ten were siphoned off by dishonest officials – from the governor down to the lowliest clerk. But Dugdale gossiped, and Chaloner did not want to be responsible for a rumour that said the King made mistakes in his choice of bureaucrats.

  ‘It is under constant attack from Barbary pirates,’ he said instead. ‘In order to repel them, the settlement needs a sea wall and a fortress. Naturally, these are expensive to build.’

  Dugdale narrowed his eyes. ‘The Earl said you were involved in several skirmishes there. Such activities are beneath a gentleman usher, and I forbid you to engage in them again.’

  ‘There is nothing I would like more,’ said Chaloner fervently. The civil wars that had erupted when he was a child, followed by twelve years in espionage when they were over, made him feel as though he had been fighting all his life, and he was tired of it. ‘However, it is not always practical to—’

  ‘Then make it practical. You are said to be blessed with sharp wits, so use them instead of a sword. But tell me more about Tangier. Who is to blame for these escalating costs? The new governor, Sir Tobias Bridge? His was not a sensible appointment.’

  Bridge had taken over the running of the desolate little outpost after Lord Teviot’s brutal death.

  ‘No?’ Chaloner seized the opportunity to sidetrack the discussion. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he fought for Parliament during the wars, so he is by definition devious and wicked. No one who supported Cromwell can be considered as anything else.’

  It was Dugdale’s way of telling Chaloner – yet again – what he thought of his former allegiances. Fortunately, there was a flurry of excited yells from the opposite side of the street at that moment, and Chaloner’s dubious history was promptly forgotten.

  ‘A swordfight,’ said Dugdale, with rank disapproval. ‘I see one of the combatants is James Elliot. He works for Spymaster Williamson.’

  Williamson ran the country’s intelligence network, and Chaloner had expected to continue serving overseas under him when the Royalists had been returned to power – the King needed information on foreign enemies just as much as Cromwell had. But all the old spies had been dismissed, and long-term Royalists appointed in their place. Even so, Chaloner harboured a faint hope that Williamson would see sense one day, and send him to Holland, France or Spain.

  ‘Elliot’s opponent is John Cave,’ he said, recognising the singer who had sailed from Tangier with him on Eagle. ‘A tenor from the Chapel Royal.’

  It was odd that he should see so many fellow passengers – Harley, Newell, Reyner and Cave – within an hour of each other, especially as he had not set eyes on any since disembarking the week before. But London was like that – the biggest city in Europe on the one hand, with a population of some three hundred thousand souls, but a village on the other, in which residents frequently met friends and family just by strolling along its
thoroughfares.

  Dugdale shot Chaloner another distaste-filled glance. ‘I cannot imagine how you come to be acquainted with Court musicians. The Earl tells me that you have spent virtually your entire adult life in foreign countries, and that you know nothing of London.’

  Chaloner was the first to admit that his knowledge of the capital was lacking – and it was unlikely to improve if the Earl kept sending him to places like Tangier, either – but it was not for Dugdale to remark on it. He scowled, but the Chief Usher was not looking at him.

  ‘You had better intervene,’ Dugdale was saying. ‘Elliot will kill Cave, and we cannot have members of Court skewered on public highways.’

  It was anathema for a spy to put himself in a position where he would be noticed, and the altercation had already attracted a sizeable gathering. Moreover, although Chaloner had accompanied Cave’s singing for hours aboard Eagle, their association had been confined solely to music: they had not been friends in any sense of the word, and he was not sure Cave would appreciate the interference.

  ‘You just ordered me not to take up arms again,’ he hedged. ‘And—’

  ‘Do not be insolent! Now disarm Elliot, or shall I tell the Earl that you stood by and did nothing while a fellow courtier was murdered?’

  Aware that Dugdale might well do what he threatened, Chaloner moved forward. The argument was taking place outside the New Exchange, a large, grand building with a mock-gothic façade. It comprised two floors of expensive shops, and a piazza where merchants met to discuss trade. It was always busy, and most of those watching the quarrel were wealthy men of business.

  As he approached, Chaloner thought that Elliot looked exactly like the kind of fellow who would appeal to Williamson – the Spymaster had yet to learn that there was more to espionage than being handy in a brawl. Elliot was well-dressed and wore a fine wig made from unusually black hair, but his pugilistic demeanour and the scars on his meaty fists exposed him as a lout. By contrast, Cave was smaller, and held his fancy ‘town sword’ as if it had never been out of its scabbard – and now that it was, he was not entirely sure what to do with it.