The Piccadilly Plot

Book 7: Adventures of Thomas Chaloner

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Mystery; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Thomas Chaloner is relieved to be summoned back to London. He will be glad to be home, to be reunited with his new wife, but the trivial reason for his recall exasperates him – the theft of material from the construction site of his master, the Earl of Clarendon's embarrassingly sumptuous new house just north of Piccadilly. Within hours of his return, Chaloner considers these thefts even more paltry as he is thrust into extra investigations involving threats of assassination, a stolen corpse and a scheme to frame the Queen for treason. Yet there are connections from them all which thread through the unfinished Clarendon House…

Release date: January 19, 2012

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 490

Sample

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 comprised 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.’

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.


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 t