The Piccadilly Plot (14 page)

‘I do not like them,’ she declared. ‘James said he will stop them from coming, but he forgets.’

‘What do they do?’

‘They talk,’ replied Ruth, pouting. ‘They discuss gravel.’

‘Gravel?’ echoed Chaloner warily.

‘I do not like gravel. I fell over in some once, and it hurt my knee. Look.’

She whipped up her skirts and showed Chaloner a minute scar. Gently, he pulled them down again, hoping she would not do the
same to Brinkes, because the leg was shapely.

‘Who are the people you watch? Do you know their names?’

‘Oh, yes! Mr Fitzgerald the pirate. And Mr Jones with the red ribbons. And Mr Harley. And Mr Reyner. And Mr Newell.’ She sang
the names rather oddly.

‘What about the others?’

Ruth shook her head and shrank away from him, her expression darkening. ‘They frighten me, and my brother told me that they
killed James’s dog. But I do not believe that people would kill dogs – it must have run away. Have you seen it?’

‘Do not look out of the window any more,’ advised Chaloner, standing up. ‘These people will not like being monitored.’

‘But James told me to do it,’ said Ruth, wide-eyed. ‘He told me it was important.’

Chaloner was disgusted that Elliot should have encouraged such a dangerous habit, and wondered what he had been thinking.
He took his leave, first ensuring that she locked the door after him, then exited the Crown by its back door, to avoid Brinkes,
who was lurking at the front one.

Once outside, he aimed for the Gaming House. It was far earlier than the appointed ten o’clock, but he wanted to watch Reyner
arrive, to ensure he was alone. He fingered the papers he had forged earlier, which he hoped would be convincing enough to
persuade Reyner that a pardon and two hundred pounds would be his in exchange for information. He felt no guilt over the deception:
anyone complicit in the deaths of Teviot’s garrison – and considered them ‘replaceable’ – deserved no better.

Because it was a cold night, the grounds were deserted. Moving silently, Chaloner made his way to the line of
trees that divided the bowling green from the formal gardens, intending to use them as cover while he awaited Reyner’s arrival.

He was almost there when he saw a dark shape lying in one of the rose beds. Abandoning all efforts at stealth, because he
knew it no longer mattered, he ran towards it. He reached the inert form and felt for a life-beat, not surprised when there
was none. He rolled the body over. Reyner’s throat had been cut.

A brief search of the grounds revealed that Reyner’s killer had long gone, so Chaloner returned to stare at the body, disgusted
with himself for not pressing the scout to talk earlier. He wondered how he was going to find out what had happened to Teviot
now, because Harley and Newell would be far more difficult to crack. He sighed, supposing he would have to pursue the charade
of the fictitious official inquiry.

Unwilling to answer the questions that would arise from informing the Gaming House owner that there was a corpse among his
roses, Chaloner left, assuming the body would be found the following morning. He was wrong.

He had taken only a few steps along the Haymarket, eager now for home and bed, when there was a shrill shriek, followed by
a lot of shouting. Because it would have looked suspicious to continue walking in the opposite direction, he joined the throng
that poured into the garden. The alarm had been raised by a serving maid who had gone for a tryst with a card player, and
had been distressed to find her favourite flower bed occupied by a cadaver.

By the time Chaloner arrived, torches had been lit,
allowing the full extent of Reyner’s injury to be seen. Whoever had cut his throat had used enough force almost to sever
his head from his body. It was a vicious attack, and Chaloner wondered who had done it. Harley or Newell, because they knew
their comrade was about to betray them? Or Brinkes?

The two scouts were among the crowd. The faces of both were white, and Newell was leaning heavily on Harley’s shoulder. Chaloner
eased back into the shadows, reluctant for them to see him, lest they assumed he was responsible. They did not linger long,
though, and slouched away when the spectators began to reveal what they knew of the victim.

‘His name is Reyner, and he lives in that shabby old Feathers tavern,’ the serving wench was saying. She added rather sneeringly,
‘With his mother.’

Chaloner brightened. Perhaps Reyner’s dam would know what her son had embroiled himself in. He loitered a while longer, hoping
to learn more by listening to the excited speculations, but it soon became clear that no one knew anything useful. He left
and aimed for the decrepit Feathers, arriving to see lamps lit: Mrs Reyner already had visitors. He crouched down outside
and pretended to fiddle with the buckle on his shoe, pleased when he heard the discussion within emanating through several
conveniently cracked and broken windows.

‘Reyner was a good man,’ Newell was saying, his voice tight with fury. ‘We will hunt down who killed him, and slit
his
throat.’

‘Thank you kindly.’ Mrs Reyner’s voice was slurred, but Chaloner did not think it was from shock at the news she had just
received. ‘Pour me another drink, will you? My nerves are all aquiver.’

‘It was Chaloner,’ said Harley softly. ‘It is too much of a coincidence that he should start asking questions about Teviot,
and within hours Reyner is dead. He must have thought Reyner was a soft touch and slit his throat when he discovered otherwise.’

‘Chaloner wants to gain our favour, not kill us,’ argued Newell. ‘He is not the culprit. And it cannot be anyone from the
Piccadilly Company, so that only leaves one set of suspects: our old adversaries. They killed Reyner because of what happened
to Proby.’

‘You may be right,’ conceded Harley. ‘They certainly hate us.’

‘They do,’ said Newell tightly. ‘And when I find out which of them was responsible, I will kill him. I swear it on Reyner’s
soul.’

At that point Mrs Reyner knocked over her cup, and there was a fuss as the mess was mopped up. Chaloner frowned his confusion.
The only Proby he knew was the Adventurer who had recently jumped from the roof of St Paul’s Cathedral. Was Newell referring
to him? But why would he be an enemy of the Piccadilly Company? And who were the ‘old adversaries’?

He continued to listen, but the scouts and Reyner’s mother had repositioned themselves after the spillage and he could no
longer hear them clearly. As there was only so long he could pretend to be adjusting his shoe, he stood and began to walk
home. He would have to interview Mrs Reyner the following day, when she was alone.

He was relieved that Newell had convinced Harley of his innocence, because it would have been inconvenient to dodge murderous
attacks when he had so much else to do. But Reyner’s death was a blow, and he could not
escape the feeling that it was his fault. He turned south when he reached Charing Cross, but it had been a frustratingly
trying day, and he felt the need to be alone, away from the inquisitive stares of the servants in Tothill Street. He retraced
his steps, intending to sleep at Long Acre instead.

Long Acre had once been a fashionable part of the city, with residents that included Oliver Cromwell and the poet John Dryden,
but standards had slipped since the Restoration. Most of the elegant people had moved to more salubrious lodgings, and the
place was now given over to coach-makers and brothels. It suited Chaloner perfectly. First, it was usually busy, even at night,
which meant he was less likely to be noticed – always an important consideration for a spy. Second, it was convenient for
White Hall. And third, Landlord Lamb only cared about the rent being paid on time, and never asked questions about his tenants’
business.

The house was a four-storey affair with a cellar, and was neither respectable nor notably seedy. The ground floor and rear
garden were occupied by a coach-maker, while the first floor was home to Lamb and his wife. An old Cromwellian major named
John Stokes lived in the rooms above, and Chaloner was right at the top.

The attic comprised three tiny chambers, and had the advantage of being reached by two separate staircases. It was also possible
to climb out of the windows to the roof next door, further reducing his chances of being trapped. There was a bed and a chest
in one chamber; the second was a cosy parlour where he kept his best bass viol; and the third was a cupboard-like pantry.

He was too restless to sleep, so he took his viol and began to play, a sad, lilting melody by Schütz, which
matched his mood. He felt the music begin to calm him, and although he knew he should work on the cipher he had found, he
continued to play until he could barely keep his eyes open. Then he lay on the bed, fully clothed, and fell into a deep, dreamless
sleep.

A loud clatter in the street below woke him the following morning. He was off the bed with his sword in his hand before he
was fully cognisant, but soon learned that the noise was nothing to concern him. Red kites liked to range themselves along
the roof, from where they swooped down to pick juicy morsels from the filth of the road, and one had dislodged a tile. It
had landed on a glazier’s cart, making short work of the finished wares. Needless to say, the glazier was furious, and an
argument ensued when he began to demand compensation from an indignantly defensive Landlord Lamb.

Chaloner ignored the clamouring voices as he fetched water from the butt in the hallway. He washed and shaved, then donned
a heavily laced shirt, breeches with enough ribbon to satisfy even the most particular of critics, and a green long-coat with
buttons to the knees. A white ‘falling band’ – a piece of linen that fell across the chest like a bib – completed the outfit.

He went to White Hall first, to report to the Earl. The dough-faced Sergeant Wright was on duty at the Great Gate, bags under
eyes that were rimmed red with tiredness.

‘Bad night?’ asked Chaloner, as Wright stepped in front of him to prevent him from passing.

Wright spat. ‘Your Earl has a vicious tongue. He refused to pay me for the night before last, just because his bricks went
missing. It meant I had to stay awake all
last night, to make sure it did not happen again. It was damned hard work!’

‘Doing the job you have been paid for can be taxing.’

‘Too right,’ agreed Wright, the irony sailing over his head. ‘I usually find somewhere to snatch a doze, but I did not dare
last night, not after what he said to me. Still, I shall manage a nap later this morning. Have you heard the latest news,
by the way? About the missing Adventurer?’

‘I thought Proby had been found,’ said Chaloner. ‘After he jumped off St Paul’s Cathedral.’

Wright leaned closer, treating Chaloner to a waft of second-hand onions. ‘They are worried about another of their members
now. Mr Grey set out to visit the Hercules’ Pillars Alley brothel last night, but he never arrived.’

‘Perhaps he found somewhere better to take his pleasure along the way.’

‘There is nowhere better.’ The sergeant sighed ruefully. ‘Not that the likes of you and I will ever see it, of course. It
is an exclusive establishment, open only to barons or the extremely wealthy.’

Chaloner did not tell him that he had visited that particular bordello on numerous occasions, because he was friends with
its owner.

‘I suppose I can let you pass,’ said Wright, looking Chaloner up and down critically, although he was deluding himself if
he thought he could stop him. ‘You are almost respectable today.’

Once inside, Chaloner walked across the Great Court towards the Earl’s offices. In the Privy Garden a group of drunken courtiers,
which included the Earl’s debauched kinsman Brodrick, were throwing pebbles at Lady
Castlemaine’s windows, hoping to secure her attention. There was a cheer when she appeared in a dangerously low-cut robe.

‘I am going to tell my father about Cousin Brodrick. His behaviour is disgraceful!’

Chaloner turned to see Hyde standing there, although he could not help but wonder whether the younger man’s disapproval stemmed
from jealousy – the Lady was obviously delighted to flirt with Brodrick, but she had not included Hyde in her sultry salutations.

‘I was hoping to catch you today, Chaloner,’ Hyde went on, reluctantly tearing his attention from the Lady’s generous display
of bosom. ‘I found another letter yesterday. This time it was in the hearth, and you can see it is singed. Obviously, the
Queen tried to burn it but failed to ensure it was done properly.’

Chaloner took it from him and saw the edge was indeed charred. The writing was identical to the previous missive, and confidently
informed the recipient that Pratt would die on St Frideswide’s Day, when the whole Catholic world would rejoice at his demise.
Chaloner handed it back.

‘Let me guess: it was placed at the front of the hearth, where it would be seen. And it happened to be there at a time when
you were the one most likely to notice it.’

‘It was in a prominent position,’ Hyde acknowledged stiffly. ‘And being a man of habit, I always go to the hearth the moment
I arrive at work. But it was
not
put there for me to find. The Queen is dabbling in dark business, and the sooner we dissuade her from such foolishness by
catching her confederates, the sooner she will be safe. Have you unveiled them yet?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But—’

‘Then I suggest you refrain from regaling me with unfounded opinions and do your job,’ interrupted Hyde coldly. His glower
intensified. ‘My father should never have appointed a spy – especially one with Parliamentarian leanings.’

He stalked away before Chaloner could inform him that he no longer had leanings one way or the other, being heartily disillusioned
with both sides.

The new letter was worrying. It suggested that someone was determined to see the Queen in trouble, and that whoever it was
had slipped past Captain Appleby to put his nasty note in a place where he knew it would be discovered by the credulous Hyde.
But there were still seven days before the Feast of St Frideswide, so there was ample time to explore the matter. At least,
Chaloner hoped so.