The Piccadilly Plot (4 page)

Elliot approached reluctantly. He knelt when Cave started to speak, but the singer’s words were inaudible, and he was obliged
to lean closer. Cave’s arm jerked suddenly, and Elliot bellowed in pain. When Elliot recoiled, there was a dagger protruding
from his stomach. Chaloner stared at Cave in disbelief, and did not think he had ever seen an expression of such black malice
on the face of a dying man.

Groaning, Elliot struggled to his feet, hauling out the blade as he did so. It slipped from his fingers to clatter on the
cobbles. He lurched towards Lester, who escorted him away. No one made any attempt to stop them.

‘Well,’ murmured Dugdale, arms folded. ‘I suppose that was a neat end to this insalubrious affair. The King’s singer is speared,
but at least his killer did not escape unscathed.’

‘Is Elliot dead?’ asked Cave weakly. ‘Did I kill him?’

‘Almost certainly,’ replied Dugdale, prodding the dropped dagger with the toe of his elegant shoe. It was stained red to the
hilt.

‘Good,’ breathed Cave. Then his head lolled suddenly, and the breath hissed out of him.

Chaloner sat back on his heels, overwhelmed by the stupidity of it all.

As it would not be right to leave Cave in the street, Chaloner paid a carter to transport the body to the Westminster charnel
house. He had no idea whether corpses from The Strand would be welcome there, but he was not sure where else to take it. Dugdale
was right in that much of London was still a mystery to him, and while he knew exactly how to dispose of cadavers in Amsterdam,
The Hague, Paris, Lisbon, Bruxelles, Hamburg, Venice, Madrid and several other major cities, he was not sure what to do with
one in his own country.

‘We had better make sure the charnel-house keeper will accept him,’ he said to Dugdale after the cart and its grim cargo had
rattled away. ‘As you pointed out, Cave held a royal appointment, so it is our duty to see him treated with respect.’

‘I am not setting foot in a place like that,’ declared Dugdale with a fastidious shudder. ‘You go. I shall return to the Earl,
and inform him that you are unavoidably delayed. He will be irked to be kept waiting, but I shall do my best to mollify him.’

Chaloner suspected he would do nothing of the kind, and that the opportunity would be used to blacken his name. But it could
not be helped – common decency dictated that he should ensure Cave’s body was properly looked after, and that was that.

The Westminster charnel house was located in a narrow lane near the Thames, between a granary and a warehouse where coal was
stored. It was an unprepossessing place, in a particularly dingy area. By the time Chaloner
arrived Cave had been delivered, and the cart and its driver had gone so the lane was deserted and eerily quiet. He opened
the door with some reluctance, grimacing at the damp chilliness and stench of decay that immediately wafted out at him.

The charnel house comprised a mortuary at the back, with two handsomely appointed chambers at the front where the owner went
through the formalities of death with the bereaved. John Kersey had made a fortune from dealing with the dead, partly by offering
guided tours to wealthy ghouls, but also from the small museum he had established to display some of the more unusual artefacts
he had collected over the years. He was a neat, dapper little man, whose elegant clothes were made by bespoke tailors. He
did not, as Chaloner had first assumed, deck himself out in items reclaimed from corpses.

That morning, he was entertaining a friend, and Chaloner’s heart sank when he recognised the loudly ebullient tones of Richard
Wiseman, Surgeon to the King. Kersey kept Wiseman supplied with specimens, some of which were dissected publicly at Chyrurgeons’
Hall. It was a grisly business, and may have explained why Wiseman always chose to wear red. Coupled with the fact that he
possessed a head of thick auburn curls, and was a large man with an immensely powerful physique, he made for an imposing figure.
He considered himself Chaloner’s friend, but although the spy respected Wiseman’s courage and honesty, he found it difficult
to like a man who was so disagreeably arrogant.

‘Good morning,’ said Kersey with a pleasant smile. ‘What can we do for you today?’

‘The body that just arrived,’ began Chaloner. ‘It is—’

‘Toted in like a sack of onions,’ interrupted Kersey disapprovingly. ‘By a grubby carter from The Strand. Do folk have no
sense of decorum?’

Chaloner wondered how he could ask such a question when he let some of his charges go to a far worse fate than being lugged
along a hall. Wiseman guessed what he was thinking.

‘I perform anatomies in the name of science,’ he declared loftily. ‘However, I shall leave that particular cadaver alone,
because it is John Cave, one of the Chapel Royal musicians.’

‘Do you not dissect musicians, then?’ asked Chaloner, a little acidly.

‘Not ones with Court appointments. The King attends my Public Anatomies, and I cannot imagine him wanting to watch one where
he is acquainted with the subject.’

Chaloner was not so sure about that: the King liked to think of himself as a scientist. He turned to Kersey. ‘I arranged for
Cave to be brought here. I did not know where else to suggest.’

‘You did the right thing,’ said Kersey kindly. ‘Do not worry: I shall look after him.’

Chaloner nodded his thanks. His journey had been unnecessary: he should have remembered that Kersey was solicitous of his
charges, especially the important or famous ones.

‘You will have to contact the Chapel Royal choir and ask his colleagues to arrange a funeral, Kersey,’ said Wiseman helpfully.
‘As far as I am aware, he had no family.’

But Kersey was looking at Chaloner, doing so rather uneasily. ‘There was an awful lot of blood.
You
did not kill him, did you? If so, I hope you are not expecting
me to disguise the fact, because I do not engage in that sort of activity. Well, not without a very good reason.’

‘He died in a brawl,’ objected Chaloner, offended. ‘I had nothing to do with it.’

‘You have no right to sound indignant,’ said Kersey. ‘Given that you have been associated with so many premature deaths in
the past. Indeed, there have been times when my domain has contained nothing
but
folk who have arrived here as a result of your investigations.’

‘But not today.’ Chaloner felt the accusation was unjust. It was hardly his fault that the Earl was in the habit of ordering
him to explore dangerous matters.

‘You have only been home a week, but you are already embroiled in something deadly,’ scolded Wiseman. ‘And it is doing you
no good. You glowed with health and vitality when you first returned, but now you are pale and mangy.’

Chaloner was disinclined to tell him how he had been spending his nights. He did not have the energy to deal with the inevitable
indignation that would arise when Wiseman learned that the Earl, a man he admired for some inexplicable reason, was being
relieved of the bricks and wood intended for his house.

‘I should go,’ he said instead. ‘Clarendon is expecting me.’

Kersey was surprised. ‘Do you not want to see Cave? I covered him with a nice clean cloth.’

Chaloner shook his head and made for the door, keen to answer the Earl’s summons before the delay saw him in too much trouble.
Wiseman and Kersey followed.

‘I am sorry Cave is dead,’ said the surgeon. ‘He had
a lovely voice, and everyone was delighted when he returned from Tangier to rejoin the Chapel Royal choir. Henry O’Brien
will be especially distressed – since Cave returned, he has refused to sing duets with anyone else.’

‘Who is Henry O’Brien?’ asked Chaloner.

Wiseman regarded him as though he were short of a few wits. ‘He is married to Kitty.’

‘Oh.’ Chaloner was none the wiser. ‘Say no more.’

Wiseman scowled. ‘There is no need to be acerbic. O’Brien is an Irish baron who came to London to sell copper from his estates.
Even he is astonished by how rich it has made him. His wife Kitty is …’ The surgeon made an expansive gesture with his hand.

‘Beautiful, clever and distantly related to the King,’ supplied Kersey. ‘Every man in London longs to be in her company, but
she already has a lover.’

‘She does not!’ declared Wiseman. ‘She is a decent lady – upright, honourable and kind.’

‘Those qualities do not preclude her from taking a lover,’ argued Kersey. He turned to Chaloner. ‘Suffice to say that O’Brien’s
wealth and Kitty’s beauty means that people are keen to fête them, and soirées are always being held in their honour. He will
be grieved when he hears his singing partner is dead. Who killed him, did you say?’

‘A man named James Elliot,’ replied Chaloner. ‘He is one of Williamson’s spies, apparently.’

Wiseman pulled a face to indicate his distaste. ‘Elliot is married to a sweet girl named Ruth, and she will be heartbroken
when he is hanged for murdering a courtier. But she will be better off without him in the long run. He is a greedy, unscrupulous
devil.’

‘He may not live long enough to hang,’ said Chaloner soberly. ‘Cave stabbed him.’

‘We can but hope,’ said Wiseman ruthlessly.

The clocks were striking ten by the time Chaloner left the charnel house. Wiseman walked with him, chatting about all that
had happened during the time the spy had been away. Chaloner listened, not because he liked gossip, but because Dugdale’s
remarks about him being poorly versed in London’s affairs had reminded him that he needed to rectify the matter – only foolish
spies did not take the time to acquaint themselves with the society in which they were obliged to move.

‘O’Brien and Kitty are the King’s current favourites,’ Wiseman was saying, jostling a beefy soldier out of his way. The surgeon
had always been large, but he had made himself even more powerful by a regime of lifting heavy stones each morning. He claimed
it was to improve his general well-being, but the practice had given him the arms and shoulders of a wrestler, and meant prudent
people were inclined to overlook any insults he might dole out, physical or verbal. Hence the soldier bristled at the rough
treatment, but made no other response.

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Because they are wealthy, or because she is pretty?’

‘Have a care!’ Wiseman glanced around uneasily. ‘There is no need to announce to everyone that our King is an unscrupulous
womaniser with a voracious appetite for his subjects’ money.’

‘Your words, not mine,’ said Chaloner, supposing His Majesty must have reached new depths of depravity, if even a loyal follower
like Wiseman voiced reservations about his character.

‘Still, at least O’Brien and Kitty are not Adventurers. And as I am sure you have no idea what I am talking about, let me
explain. It means they are not members of that shameful organisation of gold-grabbing nobles commonly called the Company of
Royal Adventurers Trading into Africa.’

‘I have heard of it,’ said Chaloner drily. ‘In case you did not know, Tangier is in Africa, and the place was full of talk
about the Adventurers.’

‘What talk?’ asked Wiseman curiously.

‘Mostly that their charter forbids other Britons from buying or selling goods that originate in Africa. They have secured
themselves a monopoly on gold, silver, hides, feathers, ivory, slaves—’

Wiseman’s expression turned fierce. ‘Slaves?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘The Portuguese used to dominate that particular trade – most of their “cargos” go to the sugar plantations
in Brazil. But the Portuguese are no longer quite so powerful at sea, and the Dutch now control the best routes.’

‘Do they, by God?’ growled Wiseman. Britain was on the verge of war with the Dutch, so even mentioning them was likely to
provoke a hostile response from most Londoners.

‘It is a lucrative business,’ Chaloner went on. ‘And the British merchants in Tangier itch to join in. But the Adventurers’
charter means they cannot.’

‘I do not approve of the slave trade,’ declared Wiseman hotly.

‘No decent person does.’

Wiseman brightened. ‘I read in
The Newes
a week ago that a slaving ship named
Henrietta Maria
sank mysteriously in Tangier harbour. It went down before it could
be loaded, and the delay allowed many captives to escape.’ He stared at Chaloner. ‘It happened when you were there. Did
you
…’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

Wiseman clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I might have known! The loss set the Adventurers back a pretty penny, too! They had
invested a fortune in fitting it out for transporting humans.’

‘It will make no difference in the end,’ said Chaloner despondently. ‘They will just build another. And another and another,
until the sea is full of the damned things.’

‘You and I are not the only ones to be repelled. Others will make a stand, and the business will founder. You will see.’

Chaloner said nothing, but thought Wiseman’s optimism was sadly misplaced. People probably
would
be appalled by the barbaric way sugar was produced on the plantations, but they would buy the stuff anyway, and that would
create a market. The ethics of the matter would be swept under the carpet and quietly forgotten.

Wiseman changed the subject. ‘I cannot say I like Roger Pratt the architect, by the way. I am beginning to think you were
right when you said Clarendon House will bring our Earl trouble.’

‘What made you change your mind?’ asked Chaloner, surprised. Wiseman was one of those who firmly believed that Clarendon had
every right to an extravagant mansion.

‘Pratt himself. He is arrogant and thinks himself some kind of god. I cannot bear such people.’

Chaloner smothered a smile, thinking the description applied rather well to Wiseman himself.

*     *     *

The Earl lived in a rambling Tudor palace onThe Strand, which he had never liked and that he complained about constantly.
Indeed, Chaloner suspected that Worcester House’s poky rooms and leaking ceilings were largely responsible for his master’s
wild extravagance over his new home.