The Piccadilly Plot (43 page)

‘Has he mentioned any plans for tomorrow?’ asked Chaloner, declining to inform him that
Jane
was coming from Tangier, not New England, and that any profit would not be derived from fine glassware. ‘Anything might help.
Even where he intends to eat his breakfast.’

Lydcott shook his head. ‘He is a private man, and keeps his personal life to himself. But I had better not spend any longer
lurking behind a statue – I do not want folk to think me odd. Good day, Chaloner. Give my regards to Thurloe when you see
him.’

He sauntered away, whistling, and Chaloner turned his attention to Pratt, Oliver and Meneses. He needed to speak to Meneses
anyway, so he abandoned his hiding place and walked to where the architect and his assistant were speaking ever more loudly
in an effort to make Meneses understand them, clearly of the opinion that all foreigners would comprehend English if it was
bellowed at sufficiently high volume.

‘I have heard that Lisbon is very nice,’ Oliver was yelling. The finery he had donned for the occasion had turned green with
age, which did nothing to dispel the aura of mournful shabbiness that hung about him. Moreover, he had stuffed his pockets
with pens and papers, which made him oddly bulky around the hips. ‘It is by the sea, I believe.’

Meneses shook his head blankly, although the gleam in his eyes indicated he was enjoying himself at the Englishmen’s expense.

‘Perhaps you can help us, Chaloner,’ said Pratt. He
looked pained as he lowered his voice. ‘I have been charged to entertain this fellow, but he does not understand a word we
are saying.’

‘Ask whether he enjoyed himself at Temperance North’s brothel the other night,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Perhaps that will remind
him that he can speak perfectly good English when he wants.’

‘Can he?’ asked Pratt doubtfully, as a flash of irritation crossed Meneses’ face. ‘I have never seen evidence of it – he always
looks confused at Piccadilly Company meetings, too. But the Earl tells me you have a talent with languages, so you speak to
him.’

‘We meet again,’ said Chaloner in Portuguese, while Meneses scowled.

‘Oh, dear,’ muttered Pratt. ‘You seem to have vexed him. Say something nice – such as that his coat is very becoming.’

‘You are a liar, Meneses,’ said Chaloner, still in Portuguese. ‘You told me you had never been to Tangier, but you were its
governor. Dismissed for corruption, so I am told.’

Meneses was furious. ‘I resigned because it suited me, and the missing money was coincidental. Now go away. I am not obliged
to tell you my business.’

‘What business? Sharing Piccadilly Company details with the Adventurers? You are playing a dangerous game, because men from
both sides have died—’

‘And you will be next, if you continue in this vein,’ snarled Meneses.

‘He does not seem very happy talking about his coat,’ breathed Oliver in Chaloner’s ear. ‘Discuss London’s weather instead.’

‘You realise that Fitzgerald knows what you have done,
do you not?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Pratt has been ordered to mind you, almost certainly to keep you here until an accident can
be arranged. Like Turner, Lucas, Proby, Congett and God knows how many more.’

‘Now you have frightened him,’ whispered Pratt. ‘What did you say? That it rains all the time?’

‘What do you want from me?’ demanded Meneses, not bothering to deny the charge.

‘Tell him we have lovely summers,’ suggested Oliver. ‘Well, I remember a lovely one once.’

‘I know why you came,’ said Chaloner. ‘You still have connections in Tangier – the dubious kind. You have been helping the
Piccadilly Company trade there, even though it is illegal under the Adventurers’ charter. But because you are a greedy man,
you decided to hedge your bets and throw in your lot with the Adventurers, too.’

‘It was expedient,’ said Meneses stiffly. ‘Neither organisation is competent, and it was difficult to decide which was the
better option. So I elected to support both. And everyone should be pleased with what I have done for the Piccadilly Company
– my reports have given them an edge over the Dutch, a country with which England will soon be at war.’

‘You are in a desperate fix, Meneses,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘Fitzgerald will kill you for betraying him, and Leighton will
not protect you now your usefulness to him is over. Moreover, Spymaster Williamson does not take kindly to men who try to
harm our Queen.’

Meneses gazed at him. ‘I had nothing to do with planting those documents in her purses. I—’

‘Very few people know where those letters were found,’ pounced Chaloner. ‘Your own words have condemned
you. How did you do it? Men are not supposed to have access to her wardrobe.’

Meneses swallowed hard. ‘Captain Appleby is a conscientious guard. He would stop anyone from entering the Blue Dressing Room,
so I cannot be guilty of what you accuse me.’

‘You have just damned yourself a second time – only Her Majesty’s servants should know the name of that particular chamber.
And Appleby guards the entrance to her apartments, but anyone can roam around once he is inside. However, I will not stop
you, if you want to escape.’

Meneses was wary. ‘In return for what?’

‘The name of the Piccadilly Company’s master,’ replied Chaloner. ‘And do not say Fitzgerald.’

Meneses was alarmed. ‘But I do not know it – I know virtually no one’s name. Why do you think I turned to the Adventurers?
Because I am mistrustful of men who decline to show me their faces.’

Chaloner suspected he was telling the truth, because he had seen the members’ penchant for disguise himself. ‘Then tell me
about the gravel
Jane
will bring to London tomorrow.’

‘It will make us very wealthy, and it is coming from Africa. And do not ask why grit should turn us all into nabobs, because
they did not share that particular detail with me.’

Chaloner was beginning to be exasperated. ‘If you cannot tell me why someone wants the Queen blamed for plotting to murder
Pratt, I am taking you to Spymaster Williamson.’

‘What are you saying about me?’ asked Pratt immediately. ‘I am not building
him
a mansion, because everyone knows all the money he acquired in Tangier
was confiscated by his government. He is as poor as a church mouse.’

And there was Meneses’ motive for travelling to England and playing such a deadly game, thought Chaloner: poverty. Meneses
regarded Chaloner in alarm.

‘But they did not trust me with that information, either! I was only told to befriend her and leave the letters in places
where she could not deny that she had received them. It was not easy, because she is distrustful of strangers, and it took
me a long time to win her confidence. It was tedious work, because she is a bore, with her convent manners and lack of clever
conversation.’

‘You do not deserve a chance to escape,’ said Chaloner coldly, reaching out to grab his arm. Pratt and Oliver gaped at the
sudden show of force, so he said in English, ‘It is the Portuguese way of saying goodbye. Permanently.’

‘All right!’ squawked Meneses. ‘It is part of a plan to return Tangier to Portugal. If the Queen is accused of plotting to
kill …’ – he glanced uneasily at Pratt – ‘someone, then diplomatic relations will be severed, and Portugal will demand the
dowry back.’

‘Why should anyone here be interested in that outcome?’

‘Because then Tangier will no longer be in the hands of the Adventurers, and
Jane
can trade there again. It was impossible under Teviot, so he was deposed. Governor Bridge is more amenable, but he is greedy
and demands too hefty a slice of the profits. However, if I am reinstated …’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘The
Piccadilly
Company
is behind the plot? But I thought it was the Adventurers – Pratt is one of the Piccadilly Company’s own members …’

Meneses shrugged. ‘That is what anyone inclined to meddle was supposed to think. Our master – whoever he might be – is nothing
if not clever. Do not underestimate him. He will stop at nothing to smash what he sees as an inconvenient monopoly.’

‘At the expense of damaging relations between two friendly countries? Perhaps permanently?’

‘He does not care about Britain, Portugal, the Dutch or anyone else. All he is interested in is making himself rich. At any
cost.’

His mind a whirl of unanswered questions, Chaloner watched Meneses run towards the stables; the man was obviously intending
to make his escape before his interrogator changed his mind.

‘Damn it, Chaloner,’ snapped Pratt. ‘I said to entertain him, not drive him away.’

‘We were discussing the plot to kill you tomorrow,’ said Chaloner, turning his gaze on the architect.

A flash of alarm crossed Pratt’s face, but it was only fleeting, and then he looked smug. ‘The news is all over London, and
has made me England’s most celebrated artisan.’

‘
I
should not like to be threatened with death,’ said Oliver, his expressive face full of gloomy foreboding. ‘I know you say
your friends will protect you, but what if they prove unequal to the task? I would rather be a nonentity and alive, than dead
and famous.’

‘That is because you lack greatness,’ declared Pratt haughtily. ‘Unlike me, who is awash with it. But I had better stop Meneses,
or Fitzgerald will be cross.’

He hurried away, and Chaloner looked around for Thurloe. The ex-Spymaster was nowhere to be seen, and
rather than waste time hunting for him – it was nearing the time when he was to meet Lester – Chaloner asked Oliver if he
had a pen and paper.

‘I do, as a matter of fact,’ replied Oliver, rummaging in his bulging pockets. ‘Mr Pratt has architectural inspirations at
peculiar times, so I always have writing paraphernalia to hand – he gets vexed if his flashes of genius are forgotten for
the want of a scrap of paper. But how is your enquiry into the missing bricks? Have you solved the mystery yet?’

Chaloner shook his head, and indicated Oliver should turn, so he could use his back as a desk. Employing a cipher known only
to him and Thurloe, he quickly outlined all he had learned and asked the ex-Spymaster to pass whatever he deemed appropriate
to Williamson. He concluded by saying that he would visit him at three o’clock the next morning in Lincoln’s Inn, sure that
would give him ample time to complete everything he needed to do first. As he worked, a small pink nose poked from under Oliver’s
collar. He jumped in alarm.

‘Christ! Is that a rat?’

Oliver’s mournful eyes were reproachful. ‘It is my ferret – I have mentioned him to you before. He was unwell this morning,
so I brought him with me.’

He glanced around furtively before pulling the animal from his coat and affectionately stroking its silky fur. It was a pretty
creature, but hardly something that should have attended a diplomatic reception. While he petted it, Oliver continued to pontificate
on the Earl’s supplies.

‘Personally, I think he is making a fuss over nothing. All wealthy people should expect to lose a few bricks on occasion.
It is the way builders work.’

‘Do you have a list of what has gone missing so far?’

Oliver rummaged again. ‘Yes – the Earl is in the habit of asking for it.’

‘Did you write it yourself?’ asked Chaloner, scanning the neat figures before passing it back. The losses were heavier than
he had thought, and he did not blame the Earl for objecting.

‘Hyde did. He started to keep a tally at his father’s request.’

‘How will you spend the rest of your evening?’ asked Chaloner conversationally, going back to his note to Thurloe.

‘At home with my ferret,’ replied Oliver glumly. ‘Unless you happen to know any nice young ladies who might keep a lonely
Westminster man company? In fact, I had better go now – he is getting restless, and I should not like him to escape. Someone
might keep him.’

Chaloner was thoughtful as he and Oliver parted, aware that he now had more than enough clues to solve one of his mysteries.
He walked towards the gate, where a number of black servants had assembled. George was among them, taller than most by a head,
and a sullen, looming presence that inhibited the friendly chatter that would normally have characterised such a gathering.
Chaloner beckoned him out, noting the relieved glances that were immediately exchanged. George was as unpopular there as he
was in Tothill Street.

‘I want you to deliver this note to a choleric minister who wears an orange wig,’ said Chaloner, passing it to him. ‘He should
be here somewhere, so there is no need to leave White Hall.’

‘Good,’ said George. ‘Because I have just heard that there is to be dancing in the Banqueting House later.
And there is nothing so entertaining as watching white men dance.’

‘Really,’ said Chaloner coolly. ‘And how do you do it?’

‘With passion. And colour and noise.’

‘Well, do not do it here. Hannah might not like it, especially if you invite Joan to take the floor with you.’

Amusement gleamed briefly in George’s eyes at the notion. ‘When I was on
Jane
—’ He stopped suddenly, disgusted at the inadvertent slip.

‘
Jane
?’ asked Chaloner mildly. ‘You told me you had never heard of her.’

George shrugged and looked away. ‘I was mistaken. She is not a memorable ship.’

‘And what about the gravel she carried? Is that forgettable, too? What is it? Another word for diamonds? Or perhaps for some
exotic spice? Or sugar from the plantations?’

‘It is
gravel
,’ replied George sullenly. ‘Stones and dirt.’

‘Fitzgerald may well have transported gravel
to
Tangier,’ acknowledged Chaloner. ‘The mole will need a lot of it. But what did he transport
out
?’

‘You will have to ask him. Although I would not recommend it. He has a temper.’

‘So do I,’ said Chaloner shortly. ‘And it is beginning to fray with you. You cannot have sailed with Fitzgerald and not known
what he carried in his holds. You are neither blind nor stupid.’

‘No,’ agreed George. ‘But I did not choose to pry.’