The Piccadilly Plot (51 page)

‘We must avenge Lester’s sacrifice by laying hold of Fitzgerald and his master. They will not get away with this – we will
not let them.’

‘Fitzgerald escaped by boat,’ said Chaloner numbly. ‘He could be anywhere by now.’

‘Would he go to the Crown?’ asked Swaddell.

‘Too obvious,’ said Thurloe. ‘He is not a fool. Yet I imagine he
will
be with his Piccadilly Company cronies. They will want to gloat over the triumph they think they have won.’

‘If it is of any help, I just saw Pratt leap on a horse and gallop off at a colossal speed,’ said Swaddell. ‘I wondered what
he was doing here, because he is not an Adventurer. However, he
is
a member of the Piccadilly Company …’

‘Fitzgerald summoned him to St Paul’s earlier,’ said Thurloe, bemused. ‘To be murdered.’

‘It was a lie.’ Chaloner was still too stunned by Lester’s death to give details. ‘Lydcott never went to St Paul’s, and Pratt
did not, either. In fact, I think
he
might be Fitzgerald’s master.’

‘Pratt?’ asked Williamson in patent disbelief. ‘What
reason could he have for wanting courtiers dead? He will view them as potential clients.’

‘Besides,’ added Thurloe, more gently, ‘he is the one whose murder was—’

‘There
is
no plot to kill him.’ Chaloner jumped when a dull roar indicated that a stray spark had caught one of the wooden warehouses.
‘There never was – the Piccadilly Company just wanted the Queen accused of it. Pratt was never in any danger, which explains
why he was never very concerned.’

‘Chaloner has a point,’ said Swaddell to Williamson. ‘
I
would not have been happy if
I
had been threatened with death and the likes of Sergeant Wright had been hired to protect me. Yet Pratt was indifferent.
Indeed, I heard him tell people he was flattered by it.’

‘I suppose he might be the master,’ conceded Williamson. ‘He is wealthy enough to finance the Piccadilly Company’s activities.
But we can examine motives later, when he is arrested. The question we should be asking now is: where has he gone?’

There was a sudden yell from Brodrick: flames from the burning warehouse were threatening to spread to its neighbours.

‘Clarendon House,’ said Chaloner, as all became clear. ‘I wondered how he had come to raise the alarm earlier, when Hyde and
I were doing battle with Oliver. I imagine he went there to ensure that all was ready, and found it full of brick-thieves
instead.’

‘To ensure all was ready for what?’ asked Thurloe.

‘To receive the cargo
Jane
brought,’ explained Chaloner. ‘They will need to store it somewhere safe, and Clarendon House has a lockable vault.’

‘What cargo?’ demanded Williamson.

‘Something that was concealed in
Jane
’s consignment of gravel,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Jewels or precious metals from Tangier, perhaps. It will not be bulky – she
could not have coped with that – so I imagine it is no more than a chest or two. Fitzgerald took a risk, though. He has already
lost one fortune on a ship that could not withstand a storm.’

‘He had no choice,’ said Swaddell. ‘
Jane
is the only vessel he has left.’

‘But Clarendon House is too public, surely?’ objected Williamson. ‘It will be full of workmen.’

‘Not in the small hours of the morning, which is when
Jane
arrived.’ Something else became clear to Chaloner, too. ‘Hyde and Oliver denied paying Wright to linger in the Crown tonight,
but someone did. It was not Pratt, because Wright would have told me, so one of the other Piccadilly Company members must
have done it – Fitzgerald or another of his accomplices.’

More shouting drew their attention. A second warehouse was alight, and although people were rallying to douse the flames,
their efforts were disorganised and ineffectual.

‘My instincts scream at me to go to Clarendon House,’ said Williamson, agitated. ‘Yet I cannot leave courtiers to fight this
inferno. I doubt they will contain it, and half the city could be lost.’

‘Stay and do your duty,’ instructed Thurloe. ‘Tom and I will deal with Fitzgerald and Pratt.’

‘I will send help if my men return from Woolwich,’ promised Williamson. ‘In the meantime, take my sword and dagger, Chaloner.
You should not attempt this unarmed.’

*     *     *

Thurloe set off at a run, Chaloner at his heels. A number of private coaches had parked in Thames Street, and loath to miss
any of the excitement, their wealthy Adventurer-owners and their drivers had not fled the scene, but had lingered. Some were
helping with the fire, but most were there as ghoulish spectators, eager to witness first-hand what promised to be a serious
conflagration. With cool aplomb, Thurloe commandeered one of the carriages, and they were soon galloping towards Piccadilly
at a speed that was far from safe when fog meant that neither the driver nor the horses could see where they were going.

Thurloe closed his eyes when he heard what had happened to Lydcott, but opened them to listen without interruption as Chaloner
told him everything he had seen, heard and deduced on
Jane
.

‘I am not sure you are right about Pratt,’ the ex-Spymaster said when he had finished. ‘I know you have good reasons for accusing
him, but I remain unconvinced.’

‘We might have known for certain if you had not forced me to make that ridiculous promise,’ said Chaloner bitterly, clinging
to the carriage’s side as it lurched across a pothole. ‘I could have tackled Fitzgerald and had answers directly.’

‘You would have been dead,’ said Thurloe harshly. ‘He is not in the habit of revealing all to anyone who asks. But never mind
recriminations: we need a plan of attack, because if we charge into Clarendon House without one, he will kill us. How many
helpmeets will he have?’

Chaloner swore when the coach swerved so violently that he was almost hurled out. ‘Brinkes and his men
number about a dozen. Then there are thirty members of the Piccadilly Company …’

‘I doubt all of them are involved,’ said Thurloe. ‘Some will have been recruited to provide a veneer of respectability and
funds for investments.’

‘Even so, you were reckless when you offered to confront them. I doubt we will succeed.’

‘Of course we will,’ said Thurloe with quiet determination. ‘We shall use our wits. Now think of something –
anything
– that might give us an edge over them.’

Chaloner racked his brains. ‘The secret passages …’

He reached into his coat and retrieved the roll of plans he had taken from Oliver. Fortunately, they had been tucked high
enough to avoid a soaking when he had been forced into
Jane
’s flooded hold. He handed them to Thurloe, then clung on for dear life as the coach rounded a corner. For a moment, only
two wheels were on the road, but then the others came down with a bone-jarring thump, and they picked up speed again.

It was not easy to read when the carriage was pitching about like a ship in a storm. Chaloner glanced out of the window once
and hoped the driver knew where he was because he could tell nothing from the occasional flash of building through the mist.
Then he glimpsed the familiar line of the Gaming House walls. They were almost there.

‘The Crown is all shut up,’ said Thurloe, who was looking in the opposite direction. ‘I am sure you are right to predict that
these villains will go to Clarendon House.’

‘Have you thought of a plan yet?’ Chaloner banged on the ceiling to make the driver stop. It would not be a good idea to hurtle
up to the front gates and warn their enemies of their arrival.

Thurloe regarded him sombrely. ‘No, and all I can
hope is that these secret passages will work to our advantage. If not, God help us, because Fitzgerald will have no mercy,
and neither will his master.’

The fog was so dense along Piccadilly that Chaloner was obliged to hold Thurloe’s wrist to ensure they did not lose each other.
Fine droplets of moisture glistened on their clothes and caught at the back of their throats. The urge to cough was strong,
but they resisted, not knowing who might be nearby.

Eventually, they reached Clarendon House’s distinctive gateposts, where the winged pigs looked almost evil in the shifting
mist. Following the ruts made by the labourers’ wheelbarrows, Chaloner aimed for the portico. He climbed the steps, aware
that the silence was absolute, because the fog deadened all the usual noises, so there was not so much as a twitter from a
bird or a bark from a dog. There were certainly no human sounds.

‘Most of the workmen will be under arrest,’ whispered Thurloe. ‘Or still running away from Doines. The Piccadilly Company
will have the house and grounds to themselves.’

Chaloner pulled out his key and opened the door to reveal darkness within. All the window shutters were closed, and what meagre
light did filter inside was dull and did little to illuminate the place. He secured the door behind them, and began to move
stealthily towards the Great Parlour, which seemed the obvious place for a large group of people to gather.

‘I can hear something,’ whispered Thurloe, stopping abruptly. ‘Voices.’

‘Brinkes and his men. Step carefully – the builders leave their tools lying around.’

Chaloner’s heart thudded as they crept forward. How many villains would they have to confront? Would Pratt and Fitzgerald
be there, or were they in another part of the house?

Eventually, he detected a glimmer of light, which grew stronger as he and Thurloe inched towards it. They reached the Great
Parlour, and heard voices. The handsome double doors stood open to reveal Brinkes inside, serving ale to his cronies.

‘It is almost over, lads,’ he was saying encouragingly. ‘And then we shall be rich.’

‘Good,’ said one fervently. ‘It has been a dirty business, especially Turner’s children. Our employers are too brutal for
me, and I shall not weep if I never see them again.’

The others growled assent, even Brinkes, which did nothing to ease Chaloner’s growing anxiety. If callous louts like them
thought Pratt and Fitzgerald too ruthless, then what chance did he and Thurloe stand against them? But it was no time for
faint-hearted thoughts, and he turned his attention to neutralising Brinkes and his henchmen.

The windows in the Great Parlour were so high as to be unreachable, which meant there was only one way in or out of the room
– through the thick, heavy doors that opened outwards into the hall in which he and Thurloe were standing. He glanced at his
friend, and saw the ex-Spymaster understood exactly what he was thinking: that if they could shut and lock them, imprisoning
Brinkes and his friends inside, it might even the odds while they tackled Fitzgerald and Pratt.

The left-hand door would have to be closed first, because it contained a lever – located near the doorknob
– which snapped bolts into the ceiling and floor. Then the right-hand door could be shut and locked with the key. Chaloner
pulled the key from his pocket and inserted it soundlessly, testing it to make sure it turned. Thurloe took the side with
the key, Chaloner the one with the lever.

His inclination was to slam it shut and yank on the lever as quickly as possible, but Brinkes and his men were too near –
they would be out and fighting before Thurloe could manage his side. With agonising slowness, he eased it closed little by
little, relieved to discover that its hinges did not creak. He had almost succeeded when Brinkes happened to glance at it.

There was no time to hesitate. Chaloner leaned all his weight on it, so it cracked into place, then grabbed the lever, aware
as he did so of Thurloe beginning to shove his side. Brinkes leapt forward, hauling out his dagger. The lever was stiffer
than Chaloner had anticipated, and took all his strength to tug. While he wrestled with it, Thurloe’s door moved faster and
faster towards him, threatening to crush him.

Just when he thought he was going to be squashed between the two doors, an unmoving target for Brinkes to stab, the bolts
clicked into place, and he was able to twist away. The door slammed shut an instant later, and he saw Thurloe reach for the
key. But the door had banged so hard that it had popped partly open again, just enough to prevent the key from turning.

Chaloner hurled himself at it, and pushed with every fibre of his being, hearing the blood roar in his ears. Brinkes was doing
the same on the other side. The henchmen were yelling, and Chaloner was sure they were racing to help Brinkes – and when they
did, the door
would fly open and he and Thurloe would die. The thought of losing his friend was just enough for a final, massive effort.
The door closed and the locks snapped into place. They had done it.

‘Come,’ said Thurloe urgently, hauling Chaloner to his feet. ‘We must tackle the others before Brinkes escapes – these are
sturdy doors, but they will not hold him for long.’

Chaloner’s legs were unsteady as they ran back the way they had come. There was only one place Pratt would be – the Lawyers’
Library, the room he had been using as an office. Behind them, Brinkes and his men were pounding on the doors furiously, sending
hollow booms reverberating through the entire house.

Chaloner reached the library and paused to listen. The door was closed, but someone was murmuring within. Unfortunately, the
voice was too soft to recognise. Then he saw a flicker of movement under the door – someone was coming to investigate the
racket Brinkes was making.

It was too late to hide, so he whipped out Williamson’s sword and dagger and kicked the door open with as much force as he
could muster. It flew against the wall with a resounding crack, and the person who had been about to open it stumbled back
in alarm.

‘Janszoon,’ said Thurloe flatly, standing next to Chaloner with his own gun drawn. ‘And Margareta. Whose remit in this nasty
plot is to whip up ill-feeling towards Hollanders in the hope of encouraging a war. Prynne was right to want you stopped.’

Chaloner stepped inside quickly, but there was no sign of Pratt or Fitzgerald. Margareta smirked, not at all
discomfited to find herself at the wrong end of a dag. Chaloner was immediately uneasy, and edged to one side, so as not
to come under fire from the peepholes again.