‘So “our ship” refers to Jane, and she left Tangier carrying gravel.’ Chaloner was becoming despondent, feeling he had wasted time he could ill afford. ‘But we already knew she trades in that particular commodity. And that she was due to arrive here on St Frideswide’s Day — I heard the Piccadilly Company say so when I eavesdropped.’
‘Yes, but we did not know she was coming from Tangier. No wonder Fitzgerald and his cronies burned the letter! It is a valuable clue.’
‘It is?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.
‘Yes! You must make enquiries along the river and ascertain where Jane will berth,’ said Thurloe urgently, handing Chaloner his coat. ‘Someone will know at which wharf she is expected. And then we shall go and inspect this gravel for ourselves.’
‘Now?’ asked Chaloner without enthusiasm. ‘In the middle of the night?’
Thurloe glanced at the window, startled to see it was dark outside. He snatched the coat back again. ‘Rest for an hour or two, and then go.’
‘What will you do while I trawl the docks?’ asked Chaloner, daunted by the task he had been set — the Thames was thick with them, all the way from Wapping to Westminster.
Thurloe pointed to the Reyners’ list. ‘We must decode it as soon as possible.’
Chaloner did not think he would sleep, given that his mind was full of worries and questions, but he did. Thurloe prodded him awake when it was still dark, although the rumble of traffic said London was coming to life. The ex-Spymaster’s face was pale, and he shook his head tiredly to Chaloner’s raised eyebrows — the cipher continued to elude him.
Even at that early hour, the air was full of soot as fires were lit all over the city. The Thames had produced a heavy fog that mingled unpleasantly with it, making breathing difficult. It enveloped shops and warehouses, and gave them an eerie, other-worldly appearance.
Feeling he had been set an impossible challenge, Chaloner began at Black Friars Stairs, where lamps had been lit to illuminate a frenzied scene — its work was driven by tides, not clocks, so it was often busy during the hours of darkness. Meeting with no success, he went to Puddle Wharf, because it was famous for dubious transactions. It required a hefty bribe before he learned that Jane was not expected.
He approached Queenhithe next, fighting down his rising agitation — it was all taking far too long, and he was acutely aware that whatever atrocity Fitzgerald’s master had planned might well take place in less than twenty-four hours. He asked his question distractedly, not expecting an answer, and so was astonished when the harbour-master nodded.
‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ the fellow replied, pocketing the coins Chaloner had offered for a moment of his time. ‘The Bridge is scheduled to open for ships at midnight tonight and noon tomorrow, and Jane is expected at noon. She has booked a berth here at three o’clock.’
‘What will she be carrying?’
‘We shall not know that until she arrives, but it will not be anything heavy. She is a dog, and too much weight would take her under.’
‘Not gravel, then?’
The harbour-master shrugged. ‘If so, then there will not be very much of it.’
Chaloner hurried back to Lincoln’s Inn. Assuming that the Piccadilly Company’s plan would coincide with Jane’s arrival — or at least, not swing into action until she was safely moored — it meant they had a day and a half to work out what was happening and stop it.
‘I may not have cracked this cipher, but our mysteries have been simmering in the back of my mind,’ said Thurloe, after listening carefully. ‘Fitzgerald is powerful and dangerous, but he has no money — he was obliged to dismiss all his servants after his gold-laden ship sank.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner impatiently. ‘Everyone says he is in London to recoup his losses after the disaster. What of it?’
‘Hiring Brinkes and his henchmen will require cash. So will investing in a struggling glassware business. Ergo, it is his master who has money at his disposal. We can eliminate the Adventurers as suspects, because they are on the opposing side.’
Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘Your brother-in-law told us that some of their thirty members are wealthy merchants or nobles. And he said Pratt has invested heavily.’
‘Pratt might be the master,’ conceded Thurloe. ‘He is earning a fortune from your Earl, so he will have plenty of funds at his disposal. Of course, it would mean that the threat against his life is a ruse, to throw us off his scent. Another candidate for arch-villain is Lester-’
‘No! There is nothing to say he is a member of the Piccadilly Company — indeed, Williamson has charged him to monitor them. Besides, his sister was almost murdered by Fitzgerald’s henchmen. I doubt that would have happened if he were their leader.’
‘His sister was taken along a dark lane to be rescued by you,’ corrected Thurloe. ‘Perhaps she was never in any danger. And I have never liked his role in all this — he just happened to be there when Cave and Elliot fought; he just happens to have a mad sibling whom Williamson uses to secure his services. I have not forgotten that he and Fitzgerald were once shipmates, either.’
‘Who else?’ asked Chaloner, declining to argue.
‘Meneses. He was Governor of Tangier, and we all know how talented they are at making themselves rich — and he was so brazen about it that he was dismissed. I am bothered by Leighton, too. He is the Adventurers’ secretary, but he has criminal connections. It would not surprise me to learn that he is pitting two powerful and greedy organisations against each other for his own ends.’
‘What about Dugdale and Edgeman?’ suggested Chaloner. ‘They are Adventurers, but both are treacherous types who would think nothing of betraying friends. They serve the Earl, yet they consort with his enemies. It is suspicious.’
‘Possible but unlikely — I doubt the Earl pays them enough. Of course, they may have access to a source of wealth that we do not know about. Kipps is rich, too, but his application to enrol as an Adventurer was rejected. I imagine he bears them a grudge …’
‘Yes, but that does not mean he would act on it,’ said Chaloner defensively.
‘Then there are those who are openly villainous,’ Thurloe went on. ‘Brilliana, the wealthy courtesan; her brother Harley, who must have been well paid to carry out the Tangier massacre; and the Janszoons, who know nothing about the glassware that their Company exports …’
‘And whose shaky English is stirring up anti-Dutch sentiments,’ finished Chaloner. ‘I am not surprised that they never go anywhere without guards to protect them.’
‘We cannot dismiss Ruth as a suspect, either,’ Thurloe went on. ‘She lives in the Crown, is sister to the sinister Lester, and wife to Elliot — who is said to be dead but is probably alive. Most men do not marry lunatics, so you must ask yourself whether she is as fey-witted as she would have us believe. After all, it would not be the first time a devious plot was masterminded by a lady.’
Chaloner shook his head. ‘She is not wealthy. Neither is Lester.’
‘On the contrary,’ argued Thurloe. ‘Lester did very well for himself in the navy, and captured several enemy ships that were later sold for princely sums. He is extremely rich, and would certainly share his good fortune with a much-loved sister.’
Chaloner regarded him uneasily. Lester did not give the impression of being well off, while Ruth’s lodgings in the Crown were hardly palatial. Of course, he had no idea where Lester lived — it might be a mansion on The Strand, for all he knew. But he liked the man, and his instincts still told him to ignore Thurloe’s reservations.
‘And finally, I am not happy with Kitty O’Brien,’ Thurloe went on. ‘She has seduced Williamson, perhaps to distract him from her crimes. Her husband is more interested in inveigling himself into high society than in plotting, and he certainly does not need more money — his copper sales have made him fabulously rich already.’