The Piccadilly Plot Read Online Free PDF Page B

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