‘It is fine,’ said Chaloner, remembering to limp as he followed Marshall down the corridor. It was true: the Crown was a good deal nicer on the inside than it looked from the street.
Smiling amiably, Marshall directed him to a chair while he filled a tankard with ale. ‘You are better off in here than with Brinkes, anyway. The man is a brute, and I am sure he has killed people. He has that look about him.’
‘Then why do you let him in?’
Marshall’s expression was pained. ‘Because he is with them upstairs. He and his cronies act like guard dogs, and oust anyone who tries to come in while they are here — I do my best to reach visitors first, to eject them more politely, but I do not always succeed.’
Chaloner was intrigued. What dark business had Harley and his cronies embarked upon that entailed hiring a killer to keep it from prying eyes and ears? He doubted it would have anything to do with what had happened in Tangier, but he was keen to find out anyway. If nothing else, it might enable him to force them to answer questions, something he had been unable to do on Eagle.
‘Who are “them upstairs”?’ he asked.
‘They call themselves the Piccadilly Company,’ replied Marshall. Like many taverners, he loved to gossip. ‘They rent the rooms on the first floor, and often gather to chat.’
‘To chat about what?’
Marshall spread his hands. ‘Who knows? I used to eavesdrop when that lovely Mr Jones was in charge — he is the one with the red boot-ribbons — although all he and his friends ever talked about was exporting glassware to New England. It was rather dull, to be frank. But then others joined the Company, and they hired Brinkes to keep listeners away. So I have no idea what they discuss now.’
‘What others?’ asked Chaloner, a little taken aback by the taverner’s bald admission that he liked to spy on his tenants.
Marshall lowered his voice. ‘Well, a Dutch couple called Margareta and Cornelis Janszoon made an appearance today. I heard Margareta inform Mr Jones that her country will win the war we are about to wage.’
Chaloner was surprised: Hollanders tended to keep a low profile in London, on the grounds that they were currently Britain’s most hated adversary. They certainly did not go around speculating on who might triumph in the looming confrontation.
‘But they are not the worst by a long way,’ Marshall went on. ‘Last week, Harley, Newell and Reyner appeared. Now, I know Harley is a colonel, but he is no better than that monster Brinkes.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Chaloner, hoping that Marshall’s loose tongue would not land him in trouble. Brinkes might reward him with the same fate as Captain Pepperell if he knew he was the subject of chatter, while Harley was unlikely to appreciate being discussed either.
‘Because he is evil. Have you seen his eyes? They are like the devil’s — blazing with hate and malice. But even he is not the worst. About a month ago someone even more dreadful joined. Namely Mr Fitzgerald.’ Marshall hissed the name in a way that made it sound decidedly sinister.
‘Not Fitzgerald the pirate?’ asked Chaloner. Could this be George’s last employer?
‘He prefers the term privateer.’ Marshall glanced around, as if he was afraid the man might appear and take umbrage. ‘He lost a lot of money recently, and word is that he is working on plans to get some more. I am surprised at Mr Jones for letting the likes of him join the Piccadilly Company — Mr Jones is such a nice gentleman.’
‘I do not suppose Fitzgerald is the one with the beard and the eye-patch, is he?’ asked Chaloner, amused. The fellow could not have moulded himself more to the popular image of a pirate had he tried. He was lacking only the gold earrings.
Marshall nodded earnestly. ‘And he has an unusually high voice. Listen, you can hear him now, singing. I wish he would not do it. It is horrible!’
As a lover of music, Chaloner had to agree. The sound that came from upstairs was redolent of tortured metal. It was treble in range, but there was a grating quality to it that was far from pleasant.
‘You mentioned him losing a lot of money,’ he said, eager to talk so that he would not have to listen. ‘Do you know how?’
‘His best ship sank during a storm. It was full of French gold, so King Louis arrested him and offered him a choice: repay every penny or execution. Fitzgerald had to sell everything he owned, and it broke him financially. That is why he is in London now — to recoup his losses by embarking on another business venture.’
At that moment there was a clatter of footsteps as the Piccadilly Company took its leave. Uncharitably, Chaloner wondered whether Fitzgerald’s singing had brought the meeting to a premature end, because he would certainly not have wanted to be in the same room with it — it was bad enough from a distance. He leaned forward in his chair, so he could look up the hall and watch them file out.
They left in ones and twos again, with the Dutch woman — Margareta — directing who should go when. Some elected to leave by the back door, which had Chaloner huddling towards the fire to conceal his face; but he need not have worried: no one gave him a second glance.
When everyone had gone, Chaloner claimed his gout had eased and he could walk. Marshall nodded genially and invited him to visit again, but preferably not in the mornings, which tended to be when Fitzgerald and his cronies were in conference. Evenings, he assured his visitor, would see him in far more conducive company.
For a moment, Chaloner thought the three scouts had disappeared, but then he saw them walking north. He assumed they were returning to the house from which they had emerged earlier, but they ducked into another tavern, with broken windows and a sign outside that said it was the Feathers. He followed, then went through an elaborate charade intended to make them think the encounter was coincidence.
‘How nice to see you!’ he exclaimed amiably. ‘I did not think we would meet again.’
His cordiality was not reciprocated. Colonel Harley’s pale ‘devil’ eyes were full of suspicion and Newell fingered his dagger. Reyner smiled, but it was a wary expression, devoid of friendliness.
‘Neither did we,’ said Harley, making it clear that he wished they had not.
‘Well, I suppose it is no surprise to run into you here,’ Chaloner blustered on, pretending not to notice their hostility. ‘I distinctly recall you saying that you hailed from Piccadilly.’
He remembered no such thing, but his gambit worked. Pride suffused Reyner’s face.
‘I was born here, and my mother owns this tavern,’ he said, and the smile became genuine. ‘Meanwhile, Harley and his sister have taken up residence next door, and Newell lives across the street. We prefer Piccadilly’s cleaner air to the foul vapours of the city.’
‘Understandable.’ Sensing the other two were on the verge of sending him packing, Chaloner sat down and began to talk quickly. ‘There was a meeting of the Tangier Committee yesterday.’
Harley regarded him coldly, and Chaloner began to understand what Marshall had meant about the disconcerting quality of his eyes. ‘So what? That town is no longer of interest to us.’
‘The matter of Teviot’s death was raised.’ Chaloner hoped they were not in a position to know he was lying. ‘There is going to be an official inquiry.’
Harley’s gaze did not waver, although Reyner gulped hard enough to be audible. There was a thump, and Reyner leaned down to rub his leg — Newell had dealt him a warning kick under the table. Chaloner continued to meet Harley’s gaze, but he had learned two things already: that Reyner was the weak link in the trio, and that they had reason to fear such an eventuality. It was more than he had gleaned during all the time he had spent on Eagle with them.