‘A waste of time,’ interrupted Hyde. ‘I have already questioned Her Majesty’s household, but no one saw this missive delivered. And I doubt she will appreciate being interrogated by you.’
Chaloner suppressed a sigh. Hyde’s precipitate actions would have told the sender that the letter had been discovered, thus making the matter that much more difficult to explore.
‘Perhaps we should send Pratt away until the would-be assassin is under lock and key,’ suggested Frances. ‘I shall never forgive myself if he is murdered while working on our new home.’
‘The letter says Pratt will not die until the Feast of St Frideswide.’ Chaloner calculated quickly. ‘That is a week next Wednesday – nine days from now.’
‘How do you know?’ asked the Earl in astonishment. ‘We had to consult an almanac. I sincerely hope you are not a papist. I would not countenance one of those in my household.’
‘It is general knowledge, sir.’ Chaloner did not feel strongly enough about religion to affiliate himself with any sect, although he suspected that the Earl would dismiss him if he knew that his intelligencer was married to a Catholic – Hannah had converted when she had first been appointed to serve the Queen.
‘We shall hire Sergeant Wright to protect Pratt,’ determined Brodrick. ‘To put Frances’s mind at rest.’
It would be a waste of money on two counts, thought Chaloner. By paying guards to mind a man who did not need them, and by employing Wright, who would not know how to repel an assassin if his life depended on it. But before he could say so, there was a knock on the door and Dugdale entered. The Chief Usher looked around carefully, as if trying to gauge what had been discussed in his absence. He shot Chaloner a malevolent glance, but masked the expression quickly when he addressed the Earl, unwilling for their master to see the extent of his dislike.
‘I have just received a note from Pratt, sir. Apparently, twenty planks of best oak were stolen last night. How extraordinary that Chaloner did not notice.’
Fortunately for Chaloner, Kipps arrived shortly after Dugdale’s announcement, to inform Hyde and Brodrick that their presence was required at the Adventurers’ meeting immediately. Neither man could ignore a summons from the King, and they disappeared without another word. Chaloner was grateful, suspecting that Hyde would have used the missing wood to resume his campaign to have him dismissed – and he might have succeeded, because the Earl was clearly livid about their loss. Lady Clarendon frowned.
‘I do not like Henry mixing with Adventurers,’ she said, once everyone had gone, and only she, the Earl and Chaloner remained. ‘He is easily led, and I have not heard good things about Secretary Leighton. The other members leave much to be desired, too. Henry told me only yesterday that they transported more than three thousand slaves to Barbados last year. Slaves! How can he associate with such vileness?’
The Earl sighed unhappily. ‘We cannot dictate his behaviour for ever – he is twenty-six years old. But we should not discuss this now. I am more interested in my planks.’ He glared at Chaloner.
‘I watched your supplies all night, sir,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘And I checked them before I left. They were all there then.’
‘But this particular wood was stored inside the house,’ explained the Earl shortly. ‘And I know for a fact that every door is secured at dusk, so no one should have been able to get in.’
‘No one did, sir. So these planks must have been stolen after I left this morning, when the doors were unlocked for the workmen.’
‘Without anyone seeing?’ asked the Earl archly.
‘Without anyone raising the alarm,’ corrected Chaloner. ‘As I have said before, I suspect the thieves have accomplices among the workforce.’
‘Nonsense! My labourers are above reproach.’ The Earl held up his hand when Chaloner started to point out that such a large body of men, none of whom were very well paid, was likely to contain at least one rotten apple, and probably a lot more. ‘You let your attention wander, and these cunning dogs seized the opportunity to climb through a window. They cannot have gone through a door, because my locks are tamper-proof.’
‘Are they now?’ murmured Chaloner. He had not met a lock yet that could keep him out.
‘They are the best money can buy.’ The Earl’s eyes shone, as they always did when he was boasting about his new home. ‘And one key opens them all.’
Chaloner had never heard of such a thing. ‘Really?’
The Earl rummaged in his clothing and produced a key that hung on a cord around his neck. ‘There are only two copies in existence. I have one, and Pratt has the other – his will eventually go to Frances. It means we shall be able to lock whichever rooms we like without having to sort through vast mountains of keys.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, resisting the urge to ask what would happen if one was mislaid.
‘The only door it cannot open is the one to the vault.’ The Earl grinned. ‘And that is clever, too – it is designed to be airless, so if ever there is a fire, my papers and other valuables will be safe.’
‘Airless?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. ‘But what if someone is shut inside?’
The Earl looked smug. ‘That will never happen to an innocent person, and thieves deserve to be suffocated. Pratt is a genius for inventing such clever measures. My new home is impregnable.’
‘Except for the fact that someone broke in and stole your planks,’ Chaloner pointed out.
The Earl scowled. ‘That was your fault. You failed to ensure all the windows were closed, and then you were asleep when the burglars arrived to take advantage. And it obviously happened during the night, because thieves never operate in broad daylight.’
‘Do not rail at him, dear,’ said Frances mildly. ‘And thieves do operate in broad daylight. Indeed, they probably prefer it, because they will be able to see what they are doing.’
Chaloner wished she were present during all his interviews with the Earl. ‘The only way to catch the culprits – or to deter them – is to put the house under continuous surveillance. But I cannot do it, sir, not if I am to look into the threat against Pratt.’
‘True,’ acknowledged the Earl. ‘So Pratt and his assistant Oliver can take responsibility during the day, and I shall hire Sergeant Wright to do it at night – he has more than enough men to protect Pratt and guard my house. That should leave you plenty of time to unmask the assassin – and to lay hold of these wretched burglars before they steal anything else.’
‘Very well, sir.’ Chaloner turned to leave.
‘Wait,’ said the Earl. He grimaced. ‘Much as it pains me to admit it, Henry is wrong, and you and Brodrick are right – the Queen would never conspire to kill my architect, not even to repay me for neglecting her these last few months. But that does not mean Pratt is safe. You must learn who sent that letter and prevent something dreadful from unfolding – Pratt dead and the Queen blamed.’
‘I shall do my best, sir.’
Chaloner was preparing to take leave of his employer when Edgeman the secretary arrived to remind the Earl that it was time to attend a meeting of the Tangier Committee. The Earl indicated Chaloner was to help him up – gout and an expanding girth meant he was not as agile as he once was – and Frances rose to leave, too, unwilling to linger in her husband’s place of work when he would not be there.
‘I suppose you had better tell me what you learned in Africa,’ said the Earl, waddling towards the door. ‘I know you wrote me a report, but I could not be bothered to read it.’
‘I did, and it was very interesting,’ said Frances, making Chaloner warm to her even more. ‘Your assertion that Tangier is a hard posting, miles from the centre of power at White Hall, does explain why honest men refuse to accept jobs there. Only the dross, who cannot get anything else, are—’
‘A hard posting?’ interrupted the Earl uneasily. He turned to Chaloner. ‘Do you think the Portuguese cheated us when they gave it as part of the Queen’s dowry, then?’
As the man largely
responsible for negotiating the royal marriage contract, he was the one who would be blamed if that transpired to be true. And Chaloner thought it was – he strongly suspected the Portuguese had been rather glad to be rid of it.
‘The harbour is not all that was promised,’ he hedged. ‘It is too shallow for warships, and is open to northerly gales. But the garrison is building a mole to protect it, which should help.’
‘A mole is a sea wall,’ interposed Frances, eager to show off the knowledge she had gleaned from reading Chaloner’s commentary. ‘And when it is finished, it will provide British ships with a safe haven in the Mediterranean. This will re-establish us as the greatest maritime nation in the world, by letting us control the Straits of Gibraltar.’
‘The problem is that only a fraction of the money we send is spent on the mole,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Most is siphoned off by corrupt officials. The new governor, Sir Tobias Bridge—’
‘A damned Parliamentarian,’ grated the Earl. ‘I argued against appointing him, but he was the only person willing to do it.’
‘What happened to his predecessor?’ asked Frances of Chaloner. ‘Lord Teviot? We heard rumours about his death of course, but I felt we never had the truth of it.’
‘He took five hundred soldiers to chop down a wood,’ Chaloner replied, thinking that she was right to be suspicious: there had definitely been something odd about what had happened that fateful day in May. ‘His scouts told him it was safe, but in fact a large enemy force was waiting. Teviot repelled the first wave, but then he made a fatal mistake.’
‘He skulked back to the town?’ asked the Earl, his interest caught. ‘Instead of pursuing them, and showing the devils what British infantry can do?’
‘The opposite. He thought he had managed a rout, when it should have been obvious that he was being lured into a trap. All but thirty of his men were killed.’
‘And Teviot died too,’ sighed the Earl. ‘I did not like him personally – he was arrogant, greedy and stupid – but no one can deny his courage.’
‘The fact that his scouts told him it was safe bothers me,’ said Chaloner, more to himself than his listeners. ‘I raised the matter with them when we travelled home together on Eagle, but they refused to discuss it.’
‘Then perhaps you had better look into that affair, too,’ said the Earl. ‘As you point out, good men are not exactly queuing up to accept duties in Tangier, and if rumours about dangerously incompetent staff start circulating, no one will ever volunteer again.’
‘You want me to go back?’ asked Chaloner, heart sinking. He had hoped to be home for a while.
‘Not before you have caught my thieves and exposed whoever plans to kill Pratt. But if these scouts are in London, then there is no need for foreign travel. You can question them here.’
‘But I have questioned them, sir. They were unwilling to talk.’
‘Then try harder. I am sure you have cracked tougher nuts in the past. That gives you three different assignments, which is a lot, but I am sure you will manage. However, remember that the most important one is catching the villains who keep raiding my house.’
‘No, most important is the plot involving the Queen and Pratt,’ countered Frances. ‘I do not want our architect murdered by an assassin. Or the poor Queen held responsible for it.’
‘He will give all three equal attention,’ said the Earl, although the tone of his voice made it clear that there would be trouble if his own concerns were not given priority. Chaloner bowed again, thinking unhappily that none of the enquiries filled him with great enthusiasm, and he would be lucky if he solved one of them to the Earl’s satisfaction.
In the corridor outside, the Earl’s retainers were waiting to escort him to his meeting. His seal bearer stood ready to lead the way, and his secretary and gentlemen ushers had lined up to process behind him. All wore his livery of blue and gold, and made for an imposing sight.
‘You cannot join us, Chaloner,’ said the Earl, looking pointedly at the spy’s soiled and crumpled clothing. ‘So you may escort my wife home instead.’
‘Not yet, though,’ said Frances. ‘I should like to see the great lords of the Tangier Committee make their appearance. I adore a spectacle.’
But she was to be disappointed. Her husband was the only man who stood on ceremony, and the other members arrived in a far more modest fashion. Most had not even bothered to don wigs, and badly shaven heads were the order of the day.
One person had taken care to look his best, however. He was Samuel Pepys, an ambitious clerk from the Navy Board. Because Chaloner was standing with Lady Clarendon, Pepys deigned to acknowledge him, although his eyes widened in shock at the spy’s dishevelled appearance.
‘Tangier’s residents say Teviot was the best of all their governors,’ he was informing the man at his side. ‘But to my mind, he was a cunning fellow.’
‘He died gallantly, though,’ replied his friend. ‘But never mind him. Tell me why you object to paying what Governor Bridge has demanded for the mole.’
‘Because of the casual way he presents his expenses,’ explained Pepys. ‘We should demand a better reckoning. Lord! How I was troubled to see accounts of ten thousand pounds passed with so little question the last time the Committee met. I wished a thousand times that I had not been there.’
‘Perhaps my husband was right to ask you to look into Teviot’s death,’ said Frances, after Pepys and his companion had entered the building. ‘If such vast sums really are being sent to Tangier with so little accounting, then it will be easy for the unscrupulous to line their pockets. And to some villains, five hundred lives is a small price to pay for personal profit.’
‘If so, then I shall do all I can to avenge them,’ promised Chaloner.
‘But not today,’ said Frances kindly. ‘You were only married a month before sailing to Tangier, and you have been desperately busy since you returned. Spend the rest of the day with Hannah.’
Chaloner woke before it was light the next morning, aware that he had a great deal to do. He lay still for a moment, working out a plan of action, and decided that he would begin by hunting down Harley, Newell and Reyner, on the grounds that the deaths of so many soldiers was a rather more serious matter than missing planks and the lunatic letter about Pratt.
He was not sure what time Hannah had returned from her duties with the Queen the previous night, but she did not stir as he slipped out of bed and dressed in the dim light of the candle she had forgotten to extinguish before she had retired. He bent to kiss her as he left, but she chose that moment to fling out an arm, catching him on the shoulder. With a squawk of pain, her eyes flew open.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, wringing her knuckles and eyeing him accusingly.
She was a small, fair-haired lady with a pert figure and an impish grin. She was not pretty, but she possessed a strength of character and an independence of thought that he had found attractive. They had married before they really knew each other, but it had not taken them long to learn that each possessed habits the other did not like. Chaloner disapproved of the company Hannah kept at Court and was appalled by her surly morning temper; Hannah deplored Chaloner’s inability to express his feelings and hated the sound of his bass viol.
Music was important to Chaloner. It soothed him when he was agitated, cleared his mind when he was dealing with complex cases, and there was little that delighted him more than a well-played recital. He could not imagine a world without it, and felt incomplete when deprived of it for any length of time. Unfortunately, Hannah did not like him playing in the house, and ignoring her and doing it anyway negated any enjoyment he might have gained from the exercise. As far as he was concerned, it was a serious impediment to their future happiness together.
His frustration with the situation had led him to rent a garret in Long Acre the previous week. All spies kept boltholes for those occasions when returning home was inadvisable, but Chaloner needed one for the sake of his sanity, too. He had taken his bes
t viol, or viola da gamba, there immediately, along with the clothes Hannah had parcelled up for the rag-pickers – she also hated the fact that his work meant he was sometimes obliged to dress in something other than courtly finery. His second-best viol was stored in a cupboard under the stairs, and was only played when she was out.
‘I am just leaving,’ he whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘Leaving?’ Hannah cast a bleary eye towards the window. ‘In the middle of the night?’
‘It is nearly dawn.’
‘Exactly! Dawn is the middle of the night. Come back to bed, or you will wake the servants.’
The servants were yet another bone of contention. Chaloner accepted that his post as gentleman usher and Hannah’s as lady-in-waiting demanded that they keep one, but he had returned from Tangier to find she had hired three. None were women he would have chosen, because they were brazenly curious about their employers, and watched them constantly. Even if he had not been a spy, obliged to keep a certain number of secrets, being under constant surveillance in his own home would have been an unwelcome development.
‘I will not wake them,’ he said, wishing he had abstained from reckless displays of affection and that she was still asleep. ‘But you might, if you continue to bawl.’
‘Do not tell me when I can and cannot speak,’ snapped Hannah, displaying the sour temper that invariably afflicted her when she first awoke. It was so unlike her personality during the rest of the day that he wondered whether he should take her to a physician. ‘I shall shout if I want to.’
He sat on the side of the bed and took her hand in his, speaking softly in the hope that it would soothe her back to sleep. ‘I am sorry I disturbed you.’
‘You are improperly dressed again,’ said Hannah, wrenching her hand free and struggling into a sitting position. ‘That old long-coat is not fit for a beggar, while your shirt does not have enough lace. People will think I married a ruffian if you go to White Hall looking like that.’
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 6
