‘Turner and Lucas were decent men. A little preoccupied with commerce, perhaps, but that is deemed a virtue these days. They were Adventurers, like the King, the Duke and the Queen.’
‘The Queen is not an Adventurer,’ said Chaloner, startled.
‘Yes, she is. Go and look on the charter if you do not believe me. Of course, I imagine she did not know what she was signing, and if any profits do come her way, they will be siphoned off by dishonest officials. Like Leighton and Hyde.’
‘You think Hyde is dishonest?’
Hannah pulled a face. ‘Perhaps dishonest is too strong a word. Slimy is better. Swaddell was there, too, and so was Williamson, although they ignored each other. Williamson asked after you.’
‘Did he?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
‘He gave me a message for you.’ Hannah rummaged in her purse. ‘Here it is. He was all courtesy and kindness, quite unlike his usual self. And I like his new man, Lester. Lester left early, too, which was a pity, because he plays the flute like a cherub. Of course, he dances like an ox, but a man cannot have every courtly grace at his fingertips.’
She prattled on while Chaloner unfolded the letter. It had been scrawled in a hurry, and said nothing other than that he should visit Williamson without delay. He screwed it into a ball and tossed it away, recalling that he had been ordered to visit the Spymaster’s offices the previous evening too, and Williamson was doubtless piqued with him for failing to arrive.
‘You should go,’ said Hannah, still speaking far too loudly. ‘I told him you were currently investigating four different cases, and he said he might have clues for you.’
Chaloner was horrified that she should have discussed his work with Williamson. ‘It is not—’
‘The first part of the evening was extremely tedious,’ interrupted Hannah, not really caring what he thought. ‘Meneses latched himself on to the Queen again, and I dared not leave her. I could only relax and enjoy myself once she had gone.’
‘What made you uneasy?’ Chaloner swallowed his irritation: berating her for her loose tongue while she was tipsy was unlikely to prove productive. ‘I doubt she would have come to harm in a room full of people.’
‘No physical harm, perhaps, but she is growing fond of him, and I know he will abandon her when he learns she is poor. When he does, she will be terribly hurt.’
‘Then arrange for someone to tell him her status before she becomes too attached,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Your friend Buckingham will oblige, I am sure.’
‘He tried, but Meneses pretends to have no English. Clearly, he does not appreciate that we are only trying to save him a lot of futile sycophancy. So you can do it. You speak Portuguese.’
‘It is not my place to dispense that sort of advice to foreign barons.’
‘But you will do it nonetheless,’ stated Hannah. ‘Do not worry if the Queen is angry with you – her tempers rarely last long. Damn it! Here comes Joan. You must have woken her by yelling.’
‘I wondered who had slammed the front door and startled us all out of our beds,’ said Joan, regarding Chaloner coldly. ‘Just come home, have you?’
‘He has,’ replied Hannah cheerfully. ‘He arrived a few moments before me.’
‘Well, before you go out again, perhaps you would have a word with George,’ said Joan stiffly. ‘He has eaten the pie Nan baked for today’s dinner. I challenged him about it, but he was quite unrepentant. Horrible man!’
Remembering that Hannah had arranged for him to visit the Queen’s apartments later, Chaloner dressed with more than his usual care that day, selecting a dark-blue long-coat and matching breeches. The shirt had some lace around the neck and wrists – it was impossible to buy them plain in an age where the degree of frill was virtually equivalent to a man’s social status – but not enough to hinder his movements. He added his weapons, including Wiseman’s scalpel, and then was ready for whatever that Saturday might bring.
‘Cut off all your hair and wear a wig,’ advised Hannah, watching him. ‘Few men of fashion keep their own locks these days.’
‘That is because most men of fashion are either grey or bald.’
Hannah snorted with laughter – a sound she would never have made while sober. ‘True. But you will have to conform sooner or later, or you will be the only man at Court with real hair. And then people might think you are poor.’
‘God forbid!’ muttered Chaloner, determined to postpone the inevitable for as long as possible.
He took his leave of her and aimed for the front door, but found his path barred by Joan. She evidently considered him less intimidating than his footman, because she pointed wordlessly to the servants’ parlour, where George was enjoying the newly lit fire. Suspecting it would be quicker to do as she asked than to argue, he went to oblige. He closed the door behind him – he might have been coerced into doing what she wanted, but he was damned if he was going to let her listen.
‘The pie was undercooked,’ said George, coming slowly to his feet. His shoulders rippled as he moved, and there was a definite gleam of defiance in his dark eyes.
‘We will never know, will we? You have ensured that no one else is in a position to say.’
‘Shall I leave you a piece next time, then?’ asked George with calculated insolence.
Chaloner declined to be baited. ‘Or you can be wise and leave them alone. Nan might poison them if she thinks they will only end up inside you.’
The glowering expression lifted. ‘I had not considered that possibility. And she is knowledgeable about toxins – it was she who taught me how to deal with the mouse problem.’
‘Have you seen Fitzgerald since you came to work here?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether he could make George admit to being a spy.
‘Of course, but we do not talk. He does not deign to acknowledge minions.’
‘He does not enquire after your well-being? That seems harsh, after ten years of service.’
George looked away. ‘He is not a sentimental man.’
It was like drawing teeth, and while Chaloner enjoyed a challenge, he could not in all conscience waste the day playing games of cat and mouse with his footman. He turned abruptly, opening the parlour door so suddenly that he was obliged to put out a hand to prevent Joan from tumbling in on top of him.
He left quickly after that, thinking about all he had to do. First, talk to Pratt, to assess whether there was any truth in the allegation that he was fabricating the tales of theft from Clarendon House to cover badly calculated estimates. He needed to speak to Oliver, too, and perhaps corner one or two labourers, to see what they knew about the matter. And perhaps more importantly, he wanted to see whether anyone might know who had locked him in the vault.
Next he would tackle Brilliana, to hear what she had to say about one lover killing another, and also ask about her brother’s activities in Tangier. He would then visit St Margaret’s Church in Westminster, in the hope that someone there would know where Cave’s brother lived – perhaps Jacob would be able to shed light on Cave’s quarrel with Elliot. And finally, he would call on Reverend Addison, to assess what he knew about the scouts’ role in Teviot’s death.
And Williamson? The Spymaster might well have information to impart, but it would come at a price. He elected to stay well away from the man. At least for now.
Because he was wearing his best clothes, Chaloner took a hackney carriage to Piccadilly, but even then, he was not entirely protected from the elements. A drenching drizzle caught the soot in the air from the tens of thousands of sea-coal fires that had been lit to start the day, and when he brushed a drop of water from his cuff, it left a long, black smear.
The Crown was in darkness when he alighted. He crept up the stairs to Pratt’s chambers, intending to catch the man before he was fully cognisant, but when he opened the door, it was to find that the architect’s bed had not been slept in. He was just wondering whether he should be concerned, when he heard a sound in the hallway outside. He drew his sword, but i
t was only Ruth Elliot, pale and white in billowing nightclothes.
‘You should not be out,’ he said, taking her hand and leading her back to her own garret. ‘It is cold.’
‘My husband had a dog,’ she whispered, watching as he knelt by the hearth to build up the fire. ‘My brother says they are both dead, but I do not believe him. I miss them.’
‘He fought a man called Cave,’ said Chaloner, feeling something of a scoundrel for raising the subject with a woman who was so obviously disturbed. ‘Did you know him?’
She shook her head. ‘My brother says he was a singer, though.’
‘Cave has a brother – Jacob. I do not suppose you have ever met him, have you?’
‘No, but I met Mr Fitzgerald last night. He said he would kill me if I kept watching him, so now I have to hide under the bed when he comes. He is a mean man. So are all of them, except Mr Jones, who is kind and smiles a lot. He brings me an apple sometimes.’
‘Stay away from them all,’ advised Chaloner, deciding that nothing would be gained from questioning her further. ‘And lock the door after I have gone.’
It took considerable willpower for Chaloner to approach Clarendon House, and when he did, it was to find it was too early for the workmen, although a solitary guard shivered next to the brazier. The man was making no effort to monitor the premises, but at least he was awake, which was an improvement on previous mornings. Chaloner was about to take shelter under the portico until the labourers arrived when he saw someone was already there. Instinctively, he melted into the shadows until he could ascertain the fellow’s identity. Unfortunately, a cloak and large hat obscured everything except for his general shape. Then a second person appeared.
‘Where have you been?’ the first demanded in a furious hiss. ‘I have been lurking here for ages, and I am chilled to the bone. You have no right to keep me waiting.’
Chaloner eased forward to listen, grateful they were amateurs – professionals would not have conversed in a place that could be approached by eavesdroppers from so many different directions.
‘I had to be sure no one was looking when I arrived,’ snapped the second. ‘As you will appreciate, neither of us can afford to be caught.’
Even though the site was deserted save the soldier, the pair spoke in whispers, and while Chaloner had no trouble hearing their words, he could not identify their voices. And that was a pity, because there was something about both that said he knew them.
‘There is no need to worry,’ the first was breathing. ‘Wright’s guard is hopelessly incompetent. We could make off with the roof and he would not notice.’
‘It would have been better if the thefts had gone undetected altogether,’ said the second curtly. ‘A lot less trouble, and much safer for everyone concerned.’
‘It is Dugdale’s fault. He told Edgeman to monitor the building accounts, and the inconsistencies are obvious once you know what to look for.’
‘I know,’ said the second shortly. ‘But never mind this. Did you bring what I wanted?’
The first handed him a sheaf of papers. ‘I can buy a few bricks, if you think stealing will attract more unwanted attention. As you have already pointed out, neither of us can afford to be caught.’
‘No!’ exclaimed the second. ‘That would tell anyone with half a brain that something untoward is unfolding here. Let me manage this side of matters. I do not want to be hanged just yet.’
‘Do not be so melodramatic!’ said the first disdainfully. ‘We will not be hanged.’
‘For stealing several hundred pounds’ worth of supplies from the Lord Chancellor? I assure you, not even your lofty station will save you – from the disgrace, if not the noose.’
Chaloner strained forward, desperately trying to see or hear something that would tell him who they were, but they had shrouded themselves too effectively. He consoled himself with the fact that at least he would not have to conduct an uncomfortable interview with Pratt about his estimates: the discussion told him that the materials were definitely being pilfered.
Without another word, the second man tucked the papers under his arm and began to walk towards the nearby woods, leaving Chaloner debating which of the pair to confront. He opted for the first, the one whose station was ‘lofty’. He knew he had made the right decision when the fellow opened the door with a key – presumably, one of the only two official copies in existence.
Once inside, the man moved confidently, despite the fact that it was dark. Chaloner followed, but trod on a piece of wood, and the crack it made as it broke caused his quarry to whip around in alarm. The fellow started to run and Chaloner lost sight of him as he ducked around a corner. Chaloner ran too, following the sounds of footsteps in the blackness. Eventually, they reached the Lawyer’s Library – the room Pratt was using as an office. Chaloner hurtled towards it and flung open the door.
‘Clarendon will be delighted to know the identity of the man who has been stealing from him,’ he panted, watching the man who was standing inside spin around in shock.
It was Roger Pratt.
‘Have you solved the crime, then?’ asked Pratt, hand to his chest to indicate that he had been given a serious start. ‘Congratulations. But please do not burst in on me like that again. The Earl is keen to keep me alive until his house is finished, and he will not thank you for terrifying me to death.’
He was standing by the desk, and Chaloner was puzzled to note that not only was he not breathless from the chase, but he was not wearing the hat and cloak that had swathed him, either. Nor were the garments in the room. What had he done with them? Chaloner was sure he had not had time to throw them off while running.
‘It is you,’ he said. ‘Although I cannot imagine why. You are paid a handsome salary to—’
Pratt’s jaw dropped. ‘You think I am the thief? In God’s name, why? As you say, I am being well paid for my labours, and have no need to soil my hands by stealing.’
‘I just heard you talking to another man in the portico.’
‘Then you are mistaken,’ snapped Pratt. ‘I have been in here all night, because there was a problem with the Great Parlour’s cornices that needed to be resolved by this morning. I have been nowhere near the portico for hours. And if you make accusing remarks again, I shall—’
Chaloner did not wait to hear the rest. He turned and tore back through the house, intending to catch the accomplice instead. He saw him near the wood, identifiable by the sheaf of papers under his arm, and began to race towards him.
‘Hey!’ screamed Pratt, who had followed. ‘How dare you insult me and then race off in the middle of a sentence! I am reporting you to Clarendon!’
Alerted by the tirade, the accomplice fled. Chaloner sprinted after him, but the man had too great a start and quickly disappeared in the undergrowth. Chaloner ran harder, feeling his lame leg burn with the effort, but the wood was an almost impenetrable jungle of saplings and brambles, and he had no idea which direction the fellow might have taken.
He stopped, listening for telltale rustling, but there was only silence. Chaloner had lost him.
Disgusted by his failure, Chaloner made his way back to Clarendon House, where Pratt was briefing the labourers on the work that was to be done that day. Chaloner watched them carefully, but it was impossible to say whether any were the man he had chased through the house. They stared at him with blank faces when he explained what had happened.
‘We saw nothing amiss,’ said Vere. ‘Did we, lads?’
There was a chorus of denials, and Chaloner sensed that even if they had, they would not tell him. They were not well paid, and would almost certainly side with the thief. He persisted, though.
‘These crimes reflect badly on all of you. Who will hire you, when it becomes known that you worked on a site where so many materials have been spirited away?’
‘That is why we have trade guilds,’ said Vere insolently. ‘To protect us from that sort of accusation. We know nothing about anything, and you would do wel
l to remember it.’
There was another growl of agreement. Chaloner started to ask who might have locked him in the strongroom the previous night, but then changed his mind. They were unlikely to confide any suspicions they might harbour, and worse, it might prompt them to try it themselves, seeing it as a convenient way to be rid of a man who posed offensive questions.
When they moved away to begin their work, he turned to Oliver, recalling how Wiseman had castigated Pratt’s gloomy assistant for failing to pay his medical bills. Oliver looked particularly mournful that morning, because he was wearing a hat with a sagging brim that matched his droopy face. Rain poured off it directly down the back of his neck, which may have accounted for at least some of his obvious misery.
‘What about you?’ demanded Chaloner, frustration making him uncharacteristically short with a man who did not deserve it. ‘How can you work here and have no idea of what is happening?’
‘Because I am engrossed in my labours all day,’ replied Oliver, stung. ‘This is a large site and we employ dozens of men – masons, carpenters, plasterers, tile-layers, glaziers. We cannot possibly monitor them all. Besides, the truly amazing fact is that not more has disappeared. It is lonely and isolated at night. A thief’s paradise.’
‘So you have no idea who these felons might be?’ pressed Chaloner.
‘I only wish I did,’ said Oliver fervently. ‘Because I am tired of hearing about them, and would do almost anything to help you lay hold of them – just for some peace.’
The guard was the next to feel the brunt of Chaloner’s exasperation, although the man steadfastly maintained that he had heard and seen nothing of the two men and the ensuing chases, even though Pratt’s indignant yells must surely have been audible. Chaloner caught him out in several inconsistencies, but it made no difference: the soldier was not about to admit that he had witnessed thieves being pursued but had made no effort to help. When Chaloner eventually let him go, Pratt approached, bristling with indignation.
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 22
