‘She means “meritorious”,’ explained Thurloe quickly. ‘An easy mistake, even for native English speakers. She intended a compliment, not an insult.’
‘I do not need interpolation,’ she objected indignantly. ‘My English is excellent.’
‘It is excellent,’ said Lady Castlemaine, regarding Thurloe coolly. ‘Which means she knew exactly what she was saying – and it was nothing polite.’
Thurloe bowed to her, then took Margareta’s arm and ushered her away, aiming for the giant’s thigh-bone, an object that clearly had once been part of a cow. Janszoon followed, and so did the three guards. Chaloner thought the couple was right to ensure that someone was there to protect them, given that they seemed unable to speak without causing offence.
‘What an extraordinarily ugly creature,’ said Lydcott, glancing up at Chaloner and then returning his gaze to the moon fish. ‘Do you think God was intoxicated when He created it?’
‘Is Fitzgerald here?’ asked Chaloner. God’s drinking habits were certainly not something he was prepared to discuss in a public place. Men had been executed for less.
‘No – he came last week.’ Lydcott turned to him suddenly, his expression earnest. ‘Thurloe says the Piccadilly Company is being used to disguise some great wickedness engineered by Fitzgerald, and I have been thinking about his claims ever since. Indeed, I spent most of last night doing it.’
‘And what did you conclude?’
‘That he is mistaken. I admit that I am sent more frequently than anyone else to fetch refreshments, but I cannot believe they use the opportunity to plot terrible things. He is wrong.’
‘Have you ever heard them discussing an event planned for this coming Wednesday?’
Lydcott shook his head. ‘Not specifically. Why?’
‘It might be a good idea for you to leave London,’ said Chaloner, suspecting Thurloe’s gentle wife would be heartbroken if anything were to happen to her silly brother. ‘For your own safety.’
‘No,’ stated Lydcott emphatically. ‘For the first time in my life I am involved in a successful venture, and I am not going to abandon it just because Thurloe dislikes Fitzgerald. Besides, if he is right – which I am sure he is not – then staying here will allow me to thwart whatever it is. It is still my business, so I have some say in what happens.’
Chaloner doubted it. ‘It is too risky to—’
‘Pratt is coming our way,’ interrupted Lydcott. ‘We had better talk about something else, because he has invested a lot of money with us, and I do not want him to withdraw it, just because my brother-in-law is a worrier. Pratt! Did you find the key you lost?’
‘What key?’ asked Chaloner in alarm.
‘The one to Clarendon House,’ replied Pratt, reaching inside his shirt and producing it. He glared at Lydcott. ‘And it was not lost. It was mislaid – dropped between two floorboards.’
‘What if you had lost it?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Would you cut a copy from the Earl’s?’
‘Certainly not! More keys mean decreased security. I argued against there being more than one in the first place, but the Earl overrode me. Still, it is his house, so I suppose he has a right to two if he wants them.’
‘I am sure he will be pleased to hear it,’ said Chaloner.
Pratt and Lydcott did not stay with Chaloner long – they went to talk to the Janszoons. Thurloe bowed and left quickly, unwilling to risk being unmasked by his foolish brother-in-law. Chaloner retreated behind the tank holding the eel-like remora to watch the gathering, noting that two other Piccadilly Company members had gravitated towards each other, too – Harley was with Meneses.
Lester had also arrived, apparently hoping for an opportunity to further his investigation. Chaloner winced when Thurloe homed in on him, and could tell by the bemused expression on the captain’s face that he was being interrogated with some vigour.
Meanwhile, a clot of Adventurers clustered around Leighton, listening politely as he pontificated. Swaddell was among them, but there was a distance between him and the others, and it was clear that he would never be fully trusted. He was wasting his time, and Chaloner thought he should cut his losses and return to Williamson.
Then O’Brien and Kitty appeared, at which point Leighton abandoned his companions and scuttled to greet them. O’Brien was all boyish enthusiasm for the exhibits, although Kitty’s eyes filled with compassionate tears at the plight of the hapless moon fish.
‘If you join the Adventurers, you will receive many invitations like this one,’ Chaloner heard Leighton whisper to them. ‘You will spend all your time in high society.’
‘That would be pleasant.’ There was real yearning in O’Brien’s voice. ‘But Kitty says we cannot join an organisation that profits from slavery. And she is right. It is unethical to—’
‘Mr O’Brien!’ The speaker was Lady Castlemaine, who swept forward with a predatory smile. ‘Do come and inspect the salamanders with me. You can tell me all about them, I am sure.’
‘It is astonishing how our wealth makes us instant experts with opinions worth hearing,’ Kitty remarked to Leighton as she prepared to follow. ‘Last year, when we had less of it, no one was very interested in what we thought.’
Leighton opened his mouth to respond, but Kitty had gone, leaving him alone. Chaloner started to move away too, but suddenly Leighton was next to him. The Adventurers’ secretary gestured to the remora, which floated miserably in water that was every bit as foul as that of the moon fish.
‘We should all take a lesson from this sorry beast,’ he said softly. ‘It ventured into a place where it should not have gone, and it is now a thing to be laughed at by fools.’
Chaloner was not entirely sure what he meant. Had he just been warned off? Or informed that the Court comprised a lot of idiots? He realised that one of the most unsettling things about Leighton was the fact that he was near-impossible to read. Was he dangerous, as so many people believed, with ties to the criminal world in which he was said to have made his fortune? Or was he just a clever courtier with hidden depths?
‘Is it dead?’ asked Leighton, still staring at the fish. ‘Or just pretending?’
‘Speaking of dead things, I understand you witnessed an accident,’ said Chaloner. ‘Newell.’
Leighton’s eyes bored into Chaloner’s with such intensity that it was difficult not to look away. ‘Apparently, the trigger needed no more than a breath to set it off, and he had a heavy hand.’
‘Do you think someone ordered it made so?’ asked Chaloner, recalling the conversation in the gunsmiths’ shop, where Leighton had gone to have his own weapon adjusted in just such a manner.
‘I imagine its owner did not want to be yanking like the devil while his life was in danger. But Newell was a professional soldier, who should have been more careful. Incidentally, Harley was so distressed by his companion’s demise that he hurled the offending weapon into the river. It was unfortunate, because now no one can examine it.’
He scuttled away, leaving Chaloner with a mind full of questions. Chaloner looked for Harley, and saw him studying a device that claimed to launch arrows so poisonous that the victim would be dead before he hit the ground. Fortunately, it was encased in thick glass, because the devil-eyed colonel looked as though nothing would give him greater pleasure than to snatch it up and launch a few into the throng that surged around him.
‘I was sorry to hear about Newell,’ said Chaloner, watching him jump at the voice so close to his ear. ‘You must feel uneasy, now you are the only Tangier scout left alive.’
Harley glowered. ‘Newell and Reyner were careless. I am not.’
Chaloner raised his hands placatingly. ‘I am not the enemy. And if you had let me help you last week, you might not be missing two friends now.’
Harley sneered. ‘I am not discussing Teviot, so you had better back off, or your corpse will be the next Curiosity to attract the attention of these ghouls.’
Chaloner was unmoved by the threat. ‘You threw the gun
that killed Newell in the river. Why?’
Harley’s scowl deepened. ‘I should have kept it, to identify the bastard who gave it to him, but I was angry. The trigger had been set to go off at the slightest touch, and not even an experienced soldier stood a chance. But I am not discussing that with you, either. It is none of your affair.’
‘Perhaps we can talk about Jane instead, then,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘Carrying gravel.’
Harley stared at him, eyes blazing. ‘Do you want to die? Is that why you insist on meddling with matters that do not concern you?’
‘They do concern me,’ argued Chaloner. ‘I am interested in gravel. And fine glassware.’
‘Then buy a book about them,’ snapped Harley curtly. ‘And—’
They both turned at a shriek from the Lady, who had managed to slide her hand inside the case that held the ‘Twenty-foot Serpent’ to see whether it was alive. It was, and objected to being poked. Her fast reactions had saved her from serious harm, but the creature had drawn blood. Harley escaped in the ensuing commotion, after which there was a general exodus as the Court moved on to its next entertainment. It was not long before only those genuinely interested in science remained. They included Kitty and O’Brien, so Chaloner went to see what they could tell him about Newell.
They were inspecting the ‘Ant Beare of Brasil’, a sleek creature with a long snout and three legs, although there was nothing to tell the visitor whether all members of that species were tripedal, or just that particular individual.
‘Have you ever been to Brazil, Chaloner?’ asked O’Brien amiably.
‘It is full of plantations,’ said Kitty in distaste. ‘Run on slave labour – which is wicked.’
‘Leighton is still trying to persuade us to become Adventurers,’ said O’Brien unhappily. ‘The irony is that we were keen to join last year, but our copper sales had not made us rich enough, and we were rejected. Now we have ample funds, but have learned that it is an unethical venture – although their social events are certainly enticing.’
‘Leighton pesters us constantly to join,’ said Kitty. ‘Horrible man!’
‘I understand that you had another unpleasant experience recently, too,’ said Chaloner. ‘You saw Newell killed in St James’s Park.’
Kitty paled, and her husband put a protective arm around her shoulders. ‘It was dreadful,’ he said weakly. ‘Leighton was with us, but he said and did nothing. In fact, he looked like the serpent that just tried to eat Lady Castlemaine – evil and dispassionate at the same time.’
‘Do you think he knew what was about to happen?’ asked Chaloner.
Kitty and O’Brien looked at each other. ‘I would not have thought so,’ said O’Brien eventually, although without much conviction. ‘How could he have done?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Kitty cautiously. ‘It must have been an accident. But let us talk about something else. Newell’s death was horrible, and we shall all have nightmares if we persist.’
‘We have been invited to a soirée tomorrow and a reception on Tuesday,’ said O’Brien, forcing a smile. ‘The soirée is at Brodrick’s house, and he promises us a memorable time.’
‘I am sure you will have it,’ said Chaloner, knowing from experience that Brodrick’s parties usually began well, but degenerated as the night progressed and the wine flowed.
‘Tuesday’s event is a pageant to welcome the Swedish ambassador,’ O’Brien went on. This time the grin was more genuine. ‘I do love a good ceremony, and London is very good at them.’
‘Will you be there, Mr Chaloner?’ asked Kitty. ‘Joseph says he will need to be in disguise, to spy on people with wicked intentions. It means he cannot talk to us, lest he gives himself away.’
‘He told us he will be in pursuit of traitors and scoundrels,’ said O’Brien, laughing at the notion. ‘But I cannot imagine there are many of those at White Hall.’
‘You would be surprised,’ murmured Chaloner.
Soon, even those of a scientific bent took their leave, and Chaloner and Thurloe adjourned to a nearby coffee house to discuss their findings. It did not take them long to know that they had uncovered very little in the way of clues, and that most of what they had learned was no more than rumour and speculation.
‘In other words,’ Thurloe concluded grimly, ‘we still do not know who is giving orders to Fitzgerald, or what he intends to do on Wednesday. We also have no idea who wants the Queen blamed for plotting to kill Pratt, although we suspect the culprit will transpire to be an Adventurer.’
‘Yes,’ said Chaloner, troubled. ‘But the Queen is an Adventurer, too. So much for loyalty.’
‘She signed the charter and invested money, but that is all. She will never be part of them – at least, not until she produces an heir. My chief suspect is Leighton, on the grounds that he is a sinister individual who may have brought about Newell’s demise with a faulty gun.’
‘Which Harley promptly tossed into the river.’ Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘My chief suspect for the letters remains Hyde – also an Adventurer. And you did tell me to be wary of him.’
‘I did,’ acknowledged Thurloe. ‘However, he would never do anything to endanger his father – and Clarendon would suffer if the Queen is accused, because he is the one who recommended her as a bride for the King. Of course, there are other members of the Earl’s household …’
‘Dugdale and Edgeman,’ said Chaloner, nodding. ‘They would betray the Earl in an instant if they thought it would benefit them.’
‘So would Kipps.’ Thurloe held up his hand to silence Chaloner’s objections. ‘We will not argue about this, Tom, because there is no point – neither of us has the evidence to prove or disprove our beliefs. All we have is suspicion and conjecture.’
Chaloner accepted his point, and returned to their list of unanswered questions. ‘We still do not know why Fitzgerald took over the Piccadilly Company, either.’
‘I cornered the Janszoons, Meneses and Pratt, but they all claimed a passion for glassware prompted their interest in Lydcott’s business. However, none of them know the first thing about it, which tells me they were lying.’
Chaloner was beginning to feel despondent. ‘We have less than three days before some diabolical plot swings into action, but how are we to prevent it when we are thwarted at every turn? Or worse, locked in vaults with chests of hungry rats.’
Thurloe regarded him sympathetically. ‘My favoured suspect for that piece of nastiness remains Fitzgerald, on the grounds that he is famous for inventing unusual ways to dispatch his victims. Or perhaps the savage imagination is his master’s.’
‘Or Leighton’s, whose indifferent reaction to Newell’s death suggests he is used to gore. Or a brick-thief, because my enquiries are becoming a nuisance. The list is endless.’
Thurloe finished his coffee and stood. ‘I am going to visit a few old haunts in and around Piccadilly, then I shall prod Wallis over decoding Mrs Reyner’s list. Will you come with me?’
‘I wish I could, but I am condemned to spend the afternoon at Clarendon House. I hate the place. If it burned down, do you think the Earl would know I did it?’
‘No, but he would order you to investigate, which would be awkward, to say the least. Do not commit arson just yet, Tom – if you fail to save the Queen and she falls from grace, Clarendon will tumble with her. It is possible that he may not survive to inhabit his mansion.’
‘Is that meant to make me feel better?’ asked Chaloner, shocked.
‘It is an outcome you should bear in mind,’ replied Thurloe soberly. ‘Along with the possibility that Fitzgerald might win this contest. He bested me on innumerable occasions when I was spymaster, and there is no reason to assume he will not do so again.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner with quiet determination. ‘I will not stand by while the Queen is used in so vile a manner. Or the Earl. He may not be much of an employer, but he is all I have.’
Thurloe smiled briefly. ‘Then let us see what we can do to protect them.’<
br />
They took a hackney carriage to Piccadilly, where Thurloe disappeared into the dark recesses of the Feathers, and Chaloner walked to Clarendon House. Oliver was just leaving for the day, his dusting completed, while the Earl was still wandering about inside with Frances.
‘I shall spend the rest of the day at home,’ said Oliver, his gloomy face a mask of dejection. ‘Alone, with only my ferret for company. Being an architect’s assistant is a lonely occupation, because the unsociable hours prevent me from meeting ladies …’
‘You have a ferret?’ asked Chaloner, not sure how else to respond to the confidence.
Oliver nodded, and arranged his morose features into what passed as a smile. ‘They are cheaper to feed than dogs, and more affectionate than birds. They also keep a kitchen free of rats, and I cannot abide rats.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner unhappily, as he turned to enter Clarendon House, his mind full of the strongroom and what had happened to him in it.
It was not easy to step inside the mansion, and he was uncomfortably aware of the vast emptiness of the place as he walked through it, treading softly to prevent his footsteps from echoing. He found the Earl and Frances in the Great Parlour, a huge room in one of the wings that was accessed by a set of double doors that were as grand as any in White Hall. It was lit by windows in the ceiling, which would be almost impossible to clean, and there was a ridiculous number of marble pillars and plinths.
‘I do not like it, dear,’ Frances was saying, looking around in dismay. ‘This is the chamber where you and I will spend cosy evenings together, but it is about as snug as a tomb. It does not even have a fireplace. Perhaps we should have hired a different architect.’
‘We shall be very happy here,’ declared the Earl firmly. ‘Ah, there you are, Chaloner. I was beginning to think you had decided to spend the afternoon elsewhere. Have you seen my vault, by the way? You should approve, being mindful of security.’
‘Mr Kipps spent a lot of time inspecting it on Friday,’ said Frances, smiling a greeting at the spy. ‘He was greatly admiring of it, and said it is the safest depository in London.’
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 28
