Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

‘Good morning.’ George spoke in a sour, resentful way that said servitude did not come readily to him.

Chaloner nodded acknowledgement of the greeting, for the first time wondering what Hannah expected him to say. He was not going to give George a list of duties for three reasons. First, because there was nothing he wanted done; second because it would imply that she had been right to hire a footman; and third because any instructions he gave would be circumvented by Joan anyway, and then George would be in the unenviable position of choosing which of them to obey.

‘Where were you before you came here, George?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘I spent the last ten years with Colonel Fitzgerald. At sea, mostly.’

‘Ten years is a long time. Why did you leave?’

‘Because he was obliged to reduce the size of his staff, to save money,’ replied George tightly, giving the impression that he resented finding himself unemployed in a city so far from home. ‘My testimonials are excellent, though, if you would care to see them.’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘I do not know Colonel Fitzgerald.’

George raised his eyebrows. ‘But you have heard of him?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner shortly, piqued by the fact that now even foreigners showed themselves to be unimpressed by his knowledge of London and its inhabitants.

George did not seem discomfited by the curt tone. He met his new master’s gaze with a steadiness that bordered on insolence. ‘He is a pirate.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘You think I will be impressed by testimonials from a pirate?’

‘Perhaps privateer would be a better word. He made his fortune by attacking Parliament-owned ships during the Commonwealth. I was his steward.’

‘I assume he lost this fortune, or he would not have been obliged to reduce the size of his household,’ said Chaloner, supposing that the maids had not yet had a chance to gossip to George about their employer’s past allegiances, or the footman would have found another way to describe how he had spent the past decade.

George nodded. ‘His biggest and best ship sank, which bankrupted him. It was fortunate that he and I were ashore at the time, or we would have drowned.’

‘So you are actually a sailor,’ said Chaloner. ‘Not a footman.’

George shrugged. ‘A steward’s duties at sea are not so different from a footman’s on land.’

‘Where is your home?’ asked Chaloner, not sure he agreed.

The ghost of a smile crossed George’s face. ‘Somewhere you have been — Tangier. A fine place, do you not agree?’

‘It has its advantages,’ hedged Chaloner, struggling to think of one. His abiding memories of the place were of uncomfortable heat, dust, flies and a locust jumping on his dinner plate one night.

‘Indeed it does,’ said George softly.

Chaloner’s most pressing duty that day was to begin his investigation into the Tangier massacre by questioning the three scouts. He did not know where they lived, but the Crown in Piccadilly was as good a place as any to start making enquiries, given that he had seen them leaving it the previous morning. But the tavern was closed, and rather than waste time waiting for it to open, he decided to visit Clarendon House first, to see whether any more bricks had been stolen.

He approached with his usual stealth, and was unimpressed when Sergeant Wright and his White Hall soldiers did not notice him until he was standing next to them. Several were rubbing sleep from their eyes, while others reeked of ale. He doubted they had done much in the way of surveillance, and the best the Earl could hope was that their presence had been a deterrent to thieves.

Wright was regaling them with a story of his courage during the civil wars, when he had single-handedly defeated an entire regiment of Parliamentarians and had come close to dispatching Cromwell in the process. They looked bored and disbelieving in equal measure as they huddled around a brazier, waiting for a pot of ale to warm through.

‘Did anything happen last night?’ asked Chaloner, cutting into the tale. He was normally tolerant of men who embellished the truth about what they had done during those uncertain times, when both sides had had their flaws and no one wanted to admit to backing the loser. But there was a difference between exaggeration and brazen lies.

The dough-faced sergeant regarded him frostily, disliking the interruption. ‘No.’

‘You saw and heard nothing?’

‘I said no,’ snapped Wright. ‘Obviously, the villains knew we were here and dared not strike. We are not foppish Roundheads, who would not know what to do if a robber came up and bit him.’

His men sniggered obligingly, and Wright preened, revelling in the role of wit.

‘So the Earl’s supplies are all present and correct?’ pressed Chaloner, rather flattered to hear himself described as foppish. He would have to tell Hannah.

‘Of course,’ replied Wright, with calculated insolence. ‘Where else would they be?’

Chaloner grabbed his arm in a grip that was not only painful, but was difficult to break, and marched him to where the materials were piled. The soldiers watched uneasily, but made no effort to intervene.

‘Count the bricks,’ Chaloner ordered, releasing Wright so abruptly that he stumbled.

Wright’s small eyes took on a vicious cant, and he reached for his knife. Chaloner smiled lazily as he did likewise, and Wright promptly turned to do as he was told, unnerved by the spy’s calm confidence. He was soldier enough to know who would win that confrontation.

The sergeant finished his inventory with some consternation, then started reckoning again. Chaloner waited patiently for him to finish. He had not needed to count to know the pile was lopsided in a way that it had not been the previous day.

‘Some are gone,’ Wright breathed, appalled. Then his expression hardened. ‘ You took them when we were in the tav- when we were patrolling the back of the house. To get us into trouble!’

‘I assure you, I have better things to do.’

‘We could not be everywhere,’ another man bleated. ‘It is a huge site, with gardens as well as a massive house. That makes it easy for thieves. It is not our fault!’

‘How long were you here before you went to the Crown?’ asked Chaloner, not bothering to point out that he had done it for a week on his own.

‘Of course we visited the Crown!’ snarled Wright. ‘That is where Mr Pratt the architect lodges, and we are hired to protect him. We did both duties.’

Chaloner tried another tack. ‘Then how many men guarded Pratt, and how many stayed here?’

‘It varied,’ replied Wright tightly, leaving Chaloner to suspect that most if not all had elected to sit in the tavern. No one was wet and cold, as he had been the previous morning, indicating none had been outdoors for very long.

‘I am telling Clarendon that you pinched his bricks,’ declared Wright, eyeing Chaloner defiantly. ‘You did it for malice, because we are better guards than you. And then you sold them.’

Chaloner did not grace the accusation with a reply, confident in the knowledge that the Earl would not believe it. Clarendon might have a generally low opinion of his intelligencer, but he had never doubted his honesty.

‘He did not steal them,’ said one of the others. ‘Look at his clothes — they are too clean.’

Wright swallowed uneasily. ‘Maybe they are just mislaid, then. We will search the site. You lot look, while I stay here and keep the fire going.’

Muttering resentfully, the guards shuffled away, although Chaloner knew they were wasting their time. He had conducted a thorough search when he had first returned from Tangier, and there was no indication that the missing supplies were being stored in the house or its grounds.