Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

‘We will find them,’ predicted Wright confidently. ‘So you had better not go braying to the Earl about them being gone, because it will not be true.’

‘I have no intention of telling him. He does not react well to bad news.’

Wright glowered, but said no more.

‘It is curious, though,’ said Chaloner, more to himself than the sergeant. ‘These thefts started after the walls and roof were finished — when the bulk of the building was completed, and the materials available were considerably reduced. Moreover, it is easy to pilfer items that are stacked outside, but some — like the planks yesterday — disappeared from inside the house.’

‘Supply and demand, mate,’ shrugged Wright. ‘Maybe the villains had no market when the house was in its early stages.’

Chaloner supposed he would have to explore the city with a view to learning who else’s home was being made from fine bricks and oaken planks. It would not be easy, but it represented a lead, and he decided to follow it as soon as he had a free moment.

* * *

It was not long before Pratt arrived, his gloomy assistant Oliver in tow. Reluctantly, Wright confessed that a number of bricks were gone, although he was careful to reiterate that he could not be expected to monitor such a large site and protect the architect with only ten men.

‘Chaloner managed,’ Oliver pointed out. ‘Well, he did not have Pratt to mind, too, but-’

‘And he was just as ineffective,’ interrupted Pratt angrily. ‘Is no one in London capable of doing his job? I have been invited to submit a design for rebuilding St Paul’s Cathedral, but I do not think I shall bother. Not if it entails labouring amid thieves and men who cannot deter them.’

‘Ignore him, Chaloner,’ said Oliver kindly, once the architect had stalked away. ‘He is in a bad mood today, because a lot of carousing in the Crown kept him awake last night. He is thinking of going to stay with a friend in Charing Cross tonight, just to get some sleep.’

‘I found the Crown rather tame, personally,’ said Wright, thus indicating the probable source of the disturbance.

Supposing he had better ensure the rest of the house was in order, Chaloner walked with Oliver towards it. Yet again, he was seized with the notion that it would bring the Earl trouble. It towered above them, as grand as anything owned by the extravagant kings of France, and the doors in the showy portico would not have looked out of place on a cathedral. Pratt was in the process of opening them with a key that, not surprisingly, was identical to the Earl’s.

‘Is it a good idea to have all the locks on the same key?’ asked Chaloner, sure it was not.

Pratt scowled. ‘Do not presume to tell me my business. And anyway, all the locks are not on the same key. The strongroom has one of its own.’

‘Have we told you about the strongroom?’ asked Oliver, his morose visage breaking into what was almost a smile. ‘It is designed so that no air can get inside once the door is shut. In that way, if there is ever a fire, its contents will be protected. It might even save lives, because Clarendon himself could use it, to escape being incinerated.’

‘Yes, but only if he does not mind being suffocated instead,’ Chaloner pointed out.

Oliver’s lugubrious face fell. ‘I had not thought of that.’ He turned to Pratt in some alarm. ‘What does happen if someone is trapped in there?’

Pratt opened his mouth once or twice but did not reply, which told Chaloner that the notion of safety had not crossed his mind, either. Then the architect shrugged. ‘He will yell for help, and someone will come to let him out. However, if it is a villain who is shut inside, then he will die and it will serve him right. Would you like to see it?’

‘No!’ Chaloner had not meant to sound sharp, but he had a deep and abiding horror of cell-like places, which had afflicted him ever since he had been imprisoned in France for espionage.

‘As you please,’ said Pratt stiffly, offended. ‘Are you coming in today, or does the rest of my creation fill you with revulsion, too?’

He turned away before Chaloner could think of a tactful response.

When Chaloner had first been given the task of guarding Clarendon House and its supplies, he had taken the opportunity to explore it thoroughly. It was rigidly symmetrical. There were two rooms to the left, which led to a huge staircase that swept up to the Earl’s bedchamber, and an identical arrangement to the right, which would be used by his wife. Chaloner supposed they should be grateful that they already had all the children they intended to produce, because it would be something of a trek to meet each other in the night. Other rooms on the ground floor were graced with such grand names as the Great Parlour, the Room of Audience, My Lord’s Lobby and the Lawyers’ Library.

The upper storey was equally majestic, although wood panelling and tapestries meant the bedchambers and dressing rooms would be cosier than the stark marble monstrosities below. The attics were above them, with rooms already earmarked as sleeping quarters for the sizeable retinue that would be needed to run the place.

But it was the basement that was the most confusing, and Chaloner had counted at least thirty rooms in it, ranging from kitchens, pantries, butteries and sculleries to laundries and tack rooms. There were also places where servants could work and eat out of sight of the more lofty company above. All were connected by a maze of corridors and hallways. Beneath them were the strongroom and a range of dark, cold cellars.

‘Are you sure you will not see the vault?’ coaxed Oliver, as Chaloner followed him inside. ‘You will be impressed.’

Chaloner was about to decline a second time, when he reconsidered. How much longer were his experiences in France going to haunt him? Determined to overcome what he knew was a foolish weakness, he nodded agreement. Obligingly, Oliver lit a torch and led the way down one flight of steps to the basement and then another to the cellars, chatting amiably as he went. Chaloner was grateful for the monologue, because it concealed the fact that his own breathing was ragged, and that he had to steady himself with one hand against the wall.

At the bottom, there was a long corridor with a floor of beaten earth, which had chambers leading off it, all low-ceilinged, dark spaces that would be used for storage. Two rooms were different, though. One was the purpose-built cavern where the Earl would keep his wine; the second was the vault.

Oliver pushed open the door of the latter to reveal a chamber that was no more than ten feet long and six wide. The door was unusually thick — wood encased in metal — and the internal walls had been lined with lead, which had the curious effect of deadening sound; as Oliver described how the place had been constructed, his voice was strangely muted.

‘The door locks automatically when it is slammed shut. Then it can only be opened with a key.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner quickly, as Oliver started to demonstrate.

Oliver’s sad face creased into a grin. ‘The operative word is slammed . If you close it gently, it can be opened again. Besides, Mr Pratt has the key, and will rescue us if we inadvertently lock ourselves in. All we have to do is yell for help.’

‘You think he will hear us, do you?’ said Chaloner, stepping outside before Oliver could give him a demonstration. ‘If this room really is airtight, we will suffocate long before he realises we are missing.’

Oliver smiled again, to indicate that he thought Chaloner was being melodramatic, and led the way back towards the stairs. Chaloner was silent, wrestling with the uncomfortable notion that he might have to become much more familiar with the strongroom when the Earl was in residence. His duties did include safeguarding his employer’s property, after all.