Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

Disgusted, he climbed the stairs, treading on the edges, which were less likely to creak and give him away. When he reached Pratt’s door he listened intently but could hear nothing. He tried the handle and was alarmed to find it unlocked. He opened it to see Pratt lying fully clothed on the bed with his mouth agape. Certain he was dead, Chaloner felt for a life-beat, then leapt away in shock when the architect’s eyes fluttered open.

‘Snowflake!’ Pratt purred, raising his arms enticingly. Then he became aware that he was not at Temperance’s brothel. ‘Chaloner? What are you doing here?’

Heart still pounding, Chaloner began to douse the lamps, unwilling to leave so many burning when he left, lest Pratt knocked one over in his drunken clumsiness and started a fire. The thought reminded him of what had happened to the two Adventurers.

‘Did you hear about Turner and Lucas?’ he asked.

‘One wants me to design him a stately home, but I cannot recall which. Lord, my head aches! I should have stayed with Lydcott in Charing Cross tonight. I wish I had, because then you would not be looming over me like the Angel of Death.’

‘Who is Lydcott?’

‘A dear friend. He was a Parliamentarian in the wars, but is a Royalist now — he knows how to survive turbulent times! He is an excellent horseman, too. Did you hear that someone thinks enough of my work to threaten me with death, by the way? Not even Wren has achieved that accolade!’

‘How do you know Harley and Fitzgerald?’ asked Chaloner. The architect was far too haughty to converse with him when he was sober, so it made sense to do it while he was intoxicated.

‘They are members of the Piccadilly Company,’ replied Pratt drowsily. ‘As am I. We trade in glassware and gravel. I have invested heavily, and it will make me richer than ever.’

‘How can gravel be lucrative?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Or glassware, for that matter. There cannot be a massive demand for it in New England, because none of the colonies are very big.’

But Pratt was asleep. Chaloner tried to shake him awake, but he responded only by mumbling more incoherent nonsense about Lydcott. When he began to mutter about Snowflake, too, Chaloner decided it was time to leave.

He was passing the table when he saw the key to Clarendon House, the silken cord still attached. He considered pocketing it, but common sense prevailed — Pratt might remember his visit the following morning, and he did not want to be accused of theft. So, working quickly, he melted a candle into a pill box, and waited for it to set. While it was still malleable, he pressed both sides of the key into it, then eased it out. He cleaned it, put the mould in his pocket, and left as silently as he had arrived. He could not steal Pratt’s key, but he could certainly make one of his own.

Downstairs, he gave Wright the fright of his life by sneaking up behind him and putting a knife to his throat. He kept the sergeant’s cronies at bay by brandishing his sword.

‘You are supposed to be guarding Pratt,’ he informed them shortly. ‘So why is no one outside his door? And who is watching Clarendon House? I have just been there, and it is deserted.’

‘If it is deserted, then there is no need to watch it,’ argued Wright. ‘Let me go, Chaloner, or I will tell Dugdale that you picked a fight with me. He offered to pay me for any bad tales about you.’

Chaloner released him with a shove that made him stagger. ‘Go to the house, or the Earl will learn that he is paying you to sleep in a tavern all night.’

Wright started to draw a knife, but thought better of it when Chaloner pointed the sword at him. Glowering, he slouched out, five of his men at his heels. The others reluctantly abandoned the fire, and went to take up station outside Pratt’s door, although Chaloner doubted they would stay there long once he had gone.

He went home, where the hour candle said it was three o’clock, but although he was tired, he did not feel like going to bed. He went to the drawing room, intending to doze for an hour before resuming his enquiries, but his mind was too active. He took the cipher from his pocket and began to work on it. Unfortunately, while he was too restless for sleep, he was not sufficiently alert for such an exacting task, and it was not long before he gave up. He stared at the empty hearth, then whipped around with a knife in his hand when he became aware of someone standing behind him.

‘I came to light the fire,’ said George, eyeing the blade with a cool disdain that told Chaloner he was more familiar with such situations than was appropriate for a footman in a respectable house.

Chaloner indicated with an irritable flick of his hand that he was to carry on. ‘Please do not creep up on me again. You might find yourself harmed.’

‘I doubt it. Fitzgerald was much freer with weapons than you, and I survived him.’

‘If he attacked you, why did you stay with him for ten years?’

The sour expression on George’s face said Chaloner had touched on a sore point. ‘Ten years! And he dismissed me like so much rubbish.’

If George had behaved as sullenly with the pirate as he did in Tothill Street, then he was lucky he had not suffered a worse fate, thought Chaloner. He changed the subject, sure he would not be given an answer, but supposing there was no harm in trying.

‘What is the nature of Fitzgerald’s current business in London?’ By means of a bribe, he passed George a plug of tobacco he had palmed in Temperance’s club, where the stuff had been lying around for its patrons to enjoy.

George almost snatched it from him, and set about tamping the pipe he pulled from his pocket. ‘He did not tell me, but it will involve death and destruction, because he was singing about it. At sea, he always sang before he attacked another ship.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘I am afraid not,’ replied George, through a haze of smoke.

‘Does he have any powerful friends here? Ones he might refer to as his master?’

George regarded him oddly. ‘Not that I am aware.’

‘You cannot name any of his London acquaintances?’

‘No.’ George regarded Chaloner thoughtfully, then reached inside his shirt and produced an old leather pouch. ‘But if you intend to go after him — as your questions suggest you might — take this.’

‘What is it?’ asked Chaloner, disconcerted that George should read him so easily.

‘Dust from Tangier, which contains something that always sets him to uncontrollable sneezing. It should not affect you, but it will render him helpless.’

Chaloner did not take it. ‘And what am I supposed to do with it?’

‘Throw it in his face, should he decide to come at you.’ George tossed the pouch into Chaloner’s lap. ‘It works, believe me.’

Chaloner was thoughtful as George busied himself at the hearth. He had not forgotten Hannah’s conviction that the footman had been ordered to spy, and George’s inept fiddling with the fire said he was not skilled at the duties that usually went with being a footman. Or a captain’s steward, for that matter. If that were the case, why had he given Chaloner something with which to defeat his former master? Or was it a ploy that would see him in danger?

He doubted a direct enquiry would yield a truthful response, so he sat at the table instead and, recalling his promise to Lester, began to make sketches of Captain Pepperell and Elliot. He had a talent for drawing, and had been trained to remember faces, so it was not long before he had reasonable likenesses. He folded them in half, and as he did not know where Lester lived, told George to take them to Williamson’s offices in Westminster.

‘The Spymaster?’ asked George uneasily. ‘You want me to visit him ?’