Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

There was also a possibility that the culprit was someone nearer home. Chief Usher Dugdale would not hesitate to dispatch him, and neither would his crony Edgeman, but were they sufficiently bold to contrive and act out such a diabolical plan? Kipps was, but Chaloner had received nothing but kindness from him, and could not believe that the Seal Bearer meant him harm. And then there was Hyde, who deplored the fact that his father’s household included a spy.

He turned his thoughts to escape. He could not relight the lamp, because he had no tinderbox, so whatever he did would need to be done in the dark. He began to run his fingers over the door, recalling that the vault was the only room in the house that could not be opened with the master key. But it was still secured with a lock, and locks could be picked.

He was just beginning to fear that there might not be one on the inside, when he found it. It was covered by a slip of metal, designed to prevent air from blowing in. He prised it aside with his knife, ridiculously relieved when he detected air on his fingertips. At least he could kneel there and inhale it if the worst came to the worst. He took his probes from his pocket, inserted them into the hole, and began to fiddle.

He soon learned it was a type he had never encountered before, equipped with a strong spring that was beyond his probes’ capabilities. He lost count of the times when he nearly had it turned, only to hear it snap back again. Moreover, the air in the room seemed to be getting thinner, making him light-headed. At one point he sank to the floor, feeling despair begin to consume him, but the sharp teeth of a rat in his hand drove him to his knees again, to start tinkering afresh.

When the lock eventually gave way he wondered whether he had imagined it, but he pushed the door and felt it swing open. The corridor beyond was as dark as the vault, and he still could not see his hand in front of his face. The rats sensed freedom, though, and he heard them surging around him as they retreated to the deeper recesses of the cellars.

Then followed a nightmarish period during which he lurched blindly, trying to locate the steps. When he eventually found them, he ascended as fast as he could, and made for the portico. It took several attempts to insert his key in the front door, and when it opened, he staggered out with a gasp of relief. He leaned against the wall and took a deep breath, relishing the cool, fresh scent of night. By the time he had recovered his composure, he hated Clarendon House more than ever.

The experience had shaken him badly, and he wanted no more than to spend what was left of the evening by a fire with a large jug of wine. He considered going to Long Acre, but the prospect of a cold garret did not appeal: he craved human company. However, he wished he had chosen somewhere other than Tothill Street when he opened the door to his house and immediately sensed an atmosphere.

George was in the kitchen, a picture of serenity with his long legs stretched comfortably towards the hearth and a flagon of ale in his hand. He was in the chair Joan liked to use, and she had been relegated to a far less pleasant seat near the window. Susan was positively cowering, while Nan looked as though she had been crying. George did stand when Chaloner entered the room, but so slowly it was only just on the right side of respect.

‘The mistress will be late tonight,’ said Joan, coolly aloof as always. ‘She baked you a pie, but it is no longer available.’

It was an odd thing to say. ‘Why?’ Chaloner asked. ‘What happened to it?’

‘ He fed it to the neighbour’s pig,’ said Susan, regarding George through eyes that were full of nervous dislike. George stared back at her, his expression disconcertingly neutral. ‘He said he thought it was meant for the slops.’

‘What a pity,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether George expected him to be grateful. If so, then he was going to be disappointed, because Chaloner was not about to be disloyal to his wife. ‘But you all seem merry here together, so I shall leave you in peace.’

He turned to leave but Joan seized his arm, and it was fortunate for her that she was a middle-aged woman, or she might have found herself knocked away with considerable vigour. Chaloner was not in the mood for being manhandled.

‘We are not merry at all,’ she hissed. ‘Indeed, we have not been merry since you hired that horrible footman. If you want to keep Nan, Susan and me, you will dismiss him.’

‘Rat bites,’ said George, making them both jump by speaking close behind them. Chaloner had not heard him approach, and was disconcerted that so large a man should move with such stealth. ‘You should see to that hand, sir. They can be dangerous if left untended.’

Chaloner regarded him sharply. Was there more to the words than concerned advice?

‘Rat bites?’ Joan’s voice was a mixture of revulsion and disapproval, while the maids smirked at this latest evidence of their master’s eccentricity. ‘I shall not ask how you came by them.’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner shortly, and stalked out. He had done no more than slump wearily by the drawing room fire when there was a knock on the front door. He smothered a sigh of annoyance when Wiseman was shown in moments later by a spiteful-faced Joan.

‘He will berate me tomorrow, for not asking whether he was available to receive you,’ she said snidely to the surgeon. ‘But it does him no harm to be sociable on occasion.’

Chaloner shot to his feet. There was only so far he could be goaded by surly servants, but Joan ducked behind Wiseman in alarm, and was gone before he could do more than step towards her.

‘If ever you dismiss that gorgon, I am sure Temperance would take her on,’ said Wiseman, pouring himself a cup of claret from the jug on the table. ‘To keep the club in order.’

‘Take her with you tonight, then,’ said Chaloner, adding pointedly, ‘When you leave.’

Wiseman laughed, wholly unfazed by Chaloner’s sullen temper. ‘Having impudent servants serves you right. Now you know how the Earl feels when you are disrespectful to him.’

‘What do you want, Wiseman?’

The surgeon sat, and stretched his hands towards the flames. ‘Must I have a reason to visit a friend? But perhaps it is as well I came, because you seem unwell. Do you need my services?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Chaloner shortly.

Wiseman reached out and grabbed his wrist. ‘Is that a rat bite?’

Chaloner tried to pull away, but Wiseman’s grip was powerful, and he did not want to free himself at the expense of broken bones. Wiseman rummaged in his bag and produced a pot.

‘Smear that on me, and it will be the last thing you do,’ warned Chaloner. He had learned to his cost that the medical profession invariably did more harm than good, and although Wiseman was generally better than most, he did have a propensity to experiment.

‘It is a salve containing ingredients to combat infection,’ said Wiseman sternly. ‘Any fool knows rat bites can kill. Did you not hear what happened to poor Congett this evening?’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily as the healing paste was slapped on — the big-nosed Adventurer had been in good health at Woolwich earlier. ‘What?’

‘He was found dead by the river tonight, and the only mark on his body was a rat bite on his foot. He must have trodden on it while he was strolling along the shore.’

No self-respecting merchant ‘strolled’ along the banks of the Thames, on the grounds that all manner of filth was washed up on them, not to mention the fact that they were muddy. Chaloner could only assume that Congett was the latest victim in whatever war was raging.

‘His heart must have been weak,’ Wiseman went on. ‘And he died from the shock of it.’