Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

‘God forbid!’ muttered Chaloner, determined to postpone the inevitable for as long as possible.

He took his leave of her and aimed for the front door, but found his path barred by Joan. She evidently considered him less intimidating than his footman, because she pointed wordlessly to the servants’ parlour, where George was enjoying the newly lit fire. Suspecting it would be quicker to do as she asked than to argue, he went to oblige. He closed the door behind him — he might have been coerced into doing what she wanted, but he was damned if he was going to let her listen.

‘The pie was undercooked,’ said George, coming slowly to his feet. His shoulders rippled as he moved, and there was a definite gleam of defiance in his dark eyes.

‘We will never know, will we? You have ensured that no one else is in a position to say.’

‘Shall I leave you a piece next time, then?’ asked George with calculated insolence.

Chaloner declined to be baited. ‘Or you can be wise and leave them alone. Nan might poison them if she thinks they will only end up inside you.’

The glowering expression lifted. ‘I had not considered that possibility. And she is knowledgeable about toxins — it was she who taught me how to deal with the mouse problem.’

‘Have you seen Fitzgerald since you came to work here?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether he could make George admit to being a spy.

‘Of course, but we do not talk. He does not deign to acknowledge minions.’

‘He does not enquire after your well-being? That seems harsh, after ten years of service.’

George looked away. ‘He is not a sentimental man.’

It was like drawing teeth, and while Chaloner enjoyed a challenge, he could not in all conscience waste the day playing games of cat and mouse with his footman. He turned abruptly, opening the parlour door so suddenly that he was obliged to put out a hand to prevent Joan from tumbling in on top of him.

He left quickly after that, thinking about all he had to do. First, talk to Pratt, to assess whether there was any truth in the allegation that he was fabricating the tales of theft from Clarendon House to cover badly calculated estimates. He needed to speak to Oliver, too, and perhaps corner one or two labourers, to see what they knew about the matter. And perhaps more importantly, he wanted to see whether anyone might know who had locked him in the vault.

Next he would tackle Brilliana, to hear what she had to say about one lover killing another, and also ask about her brother’s activities in Tangier. He would then visit St Margaret’s Church in Westminster, in the hope that someone there would know where Cave’s brother lived — perhaps Jacob would be able to shed light on Cave’s quarrel with Elliot. And finally, he would call on Reverend Addison, to assess what he knew about the scouts’ role in Teviot’s death.

And Williamson? The Spymaster might well have information to impart, but it would come at a price. He elected to stay well away from the man. At least for now.

Because he was wearing his best clothes, Chaloner took a hackney carriage to Piccadilly, but even then, he was not entirely protected from the elements. A drenching drizzle caught the soot in the air from the tens of thousands of sea-coal fires that had been lit to start the day, and when he brushed a drop of water from his cuff, it left a long, black smear.

The Crown was in darkness when he alighted. He crept up the stairs to Pratt’s chambers, intending to catch the man before he was fully cognisant, but when he opened the door, it was to find that the architect’s bed had not been slept in. He was just wondering whether he should be concerned, when he heard a sound in the hallway outside. He drew his sword, but it was only Ruth Elliot, pale and white in billowing nightclothes.

‘You should not be out,’ he said, taking her hand and leading her back to her own garret. ‘It is cold.’

‘My husband had a dog,’ she whispered, watching as he knelt by the hearth to build up the fire. ‘My brother says they are both dead, but I do not believe him. I miss them.’

‘He fought a man called Cave,’ said Chaloner, feeling something of a scoundrel for raising the subject with a woman who was so obviously disturbed. ‘Did you know him?’

She shook her head. ‘My brother says he was a singer, though.’

‘Cave has a brother — Jacob. I do not suppose you have ever met him, have you?’

‘No, but I met Mr Fitzgerald last night. He said he would kill me if I kept watching him, so now I have to hide under the bed when he comes. He is a mean man. So are all of them, except Mr Jones, who is kind and smiles a lot. He brings me an apple sometimes.’

‘Stay away from them all,’ advised Chaloner, deciding that nothing would be gained from questioning her further. ‘And lock the door after I have gone.’

It took considerable willpower for Chaloner to approach Clarendon House, and when he did, it was to find it was too early for the workmen, although a solitary guard shivered next to the brazier. The man was making no effort to monitor the premises, but at least he was awake, which was an improvement on previous mornings. Chaloner was about to take shelter under the portico until the labourers arrived when he saw someone was already there. Instinctively, he melted into the shadows until he could ascertain the fellow’s identity. Unfortunately, a cloak and large hat obscured everything except for his general shape. Then a second person appeared.

‘Where have you been?’ the first demanded in a furious hiss. ‘I have been lurking here for ages, and I am chilled to the bone. You have no right to keep me waiting.’

Chaloner eased forward to listen, grateful they were amateurs — professionals would not have conversed in a place that could be approached by eavesdroppers from so many different directions.

‘I had to be sure no one was looking when I arrived,’ snapped the second. ‘As you will appreciate, neither of us can afford to be caught.’

Even though the site was deserted save the soldier, the pair spoke in whispers, and while Chaloner had no trouble hearing their words, he could not identify their voices. And that was a pity, because there was something about both that said he knew them.

‘There is no need to worry,’ the first was breathing. ‘Wright’s guard is hopelessly incompetent. We could make off with the roof and he would not notice.’

‘It would have been better if the thefts had gone undetected altogether,’ said the second curtly. ‘A lot less trouble, and much safer for everyone concerned.’

‘It is Dugdale’s fault. He told Edgeman to monitor the building accounts, and the inconsistencies are obvious once you know what to look for.’

‘I know,’ said the second shortly. ‘But never mind this. Did you bring what I wanted?’

The first handed him a sheaf of papers. ‘I can buy a few bricks, if you think stealing will attract more unwanted attention. As you have already pointed out, neither of us can afford to be caught.’

‘No!’ exclaimed the second. ‘That would tell anyone with half a brain that something untoward is unfolding here. Let me manage this side of matters. I do not want to be hanged just yet.’

‘Do not be so melodramatic!’ said the first disdainfully. ‘We will not be hanged.’

‘For stealing several hundred pounds’ worth of supplies from the Lord Chancellor? I assure you, not even your lofty station will save you — from the disgrace, if not the noose.’

Chaloner strained forward, desperately trying to see or hear something that would tell him who they were, but they had shrouded themselves too effectively. He consoled himself with the fact that at least he would not have to conduct an uncomfortable interview with Pratt about his estimates: the discussion told him that the materials were definitely being pilfered.