Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

Without another word, the second man tucked the papers under his arm and began to walk towards the nearby woods, leaving Chaloner debating which of the pair to confront. He opted for the first, the one whose station was ‘lofty’. He knew he had made the right decision when the fellow opened the door with a key — presumably, one of the only two official copies in existence.

Once inside, the man moved confidently, despite the fact that it was dark. Chaloner followed, but trod on a piece of wood, and the crack it made as it broke caused his quarry to whip around in alarm. The fellow started to run and Chaloner lost sight of him as he ducked around a corner. Chaloner ran too, following the sounds of footsteps in the blackness. Eventually, they reached the Lawyer’s Library — the room Pratt was using as an office. Chaloner hurtled towards it and flung open the door.

‘Clarendon will be delighted to know the identity of the man who has been stealing from him,’ he panted, watching the man who was standing inside spin around in shock.

It was Roger Pratt.

‘Have you solved the crime, then?’ asked Pratt, hand to his chest to indicate that he had been given a serious start. ‘Congratulations. But please do not burst in on me like that again. The Earl is keen to keep me alive until his house is finished, and he will not thank you for terrifying me to death.’

He was standing by the desk, and Chaloner was puzzled to note that not only was he not breathless from the chase, but he was not wearing the hat and cloak that had swathed him, either. Nor were the garments in the room. What had he done with them? Chaloner was sure he had not had time to throw them off while running.

‘It is you,’ he said. ‘Although I cannot imagine why. You are paid a handsome salary to-’

Pratt’s jaw dropped. ‘You think I am the thief? In God’s name, why? As you say, I am being well paid for my labours, and have no need to soil my hands by stealing.’

‘I just heard you talking to another man in the portico.’

‘Then you are mistaken,’ snapped Pratt. ‘I have been in here all night, because there was a problem with the Great Parlour’s cornices that needed to be resolved by this morning. I have been nowhere near the portico for hours. And if you make accusing remarks again, I shall-’

Chaloner did not wait to hear the rest. He turned and tore back through the house, intending to catch the accomplice instead. He saw him near the wood, identifiable by the sheaf of papers under his arm, and began to race towards him.

‘Hey!’ screamed Pratt, who had followed. ‘How dare you insult me and then race off in the middle of a sentence! I am reporting you to Clarendon!’

Alerted by the tirade, the accomplice fled. Chaloner sprinted after him, but the man had too great a start and quickly disappeared in the undergrowth. Chaloner ran harder, feeling his lame leg burn with the effort, but the wood was an almost impenetrable jungle of saplings and brambles, and he had no idea which direction the fellow might have taken.

He stopped, listening for telltale rustling, but there was only silence. Chaloner had lost him.

Disgusted by his failure, Chaloner made his way back to Clarendon House, where Pratt was briefing the labourers on the work that was to be done that day. Chaloner watched them carefully, but it was impossible to say whether any were the man he had chased through the house. They stared at him with blank faces when he explained what had happened.

‘We saw nothing amiss,’ said Vere. ‘Did we, lads?’

There was a chorus of denials, and Chaloner sensed that even if they had, they would not tell him. They were not well paid, and would almost certainly side with the thief. He persisted, though.

‘These crimes reflect badly on all of you. Who will hire you, when it becomes known that you worked on a site where so many materials have been spirited away?’

‘That is why we have trade guilds,’ said Vere insolently. ‘To protect us from that sort of accusation. We know nothing about anything, and you would do well to remember it.’

There was another growl of agreement. Chaloner started to ask who might have locked him in the strongroom the previous night, but then changed his mind. They were unlikely to confide any suspicions they might harbour, and worse, it might prompt them to try it themselves, seeing it as a convenient way to be rid of a man who posed offensive questions.

When they moved away to begin their work, he turned to Oliver, recalling how Wiseman had castigated Pratt’s gloomy assistant for failing to pay his medical bills. Oliver looked particularly mournful that morning, because he was wearing a hat with a sagging brim that matched his droopy face. Rain poured off it directly down the back of his neck, which may have accounted for at least some of his obvious misery.

‘What about you?’ demanded Chaloner, frustration making him uncharacteristically short with a man who did not deserve it. ‘How can you work here and have no idea of what is happening?’

‘Because I am engrossed in my labours all day,’ replied Oliver, stung. ‘This is a large site and we employ dozens of men — masons, carpenters, plasterers, tile-layers, glaziers. We cannot possibly monitor them all. Besides, the truly amazing fact is that not more has disappeared. It is lonely and isolated at night. A thief’s paradise.’

‘So you have no idea who these felons might be?’ pressed Chaloner.

‘I only wish I did,’ said Oliver fervently. ‘Because I am tired of hearing about them, and would do almost anything to help you lay hold of them — just for some peace.’

The guard was the next to feel the brunt of Chaloner’s exasperation, although the man steadfastly maintained that he had heard and seen nothing of the two men and the ensuing chases, even though Pratt’s indignant yells must surely have been audible. Chaloner caught him out in several inconsistencies, but it made no difference: the soldier was not about to admit that he had witnessed thieves being pursued but had made no effort to help. When Chaloner eventually let him go, Pratt approached, bristling with indignation.

‘Are you going to apologise for calling me a thief?’ he demanded.

Chaloner nodded slowly. Pratt could not be the culprit, because Chaloner would have noticed if the architect had removed hat and cloak during the chase, so the only place he could have divested was the library. But there had been no garments there, so logic dictated that Pratt was innocent, and the real villain must have hidden in an alcove while Chaloner had flown past. Moreover, the chase had left Chaloner breathing hard, but Pratt had not been panting.

On the other hand, it had been Pratt’s furious diatribe that had warned the accomplice to run, and his occupation probably kept him reasonably fit, so there was nothing to say he would be reduced to a wheezing wreck after a short sprint.

‘Where are your bodyguards?’ asked Chaloner, his mind a confused jumble.

‘They left at dawn. Incidentally, I often work here at night, because it gives me an opportunity to feel the house — to assess whether its proportions are correct.’

‘In the dark?’ asked Chaloner sceptically.

‘Of course. Or do you imagine Clarendon will only live here when it is light? The ambience of a house at night is just as important as its looks during the day.’

Chaloner supposed the claim was plausible. Just. Irritably, he shoved past Pratt and walked to the library. With the architect grumbling acidly behind him, he searched the rooms and the corridors he had run through, but there was no discarded hat and cloak.

‘Satisfied?’ demanded Pratt. ‘Perhaps you would like to inspect each panel, to see whether this mysterious intruder hid himself in one of the knots. Or perhaps he wriggled though a crack in the plaster on the ceiling.’