Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

When he went to resume his discussion with George, the footman had gone. Was he already on his way to report the conversation to Fitzgerald — or whoever else had ordered him to spy? Chaloner finished the milk, took more because he knew it would annoy Joan, and retired upstairs, sure Hannah would be awake by now.

She was only just beginning to stir, which was impressive given the racket that had been made by the duelling cats and by Joan over the rat. He was glad he did not sleep so soundly, certain he would have been dead long ago if he had.

‘Did I hear you scraping on that horrible viol?’ she asked accusingly.

Chaloner said nothing, but wondered why his playing should have disturbed her, when all the other sounds had not.

‘I wish you had learned the flageolet instead,’ she went on. ‘Those are much nicer.’

He changed the subject quickly: they would fall out for certain if they debated the relative merits of flageolets and viols. ‘Could Meneses have hidden those letters in the Queen’s purses?’

Hannah blinked, startled by such a question out of the blue. ‘No. He is a man, and we do not allow those in Her Majesty’s dressing rooms. It would not be decent. Where are you going?’

‘Church,’ replied Chaloner, suddenly seized with the desire to be out of the house.

‘Good. You can take the servants. I want people to know we have an exotic footman.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Hannah,’ snapped Chaloner, unable to help himself. ‘He is not a performing bear. He may not even be Christian.’

Hannah stared at him. He rarely lost his temper with her, not even when he was seriously angry. Her expression darkened. ‘If you cannot be civil, Thomas, it is wiser to say nothing at all.’

Chaloner rubbed his head, itching to retort that she should heed her own advice, especially in the mornings, but he was not equal to the argument that would follow. ‘You were home late last night,’ he said, changing the subject again in the interests of matrimonial harmony.

‘Because Meneses would not leave. Perhaps he did plant those letters, although I cannot imagine how. Or why, come to that — he will not gain anything if the Queen is accused of plotting to kill the vainest man in London. Incidentally, I caught Susan poking about in your pen-box when I came home last night. I hope you do not keep anything sensitive in there.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Did she explain what she was doing?’

Hannah looked away. ‘It seems you were right to distrust her. She has been accepting money from someone to spy on you. She would not say who.’

Chaloner aimed for the door. ‘Where is she?’

‘Gone. I ordered her out of the house immediately, never to return.’

Chaloner smothered a sigh. ‘It would have been better to question her first.’

‘I did question her. And I just told you all she said. Besides, I did not want her in our home a moment longer.’

There was no point quarrelling over a fait accompli, so Chaloner bowed in an absurdly formal manner and took his leave, pausing only to hide the scrap of cipher in one of his old boots, an article so grimly shabby that he was certain no one would ever be inclined to investigate within. Perhaps such a precaution was unnecessary now Susan was exposed, but he had not forgotten George’s suspicious behaviour or the fact that Joan had made a beeline for the document when it had been left on the table. As far as he was concerned, he trusted no one in his house. Not even, he realised with a pang, his wife.

Because London was terrified of religious fanatics — defined as anyone who did not follow traditional Anglican rites — Chaloner had no choice but to go to church that Sunday. The vergers made lists of absentees, and he did not want to draw attention to himself by playing truant. He could not afford to lose two hours that day, though, so he exchanged friendly greetings with the sexton in St Margaret’s porch until he was sure his name had been recorded in the register, then escaped through the vestry door before the ceremonies began.

Yet he resented the fact that such deception was necessary, feeling he had fought a series of wars to end such dictates. The injustice of the situation gnawed at him as he walked to Worcester House — exacerbated by his irritation with Hannah, George and Susan — so that by the time he arrived to ask the Earl whether Meneses had been Governor of Tangier, he was in a black mood.

He stalked past the guards and rapped on the study door with considerable force. It was opened cautiously by Edgeman, who sighed his relief when he recognised the visitor.

‘It is all right,’ the secretary called over his shoulder. ‘It is only Chaloner.’

‘It was such an imperious knock that I thought it was Parliament come to impeach me,’ said the Earl, putting his hand on his chest to indicate he had been given a fright. He was sitting by the fire, and Oliver and Dugdale were standing to attention in front of him.

‘It is unbecoming for an usher to pound on his master’s doors,’ admonished Dugdale. He looked seedy that morning, so his rebuke lacked the venom it would usually carry. ‘You made us all jump.’

‘My apologies,’ said Chaloner insincerely. He glanced at Oliver, thinking he had never seen the assistant architect in Worcester House before. It was the Earl who explained.

‘Pratt has gone to view the Collection of Curiosities that is the talk of all London, so Oliver has come to give me my daily report instead.’

‘The Earl refers to the exhibition near St Paul’s Cathedral,’ Oliver elaborated, although Chaloner recalled Farr telling him about it and reading the advertisment for it in the newsbook, so needed no explanation. An expression of gloom settled over the assistant architect’s long face as he continued. ‘And everyone who is anyone will be there today. Except me — I am the only man in the city who is not invited.’

‘That is untrue,’ said the Earl kindly. ‘I have not been asked to attend, and neither has anyone else from my household.’

Dugdale and Edgeman exchanged a smug glance that said he was wrong.

‘The rich and the famous,’ Oliver went on morosely. ‘Earls, barons and fêted merchants. Great people like Leighton, O’Brien, Kitty, Meneses and Brodrick. And Pratt, of course. But I shall be at Clarendon House, dusting banisters before the labourers return to work tomorrow.’

‘Being in Clarendon House is not that bad,’ objected the Earl, offended. ‘It is a fine place to spend a Sunday morning. Indeed, I shall be there myself in an hour.’

Oliver brightened. ‘Will you, sir? Some company would be nice.’

‘I shall bring a jug of wine, and you can show me around,’ elaborated the Earl graciously. Oliver cracked what was almost a smile. ‘So go and make everything ready. My wife and I will join you as soon as she is ready. We are expected at church this morning, but we shall attend this afternoon, instead. No sacrifice is too great where my house is concerned.’

‘You should not have yielded, sir,’ chided Dugdale, after Oliver had shuffled out. ‘It is not your responsibility to create a merry workforce. I never make any concessions in that direction myself. Indeed, I keep my ushers in line by ensuring that they are as unhappy as I can possibly make them.’

He had certainly done that, thought Chaloner, watching the Earl’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the bald confession. Dugdale started to add something else, but the Earl flapped a pudgy hand to indicate he should leave. The Chief Usher grimaced his indignation at the curt dismissal, and the bow he gave as he left was shallow enough to be impertinent. Edgeman scurried after him.

‘Well?’ asked the Earl, when the door had closed. ‘Who is stealing my bricks? And have you identified the villain who wants to kill Pratt? You are fast running out of time.’