Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

‘What key?’ asked Chaloner in alarm.

‘The one to Clarendon House,’ replied Pratt, reaching inside his shirt and producing it. He glared at Lydcott. ‘And it was not lost . It was mislaid — dropped between two floorboards.’

‘What if you had lost it?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Would you cut a copy from the Earl’s?’

‘Certainly not! More keys mean decreased security. I argued against there being more than one in the first place, but the Earl overrode me. Still, it is his house, so I suppose he has a right to two if he wants them.’

‘I am sure he will be pleased to hear it,’ said Chaloner.

Pratt and Lydcott did not stay with Chaloner long — they went to talk to the Janszoons. Thurloe bowed and left quickly, unwilling to risk being unmasked by his foolish brother-in-law. Chaloner retreated behind the tank holding the eel-like remora to watch the gathering, noting that two other Piccadilly Company members had gravitated towards each other, too — Harley was with Meneses.

Lester had also arrived, apparently hoping for an opportunity to further his investigation. Chaloner winced when Thurloe homed in on him, and could tell by the bemused expression on the captain’s face that he was being interrogated with some vigour.

Meanwhile, a clot of Adventurers clustered around Leighton, listening politely as he pontificated. Swaddell was among them, but there was a distance between him and the others, and it was clear that he would never be fully trusted. He was wasting his time, and Chaloner thought he should cut his losses and return to Williamson.

Then O’Brien and Kitty appeared, at which point Leighton abandoned his companions and scuttled to greet them. O’Brien was all boyish enthusiasm for the exhibits, although Kitty’s eyes filled with compassionate tears at the plight of the hapless moon fish.

‘If you join the Adventurers, you will receive many invitations like this one,’ Chaloner heard Leighton whisper to them. ‘You will spend all your time in high society.’

‘That would be pleasant.’ There was real yearning in O’Brien’s voice. ‘But Kitty says we cannot join an organisation that profits from slavery. And she is right. It is unethical to-’

‘Mr O’Brien!’ The speaker was Lady Castlemaine, who swept forward with a predatory smile. ‘Do come and inspect the salamanders with me. You can tell me all about them, I am sure.’

‘It is astonishing how our wealth makes us instant experts with opinions worth hearing,’ Kitty remarked to Leighton as she prepared to follow. ‘Last year, when we had less of it, no one was very interested in what we thought.’

Leighton opened his mouth to respond, but Kitty had gone, leaving him alone. Chaloner started to move away too, but suddenly Leighton was next to him. The Adventurers’ secretary gestured to the remora, which floated miserably in water that was every bit as foul as that of the moon fish.

‘We should all take a lesson from this sorry beast,’ he said softly. ‘It ventured into a place where it should not have gone, and it is now a thing to be laughed at by fools.’

Chaloner was not entirely sure what he meant. Had he just been warned off? Or informed that the Court comprised a lot of idiots? He realised that one of the most unsettling things about Leighton was the fact that he was near-impossible to read. Was he dangerous, as so many people believed, with ties to the criminal world in which he was said to have made his fortune? Or was he just a clever courtier with hidden depths?

‘Is it dead?’ asked Leighton, still staring at the fish. ‘Or just pretending?’

‘Speaking of dead things, I understand you witnessed an accident,’ said Chaloner. ‘Newell.’

Leighton’s eyes bored into Chaloner’s with such intensity that it was difficult not to look away. ‘Apparently, the trigger needed no more than a breath to set it off, and he had a heavy hand.’

‘Do you think someone ordered it made so?’ asked Chaloner, recalling the conversation in the gunsmiths’ shop, where Leighton had gone to have his own weapon adjusted in just such a manner.

‘I imagine its owner did not want to be yanking like the devil while his life was in danger. But Newell was a professional soldier, who should have been more careful. Incidentally, Harley was so distressed by his companion’s demise that he hurled the offending weapon into the river. It was unfortunate, because now no one can examine it.’

He scuttled away, leaving Chaloner with a mind full of questions. Chaloner looked for Harley, and saw him studying a device that claimed to launch arrows so poisonous that the victim would be dead before he hit the ground. Fortunately, it was encased in thick glass, because the devil-eyed colonel looked as though nothing would give him greater pleasure than to snatch it up and launch a few into the throng that surged around him.

‘I was sorry to hear about Newell,’ said Chaloner, watching him jump at the voice so close to his ear. ‘You must feel uneasy, now you are the only Tangier scout left alive.’

Harley glowered. ‘Newell and Reyner were careless. I am not.’

Chaloner raised his hands placatingly. ‘I am not the enemy. And if you had let me help you last week, you might not be missing two friends now.’

Harley sneered. ‘I am not discussing Teviot, so you had better back off, or your corpse will be the next Curiosity to attract the attention of these ghouls.’

Chaloner was unmoved by the threat. ‘You threw the gun that killed Newell in the river. Why?’

Harley’s scowl deepened. ‘I should have kept it, to identify the bastard who gave it to him, but I was angry. The trigger had been set to go off at the slightest touch, and not even an experienced soldier stood a chance. But I am not discussing that with you, either. It is none of your affair.’

‘Perhaps we can talk about Jane instead, then,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘Carrying gravel.’

Harley stared at him, eyes blazing. ‘Do you want to die? Is that why you insist on meddling with matters that do not concern you?’

‘They do concern me,’ argued Chaloner. ‘I am interested in gravel. And fine glassware.’

‘Then buy a book about them,’ snapped Harley curtly. ‘And-’

They both turned at a shriek from the Lady, who had managed to slide her hand inside the case that held the ‘Twenty-foot Serpent’ to see whether it was alive. It was, and objected to being poked. Her fast reactions had saved her from serious harm, but the creature had drawn blood. Harley escaped in the ensuing commotion, after which there was a general exodus as the Court moved on to its next entertainment. It was not long before only those genuinely interested in science remained. They included Kitty and O’Brien, so Chaloner went to see what they could tell him about Newell.

They were inspecting the ‘Ant Beare of Brasil’, a sleek creature with a long snout and three legs, although there was nothing to tell the visitor whether all members of that species were tripedal, or just that particular individual.

‘Have you ever been to Brazil, Chaloner?’ asked O’Brien amiably.

‘It is full of plantations,’ said Kitty in distaste. ‘Run on slave labour — which is wicked.’

‘Leighton is still trying to persuade us to become Adventurers,’ said O’Brien unhappily. ‘The irony is that we were keen to join last year, but our copper sales had not made us rich enough, and we were rejected. Now we have ample funds, but have learned that it is an unethical venture — although their social events are certainly enticing.’

‘Leighton pesters us constantly to join,’ said Kitty. ‘Horrible man!’

‘I understand that you had another unpleasant experience recently, too,’ said Chaloner. ‘You saw Newell killed in St James’s Park.’