Susanna Gregory - The Piccadilly Plot

Kitty paled, and her husband put a protective arm around her shoulders. ‘It was dreadful,’ he said weakly. ‘Leighton was with us, but he said and did nothing . In fact, he looked like the serpent that just tried to eat Lady Castlemaine — evil and dispassionate at the same time.’

‘Do you think he knew what was about to happen?’ asked Chaloner.

Kitty and O’Brien looked at each other. ‘I would not have thought so,’ said O’Brien eventually, although without much conviction. ‘How could he have done?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Kitty cautiously. ‘It must have been an accident. But let us talk about something else. Newell’s death was horrible, and we shall all have nightmares if we persist.’

‘We have been invited to a soirée tomorrow and a reception on Tuesday,’ said O’Brien, forcing a smile. ‘The soirée is at Brodrick’s house, and he promises us a memorable time.’

‘I am sure you will have it,’ said Chaloner, knowing from experience that Brodrick’s parties usually began well, but degenerated as the night progressed and the wine flowed.

‘Tuesday’s event is a pageant to welcome the Swedish ambassador,’ O’Brien went on. This time the grin was more genuine. ‘I do love a good ceremony, and London is very good at them.’

‘Will you be there, Mr Chaloner?’ asked Kitty. ‘Joseph says he will need to be in disguise, to spy on people with wicked intentions. It means he cannot talk to us, lest he gives himself away.’

‘He told us he will be in pursuit of traitors and scoundrels,’ said O’Brien, laughing at the notion. ‘But I cannot imagine there are many of those at White Hall.’

‘You would be surprised,’ murmured Chaloner.

Soon, even those of a scientific bent took their leave, and Chaloner and Thurloe adjourned to a nearby coffee house to discuss their findings. It did not take them long to know that they had uncovered very little in the way of clues, and that most of what they had learned was no more than rumour and speculation.

‘In other words,’ Thurloe concluded grimly, ‘we still do not know who is giving orders to Fitzgerald, or what he intends to do on Wednesday. We also have no idea who wants the Queen blamed for plotting to kill Pratt, although we suspect the culprit will transpire to be an Adventurer.’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner, troubled. ‘But the Queen is an Adventurer, too. So much for loyalty.’

‘She signed the charter and invested money, but that is all. She will never be part of them — at least, not until she produces an heir. My chief suspect is Leighton, on the grounds that he is a sinister individual who may have brought about Newell’s demise with a faulty gun.’

‘Which Harley promptly tossed into the river.’ Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘ My chief suspect for the letters remains Hyde — also an Adventurer. And you did tell me to be wary of him.’

‘I did,’ acknowledged Thurloe. ‘However, he would never do anything to endanger his father — and Clarendon would suffer if the Queen is accused, because he is the one who recommended her as a bride for the King. Of course, there are other members of the Earl’s household …’

‘Dugdale and Edgeman,’ said Chaloner, nodding. ‘They would betray the Earl in an instant if they thought it would benefit them.’

‘So would Kipps.’ Thurloe held up his hand to silence Chaloner’s objections. ‘We will not argue about this, Tom, because there is no point — neither of us has the evidence to prove or disprove our beliefs. All we have is suspicion and conjecture.’

Chaloner accepted his point, and returned to their list of unanswered questions. ‘We still do not know why Fitzgerald took over the Piccadilly Company, either.’

‘I cornered the Janszoons, Meneses and Pratt, but they all claimed a passion for glassware prompted their interest in Lydcott’s business. However, none of them know the first thing about it, which tells me they were lying.’

Chaloner was beginning to feel despondent. ‘We have less than three days before some diabolical plot swings into action, but how are we to prevent it when we are thwarted at every turn? Or worse, locked in vaults with chests of hungry rats.’

Thurloe regarded him sympathetically. ‘My favoured suspect for that piece of nastiness remains Fitzgerald, on the grounds that he is famous for inventing unusual ways to dispatch his victims. Or perhaps the savage imagination is his master’s.’

‘Or Leighton’s, whose indifferent reaction to Newell’s death suggests he is used to gore. Or a brick-thief, because my enquiries are becoming a nuisance. The list is endless.’

Thurloe finished his coffee and stood. ‘I am going to visit a few old haunts in and around Piccadilly, then I shall prod Wallis over decoding Mrs Reyner’s list. Will you come with me?’

‘I wish I could, but I am condemned to spend the afternoon at Clarendon House. I hate the place. If it burned down, do you think the Earl would know I did it?’

‘No, but he would order you to investigate, which would be awkward, to say the least. Do not commit arson just yet, Tom — if you fail to save the Queen and she falls from grace, Clarendon will tumble with her. It is possible that he may not survive to inhabit his mansion.’

‘Is that meant to make me feel better?’ asked Chaloner, shocked.

‘It is an outcome you should bear in mind,’ replied Thurloe soberly. ‘Along with the possibility that Fitzgerald might win this contest. He bested me on innumerable occasions when I was spymaster, and there is no reason to assume he will not do so again.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner with quiet determination. ‘I will not stand by while the Queen is used in so vile a manner. Or the Earl. He may not be much of an employer, but he is all I have.’

Thurloe smiled briefly. ‘Then let us see what we can do to protect them.’

They took a hackney carriage to Piccadilly, where Thurloe disappeared into the dark recesses of the Feathers, and Chaloner walked to Clarendon House. Oliver was just leaving for the day, his dusting completed, while the Earl was still wandering about inside with Frances.

‘I shall spend the rest of the day at home,’ said Oliver, his gloomy face a mask of dejection. ‘Alone, with only my ferret for company. Being an architect’s assistant is a lonely occupation, because the unsociable hours prevent me from meeting ladies …’

‘You have a ferret?’ asked Chaloner, not sure how else to respond to the confidence.

Oliver nodded, and arranged his morose features into what passed as a smile. ‘They are cheaper to feed than dogs, and more affectionate than birds. They also keep a kitchen free of rats, and I cannot abide rats.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner unhappily, as he turned to enter Clarendon House, his mind full of the strongroom and what had happened to him in it.

It was not easy to step inside the mansion, and he was uncomfortably aware of the vast emptiness of the place as he walked through it, treading softly to prevent his footsteps from echoing. He found the Earl and Frances in the Great Parlour, a huge room in one of the wings that was accessed by a set of double doors that were as grand as any in White Hall. It was lit by windows in the ceiling, which would be almost impossible to clean, and there was a ridiculous number of marble pillars and plinths.

‘I do not like it, dear,’ Frances was saying, looking around in dismay. ‘This is the chamber where you and I will spend cosy evenings together, but it is about as snug as a tomb. It does not even have a fireplace. Perhaps we should have hired a different architect.’

‘We shall be very happy here,’ declared the Earl firmly. ‘Ah, there you are, Chaloner. I was beginning to think you had decided to spend the afternoon elsewhere. Have you seen my vault, by the way? You should approve, being mindful of security.’