The Piccadilly Plot (22 page)

As Temperance and Chaloner rarely shared the same opinions, he was surprised that her assessment of Cave was the same as his
own – the singer had made no effort to be pleasant on the voyage from Tangier, and had endured Chaloner’s company only because
he played the viol. It had suited Chaloner, though; he had not extended himself to be sociable, either.

‘What else do you know about him?’

‘Nothing, because he only ever talked about music. He was a bore, to tell you the truth.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘The Chapel
Royal choir are going to sing at his burial, and that alone will encourage many to come. They are extremely good.’

‘The best in the country,’ agreed Chaloner, deciding to do whatever was necessary to secure a place at the ceremony. He told
himself it was to explore Cave’s peculiar death, even though he knew nothing could be accomplished while the service was underway.

‘Do not worry about Hannah,’ said Temperance kindly a short while later, as she was accompanying him to the front door. ‘I
know many couples who dislike each other, yet still function perfectly well together in society. You will soon work out rules
and boundaries.’

‘I do not dislike Hannah,’ exclaimed Chaloner, startled.

‘No,’ said Temperance softly. ‘Not yet.’

Chaloner did not feel like returning to Tothill Street after Temperance’s bleak remarks, and found himself walking towards
Piccadilly instead. It was cold after the muggy heat of the club, so he strode briskly to keep the chill at bay. He soon left
the city behind, and then the only sounds were the hoot of owls and the whisper of wind in the trees.

When he reached the hamlet, he made for the back of the Feathers, and let himself in through a broken window. There were two
coffins in the parlour, mother and son lying side by side. Chaloner struggled to mask his distaste as he lifted Mrs Reyner’s
skirts to hunt for the encrypted paper. He was not surprised to find it gone, especially when he saw her lip was swollen.
He could only suppose she had handed it over when violence was used, although it had not saved her – the wound to her throat
was every bit as vicious as the one that had killed her son.

He stared at her. She reeked of wine, and it occurred to him that she might not have been sober enough to tell her attackers
that the list had been copied. Or had they not cared, because it was not as important as Reyner had believed? Chaloner supposed
he would not know until it was decoded, which needed to happen now as a matter of urgency.

Carefully leaving all as he had found it, he made for Clarendon House, unimpressed to find not a single guard on duty, although
a banked fire indicated that they intended to return at some point during the night. He checked the supplies that were stored
outside, and then approached the building itself, idly counting the number of ways he could get in – four doors, two loose
windows and a badly secured coal hatch. He entered through the grand portico because it represented the biggest challenge,
and he felt like honing his burgling skills.

Once inside, he wandered aimlessly. It seemed especially vast in the dark, like a church. It smelled of damp plaster and new
wood, and he felt his dislike of it mount with every step. Why did the Earl have to build himself such a shameless monstrosity?

He left eventually, but rather than cut across St James’s Park towards home, he took the longer route via Piccadilly and the
Haymarket. As he passed the Crown, all was in darkness except Pratt’s room, in which several lanterns blazed. It had not been
so when he had gone by earlier, and afraid something was amiss, he decided he had better investigate.

There were no lights in the tavern, but there were snores, and it did not take him long to see that Wright and his men had
bedded down near the embers of the fire. There were eight of them, and he wondered what tale Wright would spin if materials
went missing again.

Disgusted, he climbed the stairs, treading on the edges, which were less likely to creak and give him away. When he reached
Pratt’s door he listened intently but could hear nothing. He tried the handle and was alarmed to find it unlocked. He opened
it to see Pratt lying fully clothed on the bed with his mouth agape. Certain he
was dead, Chaloner felt for a life-beat, then leapt away in shock when the architect’s eyes fluttered open.

‘Snowflake!’ Pratt purred, raising his arms enticingly. Then he became aware that he was not at Temperance’s brothel. ‘Chaloner?
What are you doing here?’

Heart still pounding, Chaloner began to douse the lamps, unwilling to leave so many burning when he left, lest Pratt knocked
one over in his drunken clumsiness and started a fire. The thought reminded him of what had happened to the two Adventurers.

‘Did you hear about Turner and Lucas?’ he asked.

‘One wants me to design him a stately home, but I cannot recall which. Lord, my head aches! I should have stayed with Lydcott
in Charing Cross tonight. I wish I had, because then you would not be looming over me like the Angel of Death.’

‘Who is Lydcott?’

‘A dear friend. He was a Parliamentarian in the wars, but is a Royalist now –
he
knows how to survive turbulent times! He is an excellent horseman, too. Did you hear that someone thinks enough of my work
to threaten me with death, by the way? Not even Wren has achieved that accolade!’

‘How do you know Harley and Fitzgerald?’ asked Chaloner. The architect was far too haughty to converse with him when he was
sober, so it made sense to do it while he was intoxicated.

‘They are members of the Piccadilly Company,’ replied Pratt drowsily. ‘As am I. We trade in glassware and gravel. I have invested
heavily, and it will make me richer than ever.’

‘How can gravel be lucrative?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Or glassware, for that matter. There cannot be a massive
demand for it in New England, because none of the colonies are very big.’

But Pratt was asleep. Chaloner tried to shake him awake, but he responded only by mumbling more incoherent nonsense about
Lydcott. When he began to mutter about Snowflake, too, Chaloner decided it was time to leave.

He was passing the table when he saw the key to Clarendon House, the silken cord still attached. He considered pocketing it,
but common sense prevailed – Pratt might remember his visit the following morning, and he did not want to be accused of theft.
So, working quickly, he melted a candle into a pill box, and waited for it to set. While it was still malleable, he pressed
both sides of the key into it, then eased it out. He cleaned it, put the mould in his pocket, and left as silently as he had
arrived. He could not steal Pratt’s key, but he could certainly make one of his own.

Downstairs, he gave Wright the fright of his life by sneaking up behind him and putting a knife to his throat. He kept the
sergeant’s cronies at bay by brandishing his sword.

‘You are supposed to be guarding Pratt,’ he informed them shortly. ‘So why is no one outside his door? And who is watching
Clarendon House? I have just been there, and it is deserted.’

‘If it is deserted, then there is no need to watch it,’ argued Wright. ‘Let me go, Chaloner, or I will tell Dugdale that you
picked a fight with me. He offered to pay me for any bad tales about you.’

Chaloner released him with a shove that made him stagger. ‘Go to the house, or the Earl will learn that he is paying you to
sleep in a tavern all night.’

Wright started to draw a knife, but thought better of it when Chaloner pointed the sword at him. Glowering, he slouched out,
five of his men at his heels. The others reluctantly abandoned the fire, and went to take up station outside Pratt’s door,
although Chaloner doubted they would stay there long once he had gone.

He went home, where the hour candle said it was three o’clock, but although he was tired, he did not feel like going to bed.
He went to the drawing room, intending to doze for an hour before resuming his enquiries, but his mind was too active. He
took the cipher from his pocket and began to work on it. Unfortunately, while he was too restless for sleep, he was not sufficiently
alert for such an exacting task, and it was not long before he gave up. He stared at the empty hearth, then whipped around
with a knife in his hand when he became aware of someone standing behind him.

‘I came to light the fire,’ said George, eyeing the blade with a cool disdain that told Chaloner he was more familiar with
such situations than was appropriate for a footman in a respectable house.

Chaloner indicated with an irritable flick of his hand that he was to carry on. ‘Please do not creep up on me again. You might
find yourself harmed.’

‘I doubt it. Fitzgerald was much freer with weapons than you, and I survived him.’

‘If he attacked you, why did you stay with him for ten years?’

The sour expression on George’s face said Chaloner had touched on a sore point. ‘Ten years! And he dismissed me like so much
rubbish.’

If George had behaved as sullenly with the pirate as
he did in Tothill Street, then he was lucky he had not suffered a worse fate, thought Chaloner. He changed the subject, sure
he would not be given an answer, but supposing there was no harm in trying.

‘What is the nature of Fitzgerald’s current business in London?’ By means of a bribe, he passed George a plug of tobacco he
had palmed in Temperance’s club, where the stuff had been lying around for its patrons to enjoy.

George almost snatched it from him, and set about tamping the pipe he pulled from his pocket. ‘He did not tell me, but it
will involve death and destruction, because he was singing about it. At sea, he always sang before he attacked another ship.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘I am afraid not,’ replied George, through a haze of smoke.

‘Does he have any powerful friends here? Ones he might refer to as his master?’

George regarded him oddly. ‘Not that I am aware.’

‘You cannot name any of his London acquaintances?’

‘No.’ George regarded Chaloner thoughtfully, then reached inside his shirt and produced an old leather pouch. ‘But if you
intend to go after him – as your questions suggest you might – take this.’

‘What is it?’ asked Chaloner, disconcerted that George should read him so easily.

‘Dust from Tangier, which contains something that always sets him to uncontrollable sneezing. It should not affect you, but
it will render him helpless.’

Chaloner did not take it. ‘And what am I supposed to do with it?’

‘Throw it in his face, should he decide to come at
you.’ George tossed the pouch into Chaloner’s lap. ‘It works, believe me.’

Chaloner was thoughtful as George busied himself at the hearth. He had not forgotten Hannah’s conviction that the footman
had been ordered to spy, and George’s inept fiddling with the fire said he was not skilled at the duties that usually went
with being a footman. Or a captain’s steward, for that matter. If that were the case, why had he given Chaloner something
with which to defeat his former master? Or was it a ploy that would see him in danger?

He doubted a direct enquiry would yield a truthful response, so he sat at the table instead and, recalling his promise to
Lester, began to make sketches of Captain Pepperell and Elliot. He had a talent for drawing, and had been trained to remember
faces, so it was not long before he had reasonable likenesses. He folded them in half, and as he did not know where Lester
lived, told George to take them to Williamson’s offices in Westminster.

‘The Spymaster?’ asked George uneasily. ‘You want me to visit
him
?’

‘Just his clerks. Why? Have you done something to excite his interest?’

‘No more than any other man in London.’ George glanced out of the window without enthusiasm. ‘Shall I go now? It is still
dark.’

‘Take a torch,’ said Chaloner shortly.

An hour before dawn, Chaloner began to feel the effects of his sleepless night. He would have gone to bed, but Joan was crashing
around in the kitchen, and he knew he would never sleep through the racket. He wondered how Hannah could, but a visit to the
bedroom showed him that she had stuffed her ears with rags.

Lethargically, he walked to the Rainbow Coffee House, hoping a dish of Farr’s poisonous brew would sharpen his wits. The only
customer at that hour was Grey, the Adventurer who had caused such consternation by disappearing with a woman. He was sitting
in the corner, crying softly.

‘Weeping for Turner and Lucas,’ explained Farr in a low voice. ‘They died in a fire last night, along with Turner’s family
and servants. Twelve people in all. A terrible tragedy.’

To give Grey privacy, Chaloner picked up
The Newes
, just off the presses that morning, and began to read. Home news comprised two main reports: that Dover expected to be invaded
by the Dutch at any moment because the wind was in the right direction, and that a
purple bed-cloth had been stolen from Richmond. Foreign intelligence revolved around the fact that the Swedish ambassador
was expected at White Hall the following Tuesday, where he would attend a feast.

In smaller type were the advertisements. One promoted the exhibition that Farr had mentioned the last time Chaloner had visited
the Rainbow:

At the Mitre near the
West-end of St Paul’s
is to be seen a rare Collection of Curiosities much resorted to, and admired by
Persons of great Learning and Quality: among with, a choyce
Egyptian Mummy with hieroglyphicks
and the Ant Beare of Brasil;
a Remora; a Torpedo; the huge Thigh-bone of a
Gyant; a Moon Fish; a Tropick Bird & C
.

Although intrigued by the torpedo in particular, Chaloner doubted he would have the time to see the display. He finished the
coffee, nodded a farewell to Farr, and set off for Chancery Lane.

Lincoln’s Inn’s grounds had recently been replanted, and had gone from a pleasantly tangled wilderness to a garden of manicured
precision. Chaloner was still not sure he liked it, but Thurloe did, and spent a lot of time there. It was usually deserted
at dawn, a time the ex-Spymaster spent in quiet contemplation before the day began.