The Piccadilly Plot (24 page)

There were several uneasy glances, and he wondered whether his remark would be enough to see the thefts stop. If so, then
at least something would have been gained from his trying day.

‘I do not believe they were stolen in the first place,’ said Lady Castlemaine. She was wearing a gown cut tight at the waist
to show off her shapely figure, and careful application of face-paints almost disguised the fact that her wild lifestyle was
beginning to take its toll. ‘I think Pratt underestimated what he needed, and is covering his incompetence with false accusations.’

Chaloner stared at her, wondering whether she might
be right. It was certainly possible – Pratt was not the sort of man who would admit to making mistakes.

‘I dislike Pratt,’ declared Congett, clinging drunkenly to a pillar. ‘He is odious for an architect.’

‘Odious enough to warrant being assassinated?’ asked Chaloner. He winced: the question had just slipped out. Fortunately,
no one seemed surprised by it, leaving him with the impression that those deserving of timely demises was a regular topic
of conversation at Court.

‘Dugdale would like Pratt dead,’ mused the Lady, her eyes gleaming with spite. ‘Because he is jealous of Clarendon’s admiration
for the fellow. Dugdale knows he will never be Pratt’s equal, you see.’

‘Or that sly secretary – Edgeman,’ added Buckingham. ‘I do not think I have ever encountered a more reprehensible individual.
He positively
oozes
corruption.’

There was a general murmur of agreement, and Chaloner thought wistfully how satisfying it would be if Dugdale and Edgeman
were
responsible for the threatening letters. Moreover, it would show that Hyde had fallen for a hoax, which would make him look
both ridiculous and disloyal to the Queen. But Chaloner knew better than to let prejudices lead him astray, so while he would
bear the notion in mind, he would not let it influence his conclusions.

‘Kipps does not like Pratt, either,’ added the Lady in a low voice, glancing to where the Seal Bearer was still muttering
to Grey. ‘And he is a very dark horse with his—’

‘I do not like this kind of talk,’ interrupted O’Brien in distaste. ‘Let us play tennis instead!’

Buckingham obliged, but transpired to be a much better player than his opponent, and the spectators soon
lost interest in what quickly became a rout. They began talking among themselves again, and their first topic of conversation
was the fire.

‘It is almost as if someone has declared war on Adventurers,’ said Kitty with a shudder. ‘Because first there was Proby, and
now Lucas and Turner. And those poor children …’

‘Do you think Fitzgerald did it, Secretary Leighton?’ asked Congett, tossing back a cup of wine as though it were water. ‘We
all know he disapproves of our monopoly on African trade.’

‘No,’ replied Leighton. ‘Because he is a pirate, and monopolies are irrelevant to those who operate outside the law. I cannot
see him wasting his time with us. Indeed, I am under the impression that he is in London because he has bigger fish to fry.’

‘What fish?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Fitzgerald is not a pirate!’ exclaimed Kitty, while Leighton treated Chaloner to a contemptuous glance and declined to answer.
‘He came to our house. Cave brought him, and he sang with my husband. He is not nice – and neither is his voice – but I do
not see him incinerating babies.’

‘He prefers to be called a privateer, anyway,’ added Kipps. ‘Or a patriot.’

‘I disagree with you, Leighton,’ slurred Congett. ‘I believe that Fitzgerald killed Turner and Lucas to avenge his friend
Reyner. He probably killed Proby, too.’

‘Nonsense!’ declared Leighton dismissively. ‘Reyner died in the Gaming House, which is full of gamblers. Obviously, one of
them cut his throat in a quarrel over money.’

‘Reverend Addison – who is Tangier’s chaplain, and
who came back to London on a ship named
Eagle
a couple of weeks ago – told me that Reyner was not a very nice man,’ confided Kipps. ‘He said he was not surprised the fellow
had died violently.’

More wine was served at that point, and the discussion moved to other matters, leaving Chaloner supposing he had better track
Addison down.

As Kitty’s mention of Cave made him wonder whether
she
might have any insights into why the singer had died, he set about cornering her and her husband alone. It was not easy,
because Leighton stuck to them like a leech, muttering in O’Brien’s ear about the many invitations that would come his way
if he invested his fortune with the Adventurers. But Chaloner managed eventually, and steered the discussion around to the
dead singer.

Kitty’s face clouded. ‘Poor Cave. He had such a lovely voice.’

‘It is a damned shame,’ agreed O’Brien, red-faced and sweaty after his exertions on the court. ‘He was the best tenor in London.
Have you heard that the Chapel Royal choir will perform at his funeral? We shall go, of course.’

‘I cannot imagine why he was chosen to organise music for Tangier’s troops, though,’ said Kitty. ‘I doubt he knew any of the
songs that soldiers like.’

‘I suppose it was a peculiar appointment, now you mention it,’ mused O’Brien. ‘And I think he was relieved to be home. Until
he was murdered by Elliot, of course.’

‘Did he ever mention Elliot to you?’ asked Chaloner.

O’Brien frowned. ‘You know, I think he did. At least, he mentioned running into an old friend, who had been a sailor, but
who now worked for Williamson. I imagine
it is the same fellow. But he only alluded to it in passing, and I doubt it is important.’

But Chaloner was not so sure.

The games dragged on interminably, but Chaloner dared not leave, sure the Earl would be told if he did. He chafed at the lost
time, and was disgusted when he emerged to find dusk had fallen. He was weary from fending off sly prods and shoves, and wanted
only to go home, but as he aimed for King Street, he met the Earl. Clarendon was surrounded by his ushers, and Hyde was at
his side.

‘You stayed all day, then,’ the Earl said, pleased. ‘I thought you would sneak out.’

‘I should have done,’ said Chaloner, too tired to be politic. ‘It was a waste of time.’

The Earl’s expression darkened. ‘In other words, you have failed to identify the brick-thief, even though you spent the entire
day in his company?’

‘He is worthless, father,’ said Hyde, before Chaloner could point out that even if the culprit had been at the Tennis Court,
he was unlikely to stand up and reveal himself. ‘He probably has no idea who wants to kill Pratt, either, and we are paying
him for nothing.’

‘I have several suspects,’ said Chaloner, goaded into saying something he should not have done.

‘Good,’ said the Earl. ‘Because if you do not identify the villain by St Frideswide’s Feast – six days hence – Pratt might
pay with his life. And as a deadline will serve to concentrate your mind, I shall expect answers to your other enquiries by
then, too.’

Chaloner fought down the urge to say that he might have had them if he had not been forced to waste an
entire day at the Tennis Court. ‘I doubt Pratt is in danger, sir. However, the Queen is a different matter. She will be harmed
badly if the tale of—’

‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted the Earl impatiently. ‘I know. What about Cave? Frances keeps asking for news of him. What shall I
tell her?’

‘That she is right: his death probably is suspicious. Williamson has ordered an investigation.’

‘Then leave the matter to him,’ ordered the Earl. ‘Concentrate on my bricks. And on catching the author of the Teviot massacre
and the villain who sent those three horrible letters to the Queen.’

‘
Three
letters?’ asked Chaloner sharply.

‘I came across another this afternoon,’ explained Hyde.

‘What did it say?’ asked Chaloner.

Wordlessly, Hyde handed him a piece of paper, which Chaloner scanned quickly in the gathering gloom. The handwriting was the
same as the last one, and so was the tenor of the message – that the Queen’s plan to dispatch Pratt would meet with the approval
of all down-trodden Catholics. It was so clumsily executed that Chaloner felt a surge of anger – not towards its writer, but
towards Hyde for giving it credence. He tore it into pieces.

‘Hey!’ cried Hyde, trying to stop him. ‘That was evidence.’

‘Not any more,’ said Chaloner, shoving the bits in his pocket to put on the next fire he saw. ‘And I strongly advise you to
destroy the others, too. Where did the culprit leave it this time?’

‘In one of the Queen’s purses,’ replied Hyde sullenly.

Chaloner regarded him askance. Purses contained
ladies’ intimate personal items, and not even a private secretary should have had access to the Queen’s. ‘What were you doing
in that?’

Hyde scowled. ‘It looked overly full, so I investigated. And it was a good thing I did!’

Unhappily, Chaloner watched the Earl and his party continue on their way. Letters on a desk and half-burned in a hearth were
one thing, but in a purse were another. Had he been wrong, and the Queen
was
embroiled in something deadly, not from malice, but from ignorance?

He took his leave of White Hall in a troubled state of mind and began to walk home. He stopped once, at a potter’s shop, where
he purchased a large piece of clay.

By the time Chaloner reached Tothill Street, he was despondent, feeling he had learned nothing new that day, except the possibility
that Pratt might be responsible for the disappearing materials and that Reverend Addison might be a source of information
on Teviot’s scouts. He decided to explore both lines of enquiry the following morning, after he had interviewed Brilliana.

He arrived to find Hannah preparing to go out. She was wearing a new bodice and skirt, the latter of which was cut open at
the front to reveal delicately embroidered underskirts. In accordance with fashion, she wore a black ‘face-patch’ on her chin,
although he was relieved that she had confined herself to one; it was not unknown for people to don up to thirty in an effort
to be stylish.

She was in the kitchen, which reeked powerfully of burned garlic. Lounging in a chair, George puffed on his pipe, feet propped
on the wall where they left black marks on the plaster. Nan had just poured him a cup of ale, which she delivered with a curtsy
before fleeing behind
Joan; Susan was sewing him another shirt. All three women were subdued, and Chaloner wondered whether George’s bullying had
gone beyond mental intimidation to something physical.

‘Stand up in your mistress’s presence,’ he snapped, sweeping the footman’s legs off the wall.

George came to his feet fast, and Chaloner braced himself for a fight, but the footman only bowed an apology and stood to
attention. Nan and Susan exchanged a startled look, while the flicker of a smile crossed Joan’s dour face. Hannah nodded her
approval, then turned to the mirror, assessing the way her hair fell in ringlets around her face.

‘You should not be leaving the house at this hour, mistress,’ chided Joan, glancing out of the window at the darkness beyond.
‘It is not seemly.’

‘Thank you, Joan,’ said Hannah crisply. ‘I shall be home late, so there is no need to wait up. Take the evening off. All of
you.’

Susan and Nan did not need to be told twice, and were away before she could change her mind, jostling to be first out of the
door. Joan followed more sedately, head held high to indicate her annoyance at being so casually dismissed. George started
to sit back down, but saw Chaloner’s look and went instead to fetch Hannah’s cloak. Chaloner escorted her to White Hall himself,
not liking the notion of her being out alone after dark.

‘You were right, and I was wrong,’ said Hannah, once they were out of the house. She sounded as dispirited as he felt. ‘George
is a brute, Joan is bossy, Susan is spiteful and Nan is insolent. She just told me that I cannot cook.’

‘Did she?’ Chaloner hoped he would not be called
upon to dispute it; he was too weary to tell convincing lies.

‘But I
can
,’ said Hannah, obviously hurt. ‘I made you a lovely stew. With lots of garlic.’

‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner weakly. ‘Have you found anyone willing to hire George yet?’

‘Unfortunately, his reputation goes before him, so no one will oblige. I wish you would take him with you when you go out.
Then I would not feel like an unwelcome interloper in my own home.’

Chaloner had visions of trying to blend into courtly functions with the surly ex-resident of Tangier in tow. ‘Impossible.
Do you want my company this evening, or only as far as White Hall?’

Hannah grimaced. ‘I wish you could come, because it would make the occasion bearable – her Majesty is entertaining Meneses,
the Conde de Almeida, again, and it is my turn to act as chaperon.’

‘Meneses?’ asked Chaloner sharply. Was this Temperance’s ‘Memphis, Count of America’, and the Portuguese member of the Piccadilly
Company?

‘I cannot abide the man,’ Hannah went on. ‘Unfortunately, the Queen can.’

‘What is wrong with him?’

‘He pretends to know no English, but he understands it when it suits him. Personally, I think he is here to see what he can
get from her, but he will be disappointed.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. Hannah was right about the language: Meneses had spoken perfectly passable English at the club.

‘Because the Queen has nothing to give. Personally, I think the Court will keep her poor until she produces an heir. Of course,
that
will never happen. She is like me:
we both have dutiful husbands, but there is no sign of a baby. Surgeon Wiseman told me that some women simply never conceive.’

‘You want children?’ asked Chaloner, startled.

‘Of course I do! I thought I was just unlucky with my first husband, but it is the same with you, too. And as you had a son
with your first wife, the fault must lie with me.’

Chaloner was not sure what to say. He had lost his first wife and child to plague, and since he had arrived in London, he
had come to believe that it would be unwise to start another family when his own life and future were so uncertain. He was
astonished to learn that Hannah thought otherwise, and it underlined again how little they knew each other.