The Piccadilly Plot (27 page)

When they had gone, Chaloner saw Harley and Newell standing near the place where wine was being served, and tried to start
a conversation. They turned away, and did not react even when he made provocative remarks about Reyner’s murder. Faced with
such taciturnity, he was forced to concede defeat and wandered to where Fitzgerald was talking to several people, all of whom
were so well wrapped against the weather that it was impossible to tell who they were. When he moved closer, intending to
eavesdrop, Brinkes blocked his way.

Chaloner retreated, then started to approach from a different direction, but Thurloe appeared at his side and shook his head
warningly. Frustrated by their lack of progress, Chaloner was inclined to ignore him, but a flash of steely blue eyes told
him he would be in trouble if he did.

Heartily wishing he had never made the promise, Chaloner watched Fitzgerald and his companions disperse, wondering whether
anything would be served by whisking one down a dark alley and demanding answers at knifepoint. Of course, there would be
hell to pay if his victim transpired to be someone influential. One of the gaggle walked jauntily towards them, and Chaloner
glimpsed red ribbons in the lace around his boots, all but hidden under a long, thick cloak.

‘Robert!’ the ex-Spymaster exclaimed in astonishment. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I move in auspicious company these days,’ replied Jones with an engaging grin, once Thurloe had removed his hat to reveal
his face. ‘The glassware trade is thriving, as I explained to my sister in the letters I wrote.’

Thurloe turned to Chaloner. ‘This is my wife’s brother. Robert Lydcott.’

‘Lydcott,’ repeated Chaloner flatly. ‘I knew it was not Jones.’

Lydcott shrugged. ‘If you were kin to an ex-Spymaster, you would change your name, too. No one wants to know a Lydcott these
days. It is almost as bad as being a Cromwell.’

Chaloner was not unsympathetic: he shared his name with a man who had signed the old king’s death warrant, and it was awkward
to say the least. But using an alias was not Lydcott’s only crime.

‘He is a member of the Piccadilly Company,’ he said to Thurloe. ‘In fact, he founded it.’

‘He did what?’ exploded Thurloe, shocked.

‘Where lies the problem?’ asked Lydcott, bemused. ‘Exporting glassware to New England is a perfectly legitimate venture. Profitable,
too. At least, it is now. It was rocky before Fitzgerald came along and offered to invest, but now it is doing splendidly.’

‘Robert!’ cried Thurloe, appalled. ‘Will you never learn? You know what kind of man Fitzgerald is. How can you have been so
reckless as to go into business with him?’

‘It was a sound commercial decision,’ objected Lydcott, stung. ‘My company was on the verge of bankruptcy, but he made it
viable again. We have been doing well for weeks now. And in case you were wondering, I did not tell you because I knew how
you would react. I wrote
to Ann about my change in fortunes last month, and she will be proud of me, even if you—’

‘On the contrary,’ snapped Thurloe. ‘You frightened her, and I have been trying to find you ever since. I should have known
you were involved in another wild scheme.’

‘It is
not
wild. I know what you think of Fitzgerald, but this is honest business. He charters a ship to transport our glassware to
New England, and he arranges a different cargo for the return journey. Gravel, mostly.’

‘Gravel,’ said Thurloe flatly.

‘It is a useful commodity. I
swear
there is nothing devious or dubious about the Piccadilly Company. Our membership includes several noblemen and a number of
wealthy merchants. Of course, I do not know their names …’

‘If it is legal, why does Brinkes keep people away from its meetings?’ asked Chaloner.

‘To prevent spies from learning our business secrets,’ explained Lydcott earnestly. ‘And because Fitzgerald earned a lot of
enemies when he was a pirate. You are one of them, Thurloe, although he has not broken the law since you fell from power.
He says it has not been necessary now the Royalists are in control.’

Thurloe did not look convinced, and neither was Chaloner, but Lydcott clearly believed his own tale. He was not overly endowed
with wits, thought Chaloner, so was exactly the kind of fellow to be used by more devious minds. But there was nothing to
be gained from questioning him further, and Thurloe indicated he could go. Lydcott escaped with relief.

‘He always was a fool,’ said Thurloe in disgust. ‘And I have bailed him out of more trouble than you can
imagine, only for him to land himself in yet another scrape. But to throw in his lot with Fitzgerald! All I can hope is that
he will escape this foolery unscathed, because Ann will be heartbroken if anything happens to him.’

Chaloner summoned a hackney carriage, and he and Thurloe rode back to Lincoln’s Inn in silence. The ex-Spymaster promptly
hurried away to see what messages had been left for him by informants while he had been absent, and Chaloner decided to check
Clarendon House.

He arrived as dusk was falling. Wright’s soldiers had not yet deigned to appear, but Pratt, Oliver and Vere were there, inspecting
the newly installed gateposts at the front of the drive – four times the height of a man, and topped with carvings that bore
a marked resemblance to winged pigs.

Chaloner considered tackling Pratt about possible errors in his estimates, but decided against it: he was more likely to secure
a confession when there was not an audience of minions listening. The same went for Vere and Oliver – they were not going
to expose mistakes in their employer’s reckoning when he was standing next to them. So Chaloner sank back into the shadows,
and waited to see whether the opportunity would arise to accost one of them alone. Unfortunately, all three set off in the
direction of the Haymarket together, clearly with the intention of enjoying a post-work drink in the company of each other.

Once they had gone, he approached the house and tried his key in the door. It did not work, but he was expecting that. Using
a file he had filched from the Trulockes’ shop, he sawed at it until it did, then spent another hour in patient honing until
it turned smoothly and silently.

When he was satisfied, he entered the house and lit a lamp, using a tinderbox he found in the library. He prowled the main
floor, instinctively memorising lengths, distances and dimensions, and testing his key in other doors as he went. Then he
climbed to the next storey, wondering maliciously who would sleep in all the bedrooms, given that the Earl had a small family
and very few friends.

Of course, he thought with a pang, the Earl had a lot more friends than
he
did. Other than Thurloe, there was only Wiseman whom he did not much like, Temperance who did not much like him, and Hannah.
Most of the friends he had made while spying were dead, and the few who had survived had retired under false names, and would
not take kindly to a reminder of their past lives.

Sobered by the thought, he ascended to the top floor, where smaller chambers would provide accommodation for the Earl’s retinue
and less important guests. One was marked with Kipps’s name, and Chaloner unlocked it to see the Seal Bearer had already started
to decorate. It was sumptuous, and indicated that either Kipps had paid for some of the fitments himself, or he had persuaded
the builders to make a special effort on his behalf.

Eventually, Chaloner descended to the basement, noting that the laundries had been supplied with copper vats since he had
last been there. He glanced at the stairs that led to the cellar, and bent to inspect some muddy footprints. They were wet,
indicating they had been made not long before, and included human feet and animal claws. It was curious, but he was disinclined
to investigate, given that to do so would mean entering a place that was far too similar to a prison to be comfortable. He
was about to leave when he heard a sound.

He stood stock still, listening. Had Wright arrived and seen his lamp, so had come to find out who was prowling when the
house should be empty? Or, more likely, given that Wright was not a conscientious man, was it the thieves?

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to walk down the stairs, fighting the clamouring voice in his head that told him to
race back up them and run away from Clarendon House as fast as his legs would carry him. At the bottom, he raised the lamp,
but saw nothing other than the hallway disappearing into darkness. He moved along it cautiously.

When he reached the strongroom he saw that a large chest had been placed inside it, at the far end. The light from his lantern
picked up a flash of white – a piece of paper was on top of the box. He walked toward it and scanned the message:

Behold the smalle jawes of Death and Darknesse

He regarded it in incomprehension, and lifted the lid. Then three things happened at once. First, there was a frantic flurry
of movement and he saw the box was full of rats. Second, there was sound behind him, startling him into dropping the lamp.
And third, the door slammed closed, leaving him in total darkness.

Cursing his own stupidity, Chaloner groped his way towards the door, furry bodies scurrying around his feet as he went. Agitated
squeaks and the sound of scrabbling claws came from all directions, curiously muffled by the lead-lined walls. He reached
the door and tried to open it, but was not surprised when it refused to budge.

He experienced a pang of alarm when it occurred to him that he might not be released until the workmen returned the following
morning, but that was nothing compared to what he felt when he remembered that Pratt had designed the room to be airtight.

He did panic at that point, and pounded on the door with all his might, feeling his breath come in agonised bursts, and aware
that his fear was transmitting itself to the rodents, because they nipped at his ankles and scratched at his legs. The chest
had been full of them, and they would use up the air, reducing the time any of them would survive. How long would they wait
before beginning to eat him alive? And how was he to fend them off when he could not see them?

But he had been trained to think rationally in dire
situations, and the debilitating wave of terror did not last long. He forced himself to stand still and think. He would not
suffocate immediately, because there was still plenty of air, and the hapless rats were probably more interested in escaping
than in devouring their cellmate. While he waited for his heart to slow to a more normal pace, he set his mind to working
out who might want him dead.

Was it Fitzgerald or his master, because he had been asking questions about the Piccadilly Company? Harley and Newell, because
they resented his interference over the Teviot affair? What about Leighton, who was sinister by any standard, and who almost
certainly had something to hide? Or was it the brick-thieves, because he was a nuisance?

There was also a possibility that the culprit was someone nearer home. Chief Usher Dugdale would not hesitate to dispatch
him, and neither would his crony Edgeman, but were they sufficiently bold to contrive and act out such a diabolical plan?
Kipps was, but Chaloner had received nothing but kindness from him, and could not believe that the Seal Bearer meant him harm.
And then there was Hyde, who deplored the fact that his father’s household included a spy.

He turned his thoughts to escape. He could not relight the lamp, because he had no tinderbox, so whatever he did would need
to be done in the dark. He began to run his fingers over the door, recalling that the vault was the only room in the house
that could not be opened with the master key. But it was still secured with a lock, and locks could be picked.

He was just beginning to fear that there might not be one on the inside, when he found it. It was covered by a slip of metal,
designed to prevent air from blowing in.
He prised it aside with his knife, ridiculously relieved when he detected air on his fingertips. At least he could kneel
there and inhale it if the worst came to the worst. He took his probes from his pocket, inserted them into the hole, and began
to fiddle.

He soon learned it was a type he had never encountered before, equipped with a strong spring that was beyond his probes’ capabilities.
He lost count of the times when he nearly had it turned, only to hear it snap back again. Moreover, the air in the room seemed
to be getting thinner, making him light-headed. At one point he sank to the floor, feeling despair begin to consume him, but
the sharp teeth of a rat in his hand drove him to his knees again, to start tinkering afresh.

When the lock eventually gave way he wondered whether he had imagined it, but he pushed the door and felt it swing open. The
corridor beyond was as dark as the vault, and he still could not see his hand in front of his face. The rats sensed freedom,
though, and he heard them surging around him as they retreated to the deeper recesses of the cellars.

Then followed a nightmarish period during which he lurched blindly, trying to locate the steps. When he eventually found them,
he ascended as fast as he could, and made for the portico. It took several attempts to insert his key in the front door, and
when it opened, he staggered out with a gasp of relief. He leaned against the wall and took a deep breath, relishing the cool,
fresh scent of night. By the time he had recovered his composure, he hated Clarendon House more than ever.

The experience had shaken him badly, and he wanted no more than to spend what was left of the evening by
a fire with a large jug of wine. He considered going to Long Acre, but the prospect of a cold garret did not appeal: he craved
human company. However, he wished he had chosen somewhere other than Tothill Street when he opened the door to his house and
immediately sensed an atmosphere.

George was in the kitchen, a picture of serenity with his long legs stretched comfortably towards the hearth and a flagon
of ale in his hand. He was in the chair Joan liked to use, and she had been relegated to a far less pleasant seat near the
window. Susan was positively cowering, while Nan looked as though she had been crying. George did stand when Chaloner entered
the room, but so slowly it was only just on the right side of respect.