The Piccadilly Plot (34 page)

‘Hyde’s office,’ explained Hannah disapprovingly. ‘He has far nicer things than the Queen.’

Chaloner searched it, going through the standard procedures to identify secret hiding places, aiming to discover anything
that might prove Hyde was the author
of the letters. He was aware of Hannah watching some of his checks in astonishment, no doubt wondering how he had come to
learn them, but she grinned her delight when he located a secret drawer in a bureau. It was not a novel hiding place, but
one in keeping with Hyde’s unimaginative but overconfident character.

Unfortunately, it contained nothing but sketches of Lady Castlemaine
sans
clothes. The Earl would be unimpressed to think of his son poring over such images, but it was irrelevant as far as Chaloner
was concerned. Hannah picked up one of the drawings and studied it disparagingly.

‘Her knees are too big.’

‘If Hyde is responsible for writing the letters, then he has left no evidence here,’ said Chaloner, replacing all as he had
found it. ‘Who else has access to Her Majesty’s wardrobe?’

‘All her ladies-in-waiting, along with a host of maids, laundresses and seamstresses – some twenty or thirty women in all.
No men, of course – that would be unseemly. You interviewed them when you were last here. Clearly none struck you as sly,
or you would have said something.’

‘What happens when letters arrive for the Queen?’ While Chaloner did not believe the staff would have initiated such a plot
of their own volition, most would have planted the missives in exchange for money. Loyalty was cheap at White Hall, where
wages were low and often paid late.

‘They are given to Captain Appleby downstairs, and he brings them to Hyde.’

‘And Hyde reads them all?’

‘He
opens
them all, but the ones that are personal he
is supposed to pass on without perusing. Of course, he is a nosy fellow and scans the lot. Except the ones in Portuguese,
which are beyond him.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then, if he thinks she should see them, he places them on this silver platter, and conveys them to her. He deals with the
routine correspondence, of course – petitions, bills and so forth.’

Chaloner had learned nothing helpful, and was about to leave when a door opened and the Queen stepped through it. Meneses
was with her, along with several ladies-in-waiting, who scampered away with indecent haste when they saw that Hannah was available
to take over as chaperon.

‘I hope he does not stay long,’ Hannah whispered resentfully to Chaloner, ‘because there is nothing more tedious than listening
to conversations in a language you do not know.’

‘Hannah tells me you have been in Tangier, Thomas,’ said Katherine pleasantly. She spoke Portuguese, and Chaloner suspected
the pleasure she always exhibited when she met him derived from the fact that she was not obliged to struggle in English.
‘I hope you liked it. It was part of my dowry, and the King says it will soon become one of England’s most prized possessions.’

‘Perhaps, Your Majesty,’ Chaloner replied evasively, wanting neither to lie nor hurt her feelings.

Meneses regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Who are you? You speak our language like a Spaniard, but you do not look like
one.’

‘He is Hannah’s husband,’ explained Katherine. ‘I suppose he does sound like a Spaniard, now that you mention it. I have never
noticed that before.’

As Spain and Portugal were mortal enemies, speaking Portuguese with a Spanish accent was clearly undesirable, and Chaloner
would have to remedy the matter when he had time.

‘Meneses has been to Tangier, too,’ said Katherine conversationally. ‘In fact, he was one of its governors, before it was
handed to the English. I am sure you will enjoy talking to each other.’

Meneses’ smile was tight. ‘Alas, my sojourn there was brief, so I have little to say about it.’

‘Come, My Lady,’ said Hannah, taking the Queen’s arm and clearly intent on separating her from the man she did not like. ‘You
promised to show me the new dances you have learned – the ones you will use at tomorrow’s ball.’

The Queen laughed, a pleasant sound that was rarely heard, and allowed herself to be led away. She loved dancing, and could
nearly always be diverted by it.

‘The Queen is a dear, sweet creature, but easily confused,’ said Meneses, when they had gone. ‘You will ignore her chatter.
She does not know what she is talking about.’

‘You mean you were not Governor of Tangier?’

‘I have never been there,’ replied Meneses smoothly. ‘But if it amuses her to think I held the title of governor, then where
is the harm in letting her dream?’

He bowed and set off after her before Chaloner could ask more. The man was lying, but about what? Had he awarded himself fictitious
titles to gain her favour? Or was he reluctant for anyone other than her – whose poor English did not permit her to gossip
– to know of his Tangier connections, especially given his association with Fitzgerald and the Piccadilly Company?

As Meneses turned to close the door behind him, he caught Chaloner staring, and a combination of unease and anger flitted
across his face. Chaloner looked away, but too late. Meneses knew he was suspicious, and Chaloner had a very bad feeling that
might prove to be dangerous.

The next day was Sunday, and Chaloner awoke long before dawn when two cats elected to hold a brawl under his bedroom window.
The moment he opened his eyes, he was aware of an immediate sense of frustration.

He had collected Thurloe after leaving the Queen’s lodgings, and the two of them had spent the evening being thwarted at every
turn. First, Reverend Addison had been out. Second, Harley had declined to answer his door and Thurloe had baulked at breaking
in. Third, they had been unable to locate Jacob’s house in Covent Garden. Fourth, Leighton had taken a number of Adventurers
for a jaunt on the river; his guests included Kitty and O’Brien, so none of the three were available to describe what had
happened to Newell. And finally, enquiries in the Piccadilly taverns had failed to yield a single shred of useful information.

Hannah had not been home when Chaloner had returned, and he was not sure how long he had been asleep before she had arrived.
He had snapped awake with a dagger in his hand when she slid into bed beside him, although he had managed to shove it under
the pillow before she saw it. Exhausted, he had dozed again, and had not woken until the cats had started yowling.

He rose quietly and went into the dressing room to hunt for fresh clothes. Then, because his stomach was tender and acidic
from days of missed or hastily snatched
meals, he went to the kitchen, to see whether there was anything nice to eat.

‘It is far too early for breakfast,’ stated Joan, the moment she saw him. She was still wearing nightclothes, although Nan
was dressed. There was no sign of George or Susan. ‘The mistress gave strict instructions that nothing was to be served before
ten o’clock on a Sunday.’

‘Well, I am not the mistress,’ replied Chaloner coolly, going to the larder. There was a pie, but remembering his injunction
to George about the possibility of poison, he settled for a cup of milk instead.

‘Do not drink that,’ ordered Joan. ‘Cold milk is dangerous.’

Chaloner took a larger gulp than he might otherwise have done, and stalked past her, wishing he had stayed in Long Acre. He
went to the drawing room and retrieved the singed document he had hidden in the skirting board – the one he had found in the
Piccadilly Company’s rooms in the Crown. Then he opened his pen-box, and was unimpressed to note that it had been searched
a second time – a pot of violet ink, which he liked for its unusual colour, had been moved. There was nothing significant
in the box for the culprit to find, but it was unsettling nevertheless.

He settled down to work, trying all manner of exotic formulae, and using reams of paper in the process, but he met with no
success. Bored, he leaned back in his chair to ease the cramped muscles in his shoulders, and his eye lit on his second-best
viol, which he had neglected to put away the last time he had played it. He walked over to it and ran his fingers across its
cool, silky wood. Then he took a sheet of music and began to go through it in his mind. A draught on the back of his neck
told
him someone was watching. He whipped around to see Nan.

‘Joan sent me to tell you not to make a noise,’ she said boldly. ‘It disturbs the neighbours, and the mistress is still resting.’

Chaloner had not been going to play, but the directive prompted him to bow a rather tempestuous fantasy by Henry Lawes, which
expressed his feelings far more accurately than words ever could. It was not long before Joan appeared.

‘You will wake the mistress,’ she snapped, going immediately to the table where the cipher still lay. Chaloner stood quickly
and went to put it in his pocket. ‘And she worked very late last night. She needs her sleep, and you are disturbing her.’

It was difficult to argue with such a remark, so Chaloner burned the useless decrypting notes in the hearth, then went to
stand in the garden, craving fresh air and peace.

He was not sure of the time, but the sky was lightening in the east, and London was coming awake. It was too early for bells
to summon the faithful to church, but there was a low and constant hum as carts, carriages and coaches rumbled their way along
the capital’s cobbled streets. Dogs barked, a baby cried, someone was singing and there was a metallic clatter from the ironmonger’s
shop three doors down. It was hardly restful, but he breathed in deeply, relishing the cool, earthy scent of the open fields
that lay not far to the west.

He was not left alone to enjoy it for long. George appeared, carrying a lamp – a luxury Chaloner had certainly not considered
claiming for himself. Clearly, the footman had not taken long to make himself at home in Tothill Street.

‘A smoke is the only way to start the day,’ he said, blowing great clouds of it towards the last of the season’s cabbages.
He was wearing a curious combination of clothes to ward off the early morning chill, including what looked suspiciously like
Chaloner’s best hat. ‘Clears the mind.’

‘Does it?’ Chaloner glanced at him, and as the footman’s fingers closed round the bowl of his pipe, he saw a smudge of violet
ink on his hand, starkly visible in the lamp light. He grabbed it and inspected it more closely.

‘An accident,’ said George, freeing himself with more vigour than was appropriate between master and servant.

‘Explain,’ ordered Chaloner curtly.

‘I was cleaning the pens in your box,’ replied George, not looking at him. ‘And the ink spilled.’

‘None of my pens appeared to be clean.’

George looked him directly in the eye. ‘Then it seems I am no better at that duty then I am at most others in the stewarding
line. No wonder Fitzgerald dismissed me.’

‘Speaking of Fitzgerald, did you ever sail with him on
Jane
?’

‘
Jane
? Never heard of her.’

‘Then were you with him when he traded in gravel?’

George shrugged, and produced so much smoke that it was difficult to see his face. ‘He never told me what was in his holds.
And I never asked.’

A sudden screech from the kitchen made Chaloner run back inside the house in alarm, although George ignored it. He arrived
to find Joan had cornered a massive rat in the pantry.

‘Fetch your gun and shoot it!’ she ordered. ‘I know you have one, because I have seen it.’

It was a brazen admission that she had been through
his belongings, because he had taken care to hide the weapon at the bottom of a drawer. He stared at her, wondering whether
all servants considered it their bounden duty to pry into their employers’ affairs.

‘Do not just stand there!’ she shrieked. ‘Fetch the pistol and make an end of the beast.’

‘The neighbours will complain about the noise,’ he objected. ‘Chase it out with a—’

He stopped in disgust when she swooped forward and brought a broom down on the rodent’s head. The resulting gore was far worse
than death from a gun, and he was sorry for Nan, who was given the task of cleaning it up.

When he went to resume his discussion with George, the footman had gone. Was he already on his way to report the conversation
to Fitzgerald – or whoever else had ordered him to spy? Chaloner finished the milk, took more because he knew it would annoy
Joan, and retired upstairs, sure Hannah would be awake by now.

She was only just beginning to stir, which was impressive given the racket that had been made by the duelling cats and by
Joan over the rat. He was glad
he
did not sleep so soundly, certain he would have been dead long ago if he had.

‘Did I hear you scraping on that horrible viol?’ she asked accusingly.

Chaloner said nothing, but wondered why his playing should have disturbed her, when all the other sounds had not.

‘I wish you had learned the flageolet instead,’ she went on. ‘Those are much nicer.’

He changed the subject quickly: they would fall out
for certain if they debated the relative merits of flageolets and viols. ‘Could Meneses have hidden those letters in the
Queen’s purses?’

Hannah blinked, startled by such a question out of the blue. ‘No. He is a man, and we do not allow those in Her Majesty’s
dressing rooms. It would not be decent. Where are you going?’

‘Church,’ replied Chaloner, suddenly seized with the desire to be out of the house.

‘Good. You can take the servants. I want people to know we have an exotic footman.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Hannah,’ snapped Chaloner, unable to help himself. ‘He is not a performing bear. He may not even be Christian.’

Hannah stared at him. He rarely lost his temper with her, not even when he was seriously angry. Her expression darkened. ‘If
you cannot be civil, Thomas, it is wiser to say nothing at all.’

Chaloner rubbed his head, itching to retort that she should heed her own advice, especially in the mornings, but he was not
equal to the argument that would follow. ‘You were home late last night,’ he said, changing the subject again in the interests
of matrimonial harmony.