The Piccadilly Plot (35 page)

‘Because Meneses would not leave. Perhaps he did plant those letters, although I cannot imagine how. Or why, come to that
– he will not gain anything if the Queen is accused of plotting to kill the vainest man in London. Incidentally, I caught
Susan poking about in your pen-box when I came home last night. I hope you do not keep anything sensitive in there.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Did she explain what she was doing?’

Hannah looked away. ‘It seems you were right to
distrust her. She has been accepting money from someone to spy on you. She would not say who.’

Chaloner aimed for the door. ‘Where is she?’

‘Gone. I ordered her out of the house immediately, never to return.’

Chaloner smothered a sigh. ‘It would have been better to question her first.’

‘I
did
question her. And I just told you all she said. Besides, I did not want her in our home a moment longer.’

There was no point quarrelling over a fait accompli, so Chaloner bowed in an absurdly formal manner and took his leave, pausing
only to hide the scrap of cipher in one of his old boots, an article so grimly shabby that he was certain no one would ever
be inclined to investigate within. Perhaps such a precaution was unnecessary now Susan was exposed, but he had not forgotten
George’s suspicious behaviour
or
the fact that Joan had made a beeline for the document when it had been left on the table. As far as he was concerned, he
trusted no one in his house. Not even, he realised with a pang, his wife.

Because London was terrified of religious fanatics – defined as anyone who did not follow traditional Anglican rites – Chaloner
had no choice but to go to church that Sunday. The vergers made lists of absentees, and he did not want to draw attention
to himself by playing truant. He could not afford to lose two hours that day, though, so he exchanged friendly greetings with
the sexton in St Margaret’s porch until he was sure his name had been recorded in the register, then escaped through the vestry
door before the ceremonies began.

Yet he resented the fact that such deception was necessary, feeling he had fought a series of wars to end such dictates.
The injustice of the situation gnawed at him as he walked to Worcester House – exacerbated by his irritation with Hannah,
George and Susan – so that by the time he arrived to ask the Earl whether Meneses had been Governor of Tangier, he was in
a black mood.

He stalked past the guards and rapped on the study door with considerable force. It was opened cautiously by Edgeman, who
sighed his relief when he recognised the visitor.

‘It is all right,’ the secretary called over his shoulder. ‘It is only Chaloner.’

‘It was such an imperious knock that I thought it was Parliament come to impeach me,’ said the Earl, putting his hand on his
chest to indicate he had been given a fright. He was sitting by the fire, and Oliver and Dugdale were standing to attention
in front of him.

‘It is unbecoming for an usher to pound on his master’s doors,’ admonished Dugdale. He looked seedy that morning, so his rebuke
lacked the venom it would usually carry. ‘You made us all jump.’

‘My apologies,’ said Chaloner insincerely. He glanced at Oliver, thinking he had never seen the assistant architect in Worcester
House before. It was the Earl who explained.

‘Pratt has gone to view the Collection of Curiosities that is the talk of all London, so Oliver has come to give me my daily
report instead.’

‘The Earl refers to the exhibition near St Paul’s Cathedral,’ Oliver elaborated, although Chaloner recalled Farr telling him
about it and reading the advertisment for it in the newsbook, so needed no explanation. An
expression of gloom settled over the assistant architect’s long face as he continued. ‘And everyone who is anyone will be
there today. Except me – I am the only man in the city who is not invited.’

‘That is untrue,’ said the Earl kindly. ‘I have not been asked to attend, and neither has anyone else from my household.’

Dugdale and Edgeman exchanged a smug glance that said he was wrong.

‘The rich and the famous,’ Oliver went on morosely. ‘Earls, barons and fêted merchants. Great people like Leighton, O’Brien,
Kitty, Meneses and Brodrick. And Pratt, of course. But I shall be at Clarendon House, dusting banisters before the labourers
return to work tomorrow.’

‘Being in Clarendon House is not that bad,’ objected the Earl, offended. ‘It is a fine place to spend a Sunday morning. Indeed,
I shall be there myself in an hour.’

Oliver brightened. ‘Will you, sir? Some company would be nice.’

‘I shall bring a jug of wine, and you can show me around,’ elaborated the Earl graciously. Oliver cracked what was almost
a smile. ‘So go and make everything ready. My wife and I will join you as soon as she is ready. We are expected at church
this morning, but we shall attend this afternoon, instead. No sacrifice is too great where my house is concerned.’

‘You should not have yielded, sir,’ chided Dugdale, after Oliver had shuffled out. ‘It is not your responsibility to create
a merry workforce. I never make any concessions in that direction myself. Indeed, I keep my ushers in line by ensuring that
they are as unhappy as I can possibly make them.’

He had certainly done that, thought Chaloner,
watching the Earl’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the bald confession. Dugdale started to add something else, but the
Earl flapped a pudgy hand to indicate he should leave. The Chief Usher grimaced his indignation at the curt dismissal, and
the bow he gave as he left was shallow enough to be impertinent. Edgeman scurried after him.

‘Well?’ asked the Earl, when the door had closed. ‘Who is stealing my bricks? And have you identified the villain who wants
to kill Pratt? You are fast running out of time.’

Chaloner did not need to be told. ‘I have uncovered a lot of connections between the cases,’ he hedged. ‘And Williamson is
worried about what will happen if the plot to harm the Queen succeeds – concerned for our future relations with Portugal.’

‘It would be awkward, to say the least. Moreover, I do not want Pratt to die before he has finished my home. Are you
sure
you saw the thieves yesterday? Henry thinks you were mistaken.’

‘Of course I saw them.’

‘There is no need to snap,’ said the Earl sharply. ‘I believe you. It is a wretched shame you did not catch them, though.
Was there anything that might allow you to identify them?’

‘They were disguised.’ Chaloner moved to what he considered more important matters. ‘I need some information, sir: the names
of the last Portuguese governors of Tangier.’

The Earl regarded him askance. ‘What an odd request! But it is one I can grant, as it happens. The fellow with whom I had
most correspondence – as I negotiated that part of the Queen’s dowry – was Fernando de Meneses. He was later dismissed for
dishonesty.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘I never met him. However, I imagine he looks Portuguese.’

It was not helpful, and left Chaloner none the wiser as to whether the Queen’s new friend was an impostor. Of course, if Meneses
stood accused of corruption, and so was unable to secure a post at home, then perhaps he
had
come to London to try his luck with a countrywoman who might not have heard of his shortcomings.

‘I am glad you came,’ said the Earl, when there was no response. ‘Because I want you to spend the afternoon at Clarendon House.
It is the workmen’s day off, so it needs guarding. Frances and I will be there this morning. You can take over at two o’clock,
and stay until Wright arrives at dusk.’

Chaloner struggled to control his temper. ‘I thought you wanted me to catch the brick-thief, expose the plot to kill Pratt,
and find out what happened to Teviot. All before Wednesday. How am I supposed to do that when—’

‘You have had days to make enquiries,’ snapped the Earl. ‘It is not my fault you wasted them.’

‘I have
not
wasted them,’ countered Chaloner in something of a snarl. ‘You ordered me to Woolwich and the Tennis Court, both of which
were stupid, futile exercises.’

‘You go too far!’ cried the Earl, shocked. ‘Perhaps Henry is right, and I should dismiss you in favour of someone more amenable.
Or at least, someone who does not rail at me.’

Chaloner took a deep breath, knowing he had over-stepped the mark. He was also aware that it would not
have happened if he had not been troubled by his home life and its attendant problems.

‘I am sorry, sir. But something deadly
is
planned for three days’ time, and we need to discover the identity of the man who is giving Fitzgerald orders before it is
too late. It may involve Pratt, and—’

‘Then you can do it this morning and tonight,’ said the Earl, unappeased. ‘Protecting my new home is far more important than
rumours of vague plots. It is the reason I brought you home from Tangier, after all. This is not negotiable, Chaloner. You
will do as I say.’

Chaloner had no choice but to agree. His temper was even blacker as he bowed and took his leave. As he hauled open the door,
Kipps tumbled inside. The Seal Bearer’s expression was distinctly furtive.

‘I was not eavesdropping,’ he blustered. ‘I just wanted to know if you had finished.’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner brusquely. ‘He is all yours now.’

He walked to Chancery Lane Inn amid a cacophony of bells, as churches advertised their Sunday rites. The roads were full of
people flocking towards them, along with those street vendors who declined to acknowledge that there were laws prohibiting
Sabbath trading, and sought to provide for those who had time and money to spare. Other services had finished, disgorging
congregations into the streets, while still more were in progress, so that singing drifted through their windows.

Chaloner reached Lincoln’s Inn and ran up the stairs to Chamber XIII.

‘There is a Collection of Curiosities near St Paul’s,’ he said, opening the door and speaking without preamble. ‘We should
visit it, because a lot of people we need to
interview will probably be there. We might even be able to determine which of the Adventurers wants the Queen accused of
plotting to kill Pratt.’

‘Good morning to you, too,’ said Thurloe drily. He was sitting at the table, and Chaloner saw he was working on the same cipher
that continued to defeat him – they had made a copy the previous night. ‘Do you expect me to come with you? Before my devotions
in the chapel?’

Chaloner felt the business at hand was rather more urgent than religious ceremonies, although he knew better than to say so
outright – Thurloe was devout. ‘You can go this afternoon. The Earl will be doing the same, so he can mind Clarendon House
instead.’

‘He is reduced to guarding his own property, is he?’ Thurloe rose with a sigh. ‘Very well, we shall go to St Paul’s, although
I shall have to don a disguise. The Court is unlikely to appreciate being watched by an old Parliamentarian spymaster.’

Chaloner sat by the fire as Thurloe changed his appearance with a range of pastes, powders and an exceptionally unattractive
orange wig.

‘The more I think about it, the more I am sure that Elliot is alive and masquerading as Cave’s brother,’ Chaloner said, staring
into the flames. ‘Both the curate and Kersey mentioned an unusually black wig – which Elliot had. And both said “Jacob” was
large and loutish.’

‘But anyone can don a hairpiece,’ Thurloe pointed out. ‘While I could write you a list as long as my arm of “large and loutish”
men. Lester would be on it – and we know for certain that
he
is alive.’

‘Why would Lester want Cave buried without a grand funeral?’ asked Chaloner impatiently.

Thurloe turned away from the mirror to regard him
soberly. ‘To avenge Elliot – his shipmate and brother-in-law.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner irritably. ‘Lester is not Jacob.’

Thurloe went back to perfecting his disguise. They were silent for some time, Chaloner gazing moodily at the fire. Eventually,
Thurloe indicated that he was ready.

‘Have you given consideration to Williamson’s request?’ he asked, as they walked across Dial Court towards Lincoln’s Inn’s
main gate. ‘Will you work with him?’

‘No. I do not trust him, and the notion of taking orders from such a man …’

‘Take them,’ instructed Thurloe. ‘This is far too grave a matter to be affected by your pride. He has swallowed his by asking
for your help. Do likewise, and help him.’

‘Then when I fall foul of him – an inevitability, given his prickly temper and our past quarrels – will you rescue me from
his dungeons?’

Thurloe raised his eyebrows, and it was clear that he was thinking that Williamson was not the only one prone to bad tempers.
‘He would not dare incarcerate you. Clarendon would not stand for it.’

Chaloner recalled the hot words that had been spoken earlier. ‘I think he might.’

‘He is all bluster, but he appreciates what you do for him. His son does not, though. You should be wary of Hyde.’

‘You have warned me to be wary of a lot of people lately – Hyde, Lester, Fitzgerald. Indeed, half of London seems to be swirling
with deadly villains according to you.’

Thurloe regarded him sharply. ‘They
are
dangerous, Thomas, and you are a fool if you discount my advice. You think Fitzgerald is less deadly than I have portrayed,
and Hyde is too feeble to be a threat, while you like Lester.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Chaloner. ‘I do.’

‘Then continue to like him. Just do not
trust
him. That should not be difficult – you repel overtures of friendship from everyone else you meet. And I cannot say it is
healthy.’

‘You trained me to do it,’ retorted Chaloner, nettled. ‘Besides, it means I am rarely disappointed when they transpire to
be villains.’

‘Speaking of villains, you might want to watch Kipps, too,’ said Thurloe. ‘He professes a powerful dislike of Adventurers,
but that does not stop him from hobnobbing with them.’

‘He is just friendly.’ Chaloner was becoming tired of Thurloe’s suspicions. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Did you ever
harbour misgivings about Hannah’s maid Susan?’