The Piccadilly Plot

Chapter 2

The guard on duty at White Hall’s Great Gate that day was Sergeant Wright, a petty, grasping individual who was heartily disliked by those soldiers who took pride in their work; those who were shirkers considered him an icon. He was an unattractive specimen with a bad complexion, stubby nose, and eyes that were too small for his doughy face.

‘You cannot come in dressed like that,’ he declared, when he saw Chaloner. ‘You are wet, dirty and there is blood on your coat. Someone else’s, more is the pity. Other gentlemen ushers do not-’

‘Let him through,’ came a commanding voice from behind them. The interruption was timely, because Chaloner did not take kindly to being berated by the likes of Wright, who was no picture of sartorial elegance himself with his food-stained tunic and greasy hair.

The speaker was Thomas Kipps, the Earl’s Seal Bearer, a tall, handsome man with an amiable face. He was dressed in the Clarendon livery of blue and gold, and it was his duty to walk ahead of his master in formal processions. Unfortunately, the Earl liked the ritual, and encouraged Kipps to escort him when he wandered around White Hall, too. Such vanity was ill-advised, because it gave his enemies the means with which to mock him — Chaloner had lost count of the times he had seen the Court rakes mimic the Earl’s waddling gait, preceded by another of their own bearing a pair of bellows in place of the seal.

Wright was outraged that someone should presume to tell him his business. ‘How dare-’

‘Clarendon wants him,’ snapped Kipps. ‘And you do not have the right to keep him waiting.’

Wright stepped aside with ill grace. Chaloner pushed past him rather more roughly than necessary, hard enough to make him stagger.

‘He is an odious fellow,’ said Kipps, once they were through the gate. ‘Do you know why he is not dismissed and someone more competent appointed in his place? Because he once carried an important message to the King during the civil wars. Anyone could have done it, but His Majesty remembers Wright, and this post is his reward.’

Chaloner liked Kipps, who alone of the Earl’s household had been friendly to him on his return from Tangier. He shrugged. ‘White Hall is full of such people.’

‘He is corrupt, too,’ Kipps grumbled on. ‘He hires out the soldiers under his command for private duties, such as acting as bodyguards or minding property. He pays them a pittance and keeps the bulk of the earnings for himself. Unfortunately, the extra work reduces their effectiveness at the palace — they are too tired to fulfil their proper responsibilities.’

Chaloner had never been impressed by White Hall’s security. And as the King’s popularity had waned since he had reclaimed his throne at the Restoration some four years earlier — mostly because of his hedonistic lifestyle and the licentiousness of his Court — he needed someone a lot more efficient than Wright to ensure his safety.

Chaloner and Kipps crossed the huge, cobbled expanse of the Great Court, which was a flurry of activity as usual. A number of courtiers had just emerged from Lady Castlemaine’s apartments, yelling drunkenly and accompanied by giggling prostitutes; the King’s mistress was famous for her unconventional parties. Elsewhere, clerks, guards and servants hurried about on more mundane business, and carts lined up to deliver supplies to kitchens, laundries, pantries and coal sheds.

‘Watch yourself when you see Clarendon,’ advised Kipps, pausing a moment to admire a duchess who was too drunk to realise that she had left the soirée without most of her clothes. More chivalrous men than he rushed to give her their coats, although they regretted their gallantry when she was sick over them. ‘Dugdale told him that you insisted on meddling in some fight on The Strand, despite the fact that you knew he was waiting.’

Chaloner groaned. ‘It is not true.’

‘I am sure of it. I wish Clarendon had not given him such power, because the man is a despot. Every night at home, I marvel that I have managed to pass another day without punching him.’

They were obliged to jump to one side when a cavalcade of coaches rattled towards them, the haughty demeanour of the drivers telling pedestrians that if they did not get out of the way they could expect to be crushed. Most of the carriages bore crests, and it was clear that the occupants considered themselves to be people of quality.

‘Adventurers,’ said Kipps disapprovingly. ‘Here for a meeting with the King who, as you will no doubt be aware, is one of their number. So is the Duke of Buckingham.’

Buckingham, the King’s oldest friend, was the first to alight when the convoy rolled to a halt. He was an athletic, striking man whose fondness for wild living was beginning to take its toll — his eyes had an unhealthy yellow tinge, his skin was sallow and he had developed a paunch.

‘He looks fragile this morning,’ Kipps went on gleefully. ‘He must have stayed too late at Lady Castlemaine’s soirée. I keep hoping he will debauch himself into an early grave, because his hatred for our Earl grows daily, and he is a powerful enemy.’

‘Are all these people Adventurers?’ asked Chaloner, staggered by the number of men who were lining up to enter the royal presence.

Kipps nodded. ‘They represent White Hall’s wealthiest courtiers. You see the short, pasty-faced villain? That is Ellis Leighton, their secretary, said to be the most dangerous man in London.’

‘Why?’ Leighton did not look particularly deadly, and when he moved, it was with a crablike scuttle that was vaguely comical, although Chaloner supposed there was something unsettling about the man’s button-like eyes, which were curiously devoid of expression.

Kipps lowered his voice, although there was no one close enough to hear. ‘Because he has amassed himself a fortune, but no one is sure how. And he has friends in London’s underworld.’

‘Is he a merchant?’

‘He calls himself a businessman, which is not the same thing at all.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not seeing at all.

‘They are meeting today because one of their number has gone missing,’ Kipps continued. ‘Peter Proby has not been seen for a week, and they are worried about him.’

‘What do they think might have happened?’

‘I imagine they are afraid that he has been murdered.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Is Proby the kind of man to warrant such a fate, then?’

‘They all are,’ replied Kipps darkly. ‘They have cordoned off an entire continent, and decided that no one is allowed to profit from it except themselves. And the aggravating thing is that none of them have the faintest idea of what they are doing.’

‘You mean they do not appreciate the depth of the ill-will they have generated?’

‘Oh, I imagine they are perfectly aware of that, but being courtiers, they do not care. What I meant was that they have no concept of how to run such a venture. They are a band of aristocratic treasure hunters, whereas they should be a properly organised corporation.’

Chaloner was startled by the passion in Kipps’s voice. ‘You speak as though you resent their-’

‘I do resent it!’ declared Kipps through gritted teeth. ‘I should like to speculate in Africa myself.’

‘Join the Adventurers, then,’ suggested Chaloner.

Kipps sniffed. ‘I would not demean myself by treating with that dim-witted rabble. Besides, they rejected my application, although I have no idea why.’

Chaloner looked at the assembled men, recognising many. ‘Could it be that they comprise a large number of the Earl’s enemies? They will not want members of his household among their ranks.’

‘No,’ replied Kipps, ‘because his son is an Adventurer, and so is Dugdale. There must be another reason why they elected to exclude me, but I cannot imagine what it might be.’

It occurred to Chaloner that they may have taken exception to Kipps referring to them as a ‘dim-witted rabble’. ‘If they are as incompetent as you say, their venture will fail. And when it does, you can speculate to your heart’s content.’

‘Yes, but by then the Dutch will have secured all the best resources.’ Kipps sighed and gave a rueful smile. ‘Forgive me. I cannot abide ineptitude, and the Adventurers represent it at its worst.’

Eventually, Chaloner and Kipps arrived at the great marble staircase that led to the Earl’s domain. It was cold even in the height of summer, so it was positively frigid that day, and Chaloner shivered in his still-damp clothes. Kipps wished him luck and disappeared into the elegantly appointed room he had been allocated, where a fire blazed merrily, and wine and cakes had been set out for him.

Tiredly, Chaloner climbed the stairs, and continued along a passageway to the fine chamber from which the Earl conducted his official business. He smiled at the new secretary, William Edgeman, although his friendly greeting was not returned: Edgeman, a short, disagreeable man, was friends with Dugdale.

When Chaloner reached the door, he heard voices. The Earl’s was the loudest, but there were others, too. He knocked, but the room’s occupants were making so much racket that no one heard.

‘You will be in trouble,’ called Edgeman, smirking gleefully. ‘The Earl was furious when he heard that you deliberately ignored his summons in order to wander off with a corpse.’

Chaloner was not surprised to learn that he was about to be given a frosty reception — the opportunity to harm him would have been too much of a temptation for Dugdale. He was exasperated, though. Why did the man have to be so petty? Surely someone of his status should be above such antics?

‘Lady Clarendon, Henry Hyde and Sir Alan Brodrick have been waiting, too,’ Edgeman went on. ‘They are also angry with you.’

‘Waiting for me?’ asked Chaloner in surprise. He had never met Clarendon’s wife, Frances, while the son and heir, Henry Hyde, had always made a point of ignoring him, making it clear that ex-Parliamentarian intelligencers were beneath his contempt. Clarendon’s cousin Brodrick liked Chaloner, though — a feeling that was reciprocated — because they shared a love of music.

‘They will be wanting you to deal with some matter that is too sordid for the rest of us,’ predicted Edgeman unpleasantly. ‘Why else would they be so keen to meet the likes of you?’

Unwilling to listen to more of the secretary’s spiteful speculation, Chaloner knocked again, then jumped back smartly when the door was whipped open rather abruptly. Without conscious thought, his hand dropped to his sword.

The man who stood on the other side of the door was in his mid-twenties, with a catlike face and a long, straight nose. He was dressed in a fashionably elegant silk suit with a profusion of lace. He was Clarendon’s eldest son, who revelled in the title of Viscount Cornbury, although most people simply referred to him by his family name of Hyde.

‘Good God!’ he yelped, when he saw the half-drawn weapon. But he recovered himself quickly, and looked Chaloner up and down in disdain. ‘I see you have dressed for the occasion.’

Chaloner felt he could come to dislike Hyde as much as his pompous, overbearing father, and several tart responses flashed into his mind. Fortunately, prudence prevailed, so he said nothing.

‘Enter,’ ordered Hyde, with an unwelcoming scowl. ‘With your blade inside its scabbard, if you would be so kind. We have been expecting you these last two hours.’

As usual, the office had been heated to suffocation point — the Earl believed cold air was bad for his gout, and always kept the chamber wickedly hot. For once, Chaloner did not mind, although he was disconcerted when his clothes began to steam.

‘Have you discovered who is stealing my father’s bricks?’ asked Hyde in an undertone, catching the spy’s arm to hold him back for a moment. ‘Personally, I think he is overreacting. Anyone who builds a house in London should expect a few items to go missing. It is the natural order of things.’

‘Yes and no,’ argued Chaloner. ‘There is a big difference between “a few items going missing” and the regular and sustained pilfering of-’

‘You are wasting your time,’ predicted Hyde. ‘You will not catch the culprit, so you should forget about it and do the job for which you were hired — protecting my father against the many scoundrels at Court who mean him harm.’

‘Willingly,’ said Chaloner. ‘When will you tell him of this decision? Today?’

Hyde glowered. ‘Watch your tongue. My father may overlook your insolence because he thinks he needs your services, but I am not so indulgent. Now follow me.’

The Earl was on one side of the spacious hearth, and his wife was sitting opposite him. Brodrick was next to her, slumped with his head in his hands in a way that implied he was suffering from a serious hangover, while Dugdale perched on a stool at the Earl’s feet. The Chief Usher looked ridiculous there, like a performing monkey, and Chaloner wondered why he had consented to take such a demeaning position.

‘There you are at last,’ muttered Brodrick, while the Earl pointedly ignored Chaloner and continued speaking to Dugdale. ‘Where have you been? Because of your tardiness, I am missing an important meeting with the King.’

Brodrick was generally regarded to be one of the most dissipated men at Court, although the Earl steadfastly refused to believe anything bad about him and never tired in his campaign to secure him a lucrative post. Fortunately for Britain, others could see Brodrick’s failings, and he had so far been denied a government appointment.

‘You are an Adventurer?’ asked Chaloner. He was not surprised. Brodrick was essentially penniless, but that had never prevented him from enjoying an expensive lifestyle, and investing money he did not have in a badly organised venture was certainly something he would do.

Brodrick nodded. ‘On account of the dinners — they are the best in London, and I do like a good evening out.’

‘Did the Adventurers meet last night, then?’ asked Chaloner, taking in Brodrick’s pale face and bloodshot eyes. ‘Or were you at Lady Castlemaine’s-’

‘No,’ interrupted Brodrick, shooting his cousin an uneasy glance. The Earl hated the King’s mistress so much that he could not even bring himself to say her name; she was always just ‘the Lady’. He would certainly not approve of Brodrick enjoying her soirées, although Chaloner knew for a fact that Brodrick was usually the first to arrive and last to leave. ‘I caught a chill at church yesterday.’

‘Our cousin is a very devout man,’ said Frances. She was a soft, motherly creature who had probably never been pretty, but who had such a kind, generous face that Chaloner instinctively liked her. The wry gleam in her eye suggested that she had Brodrick’s measure, even if her husband remained obstinately blind.

‘Ah, Chaloner,’ said the Earl, pretending to notice his gentleman usher’s arrival.

He was a short, plump man, who liked to dress fashionably, which was unfortunate because the profusion of lace, ribbons and ruffles served to accentuate his short neck, ample girth and double chins. That morning he was clad in the sumptuous robes that marked him as the country’s Lord Chancellor, and a yellow wig reached almost to his waist. Chaloner regarded him in astonishment, wondering what he wore at state functions if he attired himself so elaborately when at leisure.

‘Chaloner has donned his best clothes for you today, father,’ said Hyde slyly.

‘I know you have been obliged to lurk at my mansion since you came home,’ said the Earl, eyeing his intelligencer disapprovingly, ‘but Henry is right. Must you dress so shabbily? You look like a ruffian.’

‘It rained all last night, sir,’ Chaloner started to explain. ‘And-’

‘Never mind that,’ interrupted the Earl impatiently. ‘I ordered you to come here without delay, but Dugdale says you ran off on another errand.’

‘Well, he is here now,’ said Frances soothingly. ‘And I applaud his actions. Would you have had him leave poor Cave in the street, like so much rubbish? He did the decent thing.’

‘If you say so, dear.’ The Earl’s voice said he did not agree, but knew better than to argue.

‘Poor Cave,’ said Brodrick. ‘Did you ever hear him sing, cousin? It was the stuff of Heaven, and his voice will be sorely missed. I was only remarking to Lady Castle-’ He cleared his throat uncomfortably, ‘-to a friend last night that the Chapel Royal choir has been much improved since he came home.’

‘I have often heard him sing,’ said Frances, as the Earl, who had not missed Brodrick’s slip of the tongue, frowned his puzzlement at it. ‘Did his killer escape, or is he arrested?’

‘He escaped, but not before Cave stabbed him,’ supplied Dugdale. ‘I had asked Chaloner to prevent violence, but I am afraid he failed rather miserably.’

Frances regarded him coolly. ‘Did he indeed! Then why did you not intervene instead?’

Dugdale regarded her uneasily. ‘Because I am not qualified to meddle in street brawls, My Lady. I am a gentleman.’

‘A gentleman who claims to have fought for the King during the wars,’ pressed Frances. ‘So you cannot be a total stranger to weapons.’

Chaloner watched Dugdale squirm, and found himself liking Frances even more. Of course, Dugdale was likely to remember the humiliation she had inflicted on him, but it would not be her who would pay the price. It would be Chaloner, for witnessing it. The Earl clapped his hands suddenly, causing Brodrick to wince and put a hand to his head.

‘We have wasted enough time this morning, so I recommend we get down to business. Go and stand outside, Dugdale, and ensure we are not interrupted.’

‘You want me to leave?’ asked Dugdale in disbelief. ‘But I …’

He trailed off when his master pointed to the still-open door. He struggled up from the stool and bowed, although the glance he shot at Chaloner said he was seething. Chaloner, meanwhile, was uneasy. Surely his Tangier report could be of no interest to Frances, Hyde and Brodrick? His disquiet intensified when Hyde followed Dugdale to the door, to ensure his father’s instructions were being followed, and then locked it before joining the group at the hearth.

‘We learned something terrible this morning, Chaloner,’ whispered the Earl, once his son had taken the stool Dugdale had vacated. ‘The most dreadful plot …’

‘He wants you to investigate,’ said Hyde. He glared at his father. ‘Although I am more than capable of solving the case, and so is Brodrick. There is no need to involve outsiders.’

‘I am sure you can, dear,’ said Frances. ‘But we are talking about a man’s life, and Mr Chaloner has skills and experience that you do not. It would be unethical not to seek his assistance.’

‘How may I help?’ asked Chaloner, thinking that a ‘most dreadful plot’ and saving someone’s life sounded a lot more interesting than watching piles of bricks.

‘There is a plan afoot to murder my architect,’ breathed the Earl. ‘Roger Pratt.’

There was silence after the Earl had made his announcement, as he, Hyde, Brodrick and Frances waited for Chaloner to react. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and a ticking clock. It was an expensive one from France, but although it was baroque art at its finest, it was two hours fast, suggesting its makers considered an elaborate case more important than functional innards.

Chaloner stared at the Earl’s family, assuming they had misread whatever intelligence had come their way. Regardless, dispatching an architect was not his idea of a ‘most dreadful plot’.

‘Why would anyone harm Pratt?’ he asked eventually. ‘Is it because people think Clarendon House too grand, and murdering its designer might make you reconsider-’

‘No!’ snapped the Earl angrily. ‘That is not why. If it were, the villains would have struck while it was being raised. It has walls and a roof now, and most of the remaining work is internal.’

‘We told Pratt about the threat, and once he had recovered from the shock, he agreed with us,’ added Hyde. ‘It cannot be an attack on his creation, or it would have happened months ago.’

‘I believe the real plot is an attempt to inconvenience me,’ the Earl went on. ‘My enemies see the house nearing completion, and they want to delay me moving in. For spite. Or jealousy.’

‘You may think it is extreme,’ said Frances, apparently reading the doubt in Chaloner’s face, ‘but you do not need us to tell you that there are some very unpleasant people at Court.’

‘How did you hear about it?’ asked Chaloner, making an effort to take their concerns seriously. ‘Was there a rumour?’

‘We found a letter,’ explained the Earl. He looked at his wife, then at his son, and then at his cousin, before bringing troubled eyes back to Chaloner. ‘In the Queen’s personal correspondence.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘How did it get there?’

‘Because she is the one who has commissioned the murder,’ stated Hyde baldly.

Chaloner gaped at him. Of all the people in London, Queen Katherine was the last to engage in murky business. She was a shy, convent-raised Portuguese princess who had still not come to terms with the fact that she had married into one of the most sybaritic courts in the world. Chaloner liked her, but she was unpopular with almost everyone else for several reasons: she was Catholic, she spoke poor English, and she had so far failed to provide an heir for the throne.

‘She would never involve herself in such a matter,’ he said, finally regaining his voice. ‘First, I doubt she has ever met Pratt. Second, she is not the kind of lady to kill people. And third, even if she were, she is still a virtual stranger here, and would not know how to go about it.’

‘So you say,’ snapped Hyde. ‘But, as you know, I am her Private Secretary. I found this letter.’

As it happened, Chaloner did not know that Hyde worked for the Queen, and was ashamed of himself for it, because it was the sort of detail spies should know about their employers’ families.

‘May I see it?’ he asked, still sure there had been a mistake.

Hyde looked set to refuse, but the Earl indicated he should hand it over. He did so reluctantly, and Chaloner read what had been written:

Your Majestye is truthfull in her clayme that Clarendone House is an abomination before our most Holie and Catholick God. I will kill Pratt on the Feast Day of St Frideswide, as you ordered. I remayne youre humble and obedient servant in Christ and the Virgin Marye.

‘Well?’ demanded the Earl. ‘How will you prevent this outrage?’

‘There will be no outrage, sir,’ said Chaloner, wondering what had possessed them to take such a patent piece of lunacy seriously. ‘It is hardly Her Majesty’s fault that some madman has elected to send her an insane letter.’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Brodrick in satisfaction. ‘That is exactly what I said.’

‘Then you are both wrong,’ said Hyde, scowling. ‘The threat is genuine.’

‘It is not,’ argued Chaloner. ‘This letter is a transparent and laughable effort to implicate the Queen in something of which she is innocent. I would have thought the clumsy references to her Catholicism would have made that apparent.’

‘That is a valid point,’ agreed Frances. ‘And her English is still poor …’

‘It has improved,’ said Hyde stiffly. ‘She is not fluent, but she could certainly comprehend what is written here. And she has a motive for harming you, father: she is hurt that you do not visit her as often as you once did.’

‘Because I have no choice,’ objected the Earl defensively. ‘I chose her as a bride for the King, but it was a terrible mistake, because she is barren. If I do not distance myself, my enemies will use her to destroy me. Surely she understands that?’

Poor Katherine, thought Chaloner. Now even those who had been friends were abandoning her.

‘And she wants revenge,’ Hyde finished. ‘She knows how important Clarendon House is to you, so she means to strike at you through Pratt.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner with considerable force. The Earl’s eyes widened at the tone of his voice, and Hyde bristled, but Chaloner did not care. ‘She would never do such things.’

‘The evidence is there,’ snarled Hyde, pointing at the letter. ‘Thank God I intercepted it.’

‘Do you really think a co-conspirator would send such a thing?’ demanded Chaloner, feeling his dislike of Hyde mount. Surely the man owed his mistress some shred of loyalty? ‘Even the most inept of assassins would know not to leave written evidence of his plans.’

‘He doubtless assumed the Queen would destroy it after digesting its contents,’ snapped Hyde. ‘It was only luck that allowed me to find it before she could do either.’

‘Do you not see what is happening?’ Chaloner was becoming exasperated. ‘Someone left it for you to find, with the specific intention of harming her. Only instead of throwing it away, like any rational man, you have played directly into this lunatic’s hands by taking it seriously.’

Hyde glowered. ‘If that were the case, there would have been other messages of a similar nature. And this is the only one.’

‘The only one you have found,’ corrected Chaloner. ‘Or perhaps this is the first, and more will follow.’

‘No!’ barked Hyde. ‘The explanation is obvious: she should have burned it, but she is a novice in such matters, and she was careless. She left it lying on a desk, where I happened across it.’

‘How very convenient,’ said Chaloner acidly. ‘The instigator of this nasty piece of poison must be delighted that you are making his task so easy.’

‘Watch yourself, Chaloner,’ breathed Brodrick, shocked. ‘Or you will be in trouble.’

‘He is in trouble,’ snarled Hyde. He turned to his father. ‘I want him dismissed. He has made no headway with catching the villain who steals our bricks, and now he does not believe the threat against Pratt. I will explore both matters, and you can save yourself the cost of employing him.’

‘You cannot, Henry,’ said Frances reasonably. ‘You do not have the necessary expertise. Besides, you do not believe the theft of our bricks amounts to anything — you tell us to ignore it. How will you investigate something you do not consider to be serious?’

‘Because I know about architecture,’ replied Hyde loftily. ‘I have always been interested in the subject, and Christopher Wren told me only last week that he considers me talented. I know far more about building supplies than Chaloner ever will.’

‘But not about theft and murder,’ argued Frances quietly. ‘And those are the issues here.’

Hyde scowled, and it was clear he resented his mother’s interference. Chaloner appreciated it, though, and suspected she might have just saved him from unemployment, because the Earl’s eyes had glittered thoughtfully when the prospect of saving money had been raised.

‘So what will you do, Chaloner?’ asked Brodrick. ‘How will you begin?’

‘By finding out who sent the message,’ answered Chaloner, not bothering to reiterate his belief that the architect was in no danger, but that the Queen might well be. ‘And-’

‘A waste of time,’ interrupted Hyde. ‘I have already questioned Her Majesty’s household, but no one saw this missive delivered. And I doubt she will appreciate being interrogated by you.’

Chaloner suppressed a sigh. Hyde’s precipitate actions would have told the sender that the letter had been discovered, thus making the matter that much more difficult to explore.

‘Perhaps we should send Pratt away until the would-be assassin is under lock and key,’ suggested Frances. ‘I shall never forgive myself if he is murdered while working on our new home.’

‘The letter says Pratt will not die until the Feast of St Frideswide.’ Chaloner calculated quickly. ‘That is a week next Wednesday — nine days from now.’

‘How do you know?’ asked the Earl in astonishment. ‘We had to consult an almanac. I sincerely hope you are not a papist. I would not countenance one of those in my household.’

‘It is general knowledge, sir.’ Chaloner did not feel strongly enough about religion to affiliate himself with any sect, although he suspected that the Earl would dismiss him if he knew that his intelligencer was married to a Catholic — Hannah had converted when she had first been appointed to serve the Queen.

‘We shall hire Sergeant Wright to protect Pratt,’ determined Brodrick. ‘To put Frances’s mind at rest.’

It would be a waste of money on two counts, thought Chaloner. By paying guards to mind a man who did not need them, and by employing Wright, who would not know how to repel an assassin if his life depended on it. But before he could say so, there was a knock on the door and Dugdale entered. The Chief Usher looked around carefully, as if trying to gauge what had been discussed in his absence. He shot Chaloner a malevolent glance, but masked the expression quickly when he addressed the Earl, unwilling for their master to see the extent of his dislike.

‘I have just received a note from Pratt, sir. Apparently, twenty planks of best oak were stolen last night. How extraordinary that Chaloner did not notice.’

Fortunately for Chaloner, Kipps arrived shortly after Dugdale’s announcement, to inform Hyde and Brodrick that their presence was required at the Adventurers’ meeting immediately. Neither man could ignore a summons from the King, and they disappeared without another word. Chaloner was grateful, suspecting that Hyde would have used the missing wood to resume his campaign to have him dismissed — and he might have succeeded, because the Earl was clearly livid about their loss. Lady Clarendon frowned.

‘I do not like Henry mixing with Adventurers,’ she said, once everyone had gone, and only she, the Earl and Chaloner remained. ‘He is easily led, and I have not heard good things about Secretary Leighton. The other members leave much to be desired, too. Henry told me only yesterday that they transported more than three thousand slaves to Barbados last year. Slaves! How can he associate with such vileness?’

The Earl sighed unhappily. ‘We cannot dictate his behaviour for ever — he is twenty-six years old. But we should not discuss this now. I am more interested in my planks.’ He glared at Chaloner.

‘I watched your supplies all night, sir,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘And I checked them before I left. They were all there then.’

‘But this particular wood was stored inside the house,’ explained the Earl shortly. ‘And I know for a fact that every door is secured at dusk, so no one should have been able to get in.’

‘No one did, sir. So these planks must have been stolen after I left this morning, when the doors were unlocked for the workmen.’

‘Without anyone seeing?’ asked the Earl archly.

‘Without anyone raising the alarm,’ corrected Chaloner. ‘As I have said before, I suspect the thieves have accomplices among the workforce.’

‘Nonsense! My labourers are above reproach.’ The Earl held up his hand when Chaloner started to point out that such a large body of men, none of whom were very well paid, was likely to contain at least one rotten apple, and probably a lot more. ‘You let your attention wander, and these cunning dogs seized the opportunity to climb through a window. They cannot have gone through a door, because my locks are tamper-proof.’

‘Are they now?’ murmured Chaloner. He had not met a lock yet that could keep him out.

‘They are the best money can buy.’ The Earl’s eyes shone, as they always did when he was boasting about his new home. ‘And one key opens them all.’

Chaloner had never heard of such a thing. ‘Really?’

The Earl rummaged in his clothing and produced a key that hung on a cord around his neck. ‘There are only two copies in existence. I have one, and Pratt has the other — his will eventually go to Frances. It means we shall be able to lock whichever rooms we like without having to sort through vast mountains of keys.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, resisting the urge to ask what would happen if one was mislaid.

‘The only door it cannot open is the one to the vault.’ The Earl grinned. ‘And that is clever, too — it is designed to be airless, so if ever there is a fire, my papers and other valuables will be safe.’

‘Airless?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. ‘But what if someone is shut inside?’

The Earl looked smug. ‘That will never happen to an innocent person, and thieves deserve to be suffocated. Pratt is a genius for inventing such clever measures. My new home is impregnable.’

‘Except for the fact that someone broke in and stole your planks,’ Chaloner pointed out.

The Earl scowled. ‘That was your fault. You failed to ensure all the windows were closed, and then you were asleep when the burglars arrived to take advantage. And it obviously happened during the night, because thieves never operate in broad daylight.’

‘Do not rail at him, dear,’ said Frances mildly. ‘And thieves do operate in broad daylight. Indeed, they probably prefer it, because they will be able to see what they are doing.’

Chaloner wished she were present during all his interviews with the Earl. ‘The only way to catch the culprits — or to deter them — is to put the house under continuous surveillance. But I cannot do it, sir, not if I am to look into the threat against Pratt.’

‘True,’ acknowledged the Earl. ‘So Pratt and his assistant Oliver can take responsibility during the day, and I shall hire Sergeant Wright to do it at night — he has more than enough men to protect Pratt and guard my house. That should leave you plenty of time to unmask the assassin — and to lay hold of these wretched burglars before they steal anything else.’

‘Very well, sir.’ Chaloner turned to leave.

‘Wait,’ said the Earl. He grimaced. ‘Much as it pains me to admit it, Henry is wrong, and you and Brodrick are right — the Queen would never conspire to kill my architect, not even to repay me for neglecting her these last few months. But that does not mean Pratt is safe. You must learn who sent that letter and prevent something dreadful from unfolding — Pratt dead and the Queen blamed.’

‘I shall do my best, sir.’

Chaloner was preparing to take leave of his employer when Edgeman the secretary arrived to remind the Earl that it was time to attend a meeting of the Tangier Committee. The Earl indicated Chaloner was to help him up — gout and an expanding girth meant he was not as agile as he once was — and Frances rose to leave, too, unwilling to linger in her husband’s place of work when he would not be there.

‘I suppose you had better tell me what you learned in Africa,’ said the Earl, waddling towards the door. ‘I know you wrote me a report, but I could not be bothered to read it.’

‘I did, and it was very interesting,’ said Frances, making Chaloner warm to her even more. ‘Your assertion that Tangier is a hard posting, miles from the centre of power at White Hall, does explain why honest men refuse to accept jobs there. Only the dross, who cannot get anything else, are-’

‘A hard posting?’ interrupted the Earl uneasily. He turned to Chaloner. ‘Do you think the Portuguese cheated us when they gave it as part of the Queen’s dowry, then?’

As the man largely responsible for negotiating the royal marriage contract, he was the one who would be blamed if that transpired to be true. And Chaloner thought it was — he strongly suspected the Portuguese had been rather glad to be rid of it.

‘The harbour is not all that was promised,’ he hedged. ‘It is too shallow for warships, and is open to northerly gales. But the garrison is building a mole to protect it, which should help.’

‘A mole is a sea wall,’ interposed Frances, eager to show off the knowledge she had gleaned from reading Chaloner’s commentary. ‘And when it is finished, it will provide British ships with a safe haven in the Mediterranean. This will re-establish us as the greatest maritime nation in the world, by letting us control the Straits of Gibraltar.’

‘The problem is that only a fraction of the money we send is spent on the mole,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Most is siphoned off by corrupt officials. The new governor, Sir Tobias Bridge-’

‘A damned Parliamentarian,’ grated the Earl. ‘I argued against appointing him, but he was the only person willing to do it.’

‘What happened to his predecessor?’ asked Frances of Chaloner. ‘Lord Teviot? We heard rumours about his death of course, but I felt we never had the truth of it.’

‘He took five hundred soldiers to chop down a wood,’ Chaloner replied, thinking that she was right to be suspicious: there had definitely been something odd about what had happened that fateful day in May. ‘His scouts told him it was safe, but in fact a large enemy force was waiting. Teviot repelled the first wave, but then he made a fatal mistake.’

‘He skulked back to the town?’ asked the Earl, his interest caught. ‘Instead of pursuing them, and showing the devils what British infantry can do?’

‘The opposite. He thought he had managed a rout, when it should have been obvious that he was being lured into a trap. All but thirty of his men were killed.’

‘And Teviot died too,’ sighed the Earl. ‘I did not like him personally — he was arrogant, greedy and stupid — but no one can deny his courage.’

‘The fact that his scouts told him it was safe bothers me,’ said Chaloner, more to himself than his listeners. ‘I raised the matter with them when we travelled home together on Eagle, but they refused to discuss it.’

‘Then perhaps you had better look into that affair, too,’ said the Earl. ‘As you point out, good men are not exactly queuing up to accept duties in Tangier, and if rumours about dangerously incompetent staff start circulating, no one will ever volunteer again.’

‘You want me to go back?’ asked Chaloner, heart sinking. He had hoped to be home for a while.

‘Not before you have caught my thieves and exposed whoever plans to kill Pratt. But if these scouts are in London, then there is no need for foreign travel. You can question them here.’

‘But I have questioned them, sir. They were unwilling to talk.’

‘Then try harder. I am sure you have cracked tougher nuts in the past. That gives you three different assignments, which is a lot, but I am sure you will manage. However, remember that the most important one is catching the villains who keep raiding my house.’

‘No, most important is the plot involving the Queen and Pratt,’ countered Frances. ‘I do not want our architect murdered by an assassin. Or the poor Queen held responsible for it.’

‘He will give all three equal attention,’ said the Earl, although the tone of his voice made it clear that there would be trouble if his own concerns were not given priority. Chaloner bowed again, thinking unhappily that none of the enquiries filled him with great enthusiasm, and he would be lucky if he solved one of them to the Earl’s satisfaction.

In the corridor outside, the Earl’s retainers were waiting to escort him to his meeting. His seal bearer stood ready to lead the way, and his secretary and gentlemen ushers had lined up to process behind him. All wore his livery of blue and gold, and made for an imposing sight.

‘You cannot join us, Chaloner,’ said the Earl, looking pointedly at the spy’s soiled and crumpled clothing. ‘So you may escort my wife home instead.’

‘Not yet, though,’ said Frances. ‘I should like to see the great lords of the Tangier Committee make their appearance. I adore a spectacle.’

But she was to be disappointed. Her husband was the only man who stood on ceremony, and the other members arrived in a far more modest fashion. Most had not even bothered to don wigs, and badly shaven heads were the order of the day.

One person had taken care to look his best, however. He was Samuel Pepys, an ambitious clerk from the Navy Board. Because Chaloner was standing with Lady Clarendon, Pepys deigned to acknowledge him, although his eyes widened in shock at the spy’s dishevelled appearance.

‘Tangier’s residents say Teviot was the best of all their governors,’ he was informing the man at his side. ‘But to my mind, he was a cunning fellow.’

‘He died gallantly, though,’ replied his friend. ‘But never mind him. Tell me why you object to paying what Governor Bridge has demanded for the mole.’

‘Because of the casual way he presents his expenses,’ explained Pepys. ‘We should demand a better reckoning. Lord! How I was troubled to see accounts of ten thousand pounds passed with so little question the last time the Committee met. I wished a thousand times that I had not been there.’

‘Perhaps my husband was right to ask you to look into Teviot’s death,’ said Frances, after Pepys and his companion had entered the building. ‘If such vast sums really are being sent to Tangier with so little accounting, then it will be easy for the unscrupulous to line their pockets. And to some villains, five hundred lives is a small price to pay for personal profit.’

‘If so, then I shall do all I can to avenge them,’ promised Chaloner.

‘But not today,’ said Frances kindly. ‘You were only married a month before sailing to Tangier, and you have been desperately busy since you returned. Spend the rest of the day with Hannah.’

Chaloner woke before it was light the next morning, aware that he had a great deal to do. He lay still for a moment, working out a plan of action, and decided that he would begin by hunting down Harley, Newell and Reyner, on the grounds that the deaths of so many soldiers was a rather more serious matter than missing planks and the lunatic letter about Pratt.

He was not sure what time Hannah had returned from her duties with the Queen the previous night, but she did not stir as he slipped out of bed and dressed in the dim light of the candle she had forgotten to extinguish before she had retired. He bent to kiss her as he left, but she chose that moment to fling out an arm, catching him on the shoulder. With a squawk of pain, her eyes flew open.

‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, wringing her knuckles and eyeing him accusingly.

She was a small, fair-haired lady with a pert figure and an impish grin. She was not pretty, but she possessed a strength of character and an independence of thought that he had found attractive. They had married before they really knew each other, but it had not taken them long to learn that each possessed habits the other did not like. Chaloner disapproved of the company Hannah kept at Court and was appalled by her surly morning temper; Hannah deplored Chaloner’s inability to express his feelings and hated the sound of his bass viol.

Music was important to Chaloner. It soothed him when he was agitated, cleared his mind when he was dealing with complex cases, and there was little that delighted him more than a well-played recital. He could not imagine a world without it, and felt incomplete when deprived of it for any length of time. Unfortunately, Hannah did not like him playing in the house, and ignoring her and doing it anyway negated any enjoyment he might have gained from the exercise. As far as he was concerned, it was a serious impediment to their future happiness together.

His frustration with the situation had led him to rent a garret in Long Acre the previous week. All spies kept boltholes for those occasions when returning home was inadvisable, but Chaloner needed one for the sake of his sanity, too. He had taken his best viol, or viola da gamba, there immediately, along with the clothes Hannah had parcelled up for the rag-pickers — she also hated the fact that his work meant he was sometimes obliged to dress in something other than courtly finery. His second-best viol was stored in a cupboard under the stairs, and was only played when she was out.

‘I am just leaving,’ he whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘Leaving?’ Hannah cast a bleary eye towards the window. ‘In the middle of the night?’

‘It is nearly dawn.’

‘Exactly! Dawn is the middle of the night. Come back to bed, or you will wake the servants.’

The servants were yet another bone of contention. Chaloner accepted that his post as gentleman usher and Hannah’s as lady-in-waiting demanded that they keep one, but he had returned from Tangier to find she had hired three. None were women he would have chosen, because they were brazenly curious about their employers, and watched them constantly. Even if he had not been a spy, obliged to keep a certain number of secrets, being under constant surveillance in his own home would have been an unwelcome development.

‘I will not wake them,’ he said, wishing he had abstained from reckless displays of affection and that she was still asleep. ‘But you might, if you continue to bawl.’

‘Do not tell me when I can and cannot speak,’ snapped Hannah, displaying the sour temper that invariably afflicted her when she first awoke. It was so unlike her personality during the rest of the day that he wondered whether he should take her to a physician. ‘I shall shout if I want to.’

He sat on the side of the bed and took her hand in his, speaking softly in the hope that it would soothe her back to sleep. ‘I am sorry I disturbed you.’

‘You are improperly dressed again,’ said Hannah, wrenching her hand free and struggling into a sitting position. ‘That old long-coat is not fit for a beggar, while your shirt does not have enough lace. People will think I married a ruffian if you go to White Hall looking like that.’

‘You did marry a ruffian. The Earl said so only yesterday.’

That coaxed a reluctant smile. ‘Then I retract my words, because I refuse to agree with anything that pompous old relic says.’

Although the Earl was fond of Hannah, the affection was not reciprocated, partly because he disapproved of most of her friends, and partly because she disliked the fact that he kept sending her husband into dangerous situations. She also objected to the fact that Chaloner spent more time away from London than in it — since being employed by the Earl, he had been sent to Ireland, Spain and Portugal, Oxford, Wimbledon, Holland and most recently Tangier.

‘Did you catch whoever is stealing his bricks?’ she asked, grinning suddenly. ‘Everyone at Court is laughing about it, and I cannot help but wonder whether they are being removed as a prank.’

‘It is possible. Do you have any idea who the culprit might be?’

‘Of course! Do you have three hours to spare while I write you a list? His overbearing manners and priggishness have alienated virtually everyone at White Hall, and his only cronies are bigoted old churchmen who share his prudish views.’

Chaloner nodded unhappily, perfectly aware that the Earl would have been more popular had he been of a more tolerant disposition.

‘Wait,’ instructed Hannah, as he stood to leave. ‘I have hired another servant, and you should speak to him before you go out.’

Chaloner was horrified. ‘Another? But we already have two maids and a housekeeper.’

‘We have our status to consider,’ said Hannah coolly. ‘And I do not want to live like a pauper, even if it suits you. Besides, we need these people. Susan is my waiting-woman, Nan is the cook-maid, and we would be lost without Joan as housekeeper.’

Chaloner said nothing, but thought they ‘needed’ nothing of the kind. He considered the trio who now occupied the back half of the house. Joan was an old friend of Hannah’s family, which afforded her considerable leeway in dealing with the household, and also prevented Chaloner from sending her packing for her dour manners. Meanwhile, Susan and Nan were sly girls who never missed an opportunity to side with Joan against him. He supposed he would be spending more time in Long Acre if a fourth member were added to their ranks, because he already felt outnumbered.

‘His name is George, and he will be your footman,’ Hannah continued.

‘But I do not want a footman!’ cried Chaloner in alarm, imagining the fellow dogging his every step, obliging him to take increasingly inventive measures to avoid being monitored.

Hannah grew petulant. ‘I do not understand this peculiar objection towards hired help. Your family had dozens of retainers to help run their huge estates in Buckinghamshire, so you must be used to them. Of course, that was before the Royalists returned to power and confiscated everything of value from Roundheads. I suppose your brothers do not engage many servants now?’

The Royalists had indeed avenged themselves on anyone who had supported Cromwell, and unlike many, Chaloner’s family had declined to pretend that they had really been on the King’s side all along. As a consequence, great tracts of their land, items of furniture and even cutlery had been seized in lieu of crippling taxes they could not pay. He made no reply to her remark.

‘Talk to George before you leave,’ she ordered. ‘He is a Black Moor, and it is currently in vogue to have one. Do not look so dismayed! He is quite respectable, or I would not have taken him.’

‘It is not his respectability I am worried about.’ Chaloner was dismayed, and made no effort to hide it. ‘It is him. It is not right to snatch people from their homes and sell them to-’

‘What odd notions you have! I did not snatch him from his home, and nor was he sold to me.’

Chaloner struggled for patience. ‘You may not have done, but someone else-’

‘George is not a slave, Thomas,’ interrupted Hannah sharply. ‘He is a sailor who has decided he would rather have a life ashore.’

‘And what happens when it is not “in vogue” to employ a black footman?’ Chaloner was unappeased by her reply. ‘Shall we exchange him for one of a different colour?’

‘You know we will do nothing of the kind — I abhor the traffic in human beings as much as you do. However, George is not a slave.’

‘But by following this repellent fashion of hiring black retainers, we are encouraging the trade. I want no part of it, Hannah.’

Hannah was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I see your point, and you are right. But what can we do about it now? We cannot turn him out — he needs employment.’

Chaloner could see no answer, and left the bedroom wishing Hannah had thought through the consequences of her actions before following such an objectionable fad.

Another change that had taken place when Chaloner had been in Tangier was Hannah renting a larger house. He would have dissuaded her had he been home, because it and the servants took too much of their income. However, by the time he returned she had been in residence for weeks, and her move from the pretty little cottage three doors down was a fait accompli. The two maids slept in the attic, while the kitchen and its adjoining parlour, sculleries and pantries were the domain of the formidable Joan. That left Chaloner and Hannah with a bedchamber, a drawing room and a hall-like space for eating. All three were large, chilly places with a marked paucity of furniture — they had not owned much when they had lived in the cottage, and there was certainly not enough to fill the cavernous rooms of a much larger house.

Although it was early, the servants were up. Joan was a stooped, pinched woman with a large nose and a penchant for loosely fitting black clothes. She had reminded Chaloner of a crow when he had first met her, and her grim visage and sharp little eyes had done nothing to dispel the illusion since.

Susan was sitting in a corner, darning a stocking, while Nan was stirring something in a pot over the fire. Chaloner had trouble telling them apart, because they were both disagreeable young women with bad complexions, whom Joan dressed in identical uniforms. They stood as he entered, and he nodded to indicate that they should return to their duties.

‘May I help you?’ asked Joan coolly. ‘If so, perhaps you would wait in the drawing room.’

It was her way of informing him that he should confine himself to those parts of the house that she considered his. He was tempted to retort that he would go where he pleased in his own home, but he had already learned that arguing with her was more trouble than it was worth. He forced himself to smile as he explained.

‘Hannah asked me to speak to George.’

Nan and Susan exchanged a glance that Chaloner found difficult to interpret.

‘He is in the scullery,’ said Joan. She scowled. ‘You should have told me you wanted a footman. It was thoughtless to have gone out and hired one yourself without consulting me or the mistress.’

So there it was, thought Chaloner. Hannah had sensed Joan’s disapproval, and rather than admit that it was her idea, she had decided to let Joan assume it was his. He was tempted to tell her the truth, but suspected it would not be believed: Joan was nothing if not loyal to the family she had served all her life.

‘You have created a very welcoming atmosphere here,’ he said, unable to resist toying with her. ‘I am sure he will soon feel at home.’

‘Have I?’ asked Joan, clearly thinking something would have to be done about it. She eyed him beadily. ‘Will you be wanting something to eat? You do not usually bother us with demands, but Nan can whisk you up a raw egg. Or there are cold kidneys left over from last night’s dinner.’

‘It is a tempting offer,’ said Chaloner, perfectly aware that she would not be starting her day with raw eggs and cold kidneys. ‘But I shall speak to George instead.’

All three women watched him leave. Joan’s expression was openly hostile, while Nan and Susan exchanged a smirk. They had understood his sarcasm, even if Joan had not.

He walked along the tiled corridor to the scullery, and pushed open the door. A man sat there, polishing boots. He stood abruptly, making Chaloner take an involuntary step backwards. He was huge, with muscular arms and powerful legs. His face was smooth and chestnut brown, and his hair so dark as to be almost blue. His eyes were black, and carefully devoid of expression.

Chaloner closed the door behind him, not because he planned to say anything that should not be overheard, but to deprive Joan of a chance to eavesdrop. He heard her sigh of annoyance just before it clicked shut, which gave him no small sense of satisfaction.

‘Good morning.’ George spoke in a sour, resentful way that said servitude did not come readily to him.

Chaloner nodded acknowledgement of the greeting, for the first time wondering what Hannah expected him to say. He was not going to give George a list of duties for three reasons. First, because there was nothing he wanted done; second because it would imply that she had been right to hire a footman; and third because any instructions he gave would be circumvented by Joan anyway, and then George would be in the unenviable position of choosing which of them to obey.

‘Where were you before you came here, George?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘I spent the last ten years with Colonel Fitzgerald. At sea, mostly.’

‘Ten years is a long time. Why did you leave?’

‘Because he was obliged to reduce the size of his staff, to save money,’ replied George tightly, giving the impression that he resented finding himself unemployed in a city so far from home. ‘My testimonials are excellent, though, if you would care to see them.’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘I do not know Colonel Fitzgerald.’

George raised his eyebrows. ‘But you have heard of him?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner shortly, piqued by the fact that now even foreigners showed themselves to be unimpressed by his knowledge of London and its inhabitants.

George did not seem discomfited by the curt tone. He met his new master’s gaze with a steadiness that bordered on insolence. ‘He is a pirate.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘You think I will be impressed by testimonials from a pirate?’

‘Perhaps privateer would be a better word. He made his fortune by attacking Parliament-owned ships during the Commonwealth. I was his steward.’

‘I assume he lost this fortune, or he would not have been obliged to reduce the size of his household,’ said Chaloner, supposing that the maids had not yet had a chance to gossip to George about their employer’s past allegiances, or the footman would have found another way to describe how he had spent the past decade.

George nodded. ‘His biggest and best ship sank, which bankrupted him. It was fortunate that he and I were ashore at the time, or we would have drowned.’

‘So you are actually a sailor,’ said Chaloner. ‘Not a footman.’

George shrugged. ‘A steward’s duties at sea are not so different from a footman’s on land.’

‘Where is your home?’ asked Chaloner, not sure he agreed.

The ghost of a smile crossed George’s face. ‘Somewhere you have been — Tangier. A fine place, do you not agree?’

‘It has its advantages,’ hedged Chaloner, struggling to think of one. His abiding memories of the place were of uncomfortable heat, dust, flies and a locust jumping on his dinner plate one night.

‘Indeed it does,’ said George softly.