The Piccadilly Plot

Chapter 6

An hour before dawn, Chaloner began to feel the effects of his sleepless night. He would have gone to bed, but Joan was crashing around in the kitchen, and he knew he would never sleep through the racket. He wondered how Hannah could, but a visit to the bedroom showed him that she had stuffed her ears with rags.

Lethargically, he walked to the Rainbow Coffee House, hoping a dish of Farr’s poisonous brew would sharpen his wits. The only customer at that hour was Grey, the Adventurer who had caused such consternation by disappearing with a woman. He was sitting in the corner, crying softly.

‘Weeping for Turner and Lucas,’ explained Farr in a low voice. ‘They died in a fire last night, along with Turner’s family and servants. Twelve people in all. A terrible tragedy.’

To give Grey privacy, Chaloner picked up The Newes, just off the presses that morning, and began to read. Home news comprised two main reports: that Dover expected to be invaded by the Dutch at any moment because the wind was in the right direction, and that a purple bed-cloth had been stolen from Richmond. Foreign intelligence revolved around the fact that the Swedish ambassador was expected at White Hall the following Tuesday, where he would attend a feast.

In smaller type were the advertisements. One promoted the exhibition that Farr had mentioned the last time Chaloner had visited the Rainbow:

At the Mitre near the West-end of St Paul’s is to be seen a rare Collection of Curiosities much resorted to, and admired by Persons of great Learning and Quality: among with, a choyce Egyptian Mummy with hieroglyphicks and the Ant Beare of Brasil; a Remora; a Torpedo; the huge Thigh-bone of a Gyant; a Moon Fish; a Tropick Bird amp; C.

Although intrigued by the torpedo in particular, Chaloner doubted he would have the time to see the display. He finished the coffee, nodded a farewell to Farr, and set off for Chancery Lane.

Lincoln’s Inn’s grounds had recently been replanted, and had gone from a pleasantly tangled wilderness to a garden of manicured precision. Chaloner was still not sure he liked it, but Thurloe did, and spent a lot of time there. It was usually deserted at dawn, a time the ex-Spymaster spent in quiet contemplation before the day began.

‘I have been expecting you,’ Thurloe said, as Chaloner materialised out of the gloom and fell into step beside him. It was not raining, but the garden had endured a good soaking during the night, and the paths were soggy underfoot. ‘I want you to purchase a handgun for yourself.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner suspiciously.

‘Because this case has a dangerous feel, and a sword is no defence against firearms. Here is a purse. No, do not refuse it — it is not my silver, it is Fitzgerald’s. He did not best me every time I tackled him, and I have been saving it for a time when it might be used against him. Which is now.’

Chaloner accepted reluctantly. Not only did he dislike taking money from friends, regardless of its provenance, but he had never been comfortable with the unpredictability of guns. They were, however, obscenely expensive, and he certainly could not have afforded to purchase one on his own salary.

‘Tell me what you have learned,’ instructed Thurloe, after they had walked in silence for a while, their footsteps alternately crunching and squelching.

‘That Fitzgerald has a master. Unfortunately, no one seems to know who he is.’

Thurloe nodded. ‘I suspected as much. I shall ask my old spies for a name. What else?’

‘He said he had scored a great victory over his “enemies” — presumably the men who oppose the Piccadilly Company — in revenge for Reyner, and it seems he arranged the deaths of Turner and Lucas. He probably tossed Proby off the roof of St Paul’s, too. Certainly, he believes that Reyner was killed in retaliation. And Proby, Turner and Lucas were Adventurers …’

‘So Fitzgerald’s foes — listed on the Vigenère cipher — are Adventurers? I thought the Adventurers were respectable men, not the kind to engage in tit-for-tat killings with pirates.’

‘Secretary Leighton is not respectable! He is alleged to have accrued vast wealth by criminal means. Moreover, most Adventurers are courtiers, and the words “courtier” and “respectable” are mutually exclusive. However, we shall know for certain when you decode the cipher.’

‘I am afraid I cannot. I worked on it all night, but it is beyond me. So I sent a copy to John Wallis, who was my code-breaker during the Commonwealth. If he cannot crack it, no one can.’

Chaloner hoped it would not take long. ‘So we have two commercial operations at war with each other — the Adventurers and the Piccadilly Company. The Adventurers have lost three of their number, and the Piccadilly Company has lost one.’

Thurloe was thoughtful. ‘The Adventurers comprise wealthy courtiers and merchants, and include men such as the Duke of Buckingham, Congett, Secretary Leighton and several members of your Earl’s household — Hyde, Brodrick, Dugdale and Edgeman. They have declared a monopoly on trading with Africa, and are greedy but inefficient.’

‘Meanwhile, the Piccadilly Company comprises a pirate, a Dutch couple, a Portuguese, two Tangier scouts, Harley’s sister, Pratt and the enigmatic Mr Jones. They send glassware to New England and bring gravel back — a venture that necessitates hiring Brinkes to ensure secrecy.’

‘Their sea-routes lie in opposite directions,’ mused Thurloe. ‘And they deal in different commodities. They should not be rivals, yet they are killing each other. It makes no sense.’

Chaloner’s mind wandered to the mysteries he had been ordered to solve, and the way the two organisations featured in them. ‘I have four cases — Cave’s death, the Tangier massacre, the Queen’s letters about Pratt, and the stolen bricks. They are so different that they should be unrelated, yet there are strands linking each one to the others.’

‘Explain,’ ordered Thurloe.

‘First Cave. He and Elliot stabbed each other in a duel over Brilliana. She is Harley’s sister, and they live in Piccadilly. So does Pratt, whose latest house is the victim of stolen supplies, and who himself may be the target of an assassination.’

‘And Pratt is a member of the Piccadilly Company,’ mused Thurloe. ‘As is Harley.’

‘Harley is also one of the scouts whose intelligence sent Teviot to his death. Moreover, Elliot was Williamson’s spy, and his duties entailed monitoring the Crown. His wife — his deranged wife — lives in the Crown’s garret. And Cave sang duets with Fitzgerald, another member of the Piccadilly Company. Then there is the connection between Elliot and Pepperell.’

‘Who?’

‘The captain of Eagle — Elliot’s friend Lester thinks it suspicious that two sea-officers should die within such a short space of time of each other. Pepperell was murdered by Brinkes — the man charged with ensuring that Piccadilly Company meetings are not disturbed. I will hunt down Brilliana today, to see what she can tell me about her dead lovers — and about her brother, too. Lester is also looking into it, on Williamson’s behalf.’

‘Lester,’ said Thurloe disapprovingly. ‘Stay away from him. I distrust him intensely.’

‘Do you? I rather like him.’

‘Oh, I am sure he is charm itself. However, do not forget that he was present at the beginning of the spat that saw Elliot and Cave dead.’

‘He tried to stop them from fighting, and was almost killed when Cave lunged at him.’

‘And that is suspect in itself. I sensed something devious about him the first time we met — years ago, when we were both much younger. Do not trust him, Tom.’

Chaloner nodded, but although he usually respected Thurloe’s insights, he was inclined to dismiss this one. Of all the people he had met since returning from Tangier, Lester was by far the most personable.

‘The second case is Teviot,’ he went on. ‘He and his garrison died because Harley, Newell and Reyner gave him misleading information. All are members of the Piccadilly Company, but Reyner was murdered within hours of agreeing to tell me what happened at the ambush on Jews Hill. He gave his mother that list of the Piccadilly Company’s enemies.’

‘Which probably comprises the names of specific Adventurers,’ surmised Thurloe.

‘Then Reyner’s mother was murdered, and her list stolen. Fitzgerald says the killer will have his just deserts next Wednesday — St Frideswide’s Day — because his master has a plan.’

‘Pratt’s murder?’ asked Thurloe. ‘Or are we talking about a different plot?’

‘It must be a different one. I had the feeling that he expects something truly catastrophic, and the death of an architect — no matter how valuable Pratt thinks himself — is hardly that. But this is the third case: the letters. I have questioned the Queen’s staff, but learned nothing useful. However, Pratt hobnobs with the Piccadilly Company and the Adventurers. And he lives in the Crown.’

‘How will you proceed with that particular investigation?’

‘Spend time in White Hall, asking more questions of more people. The last case is the Earl’s stolen bricks — connected to the others by virtue of its architect and its location in Piccadilly. I have no idea who the culprits might be, and I suspect his materials will continue to go missing until the damned place is finished.’

‘Pity,’ said Thurloe. ‘Because I imagine that is the one your Earl would most like solved. You must visit the place as often as possible, and interview Pratt, Oliver and their workmen. Something will occur to you eventually, you will see.’

Chaloner was not so sure, but felt it was the least of his worries. ‘Perhaps you should tell Williamson to arrest Fitzgerald, on the grounds that his master might not be able to put this diabolical plot into action if his chief henchman is unavailable.’

‘Lawyers would have him free within the hour — suspicion and rumour is not solid evidence. No, Tom. It is better to leave him alone, because if he goes to ground, we will never thwart him.’

‘If you say so,’ said Chaloner unhappily.

The day that followed was not very successful. Chaloner arrived at White Hall to find Dugdale waiting. The Chief Usher looked decidedly fragile, with bloodshot eyes and a sallow complexion. So did the Earl’s secretary Edgeman, who was sipping some sort of tonic as he sat at his desk.

‘Good,’ Dugdale whispered when he saw Chaloner. ‘When you have finished telling me what you have learned about the stolen supplies, you will go to the Tennis Court. The Duke of Buckingham has challenged Mr O’Brien to a bout, and the Earl wants a representative from his household to be there.’

‘I suspect he would rather I hunted the brick-thief.’ Chaloner spoke deliberately loudly.

‘That is why he wants you to go to the game,’ said Dugdale, wincing as he put a hand to his head. ‘All his enemies will be there, and you will eavesdrop, to learn which of them is the culprit. This order comes directly from him, so you will obey it.’

‘But it is a bad idea,’ objected Chaloner. ‘First, the Tennis Court is too open for eavesdropping. And second, most of his enemies know me, so will watch what they say when I am near.’

‘Then you will have to find a way around it.’ Dugdale smirked unpleasantly. ‘But do not take too long — if you fail, you may find yourself jobless.’

‘Leave him alone, you two,’ said Kipps, arriving suddenly, and as bright and energetic as the Chief Usher and secretary were seedy. ‘I am tired of you baiting him all the time.’

Dugdale ignored him. ‘Make your report to me, Chaloner, and then be about your duties.’

‘Significant headway has been made,’ lied Chaloner vaguely.

‘Good,’ said Kipps, before the Chief Usher could remark that this was insufficient. He regarded Dugdale coolly. ‘I shall pass the news to the Earl — we do not want it garbled in the retelling, do we?’ He turned back to Chaloner. ‘Have you uncovered anything about the villain who sent those letters to the Queen? That is the most serious matter, as far as I am concerned. I like the woman.’

‘Really?’ asked Dugdale scathingly. ‘I thought your tastes ran more towards Lady Castlemaine.’

‘Did you enjoy yourself at the brothel last night, Dugdale?’ asked Chaloner, speaking loudly again, this time in the hope that the Earl would hear. ‘You and Edgeman?’

Edgeman regarded him in alarm, while Kipps’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment.

‘You spied on us?’ demanded Dugdale, shocked. ‘How dare you! Get out, before I commission some of my friends to teach you a lesson.’

‘Friends like Fitzgerald the pirate?’ asked Chaloner, unmoved. ‘Or Harley, the scout whose faulty intelligence saw five hundred men dead? You were certainly in their company last night.’

‘We do not know them,’ said Edgeman quickly, while Dugdale spluttered with outrage. ‘But your remarks suggest that you were in this brothel, and I am telling the Earl. He will not believe that Dugdale and I frequent such places, but you are another matter entirely.’

He was right, and Chaloner suspected that his attempt to combat their bullying had just misfired. He had only mentioned Fitzgerald and Harley in an effort to disconcert them, but Edgeman’s denial made him think again: could the secretary and Chief Usher be associated with the Piccadilly Company? As most of its thirty members wore disguises, it was impossible to say who attended its meetings. Or did being Adventurers preclude them from joining, on the grounds that the two groups were at loggerheads?

He bowed a curt farewell, and started to walk to the Tennis Court, although he stopped abruptly when an uncomfortable thought occurred to him: should he be wary of Kipps? The Seal Bearer had admitted that his application to join the Adventurers had been rejected, so had he promptly thrown in his lot with their rivals? Moreover, he should not have known about the Queen’s letters, because the Earl — in a rare display of discretion — had kept the matter within his family. Did that imply Kipps had another reason for knowing, namely that he was involved in the matter himself?

The notion was not a happy one, and Chaloner was grateful he had Thurloe’s friendship, because he was otherwise quite alone.

As Chaloner had anticipated, eavesdropping was hopeless at the Tennis Court. It was dangerous, too, because the Earl’s enemies had gathered in force, and Chaloner was jostled, pinched and poked but did not dare retaliate, because at least twenty men with swords would have been delighted to fight him if he had. Individually, they posed no threat, but en masse they were a distinct menace.

The bullies included the big-nosed Congett, who was either still drunk from the night before, or had started imbibing afresh that morning; he ‘accidentally’ trod on Chaloner’s foot. Lady Castlemaine and the Duke of Buckingham confined themselves to verbal abuse, while others fingered the guns they wore in their belts or pretended to inspect their knives.

Then Kipps appeared, and although he explained in an undertone that he was there to help Chaloner eavesdrop, he promptly took himself off to sit in a corner with the Adventurer Grey, who seemed to have recovered from his earlier grief and was smiling.

‘Stop!’ cried O’Brien, hurrying forward when Congett elbowed Chaloner hard enough to make him stumble. ‘It is not his fault that Clarendon is an ill-mannered brute. Leave him be.’

‘Especially as he plays the viol like an angel,’ said Kitty, smiling first at Chaloner and then at his tormentors. The spy suspected he was not the only one whose heart melted. ‘In fact, we must organise another soirée, so all our talented friends can exhibit their musical skills.’

There was a smattering of applause, although Chaloner imagined her admirers would prefer something more rambunctious; most of them had been at Temperance’s club the previous night.

‘Speaking of invitations, the King has asked us to a drama in the Banqueting House,’ said O’Brien, clearly delighted. ‘A Turkish one. What fun! I can hardly wait! I shall wear a pair of-’

‘Never mind that,’ interrupted Buckingham briskly. He turned to Chaloner with a malevolent grin. ‘Is it true that Clarendon has taken to spending his nights under a tarpaulin, guarding his bricks and nails?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner, once the spiteful laughter had died down. ‘He pays others to do it for him. His supplies are now extremely well protected, and anyone raiding them will be caught.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What fish?’ asked Chaloner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Chaloner was not so sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Three letters?’ asked Chaloner sharply.

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

‘What did it say?’ asked Chaloner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What is wrong with him?’

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

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

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

‘You want children?’ asked Chaloner, startled.

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

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

‘The Queen’s failure is rather more serious than mine, though,’ Hannah went on. ‘So I am toying with the notion of acquiring a baby, and passing it off as hers.’

‘Please do not,’ begged Chaloner, recalling uncomfortably that there was a rumour about that very possibility. ‘Royal surgeons will need to be present during the birth, and-’

‘Surgeons can be bribed.’

‘If they can be bribed, then they are likely to be treacherous. They will betray you.’

‘I will not recruit anyone dishonourable,’ declared Hannah, in the kind of statement he had once found endearing but that now made him wonder whether she was in complete control of her wits.

‘Your plan will see the Queen accused of treason.’ Chaloner hesitated, but then forged on — Hannah should know her mistress was in danger. ‘Letters have been found that implicate her in a murder. Obviously, she is innocent, but it shows that someone is keen to harm her.’

Hannah paled. ‘Who has been murdered? And who found these letters? Do not tell me — Hyde! That treacherous little beast! He told his father and the Earl ordered you to look into it. Am I right?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘We know the Queen is innocent of wanting Pratt dead, but-’

‘But others will not care whether it is true or not,’ finished Hannah angrily. ‘They will use it against her, regardless. You must exonerate her immediately.’

‘I shall try my best. Hyde discovered these messages in her apartments. Do you know how they might have arrived there?’

‘It would not be easy,’ replied Hannah, still livid. ‘But you might see how it was done if I show you her quarters. Meet me there tomorrow … No, I shall be busy tomorrow. Come the day after — Saturday — late in the afternoon. And dress nicely, Tom, because she might be there.’

Back in Tothill Street, Chaloner burned the ripped-up letter on the kitchen fire. Then he took a bowl of Hannah’s stew, but the reek of charred garlic was so strong that it made him gag. He poured it on the flames, leaping back in alarm when something in it produced a great billowing blaze that almost set him alight. There was bread and cheese in the pantry, along with a jug of milk, so he took them to the drawing room, and started to work on the cipher he had found in the Crown.

Unfortunately, he was no more alert than he had been that morning, and it was not long before the letters blurred in front of his eyes. He tossed down the pen, feeling the need for the restorative effects of music. His best viol was at Long Acre, but he kept another one in the cupboard under the stairs at Tothill Street. There was no Hannah to complain, and no female servants to make disparaging remarks, so he went to retrieve it.

As he played, the tensions of the day drained away. He closed his eyes, allowing the music to take him to its own world, and did not hear the knocking at the door until it was loud enough to be impatient. He was alarmed — that sort of inattention saw spies killed.

‘Are you deaf?’ demanded Surgeon Wiseman, when Chaloner opened the door. ‘I have been hammering for an age, trying to make myself heard over your private recital.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Chaloner, resenting the return to Earth and its attendant problems.

‘To bring you some news,’ said Wiseman, equally brusque as he pushed past Chaloner and made for the drawing room. He sat, and warmed his hands by the fire. ‘About Cave’s funeral.’

‘Has a date been set?’

‘Yes,’ replied Wiseman. ‘It took place on Tuesday — two days ago.’

Chaloner regarded him in surprise. ‘But I thought it was to be the “social event of the month” with music by the Chapel Royal choir and the Bishop of London presiding.’

‘So did everyone else. But it was discovered this evening that he was quietly buried in St Margaret’s churchyard on Tuesday morning. It might have gone unrealised for longer, but the curate who conducted the ceremony happened to mention it in passing to the Bishop. Needless to say, a lot of people feel cheated.’

‘Who arranged for him to be buried? I thought he had no family.’

‘We all did, but we were wrong — he had an older brother named Jacob. However, I cannot imagine what possessed him to shove Cave in the ground with such unseemly haste.’

‘Can you not? The ceremony planned by the Chapel Royal choir would have cost a fortune — an expense that Jacob would have been obliged to bear.’

‘Cave was comfortably wealthy. He probably had enough money to cover it.’

‘But he might not, and the fact that he never mentioned Jacob to his friends means they were not close — no one wants to be bankrupted by the funeral of an unloved sibling. Besides, if Cave did have money, I imagine Jacob would rather keep it for himself.’

‘You might be right,’ acknowledged Wiseman. ‘Are you drinking cold milk, Chaloner? Surely, you know that is dangerous? Have you no wine? I shall accept a cup, if you do.’ He watched Chaloner go to pour it, then resumed his report. ‘A lot of people are upset by what Jacob has done, including a woman named Brilliana Stanley. And we do not want her annoyed, believe me. She is a very disreputable character.’

‘So I have heard.’ Chaloner decided to make use of the surgeon, as he was there. ‘Do you know a minister named Addison? I need to talk to him, but I do not know where he lives.’

‘Tangier’s chaplain? He has taken rooms on The Strand, near the Maypole. Why? Surely you do not suspect him of being complicit in Cave’s shameful send-off?’

‘It relates to another matter.’

‘Teviot’s fate?’ Wiseman shrugged at Chaloner’s surprise. ‘The Earl told me that you were looking into it, although it seems unreasonable to expect you to find answers so long after the event. Still, I suppose Addison might have a theory; he is an observant fellow. Incidentally, did you hear what happened in the Theatre Royal earlier today?’

Chaloner shook his head.

‘The Parson’s Dream is playing there. It is one of the bawdiest plays ever written — I was mortified, and I am an anatomist. But that is beside the point, which is that a Dutch couple were in the audience, and misunderstood something said by the character Mrs Wanton, with rather embarrassing consequences.’

‘I do not suppose they were the same Dutch couple who revealed their shaky English in the Banqueting House yesterday, were they?’

‘Very possibly. Unfortunately, people are not very forgiving of Hollanders with a poor grasp of our language, and the increasing dislike for this particular couple will do nothing for the cause of peace. Fortunately, someone defused the situation before they could be harmed.’

‘Who? And how did he do it?’

‘He escorted them outside before they could be assaulted. I believe their saviour was Fitzgerald the pirate. Or should I say Fitzgerald the privateer?’

They were silent for a while, Wiseman sipping his wine and Chaloner pondering how Fitzgerald fitted into his various enquiries. Eventually, the surgeon spoke again.

‘The Earl said you were looking into his stolen bricks, too.’

Chaloner wished his master would not gossip about his investigations. He trusted Wiseman to be discreet — for all his faults, the surgeon was sensible of the fact that talking out of turn might endanger lives — but the Earl tended to be loose-tongued with a lot of people.

‘You should accuse Oliver of the crime,’ Wiseman continued. ‘I do not like him. He hired me to cure his bunions, but then refused to pay, just because my lotion made them worse.’

Mention of Clarendon House reminded Chaloner of something else he needed to do. ‘Do you recall inventing a substance for immobilising broken limbs? You tried it on me once, and I thought I might have to wear it on my arm for the rest of my life.’

‘I have perfected it since then,’ said Wiseman coolly, not liking to be reminded of a venture that had been less than successful. ‘It now works extremely well. Why?’

‘May I have some?’

Wiseman regarded him suspiciously, but mixed him a batch from the supplies he carried in his bag. When it was ready, Chaloner used it and the clay he had bought to produce an accurate mould of the key-impressions he had made the previous night. It did not take long, and when he had finished, all that remained was to take the moulds to a forge and commission a copy in metal.

‘Should I ask whose house you intend to give yourself unlimited access to?’ asked Wiseman.

‘No.’

‘Well, perhaps I am better off not knowing, anyway.’ Wiseman stood. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. The Earl wants you to go to Woolwich tomorrow.’

Chaloner groaned. ‘He orders me to solve these mysteries by Wednesday, but then wastes my time by sending me on futile errands. I might have had some answers today had he left me alone.’

‘Very possibly, but do not antagonise him by refusing to comply. Apparently, a new ship, Royal Katherine, is to be launched, and a lot of his enemies will be there. He wants you to monitor them.’

‘What does he expect me to do?’ asked Chaloner waspishly. ‘Sink it and drown them all?’

Wiseman raised his eyebrows. ‘Now there is an idea.’

The following dawn was cold, wet and windy, so Chaloner dressed in clothes suitable for a day outside in foul weather, and trotted down the stairs to spend an hour on the cipher before he left. He had left it in his pen-box, and was troubled to note that it had been moved since the previous night.

He stared at it. The table had been polished that morning, because there were streaks of wax where it had not been buffed properly. Had Joan or one of the maids knocked the box as they had worked, so the disturbance was innocent? Or had they looked inside to see whether it contained anything interesting? Or, more alarmingly, had George?

Chaloner could see no way to find out — he doubted direct demands would yield truthful answers — and supposed he would just have to be more careful in future. As it was raining, he could not take the cipher with him lest the ink ran, so he knelt and slipped it in the gap between the wall and the skirting board. He stood quickly when someone entered the room. It was Hannah.

‘What are you doing down there?’ she demanded. ‘I hope we do not have mice again. George told me he had poisoned them all.’

‘Perhaps he missed one.’ Chaloner did not like the idea of George in charge of toxic substances, and when the footman marched into the room with a breakfast tray, he declined to take any.

‘Eat something, Tom,’ instructed Hannah brusquely. ‘You are already thinner than when you came home from Tangier.’

Chaloner refrained from saying that her cooking was largely responsible for that, because he could tell from her scowl that her morning temper was about to erupt. He accepted a piece of bread, but spoiled the ale and oatmeal by ‘accidentally’ knocking one so it spilled into the other; he did not want his wife poisoned by their footman, either.

‘Why are you awake?’ he asked. ‘It is not long past dawn — the middle of the night for you.’

‘Do not be facetious with me, Thomas,’ she snapped. ‘I have to go to Woolwich, because the ship named after the Queen is to be launched today. We are travelling there by barge, God help us. The last time I went on one of those, I was sick the whole way.’

‘Then perhaps it is as well the breakfast is spoiled. You cannot be sick with an empty stomach.’

‘Spoken like a man who has never suffered from mal de mer,’ retorted Hannah crossly. ‘Because if you had, you would know you could abstain from food for a week and still find something to vomit.’

On that note, Chaloner took his leave.

As he left the house, it occurred to him that it was time he followed Thurloe’s orders and purchased a handgun. There was only one place he knew where such weapons could be bought with no questions asked — given their potential for assassination, the government liked gunsmiths to keep records — and that was from the Trulocke brothers on St Martin’s Lane. Before he entered their shabby, uninviting premises, he bought a piece of meat, donned an old horsehair wig, and covered his face with the kind of scarf men wore to keep London’s foul air from their lungs.

Outside the shop was a fierce dog, which snapped at the ankles of passers-by. Chaloner tossed it the meat, then stepped around it when it leapt on the offering. It wagged its tail as he passed, and he wondered whether it remembered him feeding it on previous occasions.

Inside, the place reeked of gunpowder and hot metal. It was also busy, and all three brothers were dealing with customers. Like Chaloner, the other patrons had taken care to conceal their faces, but unlike him they did not appreciate that a disguise was more than just donning a hat and a scarf. He recognised Secretary Leighton from his scuttling gait, and although Harley knew to change his walk, his blazing devil-eyes gave him away.

Chaloner edged towards Harley. It was not a good place to accost the scout, because it would expose them both to recognition, but he could certainly ascertain what the man was doing in a place where illegal firearms could be purchased. Unfortunately, Harley’s business was just concluding.

‘It will be ready this evening,’ Edmund Trulocke was saying. ‘Come back at dusk.’

Harley nodded, and was gone without another word. Thwarted, Chaloner sauntered towards Leighton, pretending to inspect a nearby musket.

‘Are you sure?’ William Trulocke was asking worriedly. ‘It will render the trigger unusually light. If you stick it in your belt and touch it accidentally, it will blow off your-’

‘I am sure,’ interrupted Leighton shortly. ‘The damned thing is so stiff at the moment that I need both hands to set it off. I need a much more sensitive mechanism.’

Trulocke nodded, and a vast amount of money changed hands. Leighton gave instructions for the finished product to be delivered to his Queenhithe home, and left. Chaloner could only suppose that he was taking precautions to ensure he did not suffer the same fate as his fellow Adventurers — Proby, Turner and Lucas.

When Leighton had gone, Trulocke turned to Chaloner, who pointed to the gun he wanted. By the time they had negotiated a price, and Chaloner had been furnished with enough ammunition to blast away half of London, the shop had emptied and the other two brothers had retreated to their workshop. Chaloner laid the mould on the table.

‘We do not cut keys,’ said Trulocke immediately. ‘It would be illegal, not to mention treading on the toes of our colleagues the locksmiths.’

‘How much?’ asked Chaloner.

Trulocke named a sum, Chaloner halved it, and they agreed on an amount somewhere in the middle. Trulocke took the mould, and disappeared. The item was ready in record time, and it was not long before Chaloner was stepping around the dog with a gun in his belt and a key in his pocket.

Next, Chaloner went to see Thurloe. Unusually, the ex-Spymaster was not strolling in the gardens, but preparing to go out, swathed in a hat and cloak that rendered him incognito.

‘It is no day to be travelling.’ Thurloe looked at Chaloner’s coat. ‘You are already drenched, and the day has barely begun. I hope I do not catch a chill from this escapade.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Home to Oxfordshire?’

‘And leave you to deal with Fitzgerald alone? No. I am off to see Royal Katherine launched.’

‘Because you think Fitzgerald will be there? If he is as slippery as you say, your presence will put him on his guard, and you will be wasting your time.’

‘Probably,’ sighed Thurloe. ‘But it would be remiss not to try.’

‘The Earl has ordered me to go, too. He says his enemies will be there, and he thinks the culprit will be braying to all and sundry about the missing bricks.’

‘Then we had better listen carefully,’ said Thurloe with a smile. He glanced up at the grey clouds that scudded overhead. ‘I am not going by boat, though. There is a stiff wind, which will blow directly against the current. It will make for a most unpleasant journey.’

Poor Hannah, thought Chaloner. ‘Shall we hire horses?’

‘In this weather?’ Thurloe was aghast. ‘I think not! I have asked the porter to fetch me a hackney carriage. It will scarcely be comfortable, but it will have to suffice.’

Woolwich lay on the south bank of the river, dominated by the largest and oldest of the Thames shipyards. It employed some three hundred workers, whose cottages crouched along muddy lanes behind the dry docks. Cannons boomed as the hackney approached, and Chaloner tensed. He had been wary of artillery ever since the Battle of Naseby.

‘They are announcing His Majesty’s arrival with a royal salute,’ explained Thurloe. ‘There will be another when the Queen disembarks, so do not let it startle you.’

They alighted to find the dockyard already full. Most of the Court was there, many looking as though they had come straight from whatever wild entertainment they had enjoyed the night before. They mingled with officials from the admiralty, including Samuel Pepys, who had inveigled himself a choice spot near the King and the Duke of York.

Royal Katherine was the centre of attention. She was a three-masted warship of eighty-four guns, attractively painted in black, red and gold. Vast windows at her stern indicated that whoever commanded her would be very comfortably accommodated.

‘We shall separate,’ determined Thurloe. ‘We will learn more that way.’

They headed in opposite directions, and the first person Chaloner met was Williamson, who had donned a disguise so bad it was laughable — a landsman’s idea of what a sea-officer would wear, complete with an empty coat-sleeve to denote an amputated arm. The Spymaster was gazing at someone with open yearning, and Chaloner followed the direction of his gaze to Kitty. She and O’Brien were with Brodrick, whose company they seemed to be enjoying, and Secretary Leighton, whose presence was obviously unwelcome.

Williamson reddened when he saw that Chaloner had witnessed a look that should never have been given in public, and moved forward to speak.

‘You did not visit me yesterday,’ he snapped, concealing his mortification by going on the offensive.

‘I was busy.’

Williamson glared. ‘Then come tonight at six o’clock. Do not be late — I am invited to O’Brien’s home afterwards, before he attends some public event in Westminster.’

Chaloner was about to inform him that he had other plans when the Spymaster hurried away abruptly, and he turned to see Kitty and O’Brien approaching. The amused gleam in Kitty’s green eyes said she had not been fooled by the Spymaster’s disguise, although Chaloner was fairly certain O’Brien remained in ignorance. Leighton was still with them, and so was Brodrick.

‘Chaloner!’ O’Brien cried in obvious delight. ‘I was just telling Brodrick here about your remarkable talent on the viol.’

‘I have heard him play many times,’ said Brodrick. ‘He is especially good at Ferrabosco and Schütz, whose arpeggios are notably demanding. Their interludes require an exacting sense of rhythm, which separates the integral harmony from the …’

He trailed off as Leighton, eyes glazed, scuttled away.

‘At last!’ exclaimed O’Brien, laughing. ‘I did not believe you when you said you could bore him into leaving us alone, Brodrick, but you have succeeded admirably. Personally, I thought we were going to be stuck with him all day, and there is something about him I cannot like.’

‘Nor I,’ agreed Kitty. ‘He makes me shudder, although I would be hard-pressed to say why. Perhaps it is because he is an advocate of the slave trade.’

‘Actually, it is because he is innately evil,’ supplied Brodrick matter-of-factly. ‘But speaking of evil, there is Fitzgerald. Come away quickly before he engages us in conversation. We have our reputations to consider, and they will not be enhanced if we are seen conversing with a pirate.’

Chaloner had no reason to flee, so he held his ground as Fitzgerald approached. The pirate was wearing exquisitely made clothes, but they were slightly worn, indicating that the gossips were right: he probably was a wealthy man who had recently fallen on hard times.

‘I know you,’ he said in his oddly high voice, although his single eye was fixed on the retreating figures of Brodrick and the O’Briens. ‘We met at the bawdy house. I recognise your eyes.’

‘Did we?’ Chaloner smiled, although he was disconcerted that the man had managed to see beneath the mask he had worn, especially as his eyes were not particularly distinctive. ‘I am afraid I recall very little from my evenings there.’

‘Wine is a treacherous thing,’ said Fitzgerald softly. ‘It puts a man out of his wits, and that is never wise when there are so many dangerous individuals at large.’

Leaving Chaloner wondering whether he had just been threatened, Fitzgerald sauntered away. People gave him a wide berth, including several Adventurers and Swaddell, all of whom looked pointedly the other way as he passed.

Some sixth sense told Chaloner he was being watched, and he turned to see Leighton, who was regarding him with a blank expression that was nevertheless unsettling. He returned the stare, and it was the secretary who broke it, because Margareta Janszoon collided heavily with him.

‘I retard your impotence,’ she said breezily. Her guards immediately tensed nervously.

‘Impetus, madam,’ said Leighton stiffly, as several courtiers began to laugh. ‘It means forward movement. Impotence, on the other hand, has a rather different sense.’

‘You correct my speech?’ asked Margareta indignantly. ‘How rude!’

Chaloner felt his jaw drop as she removed a piece of cheese from her purse and began to eat it. Did she want to perpetuate the stereotype of the dairy-produce-loving Hollander?

‘I wonder if her husband has a pat of butter on his person,’ murmured Thurloe in Chaloner’s ear. He sounded amused. ‘Incidentally, I saw you break your promise to me just now. Fitzgerald.’

‘He approached me,’ objected Chaloner defensively. ‘And all he did was mutter about dangerous men.’

Thurloe regarded him uneasily. ‘What did he mean?’

‘I have no idea, but I do not believe he is as deadly as everyone claims.’

‘Do not underestimate him, Tom. He … Oh, heavens! He is going to sing. I hope Royal Katherine does not have much in the way of expensive glassware, because if so, it is in grave peril.’

He was not the only one with a low opinion of Fitzgerald’s talents. O’Brien promptly began to run, aiming to put as much distance between him and the performer as possible; Kitty and Brodrick trotted after him, both struggling to mask their laughter. Then the first notes of an aria began to waft around the shipyard.

The sound was indescribable. The notes were mostly true, but had a curious, metallic quality that was deeply unpleasant. They did not sound human, and had Chaloner not been able to see Fitzgerald opening and closing his mouth, he might have assumed they derived from an artificial source. The hubbub of genteel conversation died away.

There was a general a sigh of relief when the great guns roared an interruption. They heralded the arrival of the Queen, whose barge was rowed ashore with great ceremony. Her Majesty alighted jauntily enough, but Hannah was green, and so were several other ladies. Cruelly, the King released a bellow of mocking laughter.

‘It was horrible,’ Hannah whispered, when Chaloner went to help her. ‘The wind blew the river into great waves, and I seriously considered throwing myself overboard, just to end my misery.’

‘I will take you home by land when you have recovered.’

Hannah gave a wan smile. ‘I wish you could, but Meneses has attached himself to our party, and I am not leaving the Queen alone with him.’

Chaloner looked to where she pointed, and saw Meneses had indeed fastened himself to the Queen, a fawning, oily presence that deterred anyone else from greeting her. Hannah snagged the Duke of Buckingham’s arm as he passed.

‘Come and tell the Queen you like the ship that is being named in her honour,’ she ordered. The Duke looked as if he would decline, but Hannah tightened her grip. ‘It will please her.’

With no choice, Buckingham went to oblige, leaving Chaloner alone again. Thurloe joined him, and started to speak, but was distracted by a commotion on the other side of the dockyard. Apparently, one of the Janszoons had made another faux pas.

‘But Royal Katherine is a dog,’ Margareta was objecting crossly. ‘Many sailors have told us so.’

‘It means she has fast legs and strong teeth,’ elaborated Janszoon, clearly nervous as he glanced around to ensure his henchmen were to hand. ‘There is nothing wrong with dogs.’

‘Perhaps I should call Katherine a fish,’ said Margareta waspishly. ‘Is that a better epitaph?’

‘Epithet,’ corrected Leighton, unable to help himself.

Margareta scowled, but the King prevented a spat by announcing that he intended to go aboard. There was an immediate scramble as everyone tried to accompany him, and Chaloner was sure the great ship listed from the weight that suddenly descended on her. The Janszoons followed with rather more dignity.

‘Do they work at being so stupid?’ muttered Janszoon. He spoke English and Chaloner wondered why he did not revert to his native tongue, given that his words were intended for Margareta’s ears only. ‘Or does it come naturally to them?’

Chaloner did not hear her reply, because he was suddenly aware of someone close behind him. It was Lester, who was more soft-footed than Chaloner would have expected for a man of his size.

‘They must have eavesdropped on a conversation between seamen,’ Lester explained. ‘Katherine is a dog, but the description has nothing to do with speed and strength. Rather, it means she sails like a bucket, and will wallow like the devil in a swell. I should not like to command her.’

‘Then perhaps it is as well that you are unlikely ever to do so,’ said Thurloe coolly.

‘Thurloe?’ said Lester, peering at him. ‘Good God! I almost did not recognise you in that dreadful old cloak. How are you? It must be eight years since we last met. Now where was it?’

‘Dover,’ replied Thurloe promptly and without a hint of friendliness. ‘You were about to travel to Portugal. Fitzgerald was among your crew, if I recall correctly.’

‘Yes!’ Lester exclaimed, seemingly unperturbed by Thurloe’s icy tone. ‘That was before he turned to privateering, of course.’ He turned to Chaloner. ‘Thank you for the drawings of Pepperell and Elliot, by the way. They have already proved useful.’

‘How?’ asked Chaloner, wondering why Lester had not mentioned sailing with Fitzgerald when they had discussed him at the club two nights before.

‘By allowing me to prove for certain that they knew each other and that they had argued,’ replied Lester. ‘I am not sure what about, but I will tell you when I find out.’

‘I had not remembered until now that he and Fitzgerald were crewmates,’ said Thurloe, when the captain had walked away. ‘It makes me more wary of him than ever.’

‘I imagine they have both sailed with lots of people if they have spent most of their lives at sea,’ said Chaloner, instinctively defensive. ‘It almost certainly means nothing.’

‘We are wasting our time here,’ said Thurloe, declining to debate the matter. ‘You were right: Fitzgerald is far too clever to let anything slip in public, while I suspect most of the Piccadilly Company has no idea that he is taking orders from a higher authority.’

‘I have heard no rumours about what is planned for next Wednesday, either,’ said Chaloner gloomily. ‘Or so much as a whisper about the Earl’s bricks. Shall we go home?’

‘Not yet. Someone may drink too much wine and become indiscreet. We can but hope.’

Thurloe and Chaloner remained at Woolwich long after the King had galloped away on a fine stallion, his more athletic courtiers streaming at his heels. Meneses was still with the Queen when she clambered on her barge for the homeward journey, and thus so was Hannah. The other ladies-in-waiting were nowhere to be seen, though: they had secured themselves rides in coaches, unwilling to endure a second ordeal on the turbulent Thames.

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.

Chapter 7

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.

‘The mistress will be late tonight,’ said Joan, coolly aloof as always. ‘She baked you a pie, but it is no longer available.’

It was an odd thing to say. ‘Why?’ Chaloner asked. ‘What happened to it?’

‘He fed it to the neighbour’s pig,’ said Susan, regarding George through eyes that were full of nervous dislike. George stared back at her, his expression disconcertingly neutral. ‘He said he thought it was meant for the slops.’

‘What a pity,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether George expected him to be grateful. If so, then he was going to be disappointed, because Chaloner was not about to be disloyal to his wife. ‘But you all seem merry here together, so I shall leave you in peace.’

He turned to leave but Joan seized his arm, and it was fortunate for her that she was a middle-aged woman, or she might have found herself knocked away with considerable vigour. Chaloner was not in the mood for being manhandled.

‘We are not merry at all,’ she hissed. ‘Indeed, we have not been merry since you hired that horrible footman. If you want to keep Nan, Susan and me, you will dismiss him.’

‘Rat bites,’ said George, making them both jump by speaking close behind them. Chaloner had not heard him approach, and was disconcerted that so large a man should move with such stealth. ‘You should see to that hand, sir. They can be dangerous if left untended.’

Chaloner regarded him sharply. Was there more to the words than concerned advice?

‘Rat bites?’ Joan’s voice was a mixture of revulsion and disapproval, while the maids smirked at this latest evidence of their master’s eccentricity. ‘I shall not ask how you came by them.’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner shortly, and stalked out. He had done no more than slump wearily by the drawing room fire when there was a knock on the front door. He smothered a sigh of annoyance when Wiseman was shown in moments later by a spiteful-faced Joan.

‘He will berate me tomorrow, for not asking whether he was available to receive you,’ she said snidely to the surgeon. ‘But it does him no harm to be sociable on occasion.’

Chaloner shot to his feet. There was only so far he could be goaded by surly servants, but Joan ducked behind Wiseman in alarm, and was gone before he could do more than step towards her.

‘If ever you dismiss that gorgon, I am sure Temperance would take her on,’ said Wiseman, pouring himself a cup of claret from the jug on the table. ‘To keep the club in order.’

‘Take her with you tonight, then,’ said Chaloner, adding pointedly, ‘When you leave.’

Wiseman laughed, wholly unfazed by Chaloner’s sullen temper. ‘Having impudent servants serves you right. Now you know how the Earl feels when you are disrespectful to him.’

‘What do you want, Wiseman?’

The surgeon sat, and stretched his hands towards the flames. ‘Must I have a reason to visit a friend? But perhaps it is as well I came, because you seem unwell. Do you need my services?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Chaloner shortly.

Wiseman reached out and grabbed his wrist. ‘Is that a rat bite?’

Chaloner tried to pull away, but Wiseman’s grip was powerful, and he did not want to free himself at the expense of broken bones. Wiseman rummaged in his bag and produced a pot.

‘Smear that on me, and it will be the last thing you do,’ warned Chaloner. He had learned to his cost that the medical profession invariably did more harm than good, and although Wiseman was generally better than most, he did have a propensity to experiment.

‘It is a salve containing ingredients to combat infection,’ said Wiseman sternly. ‘Any fool knows rat bites can kill. Did you not hear what happened to poor Congett this evening?’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily as the healing paste was slapped on — the big-nosed Adventurer had been in good health at Woolwich earlier. ‘What?’

‘He was found dead by the river tonight, and the only mark on his body was a rat bite on his foot. He must have trodden on it while he was strolling along the shore.’

No self-respecting merchant ‘strolled’ along the banks of the Thames, on the grounds that all manner of filth was washed up on them, not to mention the fact that they were muddy. Chaloner could only assume that Congett was the latest victim in whatever war was raging.

‘His heart must have been weak,’ Wiseman went on. ‘And he died from the shock of it.’

‘He will have been murdered,’ predicted Chaloner. ‘Although I would not recommend opening the corpse to prove it. That would almost certainly put you in danger.’

‘Then I shall abstain,’ said Wiseman, packing away his salve and standing to leave. He hesitated. ‘I do not want to know what is currently occupying your time — not if it involves murder and rats — but it would make me happier if you accepted this. It is the scalpel I use for dissecting eyeballs. No, do not try to pass it back with such a look of revulsion!’

But Chaloner was repelled — the tiny blade was not very clean. ‘I do not need it.’

‘Yes, you do,’ stated Wiseman firmly. ‘It is more easily hidden than the rest of the arsenal you tote around with you, and considerably more discreet. Take it, Chaloner. It may save your life.’

Chaloner doubted such a minute thing would do anything of the kind, but he slid it into the waistband of his breeches, nodding his thanks — he had neither the energy nor the inclination to engage in a battle of wills with Wiseman. When the surgeon had gone, he went upstairs and lay on the bed, where he endured nightmare after nightmare about the strongroom and Congett.

* * *

Chaloner snapped awake a few hours later to find himself clutching a dagger. A creak on the stair confirmed that his return to consciousness had not been natural. He bounded off the bed and was about to pounce on the person who came creeping into the room when he realised it was Hannah.

‘What are you doing?’ she demanded suspiciously, seeing him behind the door.

He shrugged sheepishly, dropping the weapon on to the pile of clothes behind his back before she could see it. ‘I heard a sound.’

‘I was trying to be quiet,’ declared Hannah, loudly and on an accompanying waft of wine. It was still dark outside, although a paler glimmer in the east said dawn was on its way. He surmised that she had just enjoyed one of White Hall’s infamous all-night parties.

‘Whisper, Hannah, or you will wake the servants. Where have you been?’

‘Westminster. There was a reception to celebrate the launch of Katherine. The whole Court was there. Indeed, I am surprised you stayed away, as it was a good opportunity to eavesdrop.’

Chaloner ignored the censure inherent in her words. ‘Who was there?’

‘Everyone,’ replied Hannah unhelpfully, twirling around happily and then staggering. ‘It was very lively, especially once the sober, boring types had gone. Such as your Earl and his retinue — with the exception of Kipps, who knows how to enjoy himself. I am sorry for you, having to endure the likes of Hyde, Dugdale and Edgeman day in and day out.’

‘Our paths do not cross very often. Although Dugdale-’

‘Leighton from the Adventurers left early, too,’ Hannah went on, cutting across him in the way she always did when she was not very interested in what he was saying. ‘So did Grey. Well, I suppose we can excuse Grey, because he still mourns Turner and Lucas.’

Chaloner wondered whether that was true. Grey had wept in the Rainbow Coffee House, but had seemed in perfectly good spirits at the Tennis Courts later, when he had chatted and laughed with Kipps. And why had Hyde, Dugdale, Edgeman and Leighton left early? To lock irritating intelligencers in Clarendon House’s strongroom? Chaloner said nothing, and Hannah chattered on.

‘Turner and Lucas were decent men. A little preoccupied with commerce, perhaps, but that is deemed a virtue these days. They were Adventurers, like the King, the Duke and the Queen.’

‘The Queen is not an Adventurer,’ said Chaloner, startled.

‘Yes, she is. Go and look on the charter if you do not believe me. Of course, I imagine she did not know what she was signing, and if any profits do come her way, they will be siphoned off by dishonest officials. Like Leighton and Hyde.’

‘You think Hyde is dishonest?’

Hannah pulled a face. ‘Perhaps dishonest is too strong a word. Slimy is better. Swaddell was there, too, and so was Williamson, although they ignored each other. Williamson asked after you.’

‘Did he?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘He gave me a message for you.’ Hannah rummaged in her purse. ‘Here it is. He was all courtesy and kindness, quite unlike his usual self. And I like his new man, Lester. Lester left early, too, which was a pity, because he plays the flute like a cherub. Of course, he dances like an ox, but a man cannot have every courtly grace at his fingertips.’

She prattled on while Chaloner unfolded the letter. It had been scrawled in a hurry, and said nothing other than that he should visit Williamson without delay. He screwed it into a ball and tossed it away, recalling that he had been ordered to visit the Spymaster’s offices the previous evening too, and Williamson was doubtless piqued with him for failing to arrive.

‘You should go,’ said Hannah, still speaking far too loudly. ‘I told him you were currently investigating four different cases, and he said he might have clues for you.’

Chaloner was horrified that she should have discussed his work with Williamson. ‘It is not-’

‘The first part of the evening was extremely tedious,’ interrupted Hannah, not really caring what he thought. ‘Meneses latched himself on to the Queen again, and I dared not leave her. I could only relax and enjoy myself once she had gone.’

‘What made you uneasy?’ Chaloner swallowed his irritation: berating her for her loose tongue while she was tipsy was unlikely to prove productive. ‘I doubt she would have come to harm in a room full of people.’

‘No physical harm, perhaps, but she is growing fond of him, and I know he will abandon her when he learns she is poor. When he does, she will be terribly hurt.’

‘Then arrange for someone to tell him her status before she becomes too attached,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Your friend Buckingham will oblige, I am sure.’

‘He tried, but Meneses pretends to have no English. Clearly, he does not appreciate that we are only trying to save him a lot of futile sycophancy. So you can do it. You speak Portuguese.’

‘It is not my place to dispense that sort of advice to foreign barons.’

‘But you will do it nonetheless,’ stated Hannah. ‘Do not worry if the Queen is angry with you — her tempers rarely last long. Damn it! Here comes Joan. You must have woken her by yelling.’

‘I wondered who had slammed the front door and startled us all out of our beds,’ said Joan, regarding Chaloner coldly. ‘Just come home, have you?’

‘He has,’ replied Hannah cheerfully. ‘He arrived a few moments before me.’

‘Well, before you go out again, perhaps you would have a word with George,’ said Joan stiffly. ‘He has eaten the pie Nan baked for today’s dinner. I challenged him about it, but he was quite unrepentant. Horrible man!’

Remembering that Hannah had arranged for him to visit the Queen’s apartments later, Chaloner dressed with more than his usual care that day, selecting a dark-blue long-coat and matching breeches. The shirt had some lace around the neck and wrists — it was impossible to buy them plain in an age where the degree of frill was virtually equivalent to a man’s social status — but not enough to hinder his movements. He added his weapons, including Wiseman’s scalpel, and then was ready for whatever that Saturday might bring.

‘Cut off all your hair and wear a wig,’ advised Hannah, watching him. ‘Few men of fashion keep their own locks these days.’

‘That is because most men of fashion are either grey or bald.’

Hannah snorted with laughter — a sound she would never have made while sober. ‘True. But you will have to conform sooner or later, or you will be the only man at Court with real hair. And then people might think you are poor.’

‘God forbid!’ muttered Chaloner, determined to postpone the inevitable for as long as possible.

He took his leave of her and aimed for the front door, but found his path barred by Joan. She evidently considered him less intimidating than his footman, because she pointed wordlessly to the servants’ parlour, where George was enjoying the newly lit fire. Suspecting it would be quicker to do as she asked than to argue, he went to oblige. He closed the door behind him — he might have been coerced into doing what she wanted, but he was damned if he was going to let her listen.

‘The pie was undercooked,’ said George, coming slowly to his feet. His shoulders rippled as he moved, and there was a definite gleam of defiance in his dark eyes.

‘We will never know, will we? You have ensured that no one else is in a position to say.’

‘Shall I leave you a piece next time, then?’ asked George with calculated insolence.

Chaloner declined to be baited. ‘Or you can be wise and leave them alone. Nan might poison them if she thinks they will only end up inside you.’

The glowering expression lifted. ‘I had not considered that possibility. And she is knowledgeable about toxins — it was she who taught me how to deal with the mouse problem.’

‘Have you seen Fitzgerald since you came to work here?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether he could make George admit to being a spy.

‘Of course, but we do not talk. He does not deign to acknowledge minions.’

‘He does not enquire after your well-being? That seems harsh, after ten years of service.’

George looked away. ‘He is not a sentimental man.’

It was like drawing teeth, and while Chaloner enjoyed a challenge, he could not in all conscience waste the day playing games of cat and mouse with his footman. He turned abruptly, opening the parlour door so suddenly that he was obliged to put out a hand to prevent Joan from tumbling in on top of him.

He left quickly after that, thinking about all he had to do. First, talk to Pratt, to assess whether there was any truth in the allegation that he was fabricating the tales of theft from Clarendon House to cover badly calculated estimates. He needed to speak to Oliver, too, and perhaps corner one or two labourers, to see what they knew about the matter. And perhaps more importantly, he wanted to see whether anyone might know who had locked him in the vault.

Next he would tackle Brilliana, to hear what she had to say about one lover killing another, and also ask about her brother’s activities in Tangier. He would then visit St Margaret’s Church in Westminster, in the hope that someone there would know where Cave’s brother lived — perhaps Jacob would be able to shed light on Cave’s quarrel with Elliot. And finally, he would call on Reverend Addison, to assess what he knew about the scouts’ role in Teviot’s death.

And Williamson? The Spymaster might well have information to impart, but it would come at a price. He elected to stay well away from the man. At least for now.

Because he was wearing his best clothes, Chaloner took a hackney carriage to Piccadilly, but even then, he was not entirely protected from the elements. A drenching drizzle caught the soot in the air from the tens of thousands of sea-coal fires that had been lit to start the day, and when he brushed a drop of water from his cuff, it left a long, black smear.

The Crown was in darkness when he alighted. He crept up the stairs to Pratt’s chambers, intending to catch the man before he was fully cognisant, but when he opened the door, it was to find that the architect’s bed had not been slept in. He was just wondering whether he should be concerned, when he heard a sound in the hallway outside. He drew his sword, but it was only Ruth Elliot, pale and white in billowing nightclothes.

‘You should not be out,’ he said, taking her hand and leading her back to her own garret. ‘It is cold.’

‘My husband had a dog,’ she whispered, watching as he knelt by the hearth to build up the fire. ‘My brother says they are both dead, but I do not believe him. I miss them.’

‘He fought a man called Cave,’ said Chaloner, feeling something of a scoundrel for raising the subject with a woman who was so obviously disturbed. ‘Did you know him?’

She shook her head. ‘My brother says he was a singer, though.’

‘Cave has a brother — Jacob. I do not suppose you have ever met him, have you?’

‘No, but I met Mr Fitzgerald last night. He said he would kill me if I kept watching him, so now I have to hide under the bed when he comes. He is a mean man. So are all of them, except Mr Jones, who is kind and smiles a lot. He brings me an apple sometimes.’

‘Stay away from them all,’ advised Chaloner, deciding that nothing would be gained from questioning her further. ‘And lock the door after I have gone.’

It took considerable willpower for Chaloner to approach Clarendon House, and when he did, it was to find it was too early for the workmen, although a solitary guard shivered next to the brazier. The man was making no effort to monitor the premises, but at least he was awake, which was an improvement on previous mornings. Chaloner was about to take shelter under the portico until the labourers arrived when he saw someone was already there. Instinctively, he melted into the shadows until he could ascertain the fellow’s identity. Unfortunately, a cloak and large hat obscured everything except for his general shape. Then a second person appeared.

‘Where have you been?’ the first demanded in a furious hiss. ‘I have been lurking here for ages, and I am chilled to the bone. You have no right to keep me waiting.’

Chaloner eased forward to listen, grateful they were amateurs — professionals would not have conversed in a place that could be approached by eavesdroppers from so many different directions.

‘I had to be sure no one was looking when I arrived,’ snapped the second. ‘As you will appreciate, neither of us can afford to be caught.’

Even though the site was deserted save the soldier, the pair spoke in whispers, and while Chaloner had no trouble hearing their words, he could not identify their voices. And that was a pity, because there was something about both that said he knew them.

‘There is no need to worry,’ the first was breathing. ‘Wright’s guard is hopelessly incompetent. We could make off with the roof and he would not notice.’

‘It would have been better if the thefts had gone undetected altogether,’ said the second curtly. ‘A lot less trouble, and much safer for everyone concerned.’

‘It is Dugdale’s fault. He told Edgeman to monitor the building accounts, and the inconsistencies are obvious once you know what to look for.’

‘I know,’ said the second shortly. ‘But never mind this. Did you bring what I wanted?’

The first handed him a sheaf of papers. ‘I can buy a few bricks, if you think stealing will attract more unwanted attention. As you have already pointed out, neither of us can afford to be caught.’

‘No!’ exclaimed the second. ‘That would tell anyone with half a brain that something untoward is unfolding here. Let me manage this side of matters. I do not want to be hanged just yet.’

‘Do not be so melodramatic!’ said the first disdainfully. ‘We will not be hanged.’

‘For stealing several hundred pounds’ worth of supplies from the Lord Chancellor? I assure you, not even your lofty station will save you — from the disgrace, if not the noose.’

Chaloner strained forward, desperately trying to see or hear something that would tell him who they were, but they had shrouded themselves too effectively. He consoled himself with the fact that at least he would not have to conduct an uncomfortable interview with Pratt about his estimates: the discussion told him that the materials were definitely being pilfered.

Without another word, the second man tucked the papers under his arm and began to walk towards the nearby woods, leaving Chaloner debating which of the pair to confront. He opted for the first, the one whose station was ‘lofty’. He knew he had made the right decision when the fellow opened the door with a key — presumably, one of the only two official copies in existence.

Once inside, the man moved confidently, despite the fact that it was dark. Chaloner followed, but trod on a piece of wood, and the crack it made as it broke caused his quarry to whip around in alarm. The fellow started to run and Chaloner lost sight of him as he ducked around a corner. Chaloner ran too, following the sounds of footsteps in the blackness. Eventually, they reached the Lawyer’s Library — the room Pratt was using as an office. Chaloner hurtled towards it and flung open the door.

‘Clarendon will be delighted to know the identity of the man who has been stealing from him,’ he panted, watching the man who was standing inside spin around in shock.

It was Roger Pratt.

‘Have you solved the crime, then?’ asked Pratt, hand to his chest to indicate that he had been given a serious start. ‘Congratulations. But please do not burst in on me like that again. The Earl is keen to keep me alive until his house is finished, and he will not thank you for terrifying me to death.’

He was standing by the desk, and Chaloner was puzzled to note that not only was he not breathless from the chase, but he was not wearing the hat and cloak that had swathed him, either. Nor were the garments in the room. What had he done with them? Chaloner was sure he had not had time to throw them off while running.

‘It is you,’ he said. ‘Although I cannot imagine why. You are paid a handsome salary to-’

Pratt’s jaw dropped. ‘You think I am the thief? In God’s name, why? As you say, I am being well paid for my labours, and have no need to soil my hands by stealing.’

‘I just heard you talking to another man in the portico.’

‘Then you are mistaken,’ snapped Pratt. ‘I have been in here all night, because there was a problem with the Great Parlour’s cornices that needed to be resolved by this morning. I have been nowhere near the portico for hours. And if you make accusing remarks again, I shall-’

Chaloner did not wait to hear the rest. He turned and tore back through the house, intending to catch the accomplice instead. He saw him near the wood, identifiable by the sheaf of papers under his arm, and began to race towards him.

‘Hey!’ screamed Pratt, who had followed. ‘How dare you insult me and then race off in the middle of a sentence! I am reporting you to Clarendon!’

Alerted by the tirade, the accomplice fled. Chaloner sprinted after him, but the man had too great a start and quickly disappeared in the undergrowth. Chaloner ran harder, feeling his lame leg burn with the effort, but the wood was an almost impenetrable jungle of saplings and brambles, and he had no idea which direction the fellow might have taken.

He stopped, listening for telltale rustling, but there was only silence. Chaloner had lost him.

Disgusted by his failure, Chaloner made his way back to Clarendon House, where Pratt was briefing the labourers on the work that was to be done that day. Chaloner watched them carefully, but it was impossible to say whether any were the man he had chased through the house. They stared at him with blank faces when he explained what had happened.

‘We saw nothing amiss,’ said Vere. ‘Did we, lads?’

There was a chorus of denials, and Chaloner sensed that even if they had, they would not tell him. They were not well paid, and would almost certainly side with the thief. He persisted, though.

‘These crimes reflect badly on all of you. Who will hire you, when it becomes known that you worked on a site where so many materials have been spirited away?’

‘That is why we have trade guilds,’ said Vere insolently. ‘To protect us from that sort of accusation. We know nothing about anything, and you would do well to remember it.’

There was another growl of agreement. Chaloner started to ask who might have locked him in the strongroom the previous night, but then changed his mind. They were unlikely to confide any suspicions they might harbour, and worse, it might prompt them to try it themselves, seeing it as a convenient way to be rid of a man who posed offensive questions.

When they moved away to begin their work, he turned to Oliver, recalling how Wiseman had castigated Pratt’s gloomy assistant for failing to pay his medical bills. Oliver looked particularly mournful that morning, because he was wearing a hat with a sagging brim that matched his droopy face. Rain poured off it directly down the back of his neck, which may have accounted for at least some of his obvious misery.

‘What about you?’ demanded Chaloner, frustration making him uncharacteristically short with a man who did not deserve it. ‘How can you work here and have no idea of what is happening?’

‘Because I am engrossed in my labours all day,’ replied Oliver, stung. ‘This is a large site and we employ dozens of men — masons, carpenters, plasterers, tile-layers, glaziers. We cannot possibly monitor them all. Besides, the truly amazing fact is that not more has disappeared. It is lonely and isolated at night. A thief’s paradise.’

‘So you have no idea who these felons might be?’ pressed Chaloner.

‘I only wish I did,’ said Oliver fervently. ‘Because I am tired of hearing about them, and would do almost anything to help you lay hold of them — just for some peace.’

The guard was the next to feel the brunt of Chaloner’s exasperation, although the man steadfastly maintained that he had heard and seen nothing of the two men and the ensuing chases, even though Pratt’s indignant yells must surely have been audible. Chaloner caught him out in several inconsistencies, but it made no difference: the soldier was not about to admit that he had witnessed thieves being pursued but had made no effort to help. When Chaloner eventually let him go, Pratt approached, bristling with indignation.

‘Are you going to apologise for calling me a thief?’ he demanded.

Chaloner nodded slowly. Pratt could not be the culprit, because Chaloner would have noticed if the architect had removed hat and cloak during the chase, so the only place he could have divested was the library. But there had been no garments there, so logic dictated that Pratt was innocent, and the real villain must have hidden in an alcove while Chaloner had flown past. Moreover, the chase had left Chaloner breathing hard, but Pratt had not been panting.

On the other hand, it had been Pratt’s furious diatribe that had warned the accomplice to run, and his occupation probably kept him reasonably fit, so there was nothing to say he would be reduced to a wheezing wreck after a short sprint.

‘Where are your bodyguards?’ asked Chaloner, his mind a confused jumble.

‘They left at dawn. Incidentally, I often work here at night, because it gives me an opportunity to feel the house — to assess whether its proportions are correct.’

‘In the dark?’ asked Chaloner sceptically.

‘Of course. Or do you imagine Clarendon will only live here when it is light? The ambience of a house at night is just as important as its looks during the day.’

Chaloner supposed the claim was plausible. Just. Irritably, he shoved past Pratt and walked to the library. With the architect grumbling acidly behind him, he searched the rooms and the corridors he had run through, but there was no discarded hat and cloak.

‘Satisfied?’ demanded Pratt. ‘Perhaps you would like to inspect each panel, to see whether this mysterious intruder hid himself in one of the knots. Or perhaps he wriggled though a crack in the plaster on the ceiling.’

Chaloner rubbed his head. ‘I am sorry. I was sure I had cornered him in here.’

Pratt glared at him. ‘When Wednesday comes, I do not want you guarding me against the assassin. I want someone efficient.’

‘Why? I thought you were pleased by the threat to kill you, because it means you have succeeded in designing something unpopular.’

‘I am,’ said Pratt stiffly. ‘But that does not mean I want to die in four days’ time.’

‘I doubt you are in any danger.’ Chaloner was still sure the plot was aimed more at the Queen than the conceited architect. ‘There is no need to be concerned.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ retorted Pratt. ‘You are not the intended victim.’

Still thinking about what had happened, Chaloner walked towards the Haymarket, wondering whether he was losing his touch. He replayed the incident in his mind again and again, but although the evidence indicated that Pratt probably was innocent, there was a niggling doubt at the back of his mind that made him reluctant to dismiss the architect as a suspect just yet.

When he reached the Crown, a Piccadilly Company meeting was just ending, and yet again people were being ushered through the door in ones and twos, timed to blend in with the horde disgorging from the Gaming House. The person doing the shepherding was the beautiful woman who had undertaken the task on Monday — a lovely creature with dark eyes, a heart-shaped face, and a figure that surpassed even Lady Castlemaine’s.

Chaloner picked up a soggy pamphlet from the ground, and pretended to read it while he watched, wondering at the Company’s penchant for gatherings that took place so early. Was it because its members had demanding daytime jobs, so could not manage a more conducive hour? Or because it was hoped that spies would be less attentive at dawn than late at night?

Meneses was first out, although someone must have remarked on the foreignness of his clothes, because he wore a cloak to conceal them. Lydcott was next; Thurloe’s disapprobation had made no impression on him, because he was whistling happily and it was clear that he intended to ignore his kinsman’s warnings. He was followed by Harley and Newell, both grim-faced, as if whatever had been discussed had displeased them. Or perhaps they were still smarting because Reyner’s killer remained at large. Then came a lot of people Chaloner did not know, although their clothes indicated they were wealthy, and he suspected they were merchants.

One of the last to emerge was Fitzgerald, his piratical beard tucked inside his coat and a hat pulled low to disguise his eye-patch. Once everyone had gone, the woman stared across the street, directly at Chaloner. He tensed as she began to walk towards him.

‘You have had more than enough time to peruse that wet pamphlet,’ she said softly. ‘Have you come to hire my services, but cannot pluck up the courage to come to my home?’

‘Possibly,’ hedged Chaloner, angry with himself for not being more circumspect. He wondered what services she had in mind, although the way she ran her fingers down his sleeve did not leave him pondering for long.

‘My name is Brilliana,’ she said. ‘But I imagine you already know that.’

Chaloner bowed, noting that her clothes were of very high quality, and that she positively dripped jewellery. Here was no lowly strumpet, but a courtesan of some distinction, and he could only suppose she had deigned to approach him because he was dressed for visiting the Queen. Fortunately, his race to the woods had not damaged or soiled anything — at least, nothing that was noticeable on a morning where rainclouds and soot-laden smog meant the light was poor.

‘You had better come to my boudoir, then,’ she said. ‘It is too cold to do business out here.’

Wondering whether it was wise to enter her lair — he had intended to tackle her on neutral ground — Chaloner followed her across the street. Her house, which he recalled was shared with her brother Harley, was a large building on three floors. She conducted him to a pleasantly airy room at the rear, graced with furniture that would not have looked out of place in a French palace.

She sat on an embroidered chair and rang a bell that stood on a table to one side. Immediately, a footman appeared, bearing a tray with a jug of chocolate and two goblets. He poured a little of the dark liquid into each, and from the smell Chaloner suspected it had been fortified with sack.

‘I have told you my name,’ said Brilliana, when the servant had withdrawn and she and Chaloner were alone again. Her smile was coy. ‘What is yours?’

‘Do you require names from all your clients?’

Brilliana tilted her head. ‘It helps, should I want to address them with any intimacy. Sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’

Brilliana raised her eyebrows. ‘Do not tell me you are one of those tedious fellows who thinks abstaining makes a difference to the slaves on the plantations? You will have to change your tune soon, or you will find yourself left behind, like those poor fools who still hanker after the lost Republic. But you are not here to discuss commerce and politics. Are you?’

The sharp intelligence in her eyes told Chaloner that she knew exactly who he was, and what he wanted. Seeing no point in playing games, he decided to be blunt.

‘No, mistress. I thought we might discuss your brother and his work in Tangier.’

She regarded him coolly. ‘He will not need your help in the event of an official inquiry, because he has done nothing wrong. He did not see the Moors waiting in ambush on the day that Lord Teviot died, and no one can prove otherwise.’

‘That will not satisfy the lawyers,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Teviot is popular now he is dead, and they are looking for a scapegoat. Your brother fits the bill perfectly, so if you do not want him hanged, you should encourage him to cooperate with me.’

It was impossible to read Brilliana’s thoughts, although a gleam in her eye said her mind was working fast. ‘I shall pass the message on, but I am not his keeper. He may not listen.’

‘Then tell me when the Piccadilly Company is next meeting, and I will talk to him myself.’

‘The Piccadilly Company is certainly not your concern,’ said Brilliana icily. ‘Now drink your chocolate and then we shall both be about our own business.’

Chaloner lifted the cup, but did not put it to his lips. ‘Cave was on the ship from Tangier, too. I was with him when he died, and he mentioned you.’ It was a lie, but she was not in a position to know it.

‘Poor John,’ she said softly. ‘His death was a wicked shame, and I miss him dreadfully.’

‘Did you attend his funeral?’ He knew she had not, because Wiseman had told him as much.

‘No,’ she replied shortly. ‘Because his brother Jacob shoved him in the ground before his friends could object. I was very upset — I would have liked to say goodbye.’

‘Do you know where Jacob lives?’

‘If I did, I would visit him and give him a piece of my mind. He had no right to act so precipitately. And damn James Elliot, too! John might have started the quarrel, but James should never have fought him. Personally, I think he encouraged Jacob to opt for a hasty funeral.’

‘He cannot have done,’ said Chaloner, startled. ‘He is dead.’

‘Have you seen his body?’ she demanded. ‘No? Then how do you know he is dead? I wager anything you please that he is alive and well and telling Jacob what to do.’

‘Why would he want Cave buried quickly?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.

‘Because he is dangerous and unpredictable,’ declared Brilliana. ‘I wish I had never bestowed my favours on him. I did it because his wife is insane, and I felt sorry for him. But it was a mistake.’

‘I have taken enough of your time,’ said Chaloner, his mind full of questions he knew Brilliana was unlikely to answer. ‘Thank you for the chocolate.’

‘You have not touched it. At least take a sip before you leave. It is expensive.’

‘You have not touched yours, either,’ said Chaloner, glad a career in espionage had taught him never to partake of anything his host had not tasted first.

She smiled, although it was not a pleasant expression. ‘You must come to see me again. I always have chocolate waiting for guests like you.’

Chaloner was sure she did.

It was not far from Piccadilly to St Margaret’s Church in Westminster, but the journey yielded little in the way of information. The young curate who had conducted Cave’s funeral burst into tears when Chaloner started to ask questions about the musician’s hasty send-off.

‘I did not know! I thought he was just another pauper from the rookeries — we get lots of them in here, and it is my job to deal with them quickly so they do not distress our wealthier parishioners. His brother never said he was a courtier, and now everyone at White Hall thinks me a villain for depriving them of music by the Chapel Royal choir and a homily by the Bishop …’

‘Did Cave’s brother look like a pauper himself?’ asked Chaloner.

The curate shook his head. ‘But I did not think anything about it at the time.’

Still sniffling, he led the way to a mound in the churchyard, one in a line of several, which suggested he was telling the truth about the number of cheap and nasty interments he conducted.

‘What did Jacob look like?’ asked Chaloner, staring down at it.

‘He wore decent clothes and an oddly black wig, but there was something of the lout about him. However, he said and did nothing that made me suspect he was trying to avoid paying for a grand funeral. I assumed he just wanted his brother buried quickly because he was busy.’

Chaloner supposed he would have to visit the charnel house, to see whether Kersey knew where Cave’s brother lived — Jacob would have had to supply an address when he had collected the corpse. He started to walk there but then changed his mind and aimed for Lincoln’s Inn instead. He listened outside Chamber XIII for a moment, where the scratch of a pen on paper told him his friend was alone, then tapped softly and entered.

Thurloe was still in his nightclothes, his hair flowing from beneath a cap that might have looked comical on a man with less natural dignity.

‘I am writing to my wife about Robert,’ the ex-Spymaster said tiredly. ‘The man is a fool.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘But a wealthy one. He lodges in the Mews on Charing Cross, which is sufficiently grand that Pratt likes to stay with him when his own rooms in the Crown are too noisy. Fitzgerald seems to have made him very rich.’

Thurloe looked pained. ‘I am tempted to order him away from London for his own good. Unfortunately, I doubt he would go.’

Chaloner hesitated. ‘Are you fond of him?’

‘He is family — fondness is immaterial. Why?’

‘Because if you do not mind placing him in danger by “turning” him, he could be useful to us. For a start, he could tell us what Piccadilly Company meetings entail, and why they take place at odd times. Like early this morning.’

Thurloe sighed. ‘I interrogated him for hours last night — for so long that I overslept this morning, which is why I am still in my nightclothes.’

‘What did he tell you?’

‘Nothing, because he is entrusted with nothing. He believes his business is legal, and there was no persuading him otherwise. He is being used — his glass-exporting venture provides a legitimate front for something else. They do not invite him to all their meetings, and he is sent to prepare refreshments when anything significant is discussed at the ones he is permitted to attend.’

Chaloner was sorry that Thurloe was distressed, and disappointed to learn that even knowing a member of the Piccadilly Company was going to be of no use to them.

‘It is a pity,’ Thurloe went on. ‘Robert is a superb horseman and could have used that talent to earn a respectable living. Instead he prefers to dabble in silly commercial ventures that always fail.’

‘This one is not failing,’ Chaloner pointed out.

Thurloe sighed. ‘I imagine it is — or the legal side of it is, at least. But never mind Robert: he is my problem, not yours. Tell me what has happened to you. It was something unpleasant, because you have the look of a man who did not sleep well, and your hand has been injured.’

Chaloner told him about Clarendon House, unfolding the piece of paper that had been left on the chest. ‘The trap may not have been meant for me, though, because these words mean nothing.’

‘On the contrary — they mention death, darkness and small jaws, which neatly sums up the fate you were meant to suffer. I suspect it is Fitzgerald’s work, because he has always enjoyed inventing unusual ways to dispatch his victims. And if you do not believe me, then look at what happened to Proby, Turner, Lucas and Congett.’

‘Wiseman told me about Congett. He suggested shock as a cause of death, but I imagine it was poison. The rat probably bit him after his body was left on the banks of the Thames.’

Thurloe nodded slowly. ‘But it was a kinder end than the one devised for you.’

Chaloner did not want to dwell about his time in the strongroom, and changed the subject. ‘Have you heard from Wallis about Reyner’s cipher yet? We need those names — enemies of the Piccadilly Company may be friends to us. But even if not, we should warn them. We might have been able to save Congett, and perhaps Turner and Lucas, too, had we been able to translate it.’

‘I disagree. If they have pitted themselves against Fitzgerald, they will need no advice from us to be on their guard. They will know it already.’

‘We cannot take that chance. However, as all four victims were Adventurers, perhaps we should assume that Fitzgerald considers all Adventurers to be his enemies, and warn the lot of them.’

‘That would entail notifying the King, the Queen and other members of the royal family, and I doubt they have decided to challenge a viciously ruthless pirate. Fitzgerald’s adversaries will not be the Adventurers as a whole, but a particular section.’

‘But-’

Thurloe held up his hand. ‘The only way to be certain is to decode that list. Wallis is working as fast as he can, but that particular cipher is fiendishly difficult to break. How are you managing with the other one?’

‘Not well.’

‘Send me a copy. We shall both study it in our free moments.’

Chaloner told Thurloe about his failures that morning — losing the thieves, accusing Pratt, and entering Brilliana’s lair but gaining nothing except the sense that she had tried to poison him.

‘And it is barely ten o’clock,’ he concluded morosely. ‘I suppose I should visit Kersey next. Then I should ask Lester whether Elliot might still be alive — and if he is, track him down and ask whether he encouraged Jacob to bury his brother with such indecent haste.’

Thurloe winced at the mention of a man he did not trust. ‘If Elliot did survive Cave’s attack, then Lester will be complicit in a hoax. I doubt Lester will admit to lying.’

‘I was not planning to ask if he lied,’ said Chaloner, a little irritably. ‘Just whether he might have been mistaken. It is not always easy to tell the living from the dead.’

Thurloe nodded, but his expression said he thought Chaloner was wasting his time. ‘What will you do about Teviot? How will you persuade Harley and Newell to break their silence and talk?’

‘I will visit Revered Addison today and ask what he knows about the matter.’

Thurloe nodded approvingly. ‘However, if you do decide to tackle the scouts directly again, you might mention Jane. She may loosen their tongues.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Jane is a ship that traded in Tangier when Teviot was governor. I was reliably informed last night that Harley and Newell were hired to guard her when she docked there. My spies were unable to ascertain the precise nature of the cargo, but they heard some of the crew talking. Yet what they overheard makes no sense, so perhaps we should not take it into account.’

‘What did they hear?’

‘That Jane was carrying gravel.’

By the time Chaloner reached the charnel house, Kersey was busy with the morning’s trade. Several corpses were awaiting his attention, and the chambers at the front of his premises were full of mourners. Chaloner was impressed to note that he afforded the same gentle sympathy to the poor as to the rich, offering medicinal wine to those in genuine distress, served in exquisite crystal goblets.

‘Jacob came here on Monday night and asked for his brother’s body,’ the charnel-house keeper reported angrily, taking Chaloner’s arm and pulling him towards the mortuary so they would not be overheard. ‘I assumed he was taking it home, so that friends and acquaintances could pay their last respects. But then I heard the day before yesterday that Cave was shoved in St Margaret’s churchyard with an appalling lack of ceremony. I am livid, because it reflects badly on me.’

‘How?’ asked Chaloner, puzzled. ‘You are not responsible for the arrangements.’

‘Cave was in my care, and I always take it upon myself to act as adviser to my clients’ kin,’ explained Kersey shortly. ‘People might think I recommended this unseemly course of action.’

‘I am sure they do not,’ said Chaloner soothingly. ‘What can you tell me about Jacob?’

‘A bit loutish — not like Cave at all. There was a dullness in his eyes that made me suspect he was not overly intelligent, and he looked as though he would enjoy a brawl. He wore nice clothes and had donned an especially black wig.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin. Kersey’s description, like the curate’s, sounded uncannily like Elliot. Was it possible that Brilliana was right? That he had survived Cave’s attack and was avenging himself by shoving Cave in the ground without the pomp and ceremony that was his due? If the quarrel had been about her, and not about taking the wall as they had claimed, then it was certainly possible that their antipathy towards each other was powerful enough to result in petty spite.

‘Can you remember anything else about Jacob?’ he asked.

‘He listened attentively to all I said about the grand ceremony that was being arranged, and then shoved his brother in the ground first thing the following morning, employing a novice curate to say the prayers so that no questions would be asked. It was sly, mean-spirited and niggardly.’

‘Did he tell you where he lives?’

‘Near the sign of the Sun in Covent Garden. Or so he claimed. I would pay him a visit myself and give him a piece of my mind, but I am too busy.’

‘Was Cave the only subject you discussed?’

‘No, actually,’ replied Kersey, and Chaloner was surprised to see hurt and anger in his face. ‘He looked at the table on which Cave lay, and told me it was disgraceful. No one has ever complained before and it offended me. I want you to look at it and tell me whether he was right.’

Chaloner had no desire to inspect mortuary furniture, but Kersey was clearly upset, and he liked the man. He allowed himself to be led into the hall, recoiling at the powerful stench of burning that assailed his nostrils the moment the door was opened.

‘Turner’s family and servants,’ explained Kersey. ‘And Lord Lucas. A terrible tragedy.’

He aimed for a table that looked no different to any of the others — it was sturdy and had been scrubbed so often that the wood was almost white. It was already occupied by someone else, and although Chaloner tried to prevent Kersey from whipping away the blanket — he did not want to see charred cadavers — he was too late.

But it was not a blackened specimen that lay there. It was Newell, dead of a gunshot wound.

Chaloner stared at the scout, his thoughts in turmoil. Newell was wearing the clothes he had sported when he had left the Piccadilly Company meeting with Harley and Lydcott at dawn, and was still slightly warm to the touch. He had not been dead for long.

‘He came in a few moments ago,’ explained Kersey. ‘An accident in St James’s Park — you know how people meet there to show off their new firearms. Well, he was demonstrating one to a party of interested onlookers, and he shot himself by mistake.’

Chaloner seriously doubted it. ‘Newell was an experienced soldier. He would not have-’

‘There are witnesses: Secretary Leighton, Hyde, Mr O’Brien and the lovely Kitty to name but a few. These accidents are not uncommon, because firearms are notoriously capricious.’

‘But Newell was a professional scout. He would not have killed himself by accident, no matter how temperamental the gun.’

Kersey shrugged. ‘Yet here he is, lying on my table. Tell me what you think of my furniture, Chaloner. Should I invest in new stock?’

But all Chaloner’s attention was on Newell. Experience told him that the scout had probably been looking down the barrel when he had squeezed the trigger, and the ball had taken him in the throat. There were two possibilities. Either Newell had committed suicide because he was losing his nerve over Teviot and whatever other dark matters he had embarked upon with the Piccadilly Company, or the gun had been fitted with an unusually fine firing mechanism.

‘The table,’ prompted Kersey worriedly. ‘Can you see anything wrong with it?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner. ‘I suspect Jacob made the remark to disconcert you — and to prevent you from asking him too many questions.’

‘Well, it worked,’ said Kersey bitterly. ‘It stopped our conversation dead, and I have been distressed ever since — about the entire episode.’

‘Cave was killed by a man named James Elliot, who is supposed to have died of his wounds shortly afterwards. I do not suppose you had him in here, did you?’

‘No,’ replied Kersey with absolute conviction. ‘I have not had a stabbing victim for almost three weeks now.’

Chaloner left the charnel house aware that he now had even more to do. He had to ask Leighton, O’Brien, Kitty and Hyde about what had happened to Newell; interview Addison about Tangier; visit the Sun in Covent Garden to speak to Jacob — assuming he was not Elliot, of course; and talk to Lester about the possibility that his friend was still alive. Then he was due to visit the Queen’s apartments, and he wanted to track down Harley — it was even more urgent that he cornered the scout now, given that he was the only one of the three left alive.

His thoughts were so full of how to fit everything in that he failed to pay attention to his surroundings, and he was halfway down the lane before he became aware of several men walking towards him. They were advancing with grim purpose and it did not take a genius to see that they were there for him. There were too many to fight, so he turned, and had just broken into a run when he was faced with more men coming from the opposite direction. There were at least a dozen, all rough-looking types with cudgels.

Was he going to have an ‘accident’ now? Was someone disappointed that he had escaped suffocation the previous night, and intended to rectify the matter? He looked around quickly but either by chance or design the men had chosen a part of the alley with walls that were too high to climb, and there were no windows or doors. He would have to fight.

He drew his sword with one hand and the gun with the other, and stood with his back to the wall, waiting to see which side would strike first. He could not win against so many, but if he was going to die, then he would not be the only one to meet his Maker that day.

‘There is no need for that,’ said the man in the lead, faltering. Behind him, his fellows drew an assortment of swords and knives. ‘We only want a word.’

Chaloner indicated with a gesture that he was to speak.

‘Not here,’ said the man. ‘Come with us.’

‘No.’ Chaloner levelled the gun at him.

‘We have orders to take you somewhere,’ said the man, eyeing it uneasily. ‘And it will be a lot more pleasant for everyone if you put down the weapons and come quiet, like.’

‘Orders from whom?’ demanded Chaloner.

‘We cannot say, but if you come with us, you will find out.’

‘Then I decline.’

The man sighed and indicated that his cronies should advance. They obliged, slowly at first, but then in a rush when a puff of smoke told them that Chaloner’s dag had misfired. Cursing the thing, Chaloner used it as a club, bruising at least two of his assailants, while three others reeled away from his sword. But it was an unequal contest and it was not long before he went down under a hail of cudgels, fists and feet. A sack was pulled over his head and tugged so tight that it was difficult to breathe. He managed to free one hand, though, and heard a yelp of pain as he lashed out with it.

‘Tie him,’ ordered the leader urgently. ‘Quickly, before he injures anyone else.’

‘Easy for you to say, Doines,’ someone grumbled. ‘Standing there, giving orders, while we do battle with the devil.’

Chaloner continued to struggle long after he was rendered helpless by an array of ropes, desperately seeking a weakness in his bonds. There was none, and he felt himself lifted and tossed into the back of a cart. Doines clicked his tongue to a horse, which began to trot.

He was not sure how many men piled themselves on top of him, but he could not ever recall a more uncomfortable journey. He tried to ask whether their orders entailed him arriving dead, but the sack muffled his words, and the sound he made encouraged someone to hit him. He felt himself grow light-headed from lack of air, and soon lost any sense of where he was being taken.