The Piccadilly Plot (28 page)

‘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.