The Piccadilly Plot (29 page)

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.’