‘I was sorry to hear about Newell,’ said Chaloner, watching him jump at the voice so close to his ear. ‘You must feel uneasy, now you are the only Tangier scout left alive.’
Harley glowered. ‘Newell and Reyner were careless. I am not.’
Chaloner raised his hands placatingly. ‘I am not the enemy. And if you had let me help you last week, you might not be missing two friends now.’
Harley sneered. ‘I am not discussing Teviot, so you had better back off, or your corpse will be the next Curiosity to attract the attention of these ghouls.’
Chaloner was unmoved by the threat. ‘You threw the gun that killed Newell in the river. Why?’
Harley’s scowl deepened. ‘I should have kept it, to identify the bastard who gave it to him, but I was angry. The trigger had been set to go off at the slightest touch, and not even an experienced soldier stood a chance. But I am not discussing that with you, either. It is none of your affair.’
‘Perhaps we can talk about Jane instead, then,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘Carrying gravel.’
Harley stared at him, eyes blazing. ‘Do you want to die? Is that why you insist on meddling with matters that do not concern you?’
‘They do concern me,’ argued Chaloner. ‘I am interested in gravel. And fine glassware.’
‘Then buy a book about them,’ snapped Harley curtly. ‘And-’
They both turned at a shriek from the Lady, who had managed to slide her hand inside the case that held the ‘Twenty-foot Serpent’ to see whether it was alive. It was, and objected to being poked. Her fast reactions had saved her from serious harm, but the creature had drawn blood. Harley escaped in the ensuing commotion, after which there was a general exodus as the Court moved on to its next entertainment. It was not long before only those genuinely interested in science remained. They included Kitty and O’Brien, so Chaloner went to see what they could tell him about Newell.
They were inspecting the ‘Ant Beare of Brasil’, a sleek creature with a long snout and three legs, although there was nothing to tell the visitor whether all members of that species were tripedal, or just that particular individual.
‘Have you ever been to Brazil, Chaloner?’ asked O’Brien amiably.
‘It is full of plantations,’ said Kitty in distaste. ‘Run on slave labour — which is wicked.’
‘Leighton is still trying to persuade us to become Adventurers,’ said O’Brien unhappily. ‘The irony is that we were keen to join last year, but our copper sales had not made us rich enough, and we were rejected. Now we have ample funds, but have learned that it is an unethical venture — although their social events are certainly enticing.’
‘Leighton pesters us constantly to join,’ said Kitty. ‘Horrible man!’
‘I understand that you had another unpleasant experience recently, too,’ said Chaloner. ‘You saw Newell killed in St James’s Park.’
Kitty paled, and her husband put a protective arm around her shoulders. ‘It was dreadful,’ he said weakly. ‘Leighton was with us, but he said and did nothing. In fact, he looked like the serpent that just tried to eat Lady Castlemaine — evil and dispassionate at the same time.’
‘Do you think he knew what was about to happen?’ asked Chaloner.
Kitty and O’Brien looked at each other. ‘I would not have thought so,’ said O’Brien eventually, although without much conviction. ‘How could he have done?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Kitty cautiously. ‘It must have been an accident. But let us talk about something else. Newell’s death was horrible, and we shall all have nightmares if we persist.’
‘We have been invited to a soirée tomorrow and a reception on Tuesday,’ said O’Brien, forcing a smile. ‘The soirée is at Brodrick’s house, and he promises us a memorable time.’
‘I am sure you will have it,’ said Chaloner, knowing from experience that Brodrick’s parties usually began well, but degenerated as the night progressed and the wine flowed.
‘Tuesday’s event is a pageant to welcome the Swedish ambassador,’ O’Brien went on. This time the grin was more genuine. ‘I do love a good ceremony, and London is very good at them.’
‘Will you be there, Mr Chaloner?’ asked Kitty. ‘Joseph says he will need to be in disguise, to spy on people with wicked intentions. It means he cannot talk to us, lest he gives himself away.’
‘He told us he will be in pursuit of traitors and scoundrels,’ said O’Brien, laughing at the notion. ‘But I cannot imagine there are many of those at White Hall.’
‘You would be surprised,’ murmured Chaloner.
Soon, even those of a scientific bent took their leave, and Chaloner and Thurloe adjourned to a nearby coffee house to discuss their findings. It did not take them long to know that they had uncovered very little in the way of clues, and that most of what they had learned was no more than rumour and speculation.
‘In other words,’ Thurloe concluded grimly, ‘we still do not know who is giving orders to Fitzgerald, or what he intends to do on Wednesday. We also have no idea who wants the Queen blamed for plotting to kill Pratt, although we suspect the culprit will transpire to be an Adventurer.’
‘Yes,’ said Chaloner, troubled. ‘But the Queen is an Adventurer, too. So much for loyalty.’
‘She signed the charter and invested money, but that is all. She will never be part of them — at least, not until she produces an heir. My chief suspect is Leighton, on the grounds that he is a sinister individual who may have brought about Newell’s demise with a faulty gun.’
‘Which Harley promptly tossed into the river.’ Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘My chief suspect for the letters remains Hyde — also an Adventurer. And you did tell me to be wary of him.’
‘I did,’ acknowledged Thurloe. ‘However, he would never do anything to endanger his father — and Clarendon would suffer if the Queen is accused, because he is the one who recommended her as a bride for the King. Of course, there are other members of the Earl’s household …’
‘Dugdale and Edgeman,’ said Chaloner, nodding. ‘They would betray the Earl in an instant if they thought it would benefit them.’
‘So would Kipps.’ Thurloe held up his hand to silence Chaloner’s objections. ‘We will not argue about this, Tom, because there is no point — neither of us has the evidence to prove or disprove our beliefs. All we have is suspicion and conjecture.’
Chaloner accepted his point, and returned to their list of unanswered questions. ‘We still do not know why Fitzgerald took over the Piccadilly Company, either.’
‘I cornered the Janszoons, Meneses and Pratt, but they all claimed a passion for glassware prompted their interest in Lydcott’s business. However, none of them know the first thing about it, which tells me they were lying.’
Chaloner was beginning to feel despondent. ‘We have less than three days before some diabolical plot swings into action, but how are we to prevent it when we are thwarted at every turn? Or worse, locked in vaults with chests of hungry rats.’
Thurloe regarded him sympathetically. ‘My favoured suspect for that piece of nastiness remains Fitzgerald, on the grounds that he is famous for inventing unusual ways to dispatch his victims. Or perhaps the savage imagination is his master’s.’
‘Or Leighton’s, whose indifferent reaction to Newell’s death suggests he is used to gore. Or a brick-thief, because my enquiries are becoming a nuisance. The list is endless.’
Thurloe finished his coffee and stood. ‘I am going to visit a few old haunts in and around Piccadilly, then I shall prod Wallis over decoding Mrs Reyner’s list. Will you come with me?’
‘I wish I could, but I am condemned to spend the afternoon at Clarendon House. I hate the place. If it burned down, do you think the Earl would know I did it?’