‘No, but he would order you to investigate, which would be awkward, to say the least. Do not commit arson just yet, Tom — if you fail to save the Queen and she falls from grace, Clarendon will tumble with her. It is possible that he may not survive to inhabit his mansion.’
‘Is that meant to make me feel better?’ asked Chaloner, shocked.
‘It is an outcome you should bear in mind,’ replied Thurloe soberly. ‘Along with the possibility that Fitzgerald might win this contest. He bested me on innumerable occasions when I was spymaster, and there is no reason to assume he will not do so again.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner with quiet determination. ‘I will not stand by while the Queen is used in so vile a manner. Or the Earl. He may not be much of an employer, but he is all I have.’
Thurloe smiled briefly. ‘Then let us see what we can do to protect them.’
They took a hackney carriage to Piccadilly, where Thurloe disappeared into the dark recesses of the Feathers, and Chaloner walked to Clarendon House. Oliver was just leaving for the day, his dusting completed, while the Earl was still wandering about inside with Frances.
‘I shall spend the rest of the day at home,’ said Oliver, his gloomy face a mask of dejection. ‘Alone, with only my ferret for company. Being an architect’s assistant is a lonely occupation, because the unsociable hours prevent me from meeting ladies …’
‘You have a ferret?’ asked Chaloner, not sure how else to respond to the confidence.
Oliver nodded, and arranged his morose features into what passed as a smile. ‘They are cheaper to feed than dogs, and more affectionate than birds. They also keep a kitchen free of rats, and I cannot abide rats.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner unhappily, as he turned to enter Clarendon House, his mind full of the strongroom and what had happened to him in it.
It was not easy to step inside the mansion, and he was uncomfortably aware of the vast emptiness of the place as he walked through it, treading softly to prevent his footsteps from echoing. He found the Earl and Frances in the Great Parlour, a huge room in one of the wings that was accessed by a set of double doors that were as grand as any in White Hall. It was lit by windows in the ceiling, which would be almost impossible to clean, and there was a ridiculous number of marble pillars and plinths.
‘I do not like it, dear,’ Frances was saying, looking around in dismay. ‘This is the chamber where you and I will spend cosy evenings together, but it is about as snug as a tomb. It does not even have a fireplace. Perhaps we should have hired a different architect.’
‘We shall be very happy here,’ declared the Earl firmly. ‘Ah, there you are, Chaloner. I was beginning to think you had decided to spend the afternoon elsewhere. Have you seen my vault, by the way? You should approve, being mindful of security.’
‘Mr Kipps spent a lot of time inspecting it on Friday,’ said Frances, smiling a greeting at the spy. ‘He was greatly admiring of it, and said it is the safest depository in London.’
‘On Friday?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. He had been locked in on Friday.
‘We shall be late for church if we stand here chatting,’ said the Earl briskly. ‘My house is in your hands, Chaloner, although you will have to mind it from the garden, because I must lock up.’
When they had gone, Chaloner let himself back in with his own key and prowled, trying to learn how the thief he had chased the previous day — assuming it was not Pratt — had disappeared. But although he paced corridors and tapped on walls, he could find no hidden doorways that the fellow might have used.
He considered the stolen bricks. The conversation he had overheard on the portico told him that the thieves were known to the Earl. But who were they? Someone from his household, such as Edgeman or Dugdale? He refused to think it might be Kipps — working for Clarendon would verge on the intolerable if the one man who was friendly towards him was dismissed as a villain.
The discussion had also indicated that there might be more to the matter than the removal of materials, although he could not imagine what. Moreover, he was still sure they were disappearing during the day rather than at night, although the conviction did nothing to help him with answers.
He turned his mind to his other enquiries. First, Cave. What had induced him to fight Elliot? Did he have a brother named Jacob, or had Elliot recovered sufficiently from his wound to invent him? Lester had not seen Elliot die, and Chaloner doubted he had looked in the coffin before it was buried in St Giles-in-the-Fields.
Second, there were the letters. He was inclined to accept Thurloe’s contention that an Adventurer was responsible — Pratt was a member of the rival Piccadilly Company, after all. Moreover, the Queen was unpopular at Court, and many Adventurers were eager to secure His Majesty a fertile Protestant bride in her place. Was Secretary Leighton one of them? Or Edgeman and Dugdale?
And finally, there was the Tangier massacre. It was clear that Harley, Newell and Reyner had sent Lord Teviot into the ambush deliberately, and that the reason was tied up with the Piccadilly Company. But what was of such importance that the lives of five hundred men were seen as an acceptable sacrifice?
Of course, the soldiers were not the only casualties of whatever war was raging. Proby, Turner, Lucas, Congett, Reyner and his mother, and Newell were victims, too. And what was the significance of gravel? Was it just a convenient cargo to transport on return voyages, as Lydcott claimed? Or was it code for some other commodity?
Frustrated when no answers came, Chaloner descended to the basement, prowling the kitchens, laundries and pantries. He paused at the top of the cellar stairs and listened, but the place was silent, and wild horses would not have induced him to go down there again.
He left the house to walk outside, carefully locking the door behind him. The site was deserted, and he kicked his heels restlessly as the afternoon crept by, fretting at the hours that could have been used more profitably.
Predictably, it was late before Wright and his men arrived, although they were unrepentant when he complained. The clocks were striking eight before he was able to leave, and it had been dark for some time.
Sure the answers to almost all his questions lay in Piccadilly, Chaloner took up station in the shadows surrounding the Gaming House and began to watch the Crown tavern. It did not take him long to realise that someone else was doing the same. He drew his dagger and crept forward.
‘Tom!’ exclaimed Thurloe, once Chaloner, recognising his muffled cry of alarm, had released him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘The same as you.’ Chaloner slipped the knife back up his sleeve. ‘Is anything happening?’
Thurloe nodded. ‘The Piccadilly Company is gathering. Robert knows nothing of it, though, because he told me only an hour ago that they will not meet again until the end of next week.’
‘Who has arrived so far?’
‘Fitzgerald, Meneses, Harley, Brilliana and others who have disguised themselves so well that I cannot recognise them — about a dozen in all. Brinkes and his henchmen have ousted the drinkers from the tavern, which says something sensitive is about to be aired, because he should not need to clear a downstairs room when they meet on an upper floor.’
‘Then we had better eavesdrop.’
‘Yes, but how?’ asked Thurloe impatiently. ‘Brinkes will be watching the stairs.’
‘Stairs are not the only way to gain access to upper floors.’
‘You mean I should climb up the back of the house and listen at a window?’ asked Thurloe, raising his eyebrows. ‘I doubt I could do it, not with my fragile constitution. Besides, Brinkes has posted two guards there, and he checks them every few minutes. He is nothing if not thorough.’
‘Then create a diversion while I try.’
Thurloe’s eyes gleamed. ‘It will be dangerous, but worth it. Standing out here is a waste of time.’
Chaloner made his way to the rear of the tavern, and after a few moments something began to happen. There was a lot of girlish laughter, and suddenly three near-naked prostitutes burst into the Crown’s garden. It went without saying that the guards hurried towards them and demanded to know what they were doing. The men’s voices were angry, but their eyes said they were not averse to the interruption. Chaloner began his ascent.