Oliver’s lugubrious face fell. ‘I had not thought of that.’ He turned to Pratt in some alarm. ‘What does happen if someone is trapped in there?’
Pratt opened his mouth once or twice but did not reply, which told Chaloner that the notion of safety had not crossed his mind, either. Then the architect shrugged. ‘He will yell for help, and someone will come to let him out. However, if it is a villain who is shut inside, then he will die and it will serve him right. Would you like to see it?’
‘No!’ Chaloner had not meant to sound sharp, but he had a deep and abiding horror of cell-like places, which had afflicted him ever since he had been imprisoned in France for espionage.
‘As you please,’ said Pratt stiffly, offended. ‘Are you coming in today, or does the rest of my creation fill you with revulsion, too?’
He turned away before Chaloner could think of a tactful response.
When Chaloner had first been given the task of guarding Clarendon House and its supplies, he had taken the opportunity to explore it thoroughly. It was rigidly symmetrical. There were two rooms to the left, which led to a huge staircase that swept up to the Earl’s bedchamber, and an identical arrangement to the right, which would be used by his wife. Chaloner supposed they should be grateful that they already had all the children they intended to produce, because it would be something of a trek to meet each other in the night. Other rooms on the ground floor were graced with such grand names as the Great Parlour, the Room of Audience, My Lord’s Lobby and the Lawyers’ Library.
The upper storey was equally majestic, although wood panelling and tapestries meant the bedchambers and dressing rooms would be cosier than the stark marble monstrosities below. The attics were above them, with rooms already earmarked as sleeping quarters for the sizeable retinue that would be needed to run the place.
But it was the basement that was the most confusing, and Chaloner had counted at least thirty rooms in it, ranging from kitchens, pantries, butteries and sculleries to laundries and tack rooms. There were also places where servants could work and eat out of sight of the more lofty company above. All were connected by a maze of corridors and hallways. Beneath them were the strongroom and a range of dark, cold cellars.
‘Are you sure you will not see the vault?’ coaxed Oliver, as Chaloner followed him inside. ‘You will be impressed.’
Chaloner was about to decline a second time, when he reconsidered. How much longer were his experiences in France going to haunt him? Determined to overcome what he knew was a foolish weakness, he nodded agreement. Obligingly, Oliver lit a torch and led the way down one flight of steps to the basement and then another to the cellars, chatting amiably as he went. Chaloner was grateful for the monologue, because it concealed the fact that his own breathing was ragged, and that he had to steady himself with one hand against the wall.
At the bottom, there was a long corridor with a floor of beaten earth, which had chambers leading off it, all low-ceilinged, dark spaces that would be used for storage. Two rooms were different, though. One was the purpose-built cavern where the Earl would keep his wine; the second was the vault.
Oliver pushed open the door of the latter to reveal a chamber that was no more than ten feet long and six wide. The door was unusually thick — wood encased in metal — and the internal walls had been lined with lead, which had the curious effect of deadening sound; as Oliver described how the place had been constructed, his voice was strangely muted.
‘The door locks automatically when it is slammed shut. Then it can only be opened with a key.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner quickly, as Oliver started to demonstrate.
Oliver’s sad face creased into a grin. ‘The operative word is slammed. If you close it gently, it can be opened again. Besides, Mr Pratt has the key, and will rescue us if we inadvertently lock ourselves in. All we have to do is yell for help.’
‘You think he will hear us, do you?’ said Chaloner, stepping outside before Oliver could give him a demonstration. ‘If this room really is airtight, we will suffocate long before he realises we are missing.’
Oliver smiled again, to indicate that he thought Chaloner was being melodramatic, and led the way back towards the stairs. Chaloner was silent, wrestling with the uncomfortable notion that he might have to become much more familiar with the strongroom when the Earl was in residence. His duties did include safeguarding his employer’s property, after all.
Once Oliver had finished showing off the vault, Chaloner hunted Pratt down in the Lawyers’ Library. This room was already finished, with shelves and panelling in place, and a functional hearth. Pratt was using it as an office from which to work on the rest of the house. It was cold, though, and Oliver immediately set about lighting a fire.
‘What time did you finish work last night?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether it was possible to glean clues about the thieves by identifying what time they struck.
It was Oliver who replied. ‘Early. Mr Pratt had been called away, but shortly afterwards a question arose about the cornices, which meant we had to stop work to await his decision. Rather than keep the men hanging around idle, I sent them home at three o’clock.’
‘I left at noon,’ said Pratt, adding smugly, ‘Christopher Wren wanted to show me his designs for a new St Paul’s, you see. He values my opinion.’
‘What did you think?’ asked Chaloner curiously. He had seen Wren’s plans, and had been appalled: the architect intended to tear down the iconic gothic building and replace it with a baroque monstrosity of domes and ugly pediments.
‘That without me, he will make some terrible mistakes,’ replied Pratt haughtily. ‘No one has my skill with Palladian porticos.’
Chaloner found the prospect of a cathedral with Palladian porticos vaguely sacrilegious and considered telling Pratt so, but he knew he should not waste time on a debate when he had so much to do. Reluctantly, for he would have liked to denounce Wren’s flashy notions, he turned the discussion back to the thefts. ‘So the supplies could have been stolen yesterday afternoon?’
‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Oliver. ‘All we can say for certain is that they were there when we left. Personally, I do not believe common thieves are responsible. Clarendon has enemies at Court, and I think some of them are doing the pilfering. To annoy us and inconvenience him.’
Chaloner was about to ask if he had any specific suspects, recalling that Hannah believed much the same thing, when Vere shuffled in to announce that the labourers were ready to begin work. The sullen woodmonger regarded Chaloner with disdain.
‘You did not last long as nightwatchman,’ he said. ‘I see real soldiers are doing it now.’
‘Chaloner is still investigating, though,’ said Oliver, endearingly loyal. ‘The Earl just wants him free to do more questioning than watching. He will catch these villains, never fear.’
‘I hope so,’ growled Vere. ‘Because at the moment he suspects my lads of helping the thieves. But he is wrong, and when he has the real culprits in custody, he will owe us an apology.’
‘We shall work on the Room of Audience today,’ announced Pratt, uninterested in what his staff thought about Chaloner’s suspicions. ‘So I shall need all the cherry-wood panels, and as much plaster as you can mix.’
Oliver left to supervise the operation, and Vere followed him out only after shooting Chaloner a gloweringly resentful glare. When they had gone, Pratt closed the door.
‘I suppose you are here about the threat against my life,’ he said. ‘The Earl told me about it yesterday, but there is no need for alarm. It means I have reached an apogee.’
Chaloner regarded him uncertainly. ‘I do not understand.’
‘I mean that ignorant fools often take exception to my buildings, because they do not possess the intelligence to appreciate how exquisite they are. You are probably one of them, which is why you think Clarendon House is too grand. But threats against me are a good thing. They tell me that I have succeeded in making people notice what I have done.’