‘It does not matter.’ Chaloner believed him: his alibi was one that could be checked, and the assassin was too experienced an operative to concoct stories that would show him to be a liar.
‘Have you heard that I am no longer in Williamson’s service?’ Swaddell asked casually. ‘I work for Leighton now — he is secretary of the Adventurers, and a very wealthy man.’
‘I cannot imagine Leighton having much use for an assassin. Besides, he looks as though he can manage that side of the business himself.’
‘I do more than just kill people, you know,’ said Swaddell irritably. ‘Do not underestimate me, Chaloner. Men have done it before, and lived to regret it.’
Or not lived to regret it, thought Chaloner. He was not afraid of Swaddell, although there was no disputing that the assassin was an unsettlingly sinister individual. But there was no point in making enemies needlessly, and he had enough to do without dodging attempts on his life by professional killers. He nodded an amiable farewell and moved away.
The revellers on the far side of the parlour were wearing masks, although Chaloner was not sure why — perhaps as part of some exotic game. It was easy to identify Fitzgerald, though, despite the grinning crocodile-head he had donned; his massive red beard had been carefully fluffed up for the occasion and it stood out like a beacon.
Chaloner stole a mask from someone too intoxicated to notice, found a corner where he could pretend to be slumped in a drunken stupor, and settled down to watch the pirate at play.
His earlier assumption that Adventurers and the Piccadilly Company did not mix was wrong, because members of both were in Fitzgerald’s party. The Adventurers were represented by Brodrick, safe in the knowledge that his prim cousin would never believe anyone who told on him; and by Congett, who had apparently not consumed enough wine at O’Brien’s house earlier and was busily rectifying the matter. Both wore visors, but Chaloner recognised them by their clothes. Then Dugdale and Edgeman tottered across to join them, disguised as an ape and a toad, respectively.
Several Piccadilly Company members were also readily identifiable, despite their elaborate headdresses. ‘The nice Mr Jones’ was wearing his trademark red boot-ribbons, while Cornelis Janszoon appeared brazenly foreign in his sombre Dutch suit. Chaloner glanced around quickly and saw three henchmen lurking in the shadows near the door; Janszoon was still taking no chances with his safety.
There were two others he recognised, too, although he doubted they were Adventurers or from the Piccadilly Company: Pratt the architect was betrayed by his haughty bearing, while his assistant Oliver still contrived to look morose despite the merrily beaming imp that concealed his face.
Everyone was laughing uproariously, because Jones was encouraging Pratt to describe the mansions he had designed before Clarendon House. Jones was making much of the fact that Pratt could only lay claim to three, which should not have been sufficient for him to have formed such an elevated opinion of himself. Pratt did not know he was being practised upon, and his bragging replies unwittingly emphasised his foolish vanity.
‘Clarendon House is effluence,’ declared Janszoon suddenly, cutting across Pratt’s declaration that his buildings were the best in the country. ‘And all London’s architects are repulsive and bald.’
Chaloner knew the revellers were far too drunk to understand that the Hollander was remarking on Clarendon House’s affluence, and the impulsive boldness of the capital’s builders. He braced himself for trouble, and saw the guards do the same.
‘British architects are the greatest in the world, sir,’ slurred Congett indignantly. ‘Whereas you Dutch never build anything except warehouses in which to store butter.’
‘Or cheese,’ added Brodrick, while Oliver nodded at his side.
‘I like Dutch cheese,’ said Janszoon gravely. ‘But England’s is odious.’
Chaloner suspected he had confused ‘odious’ with ‘odoriferous’, and was merely commenting on the fact that British cheeses tended to smell riper than their milder Dutch counterparts. But eyes were immediately narrowed at the perceived slur.
‘Nonsense,’ snapped Dugdale. He struggled to enunciate the next sentence. ‘There is nothing odious about England. God save the King!’
The cry was taken up by others, and the atmosphere turned raucously genial again, indignation forgotten. One of the guards slipped up to Janszoon at that point, and whispered in his ear. Janszoon nodded to whatever was said, and aimed for the door, his protectors at his heels.
‘Good,’ said Dugdale viciously, watching them go. ‘That butter-eater did nothing but abuse us from the moment he arrived, and I might have punched him had he persisted.’
‘Would you?’ asked Fitzgerald softly, his one eye gleaming oddly beneath his mask. ‘You sat back all night and let him bray all manner of insults about our country, our King and our food. I imagine he will always be perfectly safe from your fists.’
His voice dripped scorn, and Chaloner sensed he was more disgusted with the Chief Usher for failing to defend their nation’s honour than with Janszoon for uttering the remarks in the first place.
‘We came here for fun,’ objected Dugdale defensively. ‘Not to trounce impudent foreigners. Besides, Temperance does not approve of fighting in her parlour, and I do not want to be ousted while the night is still young.’
Pratt spoke up at that point, eager to reclaim the attention. ‘Have you heard that I am the subject of a planned assassination?’ he enquired smugly. ‘Someone hates my work enough to kill me.’
‘Congratulations,’ came an unpleasantly acidic voice from a man wearing the face of a dog. Chaloner recognised it as Newell’s, and supposed the hawk next to him was Harley. ‘No architect can claim notoriety until at least one person itches to dispatch him for the hideousness of his creations.’
Pratt frowned as he tried to gauge whether he had just been insulted. Newell opened his mouth to add more, but Fitzgerald was there first, laying his hand on the scout’s shoulder.
‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘Pratt is our friend — a member of our Company. It is unkind to tease him.’
Chaloner was surprised to learn that the architect was a member of the Piccadilly Company, but supposed he should not be — Pratt lived in the place where it met, and would have money to invest. Of course he would be recruited to its ranks.
‘He deserves to be jibed,’ said Newell sullenly. ‘He is an arrogant dolt. Besides, Janszoon is a friend and a member of the Company too, but you just castigated that courtier for not hitting him.’
‘I did nothing of the kind,’ said Fitzgerald, and although his voice was mild, there was a definite warning in it. ‘I merely dislike people who make casual reference to violence. If they mean it, they should carry it through. I have never made an idle threat in my life.’
Newell was clearly unsettled by the remark, because he flung off his mask, grabbed a jug of wine from a table and began to drain it. When they saw what was happening, the other revellers egged him on with boisterous chants. Fitzgerald turned away, but the crocodile head prevented Chaloner from telling whether he was angry, amused or disgusted by the scout’s antics.
When the jug was empty, Newell slammed it on the table and slumped into a chair. Chaloner homed in on him when the revellers drifted to another part of the room, and tried to rouse him, but it was hopeless — the scout would still be sleeping off his excesses at noon the following day.
Meanwhile, the Portuguese man had seized another jug and looked set to follow Newell’s example, but once again, Fitzgerald was there to intervene.
‘No, Meneses,’ he piped, removing it firmly. ‘You have much to do tomorrow, and you will need a clear head. Allow me to summon a carriage to take you home.’