‘Gravel,’ said Thurloe flatly.
‘It is a useful commodity. I swear there is nothing devious or dubious about the Piccadilly Company. Our membership includes several noblemen and a number of wealthy merchants. Of course, I do not know their names …’
‘If it is legal, why does Brinkes keep people away from its meetings?’ asked Chaloner.
‘To prevent spies from learning our business secrets,’ explained Lydcott earnestly. ‘And because Fitzgerald earned a lot of enemies when he was a pirate. You are one of them, Thurloe, although he has not broken the law since you fell from power. He says it has not been necessary now the Royalists are in control.’
Thurloe did not look convinced, and neither was Chaloner, but Lydcott clearly believed his own tale. He was not overly endowed with wits, thought Chaloner, so was exactly the kind of fellow to be used by more devious minds. But there was nothing to be gained from questioning him further, and Thurloe indicated he could go. Lydcott escaped with relief.
‘He always was a fool,’ said Thurloe in disgust. ‘And I have bailed him out of more trouble than you can imagine, only for him to land himself in yet another scrape. But to throw in his lot with Fitzgerald! All I can hope is that he will escape this foolery unscathed, because Ann will be heartbroken if anything happens to him.’
Chaloner summoned a hackney carriage, and he and Thurloe rode back to Lincoln’s Inn in silence. The ex-Spymaster promptly hurried away to see what messages had been left for him by informants while he had been absent, and Chaloner decided to check Clarendon House.
He arrived as dusk was falling. Wright’s soldiers had not yet deigned to appear, but Pratt, Oliver and Vere were there, inspecting the newly installed gateposts at the front of the drive — four times the height of a man, and topped with carvings that bore a marked resemblance to winged pigs.
Chaloner considered tackling Pratt about possible errors in his estimates, but decided against it: he was more likely to secure a confession when there was not an audience of minions listening. The same went for Vere and Oliver — they were not going to expose mistakes in their employer’s reckoning when he was standing next to them. So Chaloner sank back into the shadows, and waited to see whether the opportunity would arise to accost one of them alone. Unfortunately, all three set off in the direction of the Haymarket together, clearly with the intention of enjoying a post-work drink in the company of each other.
Once they had gone, he approached the house and tried his key in the door. It did not work, but he was expecting that. Using a file he had filched from the Trulockes’ shop, he sawed at it until it did, then spent another hour in patient honing until it turned smoothly and silently.
When he was satisfied, he entered the house and lit a lamp, using a tinderbox he found in the library. He prowled the main floor, instinctively memorising lengths, distances and dimensions, and testing his key in other doors as he went. Then he climbed to the next storey, wondering maliciously who would sleep in all the bedrooms, given that the Earl had a small family and very few friends.
Of course, he thought with a pang, the Earl had a lot more friends than he did. Other than Thurloe, there was only Wiseman whom he did not much like, Temperance who did not much like him, and Hannah. Most of the friends he had made while spying were dead, and the few who had survived had retired under false names, and would not take kindly to a reminder of their past lives.
Sobered by the thought, he ascended to the top floor, where smaller chambers would provide accommodation for the Earl’s retinue and less important guests. One was marked with Kipps’s name, and Chaloner unlocked it to see the Seal Bearer had already started to decorate. It was sumptuous, and indicated that either Kipps had paid for some of the fitments himself, or he had persuaded the builders to make a special effort on his behalf.
Eventually, Chaloner descended to the basement, noting that the laundries had been supplied with copper vats since he had last been there. He glanced at the stairs that led to the cellar, and bent to inspect some muddy footprints. They were wet, indicating they had been made not long before, and included human feet and animal claws. It was curious, but he was disinclined to investigate, given that to do so would mean entering a place that was far too similar to a prison to be comfortable. He was about to leave when he heard a sound.
He stood stock still, listening. Had Wright arrived and seen his lamp, so had come to find out who was prowling when the house should be empty? Or, more likely, given that Wright was not a conscientious man, was it the thieves?
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to walk down the stairs, fighting the clamouring voice in his head that told him to race back up them and run away from Clarendon House as fast as his legs would carry him. At the bottom, he raised the lamp, but saw nothing other than the hallway disappearing into darkness. He moved along it cautiously.
When he reached the strongroom he saw that a large chest had been placed inside it, at the far end. The light from his lantern picked up a flash of white — a piece of paper was on top of the box. He walked toward it and scanned the message:
Behold the smalle jawes of Death and Darknesse
He regarded it in incomprehension, and lifted the lid. Then three things happened at once. First, there was a frantic flurry of movement and he saw the box was full of rats. Second, there was sound behind him, startling him into dropping the lamp. And third, the door slammed closed, leaving him in total darkness.
Chapter 7
Cursing his own stupidity, Chaloner groped his way towards the door, furry bodies scurrying around his feet as he went. Agitated squeaks and the sound of scrabbling claws came from all directions, curiously muffled by the lead-lined walls. He reached the door and tried to open it, but was not surprised when it refused to budge.
He experienced a pang of alarm when it occurred to him that he might not be released until the workmen returned the following morning, but that was nothing compared to what he felt when he remembered that Pratt had designed the room to be airtight.
He did panic at that point, and pounded on the door with all his might, feeling his breath come in agonised bursts, and aware that his fear was transmitting itself to the rodents, because they nipped at his ankles and scratched at his legs. The chest had been full of them, and they would use up the air, reducing the time any of them would survive. How long would they wait before beginning to eat him alive? And how was he to fend them off when he could not see them?
But he had been trained to think rationally in dire situations, and the debilitating wave of terror did not last long. He forced himself to stand still and think. He would not suffocate immediately, because there was still plenty of air, and the hapless rats were probably more interested in escaping than in devouring their cellmate. While he waited for his heart to slow to a more normal pace, he set his mind to working out who might want him dead.
Was it Fitzgerald or his master, because he had been asking questions about the Piccadilly Company? Harley and Newell, because they resented his interference over the Teviot affair? What about Leighton, who was sinister by any standard, and who almost certainly had something to hide? Or was it the brick-thieves, because he was a nuisance?
There was also a possibility that the culprit was someone nearer home. Chief Usher Dugdale would not hesitate to dispatch him, and neither would his crony Edgeman, but were they sufficiently bold to contrive and act out such a diabolical plan? Kipps was, but Chaloner had received nothing but kindness from him, and could not believe that the Seal Bearer meant him harm. And then there was Hyde, who deplored the fact that his father’s household included a spy.