‘I found the Crown rather tame, personally,’ said Wright, thus indicating the probable source of the disturbance.
Supposing he had better ensure the rest of the house was in order, Chaloner walked with Oliver towards it. Yet again, he was seized with the notion that it would bring the Earl trouble. It towered above them, as grand as anything owned by the extravagant kings of France, and the doors in the showy portico would not have looked out of place on a cathedral. Pratt was in the process of opening them with a key that, not surprisingly, was identical to the Earl’s.
‘Is it a good idea to have all the locks on the same key?’ asked Chaloner, sure it was not.
Pratt scowled. ‘Do not presume to tell me my business. And anyway, all the locks are not on the same key. The strongroom has one of its own.’
‘Have we told you about the strongroom?’ asked Oliver, his morose visage breaking into what was almost a smile. ‘It is designed so that no air can get inside once the door is shut. In that way, if there is ever a fire, its contents will be protected. It might even save lives, because Clarendon himself could use it, to escape being incinerated.’
‘Yes, but only if he does not mind being suffocated instead,’ Chaloner pointed out.
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 t
o 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.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner cautiously. He had met people with inflated egos in the past, but none who interpreted threats to kill them as a welcome form of flattery. ‘Are you saying that this is not the first time someone has offered to deprive you of your life?’
Pratt shrugged. ‘It is the first time, but it will not be the last. You see, the culprit will be someone who does not understand that my creations are not just a case of hurling up a few bricks, but an expression that is French in inspiration. In other words, the equal proportions of my floors represent a new innovation, compared to the Palladian manner of emphasising a piano nobile.’
Chaloner had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Can you be more specific? About people who have taken against you, I mean, not about a piano nobile.’
‘I built three stately homes before this one,’ replied Pratt loftily. ‘Doubtless there are philistines galore who fail to appreciate my perfect classical lines and I could not possibly list them all.’
‘Are any in London at the moment?’ pressed Chaloner, determined to have a sensible answer.
‘Not that I am aware,’ replied Pratt. He grinned suddenly. ‘I told Wren that there is a plot afoot to kill me, and he was very impressed. No architect can ever say that he has fulfilled his potential until he has designed something that makes people want to kill him.’
Chaloner blinked. ‘Surely you should strive to produce buildings that people will like?’
‘Why? The masses should keep their sorry opinions to themselves, and leave architecture to those of us with the wit and skill to devise great masterpieces.’
‘Modestly put,’ said Chaloner drily.
The sun was beginning to show its face as Chaloner walked towards the cluster of buildings where Piccadilly met the Haymarket. It was heartening, because it was the first time that he had seen it since he had returned from Tangier. Unfortunately, it was obliged to shine through a layer of haze, which lent the city a dirty, slightly yellowish cast that rendered it distinctly seedy.
He reached the junction and looked around. There were perhaps two dozen homes, some detached and others terraced, along with the Gaming House, three taverns and a windmill. As in most of London, dirty, insalubrious hovels rubbed shoulders with edifices that looked as though their residents were comfortably wealthy.
He knocked on the door to the Crown but there was no answer, and he could only suppose that its landlord was still asleep. He raised his hand to rap louder, but a picture of Hannah suddenly came to mind: she would not answer questions if dragged out of bed so soon after dawn. He could force the taverner to cooperate, of course, but it would be more pleasant for everyone if it was done willingly, so he decided to wait until the inn showed some signs of life.
To pass the time, he went to the Gaming House, where he ordered a cup of wine that he had no intention of drinking – it was far too early in the day for strong beverages. The place was comparatively empty, although a game of cards was underway in a corner. The tense faces of the participants, and the thick fug of pipe-smoke that enveloped them, indicated that they had been there for some time and that the stakes were high.
When the wine arrived, Chaloner settled at a table overlooking the street. It was busy now, with carts rolling in from Kensington and Knightsbridge bearing country produce for the great markets at Smithfield and Covent Garden. There were also coaches taking wealthy merchants to business in the city, and a variety of riders, ranging from farmers on plodding carthorses to elegant courtiers on prancing stallions.
Chaloner watched for a while, then picked up the latest government newsbook, which had been left for patrons to peruse. The Intelligencer was published on Mondays and The Newes on Thursdays, to keep the general populace abreast of foreign and domestic affairs. Unfortunately, the government did not like its people knowing what it was up to, lest there was another rebellion, so news tended to be selective, biased and well larded with lies.
He began to read, learning with some bemusement that the Portuguese ambassador had enjoyed having supper with the King, and that Mr Matthew’s Excellent Pill was very efficacious at slaying fluxes and expelling wind. Overseas intelligence was in even shorter supply, the most significant being that nothing very exciting was happening in Venice. Finally, there was an advertisement for a book that claimed it would teach him ‘how to walk with God all day long’.
He tossed the publication away in disgust, but at that point something began happening across the street: people were converging on the Crown. He recognised several he had seen leaving the previous morning – the jaunty Cavalier with the red ribbons in his boot hose; the Portuguese; the fellow with the orange beard, eye-patch and voice of a boy; and lastly, the pugilistic man named Brinkes, who had murdered Captain Pepperell.
The Portuguese and Brinkes glanced around furtively before slipping inside, but the Cavalier and One Eye entered confidently, indicating they did not care who saw them. They were followed by a couple wearing the kind of hats that were popular in The Hague, and whose clothes were more sober than those currently favoured by Englishmen.
Chaloner was pleased to see the scouts arrive, too. Harley was in the lead, walking with a confident swagger, while Newell slouched behind. Reyner was last, his shoulders hunched and a hood shadowing his face. They had emerged from a house several doors up, leading Chaloner to surmise that one of them – or possibly all three – lived there.
The remainder of the gathering was a curious mix of well-dressed people and ruffians, and once they were all inside, the door was firmly closed. Chaloner glanced upwards and saw the pale face of the woman he had seen the previous morning. His warning wave had evidently gone unheeded, because she was watching the arrivals with undisguised interest.
He waited a moment, then left the Gaming House, determined to find out what was going on.
* * *
Like many tenements, the Crown fulfilled a variety of functions. Its lower chamber served as a tavern, while the upper floors were rented to lodgers – Sergeant Wright had mentioned earlier that Pratt had rooms there, presumably because it was close to Clarendon House. In addition, the yard was leased to a coach-maker, while the stable had been converted into a pottery.
The tavern comprised a large, airy chamber crammed with tables and benches. It boasted a massive fireplace, although only embers glowed in it that morning. The ruffians were sitting around it, talking in low voices. Brinkes was with them, but he stood when Chaloner entered, his manner unfriendly. There was no sign of the well-dressed people.
‘We are closed,’ said the landlord, who had hurried from the back of the house when he had heard the door open. He wore a clean white apron and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal arms that were red from the cold – he had been washing his tankards. He wa
s middle-aged, with thick grey hair and eyes like an inquisitive chicken.
‘You are not,’ countered Chaloner, nodding towards the men around the hearth.
‘Private party.’ The landlord shot them a nervous look. ‘Try the Feathers, down the road.’
‘I have a bad leg,’ said Chaloner, truthfully enough. It had been injured by an exploding cannon at the Battle of Naseby, and had not been right since. ‘I cannot walk any farther.’
The man regarded him sympathetically. ‘Gout, is it? I suffer from that myself, and I would not wish it on my worst enemy. Come to my parlour at the back, then, and sit with me while I rinse my pots. My name is John Marshall, by the way, owner of this fine establishment.’
‘It is fine,’ said Chaloner, remembering to limp as he followed Marshall down the corridor. It was true: the Crown was a good deal nicer on the inside than it looked from the street.
Smiling amiably, Marshall directed him to a chair while he filled a tankard with ale. ‘You are better off in here than with Brinkes, anyway. The man is a brute, and I am sure he has killed people. He has that look about him.’
‘Then why do you let him in?’
Marshall’s expression was pained. ‘Because he is with them upstairs. He and his cronies act like guard dogs, and oust anyone who tries to come in while they are here – I do my best to reach visitors first, to eject them more politely, but I do not always succeed.’
Chaloner was intrigued. What dark business had Harley and his cronies embarked upon that entailed hiring a killer to keep it from prying eyes and ears? He doubted it would have anything to do with what had happened in Tangier, but he was keen to find out anyway. If nothing else, it might enable him to force them to answer questions, something he had been unable to do on Eagle.
‘Who are “them upstairs”?’ he asked.
‘They call themselves the Piccadilly Company,’ replied Marshall. Like many taverners, he loved to gossip. ‘They rent the rooms on the first floor, and often gather to chat.’
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 8