The Piccadilly Plot (10 page)

‘I am telling Clarendon that
you
pinched his bricks,’ declared Wright, eyeing Chaloner defiantly. ‘You did it for malice, because we are better guards than
you. And then you sold them.’

Chaloner did not grace the accusation with a reply, confident in the knowledge that the Earl would not believe it. Clarendon
might have a generally low opinion of his intelligencer, but he had never doubted his honesty.

‘He did not steal them,’ said one of the others. ‘Look at his clothes – they are too clean.’

Wright swallowed uneasily. ‘Maybe they are just mislaid, then. We will search the site. You lot look, while I stay here and
keep the fire going.’

Muttering resentfully, the guards shuffled away, although Chaloner knew they were wasting their time. He had conducted a thorough
search when he had first returned from Tangier, and there was no indication that the missing supplies were being stored in
the house or its grounds.

‘We will find them,’ predicted Wright confidently. ‘So you had better not go braying to the Earl about them being gone, because
it will not be true.’

‘I have no intention of telling him. He does not react well to bad news.’

Wright glowered, but said no more.

‘It is curious, though,’ said Chaloner, more to himself than the sergeant. ‘These thefts started
after
the walls and roof were finished – when the bulk of the building was completed, and the materials available were considerably
reduced. Moreover, it is easy to pilfer items that are stacked outside, but some – like the planks yesterday – disappeared
from
inside
the house.’

‘Supply and demand, mate,’ shrugged Wright. ‘Maybe the villains had no market when the house was in its early stages.’

Chaloner supposed he would have to explore the city with a view to learning who else’s home was being made from fine bricks
and oaken planks. It would not be easy, but it represented a lead, and he decided to follow it as soon as he had a free moment.

*     *     *

It was not long before Pratt arrived, his gloomy assistant Oliver in tow. Reluctantly, Wright confessed that a number of
bricks were gone, although he was careful to reiterate that he could not be expected to monitor such a large site
and
protect the architect with only ten men.

‘Chaloner managed,’ Oliver pointed out. ‘Well, he did not have Pratt to mind, too, but—’

‘And he was just as ineffective,’ interrupted Pratt angrily. ‘Is no one in London capable of doing his job? I have been invited
to submit a design for rebuilding St Paul’s Cathedral, but I do not think I shall bother. Not if it entails labouring amid
thieves and men who cannot deter them.’

‘Ignore him, Chaloner,’ said Oliver kindly, once the architect had stalked away. ‘He is in a bad mood today, because a lot
of carousing in the Crown kept him awake last night. He is thinking of going to stay with a friend in Charing Cross tonight,
just to get some sleep.’

‘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 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.’

‘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.’