LITMIR.BIZ

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no idea. Some long-dead Italian princess, probably. The Dutch gave it to the King at the Restoration.’ He turned away from the painting. ‘Come with me.’ He led me into the Privy Gallery and took me into a closet by the King’s laboratory, which overlooked the garden.

      ‘Close the door,’ he ordered. ‘Sit.’

      He pointed at a chair by a small table underneath the window. He sat opposite me and leaned over the table, bringing our heads close together.

      ‘I’ve a commission for you, Marwood. Do you remember Edward Alderley?’

      I was so surprised I couldn’t speak.

      ‘Alderley,’ Chiffinch said irritably. ‘For God’s sake, man, you can’t have forgotten. That affair you were mixed up in after the Fire with my Lady Quincy’s second husband. Edward Alderley was the son by his first wife. He used to be at court a great deal.’

      ‘Yes, sir. Of course I remember him.’

      ‘He’s dead.’ He paused, fiddling with the wart on his chin. ‘I daresay no one will shed many tears.’

      I felt shock, swiftly followed by relief. What a stroke of luck for Cat. ‘How did he die?’

      ‘Drowned. But it’s not that he is dead that matters. It’s where his body was found.’ Chiffinch’s forefinger abandoned the wart and tapped the table between us. ‘In Lord Clarendon’s well.’

      I began to understand why the Duke of York had been in such a rage. Lord Clarendon was the Duke’s father-in-law. ‘In my lord’s house?’

      ‘In his garden. Which comes to the same thing. But mark: this is a confidential matter. Breathe a word of it to anyone, and you will regret it. Do you understand?’

      ‘Yes, sir. But are you sure that I am the man best suited to a matter of such delicacy?’

      ‘You wouldn’t be my choice for the job, I can tell you that. It’s by the King’s command. I suppose he chose you because you know a little of the man and his family.’

      Then there was no hope for me. ‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked.

      ‘Go to Clarendon House and look into the circumstances of Alderley’s death. The body is under lock and key. Lord Clarendon knows, of course, and so does one of his gentlemen, Mr Milcote. Alderley was discovered this morning by a servant, who has been sworn to secrecy. We don’t want the news made public yet. Not until we know more. That is essential.’

      ‘Was the death accidental, sir?’

      Chiffinch flung up his arms. ‘How in God’s name would I know? That’s for you to find out. Report back to me as soon as you can.’

      ‘Mr Williamson—’

      ‘May go to the devil for all I care. But I shall see he’s informed that the King has given you a commission. He can hardly object.’ Chiffinch glanced piously in the direction of heaven. ‘After God, our duty is to serve the King. We would all agree on that, I hope.’

      I nodded automatically. The more I thought about this, the less I liked it. I had been long enough at Whitehall to know that when the great ones of our world squabbled among themselves, it was the little ones who tended to be hurt.

      Chiffinch drew a paper from his pocket. ‘Here’s your authority, with the King’s signature.’ He held the paper in his hand, but did not give it to me. ‘Remember. My Lord Clarendon is no longer Lord Chancellor, but he still has many friends who would like to see him restored to the King’s favour. And one of them is the Duke.’ He paused, which gave me time to reflect on the fact that the Duke of York was the King’s heir presumptive, and that the Duke’s daughters – Clarendon’s grandchildren – were next in line to the throne. ‘So for God’s sake, Marwood, go carefully. And if you see my lord himself, try not to anger him. He has had much to cope with lately. Bear in mind that his wife has hardly been a month in her grave.’

      He sent me away. With my mind heavy with foreboding, I walked slowly through the public apartments, through the Guard Chamber and down into the Pebble Court. It was still raining, even more heavily than before.

      I was to go immediately to Clarendon House, but on my way I had to call at the Gazette office in Scotland Yard to collect my cloak and my writing materials. I was tempted to scribble a note to Cat, care of Mr Hakesby, while I was there, to give her private warning of her cousin’s death. But I dared not ignore Mr Chiffinch’s prohibition until I knew more of the matter.

      Besides—

      A thought struck me like a blow in the middle of the court. I stopped abruptly. Rain dripped from the brim of my hat.

      How could I have been so foolish? Not two days earlier, I had told Catherine Lovett that her cousin had found her out. And she had told me that he had raped her when she lived under her father’s roof, and that she meant to kill him for it.

      From any other person, that might have been merely an extravagant way of speaking, a way of expressing hatred. But not from Cat. She was a literal-minded creature in many ways, and a woman of great spirit. I had seen what she was capable of. And now Edward Alderley was dead.

      I faced the dreadful possibility that Cat had somehow contrived to kill her cousin. Worse still, that I had played a part in causing the murder, by warning her that her cousin had found her.

       CHAPTER TEN

      THE OFFICIAL NAME of the road was Portugal Street, in honour of our Queen, Catherine of Braganza, but everyone persisted in calling it Piccadilly. It was an old route west to Hyde Park and then towards Reading. Long ago, some of the land nearby had been owned by a man who had grown rich in the manufacture of those large old collars of cutwork lace named piccadills, and somehow the name had been transferred to the road. In recent years, the mansions of the rich had sprouted like monstrous mushrooms among the fields. The greatest of them all was Clarendon House.

      It was a vast building of raw, unweathered stone surrounded by high walls and tall railings. It faced Piccadilly, looking south down the hill to St James’s Palace, which seemed diminished and even a little squalid in comparison with its magnificent new neighbour. I had heard Mr Williamson say that the King was not pleased that the house of a subject should so outshine his own palaces.

      Most Londoners hated it, too. Here was Lord Clarendon in the splendour of his new house, while thousands of them had lost their own houses in the Fire. People called it Dunkirk House, for they said that the former Chancellor had profited hugely and corruptly from the government’s sale of that town, one of Cromwell’s conquests, to the French king.

      Though it was broad daylight, the main gates were barred. The gateposts were still blackened in places. During the riots in June, the mob had lit bonfires here and burned the trees that used to line the street outside. They would have burned the house itself if they could.

      The mob blamed him for all our ills, past and present, including the Queen’s failure to give the King an heir. They believed Clarendon had purposely found a barren wife for him so that his own grandchildren by the Duke of York would one day inherit the throne. They blamed him for our crushing defeat at the hands of the Dutch navy in the Battle of the Medway. They blamed him for everything. According to popular belief, no form of corruption was too large or too small for Lord Clarendon. It was even said that he had stolen the stone intended for rebuilding St Paul’s after the Fire and used it for his mansion.

      It was a house in mourning – not for Alderley, of course, but for Lady Clarendon. Her funeral hatchment hung over the gateway. Two manservants, both carrying arms, waited inside the gates under a temporary shelter. I presented my credentials and asked to be taken to Mr Milcote. His name was enough to allow me into the forecourt. One of the servants escorted me to

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