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thing this morning when the servant came to unlock the pavilion.’

      ‘Perhaps he was here on Saturday with the builders,’ I suggested. ‘And they locked him in by accident.’

      ‘It’s possible.’ Milcote shrugged. ‘But unlikely. The surveyor in charge of the works is a sober man, very thorough. He was on site on Saturday – I saw him myself.’ He hesitated. ‘Between ourselves, there’s some doubt as to whether the work will continue. Mr Hakesby is understandably concerned, as he’s already retained the builders.’

      I swallowed. ‘Did you say – Hakesby?’

      ‘Yes. The surveyor-architect. An experienced man, highly recommended.’ Milcote looked curiously at me, and I knew my face must have betrayed the shock I felt. ‘I’ll question him, of course, but I’m sure he would have ensured the well was covered up when he left, and the building secure. He has his own key.’

      ‘Yes,’ I began, ‘or I will talk to him myself.’ I tried to mask my confusion with a change of subject. ‘Who identified Alderley?’

      ‘I did. I was a little acquainted with the gentleman, and he’s visited Clarendon House in the past.’ Milcote hesitated. ‘But I had no idea he was here, or how he got into the pavilion.’

      I was about to ask how he knew Alderley when there was a hammering above our heads. Both of us swung round as if surprised in a guilty act. The sound bounced off the walls, filling the empty spaces between them with dull echoes.

      Milcote swore under his breath. He took the stairs, two at a time. I followed. He unbolted the door. I glimpsed a manservant through the crack.

      ‘It’s my lord, master. He wants to see you in his closet. And the other gentleman.’

      The old man sat by the window wrapped in a quilted bedgown. His bandaged legs rested on a padded stool. Clarendon was a martyr to the gout, Milcote had told me on the way up here, so much so that even the staircases in the house had been designed with exceptionally shallow treads to make them as easy as possible for him to climb.

      A brisk fire burned in the grate, and the room was uncomfortably warm. After the grandeur of the stairs and the outer rooms, I had not expected this closet to be small. It was full of colours and objects – paintings, sculptures, rugs, pieces of china, curiosities and books – always books, more and more books.

      My warrant from the King lay on Clarendon’s lap. He had insisted on examining it himself, even holding it up to the light from the window, as if the very paper it was written on held secrets of its own.

      ‘Marwood,’ he said. He looked half as old as time, but his voice was clear and hard. ‘Marwood. Was there once a printer of that name? Dead now, I think.’

      ‘Yes, my lord. My father.’

      Clarendon’s memory was legendary, as was his command of detail. His small eyes studied me, but to my relief he did not pursue the subject. ‘You’re from Whitehall, yes?’

      ‘I work for Mr Williamson on the Gazette.’

      ‘The Gazette?’ His face grew suspicious. ‘Does that mean that Lord Arlington has a finger in the pie, as he usually does?’

      ‘No, my lord.’ I heard a creak as Milcote shifted his weight beside me.

      ‘Did you see the King? Or the Duke?’

      ‘No – Mr Chiffinch gave me the warrant and sent me here.’

      Lord Clarendon sniffed. ‘Does Chiffinch often give you errands, eh?’

      ‘Sometimes – I’m also clerk to the Board of Red Cloth, and he’s one of the commissioners.’

      ‘We know what that means,’ Clarendon said tartly. ‘The Board does nothing for the salaries it receives. Its commissioners oblige the King in less official ways. And therefore so does its clerk.’ He turned to Milcote. ‘Well, George. We must cooperate, of course, which means we must give Mr Marwood all the assistance in our power. Was Alderley murdered?’

      Milcote shrugged. ‘We haven’t examined the body yet, my lord, but it’s hard to see how he could have fallen into the well of his own accord. If it was dark, he might have stumbled into it. But what was he doing there in the first place?’

      ‘How did you know him?’ Clarendon paused and glanced at Milcote; I had the sense that a silent message had passed between them.

      Milcote cleared his throat. ‘I had some acquaintance with him years ago, my lord – in the years of his prosperity.’

      ‘Before his father’s downfall, you mean. A more treacherous rogue never existed.’

      ‘Whatever his father was, Edward Alderley was kind to me then.’ Milcote cleared his throat again. ‘When I met him a few months ago, his condition was sadly altered. I believe he had tried to improve what was left of his fortunes at the tables.’

      ‘A gambler.’ Clarendon’s voice was harsh. ‘The most stupid of all mankind.’

      ‘He was trying to change his ways. He wanted to improve his condition by wiser means – he asked for my help.’

      ‘So, like the fool you are, you lent him money, I suppose?’

      ‘Yes, my lord – a little – enough to pay his most pressing debts.’

      ‘You’re too soft-hearted, George. You’ve seen the last of that.’

      Not just soft-hearted, I thought, but gullible enough to be taken in by a rogue like Edward Alderley.

      ‘He told me he was searching for some respectable form of employment,’ Milcote went on. ‘I promised to look around for him. I would have asked you, but I knew you would have no time for him.’

      ‘So you are not altogether a fool.’ Clarendon didn’t return the smile but there was a touch of warmth in his voice. ‘And what was he doing here? And in the pavilion?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘My lord,’ I said, growing a little impatient. ‘I understand that the only other person who knows of this man’s death is the servant who unlocked the pavilion this morning and found the body.’

      Clarendon looked sharply at me. He did not take kindly to those who spoke before they were spoken to. ‘First things first. Have I your word that you will be discreet? I can’t afford a scandal at this time.’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’

      ‘If the news gets out, I shall know who to blame.’ He looked steadily at me. ‘You would not like to be my enemy.’

      I refused to allow him to intimidate me. I had the King’s warrant. ‘May I have your permission to speak to the servant?’

      ‘Of course.’ Clarendon glanced at Milcote. ‘Who was it?’

      ‘Gorse, my lord.’

      ‘I don’t know him. Have him brought to me.’

      ‘Unfortunately he’s not here.’ Milcote lowered his voice. ‘The mourning rings.’

      ‘You may know,’ Clarendon said to me in a flat voice purged of emotion, ‘my wife died last month.’

      ‘Gorse is delivering mourning rings for my lady today,’ Milcote explained. ‘Mainly to former dependants and acquaintances. So he will be here and there all over London. He should be back after dinner. But I don’t know when.’

      ‘Is he trustworthy?’ Clarendon said.

      ‘I believe so, my lord – I knew him in his old place, and suggested him to the steward.’

      ‘I want this riddle solved,’ Clarendon said, still looking at me. ‘Do you understand? For my sake as well as the King’s. You may make what enquiries you need to in my house, but Milcote must accompany you at all times, inside and out.’

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