LITMIR.BIZ

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I had solved another, lesser mystery to my private satisfaction, or at least discovered a plausible solution to it: if Hakesby had been here to work on the pavilion, then Cat might well have accompanied him at least some of the time. Alderley could have caught sight of her on one of his visits to Milcote.

      Time was running out. The body could not be kept a secret for long, not in a world where the Duke of Buckingham and his allies were working so industriously against Lord Clarendon. The Duke of York was determined to avoid Alderley’s corpse becoming an embarrassment to his father-in-law, and therefore to himself. The King seemed equally determined, though as ever his motives were difficult to discern; perhaps he simply wanted to oblige his brother, or perhaps he had his own reasons for not wanting to lend ammunition to the enemies of Lord Clarendon, his former Lord Chancellor and his loyal companion and adviser during the long years of exile.

      From Clarendon’s point of view, there were only two outcomes that would help him: the first was discovering how Alderley had died and bringing his killer, if there had been one, to justice in a way that completely absolved Clarendon himself; the other was far simpler – Milcote’s suggestion of moving the body elsewhere. If the King ordered the latter, it would be done. But not otherwise.

      What worried me most was this: if, as seemed probable, Alderley had been murdered, then the most likely killer was Catherine Lovett. As I knew only too well, she was a woman who had few scruples when her passions were engaged, and Edward Alderley had given her every reason to hate him.

      I would not betray her – or not willingly, for we had survived too much together for that. But if anyone else stumbled on the Clarendon House connection between her and Edward Alderley, then I would not give much for her chances – or indeed for my own, for I had already concealed what I knew of her.

      If they hanged the daughter of a Regicide for Edward Alderley’s murder, would it not be convenient for everyone except Hakesby and myself? Moreover, I had given Cat forewarning that Alderley had somehow found her. Might that be construed as making me an accessory to his murder?

      As the meal neared its end, I discussed at least some of this with George Milcote. He could not have been more helpful, though he was careful what he said when our conversation touched on anything that might affect the honour of Lord Clarendon. I liked his loyalty to his master, and I regretted that the circumstances obliged me to lie to him, at least by omission.

      ‘When did you last see Alderley?’ I asked.

      ‘Last week. We met at the Three Tuns at Charing Cross.’

      ‘He seemed as usual?’

      ‘Yes. He was in a good humour. We were discussing an investment of mine. I have a small share in a privateer, and he’d offered to buy it.’

      I remembered the purse we had found. ‘He wasn’t that poor, then?’

      ‘No. I gathered that his affairs had taken a turn for the better.’ There was a ghost of a smile on Milcote’s face. ‘He paid for our wine.’

      ‘I must speak as soon as possible to the servant who found the body,’ I said. ‘Gorse, was it?’

      ‘Yes – Matthew Gorse. Will you come back here in the evening, or shall I send him to you?’

      ‘I shall need to come back here at some point,’ I said with more certainty than I felt. ‘Don’t let him leave until I’ve seen him.’

      To maintain the fiction that I had never heard of Hakesby, I asked Milcote who he was, and whether he was to be trusted.

      ‘Mr Pratt vouched for him,’ he said. ‘In fact it was my lady – the late Lady Clarendon, that is – who suggested him.’

      ‘Pratt?’

      ‘Mr Roger Pratt – the architect. He designed the house for my lord, but he was unable to take on the pavilions.’

      ‘How did Lady Clarendon know of Mr Hakesby?’

      ‘I don’t think she ever mentioned it.’ Milcote shrugged. ‘No reason why she should have done, of course. The important thing is that Mr Pratt vouched for him. I understand that he has worked with both Dr Wren and Dr Hooke, and they speak highly of him too.’

      ‘Where can I find him?’

      ‘Henrietta Street – he has a Drawing Office at the sign of the Rose. He handles the overseeing of the builders as well as the surveying and designing. I own I was a little concerned when I first met him – he has a palsy or ague, poor man – but it seems not to affect the quality of his work. He has able people working under him. I know my lady valued his willingness to indulge her desire to retain so much of the old banqueting house in the new building. Will you go and see him now?’

      ‘Yes,’ I said, with intentional vagueness, ‘I must see Mr Hakesby. And as soon as possible.’

      But I had other things to do first. There was no reason to mention that to Mr Milcote.

      It was still raining. I decided to take a coach.

      I walked along Piccadilly in search of a hackney, trying to avoid the spray from passing vehicles and horses. Perhaps it was because of the rain but I couldn’t find a coach for hire at the nearest stand. I went on, pulling my hat down and huddling into my cloak.

      William Chiffinch had sent me to meet Lady Quincy. And it was also he who had sent me here. But he was the King’s creature in all he did, for there lay his best chance of advancing his own interest. Was the King behind both these commissions? Did that mean they were somehow connected?

      Opposite the Royal Mews, liveried servants were opening the great gates of Wallingford House, where the Duke of Buckingham lived when he was in town. I stopped to watch. Outriders appeared, followed by an enormous coach, which was decorated with golden lions and peacocks and drawn by six matching horses. Afterwards came four running footmen, who held on to the straps behind the coach and splashed through the puddles, careless of the filth thrown up on their clothes.

      Now that he had been freed from the Tower, the Duke had no intention of hiding his presence in London. The coach drew up outside the front door, which opened immediately. The Duke himself appeared at the head of the steps. He was a tall, florid gentleman in a blond periwig and a plumed hat. He was dressed in a silver coat and blue breeches, with the matching blue of the Garter ribbon across his chest, and the Garter star itself gleaming over his heart. He waved at the small crowd that had gathered, tossed them a handful of silver and climbed into the coach.

      The crowd cheered him as he drove off towards Whitehall. I walked on in the direction of the hackney stand by Charing Cross.

      The contrast between the Duke and Lord Clarendon could not have been more clearly illustrated – the one a hero to the common people of London, the other a villain. It seemed that even the King was throwing his weight behind Buckingham. But if His Majesty had decided to throw Clarendon to the wolves, to Buckingham and his enemies in Parliament, why had he sent me on a mission that seemed designed to protect Clarendon’s reputation? Was it the Duke of York’s influence? Or did he have some other, deeper motive?

       CHAPTER TWELVE

      THE COACHMAN DROPPED me by Holborn Bridge. ‘Phugh!’ he said, covering his nose with his sleeve. ‘Smells like a whore’s armpit.’

      Fallow Street ran north–south on the east side of the bridge over the Fleet River. The river was choked with rubbish. There was a tannery nearby, and nothing made a neighbourhood stink worse than tanning leather.

      The street was straight and narrow. The southern end had been destroyed by the Fire. The ruins had been cleared, but nothing had been rebuilt yet. People were living there, nevertheless, in makeshift shelters that looked as if a puff of wind would bring them down.

      The southern

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