The Piccadilly Plot by Susanna Gregory Page B

my architect,’ breathed the Earl. ‘Roger Pratt.’
    There was silence after the Earl had made his announcement, as he, Hyde, Brodrick and Frances waited for Chaloner to react.
     The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and a ticking clock. It was an expensive one from France, but although it was
     baroque art at its finest, it was two hours fast, suggesting its makers considered an elaborate case more important than functional
     innards.
    Chaloner stared at the Earl’s family, assuming they had misread whatever intelligence had come their way. Regardless, dispatching
     an architect was not his idea of a ‘most dreadful plot’.
    ‘Why would anyone harm Pratt?’ he asked eventually. ‘Is it because people think Clarendon House too grand, and murdering its
     designer might make you reconsider—’
    ‘No!’ snapped the Earl angrily. ‘That is
not
why. If it were, the villains would have struck while it was being raised. It has walls and a roof now, and most of the remaining
     work is internal.’
    ‘We told Pratt about the threat, and once he had recovered from the shock, he agreed with us,’ added Hyde. ‘It cannot be an
     attack on his creation, or it would have happened months ago.’
    ‘I believe the
real
plot is an attempt to inconvenience me,’ the Earl went on. ‘My enemies see the house nearing completion, and they want to
     delay me moving in. For spite. Or jealousy.’
    ‘You may think it is extreme,’ said Frances, apparently reading the doubt in Chaloner’s face, ‘but you do notneed us to tell you that there are some very unpleasant people at Court.’
    ‘How did you hear about it?’ asked Chaloner, making an effort to take their concerns seriously. ‘Was there a rumour?’
    ‘We found a letter,’ explained the Earl. He looked at his wife, then at his son, and then at his cousin, before bringing troubled
     eyes back to Chaloner. ‘In the Queen’s personal correspondence.’
    Chaloner was bemused. ‘How did it get there?’
    ‘Because
she
is the one who has commissioned the murder,’ stated Hyde baldly.
    Chaloner gaped at him. Of all the people in London, Queen Katherine was the last to engage in murky business. She was a shy,
     convent-raised Portuguese princess who had still not come to terms with the fact that she had married into one of the most
     sybaritic courts in the world. Chaloner liked her, but she was unpopular with almost everyone else for several reasons: she
     was Catholic, she spoke poor English, and she had so far failed to provide an heir for the throne.
    ‘She would never involve herself in such a matter,’ he said, finally regaining his voice. ‘First, I doubt she has ever met
     Pratt. Second, she is not the kind of lady to kill people. And third, even if she were, she is still a virtual stranger here,
     and would not know how to go about it.’
    ‘So you say,’ snapped Hyde. ‘But, as you know, I am her Private Secretary. I found this letter.’
    As it happened, Chaloner did not know that Hyde worked for the Queen, and was ashamed of himself for it, because it was the
     sort of detail spies should know about their employers’ families.
    ‘May I see it?’ he asked, still sure there had been a mistake.
    Hyde looked set to refuse, but the Earl indicated he should hand it over. He did so reluctantly, and Chaloner read what had
     been written:
Your Majestye is truthfull in her clayme that Clarendone House is an abomination before our most Holie and Catholick God.
     I will kill Pratt on the Feast Day of St Frideswide, as you ordered. I remayne youre humble and obedient servant in Christ
     and the Virgin Marye.
    ‘Well?’ demanded the Earl. ‘How will you prevent this outrage?’
    ‘There will be no outrage, sir,’ said Chaloner, wondering what had possessed them to take such a patent piece of lunacy seriously.
     ‘It is hardly Her Majesty’s fault that some madman has elected to send her an insane letter.’
    ‘Hah!’ exclaimed Brodrick in