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 grinnedsuddenly. ‘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.’
‘Modestly put,’ said Chaloner drily.
The sun was beginning to show its face as Chaloner walked towards the cluster of buildings where Piccadilly met the Haymarket.
It was heartening, because it was the first time that he had seen it since he had returned from Tangier. Unfortunately, it
was obliged to shine through a layer of haze, which lent the city a dirty, slightly yellowish cast that rendered it distinctly
seedy.
He reached the junction and looked around. There were perhaps two dozen homes, some detached and others terraced, along with
the Gaming House, three taverns and a windmill. As in most of London, dirty, insalubrious hovels rubbed shoulders with edifices
that looked as though their residents were comfortably wealthy.
He knocked on the door to the Crown but there was no answer, and he could only suppose that its landlord was still asleep.
He raised his hand to rap louder, but a picture of Hannah suddenly came to mind:
she
would not answer questions if dragged out of bed so soon after dawn. He could force the taverner to cooperate, of course,
but it would be more pleasant for everyone if it was done willingly, so he decided to wait until the inn showed some signs
of life.
To pass the time, he went to the Gaming House, where he ordered a cup of wine that he had no intention of drinking – it was
far too early in the day for strong beverages. The place was comparatively empty, although a game of cards was underway in
a corner. The tense faces of the participants, and the thick fug of pipe-smoke that enveloped them, indicated that they had
been there for some time and that the stakes were high.
When the wine arrived, Chaloner settled at a table overlooking the street. It was busy now, with carts rolling in from Kensington
and Knightsbridge bearing country produce for the great markets at Smithfield and Covent Garden. There were also coaches taking
wealthy merchants to business in the city, and a variety of riders, ranging from farmers on plodding carthorses to elegant
courtiers on prancing stallions.
Chaloner watched for a while, then picked up the latest government newsbook, which had been left for patrons to peruse.
The Intelligencer
was published on Mondays and
The Newes
on
‘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 grinnedsuddenly. ‘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.’
‘Modestly put,’ said Chaloner drily.
The sun was beginning to show its face as Chaloner walked towards the cluster of buildings where Piccadilly met the Haymarket.
It was heartening, because it was the first time that he had seen it since he had returned from Tangier. Unfortunately, it
was obliged to shine through a layer of haze, which lent the city a dirty, slightly yellowish cast that rendered it distinctly
seedy.
He reached the junction and looked around. There were perhaps two dozen homes, some detached and others terraced, along with
the Gaming House, three taverns and a windmill. As in most of London, dirty, insalubrious hovels rubbed shoulders with edifices
that looked as though their residents were comfortably wealthy.
He knocked on the door to the Crown but there was no answer, and he could only suppose that its landlord was still asleep.
He raised his hand to rap louder, but a picture of Hannah suddenly came to mind:
she
would not answer questions if dragged out of bed so soon after dawn. He could force the taverner to cooperate, of course,
but it would be more pleasant for everyone if it was done willingly, so he decided to wait until the inn showed some signs
of life.
To pass the time, he went to the Gaming House, where he ordered a cup of wine that he had no intention of drinking – it was
far too early in the day for strong beverages. The place was comparatively empty, although a game of cards was underway in
a corner. The tense faces of the participants, and the thick fug of pipe-smoke that enveloped them, indicated that they had
been there for some time and that the stakes were high.
When the wine arrived, Chaloner settled at a table overlooking the street. It was busy now, with carts rolling in from Kensington
and Knightsbridge bearing country produce for the great markets at Smithfield and Covent Garden. There were also coaches taking
wealthy merchants to business in the city, and a variety of riders, ranging from farmers on plodding carthorses to elegant
courtiers on prancing stallions.
Chaloner watched for a while, then picked up the latest government newsbook, which had been left for patrons to peruse.
The Intelligencer
was published on Mondays and
The Newes
on
Similar Books
