‘Well done.’
‘It’s not really conclusive.’
‘It’s strongly suggestive, though. I’ll go and give Fawkes the good news.’
Rollo headed across London. He did not feel safe – far from it: Ned Willard was coming too close for that. However, the stag was still ahead of the deerhounds, just. And he needed to stay ahead only a little longer – a few hours. By this time tomorrow it would be done.
But when he came within sight of the House of Lords he suffered a nasty shock.
At the rear of the building, where the storeroom entrance was, several well-dressed men were emerging from the upstairs debating chamber via the back door and coming down the wooden exterior staircase. Rollo could not recall ever having seen that door used.
He recognized the man leading the party. It was the earl of Suffolk, who, as Lord Chamberlain, had to make arrangements for the opening of Parliament.
With him was Lord Monteagle.
Rollo cursed. This was bad.
He stepped back around a corner out of sight. He fought down an urge to flee. He had to find out exactly what was going on. Whatever these men were doing was a terrible danger to his plan. He watched, half concealed, ready at any moment to run for his life.
They came down the steps and went to the double doors of the storeroom where the gunpowder was hidden. They were silent and alert, Rollo noted. Suffolk tried the door and found it locked. After some discussion, he ordered a servant to break it open.
So, Rollo thought with a sinking heart, this is a search party. It was maddening. Surely his plan would not be frustrated this easily?
Suffolk’s servant deployed a crowbar. Rollo had not reinforced the door: the place was a storeroom, not a treasury, and the installation of iron bars or elaborate locks would have attracted attention. So the door came open with no great difficulty.
The group went inside.
Rollo hurried to the Wardrobe Keeper’s apartment and ran through to the new passage Fawkes had created. He silently opened the door to the storeroom and looked in. The room was dim, as ever, and the lanterns of Suffolk’s search party lit the large space only feebly.
However, they had seen Guy Fawkes.
God save us, Rollo prayed silently, or we’re done for.
Fawkes was standing to one side, dressed in a cloak and a tall hat, carrying a lantern. It seemed Suffolk had only just spotted him, for Rollo heard the earl say in a startled voice: ‘Who are you, man?’
Rollo held his breath.
‘I am John Johnson, my lord,’ said Fawkes. His voice was calm: he was a soldier, and had been in danger before.
Rollo wished he had not picked a name that sounded so obviously made up.
‘And what the devil are you doing here, Johnson?’
‘My master is tenant of this store, and of the apartment next door. I act as caretaker, you might say, when my master isn’t here.’
It was a perfectly sensible story, Rollo thought hopefully. Was there any reason why Suffolk should not accept it?
‘And for what purpose does your master use this vault?’
‘To store firewood, as you can see.’
The members of the group looked at the firewood stack as if they had not previously noticed it – which was possible in the dim light.
Suffolk said: ‘All this wood, just for an apartment?’
Fawkes did not respond to this rhetorical question. Rollo realized with dismay that he had overlooked this implausibility.
Suffolk said: ‘Who is your master, anyway?’
