“Problem?” Lord Ashcombe said.

I didn’t want to admit being scared. Instead, I said, “Thank you for coming to help. I just… I can’t believe the Raven’s dead.”

“Why not?”

“Well… I mean… he was so good at manipulating things. I thought he’d be too clever to get caught.”

“Every blackguard thinks he’s invincible,” Lord Ashcombe said. “Let that dagger in Simon’s back be a reminder. Peasant or noble, we all go out the same.”

I’d never been to Whitehall. The palace, home of English kings since Henry VIII, was to the west of London, round the bend of the Thames, well outside the city walls. Tom and I had set out a few times to go see it on one of our rare holidays, but it was miles from where we lived, and we’d always got distracted along the way.

Now, as I rode in with Lord Ashcombe, I saw it lived up to its reputation. The palace was a sprawling labyrinth, every part built in a different style, from the simple brick-and-stone of Scotland Yard, to the sloping roofs and gray clock tower of the Horse Guards barracks, to the Holbein Gate, which looked like a miniature keep with octagonal towers at each corner. It loomed above the main throughway, its twelve-foot-high arch wide enough to allow oversize wagons into the city.

Behind the buildings to the east were the docks on the Thames; to the west stretched the vast green expanse of Saint James’s Park. If we’d continued south, we’d have seen the grand gallery overlooking the Privy Garden, complete with marble statues and an apple orchard, and Westminster Gate beyond, following the road southwest, away from London.

At the moment, however, all traffic was stalled. The Holbein Gate was closed, causing a jam of carriages, carts, and pedestrians, all grumbling at the holdup.

From the frown on Lord Ashcombe’s face, this wasn’t normal. One of the King’s Men took the lead, carving a path through the crowd with his horse, crying, “Make way! Make way for the Marquess of Chillingham!” The rest of us followed in his wake.

The gate that led into the palace itself was off to the left. A smaller line waited here, at a semicircle of posts rising from the mud in the road. Four guards stood watch at the entrance. A fifth soldier was arguing with a pair of finely dressed men at the front of the queue.

The shorter of the pair was red-faced, near shouting. His companion, a man with a trimmed beard and gold spectacles, waited quietly, hand on his chin.

“Another English slight,” the short man said in a thick Scottish accent. “We have every right to enter. Let us pass!”

Lord Ashcombe ignored the argument. He dismounted and spoke to the guards near the entryway. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t know, General,” the sergeant at arms said. “We were told to seal off the palace. No one in or out.”

“Ordered by whom?”

“The captain. Think the order came from the chamberlain, though.”