The Butcher Of Smithfield

Chapter 9

Time was running out for Chaloner, but he had reached a dead end with Newburne’s death. He smiled wryly as he sat in his room with the cat for company. He had never particularly liked working for the Earl, but now there was a very real danger of dismissal, he was determined to make sure it did not happen. It was a ridiculous situation, and he wished Cromwell had not died, the Commonwealth had not collapsed, Thurloe was still Spymaster, and he was still a regularly paid intelligence officer working overseas. His life had been a good deal less complicated — and less impoverished — when he had been under Thurloe’s orders.

He dragged his mind away from his own predicament, and began to consider his investigations, beginning with Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges. The advertisement in The Intelligencer meant a lot of them were being sold, so it was clear they were not all deadly. Ergo, someone had devised a way of doctoring them, and chose who they would kill — namely Newburne, Finch, Colonel Beauclair and Valentine Pettis. And perhaps others, too, whose names Chaloner did not know. Then cucumbers were left at the scene of the crime, and rumour allowed to take over. Yet there had been a cucumber with Maylord’s body, too, although Chaloner knew for a fact that he had not been poisoned. Did that mean there were two killers? Or was Maylord smothered because he refused to eat the green pills? Several people had mentioned Maylord’s aversion to green food.

Chaloner reviewed the victims in more detail. Beauclair was an equerry in His Majesty’s Horse, and Pettis had been a horse-dealer. Maylord had owned a racing horse. Newburne had no equine connection, as far Chaloner he knew, and Finch had been too poor to dabble in the exclusive world of expensive nags. And the two sedan-chairmen had connections to cucumbers, but not to horses. He wracked his brain for a clearer connection, but gave up when no answers were forthcoming.

Restlessly, he went to his viol and began to play. Of course, there was also a musical connection between some of the victims and suspects. Finch had been trumpeting one of the tuneless compositions when he had died. Maylord had kept a bundle of them in his chimney. Greeting thought Smegergill and Maylord had been commissioned to perform peculiar music for Crisp. L’Estrange had insisted that Chaloner, Brome and Joanna play one of the pieces, so he could hear how it sounded. Newburne had shared an interest in music with Finch and Maylord, although Dorcus Newburne had denied that her husband had owned an acquaintance with the violist.

When he heard the night-watch shout that it was ten o’clock on a cold, wet night, Chaloner stood and stretched. He had no desire to go out, but Leybourn was his friend, and it was his duty to protect him from Mary. Thus he had to acquire the surveyor’s hidden money before it was either stolen or she demanded so many gifts that it dwindled to nothing. Chaloner was sure she would leave Leybourn the moment his fortune was gone, and a timely burglary might encourage her to relinquish her prey sooner rather than later. He recalled Joanna’s offer to help him prise Mary away from Leybourn, and smiled. He was sure breaking and entering was not what she had in mind, but equally sure her affection for Leybourn would compel her to rise to the challenge — or try to rise, at any rate. He doubted she would be much of an asset, though, and he had always preferred working alone.

The cat unearthed something from a dark corner and began to eat, which reminded him of the rat on the mantelpiece. Unfortunately, his landlord was saying goodbye to a friend on the doorstep below, and Chaloner could not lob the thing out of the window as long as they were there; nor did he fancy carrying it downstairs in his hand, so it stayed where it was. He donned dark, shabby clothes and Isabella’s hat, then walked down the stairs, letting himself out through the back door to avoid questions from Ellis.

He padded through the sodden streets, sure London could not absorb much more rain, and wishing it would stop. The Ludgate bridge was closed, so he was obliged to use the Holborn crossing over the Fleet instead. The diversion meant he would have to approach Cripplegate via the edge of Smithfield, but he was not overly concerned. His scruffy attire would render him an unattractive target for Hectors, and as long as he stayed out of trouble, he would not be recognised — either as the man who had humiliated Kirby that day, or as the ‘musician’ they thought they had been paid to kill the previous Sunday.

Smithfield never slept. The legal meat trade started very early in the morning, which meant some butchers began work in the middle of the night. Already, apprentices were cleaning and scrubbing by the flickering light of lamps. And for other businesses, the hours of darkness were their prime time. Taverns, bowling alleys, brothels and gambling dens were in full swing, while prostitutes flaunted their wares and sly men emerged from nowhere to sell blankets, wine, and their sisters — and brothers — at suspiciously low prices.

There was a large canvas-rigged structure near Duck Lane, and Chaloner could tell from the bouncing shadows within that it was full of people. He slipped inside, curious to know what had attracted such a huge audience. It was crammed to the gills with men, all swaggering and cheering. Among them were greasy-headed whores, revealing rotten teeth in boisterous laughter. The atmosphere was moist and warm, thick with the stench of sweat, cheap perfume and tobacco. Money was changing hands around a bloody little arena, and two proud birds were killing each other in a flurry of feathers and claws. Chaloner left in disgust; he had never understood the appeal of cock-fighting. He was almost outside, when he spotted a familiar dark-cloaked figure surrounded by Hectors. Crisp was evidently not so squeamish, and was settling himself down to enjoy the spectacle.

The city gates were always closed at night, but Chaloner needed to go through Aldersgate in order to reach Monkwell Street. He was just debating whether to charm his way past the guards or scale the famously ruinous wall to the north, when two burly figures moved out of the shadows to intercept him. The scene was illuminated by a lamp that hung from the gate itself, a flickering, unsteady light that swayed in the breeze. Of the official guards there was no sign.

‘Friend or foe?’ asked the larger of the pair. Chaloner recognised him immediately, although he hoped it was not mutual. It was Fingerless, the third member of the trio that included Kirby and Ireton. His left hand was still bandaged, and it was tucked inside his coat.

‘They are all friends at this time of night, Treen,’ quipped his crony with a snigger.

Treen, thought Chaloner, coldly dispassionate. Now he had all their names, and they would pay the price for what they had done to Smegergill, no matter how vehemently they denied harming him.

‘Anyone who gives us sixpence is a friend,’ laughed Treen. ‘Of course, anyone who refuses is a foe, but no one is that stupid.’

Chaloner wished he had given Smithfield a wider berth, because he did not want to enjoin a skirmish that would draw attention to himself — especially on an empty stomach and when he was already tired. If he had had sixpence, he would have handed it over, just to be rid of the nuisance Treen represented.

‘You do not want trouble with me,’ he said quietly. ‘Stand aside.’

His voice carried enough conviction that Treen’s friend did as he was told, melting away as though he had never been there. Unfortunately, Treen had been a bully far too long, and could not tell when it was wiser to step away. Fury crossed his face and he drew his sword.

Chaloner sighed and did likewise. ‘You will regret this,’ he warned.

‘No,’ came another voice, this one sibilant and more educated than Treen’s. ‘You will regret it, because I know who you are. You are the villain who murdered Smegergill.’

Ireton’s nose was visible even in the dim light, and so was the sword he carried with the easy grace of the seasoned warrior. Uneasily, Chaloner peered into the shadows, hoping there were not more Hectors lurking there. While he was more than a match for Treen, being outnumbered by skilled swordsmen like Ireton was a different proposition entirely.

Treen turned towards his friend in astonishment. ‘He is the murderer? Are you sure?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Ireton. ‘I recognise his hat. And if you want more proof, look at his chin, at the bruise where my stone struck it. You should learn to be more observant, Treen.’

Treen shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Kirby and I did not waste time inspecting hats, because we were hunting for documents, like we were told. And then he almost severed my finger. He will pay for that — but not tonight. First, the Butcher will want to ask why he killed Smegergill, and then Kirby will want to talk to him about a certain rough interview that was conducted earlier today.’

Ireton shook his head firmly. ‘He dies now, by my hand. I do not approve of men who murder harmless old musicians.’ He began to advance, and Chaloner prepared to defend himself.

‘Wait!’ snapped Treen, rashly making a grab for Ireton’s sword arm. ‘Crisp will be furious if you kill him before he is interrogated. And if you cannot see that annoying the Butcher is unwise, then you should go back to strumming your lute and leave this sort of business to me.’

Ireton’s expression was dangerous. ‘How dare you countermand me! You are just a lout, a hireling Crisp uses for his dirty work. And you cannot even do that properly! If you had killed this man on Sunday, as you were ordered, we would not be in this situation now.’

They began to quarrel, leaving Chaloner somewhat nonplussed. He took a few steps away, aiming to leave while they were preoccupied. But Ireton saw what he was doing and came at him in a rush of flailing steel. The Hector was good, better than Chaloner had anticipated, and he saw they were fairly evenly matched. Then Treen lumbered forward and tried to pull Ireton away. Ireton’s expression was murderous, and Chaloner half expected him to skewer his comrade there and then.

‘Drop your weapons,’ came a voice that was far from steady. A figure stepped out of the shadows by the gate, holding a large, old-fashioned gun. It trembled in his hand. ‘Do it now, or I will kill you.’

Treen needed no second warning. His sword clattered to the ground, and he slunk away quickly, apparently one of those men who appreciated the deadly power of firearms, even ancient ones gripped by hands that shook. Ireton was not so easily intimidated, however, and his temper was up.

‘Go on, then,’ he sneered. ‘Shoot me.’

Chaloner felt Ireton’s assessment of the situation was accurate: the gunman was far too frightened to pull the trigger. Thus, when the still night air was shattered by a booming crack, it took everyone by surprise.

Chaloner leapt forward to disarm the astonished Ireton, who aimed a quick punch that forced the spy to duck, then tore away when he was off balance. Chaloner did not care, and made no attempt to stop him. When the running footsteps had been swallowed by the night, he turned to face his rescuer.

‘Christ!’ breathed Greeting unsteadily. He flopped down on a nearby wall, dag dangling limply from his fingers. ‘All I did was twitch and the damned thing went off. Did I hit anyone?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘You can come out now, Hodgkinson. They have gone.’

The printer emerged cautiously from behind a water butt. He clutched a scarf, and had evidently intended to disguise himself before joining the affray. Greeting held a similar garment, but had forgotten to put it on. Amateurs, thought Chaloner in some disgust.

‘How did you know I was there?’ asked Hodgkinson uncomfortably.

‘I saw you.’ Chaloner pulled the shocked Greeting to his feet. ‘We cannot stay here. They will be back with reinforcements, because they will not appreciate you making fools of them. Come with me.’

He led the way to the crumbling section of the old city wall, although both printer and musician complained that it was too difficult a climb and made heavy work of the exercise. Eventually, he managed to pull, cajole and threaten them over the top, then took them to the churchyard of St Giles Cripplegate, where they hid among the trees until he was sure they were safe.

‘You have some very odd skills,’ grumbled Greeting. ‘Bandying swords with felons, scaling walls, knowing your way around dark cemeteries. Is this where part-time spying for the Lord Chancellor leads? What are you doing here at this time of night, anyway? I thought you lived on Fetter Lane.’

‘I could ask you the same question,’ said Chaloner, still alert for any sign of pursuit.

‘Hodgkinson owns a print-shop on Duck Lane and I rent the attic above it. We live here — you do not. And what were you thinking of, taking on Hectors? Are you insane?’

‘Are you insane?’ countered Chaloner. ‘I cannot see Hectors being very happy about heavy-fingered gunmen taking up residence in their domain, either.’

‘He is right,’ said Hodgkinson sternly to the agitated musician. ‘I told you to point it and wait for me to sneak up behind them, not merrily blast away at whatever took your fancy. The sound of a gun discharging might have brought the entire gang down on us.’

Chaloner regarded them uncertainly, not sure what to make of their timely appearance. ‘You are working together?’

‘Williamson wants to know what really happened to Smegergill — he investigates all White Hall deaths.’ Greeting was shaking almost uncontrollably now the danger was over. ‘So he told me to come to the place where he was murdered, to see what kind of villains lurk. He believes such men are creatures of habit, and rarely stray far from the scenes of their crimes. I think he normally hires Hectors for this sort of thing, but as one of them might be the killer, he ordered me here instead.’

‘It is brave of you to do it, though,’ said Chaloner, thinking the man was a fool to accept such a commission when his ability to protect himself was dubious, to say the least.

Greeting seemed close to tears. ‘I had no choice! He said my consort would never play again if I did not do as he asked. If I had known that offering my services once would amount to me selling my soul, I would never have done it. I am not cut out for this sort of thing. I am an artist, not some lout who wanders around in filthy clothing and knows how to fight and climb walls.’

‘And you?’ Chaloner asked Hodgkinson, overlooking the insult on the grounds that Greeting probably did not realise what he had said. ‘Are you blackmailed into helping Williamson, too?’

‘Greeting and I are friends — I publish his music, and he rents my attic. When he told me what he had been compelled to do, I offered to help, because I did not think he should do it alone.’

‘Luckily for you, Heyden,’ added Greeting shakily. ‘I am no Sir Galahad, and would never have tackled Ireton and his friends had Hodgkinson not told me what to do.’

‘Why did you risk yourselves?’ asked Chaloner, declining to mention that he had never been in any real danger. Ireton had represented a challenge, but not with Treen getting in the way and grabbing his arms. And unfortunately for Greeting and Hodgkinson, their act of bravado was likely to have grave consequences for their future in the area.

‘Because Treen said you were the man who attacked Kirby today,’ replied Hodgkinson sheepishly. ‘That makes you a hero to anyone who resents the Hectors and their safety taxes, and we wanted to save you from them. However, our rescue did not go quite as planned. Greeting forgot to put on his mask, and then he fired his dag before I was in position.’

‘Mask?’ Greeting looked at the material in his hand, then groaned. ‘Oh, Christ! That means they saw my face! What have I done? Damn Williamson and his unreasonable demands! And damn you, too, Heyden. I told Hodgkinson we should not interfere, regardless of your courage in pressing a knife to Kirby’s throat. And speaking of murderous attacks, Ireton seemed to think you might know more about Smegergill’s demise than you have led me to believe. Is it true?’

‘I did not kill Smegergill,’ said Chaloner quietly.

‘So you have said before. However, you were with him when he was attacked, because Ireton recognised you, and he is not stupid. And you do match the description given by the witnesses.’

‘Heyden is not the killer,’ said Hodgkinson with considerable conviction. Greeting looked at him in surprise, and so did Chaloner. The printer hastened to explain himself. ‘Whoever killed Smegergill also stole his ring, and Heyden is no thief. He found a valuable pen this morning — he could have kept it, but he returned it to me without a moment’s hesitation. A man who kills for money does not blithely relinquish a silver Fountain Inkhorn.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped they would not ask to see the contents of his pockets, because Smegergill’s ring was in one of them. ‘I was with Smegergill that night,’ he admitted. ‘And I failed to protect him, to my eternal shame.’

Greeting nodded his satisfaction. ‘I knew you were involved somehow. But if you say you did not harm Smegergill, then I shall believe you. Maylord always said nice things about you, and that is good enough for me. How much longer do we have to stay here? I am wet through and want to go home.’

‘You cannot go home,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘You do not have anything to tell Williamson yet — other than that Treen and his cronies charge an unofficial toll for using Aldersgate, and he probably knows that already. You will have to go back, and see who else comes crawling along.’

‘Ireton, Kirby and Treen attacked the wrong two men the night Smegergill died,’ Chaloner said to Greeting, when Hodgkinson had gone to see if the coast was clear. ‘They were ordered to ambush an old musician and his younger companion, and be sure to kill the latter. But their victims arrived early, and they made a mess of the attack. I believe the real target was you. Not me, and not Smegergill.’

Greeting gazed at him. ‘Me? I do not believe you.’

‘Your coachman was probably bribed to make you get out of his carriage early, forcing you to walk the rest of the way. And Smegergill’s unanticipated decision to forgo your consort’s official transport led to a case of mistaken identity. You were carrying documents that night, and Ireton was charged to steal them. What were they? Something you were commissioned to deliver to Williamson?’

Greeting’s face was white. ‘This cannot be true,’ he said shakily.

‘Spying is a dangerous game, Greeting. People die all the time, especially those who work for Williamson — he considers them a readily disposable asset. You can keep his confidence if you like, but bear in mind that he will not be equally loyal to you.’

‘It was music,’ said Greeting in a low, frightened voice. ‘Just music. I tried to tell you.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘You mean the strange tunes you said Smegergill and Maylord had been practising? It was their music you were carrying?’

‘I think so. L’Estrange was at the Charterhouse concert that night, and Williamson told me to collect papers from him and take them to White Hall the following day. L’Estrange gave me a pouch, and I peeped inside when I got home. It was just music.’

Chaloner was confused. Had L’Estrange exchanged letters for tunes, because he knew the courier was going to be intercepted in St Bartholomew’s churchyard? ‘Presumably, you delivered the pouch to Williamson the next day. Was he surprised to see you? What did he say when he opened it?’

Greeting gazed at him, then raised an unsteady hand to rub his eyes. ‘What have I embroiled myself in? I have no idea whether he was surprised to see me, because his face is always impassive and impossible to read. He took the package, inspected it briefly, then threw the whole lot on the fire.’

Leybourn’s house was in darkness, so Chaloner let himself in through the back door. The surveyor kept his worldly wealth under a floorboard in the attic he used as a study, but before Chaloner could start up the stairs, he heard someone coming down them. Not wanting to be caught, he slid into a cupboard, taking refuge among brooms, rags and a brimming bucket of slops that someone had shoved out of sight and forgotten about. The stench in the confined space almost took his breath away.

He was expecting to see Leybourn or Mary, heading to the kitchen for a drink. But it was neither, and he frowned when he recognised Kirby. Over the Hector’s shoulder was Leybourn’s money sack.

Chaloner was tempted to make a commotion, so Kirby would be caught red-handed, but he was not sure what excuse he could give for being in his friend’s house in the depths of the night. Mary would certainly make hay with the fact that he had broken in, and he did not want to put Leybourn in a position where he was forced to choose between them again. He followed Kirby outside, and accosted him as he cut through the graveyard of St Giles without Cripplegate, careful to keep his face in shadow and his voice soft enough to be anonymous. He had reloaded the gun he had confiscated from Greeting — the musician was a danger to himself with it — and he pointed it at Kirby as he called through the trees.

‘Put the bag on the ground and raise your hands above your head.’

Kirby leapt in alarm. There was enough light from the street for him to see his assailant was armed, but he quickly regained his composure. He was braver than Treen. ‘What if I refuse?’

Chaloner cocked the gun. ‘The sack goes on the ground with or without your cooperation.’

Slowly, Kirby set it down. ‘Come to a tavern with me,’ he said wheedlingly. ‘There is no need for rough tactics. We can share the contents over an ale, and both be happy.’

‘Walk away,’ ordered Chaloner. ‘And do not look back.’

But Kirby was not ready to relinquish such a large fortune without making some sort of stand. ‘You will not shoot me,’ he blustered. ‘If you want the sack, you will have to come and get it.’

Chaloner was tempted to make an end of him, but he had never enjoyed killing, even during the wars, and was loath to shoot a man in cold blood. On the other hand, he had no intention of fighting for Leybourn’s treasure. He aimed at a spot just above Kirby’s shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The henchman gasped his alarm at the sudden report, covering his head with his hands as twigs and leaves fell around him.

‘The next ball will be between your eyes,’ whispered Chaloner. ‘Walk away or die.’

When Kirby had gone, Chaloner grabbed the bag and hid behind a tomb, waiting for Kirby to double back and try to catch him. The man was predictable, and came from precisely the direction Chaloner had anticipated. He watched him pass by on his futile errand, then headed south, where he kept to the smaller alleys, and the sight of the gun meant no one was reckless enough to stop him and ask what was in the sack.

Because he was being careful, it took an age to reach home, and by the time he did, he was heartily sick of wind-blown rain. He was about to go through his front door, when he saw several people sitting in the tavern opposite. It was outrageously late, even for the Golden Lion, and instinct warned him to be wary. He crouched behind an abandoned hand-cart and waited. Eventually, one of the patrons stood and stretched. It was Giles Dury — again.

Dury did not seem to be watching Chaloner’s house — at least not obviously so — and the Golden Lion was the kind of inn that conducted all manner of clandestine business, so the newsman’s presence might have nothing to do with the spy. But Chaloner was now responsible for Leybourn’s entire personal fortune, and could not put it at risk by returning to his own rooms to sleep. So he went to Lincoln’s Inn instead. Sinister shadows lurked there, too, although Chaloner was sure they had nothing to do with him. The Inn was home to several controversial lawyers and some of the country’s most rabid religious fanatics, so was often under surveillance. He did not feel inclined to walk through the front gate even so, and scaled the wall at the back instead. Then it was a tortuous journey through the wet gardens, and a forced entry through a ground-floor window. By the time he reached Chamber XIII and tapped softly on the door, he was exhausted. So, when Thurloe answered wearing a comical night-cap, Chaloner was too tired to stop himself from laughing. The ex-Spymaster regarded him coolly.

‘You are filthy and soaked through. What have you been doing? Robbing houses?’

Chaloner nodded as he set the sack on the table. ‘Hopefully, Mary will leave Will when she learns he is destitute — and that it is not her friends who have the proceeds.’

Thurloe’s eyebrows shot upwards. ‘Is this how you use the skills I taught you? To burgle your friends? Should I put my valuables under lock and key when you are visiting?’

‘When I am not visiting,’ recommended Chaloner. ‘If I am here, you can keep an eye on me.’

‘What do you intend to do with it? He will be distressed when he finds it gone.’

‘Mary will almost certainly order my room searched by Hectors, so we cannot leave it there. Will you put it somewhere safe? He can have it back when he comes to his senses. Or when he is too far under Mary’s spell for redemption, and we are obliged to give up on him.’

Thurloe regarded him soberly. ‘Let us pray for the former. I will conceal it in-’

Chaloner held up his hand. ‘What I do not know, I cannot be forced to tell.’

Thurloe’s face creased in worry. ‘Do you think it might come to that? Perhaps you should just give it back. William will not think his savings worth your life.’

‘Then convince him — and Mary — that I had nothing to do with its theft. You will not be lying, because I really did not steal it. I intended to, but Kirby was there first.’ Chaloner laid the gun on the table, next to the sack. ‘You had better keep this, too. No one followed me here, but I want you to have the means to protect yourself, even so.’

Thurloe’s expression became pained as he told him how he had thwarted Kirby’s burglary.

‘You were with me all night,’ said Thurloe. ‘We have been discussing Newburne’s death and its various twists and turns, and then, since the weather is foul, I insisted you sleep here. You were never out tonight, so how can you have anything to do with the disappearance of William’s sack?’

Chaloner woke on Saturday with the sense that time was of the essence, and that he only had two days left before the Earl dismissed him. It was a foul morning, with splattering rain carried on a gusting wind. Although it was still dark, Thurloe was already up, writing at the table in his bedchamber. He shared some thinly sliced bread and watery ale — old man’s food, though he was not yet fifty — which did little to alleviate Chaloner’s hunger.

It was the day of Maylord’s funeral, and Chaloner could hardly attend wearing his housebreaking gear, so he went home first. Remembering who he had seen in the Golden Lion the previous evening, he climbed into a neighbour’s garden to avoid using his own front door, and slipped up the stairs to his room without being seen. The tiny fibre that rested on the door handle was still in place, and so were the hairs in the hinges of his cupboard and chest, which would have told him if anyone had searched them. The cat was out, although a second dead rat by the side of the bed told him it had been around. He placed the new corpse next to the first one, thinking he would get rid of them later.

The clothes he had worn the previous day were almost dry, so he donned them again, then looked in his pantry. There was no reason to suppose anyone had left him a gift of food, and there were so many people who wanted him dead that he would not have eaten it anyway, but Thurloe’s meagre breakfast had done more to whet his appetite than relieve it, and he was ravenous. The cupboard was bare except for the cucumber and spices — galingale and cubebs. They released a mouth-watering aroma, and served to make him hungrier than ever. He was not, however, desperate enough to resort to the cucumber.

He knew he should report to the Lord Chancellor first, to let him know he was still on the case. He did not want to be dismissed because the Earl was under the impression that he was lying at home all day, waiting for answers to appear. Of course, he thought ruefully, as he jumped across a puddle that contained a drowned pigeon, answers were not coming at all, despite his best efforts, and he had more questions now than when he had started.

When he passed the Rainbow Coffee House, he met Joseph Thompson, the rector of his parish church, who invited him inside to share a dish of chocolate. Chaloner accepted, although chocolate was a foul, oily, bitter beverage that few men could swallow without wincing. He and Thompson began a lively discussion about the political implications of the Infanta Margarita’s marriage contract to the Emperor, which had featured in Muddiman’s latest newsletter, although most other patrons said they did not care about foreign weddings. However, they all said they were looking forward to the next Intelligencer, because they had been told there was to be an especially large missing-horse section.

‘Perhaps it will mention the Queen’s distemper, too,’ said Thompson eagerly. ‘And more news about that dreadful earthquake in Quebec.’

The men at his table scoffed derisively. ‘It will hold forth about phanatiques,’ said one.

‘It was probably phanatiques who caused the earthquake,’ said another, making his cronies laugh.

It was raining hard when Chaloner left the Rainbow, and he thought about his investigations as he walked to White Hall. As far as Mary was concerned, his enquiries were complete. He had satisfied himself that she was definitely a felon — Bridges’ reluctant testimony proved that, and so did Kirby’s theft of the sack — and she only wanted Leybourn for his money. Now the surveyor did not have any, she would leave him and move to greener pastures. Of course, Leybourn also owned a pleasant house, a thriving business and a stock of books and valuable mathematical implements, but Chaloner did not think they would be enough to hold her. He was sorry his friend was about to have his heart broken, but knew it would have happened anyway, with or without his interference.

Less satisfactory was his investigation into the murder of Newburne. What could he tell the Earl about it? That he was uncovering more information with every passing day, but that it made no sense? That he had started off with Muddiman as his prime suspect, because the newsletter-man had bought cucumbers at Covent Garden the day before Newburne had died, but that now his list of potential culprits included virtually everyone he had met and some folk he had not? For example, Joanna and L’Estrange were more intimate than was respectable, and Newburne might have tried to blackmail them. Meanwhile, Brome was an enigma, and Chaloner had no idea whose side he was on. Then there were hundreds of booksellers who wanted Newburne dead, and even the Army of Angels might have exchanged innocent lozenges for ones that were deadly. So might Newburne’s wife, or Crisp. The cucumbers or poison connected Newburne to Colonel Beauclair, Valentine Pettis, the sedan-chairmen and Maylord. And there was the music.

And Maylord? Chaloner had no clue as to who might have smothered him, and nor did he understand the strands that linked the musician to the other cucumber deaths. The same went for Smegergill, although he was beginning to question his previous certainty that Ireton, Kirby and Treen were responsible.

He arrived at White Hall, and found it in chaos. Servants rushed everywhere, staggering under the weight of furniture, heaps of paper, kitchen equipment, armfuls of clothes and the contents of the King’s scientific laboratory. The last time Chaloner had witnessed such alarm was during the first civil war, when the Royalists had won a number of battles and Parliament-loyal settlements had packed all they could carry in the face of imminent invasion. Then Cromwell had trained the New Model Army, and it had been Cavalier households that had faced the humiliation of enemy occupation.

‘What is happening?’ he asked a passing soldier, a rough fellow called Sergeant Picard.

‘The tide is coming in,’ explained Picard tersely.

Chaloner prevented him from dashing off. ‘It does that most days. Twice, usually.’

‘Well, this time it is worse,’ said Picard, freeing himself impatiently. ‘It is predicted to be an unusually high one, and the river has already breached its banks around Deptford.’

‘Is the palace being evacuated?’ But Picard was gone, and Chaloner was left to make what he would of the situation.

The frenzy reached new heights when it was discovered that one of the kitchens was on fire, too. Because White Hall comprised mostly timber-framed buildings, Chaloner ran towards the smoke to see what could be done to prevent an inferno. He and a competent military man, who said he was John Bayspoole, Surveyor of Stables, grabbed buckets and doused the flames between them, while scullions watched but could not be induced to help in any significant way. The blaze was not a serious one, so it was not long before they had it under control.

Bayspoole wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. ‘Everyone is so obsessed by the notion of flood that they forget fire is a far more serious hazard. And look at those cooks! They are racing to save their precious cakes, but there are horses waiting to be evacuated. Has the world gone mad, when a pastry is considered more important than a palfrey?’

Chaloner watched the bakers dodge around them, bearing trays of tarts. They were still warm from the ovens, and their scent was enough to make a hungry man dizzy. ‘Did you know Colonel Beauclair?’ he asked, to take his mind off his empty stomach.

‘Owned a fine black stallion and a sweet bay mare. Died of eating cucumbers, apparently, although I suspect the real culprit was those green lozenges he was sent. The spy Hickes showed them to me.’

‘Sent by whom?’

‘Some acquaintance from his coffee house, probably. His horses went missing after his death, which was a damned shame, because I would have bought the black stallion from his heirs.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘You think he was killed because someone wanted his horses?’

Bayspoole nodded. ‘Of course. Horses are the only thing worth stealing, as far as I am concerned. You can keep your jewels and your fine gold, but horses … speaking of which, I had better go and make sure the King’s beasts are taken to St James’s Park, because no one else will bother.’

He hurried away, and Chaloner resumed his walk to the Earl’s offices, deep in thought. Horses were a theme in the murders — Maylord had owned one, Beauclair was an equerry and Pettis was a horse-trader. Had Maylord been killed for his nag, too? But what about Newburne and Finch? They had nothing to do with horses. Or did they? Both had lived near Smithfield, which was famous for its livestock. And Crisp was the Butcher of Smithfield.

Chaloner reached the Privy Gardens, and climbed the stairs to the Earl’s offices, but they were abandoned by everyone except Bulteel, who was working with the air of a wounded martyr.

‘Has the Earl threatened to dismiss you again?’ asked Chaloner, wondering why the clerk was always at his desk. He knew Bulteel was married, because the happy day had been the previous January, and Bulteel had given him a piece of cake. It had been very good cake, too, better than anything he had had since. He rubbed his stomach, and wished he could stop thinking about food.

Bulteel sighed. ‘He says if I cannot find a more efficient way of managing his business, he will hire another secretary. But this is the most efficient system, and there is no way I can make it better.’

‘And I am a good spy,’ said Chaloner ruefully, ‘but he makes me feel as though I am more of a nuisance than an asset.’

Bulteel regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you and I should join forces.’

Chaloner smiled, always ready to forge new alliances. He was wary of trusting anyone at White Hall, but there was no reason why he and Bulteel should not assist each other from time to time. ‘All right. Do you know anything that will help me with Newburne?’

Bulteel nodded eagerly, pleased with his ready acquiescence. ‘I know the Earl is determined not to pay Dorcus Newburne’s pension — he says he would rather spend a night with the King’s mistress, so that should tell you the extent of his resolution. And I know he wants you to prove Muddiman is responsible for Newburne’s death, because then he can pass the burden of the pension to him.’

Chaloner regarded him in distaste. ‘Really?’

Bulteel nodded again. ‘So, if you expose Muddiman as the culprit, you will be reinstated. However, if you discover the killer is some pauper, or that Newburne died in the course of his government duties, he will not be so generous.’

‘I cannot tell him it was Muddiman if I find evidence to the contrary. I am no lapdog, uncovering “evidence” to orders.’

Bulteel regarded him appraisingly, then gave his shy smile. ‘I knew you would say that — I am a good judge of men, and I know an honest one when I see him.’

Chaloner shot him a searching look of his own. ‘I suspect, from your reaction, that you have devised a way to resolve my dilemma.’

‘You are astute, and the Earl is a fool not to cultivate your loyalty. What you need is a plan that will please him no matter what you discover, and I have been mulling one over for some time. Newburne was wealthy — he owned a mansion on Old Jewry, one on Thames Street and two in Smithfield.’

‘Do you happen to know if he rented rooms in the Rhenish Wine House, too?’

Bulteel was puzzled. ‘He hired a garret on Ave Maria Lane, but his other places were proper houses which he owned himself.’ He looked wistful. ‘The Thames Street property is the nicest, in my opinion. It is not very big, but it has a lovely view of Baynard Castle.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin. ‘I do not suppose it is next to Hodgkinson’s business, is it?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Bulteel in distaste. ‘Print-works smell, and he had more genteel neighbours than that. In fact, one was Maylord the musician.’

‘Is that so? Maylord abandoned his Thames Street home shortly before his death, perhaps because he heard or saw something that frightened him. I wonder whether it was anything to do with Newburne? I have struggled to find connections between them, but being neighbours would certainly count.’

‘I inspected Newburne’s accounts for a government survey once, and a lot of courtiers hired his legal services. Perhaps Maylord was one of them, and their relationship was that of lawyer-client.’

‘You do not remember for certain?’

Bulteel shook his head. ‘I kept notes, though, so I can check for you. However, what really stuck in my mind were the inconsistencies in Newburne’s accounts. He was swindling the government quite openly — not the Lord Chancellor, but other departments.’

‘Did you report him?’

Bulteel winced. ‘I do not possess your moral courage, and Newburne was in high favour at the time. I overlooked them, as I was expected to do. That is where the saying “Arise, Tom Newburne” comes from — success despite ethical shortcomings.’

‘Is it, indeed?’ murmured Chaloner. How many more alternative meanings would he be given for the curious phrase?

‘But we digress. What I want to tell you is that he owned a box of jewels. He invested his legitimate income with bankers, but could hardly do the same with the profits from his shady business, so he stored those in a little chest.’

‘I was told his hoard was a popular folktale, that it has no basis in fact.’

‘Then you were told wrong,’ said Bulteel with great conviction. ‘It does exist. I have seen it.’

Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him. ‘Where?’

‘He kept it buried in the cellar of his Old Jewry house. He dug it up in front of me once, when we needed to lend the Earl some ready cash.’

‘The Earl owed Newburne money?’ asked Chaloner with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. If there was ever a good motive for murder, then an unsavoury debt was among the best.

‘It was repaid in full ages ago,’ said Bulteel, seeing what he was thinking. ‘The Earl did not kill Newburne. However, if you can lay hold of this treasure, you can present it to him and it will serve two purposes: it will pay Dorcus’s pension, regardless of what you learn about her husband’s manner of death; and it will ensure you keep the Earl’s favour.’

‘But that means Dorcus’s pension will be paid from her own money — her lawful inheritance.’

‘Not so. Newburne earned those jewels by cheating the government, so they are not hers.’

‘That is contorted logic. Devious logic, too.’

‘The chest belongs to the government,’ insisted Bulteel stubbornly. ‘And I would rather our Earl had it than anyone else, because he may use it to pay his servants — you and me. However, you should present it to him only after you have identified your suspect, to soften the blow. Unless the culprit is Muddiman, of course, in which case you should leave it where it is. Then you will have it in reserve, for when you need to prove your loyalty the next time.’

‘And what do you gain from this arrangement?’

‘You will tell the Earl that we solved the case together, so we can both claim credit for the victory. Then he will see us as indispensable, and we will be safe until the next crisis comes along.’ Bulteel looked uncomfortable. ‘I know you will be taking all the risks, but I really cannot help you with a burglary, because I would not know what to do. However, it is my information.’

Chaloner had heard worse offers. ‘How do you know you can trust me?’

‘I trust you,’ said Bulteel with surprising conviction. ‘You have had several opportunities to feather your nest from your work, but you never have, despite being in desperate straits. You are honest.’

‘I am a spy,’ countered Chaloner. ‘We lie without thinking about it.’

Bulteel grinned, revealing his bad teeth. ‘And I am a lawyer, so there is little I do not know about deception, either. I am not asking for your hand in marriage here, Heyden — just a temporary alliance. As soon as we are back on the payroll, we can revert to our usual antipathy, if you like. But my wife is expecting our first child soon, and I need regular employment.’

‘Very well,’ said Chaloner, holding out his hand.

Bulteel clasped it. ‘Thank you. You will not regret trusting me, I promise.’

Chaloner hoped he was right. ‘The chest is buried in Newburne’s cellar?’ he asked, supposing it would be no great trouble to break into the house and take a look. He had done it before, after all.

‘There is a single barred window, and the treasure is just below it. He may have covered the spot with an old box or a heap of rags.’ Bulteel stood. ‘Meanwhile, the Lord Chancellor is in the Shield Gallery, watching the river through the window. I will escort you there, if you like.’

The flooded Thames was an unsettling sight. It was brown and swift, and in it were whole trees, the shattered pieces of wooden buildings, clothing and even a woman’s body, face-down and undulating among the waves. Sand-filled sacks had been placed in front of the palace’s water-gates, but they were a futile measure against such a powerful force, like trying to kill a pig with a pin.

‘The tide will turn in an hour,’ said the Earl, watching it from the comfort of the gallery. All the windows had been thrown open, and courtiers jostled for vantage points. The King was among them, and his mistress, Lady Castlemaine, clung to his arm, declaring in a penetrating voice that it would do no harm for some of the capital’s hovels to be washed away, because they were ugly.

‘They are people’s homes, my love,’ said the King, although there was no real sting in his words.

‘Then this is their chance to build prettier ones,’ she retorted petulantly. ‘I am weary of squalor — it is so tiresome. Lord, I am bored! Will no one play billiards with me?’

There was an immediate flurry of raised hands, although most were hastily lowered again when the King cast a laconic eye over them. He snapped his fingers for wine, although half the Court looked as though it had imbibed far too much already, despite the early hour. Chaloner looked away, thinking it might not be a bad thing if the river also took White Hall and its dissipated occupants when it swept away the slums that so offended Lady Castlemaine’s sensitivities.

‘How is the Queen?’ asked Chaloner, standing at the Earl’s side. Although the Lord Chancellor had clawed back some of the power he had lost during his recent spat with the Earl of Bristol, he remained an unpopular man — the other windows were crowded, but the Earl had one all to himself, because no one wanted to be with him.

Clarendon regarded him sharply. ‘She is better, but certainly not well enough to see you. She was pleased with your reports, as I said, but she can have no need of a spy in White Hall. Your only hope is to please me over this Newburne business. What have you learned?’

Chaloner shrugged apologetically. ‘The more information I uncover, the more questions it poses. I have uncovered a lot of information about Newburne, but at the same time I seem to know less.’

Clarendon gave him a wan smile. ‘It sounds like a paradox, but I know what you mean. I feel the same way about my enemies at Court. Dorcus Newburne was here again yesterday, by the way, demanding her pension. Wretched woman! Her husband left her well provided for, so I do not see why she should expect me to impoverish myself to give her more.’

‘No, sir,’ said Chaloner.

He was about to outline what he had reasoned about the music, but the Earl clearly had better things to do than listen to the vague theories of his spy. He started to walk towards one of his few courtly allies, then glared pointedly when Chaloner made no move to leave.

‘Is there anything else, Heyden? If not, you had better go and find me some sensible answers, because you only have two more days, and I will dismiss you if you do not tell me what I want to know.’

Chaloner did not think he would be very impressed with the few facts he had gathered, so decided it was better to say nothing. He bowed and left without another word.

Maylord’s funeral was not until noon, and the day was still young, so Chaloner decided to visit Dorcus. On his way, he stopped to see Temperance; she was still in bed, but rose when told the identity of her visitor. Maude was already bustling about the kitchen, making some of her poisonous coffee. She offered Chaloner a dish, but he declined. Preacher Hill had once told him Maude’s brew was so potent that her first husband had sipped some and died on the spot. Chaloner had no idea whether the story was true, although he did know that even a few mouthfuls invariably resulted in a rapidly pounding heart and an unpleasant burning in the stomach.

‘I am sorry,’ he said as Temperance joined him at her kitchen table. He looked around surreptitiously to see if there was anything to eat. ‘I am used to you being up at dawn for chapel, and I never expect you to be in bed this late.’

‘Eight o’clock is hardly late,’ objected Temperance with a yawn. ‘And my days of rising at ungodly hours for church were a long time ago. I only go on Sundays now, because I have abandoned the Puritan fancies my parents taught me. And you do have a nasty habit of arriving overly early, Thomas. Come later in future because I seldom retire before four.’

‘Four in the morning?’

‘Well, I do not mean four in the afternoon.’ She grimaced. ‘The Puritans are wrong to insist on dawn devotions. The King should do something about them.’

‘You think they should be suppressed?’ Chaloner tried not to sound shocked.

‘Yes, I do. You cannot reason with fanatics, and allowing them to express their bigoted opinions encourages them to shout all the more loudly. It is only a small step from yelling hate to putting it into practice with guns and swords, and outlawing their gatherings will make the country far more safe.’

Chaloner struggled to conceal his unease. He had never expected to hear such sentiments from a woman whose family had endured a good deal of suffering for its religious beliefs. Yet his dismay at her changing political views was nothing compared to his astonishment when she produced a pipe and began to tamp it with tobacco.

‘Christ, Temperance!’ he exclaimed. He supposed he should hold his tongue, but he could not help feeling some responsibility for her well-being. ‘You are full of surprises this morning.’

She examined the pipe fondly. ‘I have been developing a fancy for it. We are told smoking is for men, but why should they have all the fun? Besides, I do not do it in public, only with friends. Would you care to join me? I have several spares.’

He shook his head, hoping she might offer him some breakfast instead. She did not, although Maude handed him a pile of mended and cleaned clothes. He offered to return the ones he had borrowed, but the women waved him away.

‘You look nice in them,’ said Temperance, puffing contentedly. ‘And you probably need to go to Maylord’s funeral today, so you should dress properly for the occasion. Our boy will deliver these others to your house, so there is no need to take them with you now.’

‘They are saying in the coffee houses that the river has burst its banks at Deptford,’ said Maude conversationally, when the spy had lavished a suitable amount of praise on her handiwork.

‘Did they read that in Muddiman’s newsletter or The Newes?’ asked Chaloner, wondering how Maude was party to coffee-house chat. Such establishments were supposed to be exclusively for men, although he did not imagine many would have the courage to ask her to leave if she did decide to avail herself of one.

Maude pulled a disparaging face. ‘All The Newes contained was a lot of rubbish about a dirty prayer-book and the Turks being “up and down” in Vienna. And the Queen is recovered from distemper, but now she is said to have an indisposition, which is probably worse.’

‘The note about Sherard Lorinston’s bay mare was interesting, though,’ said Temperance. ‘Someone read his advertisement in the newsbooks, and saw the animal being sold in Limehouse. The good Samaritan has a reward, Lorinston has his mare back, and the thief has nothing. I shall ask him about it when he comes tonight.’

‘Ask the thief?’ queried Chaloner.

Temperance pulled a face at him. ‘Ask Lorinston. We do not entertain criminals here, Thomas. It is a gentlemen’s club, and we are very selective about our members.’

‘I thought the Duke of Buckingham was among your clientele. You cannot be that selective.’

‘Now, now,’ tutted Maude. ‘There is no need to malign the duke; he cannot help being a rake.’ She changed the subject in the interests of avoiding a spat, because Temperance was looking irritated. ‘When I was coming back from buying eggs just now, I heard that Smegergill’s will was read in the Inner Temple this morning.’

‘Before eight o’clock?’ asked Chaloner. ‘At such an ungodly hour?’

‘You are sharp today,’ said Temperance coolly. ‘Besides, wills are read by lawyers, who love ungodly things. Did you once say you studied law at Cambridge, Thomas, and that you were at Lincoln’s Inn with a view to becoming a clerk before Thurloe recruited you to an even more devious occupation?’

‘Greeting is the sole beneficiary,’ said Maude before Chaloner could reply. ‘He is said to be astounded, although Smegergill had no family, so obviously he was going to favour a friend.’

Chaloner thought about the ring and the key he had taken from the old man, and supposed he could now pass them to their rightful owner. It would be good to be rid of the responsibility, although he hoped he would be able to do it without being accused of murder.

‘Greeting told me Smegergill kept visiting the costermongery in Smithfield after Maylord died,’ said Temperance. ‘But Greeting is an odd fellow, and I never know when he is telling the truth. I do not suppose he studied law, did he, Thomas?’

Chaloner held his hands in the air. ‘I surrender! I am sorry if I offended you. Can we call a truce before one of us says something he will later regret?’

‘I enquired about Mary Cade for you,’ said Maude, when Temperance inclined her head stiffly but said nothing. ‘Her real name is Annabel Reade, and she is well known around Smithfield.’

‘I thought you decided against asking questions when you learned she might be associated with Crisp,’ said Chaloner.

‘I just mentioned Mary in passing, and my sister started to talk. There is no harm in listening, is there? Anyway, Annabel Reade went to work for a man called Bridges, but there was a disagreement over silverware. Word is that her beau, Jonas Kirby, went to visit Bridges, and Bridges withdrew the charges the very next day. She had actually been sentenced to hang, so it was not just a case of Bridges saying he was mistaken, either. I heard a lot of his money went into buying that reprieve.’

‘Kirby is Mary’s lover?’ asked Chaloner, supposing it explained why he visited her while Leybourn was otherwise engaged, and why he had been the one to steal the money sack.

‘So it would seem,’ said Temperance. ‘However I made a few enquiries, too, and the boy who delivers our flour told me her real name is Annie Petwer, and she was Newburne’s whore.’

Chaloner gazed at her, thoughts reeling. ‘Annie Petwer and Mary Cade are one and the same?’

Temperance nodded. ‘Her description of Newburne’s performances in the bedchamber gave rise to some vulgar expression about his manhood, apparently.’

She shot Chaloner a challenging glance, apparently to see if she had shocked him. He did not react, so she and Maude began a debate on which of the three names was the original. Chaloner half-listened, thinking about the implications of Mary’s association with the man whose murder he had been charged to solve. Did that mean the Hectors were responsible for the deadly lozenges? How had Mary managed being Newburne’s mistress as well as Leybourn’s ‘wife’ and Kirby’s beau? Then it occurred to him that Leybourn was busy with his shop and his writing, so she probably had a lot of time on her hands. No wonder she was determined to keep him. Not only did he provide her with a comfortable home and forgive her laziness regarding household chores, but his own unique lifestyle gave her the freedom to do whatever she liked, too.

Temperance smiled thinly as he stood to leave. ‘Are you sure you would not like a dish of coffee or a pipe before you go? How about some pickled rhubarb? That is said to soothe sharp tempers.’

Chaloner left feeling less than manly, a sensation that was becoming stronger and more frequent as Temperance’s real personality began to flower. He could not drink her coffee, tobacco was an expensive habit he could not afford to acquire, and he was squeamish about her political opinions. Perhaps she knew she unsettled him, and did it on purpose, to amuse herself. He had seen more of the world than she ever would, and had met people with far more radical views than the ones she propounded, but she was his gentle Temperance, and the change in her was disconcerting. He wondered how long it would be before they no longer had anything in common, and their friendship began to flounder.

Maude’s information about Annie Petwer was the first real clue he had had about Newburne for some time, so Chaloner decided a visit to Leybourn was in order, but when he emerged from Hercules’ Pillars Alley, everyone appeared to be heading for the river. He listened to snippets of conversation as people passed, and learned that the tide was still rising, and they were hurrying to see if it would breach its banks. He joined the throng moving towards Temple Stairs — he did not want to be the only person in London walking in a different direction.

When he reached the river, he thought there were far too many folk standing on the wooden platform that formed the Temple Stairs; water was lapping across its slick surface, and there was a very real danger of someone being swept off. He stayed well back, looking away when a cow floated past, lowing its distress. A boatman set out after it, determined to have the prize, and the crowd watched in stunned silence when the bobbing craft capsized the moment it approached the struggling animal. The boat was swept on, but there was no sign of its owner.

Then Chaloner saw a familiar face. Leybourn bought the paper he used for writing his books from a stationer at Temple Stairs, and often visited the area; he had a ream of it under his arm. Chaloner went to stand next to him, looking around for Mary. He could not see her, and supposed Leybourn must have made the journey alone. He wondered what sort of gathering was taking place in the surveyor’s house when he was out, and was tempted to run to Monkwell Street to find out.

‘Hello, Tom. This is a grim business. Did you see that poor fellow? Drowned, just like that.’

‘White Hall is preparing for the worst, too — bakers are ferrying cakes to the Banqueting House.’

Leybourn stifled a gulp of laughter. ‘Do not make jokes at such a time; it is not seemly. Thames Street is suffering. Hodgkinson told me he has had to suspend all his paper from the ceiling beams. He cannot take it elsewhere, because the streets are so foul with mud that carts cannot get through.’

‘This weather cannot last much longer.’

‘It will if the prophets of doom are right, and God is producing another Flood to relieve the world of wickedness.’ Leybourn’s voice became pained. ‘And London is wicked — I was burgled last night.’

‘Were you?’ asked Chaloner, experiencing a sharp pang of guilt when he saw the distress on his friend’s face. He had been going to tell Leybourn what he knew about the missing silver goblets, but saw it would not be a good time.

‘My money sack is gone.’ Leybourn glanced behind him. ‘Mary says you took it.’

‘Why would she think that?’ Chaloner’s indignation was genuine, given the circumstances.

‘Because the thief knew exactly where to look, and she thinks you are the only one who knows where I keep it. I dare not mention that Temperance knows, too, lest Mary takes against her as well. She says you are jealous of my new-found happiness.’

‘I am not jealous of what you have with Mary,’ said Chaloner ambiguously.

Leybourn was too lost in his own misery to pick up subtle nuances. ‘She detests Thurloe, too, although I cannot imagine why. He has never been anything but courteous to her, although perhaps a little cold. Her disapproval of you I understand — you can be downright rude. She says I should no longer have anything to do with either of you.’

‘She is still with you, then?’ asked Chaloner, disappointed she had not packed her bags the moment she learned Kirby’s mission had failed.

Leybourn gaped at him. ‘What a vile thing to say! Of course she is still with me! Do you think she only wants me for my money? She loves me, not my wealth.’

‘He is right,’ said Mary. Her voice close behind Leybourn made the surveyor jump, although Chaloner had seen her coming. ‘The theft of this sack means nothing, and I shall stay with him for as long as I choose … I mean as long as he will have me.’

‘I will have you for ever,’ vowed Leybourn passionately. ‘And I will marry you-’

‘Yes, we do not doubt each other,’ interrupted Mary, patting his cheek in a way Chaloner thought patronising. She turned to the spy, and her expression changed from condescention to naked hostility. ‘But the same cannot be said for you. William trusts you, but I have reservations, so I shall give you a chance to prove yourself to him. He was saving up to buy a Gunter’s Quadrant and there is such an instrument in a shop in Moorfield. Will you get it for him?’

‘I do not have that sort of money,’ said Chaloner, surprised she should think he did. Or perhaps she thought he should use Leybourn’s hoard for the purpose.

‘It would be a wonderful thing to own,’ said Leybourn wistfully. ‘I almost had enough before …’

‘If he had one, he would be able to survey St James’s Park, and earn himself a fortune,’ interrupted Mary. ‘He has already been offered the commission, but he cannot accept without owning the necessary implements. I repeat: will you get it for him?’

‘You mean steal it?’ asked Chaloner, finally understanding what she was telling him to do.

‘I mean borrow it,’ corrected Mary slyly. ‘You will do it if you are his friend.’

‘But if he is seen using this quadrant, it will be obvious where it came from,’ Chaloner pointed out, aware of Leybourn looking uncomfortable — although not uncomfortable enough to tell her to stop. ‘People will assume he stole it.’

Mary gave one of her nasty smiles. ‘Then you will have to step forward and take the blame. But I doubt you need worry. William tells me you are adept at worming your way out of difficult situations, and that you have practical experience of thievery. Incidentally, where were you last night?’

Chaloner answered with an observation of his own. ‘I understand your friend Kirby was lurking in the area at the time when Will was burgled. Ask him the identity of the culprit. Or should we see what Annie Petwer or Annabel Reade have to say?’

‘Tom,’ said Leybourn sharply. ‘I do not like your tone.’

‘You have been asking questions about me?’ asked Mary, not sounding as alarmed or shocked as Chaloner thought she should have done. ‘That is ungentlemanly. But do not hope to drive a wedge between me and William over my past, because he already knows about the false charges laid at my door by that horrible Richard Bridges.’

‘Does he know you were Tom Newburne’s lover, too?’

‘Tom!’ cried Leybourn, appalled. ‘Enough! That is my wife you insult.’

‘I did know Newburne,’ said Mary coldly. ‘But I most certainly was not his lover, and if you claim otherwise, I will make you very sorry.’

Chaloner left Temple Stairs with a sense that he had underestimated Mary, and that she was winning the battle for Leybourn. He also did not like the challenge she had laid at his feet regarding the quadrant. Obviously, her intention was that he should be caught committing a crime. Was she hoping Leybourn would be implicated, too, and that when they were both hanged for theft, she would be left with house, shop and what remained of his money? But that would not happen, because Leybourn’s brother would inherit — Chaloner had witnessed the will himself. He supposed she must have some other plan in mind, and knew he should learn what it was before it swung into action.

And what should he think about her denial that she had been Newburne’s lover? He had accepted Temperance’s story without question, because it made sense in the light of the other things he knew about Mary Cade, Annie Petwer and Annabel Reade. But could Temperance have been wrong? She listened to gossip, and it would not be the first time she had repeated a tale that had no basis in fact.

He put Mary from his mind — with difficulty — and walked to Old Jewry, intending to do two things: ask Dorcus Newburne if her husband had kept a mistress, and locate the solicitor’s mythical hoard. As he walked, he tried to stay in the lee of the wind that swept in from the river. It was verging on a gale, and rattled loose tiles on the housetops. Birds struggled against the confused air currents, trees roared and swayed, and dead brown leaves swirled in fierce little eddies.

He reached Old Jewry eventually, and knocked on the door to Newburne’s house. A servant showed him into a pleasant chamber at the front. He had not been waiting many moments before the door opened, and Dorcus swept in. She wore black, to indicate mourning, but the cloth was of the finest quality, and she looked elegant and prosperous. She had recovered from the funeral’s ordeal, and her face was no longer pale; she did not look happy, but neither was she prostrate with grief.

‘Have you come to bring me news about my pension?’

‘Only to say that the matter has gone to the relevant committee for discussion,’ he lied. It would explain the delay, and he could hardly tell her the truth if he wanted her cooperation.

She sighed. ‘Good. It was promised to me, and I intend to make the government keep its word.’

‘Do you need it urgently, ma’am? Shall I ask the Earl to expedite the matter?’

She smiled faintly. ‘It is kind of you to offer, but I do not need the money at all, because my husband was very rich. In fact, I intend to donate it all to St Olave’s Church when it comes.’

Chaloner was puzzled. ‘If you intend to give it away, why petition for it with such fervour?’

‘It is a matter of principle. My husband was your master’s eyes and ears for years, and most recently in the newsbook business. Williamson would have killed him if he had found out, but the Earl promised to protect him. Then my husband died, allegedly of cucumbers, but we all know it was poison.’

‘You think Williamson murdered your husband?’ It was possible; the Spymaster was ruthless.

She nodded slowly. ‘He might have done, although there were others who disliked Thomas, too. But that is not the point. The real issue is that your Earl vowed to look after him, and he failed. I want the government to pay for its broken promise, and this is the only way I can think of to do it. I want to hit the Earl where it most hurts — in the coffers.’

It was certainly having the desired effect, thought Chaloner: the Earl hated the notion of being out of pocket. ‘Your husband’s funeral was well attended. I do not suppose Annie Petwer was-’

Dorcus’s eyes narrowed. ‘I suppose someone told you “Arise, Tom Newburne” was to do with a mistress, but I explained how that expression came about — his antics with a wooden sword.’

‘You seem very sure.’

‘I am sure. Thomas had a pox ten years ago, and it left him with no interest in women. Hence it is impossible that he could have had a lover. And his rising from the dead was another silly tale, too.’

‘Hodgkinson says otherwise, and he was there.’

‘Hodgkinson is an impressionable fool. No stone flung up by a passing carriage can carry enough force to kill a man — and why should some trollop suddenly be possessed of an ability to resurrect? I met Annie Petwer once; she loves money, and if she thought for an instant that she had saved Thomas, she would have demanded a massive reward. She never did. Hodgkinson is being fanciful.’

‘Why would he fabricate such a story?’

She smiled. ‘Well, it did make him a popular raconteur in the coffee houses for a few weeks. I imagine he has told the tale so many times that he now believes it.’

Chaloner supposed Mary had been telling the truth when she denied being Newburne’s mistress. The alleged association was pure fabrication, although Chaloner suspected Mary Cade had had her reasons for calling herself Annie Petwer when the incident was supposed to have taken place. And he was sure they would not be innocent ones. ‘When we last met, I asked whether you knew a Court musician called Thomas Maylord. You said you did not, but-’

‘But you were actually talking about Tom Mallard,’ she interrupted. ‘I realised afterwards that I had misled you, although it was not intentional. It was just the way you said his name, and I was upset anyway, so not thinking clearly. Yes, my husband knew Mallard.’

Chaloner was annoyed with himself. He knew perfectly well that the musician had used a variety of spellings and pronunciations for his name, depending on the occasion. Many entertainers did, as a device to appeal to different kinds of audiences. ‘In what capacity?’

‘I suppose it does not matter if I tell you now, but he was secretly learning the flageolet. He wanted to surprise me with a tune on my birthday. Mallard was teaching him.’

‘How did he come to choose Maylord as a tutor?’ Chaloner was uncertain about her claim, because everyone else had said the decent Maylord would have had nothing to do with Newburne.

‘He was the best, and my husband was determined to learn. Mallard refused at first, but Thomas could be very persuasive. He yielded in the end.’

So, thought Chaloner, perhaps whatever had driven Maylord into his frenzy of agitation was something heard or seen during one of these lessons. After all, Newburne had worked for three — and possibly more — very dubious masters. Any one of them might have embroiled the solicitor in business that Maylord would have found shocking.

‘This is a fine house,’ he said, moving on to his next quest: learning the way to Newburne’s hidden jewels. ‘And you have a pretty garden, too. Is that a sage bush?’

She beamed at him. ‘I have worked hard to make this a decent home. Would you like to see it?’

When he accepted, he was shown every room from attic to basement. It was indeed a pleasant dwelling. Dorcus stood at the top of the stairs while he descended the cellar steps, and his eyes immediately lit on a patch on the beaten-earth floor that had been recently disturbed. Bulteel was right!

Chaloner took his leave, then doubled back to the garden. Now familiar with not only the house, but its servants and routines, he let himself in through the pantry door and made for the basement again. It was dark, but the light from the single barred window was enough to see by. He scratched away the soil with his dagger until he reached a layer of sacking. Wrapped within it was a box. The box was small, no larger than a pocket prayerbook, and was ornately designed. It was secured by a pair of locks that were far too large for it. Chaloner stared at them for a moment, then, on a whim, inserted the keys he had taken from Maylord and Smegergill. They fitted perfectly, and he pushed back the lid to find the little container brimming to the top with precious stones. Newburne had indeed hidden himself a fortune.