The Butcher Of Smithfield

Chapter 10

Chaloner gazed at the jewels, amazed that both finding the box and opening it had been so easy. But now what? Should he take it with him? It would be easy enough to steal, hidden in a pocket, but the problem was that he did not have anywhere secure to keep it. His rooms were no good, and he was loath to burden Thurloe with a second hoard to mind. However, he suspected it would be safe in Newburne’s cellar — the solicitor had been dead for almost two weeks and Chaloner could tell by the state of the hole that no one else had been to inspect it. Then he could collect it later, when it could be taken straight to the Earl.

His mind made up, he replaced box and dirt, stamping down firmly when the hole was filled. For good measure, he dragged a barrel across it, too, to conceal evidence of disturbance. He even took cobwebs from the ceiling and draped them over the cask, and only left when he was sure no visible sign of his visit remained. He was just making his escape through the garden when he heard voices.

The back gate opened, and two people entered. One was Dorcus, and the other was L’Estrange. Chaloner was just wondering why the editor should be with her when L’Estrange’s hand slipped around her waist in a way that made her giggle.

‘All right,’ the spy murmured to himself. ‘That answers that question.’

He was about to duck back inside the house and hide until he could leave without being seen when a servant came to the rear door. With weary resignation, he saw he was trapped. So he knelt next to the sage bush, and did not have to try very hard to feign awkward embarrassment when Dorcus and L’Estrange approached him.

‘You have caught me red-handed,’ he said with a feeble grin. ‘I realised after I had gone that my wife would be furious if I did not take her a cutting of your splendid sage. I knocked at your front door, but there was no reply.’

‘You did not tell me you were married,’ said L’Estrange, earrings and teeth flashing as he grinned. ‘What is the lucky lady’s name and where do you live?’

‘I am often complimented on my sage,’ said Dorcus before Chaloner could reply. ‘Please pick some, and tell your wife it is best with pork.’

Chaloner tried to look as though he knew what he was doing as he gathered several handfuls. While he did so, he noticed the maid was smiling prettily at L’Estrange, who was leering back at her.

‘Take an onion, too,’ suggested Dorcus. She grabbed one that had been overlooked when the rest of the crop had been harvested, and lobbed it. Her throw went suspiciously wide of Chaloner, and struck the servant in the middle of her white apron. The maid squealed her dismay at the mess.

‘I brought the galingale you needed, Sybilla,’ said Dorcus, brandishing a package rather menacingly. ‘For the pie you are supposed to be making.’

‘Thank you.’ Sybilla turned to simper at L’Estrange. ‘Will there be company for dinner?’

‘There might,’ said L’Estrange, waggling his eyebrows at her. ‘It depends what is on offer.’

‘Beef pie with galingale,’ replied Dorcus. ‘We thought we had plenty, but the rats had been at it.’

‘Rats are all over the place these days,’ said Chaloner, thinking L’Estrange’s behaviour made him a particularly predatory one. ‘It must be the weather.’

‘It must,’ agreed Dorcus. ‘Especially now the river is on the rise. I met Roger at the market, and he escorted me home because the Walbrook has burst its culverts and water is gushing everywhere.’

‘Phanatiques have opened secret floodgates,’ explained L’Estrange, eliciting small squeals of alarm from both women. ‘They are trying to drown us in our beds.’

‘Most of us will not be in our beds at this late hour,’ said Chaloner, suspecting the same could not be said of L’Estrange and his ladies. ‘So this devilish plot to take the city by water is doomed to failure.’

‘Here is your onion,’ said Sybilla, tossing it to him. She turned to L’Estrange. ‘Do come in, sir.’

L’Estrange entered the house like a king, the two women fussing behind him. Chaloner stuffed the onion and sage into his pocket, and supposed he was fortunate that Dorcus had been so credulous about his admiration for her herbs — and that L’Estrange had been more interested in recruiting Angels for his Army than in the curious behaviour of the Lord Chancellor’s spy.

As he walked down the path, Chaloner thought about the keys that had fitted the jewel box. Had Maylord and Smegergill stolen them from Newburne? Had that been the cause of Maylord’s agitation? Obviously, it had not been Newburne himself that had worried the musician, because Maylord had written his urgent note on Friday night, and Newburne had been dead for two days by then. An unpleasant sinking feeling gripped Chaloner as he considered the possibility that Maylord had poisoned the solicitor.

He reached the back gate and stepped outside. And tripped over Giles Dury, who was kneeling with his eye glued to a crack in the wood.

‘Damn it all!’ cried the newsman as he went sprawling into the mud. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Leaving,’ replied Chaloner dryly. ‘And you?’

‘Following L’Estrange,’ snapped Dury, trying to brush himself down. ‘It is Saturday.’

‘I see. You always follow L’Estrange on Saturdays, do you?’

‘Of course. It is the day he collects the parliamentary summaries for his Monday newsbook. He always indulges in a dalliance on his way home, and …’ He trailed off, angry at himself.

‘And you take the opportunity to examine his papers while his attention is on his conquests,’ finished Chaloner in understanding. ‘That is why the newsletters so often pre-empt the newsbooks! I thought someone was selling you his reports, but you just steal them for yourselves.’

‘We do not steal,’ objected Dury. ‘We just read what happens to be left lying around. He usually goes to a brothel, which makes life simple, although his selection of Dorcus presents more of a challenge. And not all our news comes from the parliamentary summaries, anyway. Just some of it.’

‘Your spy gives you the rest,’ said Chaloner. ‘Wenum.’

‘Wenum,’ echoed Dury with a sigh. ‘I believed the rumour that said he fell in the Thames, but now Muddiman tells me he was probably Newburne in disguise. I never met Wenum, so had no reason to know — it was Muddiman who went to buy news from him, not me. Muddiman said the man was always careful to stick to the shadows, and now we know why: he did not want to be recognised.’

‘By buying secrets from Newburne, and by reading the confidential summaries issued to L’Estrange, you have been undermining the government’s newsbooks. I suspect that is treason.’

Dury started to draw his sword, but stopped when he saw Chaloner held a dagger and was ready to throw it. He sneered. ‘What are you going to do? Take me to the Tower? I will scream if you try.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. Technically, he should escort Dury to the nearest prison, but he had no desire to deliver anyone into Spymaster Williamson’s vengeful hands, and he was still uncertain about the shifting allegiances of the newsmen and their masters. He decided that arresting Dury was not the best course of action. At least, not yet.

‘If I say nothing to Williamson about this, will you answer some questions?’

Dury was immediately wary. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

‘You don’t, but you are hardly in a position to negotiate. You can take my offer or you can go to the Tower. It is your choice, but you will reveal the information either way.’

Dury shrugged, feigning nonchalance but failing miserably. He was beginning to be frightened. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Why have you been following me? I saw you in the Golden Lion.’

‘That is easy.’ Dury sounded relieved. ‘Muddiman wanted me to make you an offer: five pounds plus a year’s free newsletters if you feed bad intelligence to L’Estrange. We want him discredited and Muddiman reinstated. Will you do it?’

Chaloner laughed at the notion. ‘No! Williamson would kill me for certain.’

‘Do not be so sure. He is married, and L’Estrange has taken to visiting his home when he is out at work. I do not understand what women see in L’Estrange, personally. It must be the earrings.’

Chaloner wondered if he should buy Leybourn a pair. ‘Have you seen him with Joanna Brome?’ he asked, more from idle curiosity than a genuine need to know.

‘I do not envy her position! If she yields, she betrays her husband, whom she loves. If she resists, L’Estrange might destroy her shop. As far as I know, she has managed to evade the choice so far by giving L’Estrange just enough encouragement to keep him keen, but not capitulating completely.’

‘I saw you meet Ireton at the Rainbow Coffee House yesterday. Why?’

Dury shrugged again. ‘Why do you think? To acquire information. A newsman is not particular about his sources, and Ireton offered to sell me a tale about the murder of a Court musician called Smegergill. I thought he might have some original intelligence, but I was wrong. All he wanted was to declare the Hectors innocent. Unfortunately for him, our readers will be outraged if I write nice things about criminals, so I can use nothing of what he told me.’

It made sense, so Chaloner moved to another question. ‘Why did you and Muddiman search Finch’s room? I saw you there, so do not tell me you did not.’

Dury sighed resentfully. ‘You certainly want your pound of flesh! You had better not betray me after all this. Williamson is not the only one who knows how to hire Hectors. I shall pay a few to visit you if you breathe one word of our discussion to anyone.’

‘Just answer the question.’

Dury regarded him with dislike. ‘We followed Hickes there — we saw him receive a note as he stood outside our house, and we thought it would be fun to see where he went. We watched him chase a thief, and laughed ourselves silly when he fell off the roof.’

‘What did you find in Finch’s room?’ Perhaps Dury had removed the deadly lozenges.

‘We had a quick look around in an attempt to understand why Hickes had been sent there so urgently, but there was nothing obvious. The first thief must have grabbed any pertinent evidence. So, although we had high hopes of a decent scandal — preferably one involving the government — we were disappointed. We already knew Finch was dead, so it was not as if we discovered the body.’

‘How did you know Finch was dead?’

‘Muddiman heard it in Robin’s Coffee House, which is not far from Finch’s home. He often frequents Robin’s, because it is also close to Brome’s shop, and so allows him to spy on L’Estrange. Do not look disapproving, Heyden — L’Estrange does it to us. Now, is there anything else, or am I free to go about my business?’

‘You mean the business of reading L’Estrange’s reports while he frolics with Dorcus?’

‘And the maid. If you look the other way, I will make it worth your while. We need this intelligence, and it is too late to tap into other sources this week. Your interference will cost us dear.’

‘Pity,’ said Chaloner unsympathetically.

It was a gloomy crowd that braved the storm and circled the gaping pit in the graveyard for Maylord’s funeral. Greeting came to stand next to Chaloner, both blinking rain from their eyes.

‘I am soaked through,’ grumbled Greeting when the dismal ceremony was over. ‘Come to the Rhenish Wine House with me. I shall buy some cheap wine and we can drink to Maylord. You owe me for saving you last night, and I would not mind picking your brains about Smegergill in return. Williamson summoned me this morning, and was livid when I told him I had no luck in tracking down the killer. He ordered me to try again, so I need all the help I can get.’

It was not the most enticing of offers, but Chaloner accepted, thinking it would be a good opportunity to pass Smegergill’s ring to its rightful owner, and thus be rid of the responsibility. They entered the fuggy warmth of the hostelry, clothes dripping. Landlord Genew was drying his bald pate with a cloth, and informed them that he would not have left his tavern for anyone other than dear old Maylord on such a foul day. He ushered them to a table near the fire, and brought a jug of spiced wine. Chaloner would have preferred something to eat, but Greeting was more interested in liquid refreshment, and he was paying. The musician drank one cup in a single swallow, then poured himself another, listening intently while Chaloner related some of what he knew about Smegergill’s death. He did not tell Greeting everything. No spy was ever that honest with a man who might later transpire to be an enemy — especially one who was working for Williamson.

‘Were you aware that Maylord knew Newburne?’ Chaloner asked, watching Greeting down his second cup and reach for the third. ‘And both died of cucumbers?’

Greeting nodded. ‘I recently heard from my colleague Hingston that Maylord was secretly teaching Newburne the flageolet, although it was like tutoring a goat, apparently. And then of course there is the Smithfield connection — something I uncovered just this morning, because Smegergill was Maylord’s sole beneficiary, but I am Smegergill’s, much to my astonishment.’

‘What Smithfield connection?’ Greeting did not look astonished, and Chaloner was not about to forget that the devious musician had been in desperate need of money, and now he had inherited a fortune. Was it really a coincidence? And there was another thing: surely, it was odd for Williamson to order Smegergill’s heir to explore the circumstances of Smegergill’s death? Or was the Spymaster unaware of the connection between the two men?

‘Maylord owned a shop there. I vaguely recall him telling me that he had bought one from a distant cousin a few years ago, but he could not be bothered with it, so Newburne managed it for him. Apparently, it earned a respectable income, but Maylord recently became aware that Newburne had been less than honest with him.’

Chaloner’s thoughts whirled while Greeting drank more wine. Smegergill had said Maylord thought he was being cheated, and learning that Newburne was the culprit came as no surprise. The spy considered the likely outcome of Maylord’s suspicions. He would have tackled the solicitor about the discrepancies, but Newburne would naturally have denied the accusations, so Maylord would have needed proof. He had begun to pry. His Thames Street house was near one of Newburne’s properties, and perhaps it was there that the secret music lessons had taken place. But then what? Had Maylord uncovered more than he had bargained for, and had that knowledge driven him to write the agitated note to Chaloner? Or had he laid hold of the keys to Newburne’s jewel box as an act of petty revenge, and then realised he had bitten off more than he could chew?

And what did Smegergill know about the affair? When Chaloner had asked, Smegergill said that Maylord had refused to confide on the grounds of ensuring his friend’s safety. Was it true? There were a number of reasons why Chaloner now thought it was not. First, Smegergill had been in possession of a key to Newburne’s box, and although it was possible he did not know what it was, Chaloner thought it unlikely — it would not have been on his person if he had considered it unimportant. Second, Smegergill knew some Hectors, and Chaloner was beginning to believe Ireton’s contention that he and his cronies had not killed the man. Did that mean Smegergill and the felons were in league somehow? And finally, Chaloner had not forgotten Thurloe’s instinctive distrust of the man. Smegergill was an enigma. Some people found him ‘difficult’, some thought he was losing his mind, and others considered him harmless. They could not all be right, so which was the real man?

‘What do you know about Smegergill?’ he asked, watching Greeting finish the wine in the jug.

‘I have learned that he was actually French, although you would not know it to speak to him. He worked in Paris for years, but came here about a decade ago. He was musician to Cromwell, but that dubious connection was overlooked in view of his talent — along with the fact that he composed a rather nice Birthday Ode for the Duke of Buckingham.’

‘Was he in England before the wars?’

Greeting shook his head. ‘He arrived long after that. Why?’

‘He said he knew me as a child. He remembered a particular tree on my father’s estate.’

‘Then he was mistaken — he could be confused on occasion.’

But Chaloner was becoming increasingly convinced that Smegergill was not as confused as he had let people think. He thought about the discussion in which Smegergill had claimed he was a friend of Chaloner’s family. On reflection, it contained inconsistencies. One example was Smegergill saying that all Chaloner’s siblings were talented musicians, which was untrue: his sisters were skilled, but his brothers were adequate at best. Then there was the May-day celebration under the oak on the Chaloner estate. Maylord had loved the occasion, and had probably told Smegergill about it. And then, Chaloner realised with a flash of understanding, Smegergill had passed off the memories as his own.

But why? The answer was chillingly clear. Maylord must have confided to Smegergill that he had written to Chaloner — an intelligence officer — about his troubles. But Smegergill had inherited those troubles, along with his friend’s goods, and he had no one to help him. And then along came Chaloner, eager to learn the truth behind Maylord’s death. The spy ran through more of the conversation in his head: Smegergill’s forgetfulness and eccentricity had occurred later, after he had established that Chaloner was willing to help him.

So, what had Smegergill hoped they might learn together? Could it have been the location of the documents he had mentioned? Chaloner stared into his cup. Of course it was! Maylord had hidden them well enough to fool amateurs, and Smegergill knew the services of a professional spy were needed to locate them. Of course, Maylord had hidden them too well for professional spies, too, and all Chaloner had been able to unearth was music.

‘Poor old Maylord,’ Greeting was saying. ‘Smegergill arranged for him to come here, you know. He suddenly became frightened in Thames Street, so Smegergill spoke to Genew on his behalf. Smegergill and I were the only ones who knew about Maylord’s abrupt relocation.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘Smegergill told me he did not know where Maylord had moved.’

‘Perhaps he forgot, although I confess I did not think his absent-mindedness had reached those sorts of levels. He must have decided he did not want to tell you for some reason.’

Chaloner nodded, while more solutions snapped clear in his mind. Smegergill’s purse had been empty, so how had he intended to pay for the coach to the Rhenish Wine House? The answer was that he knew his Hector friends would be willing to give him a ride. And what would have happened after Chaloner had located the documents? The spy doubted Smegergill would have been willing to share. So what had gone wrong in St Bartholomew’s churchyard, and why had Smegergill died? Chaloner already knew Greeting was the real target, and Ireton must have realised the mistake as soon as he recognised a man he knew. Smegergill had not called for help, which suggested he had not been overly alarmed at the time.

Unsettled by his conclusions, Chaloner handed over Smegergill’s ring; the keys he decided to keep. ‘This belonged to Smegergill, so it is now legally yours.’

‘I thought the murderer had stolen that from his body.’ Greeting regarded him warily.

‘If I were the culprit, do you think I would give you evidence of my guilt in a crowded tavern? I have already admitted that I was with him when he died, and now I am telling you that I took his ring, too. I was not thinking clearly at the time, but I swear I never intended to keep it.’

‘Then I shall give you the benefit of the doubt,’ said Greeting, although there was uncertainty in his voice. ‘My fortunes are on the rise today. I may even be able to buy my way clear of Williamson.’

Chaloner doubted it: Spymasters did not relinquish hold over their victims that easily.

Greeting stared at the ring. ‘This was actually Maylord’s, but Smegergill took to wearing it after he died. You think Smegergill was losing his wits, but Maylord was the one really worried about it. Look.’ He prised up the stone, revealing a space inside. A tiny scroll of paper dropped out.

Chaloner caught it as it rolled to the edge of the table. ‘What is it?’

Greeting smiled sadly. ‘It is common knowledge that the keepers of Bedlam will not take you if you know the answers to two questions: your date of birth and the names of your parents. Maylord often told me he was anticipating a visit from the Bedlam men, and once confided that he kept the answers to both questions inside his ring, just in case the wardens arrived and his memory failed him.’

Chaloner wrestled with the minute scrap of paper, thinking it would not have helped Maylord, because it would have taken him too long to unfurl; the Bedlam men would have had him anyway. ‘Smegergill was a shade mad, though,’ he said as he struggled. ‘He went around telling people he was Caesar.’

Greeting laughed. ‘But he was Caesar. As a child, he was adopted by a dean called Caesar, and he often used the name for his compositions. I know it does not sound very likely, but it is perfectly true. Personally, I suspect he was as sane as you and me, and probably a good deal more clever.’

Chaloner had an uncomfortable feeling that Greeting was right, and that he had been a fool to let the old man deceive him so completely. He turned his attention to the paper, which comprised not a reminder of sires and birthdays, but a fragment of music — a scale with letters written underneath. He gazed at it with sorrow, assuming Maylord had been afraid he would forget those, too. Yet when he looked more closely, he saw the letters did not correspond with the names of the notes — for example, C-sharp had the letter T under it, while E-flat had a W.

‘This is not answers for the Bedlam men.’

Greeting took it from him, regarded it with disinterest, then tossed it on the fire before Chaloner could stop him. ‘Poor Maylord! It looks as though he really was losing his mind.’

Chaloner left the Rhenish Wine House and went home for dry clothes, selecting some of the better ones from the pile Maude had delivered. The cat was among them, having clawed them into a nest of its own design, and it was not pleased when it was ousted. It had deposited another rat by the hearth, which went to join the growing pile on the mantelpiece. Chaloner put the onion and sage next to them, and was reminded of his landlord’s recipe for rat stew. He sincerely hoped it would not be necessary.

Wearing an old-fashioned cloak that was far better at repelling rain than any coat, he left for Monkwell Street. The altercation with Leybourn was preying on his mind, and he wanted to apologise to him for accusing Mary of being Newburne’s whore. The streets were awash, and he abandoned any attempt to keep his feet dry; to do otherwise necessitated the kind of acrobatics for which he had no energy. The Fleet bridge at Ludgate was open again, although water lapped perilously close to the top of it, and a layer of odorous sludge along one side showed the level to which it had flooded the previous night.

He arrived at Monkwell Street, where Leybourn’s brother told him the couple had gone to Smithfield. Chaloner was uneasy. Why would Mary take him there? Was she intending to have him murdered, then lay claim to his house on the grounds that they had been living as man and wife?

‘I liked Mary at first, because she made Will happy,’ said Rob Leybourn, as Chaloner prepared to go after them. ‘But she has some very unpalatable friends.’

‘Like Jonas Kirby?’

‘He is among the better ones. She has invited Ellis Crisp for dinner tomorrow — the Butcher of Smithfield! I would assume she wants our business to fail by forcing Will to associate with villains, but then she only hurts herself. Did you know he lost all his money to burglars last night? Until he makes more there will be no funds for plays and soirées. She must be livid, and I would not want to be in the thief ’s shoes.’

‘He is so bedazzled by her that he would probably go into debt rather than disappoint her.’

Rob sighed. ‘Bewitched, more like. Still, he has not had a woman in years, so I suppose you cannot blame him for grabbing the one who hurls herself at him. I just wish it had not been her. Are you going to find him? Keep him busy, if you can — I plan to move his most valuable books to my house this afternoon. There are fewer than there should be, and I think she has been selling them off. I want the rest where she cannot get at them.’

When Chaloner reached Duck Lane, he saw a great gathering of people. To his consternation, their attention seemed to be focussed on Hodgkinson’s print-shop. Crisp’s henchmen were out in force, jostling people for amusement. No one had the courage to tell them to behave themselves.

‘What happened?’ he asked a disreputable-looking man with a patch over one eye.

‘A death in the costermongery. Or maybe the print-shop. I cannot tell from here.’

‘Someone else has died of cucumbers?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

But the man shrugged as he slunk away, grumbling that there was nothing to be seen and that he was wasting his time.

Chaloner looked for someone else to question, and saw a number of familiar faces among the crowd. L’Estrange was grinning contentedly, and Chaloner supposed his good humour derived from the fact that he had enjoyed his morning with Dorcus. Joanna and Brome were with him, both looking thoroughly wet and miserable. Not far away, Leybourn was talking to the influential booksellers, Nott and Allestry. Mary kept tugging his arm to make him leave, but he had the animated expression on his face that said he was discussing mathematics, and all the tugging in the world would not budge him. Not far away, Muddiman was conversing with a pair of drovers, and Chaloner eased closer in an attempt to eavesdrop. What he learned made him smile, because it answered at least one mystery.

The rain came down harder still, driving some of the onlookers away. L’Estrange was among them. Chaloner watched him shoulder his way through the gathering, not caring who he shoved, and anyone who objected could expect to be called ‘damned phanatique’. Unfortunately, Leybourn was in one of his feisty moods, and took exception to the remark. Chaloner hurried forward when L’Estrange’s sword came out of its scabbard. Leybourn struggled to draw his own but, not for the first time, disuse and poor maintenance caused it to stick. Then it came free in a rush, almost depriving Nott of his peculiar hair-bun.

‘Come on, then,’ the surveyor yelled, holding the weapon like an axe. Immediately, people began to form a circle around the combatants. ‘Fight an honest bookseller, and let us see who God favours.’

There was a cheer from the onlookers, but L’Estrange responded by performing several fancy swishes that showed his superior training, and the applause faltered. Leybourn was about to be skewered. Chaloner looked around for Mary, expecting her to urge him to walk away from a confrontation he could not win, but she remained suspiciously silent.

‘I shall defend myself in the event of an attack,’ announced L’Estrange loftily, eyeing Leybourn with disdain when he attempted to duplicate the display and ended up dropping his blade. ‘But I decline to debase myself by fooling about with amateurs. Is that your wife, Leybourn? She is a pretty lady.’

Leybourn was confused by the compliment. He bent to retrieve his weapon. ‘Yes, she is.’

‘Well, if she is made a widow out of this, you can trust me to comfort her in her sorrows,’ said L’Estrange, winking at her. Mary smiled coquettishly.

‘Tell him where to go, Mary,’ ordered Leybourn icily. There was a pause. ‘Mary?’

‘Put your blade in his gizzard, Leybourn,’ suggested Nott, jumping back when the surveyor made another of his undisciplined swings. ‘God knows, he deserves it.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, stepping forward to grab the surveyor’s shoulder. ‘Duelling is illegal.’

‘Heyden is right,’ said Brome, elbowing his way through the throng to join them. Joanna was at his heels, eyes wide with alarm. ‘L’Estrange is an excellent swordsman, and you will certainly lose this encounter. Walk away while you are still in one piece.’

‘You were insulted,’ whispered Mary in Leybourn’s other ear. ‘Will you meekly accept it?’

Chaloner waited for Leybourn to realise she was encouraging him to enjoin a brawl that would see him killed, but he seemed to have lost his senses as well as his heart. He shoved the spy behind him and held his rapier in a grip that would see him disarmed in the first riposte. Brome’s expression was one of horror, but Joanna darted past him and punched L’Estrange in the chest.

‘Leave him alone, you horrible man!’ she cried. The editor regarded her in astonishment, which turned to rage when people began to laugh. Joanna’s bravado began to dissolve. ‘I am not saying you are horrible all the time, but you are horrible when you challenge weaker men … I mean, you are …’

Abruptly, she turned and fled, scuttling behind her husband. Several onlookers snickered, but Chaloner thought she had at least tried to conquer her fear and make a stand to help a friend, and he respected her for it.

‘You are a phanatique, Leybourn,’ declared L’Estrange, turning back to his prey. ‘Why else would you be fined for the sale of unlicensed books?’

If L’Estrange had expected his observation to earn him the crowd’s support, he had miscalculated badly. There were booksellers and printers among them, and their sympathies were clearly not with the Government’s official censor. Leybourn found himself with growing support and, with alarm, Chaloner saw him draw strength from it.

‘Run him through, Leybourn,’ yelled Nott to accompanying cheers. ‘Williamson will no doubt appoint another cur to do his bidding, but he cannot be as bad as this mongrel.’

‘Please, Will,’ said Chaloner quietly. ‘Do not let them-’

‘Ignore Heyden,’ ordered Mary. ‘He is a coward, afraid to fight for what is right. You are brave.’

Chaloner could easily have disarmed his friend, but he did not want to humiliate him by exposing his ineptitude. And he certainly did not want anyone thinking L’Estrange had won the encounter.

‘Walk away, Will,’ he urged. ‘You cannot afford to let L’Estrange kill you. You have a wife to consider. What would Mary do without you?’

Mary’s expression hardened. ‘Actually, I would rather have a man who-’

‘He is right, William,’ called Joanna from behind Brome. ‘Think of Mary, and put up your sword.’

Mary was furious when Leybourn’s blade began to droop, but her rage was the cold kind, and she kept her temper admirably. ‘Perhaps you should fight Heyden instead, sir,’ she said prettily to L’Estrange. ‘William is no phanatique, but Heyden is.’

L’Estrange moved his head in a way that made his earrings sparkle, while his teeth flashed in an appreciative leer as he looked her up and down; Chaloner thought he looked like the Devil. ‘Heyden is a phanatique, is he? Would you care to tell me how you come by such information, dear lady?’

She smiled back, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘He was in the New Model Army, fighting Royalists — such as yourself — during the civil wars. And more recently, he was spying in Spain and Portugal.’

L’Estrange regarded Chaloner appraisingly. ‘I thought you had the look of a Roundhead about you. It is all to do with the boots. Was it you who made the Walbrook burst its banks?’

‘He is not a phanatique,’ shouted Joanna defiantly. When L’Estrange whipped around to glare at her again, she managed to hold her ground, although her voice trembled as she spoke. ‘And no one made the Walbrook flood. It is just something that happens when there is a lot of rain.’

‘We should be about our work,’ said Brome, boldly grabbing L’Estrange’s arm in an attempt to pull him away. ‘We have a lot to do, if Monday’s Intelligencer is to be ready in time.’

‘True,’ agreed L’Estrange, sheathing his sword with a flourish. ‘My time is too valuable to waste on skirmishing with old Roundheads. I can harm their cause much more deeply with my pen than a sword, anyway.’

Seeing the situation defused, Allestry tried to seize Leybourn’s weapon, although Nott looked disappointed the fuss was over. When Chaloner saw Mrs Nott nearby, eyes fixed longingly on L’Estrange, he understood exactly why the bookseller had wanted a brawl. Predictably, Mary made no attempt to help Allestry; her attention was gripped by the smouldering invitations L’Estrange was sending with his eyes. Chaloner sincerely hoped Leybourn would not notice, or no one would be able to disarm him and there would be blood spilled for certain. He turned to find Joanna at his side.

‘I see a solution,’ she said. Her face was pale, and Chaloner suspected the set-to had taken a heavy toll on the timid rabbit. ‘We shall arrange for L’Estrange to entice Mary away from William, and that is how we shall save him. I cannot think of a more deserving candidate for her affections. Can you?’

Chaloner had spotted Kirby, Treen and Ireton at the fringes of the dissipating crowd, and did not want a confrontation with them, especially in Smithfield, where they had access to reinforcements. He tried to take refuge in the costermongery, but it was still closed, and a notice on the door said it had suffered a flood, but would be back in business the following day. Inside, Yeo laboured furiously with a mop. Chaloner stepped into a butcher’s shop instead, a bloody little emporium of glistening entrails, smelly meat and vats of grease. He was not alone for long, because Joanna and Brome followed him, having abandoned L’Estrange to the various Angels who clustered around him. Mrs Nott was among them.

‘Why are you hiding?’ asked Brome. ‘L’Estrange will not fight you now, not while he has all those woman fussing over him.’

‘Actually, I am hiding from Hectors. I have aggravated rather too many of them.’

Brome was appalled. ‘That was rash! They are not just louts, you know — most are skilled fighters, and not all of them are stupid. And I hate to sound selfish, but we enjoyed your company the other day, and were hoping you might dine with us again.’

Joanna gazed at Chaloner with her huge brown eyes. ‘I hope you have not done anything to annoy Crisp; his Hectors are one thing, but he is another entirely. I would not like you on the wrong side of the Butcher.’ She shuddered involuntarily.

‘I doubt I am important enough to attract his attention,’ replied Chaloner.

‘Do you think Crisp was responsible for attracting that crowd?’ asked Brome of Joanna. ‘I saw him when we first arrived, but now he is gone. Do you think he dispensed one of his “lessons”? Perhaps on a shopkeeper who declined to pay the safety tax?’

Joanna shuddered again. ‘Lord! I knew we should have refused when L’Estrange suggested we come here to talk to Hodgkinson. I have never liked Smithfield, and it is a dreadful place now Crisp has accrued all that power. Perhaps we should all go home, before anything else nasty happens.’

‘We had a crisis with the newsbooks,’ Brome explained to Chaloner. ‘The Thames Street print-house is knee-deep in water, so Hodgkinson cannot produce Monday’s Intelligencer there. And this morning, blocked gutters flooded his Smithfield print-house, too. The situation was looking bleak, and we have all been sitting in St Bartholomew the Less, discussing solutions.’

‘Fortunately, Hodgkinson’s nephew has offered to print it instead, which is a relief,’ said Joanna. ‘We were just leaving, when L’Estrange saw the crowd and decided to investigate. He was hoping it might be a newsworthy incident, because we are short of material for the last page.’

They talked until Joanna said they should be getting back to the bookshop. Chaloner was sorry, because spending time in their company was infinitely more preferable to the other grim matters that beckoned to him that day. He waited until they had gone, then left the butcher’s stall, pulling up his hood against the rain. Within moments, he realised that Brome and Joanna were being followed. It was by Muddiman, so he moved quickly to intercept the man.

The newsmonger did not seem at all concerned that he had just been caught doing something rather insalubrious. ‘There is some sort of problem at the newsbook office,’ he said breezily. ‘So I have been spying on Brome in an attempt to find out what it is. Of course, we have a bit of a hiccup ourselves, thanks to you preventing Dury from reading those parliamentary summaries.’

‘My apologies,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But it cannot be the first time your plans have been foiled. I do not imagine L’Estrange jumps into bed with someone else’s wife every Saturday.’

‘Well, you would be wrong, because he does. I suspect he will have Leybourn’s before the day is out, too, despite the fact that he has already enjoyed Dorcus and her maid. He made a play for my wife once. He asked her to proofread the newsbooks, if you can credit his audacity. But he left disappointed, because she rejected his offer of work and his affections.’

So, Leybourn was not the only man to be blind in affairs of the heart, thought Chaloner. ‘He does seem unstoppable where women are concerned. I overheard what you said to those drovers earlier, by the way. You have started a rumour that L’Estrange is responsible for the Walbrook flood.’

Muddiman’s laugh was unpleasant. ‘We shall see how he likes being regarded as a phanatique.’

‘This is not the first time you have used your skill as a newsmonger — a gossip, in essence — to teach someone a lesson, is it?’ said Chaloner, giving voice to the conclusions he had drawn before Leybourn’s predicament had claimed his attention. ‘You invented tales about Newburne, too.’

Muddiman laughed again, and clapped his hands. ‘Extraordinary though it may seem, you are the first to guess that was me. Even Dury has not caught on. Arise, Tom Newburne! What does it mean? Does anyone know? Everyone thinks he does, but ask a dozen Londoners and they will all tell you different things. I amused myself by setting whispers and watching them ignite. Newburne was appalled, because it made him visible when he wanted anonymity. No defrauder wants to be famous.’

‘You told me the phrase meant he was Catholic. Dury had a lewd interpretation. Hodgkinson thinks Newburne rose from the dead. Leybourn said it describes men who drink too much and miss church. L’Estrange claims it means a rapid rise to power. Bulteel believes it refers to promotion in the face of brazen dishonesty. The Earl of Clarendon uses it as a curse-’

‘But my favourite is the one I told Newburne’s wife — that business about knighting people with a wooden sword. He did nothing of the sort, of course.’

‘You adapted the story to suit the recipient, playing on their superstitions, interests, fears and hopes. And you did it well, especially with Hodgkinson. The man actually witnessed Newburne’s encounter with Annie Petwer, yet you managed to make him think he had seen something completely different.’

‘Malleable minds. It is fun to shape them. Why do you think I became a newsmonger?’

‘You said it was to make lots of money.’

Muddiman cackled. ‘Well, there is that, too.’

‘Hickes is following you,’ said Chaloner, looking to where the hulking spy was making a bad job of pretending to inspect some sausages. ‘So who is watching Dury?’

‘I have no idea. We quarrelled today — because of you, in fact. I told him he should have taken firmer measures in Dorcus Newburne’s garden, and he told me he is not that sort of fellow.’

‘Firmer measures? You mean such as killing me?’

‘It would have saved us a good deal of trouble, although we appreciate your Spanish reports. Why do you refuse to help bring down L’Estrange? Surely you must see his venture cannot run much longer? People are already complaining about the poor quality of his news, and I am offering you an opportunity to back the winning side.’

‘I prefer not to work against the government when I can help it. Spymasters have a strange way of regarding such activities as treason.’

Muddiman smirked, an expression Chaloner found impossible to interpret. ‘My newsletters are better written, more informative and more popular than the rubbish Williamson lets L’Estrange print. You are a fool to throw in your lot with them, when I can make you rich.’

Wealth would do no one any good if his head was on a pole outside Westminster Hall, Chaloner thought, as he watched the newsmonger slink away with Hickes on his heels. He turned his attention to Hodgkinson’s print-shop, where the crowd had dwindled to a handful of crones. Like the costermongery next to it, water was trickling from under its door.

‘It is still in there,’ announced one old lady mysteriously, when he went to stand among them. ‘People do not believe us, but we know what we saw.’

‘A body,’ elaborated another. ‘We spotted its feet, but then Mr Hodgkinson came and hauled it inside, so no one else got to see it.’

‘It will have to come out eventually, though,’ said the first. ‘And when it does, we will call everyone back. Folk will see we are no Bedlam-toms, seeing things that are not there. We are sane; it is the rest of the world that runs mad.’

Chaloner entered the shop. The floor was ankle-deep in water, and Hodgkinson, dirty, wet and agitated, was scooping it into buckets. Lying on a bench, covered with a blanket, was indeed a body. Chaloner pulled the cover away, and was shocked to recognise Giles Dury.

‘I have had a dreadful morning,’ said Hodgkinson wearily, flopping into a chair and wiping his face with his inky fingers. He looked ready to cry. ‘Both my print-shops are flooded, I had to arrange for The Intelligencer to be published by my nephew — and he is charging me a fortune for the privilege — and then Dury chooses my premises in which to die? I shall be ruined!’

‘I imagine Dury is none too thrilled with the situation, either. What happened?’

‘You can see the mess I am in, so when L’Estrange, Brome and Joanna came here to discuss the problem with tomorrow’s printing, I suggested we talk in St Bartholomew’s Church instead. I must have forgotten to lock my door, because when I came home, there was Dury — dead on my floor.’

‘Murdered?’

‘No! I brought all the broken guttering inside after it collapsed last night, to prevent it from being stolen. He must have bumped into it in the dark, causing some to slip and hit him. What shall I do? Those harridans are waiting like vultures, and I cannot carry him out when they are watching. One is sure to start a rumour that I killed him — and I never did!’

Chaloner inspected the body again. Dury had certainly been hit with something heavy, because his skull was badly crushed. He glanced at the offending guttering, and supposed it might well have caused the damage. Of course, any other weighty implement would have done the same, and there was no way of telling whether there had been an unfortunate accident or something else entirely.

‘What was he doing here in the first place?’ he asked.

‘He must have come to spy,’ said Hodgkinson. Tears of frustration, self-pity and anger began to flow. ‘He and Muddiman are short of material for their next newsletter, so obviously he came to poke about here, to see what he could find. It was certainly his own fault, but what am I going to do?’

Hodgkinson was right to be worried, thought Chaloner. People would wonder why one of the newsbooks’ enemies should end up dead on his premises. There was not much he could say to comfort the man, so he settled for advising him to contact the proper authorities before his dallying really did begin to look suspicious. Hodgkinson had made a few half-hearted enquiries, but no one had seen Dury enter his shop. People had remembered L’Estrange, Brome and Joanna arriving — and then leaving moments later for the church — but Dury had apparently taken care to remain invisible.

Chaloner’s mind teemed with questions as he left the print-shop. Had Dury died in an unfortunate accident, or had someone assisted him into his grave? Hodgkinson, L’Estrange, Joanna and Brome could not have harmed him, because they had all been in the church together. Of course, it was possible to buy anything in London, including the services of assassins, so alibis meant little. Or was the culprit Muddiman, because he and Dury had quarrelled? Or was Williamson taking measures against the success of the newsletters? Chaloner was still weighing up the possibilities when Leybourn accosted him. The surveyor had been waiting for him at the end of Duck Lane.

‘I do not recall telling Mary you were in the New Model Army, or about Spain and Portugal,’ he said sheepishly. ‘But I suppose I must have done. Please do not be angry with her for blurting it out.’

‘Well, we are even with our wrongful accusations now,’ said Chaloner. ‘Hers almost saw me attacked for being a phanatique, and mine had her in the distasteful role of Newburne’s mistress.’

‘Do not worry. I did something that has soothed the hurt of your unkind words: I have made her the sole beneficiary of my will. She will have my house, shop, books and mathematical instruments.’

Chaloner regarded him in horror. ‘What about your brother? Surely some of that belongs to him?’

‘Actually, it is all mine — we share the profits, but that was only ever a temporary arrangement. However, times change and I have a wife to consider now. Rob will not mind.’

Chaloner suspected Rob would mind very much. With a sick feeling, he recalled Mary’s eagerness for Leybourn to fight L’Estrange: she already wanted him dead. ‘Are you sure that is wise?’ he asked lamely, suppressing the urge to tell Leybourn he was a damned fool.

‘Quite sure,’ said Leybourn. ‘You think she wants me for my money, but you are wrong. If she did, she would have left when my sack was stolen. She will do anything for me, even asking you to break the law by stealing me a Gunter’s Quadrant. She is a true friend. Here she is now.’

Chaloner saw Mary approaching — and L’Estrange walking in the opposite direction with a distinct bounce in his step. He was appalled. Mary would not risk being disinherited for infidelity, so her obvious course of action would be to kill Leybourn before she began wooing her next victim. And as L’Estrange clearly represented a far more lucrative catch, Leybourn’s time was fast running out.

‘There you are, William,’ said Mary coolly. ‘Still keeping bad company, I see, despite my advice.’

‘He wants to apologise,’ said Leybourn. Chaloner blinked at him. He did not mind apologising to Leybourn, but he was damned if he was going to do it to Mary. ‘Over what he said about Newburne.’

‘It is too late. He declared war on me, and I spit on his truce. Come, William. Mr Kirby is waiting for us near Mallard’s Costermongery, and I want to confirm the arrangements for tomorrow’s dinner. He has agreed to tell Mr Crisp what time to come.’

‘Near where?’ asked Chaloner sharply. ‘Mallard’s what?’

‘I was not talking to you,’ said Mary icily.

‘Mallard’s Costermongery,’ supplied Leybourn. ‘You must know it. It sells excellent cubebs.’

‘Mallard’s? You mean Maylord’s?’

‘The Court musician,’ said Mary impatiently. ‘Some folk called him Maylord, but his cousin — who sold him the shop — referred to himself as Mallard, so that is the name we continue to use. Apparently, Newburne cheated the poor fellow mercilessly. And that is the man you accuse me of seducing! You are a foul-tongued rogue, Heyden, and I hope L’Estrange runs you through one day.’

Clues were coming faster than Chaloner could process them, so he went to a grubby coffee-shop on Long Lane to think. The stench of burning beans, the sewage-laden mud that had been tracked inside, and the ever-present reek of tobacco was so potent that it made him nauseous. He had no money to buy coffee, but he had information. When the proprietor greeted him with ‘What news?’ he offered some in exchange for a hot drink and a quiet table. The owner was regaled with a detailed account of the plague that was raging in Amsterdam, and the Dutch physicians’ prediction that it might soon break loose to afflict other major cities.

The coffee house was full of talk about the near-flooding of White Hall. One man was arguing the case for moving the royal residence to Hampton Court, to be safe from such disasters, but most customers thought the King should stay where he was. With luck, they said, he would be seized by the Thames and carried back to France where he belonged, and if a few courtiers drowned on the way, then so much the better.

Chaloner sipped the hot coffee, feeling it sear his empty stomach and turn it to acid. He would not have drunk it at all, had he not been so cold. He thought about his investigation. Maylord had owned a shop that sold cucumbers. Was that significant? Had Maylord learned his wares featured in some peculiar deaths and that was the cause of his agitation? And had the killer then turned on him? Chaloner knew his first step should be to question the people who worked in the costermongery. He abandoned the coffee house and retraced his steps.

‘We are closed,’ called Yeo, when Chaloner hammered on the door. ‘Come back-’

‘Does Thomas Maylord own this shop?’ demanded Chaloner, forcing his way inside. ‘You said last time I was here that the proprietor was someone at Court.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Yeo, puzzled. ‘Originally, it belonged to Simon Mallard, but he sold it to his cousin, Thomas. Thomas never came here, though. Not once.’

‘He had an aversion to greenery. He thought it gave him hives.’

‘That is right,’ nodded Yeo. ‘His solicitor, Newburne, handled the business for him, and Mallard received the profits at the end of each quarter-year. After the September payment, Mallard claimed he was being cheated, and that the amount paid to him should have been higher.’

‘Was he right?’

Yeo shrugged, but his expression showed he thought the answer was yes.

Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. Many questions relating to Maylord were now answered. Newburne had been defrauding him, and during the process of exposing the solicitor’s dishonesty, Maylord had become frightened by something. He had appealed to Chaloner for help when Newburne had been murdered, but two days later he had followed the solicitor to the grave. Then Smegergill had become involved, and he had been killed, too. Yet although Chaloner had a clearer understanding of what had happened, he still had no idea about the identity of the killer.

When he arrived home, he found a letter had been left for him at the Golden Lion. It was from the linen-draper, Richard Bridges.

Sir,

I am compelld to telle the Truth, becaus the lie sitts heavye on my conscience. Annabel Reade was more than cooke-mayde to me; she lived as my Wyfe. When I learnd she was Marryed to Another, we argued and she was gone the next Day with sylver. The constables sett after her, she was tooke to Hange. But Hectors compelld me to buye her Freedome. Synce then they have demanded informations — mostly Gossyp from cofye-howses — and I Feare they use the Intelligences for Theevery. I saile for Tangier tonyght, and there they cannot reach mee, althou you must Watche for my hous and my Servants. Leybourn is a goode man, so save hym.

Yr servt Richd Bridges.

That evening, Chaloner sat in his attic trying to make sense of all he had learned. Rain pattered on the roof, which was leaking in several places. He lit a fire with a log he had found on his way home, and attempted to review the new information, but he was so hungry, he could not concentrate. He glanced up and saw three tails dangling off the mantelpiece. Sighing, he drew his knife, supposing that what he had eaten during the wars was good enough for now. He skinned and filleted the rats, then dropped them in a pot with the onion and sage from Dorcus’s garden. There was salt and dried peas in the pantry, so he added them, too, along with the cucumber and the spices he had bought from Yeo.

While the concoction simmered, he thought about his investigations, although answers continued to elude him, and he was distracted by the notion that Leybourn might be in grave danger. But eventually, a plan began to take shape, and he decided to implement it the following day. He shot to his feet when he heard a noise on the stairs. It sounded like a lone man, coming openly with no effort to disguise his approach. His dagger dropped into his hand when there was a sharp knock.

‘Heyden? It is Hickes. I need to talk to you. I came earlier, but you were out.’

Wondering what Williamson’s best spy could want, Chaloner opened the door warily, and gestured for him to enter. The cat came to sniff at him, and Hickes picked it up, ruffling its fur in a way that made Chaloner relax a little. Hickes would not be fussing over an animal if his intentions were too unfriendly.

‘This is nice,’ Hickes said, looking round appreciatively. ‘Cosy.’

‘The roof leaks, there are cracks in the walls, and the whole thing might tumble down at any moment,’ Chaloner replied. ‘Apart from that, it is a palace.’

‘It is just the rain,’ said Hickes, going to stand by the window, still cradling the cat. ‘It is doing all manner of harm, but when the ground dries, these old buildings will shore themselves up.’

Chaloner suspected the weather was going to bear the blame for a great many future evils, whether it was guilty or not. He closed the door and went to kneel by the fire. Hickes came to squat next to him, stretching his hands towards the flames. The cat squirmed in a way that said it wanted a lap, so Hickes obligingly arranged himself for its comfort. Chaloner supposed the man would not place himself in such an indefensible position if he intended to launch an attack, and allowed himself to relax his guard a little more.

‘I brought some oil for your lamp,’ said Hickes, producing a flask with a genial smile. ‘You so seldom light it, that it is difficult to tell if you are in or not. Shall I fill it for you?’

‘Thank you, but there is enough light from the fire. So, you have been watching me, have you? Dury has, too. Did you work together? I cannot see Williamson being pleased with that arrangement.’

Hickes was shocked by the suggestion. ‘We most certainly did not! I work alone. It is better that way, because then I do not need to worry about who can be trusted.’

Chaloner could not argue with that premise.

‘I do not like L’Estrange,’ said Hickes, somewhat out of the blue. ‘He asked my wife to proof-read his newsbooks, but she can barely write her name, so I cannot imagine what use she is to him. She still helps him twice a week, though.’

Chaloner was not sure what to say. ‘He seems to employ a lot of women.’

Hickes was shaking his head. ‘I cannot believe you thought I was working with Muddiman and Dury! They did offer me a bribe to leave them alone, but these things get back to Williamson, and I have no wish to die. You know what he is like when crossed — dangerous, vindictive and persistent.’

‘So I have been told. Do you spy on anyone other than Muddiman and Dury? L’Estrange, for example, perhaps by paying one of his colleagues for information?’

Hickes looked like a deer caught in a bright light. ‘No,’ he blurted, in a way that made it clear the answer was yes. ‘And I do not want to talk about L’Estrange. As I said, I cannot abide the man.’

Chaloner shrugged. The clumsy denial was an answer in itself. Clearly, Williamson did not trust L’Estrange, either, and Brome was being paid to monitor him. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, thinking that all the intrigue and scandal in the foreign courts he had visited had nothing on London.

‘That smells good,’ said Hickes, indicating the cooking pot with a flick of his thumb. ‘What is it?’

‘Rat stew. Would you like some?’

Hickes laughed; he thought Chaloner was joking. ‘If you have enough.’

It felt almost companionable, eating with someone by the fire while the weather raged outside. The stew tasted better than Chaloner remembered, and he supposed the spices made the difference. When they had finished, Hickes pulled a pipe from his pocket and began to tamp it with tobacco. Chaloner fetched his viol, feeling like music now he was full. Hickes grimaced in disapproval when he began to play, but listened quietly, cat in his lap, and it was some time before he spoke.

‘Did you know Dury is dead?’ he asked.

Chaloner nodded. ‘Killed by guttering.’

Hickes seemed about to spit in disgust, but remembered where he was and settled for making a hawking sound instead. ‘He took a blow to the head, but I saw his neck before they took the body to the church. His collar had been arranged just so, but I noticed the bruises at the sides of his neck. Someone took his throat in their hands and squeezed. Would you like me to demonstrate?’

‘No, thank you.’ Chaloner was surprised — yet again — that Hickes had thought to look beyond the obvious, especially as it had not occurred to him to do so. He stopped playing, better to concentrate, because he was disgusted with himself for his negligence. ‘Why did you inspect the body?’

‘Because he died on my watch. Williamson thinks I was careless, and has ordered me to find out what happened — although it is unfair of him to expect me to watch Dury and Muddiman at the same time. So, I looked at the body, although I cannot imagine how I will prove whether L’Estrange or Hodgkinson is the guilty party.’

‘What makes you think it is either of them?’

‘Because they are the ones with motives. L’Estrange wants to get back at Muddiman for being a better newsman. And Hodgkinson is a printer, so hates men who handwrite their news. It is obvious.’

It was not obvious at all, and Chaloner thought Hickes was an odd man — thorough and dogged on one hand, but apt to draw false conclusions on the other. ‘L’Estrange and Hodgkinson were doing business with Brome and Joanna when Dury died. Thus they have alibis in each other, although that does not mean they did not hire someone to do their dirty work. Is this why you came to see me? To tell me your suspicions about Dury’s death?’

Hickes looked sheepish. ‘Actually, I came to give you this. It is the music I found in Finch’s room. You asked whether I had collected any documents. Well, this was all I could find. By the time I managed to return for a more thorough search, everything else had been removed.’

Chaloner took the proffered sheet. It was, without question, the same kind of music that had been in Maylord’s chimney, and that L’Estrange had asked him and the Bromes to play. He kept his expression carefully neutral. ‘Did you know Muddiman and Dury followed you to Finch’s house the first time you went there?’

Hickes gaped at him. ‘They never did! I would have noticed — I am a professional spy.’

‘Right.’ Chaloner held up the piece of paper. ‘Why do you think I should want this?’

Hickes shrugged, and looked more uncomfortable than ever. ‘It is a sort of peace-offering — like the oil. I am confused and worried, and no longer know who to trust. I think Dury’s killer might be after me now.’ He showed Chaloner a small box with a label declaring the contents to be Theophilus Buckworth’s Personal Lozenges. Inside were several green tablets.

‘I hope you do not expect me to eat one of these.’

‘Of course not — they are an example of the poisonous pills I was telling you about last time. They were sent to me today, along with a note saying they ward off chills in men who stand around in the rain a lot. My wife encouraged me to swallow a couple, because my chest has been bothering me.’

‘But you know better than to consume gifts from anonymous donors,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether Mrs Hickes was aiming to clear the field so she could pursue L’Estrange unfettered.

‘Hodgkinson is missing,’ said Hickes, while Chaloner was still mulling over the implications of the pills. ‘He disappeared not long after Dury was killed. Do you not think that is suspicious?’

‘No, because he summoned the constables.’ Chaloner ignored the nagging voice in his head that told him the printer might only have sent for them because he had been caught with a body, and that to do otherwise would have looked suspect. He continued less certainly. ‘And how do you know he is missing? Perhaps he went with the constables to make an official report, or has gone to stay with friends because his properties are flooded. You are not “missing” after such a short period of time.’

‘When I found him gone, I searched his Duck Lane print-house,’ said Hickes. He handed Chaloner another piece of paper with music on it. ‘I found this. Will you play it?’

Chaloner started to oblige, but Hickes soon held up his hand for silence.

‘I thought so,’ said Williamson’s man disapprovingly. ‘It is that nasty, disjointed stuff that Finch said he found in Newburne’s room. He played it for me on his trumpet.’

Chaloner compared the two pieces. ‘They are almost certainly by the same composer.’

‘Hodgkinson is a dangerous, devious fellow,’ Hickes continued. ‘And I must speak to him about Dury as soon as possible. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?’

Chaloner did not think the printer was missing, devious or dangerous, and Hickes’s conclusions said his judgement could not be trusted. ‘No, but I will tell you if I find out.’

‘You should, because you may need my help soon. First, a lot of very unpleasant men are after you, and you need friends. And second, your friend Leybourn is keeping bad company.’

‘Mary Cade,’ said Chaloner unhappily.

‘Annie Petwer, Annabel Reade, Mary Cade. Call her what you like. Her real name is Anne Pettis.’

‘Pettis? But that is the name of the horse-trader who died of cucumbers.’

‘He was her first husband. However, if he died a natural death, I will dance naked in St Paul’s Cathedral. She killed him — I would stake my life on it.’

Chaloner regarded him in alarm. ‘You said you found some of these green lozenges on Pettis’s body. If Mary killed Pettis, then it means she must have dispatched Newburne, Finch, Beauclair and all the others, too. And she is in Will’s house.’

‘She will not kill him tonight — not the same day he changed his will. He is safe for a while yet.’

Recalling how eagerly Mary — he could not think of her as Anne — had encouraged Leybourn to fight with L’Estrange, Chaloner was not so sure. ‘How do you know so much about her?’

‘Williamson sends me to watch various Hectors sometimes. I knew it would not be long before she found another victim. Bridges managed to extricate himself, although it was expensive, but the fellow between him and Pettis ended up floating in the Thames. His name was Nobert Wenum.’

‘Wenum?’ echoed Chaloner, bewildered. ‘But he was Newburne.’

Hickes gazed back, nonplussed. ‘He was not! He was a totally different man, I followed him several times after he met Muddiman, and he was not Newburne. I am totally certain of it. I can see why Muddiman might have thought so, but he is wrong.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not seeing at all.

Chaloner waited a few minutes after Hickes had gone, then left via the back door. He sent a message to Thurloe about Wenum, then trudged through the deserted streets towards Smithfield. He wore an oiled cloak against the foul weather, and Isabella’s hat against attack. He did not think anyone would be following him, but he was cautious by nature, and took a circuitous route across the city, using alleys that would have been dark during the day, but that were pitch black at night. He crossed the River Fleet farther north than usual. It was a vicious torrent, and the bridge creaked as he used it, low and deep. He suspected it would be washed away by morning.

When he reached Smithfield, he headed for the Bear alehouse, making the assumption that it was one of Kirby’s regular haunts. He took up station behind a water-butt, but did not have long to wait, because it was already late and even Hectors needed to sleep. First out was big-nosed Ireton, who emerged to saunter fearlessly up Long Lane. Chaloner had intended to waylay Kirby, but decided Ireton would do just as well. He trailed the felon to a pleasant little cottage, and watched him unlock the door. He waited until the lamp was doused in the upper chamber, then let himself in. He saw a lute on the table downstairs, which served to confirm some of the conclusions he had drawn.

Ireton was fast asleep when Chaloner stepped into the bedchamber, but woke fast when a knife was pressed against his throat. He opened his mouth to yell for help, but closed it sharply as the blade begin to bite. He lay still, and waited to hear what his assailant wanted of him.

‘Maylord,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘What happened to him?’

‘Oh, it is you,’ said Ireton, immediately recognising the voice. He sneered, confidence returning now he was facing an opponent he knew. ‘Mary Cade told me about you, but I am confused. Who do you work for? It is not Williamson, and I doubt the Lord Chancellor would dare send a man against the Hectors. He, like most sensible politicians, treats us with respect.’

‘If you tell me the truth, you will live to see tomorrow. If you lie, I will cut your throat and drop your body in the Fleet. So, I repeat: what happened to Maylord?’

There was something in Chaloner’s low, purposeful tone that convinced Ireton he meant business. ‘Maylord?’ The Hector realised his voice was a bleat, and struggled to compose himself.

Chaloner began to test the theory he had so painstakingly deduced. ‘You killed him on Smegergill’s orders. You smothered him with a cushion — using enough force to break teeth — and left the cucumber to cause confusion. Did Smegergill tell you to do that?’

‘A confession will see me hang,’ said Ireton slyly. ‘But if I keep quiet, you can prove nothing.’

It was answer enough for Chaloner, and he itched to punch the man — or shove a pillow over his face. ‘Smegergill was teaching you the lute — Greeting said he had taken on some dubious pupils.’

‘Am I more dubious than a man who breaks into houses and threatens their occupants with knives?’

Chaloner ignored him. ‘You talked a lot during your sessions together. He told you how Newburne’s dishonesty was depriving Maylord of the profits from his costermongery. Perhaps it was you who suggested something should be done about it. Regardless, Smegergill encouraged Maylord to watch Newburne, and possibly convinced him to poke about in Newburne’s house.’

Ireton’s voice dripped contempt. ‘Prove it.’

‘The proof lies in the fact that Maylord suddenly elected to give Newburne — a man he despised — lessons on the flageolet; it is clear there was a reason for his abrupt acquiescence. Both owned houses on Thames Street, and I imagine the lessons took place there. During one of these tutorials, something happened to unnerve Maylord, so Smegergill helped him move to a different part of the city. Smegergill said he did not know where Maylord had gone, but he was lying.’

Ireton regarded Chaloner with contempt, but the temptation to gloat was stronger than his desire to say nothing that would help the spy unravel the mystery. ‘Of course, he was lying! He knew where Maylord went, although he could not find where he hid his valuables. Maylord kept that from him.’

‘And that is why he wanted me to go to the Rhenish Wine House with him. He anticipated that a professional spy would have better luck.’

‘So, what did you find?’ asked Ireton, curious despite himself. ‘Documents?’

‘Music. I have assumed it is irrelevant, but perhaps I should not have done. Maylord understood its significance, even if I do not — at least, not yet. Who wrote it? And who is it for?’

Ireton laughed derisively. ‘Music? Do not be a fool! Smegergill wanted a key, not music. He said it would pave the way to a box of priceless jewels. Why do you think I went to the Rhenish Wine House the day after he died? It was not for music, I assure you!’

Chaloner frowned. Locks could be smashed, so why had Smegergill wanted Maylord’s key? ‘Proof of ownership,’ he said in understanding. ‘Whoever has a key can show the hoard is his.’

Ireton inclined his head, but made no other reply.

‘Did you know there were two keys?’ asked Chaloner. He could see from Ireton’s expression that he did not: Smegergill had not been honest with his accomplices, either. ‘He already had one.’

‘You lie! Maylord stole the only one when he was teaching Newburne the flageolet. Then, because Newburne had been cheating Maylord for years, Smegergill told him to say the box was his. The key was proof of ownership, as you said. But then Maylord got cold feet, and began to baulk at carrying the plan through.’

‘So you killed him,’ said Chaloner.

‘I decline to say,’ replied Ireton, although the uneasy flicker in his eyes told Chaloner that he had. ‘And you can prove nothing. After Maylord was dispatched, Smegergill was going to retrieve the key and claim the treasure in his stead. He offered me a share for my silence.’

‘So, who killed Newburne? Smegergill?’

‘We were both at a musical soirée when Newburne died. You can check, if you like — a dozen people saw us.’ Ireton could not resist a brag. ‘Smegergill’s idea of leaving that cucumber with Maylord was a stroke of genius. No one except you is remotely suspicious. Do you know why he devised the plan that would see Maylord the owner of Newburne’s hoard?’

Chaloner nodded, aware that Ireton’s boast about the cucumber was guilty knowledge of Maylord’s death. ‘He wanted Maylord rich, because he was the sole beneficiary of Maylord’s will. He intended to kill his friend from the start — not to squander the money on wild enjoyment, but to support him in his old age. His joints were stiffening, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before he could no longer earn a living from the virginals. Now, tell me what transpired between you and Smegergill in the churchyard the night he died.’

‘We did not-’

Chaloner tightened his grip on the dagger.

‘All right!’ snarled Ireton, trying to flinch away. ‘There is no need to decapitate me. We made an arrangement, while Kirby and Treen dealt with you. How did you guess?’

‘Because of your actions in Smithfield last night. Treen was right when he said Crisp would want to interview the man who everyone believes killed Smegergill, but you were eager to kill me anyway. The reason is obvious: you knew Crisp would learn the truth from me — that I had nothing to do with Smegergill’s murder. So, what happened? How did he die?’

‘As soon as I saw him, I realised we had waylaid the wrong pair of musicians. He assumed you were dead when you fell to the ground, and was furious, because he said you were going to locate Maylord’s key for him. He had made plans: he was going to ask me to drive you to the Rhenish Wine House, and I was to knock you over the head once he had the key.’

‘What next?’

‘The graveyard ambush was a mess, and Kirby and Treen have loose tongues. He was worried about what people would think when you were bludgeoned to death, but he escaped unscathed.’

‘So he asked you to hit him, to make it look as if we were both victims?’

Ireton pointed to his mouth. ‘I tapped him softly here. I saw him walk towards you after I struck him, ready to raise the alarm once we were safely away. He tripped over you — you must have felt it.’

Chaloner recalled being kicked in the side, and slowly he began to understand what had happened. Dizzy from Ireton’s blow, Smegergill had stumbled in the dark and landed face-down on the flooded ground. And that had been that. Stunned, he had been unable to rise, and by the time Chaloner had regained his own senses, Smegergill had drowned. And yet it was hard to feel sorry for the old man. He had betrayed his friendship with Maylord by arranging his murder. He fraternised with Hectors, and put his future comforts above all else. In all, Smegergill had been a selfish, odious man, and Chaloner knew he should stop feeling guilty about his death.

There was no more to be said, and the spy was just considering the best way to deliver Ireton to the constables, when he heard a creak on the stairs. Someone was coming.

Ireton smirked. ‘Nothing happens in Smithfield without the Hectors knowing. Here is my rescue.’

Swearing under his breath, Chaloner knocked Ireton out cold with the hilt of his dagger and made for the window. He clambered on to the sill just as the door flew open and Kirby and Treen stood there, swords at the ready. More Hectors were hurrying up the stairs behind them. Chaloner dropped out of the window, rolling as he landed in an attempt to lessen the impact. He staggered to his feet and saw a carriage rattling towards him. Certain it was the Butcher, he jigged away, colliding with Kirby, who had followed him out of the window. The felon grabbed him by the throat, so Chaloner felled him with a punch that hurt his own hand.

‘Thomas!’ hissed a familiar voice as the coach’s door swung open. Chaloner dived through it, and Thurloe banged on the ceiling with the butt of his handgun. ‘Go!’

‘What are you doing here?’ gasped Chaloner, struggling to hang on as the vehicle lurched away.

Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘The same as you, I imagine. Trying to find a way to prise Mary away from William before she slits his throat.’