The Butcher Of Smithfield

Chapter 11

Thurloe said it was not safe for Chaloner to sleep at Fetter Lane that night, but agreed to let him collect the music, keys and Wenum’s ledger before going to Lincoln’s Inn. While the ex-Spymaster waited in the carriage, Chaloner ascended the stairs to his room.

The fire he had lit earlier was out, and he could no longer see. Then he remembered Hickes’s gift of oil. He groped in the darkness for fuel, lamp and tinderbox, and was about to fill the lantern’s reservoir, when he detected a faint odour that should not have been there. He stoppered the flask in alarm. It did contain oil, but there was also a sulphuric scent, and there would be an explosion if he tried to light it. It might not kill him, but it would certainly cause him injury. Who would do such a thing? Wryly, he acknowledged that there was a whole host of people who wanted him indisposed.

His first thought was that Hickes was responsible, but then he recalled how Hickes had offered to light the lamp for him. Did that mean Hickes had not known what would happen once a flame was set to the substance? The more he considered Hickes, the more he became sure he was the innocent instrument of someone else’s plot. But which one of Chaloner’s many enemies was to blame? Crisp? Muddiman? Williamson? L’Estrange? Mary? A Hector? Or was it Greeting, a man of whom he was becoming increasingly wary?

Quickly, he gathered what he wanted and left, first making sure the window was ajar for the cat — it was off hunting, and he did not want it to find itself locked out when it returned. As the carriage rattled to Lincoln’s Inn, he told Thurloe what he had deduced regarding Smegergill. The ex-Spymaster sighed.

‘I am not surprised to learn he would kill a friend to secure himself a comfortable retirement. What was the alternative? Teaching men like Ireton until he died? Performing for critical patrons like L’Estrange while his hands became ever more crabbed? But you have done enough on that case. I will arrange for the parish constables to arrest Ireton in the morning, assuming he has not fled the city.’

‘Will they do it? They are not too frightened of Crisp?’

Thurloe rubbed his chin. ‘True. Perhaps I had better visit the Lord Chancellor instead, and arrange for a contingent of soldiers to do it. It is a pity your reckless enquiries have not provided you with answers about Newburne, though. How much longer do you have?’

‘Until Monday — the day after tomorrow. All I learned tonight was that Newburne probably cheated Maylord out of a fortune. No wonder he was rich.’

‘And you think it was Smegergill’s plan to defraud Newburne of his jewels that turned Maylord so anxious in the last two weeks of his life?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘He had his revenge, though. He hid his key, and Smegergill never did find it.’

Thurloe was thoughtful. ‘And yet there is something about this explanation that does not ring true. I think Ireton may have been lying to you — at least in part. I do not doubt that having your dagger at his throat rendered him more willing to confide, but can you trust what he told you?’

‘Which parts do you not believe?’

‘The business with the key, mostly. I do not see Maylord being so single-mindedly venal over a box of jewels, and originally, Smegergill did say he wanted you to locate documents.’

‘But the “documents” were only that strange music,’ said Chaloner. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘Or, more likely, I found the wrong hiding place.’

‘I doubt you made such a basic mistake — you were trained by me, after all. You say this music has been cropping up in all sorts of odd places, so perhaps we should consider it more carefully.’

Chaloner tried, but answers still eluded him.

Thurloe sighed. ‘Then let us go back to Maylord, and what might have frightened him. I do not think he would have gone to pieces over the notion of defrauding Newburne of jewels — he was stronger than that. I think something else was responsible for his agitation.’

‘What?’ asked Chaloner, wracking his brains.

‘Hodgkinson’s print-house is near Maylord’s cottage. The news business is a dangerous one, and it would not surprise me to learn that Hodgkinson is engaged in something illegal. And now Hickes says he is missing. Perhaps Maylord’s unease had nothing to do with Newburne, but a lot to do with another neighbour.’

‘It is possible, I suppose. After all, Hodgkinson prints items for L’Estrange and Muddiman. And Dury was murdered on his premises.’ But that solution raised its own set of questions, and Chaloner could not see the answers to save his life. He rubbed his eyes again, defeated. ‘What did you learn this evening?’

‘That Mary Cade is the widow of a Smithfield horse-trader, who also happened to know Crisp-’

‘Valentine Pettis.’

Thurloe regarded him balefully. ‘You have been busy. When I was Spymaster, the Hectors were just a band of brutish felons whom we periodically crushed. Now they are a highly organised clan, and some are even intelligent. Williamson turns a blind eye to their dealings on the understanding that they will supply appropriate manpower when he needs something done.’

Chaloner’s unease intensified. ‘What are we going to do about Will? We cannot leave him in that woman’s clutches. We may arrive tomorrow and find it is too late.’

‘He will not appreciate being kidnapped, if that is what you have in mind. But I doubt anything will happen tonight — the Hectors will be too busy looking for you, for a start. We will act in the morning.’

‘And do what?’

‘I will think of something. You concentrate on solving Newburne’s murder for your Earl.’

Thurloe’s servant made up a bed for Chaloner in Thurloe’s sitting room, but although the ex-Spymaster swallowed a sleeping draught and retired immediately, Chaloner was too unsettled for rest, despite his bone-deep weariness. He sat crossed-legged in front of the dying fire and made piles of the four sets of music; the one from Maylord’s chimney, the one L’Estrange had given him, the one Hickes had taken from Finch’s room, and the one Hickes said he had found in Hodgkinson’s print-shop. The light was poor, but it was enough to work by.

He compared them minutely, his curiosity piqued by Thurloe’s suggestion that they should not be too readily dismissed. All were penned by the same hand, and when he picked them out on Thurloe’s virginals — certain the noise would not bother Thurloe after whatever medicine he had taken — they sounded unpleasantly similar. Then he recalled the tiny scroll that had been in Smegergill’s ring. The brief glance he had been allowed before Greeting had destroyed it had put him in mind of a cipher key — a crib for decoding secret messages. He recalled that a C-sharp was a T and an E-flat was a W. Could the music actually represent a message, and it was not the tune that the composer was trying to communicate to his listeners, but something else? Obviously, there were only seven note-names to twenty-six letters in the alphabet, but there were sharps and flats that could be taken into consideration, along with beats of different duration — minims, crotchets and quavers.

He started with the music from Finch’s room, because it was the shortest, working on the premise, familiar to all spies, that some letters were used more frequently than others. It was a sequence Thurloe had drilled into him years ago, and had enabled him to break into many a secret. The most commonly occurring letter in English was E, so he went through the music, and determined that the most commonly occurring note was a B. The next most common letter was T, followed by A, the latter of which seemed to correspond to a G, but one that was two beats in duration.

He made mistakes, and had to keep reworking what he was doing, but eventually a pattern began to emerge, and the idea was so simple that he wondered why he had not seen it before. Words began to appear, although they were interspersed with meaningless letters, a device to ensure the tune was not too outlandish. He began crossing out the extraneous ones, until he had a message that made sense — or rather, he had a collection of words in a rational order, which was not the same thing.

BE WARY. TOO MANY HORSES.

Too many horses for what? He moved on to the compositions he had recovered from Maylord’s chimney, barely aware of the watchmen calling two o’clock, and then three.

SHERARD LORINSTON. GROCER OF SMITHFIELD. LARGE SAD BAY MARE. MOTHER FIRST NEWE MOON WEATHER PERMITTING.

The next one read:

JAMES BRADNOX. VINTNERS HALL. THURSDAY FOLLOWING. GUILD MEETING.

And so it went on, message after message Heart pounding, he turned to L’Estrange’s piece.

RICHD SMITH. BELL SMITHFIELD. BRIGHT BAY MARE. SAINTE LUKE DAY EVE. THEATER.

Chaloner stared at it. He had met Richard Smith in Brome’s shop. The man had been placing an advertisement in The Newes, because his ‘bright bay mare’ had been stolen, and he wanted its safe return. Chaloner consulted Thurloe’s almanac, and learned that the Feast of St Luke was the fifteenth day of October, which was roughly when the man said the horse had been stolen. With a start, Chaloner also recalled him say that the thief was Edward Treen, who had been spotted in the very act of stealing the beast. The music was telling someone that on the eve of St Luke’s Day, Richard Smith had been planning to go to the theatre.

Chaloner chewed the end of his pen. Was that the essence of the messages? That someone was gathering information about the movements of men with horses, and was arranging to have them stolen? Had Pettis the horse-trader and Beauclair the equerry been part of the operation? Or had they been killed because they had worked out what was going on? And if Treen, one of the trio that was causing Chaloner so much trouble, had stolen Smith’s horse, then were his fellow Hectors responsible for the other thefts, too? Chaloner imagined they were.

He finished decoding the messages, grinning his satisfaction when one contained a note about Beauclair’s black stallion, then searched Thurloe’s bookshelves until he found back issues of The Newes and The Intelligencer. It did not take him long to learn that most of the men mentioned in the music had bought notices in the newsbooks, offering rewards for their animals’ return. So, what did that tell him? It certainly confirmed what he had heard in the coffee houses: that if a valuable animal was taken, then the best way to ensure its recovery was to advertise in the newsbooks.

Maylord had owned a horse. Had it been stolen? Chaloner trawled all the way back to L’Estrange’s very first publication, but Maylord had never placed an advertisement if it had. Was this the secret that Maylord had learned about Newburne, and Thurloe was right in that it had nothing to do with Newburne’s jewels? Chaloner lay on the mattress, but there were still far too many questions to allow him to sleep.

* * *

Events were beginning to spiral out of Chaloner’s control. It was only a matter of time before the Hectors tracked him down and tried to kill him, and he only had one more full day left to solve Newburne’s murder. He rose long before dawn with a sense of foreboding, thinking about what had happened, what he had learned, and the questions he still needed to answer. He woke Thurloe, sitting on the edge of the bed to regale the drowsy ex-Spymaster with an account of what the music meant.

‘And the fact that Smegergill started to wear the ring after Maylord’s death means he knew about the music, too,’ he concluded.

‘You are almost certainly right. Smegergill must have been determined to feather his nest at any cost. Perhaps he even helped with the encoding or decoding — he made money from these horse thefts, as well as aiming to get Newburne’s jewels and Maylord’s inheritance. I never did like the man.’

‘So, he had two reasons for smothering Maylord,’ mused Chaloner. ‘He wanted his inheritance and he was afraid Maylord would expose the horse-theft business.’

‘It explains why Ireton was ready to commit murder with him — he was protecting Hector business, as well as doing a favour for his friend and music-master. So, at last you know what frightened Maylord: it started with a hare-brained scheme — probably devised in the heat of the moment and later regretted — to defraud Newburne of his jewels, but it ended with him stumbling into the Hectors’ latest venture.’

‘He must have found the coded music while acquiring Newburne’s keys and, being a musician, it piqued his interest. He must have taken some, and become worried when he realised its significance.’

‘Do you think Finch was translating the music when he was murdered?’ asked Thurloe.

‘No, because he was playing it at the time. You do not need to play it to translate — in fact, it is better if you do not, because the melody is irrelevant. But there was a second person in the room when Finch died, someone eating a pie. I suspect he knew what the music entailed, and killed Finch to make sure he never worked it out.’

‘That particular missive said there were “too many horses”. Do you know what that means?’

‘Yes, I think so. The music directs Hectors to prey on specific victims, but it has been too successful. The message from Finch’s room is a warning, urging the perpetrators to cut back before their activities become obvious.’

Thurloe was uncertain. ‘Obvious?’ he echoed doubtfully. ‘Obvious to whom?’

‘To anyone reading the newsbooks, had the operation been allowed to continue at such a furious pace. It is not obvious now, because the warning was heeded.’

‘If advertising means the return of these valuable beasts, then it is small wonder that so many men are clamouring to buy newsbook notices.’ Thurloe frowned. ‘Horse-thievery has always occurred around Smithfield. I see all manner of connections emerging here, and I imagine you do, too.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘The music is directed at Smithfield-based men like Ireton, who plays the lute and so has an understanding of notation. Of course, it was the one thing I did not bother to ask him last night. He and the Hectors — Treen was actually seen taking Smith’s mare — steal these beasts, then Smithfield horse-dealers, such as Valentine Pettis, help to sell them. Pettis was Mary Cade’s husband, so I doubt his role in the business was an honest one.’

‘Rewards are offered for the safe delivery of most of these animals, so if Pettis could not effect a sale, the thieves could still profit from their crime by returning them to their grateful owners.’

‘Perhaps that is why Pettis was killed: he preferred a sale to a reward, because it would be more lucrative. He became greedy, and someone was obliged to stop him before he spoiled everything. Did I tell you that the night Greeting was supposed to have been ambushed, he was carrying music between L’Estrange and Spymaster Williamson?’

‘Yes — but that does not mean Greeting or L’Estrange are actively involved. L’Estrange might have somehow acquired the music from the villains, and was dutifully passing it to Williamson for investigation.’

‘Then why did Williamson toss it on the fire as soon as it was delivered? It is not impossible that L’Estrange wrote the music himself — he is an accomplished violist — for Williamson to pass to the Hectors. Williamson often hires Hectors, and we should not forget that he has allocated a singularly stupid agent to investigate this particular case.’

‘One who might have died giving you exploding oil for your lamp,’ mused Thurloe. ‘You said there was music on Wenum’s windowsill, too, but that is to be expected, given that Wenum is Newburne. And Newburne would certainly have involved himself in this, you can be sure of that.’

‘Hickes would not agree with you about the Newburne-Wenum connection. According to him, Wenum was one of Mary’s victims, found floating in the Thames.’

‘Then he is mistaken. I set my servant to work when I received your note earlier. Records are kept of drownings, but Wenum is not among them. Wenum is Newburne, which explains why Wenum has not been seen since the solicitor died. And, more to the point, we cannot overlook the very obvious fact that the names are anagrams of each other. Hickes must have been listening to unsubstantiated gossip, and he is not intelligent enough to know the difference between fact and speculation.’

Chaloner supposed he might be right, although an element of doubt remained. ‘He is an odd combination of credulous and astute.’

Thurloe was not interested in Hickes. ‘I visited “Wenum’s” attic in the Rhenish Wine House the other day, and I saw the book — Galen’s tome on foods — that you mentioned. That edition is actually rare and very expensive, so I took it to Nott the bookseller, and asked him to find out who bought it. He undertook similar tasks for me during the Commonwealth, so I have high hopes that proof will not be long in coming. I fully expect the owner to be wealthy old Newburne.’

Chaloner nodded vaguely, unwilling to commit himself one way or the other. He did not know what to think about Wenum.

‘What will you do today?’ asked Thurloe, when the spy made no other reply. ‘Other than keep your distance from Smithfield, of course.’

‘Speak to Hickes, ask who gave him the oil. Then question Muddiman about what Dury was doing in Hodgkinson’s print-house.’ Chaloner was not very enthusiastic, because he did not think either would provide him with the answers he so desperately needed.

‘You said Hickes wanted information about Hodgkinson’s whereabouts. If he refuses to cooperate, you can persuade him with the intelligence that Hodgkinson has a sister in Chelsey.’

‘How do you know that?’

Thurloe’s smile was enigmatic. ‘Hodgkinson is a printer. Such people have the means to flood the streets with seditious literature, so naturally, he was of interest to me during the Commonwealth.’

‘Hickes said he was dangerous. Is that what he meant?’

‘Hodgkinson is dangerous. He may seem amiable and pleasant, but he has a core of steel — and iron fists to go with it. He associates with insalubrious men, too. Why do you think he has a print-shop at Smithfield, of all places? It is not to sell cards and advertisements, believe me.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘Have I underestimated him?’

‘You have if you think he is some harmless innocent. Why? Did you cross him?’

‘Not as far as I know. So that explains why he was willing to “help” Greeting search for Smegergill’s killer in Smithfield. He is a Hector himself!’

Chaloner returned to his rooms to don different clothes before going to see Hickes, hurrying because he could not afford to waste time. Bells were ringing to call people to church, but it was pouring with rain again, and those who did brave the weather did so resentfully. His cat was still out, and he hoped it had not come to grief in the swollen runnels and streams that gushed to join the bloated Thames.

He strode to The Strand, in the hope that Hickes would be at his customary spot outside Muddiman’s house, but even the regular street-traders seemed to have given up the battle against the elements, and the city felt strangely deserted. The only other place he could think to look was White Hall: if Hickes was Williamson’s spy, then someone there would know where he lived. He asked Bulteel, whose bloodshot eyes and rumpled clothes indicated he had been working all night. The clerk leaned back in his chair and massaged his back.

‘Hickes lives in Axe Yard, Westminster, but I doubt he will be accepting visitors today. There is a rumour that he has been poisoned. Rat stew, apparently.’

‘I had rat stew last night, and I am not poisoned,’ said Chaloner, wondering if Mrs Hickes had persuaded her husband to swallow one of Theophilus Buckworth’s Personal Lozenges after all.

Bulteel shuddered. ‘You old soldiers! I have heard them wax lyrical about the lost delights of rat stew before, but I did not think they would eat it when more pleasant alternatives were available.’

‘I would not have to eat it at all, if the Earl paid me,’ said Chaloner, not without bitterness.

Bulteel stared at him. ‘You are that impecunious? You should have said! I administer a small fund for emergencies, and you should have some expenses for your work. Here is ten shillings. I cannot give you more, but it should last until you bring about a successful resolution to your enquiries.’

Chaloner accepted it warily. ‘Are you sure this is legal? I do not want the Earl accusing me of theft.’

Bulteel looked hurt. ‘Of course it is legal! Do you think I would risk my career with a new child on the way? Now you must sign my ledger, to say you have received the said amount.’

Chaloner bent to write his name in the book Bulteel had pulled from his desk, and saw the clerk was telling the truth, because it did contain a list of minor expenditures incurred on the Earl’s behalf.

Bulteel lowered his voice. ‘Your reasons for leaving Newburne’s hoard where it was were sound at the time, but the situation has changed. If his cellar floods in all this rain, it will almost certainly be discovered by the workmen who come to clean up. I think you had better bring it here — today, if possible — and I will find somewhere to hide it. I have a feeling you are going to need it soon. The Earl is expecting his answer tomorrow, and you do not seem overwhelmed with solutions.’

Chaloner did not want to waste precious time on treasure, but Bulteel was right — a chest of coins might well appease the Earl in lieu of a solved case. Because he now had plenty of money, he took a hackney to Old Jewry. It raced recklessly towards its destination, spraying water so high that it splattered over the buildings on both sides simultaneously. It also drenched other road-users, and their progress was marked by waving fists and curses. The driver swore back, and Chaloner was not surprised when someone brought the journey to an abrupt end by hurling a clod of mud. It missed the hackneyman, but the ensuing altercation looked set to last for some time, so Chaloner ran the rest of the way.

When he arrived, Dorcus Newburne was leaving. A carriage waited outside her house, and L’Estrange enticed her into it with one of his leers. The maid stood sulkily in the doorway, and Dorcus gave her a jaunty wave as the coach rattled away. Sybilla made a gesture that was far from servile, then left herself; Chaloner had the impression she was playing truant as an act of rebellion. He waited until she had gone, then hurried around to the back of the mansion, and fiddled with the door until it came open. Then he trotted quickly down the cellar steps, intending to unearth the jewels and leave with them as fast as possible.

The first thing he saw was that the barrel he had placed over the hoard had gone. The second was that there was a hole where the box had been. He stared at it in dismay. Had his act of moving the cask precipitated the treasure’s removal? If so, then it meant someone else had been monitoring it. He thought about L’Estrange’s sudden interest in Dorcus, and could not help but wonder whether the editor might have another reason for courting the widow of his colleague.

‘You think L’Estrange has the jewels?’ asked Bulteel, when Chaloner reported the bad news back at White Hall. ‘How will we get them back? Or shall we just forget about them? It is one thing invading Dorcus Newburne’s domain, but another altogether taking on L’Estrange. He knows how to use a sword.’

‘So do I,’ said Chaloner, wondering if the secretary really was nervous of L’Estrange, or whether he had his own reasons for wanting to pretend the hoard had never existed. Chaloner rubbed his head, and thought he had been a fool to think anyone at White Hall could be trusted.

‘No, it is too dangerous. Leave them. We will have to think of another way to appease the Earl.’

‘Leave them?’ echoed Chaloner. ‘I thought they represented your chance for better working conditions, as well as seeing me reinstated.’

‘They do, but they are not worth your life. I am a religious man, Heyden. I do not want a soiled conscience, and you have always been decent to me. You let me take credit for finding the Earl’s lost pendant when most men would either have kept it or given it to him themselves, to earn his favour. Allies are few and far between at the palace, and I do not want you dead.’

‘I am glad someone does not,’ murmured Chaloner, finding it hard to imagine that a simple act of honesty — and laziness, if the truth be known, because he had not wanted to be bothered with the Earl’s baubles — should have resulted in the making of a friend. In fact, it was so difficult to believe that he was more wary and suspicious than ever.

‘You do seem to have accrued a lot of enemies. Yesterday — before he was poisoned — Hickes told me some of the Hectors were asking after you, wanting to know where you live. He did not tell them, but they are resourceful, and it is only a matter of time before they find someone else to question.’

And Bulteel was a coward, who would probably tell them what they wanted to know at the first asking. Time really was running out, because Chaloner could not dodge them, uncover Newburne’s killer and watch Leybourn, all at the same time.

‘What will you do now?’ asked the secretary, when Chaloner said nothing.

The spy did not want to discuss his plans — and he certainly had no intention of confiding that he intended to search L’Estrange’s house to see if he could find a chest of jewels. ‘Visit Hickes.’

‘Be careful, then. I do not want to lose you just yet.’

‘Just yet?’ echoed Chaloner.

Bulteel smiled his uneasy smile. ‘Just a figure of speech.’

* * *

Axe Yard was not far from White Hall. It was a culde-sac of twenty-five houses around a cobbled yard, and although the entrance to it was small and mean, the court itself was pleasant. The houses to the north overlooked St James’s Park, and were occupied by ambitious men who wanted to be near White Hall. In the south, the homes were rather more shabby, and the one rented by Hickes was the shabbiest of all. Its paint was peeling, and its plasterwork in desperate need of a wash.

Chaloner knocked several times, then let himself in when there was no reply. He heard male voices from the further of the two ground-floor rooms; Hickes had company. He eased open the door, and was surprised to see Greeting, violin at the ready. Meanwhile, Hickes lay on a bed groaning.

‘We can try it again,’ Greeting was saying. ‘But if it was going to work, I think we would have noticed an improvement by now. Perhaps we should call a physician, and-’

‘Please,’ moaned Hickes. ‘Just once more, and if I am still no better, you can fetch Mother Greene from Turnagain Lane. She is a witch, and knows some remedies.’

Greeting began to play, and Chaloner recognised an old tune called the Sick Dance. Some people believed singing it would protect them from the plague, and Hickes obviously had even greater hopes. When he had finished, Greeting lowered his bow and looked expectantly at the ailing man.

‘Mother Greene, did you say?’ he asked, when Hickes gripped his stomach.

Hickes had seen the movement in the doorway. ‘Heyden! What was in your damned stew? I knew I should not have touched it when I offered some to your cat and it turned up its nose.’

‘You said Heyden ate the same food you did,’ Greeting pointed out, ‘and there is nothing wrong with him, so you cannot blame his cooking. Nor would he have let you offer some to his cat, if it was tainted. No man takes risks with his own cat.’

‘No,’ groaned Hickes, white-faced and unhappy. ‘I suppose not.’

Suspecting that if Hickes had been suffering for a while, then he was probably over the worst, Chaloner fetched milk from the pantry and mixed it with charcoal, which he collected from the hearth and ground into a powder with the handle of his knife.

‘Where is Mrs Hickes?’ he asked as he worked.

‘Proof-reading,’ replied Greeting, when Hickes only moaned. ‘With L’Estrange in Ivy Lane.’

Chaloner helped Hickes sit up and sip his concoction. ‘My sister uses this for upset stomachs.’

‘She is not the one who taught you how to cook, is she?’ asked Hickes weakly. ‘Why are you here?’

‘You asked last night if I knew where Hodgkinson might be. He has a sister in Chelsey.’

‘We know,’ said Greeting. ‘Williamson sent me there to look for the wretched man, but she has not seen him in weeks. However, it is good of you to come and tell us, and in return, I have something for you. I learned it last night, and planned to track you down today anyway.’

‘You mean about Butcher Crisp?’ asked Hickes, gagging slightly when Chaloner made him drink too fast. ‘What Williamson told us before I was taken poorly? Yes, tell him all that.’

‘Actually, I was thinking about Smegergill,’ said Greeting. ‘When I went through his belongings — which are now mine — I found documents telling me three things. First, Maylord was definitely being cheated by Newburne. Second, Smegergill was teaching the lute to a Hector called Ireton. And third, I was astonished to discover that Smegergill owned several magnificent horses currently stabled at the Haymarket. Unfortunately, I have a bad feeling he did not come by them honestly.’

‘What makes you think that?’ asked Chaloner, thoughts churning.

‘Because records show he acquired them after Maylord had accused Newburne of cheating him. I think there was extortion going on, and he was given these nags to keep him quiet. However, if you blackmail felons, you should not be surprised when you are presented with stolen property. I took Bayspoole with me — as Surveyor of His Majesty’s Stables, he knows horses — and he said one of the stallions belonged to Colonel Beauclair.’

And Beauclair was one of the men who had been poisoned with Personal Lozenges and a cucumber left to disguise the fact, thought Chaloner. Ends were beginning to come together, to make sense at last. He knew from the encoded music that Beauclair’s horse had been stolen by Hectors.

‘What did Williamson tell you about Crisp?’ he asked Hickes, moving to another subject.

‘That he has taken to killing his own people. He is now more than just an underworld king: he is a despot, who gains in power every day.’

‘I asked Williamson why he did not crush the fellow,’ added Greeting. ‘He is Spymaster, after all. But he said something I did not understand: that he needs to weigh the advantages first. What advantages? Surely, there are none to having such a man loose in our city?’

Chaloner suspected that Williamson had allowed himself to become more closely allied to Crisp than most respectable citizens would consider appropriate. He said nothing, and Greeting packed up his violin and left, saying he was due to play in the Chapel Royal for Sunday prayers. When he had gone, Hickes claimed he was feeling better, and that the Sick Dance had finally worked its magic.

‘My stew did not make you ill,’ stated Chaloner firmly. ‘What else did you eat?’

‘Nothing, other than what I had at your house,’ replied Hickes, rather shiftily.

Chaloner analysed the words with care. ‘Last night, you said you had visited me earlier in the day, but I was out. So, when you say you have had nothing other than at my house, are you actually saying you ate something more than the stew?’

Hickes flushed scarlet. ‘I was hungry, but I was going to replace it. Honestly.’

‘Replace what?’

‘The cake outside your door. I thought I would just sample a piece while I was waiting, but you did not return, so I had another. And suddenly the whole thing was gone.’

‘You ate food that just happened to be lying around?’ Chaloner was disgusted. ‘I thought you knew better. You had no problem rejecting the Personal Lozenges.’

‘Yes, but this was cake,’ insisted Hickes earnestly. ‘Cake is different.’

Chaloner suspected there was no point trying to convince him otherwise. ‘Who was it from? Was there a letter with it? A message?’

‘I threw it away when I accidentally finished the cake. It could not have been from whom it said, anyway, because he is missing.’

‘Hodgkinson?’ Chaloner was confused.

‘It must have been from him, because it was a beautifully printed letter. However, I made up for eating the cake by giving you the oil.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Chaloner, removing the flask from his pocket and holding it in the air. ‘The oil. It contains something volatile, so it was fortunate we did not use it. Where did you get it from?’

Hickes grabbed it, sniffed its contents and regarded him in horror. ‘You are right! It was another gift. So, there were two attempts on us in one night?’

‘One on each, I imagine: you should be blown up, I should be poisoned. Who gave you the oil?’

‘I do not know. It was left for me on my doorstep.’

‘And you did not question it?’ Chaloner was amazed Hickes had survived so long in the treacherous world of espionage, given that he seemed not to take even the most basic of precautions.

‘Why would I? Lamp fuel is not food, to contain poison. It did not occur to me that someone might make it explode. Why am I a target, anyway? Watching Muddiman is hardly dangerous.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner, lacking the energy to explain that a good spy considered every situation dangerous. He turned his attention to analysing the current situation, replacing the oil in his pocket as he did so. ‘The perpetrator is becoming worried, and is taking precautions to protect himself.’

‘But who is it?’ asked Hickes fearfully. ‘And how do we stop him?’

Chaloner had no idea. ‘Just answer a few more questions before I go. I saw you with Henry Brome on Friday, and you were giving him money. You lied about it when I asked. Why?’

‘Damn! We are always so careful, too. Brome is a decent man — truthful and loyal to the government — but Williamson says L’Estrange is not very trustworthy. So, he pays Brome a small salary for information about L’Estrange.’

‘What sort of information?’

‘Anything and everything. Williamson is not a good Spymaster — Thurloe did not have to pay men to spy on his own people, because he knew whom he could trust. Williamson does not.’

‘What kind of things does Brome tell you?’

‘That L’Estrange charges five shillings for each advertisement placed in the newsbooks, but tells Williamson it is only four.’

‘So, L’Estrange is dishonest?’

‘He is a government official, so of course he is dishonest! Upright ones are few and far between, and extremely poor. Take Bulteel, for example. He is honest, and it costs him a fortune in bribes.’

‘What else did Brome tell you about L’Estrange?’

‘Nothing much. Personally, I think Williamson is wrong to distrust him. He has his faults — more than most men — but his loyalty to the government is total and absolute.’

‘He cheats it of money.’

‘That is different — petty. It is hardly worth the risk for Brome to reveal these things. His wife is after him to stop, because if L’Estrange ever found out, there would be a terrible scene, and she says it is not worth the pittance Williamson pays. Or would pay, if he were not tardy with settling his bills.’

‘Do you believe Brome tells you the truth? He passes you everything he finds out?’

Hickes nodded grimly. ‘Oh, yes! You see, Williamson discovered that, as a youth, Brome wrote a pamphlet praising the Commonwealth. He says it is treason, and has poor Brome so frightened that he would never dare hold anything back.’

‘Poor Brome indeed.’

‘But even so, it is better than what is happening to the other booksellers — fined so heavily they will spend the rest of their lives in debtors’ prison. Where are you going?’

‘To see L’Estrange.’

The foul weather meant there were no free hackneys, so Chaloner travelled to Ivy Lane on foot. On The Strand, he met Muddiman, who invited him to read a draft analysis about the proposed Spanish marriage contract. The spy did not want to dally, but Muddiman remained a suspect for Newburne’s murder, and he could do worse than ask the newsman a few questions.

‘You must be shocked by Dury’s death,’ he said quietly.

Muddiman’s expression was bleak. ‘It started as a game, but it has now become something infinitely more deadly. Whose side will you back?’

‘Fortunately, I do not need to make such choices. All I need do is learn who murdered Newburne — and he was murdered.’

Muddiman sighed. ‘So much has happened since Newburne’s death that I had all but forgotten about it. However, I can tell you that it had nothing to do with politics and struggles for power. It did not even have anything to do with controlling the hearts and minds of London through the news. It was about horses.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘I know. Coded messages are passing between criminals, telling them which ones to steal on which nights. It is all contained in music.’

‘I suspected it would not take you long to work that out, especially when I learned L’Estrange had given you a copy of one of the messages. You spies are trained to notice that sort of thing, I believe.’

Chaloner did not like to admit it had taken him longer than it should have done. ‘How do you know about the code? Are you part of the deception?’

Muddiman gave a wan smile. ‘I am not, although I would not mind a share of the profits. The perpetrators must be making a fortune, and I envy them.’

‘I would not recommend an association with Hectors — look what happened to Newburne. And I suspect it was they who recently sent me a poisoned cake, too. Hickes ate it and is lucky to be alive.’

Muddiman looked shocked. ‘Hickes is not a bad man. I am sorry he is a casualty of this war.’

‘Do you know the identity of the killer?’ asked Chaloner, not bothering to mention the exploding oil. ‘If so, then please tell me. Too many people have died already, and he needs to be stopped.’

‘I would rather not ally myself to someone in the Earl of Clarendon’s retinue, if it is all the same to you. It would spoil my reputation as an independent observer.’

‘I want to stop a murderer, not rule the country. Talk to me. Tell me what you know.’

‘You talk to me. Tell me what you know. We have both worked out that the horrible music that is sailing rather freely around London contains orders to horse thieves — and to answer your earlier question, I learned about it from my search of Finch’s room. I doubt he had put the pieces together, but I am far more clever. Start from the beginning. Explain how you think this operation functions.’

Chaloner resented the squandered time, but was also aware that he desperately needed any answers the newsman might be willing to share. ‘Very well. Coffee houses are places to exchange gossip — such as who is away from home, or perhaps who plans to ride alone on a lonely road. These tales are carefully culled, and passed to the Hectors.’ He thought about the letter Bridges had sent him, revealing how he had been forced to pass such chatter to Hectors after his accusations had almost seen Mary hanged for theft.

Muddiman inclined his head. ‘I concur. Butcher Crisp is a powerful criminal, who has a network of people listening in coffee houses. The intelligence is passed to him, and he sends instructions to villains such as Ireton in the form of music.’

‘Why music? Why not a simpler system? Or why not word of mouth?’

‘Because the music code is very secure — only a few people can decipher it — and it totally conceals the identity of the sender.’

This did not seem right. ‘But you and I both know the sender is Crisp.’

‘Yes, but we cannot prove it, can we? You will have to catch him writing the music in order to be sure of his guilt. And using music means the recipients of these orders never meet the man who issues them. Ergo, they can never testify against him. So, what happens after the horses are stolen?’

Chaloner was still unconvinced, but he pressed on. ‘If the victims advertise in The Newes or The Intelligencer, their property is often returned. L’Estrange has five shillings for every notice printed, and perhaps even a share of the reward when the thieves restore the horses to their rightful owners.’

Muddiman laughed humourlessly. ‘He gains from the paid advertisements, but I doubt he knows about the music. He plays it from time to time, but I suspect its real meaning has eluded him.’

Chaloner was not so sure. ‘You have a tendency to underestimate him, because of his campaign against phantom phanatiques, but that is a mistake. Even if he does not understand how the music relays messages to thieves, he knows the meaning of an increased demand for newsbook notices.’

Muddiman gazed at him. ‘Are you saying these thefts benefit him, by encouraging people to buy his newsbooks? The advertisements actually improve circulation?’

‘That is exactly what I am saying. Victims have their property returned after buying these notices. They discuss it in the coffee houses. More horses are stolen, and more notices bought. More people purchase the newsbooks to see which of their friends have lost animals — or had them recovered. And once the newsbook is bought, people read the other stories, too. It is about gaining hearts and minds.’

Muddiman shrugged. ‘You may be right, although L’Estrange still has a problem in that people take his “news” with a pinch of salt. If he limited himself to writing reports, rather than indulging in rants, his publications might be a threat to me. But they are not, not as they stand.’

‘Do you know how Dury died? Hickes thinks Hodgkinson did it.’

‘When I saw Hickes examine Dury’s body, I waited until he had gone and went to do the same. I saw the bruises on his throat, so I know he was strangled. But they were bruises, not dirty marks.’

Chaloner understood what he was saying. ‘Hodgkinson’s hands are always inky, and he would have left traces of dye on Dury’s neck. But if Hodgkinson is not guilty, then who is?’

‘L’Estrange?’ asked Muddiman with a shrug. ‘Not Hickes — he would not have inspected Giles’s neck, if he had been responsible. Crisp? After all, Dury did die in Smithfield. Wenum, perhaps.’

‘Wenum is Newburne.’

‘I doubt it, as I have told you already. I appreciate it is odd that Nobert Wenum should happen to spell Tom Newburne, but perhaps it was Wenum’s private joke.’

Chaloner was not sure about anything connected with Wenum. ‘Then who is he? He abandoned his room about the same time that Newburne died. And you told me he drowned in the Thames.’

‘But his body was never recovered, was it? Maybe he realised the stakes were being raised, and ran while he could. Spying is a dangerous business, as I am sure you know all too well.’

The streets were so badly flooded that it was difficult for Chaloner to move very fast through them. Many were solid sheets of water, under the surface of which lurked potholes and other hazards. The continued rain made no difference to his clothes: he could not have been more wet had he jumped in the river. Everyone was the same, and he could even hear some houses groaning, as if their waterlogged timbers were beginning to buckle. Then people started to yell the news that a roof had collapsed in Canning Street, and three people had been crushed to death.

When Chaloner arrived at Ivy Lane, L’Estrange was not there. Brome and Joanna, removing hats and coats after Sunday church, said he had gone out but added that he had declined to say where. Brome ventured the opinion that his errand had almost certainly not been religious, and that one of the Angels was probably involved. Chaloner had been ready for a confrontation, and L’Estrange’s absence was an anticlimax. He experienced an overwhelming weariness, his sleepless night beginning to catch up with him.

‘Then I should speak to Hodgkinson. It is urgent.’

‘He is not here, either,’ said Brome. ‘I have not seen him today, but that is not unusual for a Sunday. Can we help?’

‘You are soaking,’ said Joanna kindly. ‘Come and sit in the pantry and take some hot wine.’

Chaloner was loath to lose yet more time, but he did not know where else to go for answers. He accepted the wine, burning his mouth when he tried to drink it too soon. He felt like dashing the cup against the wall in frustration, because everything seemed to be taking too long, even wine to cool.

‘Do you know who writes that discordant racket for L’Estrange?’ he asked, trying to calm himself. ‘The stuff we tried to play on Friday?’

‘I do not think he commissions it,’ said Joanna, seeming to sense his brewing agitation, and speaking softly to soothe him. ‘And it is not delivered, as far as we know; he just acquires it. Henry believes it is some kind of code, and that he is communicating with someone.’

Chaloner regarded Brome sharply. ‘Why do you think that?’

‘Because the tunes are not real music,’ explained Brome. ‘The harmonies are wrong, and there are too many flats and sharps. He obtains information for his newsbooks from so many sources, that I have wondered whether these airs contain snippets of foreign intelligence, sent to him by spies.’

‘I disagree, though,’ said Joanna. ‘I believe it is just bad music. What do you think, Mr Heyden?’

‘That I prefer more traditional melodies,’ replied Chaloner noncommittally.

‘Well, I do not really want to know how L’Estrange gathers his news,’ said Brome with a shudder. ‘It is bound to be distasteful, and all I want is a quiet life with Joanna.’

Chaloner was afraid he was not going to have it. He disliked upsetting a man who had been friendly and hospitable towards him, but he needed to know for certain that Hickes had told the truth about Brome being in the Spymaster’s pay. He took a deep breath and launched into an attack.

‘I understand you spy on L’Estrange for Williamson,’ he began baldly.

Joanna’s sweet face crumpled into a mask of dismay, and the cup she had been holding clattered to the floor. ‘How dare you say such a thing! We have never-’

Brome silenced her by laying a hand on her shoulder. ‘Do not try to mislead him, dearest. It will only make matters worse, and if someone at White Hall has been indiscreet, then the safest course of action now is for us to tell the truth. Do not forget that Heyden is the Lord Chancellor’s man — and we cannot afford to be on the wrong side of another powerful member of government.’

‘No,’ said Joanna, regarding Chaloner with a stricken expression that cut him to the core. ‘I will not forget that. Not again.’ She turned and buried her face in her husband’s shoulder.

Brome’s voice shook slightly. ‘I had no choice but to do what Williamson asked, because he discovered something about me that I would rather was kept quiet.’

‘You wrote seditious pamphlets,’ said Chaloner.

Joanna’s head jerked up, eyes brimming with tears. ‘He wrote a pamphlet, when he was fifteen. It praised the Commonwealth when Cromwell was Protector, so was regarded as patriotic at the time. But now it is treason. It is unfair! Who did not do things then that he would never consider now?’

‘Who told you about the pamphlet?’ asked Brome hoarsely. ‘Surely not Williamson? He gave me his word that he would say nothing if I did as he asked.’

Joanna stood suddenly, and grabbed a poker from the fire. Her hands shook so badly that she was in danger of dropping it. ‘It does not matter who told him, but we cannot let him tell anyone else. The government will say we are phanatiques. They will seize our shop and we will be disgraced, ruined.’

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Brome uneasily. ‘Dash out his brains? In our sitting room?’

Tears slid so fast down Joanna’s cheeks that Chaloner imagined she was all but blinded. ‘I will not let him destroy you. I will not! They can hang me for murder, but I will protect you with all I have.’

‘Joanna, please,’ said Brome, making an unsteady lunge towards her. Joanna raised the weapon and he flinched backwards, stumbling into Chaloner. ‘This is not helping.’

Joanna aimed a blow at Chaloner, but he evaded it with ease, and grabbed the iron when she was off balance. She tried to resist, but it was not many moments before the poker was back in the hearth.

‘I doubt anyone will care about a pamphlet published so long ago,’ said Chaloner gently, helping Joanna into a chair. She was shaking violently and sobbing as if her heart would break. ‘Williamson has played on your fears — terrorised you into thinking he has uncovered a darker secret than is the case.’

Brome gazed miserably at him, and when he spoke, his voice was low with shame. ‘I penned a sentence that mocked the old king’s beard, and Williamson said I would hang if he ever had cause to show it to anyone at Court.’

It was Chaloner’s turn to stare. ‘He said that was seditious?’

Brome nodded, red with mortification. ‘I did not mean it. The King’s father had a very nice beard, and I imagine I was jealous of it at the time, because I did not have one.’

Chaloner rubbed his head, wondering how the Spymaster could sleep at night when he took advantage of such easy prey. ‘How did Williamson find out about it in the first place?’

Joanna was still crying, great shuddering sobs that wracked her body. Brome knelt next to her and held her tightly. ‘I believe someone sent it to him for malice, but I do not know who.’

Chaloner had his suspicions. ‘Muddiman. Or Dury. They produced the Commonwealth’s newsbooks, and probably have a fine collection of Parliamentarian literature between them.’

‘Muddiman has an excellent memory,’ conceded Brome slowly. ‘He must have recalled me writing something and looked it up. But why would he do such a spiteful thing?’

‘To sow the seeds of discord between L’Estrange and his assistant,’ explained Chaloner. ‘A weakened L’Estrange is a good thing for him.’

‘Oh, God!’ said Brome shakily. ‘Of course! I should have seen it weeks ago. I do not think I am cut out for this sort of subterfuge.’

Chaloner was sure of it. ‘So what have you told Williamson about L’Estrange?’

‘Nothing!’ cried Brome. ‘Because there is nothing to tell. Believe me, I would have uncovered something if it was there to find, given the pressure Williamson puts me under. L’Estrange is cantankerous, greedy, irritable and not always scrupulously honest with money, but these are minor faults, and he does nothing brazenly illegal.’

‘He is a rake,’ said Joanna. Her eyes had swollen from tears, and she gripped Brome’s coat so hard that her knuckles were white. ‘Mean and selfish. And likes to seduce other men’s wives.’

‘He has been after Joanna for ages,’ added Brome.

She gave him a wan smile, then turned back to Chaloner. ‘What will you do now? Inform L’Estrange what we have been doing? Or tell the Earl how I almost killed his spy with a poker?’

Chaloner was amused that she thought she had posed a danger to him. ‘It takes a ruthless, resilient kind of person to succeed in the news business. Perhaps you should revert to plain bookselling. But do not worry about L’Estrange. He will not learn what you have been doing from me.’

‘You are kind,’ sniffed Joanna. ‘And I shall tell you a secret in return. When L’Estrange refused to tell us where he was going, I set my maid to follow him. He went to Monkwell Street. I suspect Mary Cade is already priming her next victim, so it will not be long before she relinquishes her hold over William. It is good news.’

Chaloner did not think so; he was appalled. ‘She needs Will dead first, to inherit his property.’

Joanna’s jaw dropped. ‘Then we must make sure she does not succeed. I shall visit him at once-’

‘No,’ said Chaloner sharply, suspecting she would get herself hurt if she tried to interfere with Mary. ‘Leave them to me.’

‘We are not cowards,’ said Brome with quiet dignity. ‘We are not afraid to go to his rescue.’

‘I know,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘But trying to reason with him will do no good, and might even make the situation worse. We must devise another way to foil her.’

‘How?’ demanded Brome. ‘Will you let us help?’

Chaloner nodded, but had no intention of doing so. They would be a liability, and he could not look after them and Leybourn at the same time. He wished they would just leave London while they were still relatively unscathed. Joanna accepted his acquiescence without demur, and he saw it had not occurred to her that he might lie. She really was too innocent for her own good.

‘Very well,’ she said, ‘but I insist you borrow my gun.’

‘Your gun?’ Chaloner was not sure he had heard her properly.

‘It belonged to my father.’ She went to a chest and removed a small dag. The firing pin was broken, so it would not work, but Chaloner took it anyway, loath to hurt her feelings by refusing. ‘It is loaded. Well, I think it is loaded, but I am not really sure how it works, so …’

She trailed off helplessly, and Chaloner checked it was not before he tucked it in his belt. ‘I had better see if I can find L’Estrange.’

‘Then be careful,’ said Joanna, following him to the door. ‘And do not forget to tell us when you require help with Mary.’

‘Please do as she says,’ said Brome softly. ‘You need someone you can trust in this wicked city.’

Chaloner left the bookshop despising Williamson for dragging the Bromes into the murky world of espionage, especially on such a flimsy pretext. He found himself wanting to avenge them somehow, and hoped with all his heart that he would uncover evidence to prove the Spymaster did indeed hire Hectors for his dirty work. If so, then Chaloner would do all he could to see it included in Muddiman’s newsletters, with a view to creating a scandal that would see Williamson disgraced and dismissed. He set off towards Monkwell Street, but had taken no more than two or three steps before he heard his name being called. It was Nott the bookseller, whose premises were opposite.

‘Thurloe asked me to identify the owner of that Galen,’ he said when Chaloner went reluctantly to see what he wanted. ‘He said when I had my answer, I was to tell either him or you. I just happened to spot you coming from Brome’s house, and I thought-’

‘You know who bought it?’ interrupted Chaloner impatiently.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Nott. ‘Its binding makes it unique, you see, because it is-’

‘Who?’

Nott told him, and Chaloner felt the situation become more urgent than ever.

‘And there is something else,’ the bookseller burbled on. ‘Jonas Kirby was here earlier. He knows you and I are acquainted, because he asked me to give you a message.’

He handed Chaloner a folded piece of paper. When the spy opened it, all it contained was a crude drawing of a cat with a gibbet beneath it.

Daylight was fading by the time Chaloner reached Leybourn’s house. Door and windows were closed, and Leybourn’s colleague Allestry was loitering outside. Allestry was peeved because the surveyor had shut shop early after making an appointment with him. He had struggled all the way from St Paul’s in the teeming rain, and now would have to walk all the way home again for nothing. Concerned, Chaloner went to see Leybourn’s brother.

‘I have not seen him all day,’ said Rob. ‘Did you know he changed his will? I could not believe it! Mary says she will look after my family, but I do not trust her. I wish I could expose her as the lying cheat she is, but Kirby came to see me this morning, and said that if I did anything to malign her, he will hurt my children. She has won this war, Tom. We cannot fight her sort of battle.’

Chaloner thought about his missing cat. ‘They think they can intimidate us by striking at the things we hold dear. But they are in for a shock — I do not like bullies.’

Rob was alarmed. ‘There are too many of them to take on, and while I appreciate your loyalty to Will, there is no point in squandering your life. Do you know who is due to dine with him today? Ellis Crisp! Go home, Tom, and try not to think about it.’

‘The Butcher of Smithfield,’ mused Chaloner. ‘I have been wanting to meet him for some time.’

The wind drowned any sound Chaloner might have made as he climbed up the back of Leybourn’s house and let himself in through an upstairs window. The door to the main bedchamber was closed, and when Chaloner opened it, something furry emerged to rub around his legs. He smiled, and spent a moment petting his cat, allowing it to purr and knead his shoulder with its claws. He wondered how Mary had explained its presence to Leybourn. It objected when he shut it in the bedroom again, but he could not risk it tripping him when he was trying to move stealthily, and it was safer where it was.

He crept downstairs, hearing voices raised in laughter. He smiled grimly: he had known someone was in, despite the air of abandonment outside. The reek of tobacco wafted towards him, along with the scent of new bread and roasting meat. He reached the bottom of the steps and peered through a gap in one of the door panels.

Leybourn was sitting at the head of his table, and Mary was at the foot. Between them were a number of familiar faces, including Kirby and Treen, both in their finest clothes. The Hectors were clearly on their best behaviour, but even so, their lack of manners showed in the clumsy way they used their silver table forks. Long-nosed Ireton was watching them with amused disdain. Next to Leybourn was a man Chaloner did not know. He was huge, with a heavy, brooding face and eyes so deeply set they were almost invisible. On Leybourn’s other side was a tiny fellow with a red face and pale eyes, like a pheasant. Prominent on the table was a dish of cucumbers and a huge pie. Chaloner supposed the latter had been furnished by the Butcher of Smithfield, and wondered whether it contained anyone he knew. Mary picked up the cucumbers.

‘Try one of these, William,’ she said. ‘They are delicious.’

‘No, thank you.’ Leybourn’s voice was strained, and Chaloner was under the impression he was not enjoying the party. ‘Galen says cucumbers are bad for the digestion.’

‘Piffle,’ said Mary. Even Chaloner was surprised by the curt tone of her voice, and Leybourn looked positively distraught. ‘Eat one.’

‘I would rather not,’ said Leybourn plaintively. ‘It might make me ill.’

‘Then I shall cut it up for you,’ said Mary, going to stand behind him. She held a knife, and Chaloner was not entirely sure what she intended to do with it. He was not prepared to stand by while she slit his friend’s throat, though. He stepped into the room with his sword in one hand and Joanna’s useless gun in the other.

‘He said he does not want it.’

‘You!’ snarled Ireton, surging to his feet. Mary made a hissing sound, and he sat again, albeit reluctantly. As he did so, he picked up the knife he had been using to cut his meat.

‘Tom!’ said Leybourn uncertainly. ‘Where did you come from?’

‘From upstairs,’ said Mary. She did not seem disconcerted by the spy’s sudden appearance. In fact, she seemed inexplicably pleased about it, and Chaloner had the sudden sense that something was about to go very wrong. He glanced around quickly, trying to assess what it might be. ‘He regularly burgles your house, as I told you before.’

‘He took your money sack off me,’ added Kirby, eager to support her claim. ‘I recognise his voice now. He came at me with a dag …’ He trailed off when he realised the implications of what he had said. Ireton was not the only Hector who rolled his eyes.

‘Yes, I took it from you,’ agreed Chaloner pleasantly. ‘After I saw you steal it from Will. I cannot imagine how you knew where to look for it — unless someone told you its whereabouts, of course.’

‘Where is my money, Tom?’ asked Leybourn, hurt and bewildered.

‘That is a good question,’ said Kirby, standing slowly. There was a dagger in his hand, and several Hectors grinned at each other, anticipating some entertaining violence. ‘And you will answer it.’

‘Before or after I paint the wall with your brains?’ asked Chaloner, aiming the gun at him.

Kirby sat quickly, but Ireton was less easily intimidated. ‘And then what? You shoot Kirby, but how will you tackle the rest of us? You cannot win against us all.’

‘No one is going to kill anyone,’ said Leybourn. His face was white with anguish. ‘What is wrong with you all? Mary told me you were civilised.’

‘It is all right, Jonas,’ said Mary, as Kirby’s fingers tightened around his dagger. Her eyes flicked towards the fire, passing him a message. Chaloner glanced at the hearth, where there was a merry blaze. Over it was a cauldron-style pot containing something that bubbled, along with a side of pork on a spit. Chaloner had eaten nothing all day, but there was something about the situation that robbed him of his appetite. Something was definitely not right.

‘Do not worry about his gun,’ said the pheasant-faced man to Mary. He grinned merrily at her. ‘The firing pin is broken, so it is quite harmless.’

‘So it is,’ said Ireton, suddenly gleeful. ‘That puts a different complexion on matters!’

Treen laughed jubilantly, and several of the Hectors produced daggers.

‘No!’ breathed Leybourn in a strangled voice. ‘Stop!’

Chaloner saw his situation was fast becoming hopeless, and knew he should have taken more time to assess the situation before acting. What could he do against a dozen armed men? He could eliminate some with his sword, but it would only be a matter of time before he was overwhelmed. And then what would happen to Leybourn?

Mary smiled coldly at him. ‘I have been saying for some time that you should meet Mr Crisp, and he has honoured us with his presence at dinner this evening. So, I am delighted you came.’

Chaloner expected the large, menacing man to reply, and was startled when Pheasant Face looked up and beamed at him.

‘Are you a bookseller, too?’ he asked cheerfully. ‘I like booksellers! They are an erudite lot, and there is so much to learn these days. I read an English translation of Galileo’s Dialogo just yesterday, although I prefer the original Latin. Leybourn tells me you were at Cambridge.’

Chaloner was bemused. A cheery gnome who read Latin was not what he was expecting from the Butcher of Smithfield. He recalled glimpsing a round, smiling face at Newburne’s funeral, and supposed it was the same man. Then he remembered the catlike grace with which Crisp had moved when he was with his Hectors at Smithfield and in Old Jewry, and was not so sure.

‘Who is your father?’ Chaloner asked, somewhat abruptly. Ireton sniggered — he knew the line Chaloner’s thoughts had taken.

‘This is Crisp,’ said Leybourn in a small voice. ‘I have known him for years.’

But something was awry. And why were the Hectors not attacking him when they could overpower him with ease?

‘My father is Sir Nicholas,’ replied Crisp genially. ‘Have you read my piece on inshore winds and climate, by the way? Leybourn was good enough to say it was a significant contribution to navigation.’

‘But I did not know you had written it, not until tonight. It was published anonymously.’ Leybourn sounded as confused as Chaloner felt.

‘I am a modest man,’ said Crisp. ‘Where are you going, Ireton? I hope it is not to fetch your lute. I dislike music. This pork is excellent, incidentally. May I have some more?’

‘In a moment,’ said Mary, dismissing him carelessly. ‘We are celebrating.’

‘Celebrating what?’ Chaloner was watching Ireton, who had gone to lean against the far wall with his hands tucked into his belt. The spy was growing more bewildered by the minute. Ireton did not seem to be moving towards a weapon, so what was he doing?

‘William and I made wills today, leaving all our property to each other,’ said Mary. Her voice was smug, and Leybourn settled back into his dazed state. ‘Thurloe threatened to apply some devious legal ruling that would see me disinherited, but Ireton is a lawyer, too, and he worked out a way to prevent that from happening.’

Ireton removed a pipe from his pocket, the picture of insouciance. ‘Thurloe’s ploy will not work now she has signed her property over to Leybourn. And she owns a small house near Uxbridge, before you say she has the better end of the bargain. She is not poor.’

‘You are very wet, Heyden,’ said Mary, shooting Kirby another unreadable glance. ‘Stand by the fire, to dry off. But drop your sword first.’

Chaloner frowned. The table had been placed in such a way that Leybourn was nearest the hearth, and Crisp, as his right-hand guest, was not much further away. What was she going to do?

‘Yes, drop it,’ said Kirby, fingering his dagger. He drew back his arm when the spy continued to hesitate, and prepared to throw it.

With no choice but to comply, Chaloner let the weapon clatter to the floor.

‘I want more pork,’ declared Crisp. He banged on the table with his spoon, more in the manner of a petulant child than a man who held a city to ransom with his evil deeds. ‘Now.’

‘Wait!’ snapped Mary. ‘Stand by the fire, Heyden.’

But Chaloner was beginning to understand. ‘Will, come to me,’ he ordered.

‘Stay!’ barked Mary, when Leybourn started to stand. Conditioned to obey, the surveyor sank down again. ‘And go to the hearth, Heyden, before Kirby knifes you.’

‘I shall have a cucumber, then,’ said Crisp sulkily. He gnawed off a chunk and tossed the rest towards Kirby, who flinched away violently. It touched his hand before falling to the floor, and he began to scrub it on the side of his coat.

‘Will,’ said Chaloner urgently. ‘Come here.’

‘He stays where he is,’ said Mary harshly. She backed away, and suddenly she, Kirby and Treen dived to the floor and put their hands over their heads. Leybourn gaped at them.

‘Are you going to fetch the pork?’ asked Crisp. ‘These cucumbers are-’ He stopped speaking, and both hands went to his throat.

‘He is choking,’ said the big man next to him, alarmed. ‘He took too big a bite.’

‘Good bye, William,’ shouted Mary exultantly. ‘Thank you for everything.’

Chaloner leapt towards Leybourn, hauling him from his chair just as there was a tremendous explosion that turned the room into a chaos of sound and light. And then there was only darkness.