The Butcher Of Smithfield

Chapter 2

Weak sunshine was beginning to slant through the clouds as Chaloner left Worcester House, and when he glanced down one of the lanes that led to the river, he saw a rainbow shimmering in the dark clouds above Southwark. The ground was sticky from the recent deluge, and a clot of rubbish had blocked one of the drains, so The Strand was flooded with a filthy brown ooze. Chaloner leapt to one side as a cart thundered past, spraying pedestrians with watery filth.

He walked towards Westminster, intending to pay his respects to the dead Maylord. There were at least two Rhenish wine houses in the area, which specialised in the sale of the dry white vintages that were produced around the River Rhine. He had learned from Greeting that Maylord’s home was in the oldest of them, a large, venerable building on a narrow lane called Wise’s Alley. It was four storeys high, and had vines carved along the front. It had been in the hands of the Genew family for at least sixty years, and was frequented by clerks from White Hall, as well as officials from the Houses of Parliament and the Exchequer.

As soon as he was inside, Chaloner’s eyes began to smart. Because it was noon, the tavern was full of people enjoying their midday victuals, and it seemed that every one of them had a pipe; the smoke was so dense that Chaloner could not see the back of the room at all. Men, and a few women, sat at tables reading, drinking pale Rhenish wine, and eating chops or fish. The odour of seafood past its best combined unpleasantly with the stink of burning logs on the hearth and the patrons’ wet feet. Someone had dropped a newsbook on the floor, so Chaloner retrieved it, shaking off the excess mud and water. It comprised eight small pages, and proudly declared itself as The Newes, published for the satisfaction and Information of the People With privilege. He turned to the back and saw it was printed by ‘Thomas Hodgkinson, living in Thames Street, over against Baynard’s Castle’.

Unlike a coffee house, there was no expectation for patrons to sit together and be sociable, so he found an empty table, instinctively choosing one where he could sit with his back to the wall. He ordered buttered ale — warm beer mixed with melted butter and spices — and paid for it with a token he had found in his pocket. A chronic shortage of small change had led many taverners to produce their own: they comprised discs of metal or leather that were widely accepted in lieu of real money. Although not strictly legal tender, most Londoners usually had several in their purses at any given time, and most respectable establishments accepted them.

Landlord Genew was a thin, unhealthy man in a clean white apron. It was said that he tasted every cask of wine that was broached, to ensure his customers were never served with wares that were anything less than the best. Chaloner did not think his devotion to quality was doing him much good, because his skin had a yellowish sheen and his eyes were bloodshot. Genew shook his grizzled head sadly when he learned what Chaloner had come to do.

‘Poor Maylord. He owned a house in Thames Street, but moved here two weeks ago.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘He told his friends that he wanted to be near his work at White Hall, but he confided the truth to me. It was to avoid a cousin who visited him at inappropriate hours. He said she wanted to seduce him.’

Chaloner knew Maylord had no family, and wondered why the musician had felt the need to lie. ‘Has she been to pay her respects to his body?’

‘He lies in St Margaret’s Church — my patrons do not like the notion of a corpse rotting above their heads as they drink, so he could not stay here — but the vergers say no kin have been, male or female. Many friends have, though. The vergers have been all but overwhelmed.’

‘He was a popular man,’ said Chaloner, assailed by another wave of sadness.

‘Even that horrible Spymaster Williamson and his creature Hickes visited, although they were under a moral obligation to put in an appearance, because Maylord was a Court employee.’

‘Do you still have his belongings?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether there was something among Maylord’s possessions that might give some clue as to what had upset him before he had died. Although the notion of pawing through them was distasteful, he thought Maylord would not have minded, under the circumstances. ‘Or have you already let his room?’

Genew was offended. ‘Of course not! That would be deemed as acting with indecent haste. They will remain in situ until his funeral next Saturday. It is only one of the attics on the top floor anyway, and the rent is insignificant.’

‘Do you know if he was ever visited by a solicitor called Newburne?’ asked Chaloner, keen to ascertain whether there was a connection between the two men, other than cucumbers.

‘If he had, I would not have let him in,’ declared Genew. ‘Newburne had fingers in far too many rancid pies, and Maylord would never have endured an acquaintance with a fellow like him, anyway.’

‘Newburne was involved in illegal activities?’

Genew became uneasy. ‘Perhaps they were not illegal as such, but they were unpopular. He used to spy on me — to make sure I only provide official newsbooks for my customers to read. Had I bought others, he would have reported me to L’Estrange, and I would have been fined.’

When Genew had gone, Chaloner drank the buttered ale and read The Newes. Its front page was dominated by a harangue from the editor about a conspiracy of phanatiques in the north: Well, gentlemen, after all this Noyse and Bustle, was there really a plot or no, do ye think? That’s the plot now, my masters, to persuade the people that there was no Plot at all, and that all this Hurly-burly and alarme was nothing in the whole world but a Trick of State. Chaloner grimaced. The country was still reeling from two decades of war and regime change, so the last thing it needed was someone in authority braying about conspiracy and rebellion.

Next came a detailed report about a ‘sad bay mare with a long tail (if not cut off)’ that had been stolen from Mr Sherard Lorinston, grocer of Smithfield. Anyone coming forward with information was promised to be ‘well satisfied for his pains’. It was tedious stuff, and Chaloner soon lost interest.

The Rhenish Wine House also subscribed to a newsletter service — the handwritten epistles that were not subject to the same censorship laws as printed newsbooks, so could contain all manner of items barred from the printing presses. The one that had been left on Chaloner’s table was dog-eared and well fingered, indicating it had been read a lot. He saw from the date that it and The Newes had been produced the same day, but L’Estrange’s official offering had clearly been received with considerably less enthusiasm than the handwritten one. He turned to the back page, and saw it came from the office of Henry Muddiman. The obvious preference for Muddiman’s work to L’Estrange’s productions indicated that the ousted editor represented a serious challenge to his successor.

‘Do not believe everything you read in those things,’ whispered a soft voice close behind him.

Chaloner pretended to be surprised, but the truth was that he had noticed someone attempting to creep up on him several minutes before. He also knew, from the clumsy way the man moved, that it was William Leybourn, mathematician, surveyor and bookseller of Monkwell Street, Cripplegate. Leybourn was Chaloner’s closest friend in London, a tall, stoop-shouldered man with long straight hair and a hooked nose. He had gained weight since Chaloner had last seen him; his cheeks were rounder, and there was a distinct paunch above the belt that held up his fashionable silken breeches.

‘How did you know I was here?’ Chaloner asked, returning the surveyor’s grin of greeting with genuine pleasure.

‘We clever spies know how to find a man newly returned to the city,’ said Leybourn smugly.

Chaloner ignored the fact that Leybourn was not really a spy — he only dabbled in espionage to help their mutual friend, John Thurloe — and began to assess how he might have been tracked down. ‘You are wearing unusually fine clothes, so I surmise you were one of the party of mathematicians who met the King today. Greeting was playing there, and he told you we had met. He mentioned we had discussed Maylord’s death, and you made the logical assumption that I would visit his home.’

Leybourn grimaced. ‘You make it sound obvious, but it was actually an ingenious piece of deduction. I came as soon as I could politely escape from the King.’

‘Why? What is the urgency?’

‘You disappear for months, without a word of farewell, and you want to know why friends are eager to see you? Thurloe said you were gone overseas, but refused to say where, and I have been worried. Many countries boil with war and tension, and I doubt whatever you were doing was safe.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner ruefully. ‘It was not safe.’

Leybourn clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well, I am pleased to see you home, and I have a lot to tell you. What do you think of the newsbooks, by the way? Or do you prefer the newsletters?’

‘Do you read the newsbooks?’

Leybourn shot him an arch glance. ‘Why would I read anything penned by L’Estrange? All he does is rant about matters he does not understand, hoping to earn Williamson’s approval and be promoted to some other post beyond his meagre abilities. However, his newsbooks do contain notices about stolen horses, which is something in their favour.’

‘You mean the advertisements?’ asked Chaloner, startled. In Portugal, such snippets were printed at the end of the publications, in smaller type, but in L’Estrange’s journals, they were prominently placed between items of news, which lent them an importance they should not have had.

‘Most people ignore L’Estrange’s pitiful excuse for editorials and only read the advertisements. For example, last Monday’s Intelligencer told me that one Captain Hammond was deprived of a dappled grey gelding near Clapham. Now that is interesting.’

‘It is?’ Chaloner wondered if Leybourn was being facetious.

‘Yes, for two reasons. First, it tells me Hammond is in town, which is good to know, because he owes me money. And secondly, I am now aware that I must commiserate with him when we meet. There is a great yearning for news these days, you see — it is a lucrative and booming business.’

‘Is it?’

‘Oh, yes. These last few months have witnessed a burning desire to know what is happening at home and overseas. Of course, if you want real news, you must subscribe to Muddiman’s weekly letters.’ Leybourn tapped the handwritten sheet in front of Chaloner with a bony forefinger. ‘He is a professional journalist, not a pamphleteer like L’Estrange, and so can be trusted to tell the truth.’

‘You cannot trust L’Estrange?’

‘Of course not! He is the government’s mouthpiece, and only fools believe anything they say. But suppressing the news is not his only talent. It is his job to censor — which he thinks means “macerate” — every book published, too. You should see what he did to my pamphlet on surveying.’

Chaloner wondered what Leybourn could have written that was controversial; surveying was hardly a subject that would have insurgents champing at the bit. ‘What did you do? Tell your readers how to build palaces that will collapse and crush unpopular courtiers?’

‘It was almost entirely given over to technical calculations, and needed no editing from an amateur. But edit L’Estrange did, and the result was an incomprehensible jumble that made me look like a half-wit. And I am not the only one to suffer. There were six hundred booksellers in London a couple of years ago, but he fined so many of them for breaking his silly rules, that there are only fifty of us left. His vicious tactics have put many good men in debtors’ prison.’

‘He is unpopular, then,’ said Chaloner, recalling how it was Newburne’s task to report wayward booksellers to L’Estrange. It doubtless meant the solicitor — or ‘minion’ in the Lord Chancellor’s words — was held in equal contempt.

‘Very. He has gone into business with a fellow called Brome — using Brome’s shop as a base for his vile activities. Decent man, Brome, although inclined to be spineless. I cannot imagine he is pleased with the arrangement.’

‘He cannot mind that much, or he would tell L’Estrange to leave.’

Leybourn snorted derisive laughter. ‘If he did, it would be his last act on Earth. Oh, I am sure Brome is making a pretty penny from L’Estrange, but he will not be happy about it. Money is not everything, after all. There is principle to consider.’

‘You seem to know a lot about the situation.’

‘People talk and I am a good listener. Why all these questions, Tom? I know one of L’Estrange’s toadies — a fellow called Newburne — met an untimely end last week, but I hope you have not been charged to investigate his demise.’

‘Why should you wish that?’

‘Because no one was sorry when he died, and if he was murdered, then there will be a lot of men eager to shake the killer’s hand. You do not want to be embroiled in that sort of thing.’

Leybourn’s chatter had unsettled Chaloner, and it brought home yet again the fact that the Lord Chancellor was not a good master. Clarendon must have known about L’Estrange’s unpopularity, but had not bothered to mention it. The spy wondered whether his initial suspicion had been correct: that the Earl was deliberately sending him into a dangerous situation to teach him a lesson for ‘abandoning’ him.

‘We have not had a dry day since June,’ grumbled Leybourn, glancing at the sky as they left the Rhenish Wine House. ‘Will you walk to the Westminster Stairs with me, to see the river?’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘What for?’

‘It is the thing Londoners do these days. We have been near catastrophic flood so often, that we have all taken to gazing at Father Thames in our spare moments, to assess his malevolence.’

It was not far, and Chaloner and Leybourn were not the only people to stand along the wharf. The tide was going out, and the water was stained muddy brown from the silt that had been washed into it upstream. They watched a skiff struggling against the current, but not even the encouraging cheers from the Westminster Stairs could give the oarsman the strength he needed to reach the pier, and it was not long before he gave up and allowed himself to be swept back towards the City. His fare would be obliged to walk or take a carriage to his final destination.

Leybourn sniffed at the air. ‘Can you smell cakes? There is a baker’s boy. Would you like some knot biscuits? I shall pay, as Bulteel tells me you are no longer on the Earl’s payroll.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped Bulteel was wrong. ‘When did he tell you that?’

‘When you first disappeared, and he was describing the Earl’s fury that you had accepted a commission from another master. Do you want to borrow a few shillings? You are welcome, but please do not mention it to Mary. She does not approve of me lending money, not even to friends.’

Chaloner waved away the proffered purse. ‘Mary?’

Leybourn grinned. ‘My wife. I am the happiest man alive.’

‘You are married? Why did you not tell me at once, instead of gibbering on about newsbooks and flooded rivers?’

‘I was waiting for the right moment.’ Leybourn’s expression was dreamy. ‘I have been wanting a wife for years, because I like the notion of permanent female companionship. Then, last July, Mary visited my shop, and it was love at first sight — for both of us.’

Chaloner was delighted for his friend, not least because Leybourn’s idea of charming a lady entailed regaling her with complex scientific formulae, thus giving her an unnerving insight into how she might be expected to spend her evenings as a married woman. Few risked a second encounter, and Chaloner had assumed that Leybourn was one of those men doomed to perpetual bachelorhood. ‘When can I meet her?’

‘I had better warn her first,’ said Leybourn mysteriously. ‘But you must promise to be nice.’

Chaloner regarded him in surprise; his manners were naturally affable, and most people liked him when they first met, even if his work meant they later revised their opinion. ‘I am always nice.’

‘On the surface perhaps, but you are often sullen and sharp. However, I do not want you to be so personable that she wishes she was with you instead of me. You can aim for something in between — pleasant, but no playing the Adonis.’

‘I shall do my best,’ said Chaloner, somewhat bemused by the instructions. He changed the subject before he felt compelled to ask why Leybourn should be worried about his wife’s fidelity at such an early stage in their relationship. ‘Can you tell me anything more about Newburne?’

Leybourn sighed. ‘So, the Earl did order you to investigate that particular death. I thought as much when you started to quiz me about L’Estrange and the world of publishing. It is not fair: you are almost certain to get into trouble, given the fact that everyone despised Newburne.’

‘Why was he so hated?’

‘Partly because of his work for L’Estrange, and partly because he was so dishonest. A dangerous gang called the Hectors controls Smithfield, and he was its legal advisor. Combined, they made him rich — so much so that he was able to buy a fine house on Old Jewry. He was also accused of being a papist, because he never attended church, but then it was discovered that he missed his Sunday devotions because he was too drunk to get out of bed. Have you never heard the injunction, “Arise, Tom Newburne”?’

‘Is that what it means? My Earl said it was an obscenity.’

Leybourn laughed. ‘He really is a prim old fool! Did he tell you that Muddiman bought cucumbers from Covent Garden the day before Newburne died? And here you must bear in mind that Newburne worked for L’Estrange — the man to whom Spymaster Williamson gave Muddiman’s job as newsbook editor. Do not tell me that is not significant!’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘If Muddiman did kill Newburne, then he was careless to let himself be seen buying the murder weapon. Of course, that assumes it was cucumbers that killed Newburne. I know traditional medicine says they can be harmful, but they are not usually considered deadly.’

‘Newburne died at the Smithfield Market, while watching the dancing monkeys. Lord! I wish your Earl had given you something else to do. Newburne was loathsome, and only had one friend, as far as I know — a fellow called Heneage Finch. You can ask him what he thinks happened to Newburne. He lives on Ave Maria Lane, by St Paul’s.’

Chaloner watched him eat the knot biscuits. ‘You are getting fat.’

Leybourn almost choked. ‘And you are thin — sallow, even. Did they not feed you in France?’

Chaloner smiled at the transparent attempt to discover where he had been. ‘Not very well.’

‘Mary prepares a wonderful caudle of wine, eggs, barley and spices. Unfortunately, that is all she can make, so we are obliged to send to the cook-shop most days, and she does not like housework, either. But we are very happy together, despite her … domestic shortcomings.’

She sounded singular, and Chaloner’s interest was piqued again. ‘When were you wed?’

‘We are not wed, exactly.’ Leybourn sounded defensive. ‘But we live as man and wife, because when you are in love, you do not need the Church to sanction your devotion. You did not marry Metje, although she inhabited your bed most nights.’

‘I did not say-’

‘And I wager you availed yourselves of plenty of pretty … Danish ladies when you were abroad, too,’ Leybourn went on relentlessly. ‘Hoards of them, and not one escorted to the altar.’

Chaloner was taken aback by what amounted to an unprovoked attack. ‘Steady, Will,’ he said, ignoring the surveyor’s second attempt to find out where he had been. ‘I am not condemning you.’

‘Everyone else is, though,’ said Leybourn sulkily. ‘Well? Tell me about your latest love. I know you have one. I can tell.’

Chaloner’s brief but passionate attachment to the lovely Isabella — a Spaniard working for the Portuguese — had been blissful, but his false identity had been exposed when he had trapped the duplicitous duke, and he doubted he would ever see her again. It was a pity, and he raised his hand to touch the hat she had given him, with its cunning bowl of steel.

‘Who disapproves of your arrangement?’ he asked, declining to talk about her.

Leybourn sniffed. ‘Thurloe, my brother and his wife, most of my customers. But I do not care. Mary may not be as pretty as your Metje, but she is mine and she loves me dearly. You never have trouble securing yourself ladies, but it is different for me, and I intend to keep this one.’

‘Then I wish you success of it,’ said Chaloner soothingly. He watched Leybourn fling away the last of the biscuits, which were immediately snapped up by stray dogs. ‘And now I should pay my respects to Maylord before more of the day is lost.’

It began to rain as Chaloner and Leybourn walked from Westminster Stairs to St Margaret’s Church, a heavy, drenching downpour that thundered across the cobblestones and gushed from overflowing gutters and pipes. It enlarged the puddles that already spanned the streets, and Leybourn stepped in one that was knee-deep. Chaloner grabbed his arm to stop him from taking a tumble, although the near-accident did nothing to make the surveyor falter in his detailed description about a new and ‘exciting’ mathematical instrument.

‘I would love a Gunter’s Quadrant,’ he concluded wistfully, ‘but it is too expensive for the common man. I offered to borrow one for a few weeks and then write a pamphlet about it — I am well respected in my trade, as you know, and people take my recommendations seriously — but its maker is adamant: no money, no measuring stick. Will you break into his shop and steal it for me?’

Chaloner was not entirely sure he was joking. ‘He might be suspicious if you suddenly start producing books and publications demonstrating its use.’

Leybourn nodded thoughtfully. ‘I would have to modify it, pass it off as my own. Incidentally, have you visited St Paul’s Cathedral recently? You do not need to be a surveyor to see it is unsound, and I told the King today that he should close it before it falls down and kills someone. Christopher Wren submitted some brilliant plans for its rebuilding, but the clerics baulk.’

‘I would baulk, too,’ said Chaloner, making a dash for St Margaret’s porch as the rain came down even harder. ‘Wren’s design is nasty — like an Italian mausoleum.’

‘Rubbish! It is nothing short of brilliant. In fact, if you had any loyalty to your city, you would break into the old cathedral and set it afire. That would put an end to the clergy’s procrastination.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘First, you encourage me to commit burglary and now arson. Do you want me hanged?’

‘Not unless you leave me some money in your will. Then I can buy myself a Gunter’s Quadrant.’

A verger conducted the visitors to the crypt, where Maylord was not the only dead citizen to have been granted refuge under its gloomy arches. A total of three bodies lay there, all neatly packed in wooden boxes, their faces decorously covered with clean white cloths. The verger explained that many houses in Westminster were small, and it was not always possible to have a corpse at home until a funeral could be arranged. It was all right twenty years ago, he sighed, because then you died one day and were in the ground the next. But in these enlightened times, ceremonies were grander and required more time to arrange. A funeral in London was a statement of earthly achievement, and no one wanted to be shoved underground without first showing off all he had accomplished.

‘Maylord,’ prompted Chaloner.

The verger removed one of the cloths. ‘He used to play the organ here when our regular man was indisposed, and he never charged us for it. He was a good soul.’

‘Do you know how he died?’ asked Chaloner, gazing at the man who had smiled a lot, even during the dark days of the civil wars. Laughter lines were scored around Maylord’s eyes and mouth, and Chaloner thought it a terrible pity that the world was deprived of his gentle humour.

‘Cucumbers,’ replied the verger. ‘Did you not hear? It caused quite a stir.’

‘How do you know it was cucumbers?’

‘They were on a plate in his room, and he was dead on the floor with a piece in his mouth.’ The verger regarded him suspiciously. ‘You said you were a friend, so how come you do not know?’

‘I have been away,’ replied Chaloner truthfully. ‘He wrote two days ago, asking me to visit him.’

‘Then it is a shame you did not come sooner,’ said the verger, rather accusingly. ‘You might have been able to help him. You know how he was always happy? Well, these last two weeks he was miserable and bad tempered. He snapped at the choirboys for fidgeting, and he told me to mind my own business when I asked him what was wrong. It was something to do with Court, I imagine. It is an evil place, and Maylord was the only decent one among the lot of them.’

‘But you do not know it was Court business for certain?’ pressed Chaloner. The verger shook his head. ‘Did he have any particular friends he might have confided in?’

‘He had lots, but the closest was William Smegergill — a Court musician, like him. Do you know Smegergill? He has a ravaged complexion, because of a pox when he was a child.’

The description was not familiar, but Chaloner made a mental note to track Smegergill down. ‘Did you ever see Maylord with a solicitor called Newburne?’

The verger was disdainful. ‘Of course not! Maylord had more taste than to associate with the likes of him. Why do you ask?’

‘Because they both died from eating cucumbers.’

‘Coincidence,’ replied the verger, so promptly that Chaloner knew it was an observation that had been made before. ‘I could cite three other men who have been taken by cucumbers this year alone — namely Valentine Pettis the horse-trader, and a pair of sedan-chairmen. If people will eat cucumbers, then they must bear the consequences.’

‘You think they are that dangerous?’ asked Leybourn.

The verger nodded fervently. ‘Oh, yes! They are green, see, and no good will come of feeding on greenery. Have you finished here? Only I need to wash the nave floor. Mud gets tracked everywhere this weather, and this is the Parliament church, so we like to keep it looking nice.’

Chaloner stared at Maylord, and was suddenly seized with the absolute conviction that cucumbers were innocent of causing his death. Physicians, he knew, considered cucumber poison to be insidious — its vapours collected in the veins, and any ill effects tended to occur gradually, not the moment the fruit was taken into the mouth. Ergo, either Maylord had suffered the kind of seizure that was relatively common in older people, or someone had done him harm. Moreover, the musician’s recent agitation suggested something was sorely amiss, and it was odd that he should so suddenly die. Why anyone would want to hurt him was beyond Chaloner, and he made a silent oath to find out exactly what had happened, and to ensure that whoever was responsible would pay.

He nudged Leybourn, and indicated the door with a nod of his head. He wanted to examine Maylord more closely, but he could hardly do it with the verger watching. Ordinarily, he would have bribed the man to look the other way, but sixpence was unlikely to be enough. It took a moment for Leybourn to understand what he wanted, and when he did, he slapped his hand across his mouth.

‘I am going to be sick,’ he announced.

The verger gazed at him in horror. ‘Not down here!’

‘Escort me upstairs, then. My friend can finish paying his respects, and you can take me to fresh-’ But the verger did not want a mess, and was already hauling Leybourn away.

Chaloner waited until he could no longer hear their voices, then inspected the musician’s hands, head and neck, looking for signs that he had been brained, strangled or had fought an attacker. There was nothing. Then he leaned close to Maylord’s mouth and sniffed, but it was an imprecise way to look for poison, and he was not surprised when it told him nothing. He stood back, reluctant to move clothes in a hunt for wounds, because he suspected the verger would not be long and he did not want to be caught doing something sinister. Then he saw an odd discoloration on the face: Maylord’s lips were bruised.

Gently, he opened the mouth. An incisor was broken, and when he touched it with his finger, the edge was sharp, suggesting it had happened shortly before death. Further, teeth marks were etched into Maylord’s lower lip. Chaloner had seen such injuries before — when someone had taken a cushion and pressed it hard against a victim’s face. It was an unpleasant way to kill, because it involved several minutes of watching a man’s losing battle for life at extremely close range. The fact that the culprit had then planted evidence to ‘prove’ Maylord had died from eating cucumbers suggested a ruthlessness that made Chaloner even more firmly resolved to see him on the gallows.

It was still raining when they emerged from the church, Leybourn resting a hand on Chaloner’s shoulder to maintain the pretence of queasiness. Heavy clouds brought an early dusk, and lamps already gleamed in Westminster Hall and the shops around the old clock tower. They set slanting shafts of light gleaming on the wet cobbles, and everywhere people seemed to be in a hurry, wanting to be at home on a night that promised cold and miserable weather.

‘Smegergill,’ said Chaloner as they walked. ‘Do you know him?’

Leybourn shook his head. ‘Thurloe might, though.’

Chaloner had wanted to visit Thurloe anyway, to tell him he was home, so he and Leybourn walked up King Street, then along The Strand towards Chancery Lane and Lincoln’s Inn. Boys with burning torches offered to light their way, and Leybourn hired one after he skidded and almost fell in some slippery entrails that had been dumped outside a butcher’s shop.

‘Are you sure you should be doing this?’ he asked Chaloner as they went. ‘Visiting Thurloe, I mean. He was Spymaster General for Cromwell’s government, and he is still considered a dangerous enemy of the state, despite having been dismissed from all his posts and living in quiet retirement. You do work for the Lord Chancellor, after all.’

‘The Earl does not consider Thurloe a threat, and nor does he object to my continued association with him. It would not matter if he did, anyway. He cannot dictate who my friends should be.’

‘Some would say that puts a question-mark over your loyalty to him. Thurloe hired you and trained you, and you remained under his command for nigh on ten years.’

‘All of it overseas,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Not once did I spy on the King or his retinue — I only ever gathered intelligence on hostile foreign regimes. And Clarendon knows it.’

Leybourn raised his hands defensively. ‘I do not doubt your allegiance to the Royalist government — I am just telling you what others might say.’

Chaloner made no reply, and Leybourn dropped the subject when they arrived at their destination. Lincoln’s Inn, one of four London establishments that licensed lawyers, comprised a range of buildings around two pleasant courtyards. There was a large private garden to the north, and Chaloner was astonished when he saw the change in it. When he had left, there had been an overgrown chaos of elms, beeches and oaks, all shading long-grassed meadows. Now the trees had been pruned or felled, and everything bespoke order and neatness. There were gravelled paths for the benchers — the Inn’s ruling body — to stroll around, and little box hedges kept other plants within their allotted spaces. It looked more like an idealised painting than a real garden.

‘Does Thurloe mind this?’ The ex-Spymaster had derived much pleasure from his early-morning walks in the wilderness, and Chaloner was not sure the tamed version would be quite the same.

Leybourn smiled. ‘He loves it, much to his surprise. The paths mean he can keep his feet dry, and you know what he is like with his health — always fretting about becoming ill.’

They made their way to the smaller and older of the Inn’s yards, known as Dial Court. Back in the spring, Dial Court had boasted a sundial — a massively ugly affair of curly iron and oddly placed railings, inexplicably placed so it rarely caught the sun. It had been removed, and in its place was something that looked like a hollow globe.

‘It is a device for tracking the movements of the stars,’ explained Leybourn, seeing Chaloner look curiously at it. ‘The old sundial rusted in the wet weather, and pieces kept falling off, so I recommended this instead. The benchers are very pleased with it, and spend hours out here on clear nights.’

Chaloner doubted there would be many of those — even when it was not raining, London’s skies were filled with the smoke from thousands of fires. He followed Leybourn up the stairs to Chamber XIII, where John Thurloe had a suite of rooms that were all wooden panels and leather-bound books. They were warm, comfortable and one of few places where Chaloner felt truly safe.

‘Thomas!’ exclaimed Thurloe, standing from his fireside chair when they entered. He was a slightly built man, with large blue eyes and a sharp lawyer’s mind. ‘I expected you home weeks ago and was beginning to worry. What kept you?’

‘The situation transpired to be more complex than I thought,’ replied Chaloner vaguely. He did not want to talk about Iberia when he could be soliciting information about Maylord and Newburne.

‘Well, I am pleased to see you safe,’ said Thurloe, gesturing for his guests to sit near the fire. The room smelled of wood-smoke, wax polish and something pungent and sweet. It put Chaloner in mind of Isabella, and he realised the scent was that of oranges. He glanced at the table, and saw some peel, left from the ex-Spymaster’s dinner.

‘Vienna is a very dangerous city,’ said Leybourn, still fishing. ‘The war with the Turks is growing ever more serious, if you can believe the newsbooks.’

‘Can you believe the newsbooks?’ asked Thurloe, deftly diverting the surveyor’s attention. He understood his former spy’s reluctance to talk about his travels, and would never quiz him about them.

‘Not the ones by L’Estrange,’ said Leybourn. ‘That man would not know the truth if it bit him.’

Chaloner outlined his latest commission from the Earl, while Thurloe listened without interruption. When he had finished, the ex-Spymaster steepled his fingers and looked thoughtful.

‘Did William confide details of his recent quarrel with L’Estrange?’ he asked.

Chaloner regarded Leybourn with a puzzled frown. ‘What quarrel?’

‘I would rather not discuss it,’ replied Leybourn stiffly. ‘It is still a sore subject, and will put me in a sour mood for the rest of the day.’

‘Thomas knows virtually nothing of London life.’ Thurloe silenced Chaloner’s indignant objection with a flash of his blue eyes. ‘And your experience mirrors that of many other booksellers, William, so you must tell him what the Earl’s commission might lead him into. A sour mood is a small price to pay for providing a friend with information that might keep him safe.’

‘If you put it like that …’ Leybourn turned to Chaloner. ‘I told you L’Estrange fines booksellers for hawking unlicensed tomes. Well, I was one of his victims — to the tune of six pounds.’

It was a lot of money. ‘Did you write something seditious?’

‘Of course not,’ snapped Leybourn angrily. ‘The tome in question is the fourth edition of Gunter’s Works, with diligent amendments and enlargements by me. It is an exciting publication, as you will no doubt be aware, but it is about mathematics and surveying, not politics.’

‘Why did he fine you, then?’

‘No book can be printed or sold without a licence from L’Estrange. And I made the mistake of selling one of my copies a day — a single, measly day — before the license was in force.’

‘How did he find that out?’

‘Because of Newburne. L’Estrange paid him to spy on the bookshops. I did not even see him lurking behind my shelves when I offered Captain Hammond an advance copy of Gunter’s Works — not until he emerged with that gloating smile of his. So, now do you understand why there are so many men who will be pleased to see Newburne dead? I am just one of hundreds who have been unfairly persecuted.’

‘Why did you not tell me sooner?’ asked Chaloner, trying not to sound accusing.

‘For two reasons. First, because the subject pains me, as I have said. And secondly, because I do not want to head your list of suspects. It would not be the first time you have had me in your sights as the perpetrator of a serious crime.’

‘That was before I knew you properly.’

The statement coaxed a reluctant smile from the surveyor. ‘Well, your confidence is justified, because I did not kill Newburne. However, I might stick a dagger in L’Estrange if the occasion arises, so do not be too ready to see me as a feeble fellow who cowers away from bullies.’

‘Let us hope your paths never cross, then,’ said Thurloe mildly.

Leybourn glared. ‘Let us hope they do! Mary says my good nature allows unscrupulous men to take advantage of me, so I have decided to be a bit more ruthless in future. The soft-hearted, gullible Leybourn will be no more, and I shall be a new man.’

‘But I like the soft-hearted, gullible Leybourn,’ objected Chaloner. ‘And I am not so sure about the new man — the one who wants me to burgle instrument-makers and set fire to St Paul’s Cathedral.’

‘Mary likes me a tad disreputable,’ said Leybourn with a lopsided grin. ‘And I aim to please her.’

‘I am sure she does,’ muttered Thurloe disparagingly. He turned to Chaloner before Leybourn could respond. ‘I wish the Earl had not given you this particular assignment, Tom. It is too dangerous for a man working alone, and it is Williamson’s business, anyway. He will not appreciate you meddling.’

‘Especially you,’ added Leybourn. ‘You have earned his dislike on several occasions.’

‘When I first sent you to the Earl, he promised to use you wisely,’ Thurloe went on. ‘He knows we are friends, and that I will be vexed if anything happens to you. And he did not want me vexed, not when — as Cromwell’s spymaster — I know so many secrets about prominent Royalists. Unfortunately, times have changed. It is the gardens, you see. They showed me to be weak.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Chaloner. ‘What do the gardens have to do with anything?’

‘I did not want them remodelled, but was unable to stop it — in essence, I lost a very public battle, which allowed everyone to see how my power has waned. People are no longer wary of me.’

Chaloner was alarmed. ‘You mean you are not safe? Then you should retire to your estates in Oxfordshire, and-’

Thurloe raised his hand. ‘There are plenty of men who want me dead for my faithful service to Cromwell, and nothing has changed there. The current danger is to you, Tom. The Earl is no longer afraid of me, which means he may be careless in his use of you.’

‘Leave him,’ advised Leybourn, ‘while you can.’

‘And do what?’ asked Chaloner. ‘I cannot foist myself on my family, because they cannot afford to keep me, and I am not qualified for any other work.’

‘I am sure they would prefer a living scavenger to a dead workhorse,’ said Leybourn. ‘Go home to Buckinghamshire before the Earl’s commission lands you in danger. Newburne’s killer will not give himself up easily, and you have no idea what you are facing.’

When a bell began to chime, Thurloe said he was due to attend a benchers’ meeting in the chapel. Chaloner and Leybourn escorted him across the courtyard, but he was early, so they lingered together in the undercroft — an open crypt that had been designed to allow students to congregate and discuss complex cases, and where lawyers could confer with their clients. It was empty that day, because a rainswept cloister was not a place most men wanted to linger, and the lawyers were keeping to their rooms until the last possible moment.

‘Do you know a man called William Smegergill?’ Chaloner asked the ex-Spymaster.

Thurloe’s expression became thoughtful. ‘Smegergill was Maylord’s friend. Maylord died of cucumbers, and so did Newburne, so I suspect you are looking for a connection. Am I right?’

‘Newburne might have died from ingesting cucumbers, but Maylord certainly did not. He was smothered, and the cucumber left to disguise the fact. It seems to have worked, because no one else seems to be suspicious about his death.’

Leybourn gazed angrily at the spy. ‘You told me none of this — and you might have done, given that I went to some trouble to cause a diversion for you in St Margaret’s Church. What is it with you and secrets? I am getting a bit tired of them, if you want the truth.’

‘You did not ask,’ said Chaloner, startled by his vehemence.

‘Would you have confided, if I had?’ demanded Leybourn. ‘You will not even tell me where you have been for the past few months, and we are supposed to be friends. In fact, I know very little about you, although you know an inordinate amount about me because I am not secretive.’

‘I do not know your wife,’ hedged Chaloner, amazed that Leybourn should expect him, a professional spy, to be open about his life and his work.

‘Mary is not his wife — they are living in sin,’ said Thurloe disapprovingly. Chaloner tended to forget the ex-Spymaster was a devout Puritan, and was often taken off-guard when prudish principles bobbed to the surface. ‘He should either marry her properly or end the relationship.’

Leybourn glowered at him. ‘I am going home. At least there I am respected. Trusted, too.’

He stalked away, leaving Chaloner staring after him in astonishment. He had never seen him so angry, and the provocation had been very slight. He turned to Thurloe. ‘What is wrong with him?’

Thurloe’s expression was deeply unhappy. ‘He has not been himself since that dreadful woman appeared and began to corrupt his mind. I wish they had never met.’

‘Mary? But he said she makes him happy.’

‘So he claims, but he does not seem happy to me. She is turning him against his friends — she has fabricated all manner of lies about me, and it will only be a matter of time before she begins a campaign of slander against you, too. Further, she encourages him to forget his principles and become something he is not. For example, he is constantly asking me to break the law.’

‘In what way?’

‘By forging him a marriage certificate or writing letters purporting to be from the Earl of Sandwich, which will see him awarded a lucrative surveying contract. I suspect Mary urges him to resort to dishonest methods, and he does it to please her. I am very worried about him.’

‘Who is she? Do you know her family?’

‘Her name is Mary Cade, and she claims to hail from Norfolk. I have made enquiries, but have learned nothing so far, although there is certainly something suspect about her. Go to meet her, Tom, and then come back and tell me what you think.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Very well. And while I am there, I shall tell Will what I have been doing in Portugal and Spain. He has a fair point: there is no need to keep secrets from him.’

‘From him, no, but I would not confide anything you do not want Mary to know, too. He tells her more than he should about his business, and I do not like the company she keeps.’

‘What company?’

‘Men with a felonious look about them. I was Spymaster General, so I know a scoundrel when I see one. William has no idea what manner of folk he entertains in his house of an evening. Did he tell you how he and Mary met? She went to buy a book, and he fell in love the moment he saw her. I suspect she spotted a lonely man, and homed in like a snake to its prey. I was delighted at first — he is not successful with ladies and deserves a companion — but then he introduced us and all my instincts told me she is not what he believes her to be. You and I must find a way to loosen the claws she has fastened around his heart.’

‘Not if he loves her. He will not thank us for that.’

‘Wait until you meet her before taking that sort of stance,’ advised Thurloe. There was a steely look in his eye that warned Chaloner not to argue. He had not been appointed to one of the most powerful posts in the Commonwealth for nothing, and there was an iron core in him to which wise men deferred. ‘And then we shall discuss it.’

They were silent for a moment, each wrapped in his own concerns. Absently, Thurloe nodded a greeting to one of his fellow benchers, then turned back to Chaloner.

‘You were asking about Smegergill before we became sidetracked with Mary. He is an excellent virginals player — or was, before age stiffened his fingers. He is still very good, but nothing compared to what he was in Cromwell’s time. He and Maylord were friends, because both performed for the Commonwealth’s court, and then joined the King’s after the Restoration. Maylord may well have confided any worries he had to Smegergill. However, before you interview him, I should warn you that he has a reputation for being difficult.’

‘Difficult?’

‘Eccentric and unpredictable. At times he is charm itself, while on other occasions he is moody and sullen. The artistic temperament, I suppose. You can be rather like that yourself.’

Chaloner had only ever been ‘moody and sullen’ with Thurloe when he had had good cause, and felt it was an unfair observation. It was not the time to discuss past misunderstandings, though. ‘I do not suppose you have heard any rumours about what might have been bothering Maylord?’

‘Unfortunately not. However, I met him at White Hall about a week ago, and he asked if I knew where you might be, intimating that there was a matter with which you might be able to help him. I offered him my services, but he declined. So, I have no idea why he was distressed, although I think we can safely assume that it relates to his murder. Of course, he died two days after Newburne, so it is possible that Maylord’s killer latched on to cucumbers because of Newburne.’

Chaloner nodded slowly. ‘You mean no one thought it odd that Newburne died of eating cucumbers, so the killer assumed — rightly — that no eyebrows would be raised when the same thing happened to Maylord. That means the two deaths are unrelated, that Maylord’s killer just heard what happened to Newburne and used it as an excuse.’

‘It means he took a cucumber with him when he killed Maylord, which shows a degree of premeditation. Other than that, there is no connection between the two victims that I can see: Newburne was a corrupt and hated lawyer, and Maylord was a popular musician with many friends.’

‘The verger at St Margaret’s mentioned three other recent cucumber deaths …’

‘Actually, there have been four.’ Thurloe’s extensive circle of ex-colleagues, former employees and acquaintances still kept him well supplied with gossip and intelligence. ‘A royal equerry named Colonel Beauclair, Valentine Pettis the horse-dealer, and two sedan-chairmen. There was no suggestion of foul play with any of them, although they have all died within the last month.’

‘Did they know each other? Or were they acquainted with Newburne or Maylord?’

‘Beauclair was interested in riding, the army and virtually nothing else; he would have had nothing in common with a musician and a solicitor. I suppose he might have met Pettis the horse-dealer, though. Meanwhile, Beauclair rode everywhere, Maylord walked, and Newburne had his own carriage, so I doubt any of them knew the sedan-men. What do you plan to do? Look into Maylord’s death, as well as Newburne’s?’

‘Maylord was my father’s closest friend, and whoever smothered him with enough force to break teeth deserves to face justice. I will hunt down his killer. And I have no choice but to investigate Newburne. The Earl pays me, and I cannot pick and choose from the commissions he dispenses.’

‘All I can tell you about Newburne is that a man called Heneage Finch was almost the only person in London prepared to spend any time in his company.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘Even the most villainous of men have some friends, and I think Finch was just that — a fellow able to look beyond Newburne’s corrupt, sly manner to see something worthy of companionship. Perhaps he can tell you whether Newburne had a penchant for cucumbers. So, you have two tasks now: interviewing Finch about his friend Newburne, and Smegergill about his friend Maylord.’

‘I will start tomorrow.’

‘I do not think people will be rushing to help once they learn your aim is to investigate Newburne’s death — assuming there is anything to explore, of course. Even rotten lawyers die of natural causes sometimes. Meanwhile, Williamson will object to your interference, and the Earl is angry with you for leaving England for so long. Trust no one — not even Leybourn, I am sorry to say.’

It was good advice, and Chaloner fully intended to follow it.

It was dark when Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn and began to walk to Monkwell Street near Cripplegate, where Leybourn lived. Although the streets were still busy, a different kind of citizen was beginning to emerge for business. Men tried to bump into him as he went, in an attempt to pick his pockets, and youths with dirty faces and oily hands offered to sell him goods at improbably low prices. Chaloner had no money to pay a linksman to light his path, and closed his mind to what he might be treading in as he made his way along the wide thoroughfare called Holborn. Shops were still open, and displays of gloves, spices, wigs, baskets, pots and mirrors could be seen within. Stray dogs had formed a pack near the bridge that spanned the filthy Fleet River, and were feeding on something that lay in the road; they snarled at anyone who went too close.

It took him a long time to reach Leybourn’s home, because the streets were so badly flooded. He gave up trying to keep his feet dry, and sloshed through the debris-filled puddles, some of which reached his calves. Thick, sucking mud gripped the wheels of carriages and carts, so their owners had scant control over them, and in some places, they had been abandoned altogether. One lay on its side, and a gang of men were stripping it of anything that could be carried away. Another had caught fire when one of its lamps had been shaken loose by a violent skidding motion; vagrants clustered around, warming their hands in the blaze. Through the flames, Chaloner could see a figure trapped inside, and did not like to imagine what the parish constables would find when they came to clear the wreckage in the morning.

He dived into a doorway when several horsemen cantered recklessly towards him, whooping and cheering as they went. They reeled drunkenly in their saddles, and one had a semi-naked woman perched behind him. A passing leatherworker grimaced in distaste at the spectacle.

‘That was the Duke of Buckingham and his cronies. Do we really want them playing ambassador to hostile foreign powers, or directing our country’s fiscal policies?’

‘Not for me to say.’ Because Spymaster Williamson was notorious for hiring spies to goad men into making seditious remarks — it was the sort of activity that gave intelligence officers a bad name — Chaloner never indulged in contentious discussions with people who accosted him on the street.

The man spat. ‘Was it for this that we cheered ourselves hoarse at the Restoration three years ago? Perhaps Cromwell was right when he cut off the last monarch’s head. Have you heard the talk in the coffee houses? They say there has been a great rebellion in the north.’

He moved away, leaving Chaloner wondering how the Court had managed to squander so much goodwill in such a short space of time. He was thoughtful as he resumed his journey, considering what he would do if the country was plunged into another civil war. His family still regarded the Parliamentarian cause to be a just one, but he had recently come to the realisation that one government was pretty much as bad as another. They all comprised men, after all, with men’s weaknesses and faults.

Leybourn owned a pleasant three-storeyed building, with shop, reception rooms and kitchen on the ground floor, and bedrooms and an office above. Chaloner had spent many peaceful hours in the large, steamy kitchen, listening to the surveyor wax lyrical on some incomprehensible aspect of mathematics or geometry. The Leybourn brothers did well at bookselling, although Will was beginning to leave more of the business to Rob, in order to devote time to his own writing.

Chaloner knocked on the door. Had Leybourn lived alone, he would have picked the lock and let himself in, but now the house was shared with a lady, breaking and entering was no longer a polite thing to do. There was no reply, so he tapped again. He could see shadows moving under the window shutters, so someone was in, and he wondered whether Leybourn was so angry with him that he was declining to answer. He rapped a third time, and was about to give up when the door was hauled open.

A woman stood there. He supposed she was pretty, although there was something dissipated about her plump body and the sluttish way she leaned against the wall. She wore a low-cut smock that revealed an ample frontage, and her cheeks were flushed in a manner that suggested she had been drinking. When she leaned towards him, squinting in the dim light, he was sure of it.

‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

He smiled, eager to make a good impression on the person who now shared his friend’s life. ‘I have come to see Will. You must be Mary.’

‘I am Mrs Leybourn,’ she replied tartly. Her expression was cold and angry. ‘I suppose you are Heyden? William said he expected you home any day now.’

‘Is he in?’ Chaloner asked pleasantly. ‘I would like-’

‘No,’ she snapped in a way that made him question whether she was telling the truth. ‘Why? Have you come to borrow money? He told me you never have any of your own.’

‘I have just come to spend an hour in his company,’ he objected, wondering what else Leybourn had said about him. He struggled to maintain an affable mien, fighting the urge to tell her that the purpose of his visit was none of her damned business. ‘It has been a while since we-’

‘He is out,’ she interrupted coldly. ‘You will have to come back another day.’

Chaloner could hear voices in the kitchen, and one definitely belonged to a man. If it was not Leybourn, then who was the surveyor’s ‘wife’ entertaining when he was out? ‘I see.’

She moved quickly, blocking his view down the corridor. ‘I am busy at the moment, so I cannot invite you inside to wait. The vicar of St Giles is here, asking my opinion about the altar decorations for Christmas. I am sure you understand. Goodbye.’

She closed the door before he could say whether he understood or not. He considered knocking again, and telling her that he had considerable experience with altar decorations and was more than happy to grant her and the vicar the benefit of his expertise. His second notion was to creep around the back of the house and look through the kitchen window. The vicar of St Giles was unlikely to be talking to himself while Mary had gone to answer the door, and he wanted to know whether it was Leybourn with whom he was conversing. But he was cold, wet and not in the mood for what might evolve into a nasty confrontation, so he started to trudge back to his lodgings. He had not taken many steps when he saw a familiar figure — tall, stoop-shouldered and wearing an old-fashioned hat.

‘I have been waiting for you at your house,’ said Leybourn in a rush. ‘I wanted to apologise for snapping at you earlier. I have not been sleeping well, and Thurloe has become like an old woman of late, chastising me for this and that. But I should not have taken my irritation out on you.’

Chaloner was relieved the spat was over. He took a deep breath. ‘I have been in Portugal since June. Spain, too, although I went to spy, so the fewer people who know it, the better. I did not intend to be secretive, but it is a difficult habit to break.’

‘I understand,’ said Leybourn, turning him around and beginning to walk towards his home. ‘I should not have tried to pry, although I am a scholar, and curiosity comes naturally to me. Did you meet any mathematicians in Portugal? They are famous for their theories pertaining to navigation.’

Chaloner heard the bleakness in his own voice as he spoke. ‘No, it was dreadful, Will — one of the worst assignments I have ever been given.’ Leybourn looked sympathetic, so he added, ‘With the possible exception of a woman called Isabella.’

Leybourn gave him a manly nudge and grinned. ‘I knew it! I always envied your luck with ladies. But I have Mary now, and such concerns are a thing of the past. I have told her a lot about you, and she will be delighted to make your acquaintance at last.’

Chaloner held back. ‘It is late, and she may be busy.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Leybourn. ‘At least come and share a cup of metheglin with us. Have you ever tried metheglin? It is spiced, fermented honey, and Mary knows where to buy it at its best.’ He flung open his door before Chaloner could decline. ‘Mary! I am home, and Tom is with me.’

He strode along the corridor, heading for the kitchen. Chaloner heard chair legs rasp on flagstones as someone stood quickly, and then there was a metallic click as the latch on the back door was raised. Leybourn stumbled over a stool that had been left in the unlit hall, long legs becoming hopelessly entangled as he struggled to extricate himself. Chaloner saw it had been placed there deliberately, to give the occupants of the kitchen time to finish whatever it was they were doing before the surveyor walked in on them. Leybourn freed himself eventually, and pushed open the door.

Mary hurled herself forward and clutched his head to her neck, giving him the kind of welcome that he might have expected had he been away months, rather than hours. Wryly, Chaloner noticed that the hug also served to blind him, so he did not spot the door to the garden closing surreptitiously. He wondered why Mary’s companions — at least two of them, as there were three empty goblets in the hearth — should be so eager to escape without being seen. When she released Leybourne, leaving him somewhat breathless, the surveyor turned to Chaloner.

‘This is Mary,’ he said, pride and adoration in every word.

‘Mrs Leybourn,’ said Chaloner, with a bow.

She regarded him coolly, then sat in the surveyor’s favourite chair. ‘I have been working hard today, and I am exhausted. Fetch me a drink, dear William. Metheglin will do nicely.’

‘What happened to the vicar?’ asked Chaloner caustically. ‘Is he in the garden, exploring its contents with a view to claiming his Christmas decorations early?’

Leybourn gazed at him in confusion. ‘Mary has been alone all day, sewing me new shirts. And why would the vicar be in the garden? It is dark.’

Chaloner could see no evidence that shirts or anything else were being sewn, but Mary had risen, and had gone to drape herself around her man. Leybourn smiled fondly as she told him how lonely she had been, with no one for company, and Chaloner saw Thurloe was right: Leybourn was so besotted, he would believe the moon was blue if Mary told him so.

‘I will hire you a female companion,’ offered Leybourn, going to the hearth and ladling something into three wooden cups. Chaloner recoiled from the strength of the brew, and knew it would make him drunk if he downed it on an empty stomach. ‘A maid would be useful, now two of us live here.’

Chaloner agreed, because Leybourn’s usually pleasant kitchen was sordid. Unwashed pots were piled on every surface, a bucket of slops had been sitting so long that there was mould growing in the scum across the top, and the floor was sticky, making him feel like wiping his feet on the way out. He was not the most assiduous of housekeepers himself, but at least he usually scoured his dirty pans within a day, and he never left uneaten food on plates for so long that it rotted. The room was a disgrace, and he was surprised his friend could not see it.

‘I do not want a companion,’ said Mary, rather too quickly. ‘You are soaking, poor love! Come and sit by the fire, and warm yourself before you take a chill.’

‘I could eat a horse,’ declared Leybourn, allowing himself to be cosseted. ‘What do we have?’

‘Beetroot,’ said Mary, waving her hand in a gesture that indicated it might be anywhere.

‘I should be going,’ said Chaloner, backing away. He was also hungry, but not desperate enough to resort to beetroot.

‘Please stay,’ said Leybourn, although he spoke absently and most of his attention was on Mary. ‘I want to show you Christopher Wren’s treatise on weather glasses.’

‘Another time,’ said Chaloner. He set the metheglin on the table. ‘It has been a pleasure, Mrs Leybourn.’