The Butcher Of Smithfield

Chapter 3

Early the next morning, Chaloner woke thinking about Leybourn’s infatuation with Mary. He supposed he should be grateful that their union had not been sanctioned by the Church, because it would be easier to dissolve when — and he was sure it was only a matter of time — Leybourn came to his senses and saw he could do very much better. What was Mary gaining from the arrangement? The answer was obvious: a life of luxury with a man who thought she could do no wrong, gifts, and a home in which to entertain when her lover was out. Chaloner could see exactly why she did not want her victim’s friends interfering with her business.

But the spy’s first duty that day was not Leybourn, but the investigation into Newburne’s death, which he would begin by visiting L’Estrange on Ivy Lane. He found a green front-buttoned coat he had always liked, and a pair of loose breeches. It was not the most fashionable of attires, but it was warm, functional and not too moth-or mouse-ravaged. His boots were sturdy and good for walking, and Isabella’s hat would keep both sun and rain from his eyes. Having unimpaired vision was important in his line of work, and although he did not expect the day to bring too many dangers — at least, not like the kind he had recently endured in Spain — he was too experienced to be complacent.

The only thing to eat was a lump of dried meat from the last of his travelling supplies, so he soaked it in water until it was soft. He offered some to the cat, which turned up its nose and went to sit in the window. It began to wash its face, and a gnawed tail near the hearth told him it had acquired itself a fresher meal while he had been sleeping. The dried meat was sadly rancid, and he supposed he should spend his last sixpence to lay in some essential supplies, although it would not buy much and he did not like the notion of being totally penniless. He decided to visit White Hall and claim his back-pay as soon as he had a spare moment.

It had rained heavily during the night, and dawn bathed the streets in a cold, grey light that turned the sodden buildings to shades of brown and beige. It made the city look ugly, and so did the piles of manure, kitchen filth and rubbish that sat at irregular intervals along the sides of the road, each glistening and slick with slime. Dogs and rats scavenged among them, while kites and pigeons perched on the rooftops and waited their turn.

Ivy Lane was a narrow thoroughfare that ran north from St Paul’s Cathedral, and Brome’s Bookshop, in which L’Estrange had his headquarters, was in the middle, near the junction with Paternoster Row. It was a large, well-appointed building with freshly painted timbers and real glass in the windows. The first floor was L’Estrange’s domain — Chaloner could see him pacing back and forth in front of a desk — while the attics comprised living accommodation for the bookseller and his family. The ground floor housed the shop itself, a spacious chamber with neat rows of shelves.

Chaloner pushed open a door that jangled, and entered. The books on sale comprised mostly government-sponsored publications on such diverse subjects as the trees of Bermuda, theology, and various editions of the Seaman’s Kalender. The floor was clean, the tables dusted, and the entire place gave off an air of quiet efficiency. For all that, Chaloner preferred the chaotic jumble of Leybourn’s premises, although he was sure Brome would be able to access any tome in his collection within moments, whereas it sometimes took Leybourn days to locate a specific book. Brome’s was a place for busy men who knew what they wanted; Leybourn’s was for browsers.

As Chaloner stepped inside, the shopkeeper left the customer he was serving and came to greet the new arrival. He was tall, with thinning ginger hair that was mostly concealed by a brown wig. His eyes were a pleasant shade of green, and he wore spectacles on a chain around his neck. When he smiled, his teeth were white and even. He introduced himself as Henry Brome, and politely asked if Chaloner would mind waiting a few moments until he had finished dealing with Mr Smith. A copy of The Intelligencer was provided in the meantime, which Brome said had come directly from the printing presses that morning. It was a refreshing change from being ignored until the first client had left, as happened in most shops.

The spy sat at a table and scanned the newsbook’s contents. There were reports from Paris, Denmark and Vienna, and a note about the Queen’s health, but most of the eight pages were given over to a tirade about an uprising of phanatiques in York, Richmond and Preston. Chaloner grinned when he read, I will not trouble you with hear-says and Reports, but …’ and the editor then went on to give a great list of unsubstantiated rumours.

‘A bright bay mare,’ said the customer, when Brome returned to him. ‘Twelve hands high, with three white feet and wall-eyes. And you can say there is a reward of twenty shillings for her safe return, on application to Richard Smith at the Bell in Smithfield. That is me.’

Brome finished writing down the instructions and smiled. ‘I shall make sure the notice appears in Thursday’s Newes, Mr Smith. And I hope it brings you luck.’

‘I believe it might,’ replied Smith. ‘When Captain Hammond lost his gelding, one of your advertisements saw it back within three days! Making news of horse-thievery means it is more difficult for these villains to operate, and you are doing us a great service.’

‘I am delighted to hear it,’ said Brome. He looked pained. ‘Of course, the real function of our newsbooks is not to help find missing horses, but to keep the public informed of current affairs.’

Smith laughed, long and hard. ‘Believe me, Brome, no one buys the newsbooks for their coverage of current affairs! We buy them for the horses, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar. And speaking of horses, you can write that mine was stolen by a villain called Edward Treen. One of my servants saw him quite clearly, but he managed to ride off before we could stop him. Make sure you name Treen.’

‘We had better not,’ said Brome, rather wearily. ‘He might sue you for defamation of character, and the courts cannot be relied upon to dispense just verdicts these days. It is safer to leave the notice as it is.’

‘Very well,’ said Smith, pushing several coins across the table, which Brome counted carefully before making an entry in a ledger. ‘Do you want me to sign anything before I go?’

‘Here, to say you have handed me the sum of five shillings,’ said Brome, pointing at the book.

‘You are wise to keep records, because they will protect you against allegations,’ said Smith darkly. ‘I knew L’Estrange during the wars, and he is a devil for thinking the worst of people. I heard in my coffee house yesterday that he has accused Muddiman of stealing his news.’

Brome regarded him uneasily. ‘But Muddiman does steal his news — he pre-empted us with a report from Tangier only last week. That is theft, just as you losing your bay mare is theft.’

‘It is not the same at all,’ said Smith dismissively. ‘A horse cannot be compared to an item of foreign gossip. I was sorry to hear about Newburne, by the way. You must be very upset.’

‘L’Estrange will miss him,’ was all Brome said in reply.

When Smith had gone, Brome turned to Chaloner with a smile, apologising for the delay and asking whether he had come to order a book, apply for a publishing license, or buy advertising space.

‘I have come to see Roger L’Estrange,’ replied Chaloner.

‘May I ask why?’ Brome shrugged sheepishly when Chaloner raised his eyebrows at the question. ‘I mean no disrespect, but it will be better for everyone if you tell me your business first. The last man I allowed in without an appointment transpired to be a phanatique, and the poor fellow was lucky to escape with one of his ears still attached.’

From the rabid tone of the newsbooks and what he had witnessed outside the Rainbow Coffee House, Chaloner was not surprised to learn L’Estrange was in the habit of turning violent when confronted with people of whom he disapproved. ‘The Lord Chancellor asked me to see him regarding the release of information from Portugal. My name is Thomas Heyden.’

Brome brightened. ‘Original news? Excellent! That will put him in a good mood, and it is kind of the Lord Chancellor to think of us. Are you one of his secretaries? A diplomatic emissary, perhaps?’

‘Just a clerk.’

Brome regarded him astutely. ‘He does not send minions to foreign countries on his behalf, so you must be either relatively senior or trusted. But no matter; I can see from your expression that you would rather not discuss it. We are grateful for any accurate information, regardless of its origin.’

Chaloner changed the subject. Brome’s wits were sharp, and he did not want the man guessing he was a spy. ‘You said L’Estrange was visited by a phanatique. Do many pay him court, then?’

The bookseller grinned, a little conspiratorially. ‘They do, according to him. However, you must be aware that a phanatique is anyone even remotely sympathetic to Puritans, Roundheads or regicides. I am one at the moment, because I said it is time Cromwell’s skull was removed from the pole outside Westminster Hall. However, my suggestion has more to do with its nasty habit of blowing down in the wind than with any respect I might have had for its owner. The thing almost brained my wife last week, and most Londoners consider it something of a hazard.’

Chaloner hoped Thurloe did not venture that way during storms, because he and Cromwell had been friends. ‘Is it true that a licence is needed to print any book or pamphlet in London now?’ he asked, wanting to learn more about L’Estrange’s official business before he met the man.

‘In the country,’ corrected Brome. ‘And not only is it illegal to manufacture a text without a licence from the Surveyor of the Press — L’Estrange — but it is against the law to sell them, too.’

‘I understand there are six hundred booksellers in the City alone,’ said Chaloner artlessly. ‘How does he regulate them all?’

‘There are only fifty now,’ said Brome. He looked away, and Chaloner was under the impression that he thought it a pity. ‘He hires men to visit the bookshops and ensure they only hawk legitimate tomes. Of course, these rules only apply to the printed word. He cannot control manuscripts — handwritten texts — such as the newsletters dictated by Muddiman to his army of scribes.’

‘Do you read any newsletters?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Brome, somewhat cagily. ‘That would be disloyal, because they are in direct competition with the official government newsbooks.’

Casually, Chaloner leaned forward and tweaked a sheet of paper from under the ledger, stepping away smartly when Brome tried to snatch it back. Like all newsletters, it was addressed to a specific recipient — something a scribe could do, but that was impractical for a printing press — and the author’s name and address were carried banner-like across the top of the first page. In this case, the writer was Henry Muddiman, and his correspondent was Samuel Pepys.

Brome’s face was scarlet with mortification. ‘That is … that is not mine.’

‘Pepys is a clerk at the navy office,’ said Chaloner, watching him intently. ‘I met him once.’

Brome was appalled. ‘You know Pepys? Lord!’

Chaloner was amused when he guessed the reason for Brome’s agitation. ‘Pepys does not subscribe to Muddiman’s newsletter, does he? You just borrowed his name, because he is respectable but relatively insignificant, and no one at Muddiman’s office would question his desire to purchase such a thing. Meanwhile, Muddiman thinks his missives are being read by a navy clerk, blissfully unaware that it actually goes straight into the hands of his greatest rival.’

Brome coloured even further. ‘It sounds sordid when you put it like that. Muddiman sends out a hundred and fifty newsletters each week, so what difference can one more make? Besides, how else are we to monitor the competition?’

Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. ‘This was not your idea, was it? And nor did you elect to pick on Pepys. Whose was it? L’Estrange’s?’

Brome put his hands over his face and scrubbed his flushed cheeks. ‘He will skin me alive if he finds out I was careless enough to leave that lying around for the Lord Chancellor’s man to see. I told him it was stupid to use Pepys, but he would not listen. What if Muddiman meets Pepys, and asks how he likes the newsletters? It was only ever a matter of time before we were found out.’

‘So why take the risk?’

‘Because we need to know what is in them. Muddiman’s sources are invariably better than ours.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘How so? The newsbooks’ source of information is the government — and the government knows everything, because it receives a constant stream of information from its spies.’ He knew this for a fact, because he was one of those conduits.

Brome swallowed. ‘I am afraid you have walked into a war here, Heyden. A news war. You are right: we should have the stories first, but the reality is quite different. Muddiman has contacts and methods — God alone knows who and what they are — which mean he nearly always pre-empts us.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘He was the newsbook editor himself until a few weeks ago. That means he knows the government clerks who provide this information. Perhaps he bribes them to speak to him first. It would be a risky thing to do on the clerks’ part, because if Spymaster Williamson finds out I doubt he will be very forgiving. But it is not impossible.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Brome. ‘It is not impossible. However, Williamson’s spies maintain the clerks are innocent. They watch them all the time, and have observed nothing untoward. So, we do not know how Muddiman always manages to get the news first.’

‘What was Newburne’s role in all this?’

Brome was startled by the question. ‘I suppose you heard Smith consoling me about his death, did you? Poor Newburne! His remit was to spy on the booksellers and keep an eye on Muddiman’s dealings. Why do you ask about him particularly?’

‘The Lord Chancellor asked me to confirm that his death was a natural one,’ said Chaloner, deciding to be honest in the hope of learning more.

‘As well as providing us with information about Portugal?’ asked Brome doubtfully. ‘You own a strange combination of talents. And why does the Earl think something is amiss anyway?’

‘He did not say — he just ordered me to look into the matter.’

Brome regarded him unhappily. ‘That will almost certainly prove to be dangerous. Newburne was an unsavoury man who knew a good many unsavoury people. Hectors, no less.’

‘The Smithfield gang?’

‘The very same. I am not exaggerating: you would be ill-advised to delve into Newburne’s affairs. However, if you are under orders from the Lord Chancellor, I suspect you have no choice. So, if you promise to say nothing about our unlawful use of Pepys’s name to procure those newsletters, I will tell you what I know of Newburne. Do I have your word, as a gentleman?’

‘You do.’

Chaloner was astonished when Brome took a deep breath and began to speak — the man was naively trusting of someone he had only just met. ‘Newburne took bribes from some of the booksellers he caught breaking the law. He told them a gift to him would work out cheaper than a fine from L’Estrange.’

‘How do you know?’ Chaloner was disappointed: he already knew this.

‘Because I overheard their discussions, and I witnessed several payments made. I pretended not to notice, because I did not want to end up crushed between him and L’Estrange. He was an associate of Ellis Crisp, you see.’

‘Who is Ellis Crisp?’

Brome regarded him incredulously. ‘Are you jesting? You must have heard of Ellis Crisp.’

‘I am only recently returned from Portugal.’

‘Perhaps you are, but even so …’ Good manners helped Brome overcome his disbelief at what he clearly regarded as rank ignorance. ‘Crisp is the butcher who controls Smithfield — not the legitimate business of selling meat and livestock, but the underworld that thrives in the area. He owns the Hectors, and it is his bidding they do. He is the most dangerous man in London. So now do you see why I urge you to caution as regards Newburne?’

Chaloner nodded, although he had never heard of Crisp, and doubted the man would prove too daunting an opponent. He was grateful for the warning, though. He wondered if the Earl knew a powerful felon might be involved in Newburne’s death, which led him yet again to question his master’s reasons for ordering the investigation.

‘Do you think Crisp killed Newburne, then?’

Brome was startled. ‘No, I think Newburne died from eating cucumbers, although I suppose he might have been forced to consume them against his will. I doubt it was by Crisp, though, because Newburne was said to be one of his most valued employees. On the other hand, Crisp is the kind of man to kill a wayward minion. There are many tales about the untamed violence of the man they call the Butcher of Smithfield.’

‘The Butcher of Smithfield?’ echoed Chaloner incredulously. He was tempted to smile, but he did not want to offend someone who was trying to be helpful. He struggled to keep his expression blank. ‘Does this title refer to his profession or his penchant for “untamed violence”?’

‘Both, I imagine, although I do not think he has much to do with the meat trade any more. However, I have been told that his pastries offer a convenient repository for his victims’ bodies.’

This time Chaloner did not attempt to control his amusement, and laughed openly. ‘Then I doubt it is a very lucrative business. There cannot be many cannibals in London, and no one else will be inclined to dine on pies that own that sort of reputation.’

Brome shrugged and looked away, and Chaloner saw the bookseller thought there might well be truth in the rumours. Not wanting to argue, he changed the subject.

‘Can I see L’Estrange today, or should I come back later?’

Brome forced a smile. ‘I will ask for an interview now. If you are from the Earl of Clarendon, he will probably want to meet you. But be warned — he was not in a friendly frame of mind earlier, so you may have to … to speak with caution, so as not to ignite his fragile temper.’

‘He will not risk annoying the Earl by slicing the ears off his messengers.’

Brome regarded him as though he was mad. ‘He does not care who he annoys — which makes for a good editor, I suppose. If you give me a moment, I will present him with Mr Smith’s advertisement first. It will put him in a better mood, because it means five shillings in the newsbooks’ coffers.’

Bookshops were always pleasant places in which to while away time, and Chaloner was perfectly content to browse in Brome’s while he waited to be summoned to L’Estrange’s office. He noticed some of the texts had been penned by L’Estrange himself, most of them virulent attacks on Catholics, Puritans, science, Dutchmen, Quakers and, of course, phanatiques. Then he saw one that contained speeches made by some of the regicides before their executions. He took it down, and was startled to find a monologue by his uncle, who had neither been executed nor delivered a homily about what he had done. He read it in distaste, supposing L’Estrange had made it up. His uncle had been no saint, but he would never have uttered the viciously sectarian sentiments recorded in the poisonous little pamphlet, either. He replaced it on the shelf, feeling rather soiled for having touched it.

Suddenly, there was an explosive yell from the chamber above. Someone was being dressed down. Chaloner moved towards the stairs, better to hear what was being said.

‘One advertisement?’ Chaloner recognised L’Estrange’s voice from the incident outside the Rainbow Coffee House. ‘Is that all? It is a Monday, and clients should be flooding through the door.’

‘It is early yet,’ stammered Brome. ‘And I thought you might like to see the first-’

‘Do not think,’ snapped L’Estrange unpleasantly. ‘Leave that to me.’

Chaloner heard footsteps coming from a corridor that led to the back of the house and, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, moved quickly to stand by a pile of tomes about navigation and ocean mapping. He snatched up the top one, and was reading it when a woman entered the room. She closed the door at the base of the stairs, muffling the bad-tempered tirade that thundered from above.

‘Are you a sailor, sir?’ she asked politely. ‘If so, then may I direct you to a specific book? Or have you found what you are looking for?’

Chaloner glanced up from his ‘reading’ to see a slender, doe-eyed lady, who was pretty in a timid, frightened sort of way. She was tall for a woman — almost as tall as him — although her clothes were sadly unfashionable, and overemphasised her willowy figure. When she smiled, she revealed teeth that were rather long, which, when combined with the eyes, put Chaloner in mind of a startled rabbit. The comparison might not have sprung quite so readily to mind had her hair not been gathered in two brown bunches at the side of her head, and allowed to hang down like floppy ears.

‘A sailor?’ he asked blankly.

She nodded to the book he was holding. ‘Only mathematicians or nautical men are interested in Robert Moray’s Experiment of the Instrument for Sounding Depths. You do not look eccentric enough to be a man of science, so I conclude you must be a naval gentleman.’

‘I developed an interest in soundings on a recent sea voyage,’ lied Chaloner. ‘But I am just passing the time until I can see L’Estrange.’

She looked alarmed. ‘I hope there is no trouble?’ Realising it was an odd question to ask, she attempted to smooth it over, digging herself a deeper hole with every word she gabbled. ‘That is not to say we are expecting trouble, of course. The newsbook offices are very peaceful most of the time. Very peaceful. We never have trouble. Well, not usually. What I mean is-’

It seemed cruel to let her go on, so Chaloner interrupted. ‘No trouble, just government business.’

‘Thank God!’ she breathed. Then she shot him a sheepish grin. ‘You must think me a goose! All worked up and talking like the clappers over nothing. We lost a colleague recently, you see, and it upset us, even though we did not like him very much. That is to say we did not dislike him, but …’

She trailed off unhappily, and looked longingly at the door that led to the back of the house, clearly itching to bolt. Chaloner felt sorry for her, thinking she was entirely the wrong sort of person to be employed in the devious business of selling news. He winced when the shouting from upstairs grew louder. ‘L’Estrange seems peeved.’

‘He is always peeved. Unless a lady happens along. Then he is all smiles and oily charm. If you want his favour, you might consider donning skirts.’ She blushed furiously. ‘I am not saying you look like the kind of man who likes dressing up in women’s clothing, because I am sure you do not, but …’

‘I never don skirts when I am in need of a shave,’ said Chaloner, taking pity on her a second time. ‘I find it spoils the effect.’

The comment coaxed a smile from her. ‘You should not let that bother you — it will not be your face he is looking at.’

‘You are Mrs Brome?’

‘Joanna. My husband is Henry. But I expect you already know that. Silly me! Henry is always saying I talk too much, but he is a man, and they do not talk enough, generally speaking. Unless they are politicians or lawyers, of course. Then they are difficult to stop.’

Chaloner was relieved when the door at the bottom of the stairs opened, and Brome returned. The bookseller’s face was flushed, and his wife rushed to his side with a wail of alarm.

‘It is all right, dearest,’ said Brome, patting her arm. He turned to Chaloner. ‘You have met my wife, I see. She helps me in my business. No one has a head for figures like my Joanna.’

Joanna smiled shyly. ‘I do my best. And everything needs to be accounted for, because a single missing penny might result in an accusation of theft. L’Estrange is very particular about money.’

‘It does not sound as though he is easy to work with.’

‘He is good to us,’ said Joanna immediately. ‘Well, he is good most of the time, and-’

‘It is all right, Joanna,’ said Brome quietly. ‘Heyden is from White Hall, so I am sure he already knows about L’Estrange’s … idiosyncrasies.’

Joanna heaved a heartfelt sigh. ‘Good! It is difficult to pretend all is well when Mr L’Estrange is in one of his moods, and I dislike closing the door and trying to distract customers with idle conversation in order to drown out his noisy rants. It feels duplicitous, and I am not very good at it anyway.’

‘We were delighted when he chose us to help him with the newsbooks,’ said Brome, seeming grateful to confide. ‘He said our shop suited him better than any other, because it is near all the booksellers at St Paul’s, and not far from his home. But he has such a black temper.’

‘Actually, he is a bully,’ whispered Joanna. She glanced nervously towards the stairs. ‘And neither of us were really “delighted” when he said he was going to use our shop from which to run his business. We like the money — he pays rent for his office and for our help with his newsbooks — but he is not someone we would befriend, if we had a choice. He is so … well, strong. And we are not.’

‘Yes and no,’ countered Brome. ‘He does not always get his own way.’

‘True,’ conceded Joanna. ‘We managed to prevent him from publishing that libellous attack on ex-Spymaster Thurloe last month. It took some doing, but he admitted we were right in the end — that there was no truth in the spiteful things he had written.’

‘I have no love for Cromwell’s ministers, but that editorial was pure fabrication, and would have made us a laughing stock,’ said Brome. ‘L’Estrange needs our commonsense and sanity.’

Chaloner did not think Joanna would be overly endowed with either, because she seemed rather eccentric to him. Then he reconsidered. Her gauche awkwardness was doubtless due to her shy and nervous nature, and he did not blame anyone for being fearful when the likes of L’Estrange was brooding upstairs. When she smiled at him, and he saw the sweet kindness in her face, he found himself feeling rather sorry for her. He smiled back.

‘He is in a foul mood today,’ Brome went on. ‘Unfortunately, he read that newsletter — the one addressed to Pepys — as soon as it arrived this morning, and it contains some of the stories we had planned to print in Thursday’s Newes.’

‘Again?’ asked Joanna, shocked. ‘But how? And what are we going to do? This cannot continue, because people will not buy the newsbooks if they are full of old intelligence.’

Chaloner frowned, not sure he fully understood the situation. ‘I would have thought printing would confer a significant advantage on you. Surely it is faster to print a hundred sheets than to handwrite them, like Muddiman has to do? How can he disseminate news more quickly than L’Estrange?’

‘Printing is a laborious process,’ explained Brome. ‘It involves hours of typesetting, and then, because compositors make mistakes, everything needs to be checked. Meanwhile, Muddiman employs an army of scribes. As soon as a letter is finished, a boy races off to deliver it, so news can be spread in a matter of minutes. We can flood the city with thousands of newsbooks, given time, but the newsletters are infinitely faster. The advantage is not as great as you might think.’

‘If you say the government clerks are not responsible for the leak of information, then what about someone here?’ asked Chaloner. He thought about Newburne, and decided ‘news-theft’ was an excellent motive for murder. Had the solicitor been selling L’Estrange’s stories to Muddiman, and been killed for his treachery?

Brome seemed to read his mind. ‘It was not Newburne. He was making too much money from L’Estrange to risk losing it.’

‘Is that why you are here?’ Joanna asked of Chaloner, suddenly displaying the same astuteness as her husband. ‘Someone at White Hall thinks Newburne’s death was not an accident, but connected to the news? Everyone has assumed the cucumber was responsible, but he did have enemies.’

‘He did,’ agreed Brome. ‘He was corrupt, and I do not think he will be greatly missed by anyone.’

‘His family will miss him,’ said Chaloner, supposing that even solicitors had them.

Joanna nodded slowly. ‘Yes, his wife is upset. However, if someone did kill him, the culprit will not take kindly to questions — and Newburne had some singularly unsavoury acquaintances.’

‘I have already told him all this,’ said Brome. ‘And in reply to your other observation, Heyden, no one here or at the printing-house would give our news to Muddiman. They would not dare, not with L’Estrange watching like a hawk and Spymaster Williamson looming in the background.’

‘That is true,’ said Joanna ruefully. ‘They would be too frightened, and I know how they feel. L’Estrange tends to draw his sword first and ask questions later, and between him and Williamson, our staff are thoroughly cowed into unquestioning obedience. Us included. Well, most of the time. We make a stand if he does something brazenly unwise, like that editorial on Thurloe, and-’

Brome steered Chaloner towards the stairs. ‘You had better not keep him waiting. We do not want a repeat of the ear incident.’

At the top of a flight of stairs that creaked, Brome opened the door to a pleasant office. Behind a large oaken desk sat the man Chaloner had seen squabbling with his rival in Fleet Street. His nose appeared even more prominently hooked close up, and the rings in his ears glittered. Because he looked so rakish and disreputable, Chaloner was astonished to see him holding a bass viol and bow.

‘You do not mind if I play while we talk, do you?’ he asked of Chaloner, waving a hand to indicate Brome was dismissed. The bookseller escaped with palpable relief. ‘I am beset by phanatiques on all sides and music is the only thing that gives me the resolve to do battle with them.’

‘That is a fine instrument,’ said Chaloner, rather more interested in the viol than in pursuing his dangerous assignment for the Earl. ‘Is it Spanish?’

‘Why, yes,’ said L’Estrange, pleasantly surprised. ‘How did you know? Do you play?’ He went to a cupboard before Chaloner could reply, and the spy saw several more instruments inside it, all equally handsome. ‘Let us have a duet, then. It is difficult to find people willing to master the viol these days, because there is a modern preference for the violin. Or the flageolet, God forbid!’

‘God forbid, indeed,’ murmured Chaloner, running his hands appreciatively over the fingerboard while L’Estrange slapped a sheet of music in front of him.

‘One, two,’ announced L’Estrange, before launching into the piece with considerable gusto. Chaloner fumbled to catch up, and L’Estrange scowled. ‘Count your beats, man!’

Apart from a few occasions when he had used his artistic skills to gain access to the sly Portuguese duke, Chaloner had had no time for music since June, and his lack of practice showed. He played badly, aware of L’Estrange’s grimaces when he missed notes or his timing was poor. He would have done better had it been an air he knew, but it was unfamiliar and the notation was cramped and difficult to read. When it was finished, L’Estrange sat back and tapped it with his bow.

‘Do you like it?’

‘No.’

L’Estrange laughed. ‘I composed it, and I am rather proud of it, to be frank. However, at least you were honest. Take it home, and we shall try it again in a few days — when you will make no mistakes, of course. But you did not come here to entertain me. What does the Earl want?’

‘Two things. He has asked me to provide you with news about Portugal, and-’

‘News?’ pounced L’Estrange. ‘Good! I will pay you double if you sell these reports only to me. Triple, if Muddiman asks for them and you tell him to go to Hell. What was the second thing?’

‘He wants me to ascertain whether there was anything odd about the death of Thomas Newburne.’

‘Does, he by God! Why? What business is it of his?’

‘I wish I knew,’ muttered Chaloner.

‘Newburne ate a cucumber. I admit it is an odd way to go, but it is not entirely unknown. Colonel Beauclair and a couple of sedan-chair carriers went the same way, just this last month.’

‘You think Newburne died of natural causes?’

‘Of course he did. Obviously, he encountered a lot of dubious characters when he was working on my behalf — phanatiques, no less. But no one killed him.’

‘When you speak of dubious characters, do you mean men like the Butcher of Smithfield?’

‘Actually, I was referring to the booksellers he met. His association with Ellis Crisp was his own affair, and none of mine. However, I would have ordered him to consort with the Devil himself, if it meant safeguarding the King and his government. That is why I agreed to become Surveyor of the Press — to serve His Majesty with all the means at my disposal, legitimate or otherwise.’

‘Suppressing books on mathematics is serving the King?’ Chaloner was thinking of Leybourn.

‘Yes, and so is stamping out dishonesty in the publishing trade. I have fined dozens of booksellers for breaking the law, including James Allestry who supplies the Royal Society, and William Nott who counts your master, the Lord Chancellor, among his customers. I mean to root out disobedience wherever I find it, even among those who consider themselves too grand for fines and disgrace.’

Chaloner was inclined to tell him that alienating an entire profession was probably not the best way to make a success of his appointment — and that there was a difference between enforcing the law and gratuitous persecution — but he held his tongue. ‘What do you think happened to Newburne?’

‘I have already told you: he ate a cucumber.’ L’Estrange reflected for a moment. ‘Of course, the fruit could have been fed to him by phanatiques. They are always lurking in coffee houses and taverns, waiting to strike.’

Chaloner thought he was being paranoid. ‘I doubt they-’

‘Are you one of them?’ demanded L’Estrange. ‘Yes, I imagine you are: your viol finger-work smacks of that old reprobate Maylord — a loyal Parliamentarian first, but then a Royalist when he saw it would serve him better. He had a very distinctive style of playing, and you mimic it.’

‘I have never been taught by Maylord,’ said Chaloner. But his father had, and he had passed the lessons to his son. He was impressed by L’Estrange’s powers of observation, because he had not even been aware that the man had been studying him. ‘Did Newburne play the viol with you?’

L’Estrange snorted his derision. ‘Hardly! He liked music, but he had no talent for it.’

‘I do not suppose he had lessons from Maylord, did he?’

The editor snorted a second time. ‘Maylord was a good man who would never have subjected himself to Newburne’s low company. Why do you ask? Is it because both died from cucumbers and you think there might be a connection between them? If so, then you are wasting your time.’

Chaloner would make up his own mind about that. ‘How well did you know Newburne?’

‘I did not give him a cucumber, if that is what you are asking. Have you ever heard the saying, “Arise Tom Newburne”?’

Chaloner nodded, although he did not admit that it had only been the previous day.

‘It refers to his promotion from common lawyer to a man who worked for me — my arrival in London marked a dramatic upsurge in his fortunes. It is a by-word for anything that rises quickly.’

‘Is it?’ asked Chaloner, bemused. ‘I was told it meant something else.’

‘Then you were told wrong,’ declared L’Estrange. ‘Probably by a phanatique, trying to cause mischief. Tell me his name, and I will arrange for him to be visited by some of Newburne’s persuasive friends — Hectors. They are useful fellows to know when dealing with dissidents.’

‘It was the Earl of Clarendon. Do you want his address, or do you know where he lives?’

L’Estrange glowered at him. ‘You should have told me who you were talking about. The Earl and I have known each other for years, and I mean him no harm. Indeed, he has always been a good friend to me, and I to him.’

‘You hired Newburne to do what, exactly?’ asked Chaloner, going back to his investigation.

‘Mostly to visit booksellers and assess their stock for unlicensed publications. He was paid a shilling for every one that he discovered, which was a fine incentive for him to succeed. He was good at it, too. He was also in charge of watching Henry Muddiman. Do you know Muddiman?’

‘Only by reputation.’

‘You mean his reputation as a villainous rogue, who ran a pair of sub-standard newsbooks before Spymaster Williamson arranged for me to be promoted into his place?’

‘Something like that.’

‘He is a sly devil, and owes allegiance to nothing but money. We all want to be wealthy, but some of us have other interests, too. He does not. Newburne was paid to watch him, to see where he obtains the intelligence for his filthy newsletters. They undermine my newsbooks, you see.’

‘Can you not suppress them?’ asked Chaloner facetiously. ‘As you have the mathematicians?’

Irony was lost on L’Estrange. ‘Muddiman does not need one of my licenses, because his reports are handwritten, not printed. And as he does not sell them in shops, they are not within my purvey.’

‘They appear in taverns, though,’ said Chaloner. ‘I have seen them myself.’

‘Landlords subscribe to them, because newsletters attract customers eager for information. I do not like it, but it is within the law, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Unfortunately.’

‘Did Newburne ever attempt to steal news from Muddiman? Or try to prevent the newsletters from being written?’

‘Yes, but he never succeeded, because Muddiman was far too clever for him. However, much as I would love to see Muddiman swing for murder, I am afraid he did not kill Newburne. No one did — the man died because he ate a cucumber. Do you have anything else to ask me?’

‘Not at the moment.’

‘Good, because I have had enough of being interrogated. I have answered all your questions, so you can tell the Earl that I co-operated. However, I do not want you prying into Newburne’s death any further, because I have appointed a man of my own to do it.’

‘Who?’ asked Chaloner in surprise. ‘And why, if you claim there is nothing odd about-’

‘Hodgkinson, the fellow who prints my newsbooks. He was with Newburne when he died, so he is the perfect man for the task. And the reason I asked him to investigate is because I do not want the stink of murder hanging around my office. It is all the fault of people like you, you know.’

‘Like me?’

‘Suspicious types, who see conspiracy everywhere. Newburne’s death was natural, and Hodgkinson will prove it. In fact, he has probably proved it already, so go and speak to him yourself. He lives on Thames Street, although I imagine he will be at Smithfield today; he has a booth on Duck Lane, where he sells printed certificates for meat. Talk to him, then go back to your Earl and tell him there is nothing about Newburne that warrants further investigation.’

‘And what of the phanatiques who you say may have given Newburne the cucumber?’

L’Estrange shot him a wolfish grin, and his earrings flashed. ‘Hodgkinson will ferret those out for me, if they exist. You will not interfere. If you disobey, I promise you will be sorry.’

* * *

Before Chaloner left Brome’s shop, he wrote a brief report about the Portuguese preparations for war with Spain. As he scribbled, he considered his next move. There were now several people he was obliged to interview. First, there was the solicitor’s friend Finch. Next, there was Hodgkinson the printer, who, for all Chaloner knew, might already have solved the case. And finally, there were the two prestigious booksellers, Nott and Allestry. Like Leybourn, the pair had endured L’Estrange’s persecution, and he wanted to assess whether they felt sufficiently bitter to avenge themselves on his informant. Chaloner knew Nott owned the shop that stood across the road from Brome’s, because he had collected books from it for the Earl in the past, so he decided to start there.

When he arrived, Nott was entertaining an important visitor, whose magnificent coach stood outside, selfishly blocking the entire road.

‘Heyden,’ said the Earl of Clarendon amiably, as the spy entered. ‘Nott is rebinding my copy of Rushworth’s Historical Collections. Shall I have it done in blue-dyed calfskin or red?’

‘Green,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether the Earl was there by chance, or whether he was ensuring his spy was doing as he was told. He found himself deeply suspicious. ‘Blue is common, and red is favoured by courtesans who cannot read.’

The Earl gaped at him. ‘Most of my collection is bound in red or blue.’

‘I shall fetch some more samples, sir,’ said Nott, beating a prudent retreat. ‘In green.’

‘I have started looking into Newburne’s death,’ said Chaloner, when they were alone. ‘So far, everyone has either warned me away because Newburne knew a lot of dangerous people, or they say it is quite normal for men to die from eating cucumbers and that I am wasting my time.’

‘I saw you go into Brome’s shop,’ said the Earl. ‘Which tale did he spin you? That Newburne’s death was natural? Or that you will endanger yourself if you persist with your enquiries?’

‘Both. Why do you want this case investigated, sir? At White Hall, I was under the impression that L’Estrange had asked for your help in finding out what happened, but he was bemused when I offered my services, and tells me they are not needed. So, what is the real reason? Is it because your own bookseller, Nott, was victimised by Newburne, and you think he might be the culprit?’

Clarendon pursed his lips. ‘What a wild imagination you have! I like Nott, and it would be a shame if you learn he is the killer — if there is a killer. He really does produce excellent bindings.’

‘You did not tell me that other people have died from ingesting cucumbers, either,’ added Chaloner, trying not to sound accusatory. He did not succeed, because he was angry with the Earl for playing games with secrets, and his temper was up.

‘I did not tell you, because I did not know,’ snapped Clarendon, irritable in his turn. ‘If it is true, then perhaps I have sent you on a wild goose chase, and there is nothing to assess. However, Newburne was unpleasant and he engaged in sordid dealings — if he was not murdered, I shall be very surprised.’

‘But why do you want to know? What is Newburne to you? Did you hire him to help you with something? He had a reputation for knowing a good many villains.’

The Earl glared at him. ‘Was that an accidental conjunction of two statements, or do you imply that I am one of these “villains”?’

It had been an accident: Chaloner was not so foolish as to call his master a villain to his face. All he had meant to say was that Newburne might have known the right people for the unpalatable tasks that often went hand-in-hand with high government office, and that Clarendon might have used Newburne much as he was currently using Chaloner. However, he was not so chagrined by his slip of the tongue that he failed to notice the Earl had used the gaffe to avoid answering his question.

‘Did he work for you?’ he pressed.

Clarendon grimaced. ‘You really are an insolent fellow, Heyden. Were you like this with Thurloe? Accusing him of sordid dealings and then demanding answers to questions that are none of your concern?’ He sighed crossly. ‘Very well, I shall tell you what you want to know, although I would appreciate discretion.’

‘I am always discreet,’ said Chaloner, offended by the slur on his professionalism.

‘So you say, but there are men with deep pockets who seem able to bribe just about anyone these days, so you will forgive my scepticism. I employed Newburne when I was first appointed Lord Chancellor. He served me well for a while, and I was so pleased with his diligence that I arranged for him to receive a state pension. Then I discovered he was less than honourable, and I dismissed him.’

‘Employed him to do what?’

‘Petty legal work, although that is irrelevant to what I am trying to tell you. When my secretary, Bulteel, uncovered evidence that Newburne was stealing from me, I sent the man away in disgrace and thought no more about it. After a week or two, he started to work for L’Estrange who, as Surveyor of the Press, is also a government official. The upshot is that, technically speaking, Newburne never left government service, and as with all state pensions, there is a clause stipulating that a sum of money will be paid to the next-of-kin if the holder dies while engaged on official business.’

‘And because you organised the award, you — not L’Estrange — are liable to pay it?’

‘Precisely! You have it in a nutshell. Newburne’s widow came to see me the day after he died and reminded me of my promise — showed me the documents I had signed. Now, I do not mind the expense if he really did die while conducting government business, but I am not so keen on paying if he was murdered because of some corrupt dealing of his own. That is what I want you to find out.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner. So, he was being commissioned to see whether a widow could be cheated of her due. He began to wish he had stayed in Portugal.

‘She is not poor,’ said the Earl sharply, reading his mind. ‘And all I want is the truth; if you say Newburne died while working for L’Estrange, then I shall happily honour the debt. However, as the pension will come from money raised by taxing the people, I am under a moral obligation to spend it properly, not squander it on tricksters.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner noncommittally. ‘Why did you not tell me this yesterday?’

‘You looked tired, and I did not want to burden you with too much information. Ah, here is Nott. Oh, no! I do not like green bindings at all.’

Chaloner had no idea whether he finally had the truth, but supposed that cash might well motivate the Earl into wanting to know what had really happened. Clarendon selected blue leather for his books, then was gone in a flurry of noise, horses and lace. Chaloner was left alone with Nott.

‘It must be galling for you, living opposite the man who fined you for selling unlicensed texts,’ he said, rather baldly. The Earl had annoyed him, and he did not feel like being circumspect.

Nott — a small man with hair tied in an odd bun at the back of his head — grinned. ‘It was, but now Newburne will no longer be slinking in and out, life will be much more pleasant. Did the Earl order you to investigate the death? If so, I would be careful, if I were you. There is not a man in London sorry to see him in his coffin.’

‘So I have been told,’ said Chaloner sourly. ‘Several times.’

The sky was overcast when Chaloner left Ivy Lane, and a bitter wind blew in from the north-west. He cut through St Paul’s Cathedral, thinking that while it appeared to be magnificent from a distance, Leybourn had been right to voice his concerns about its structural integrity. Cracks snaked up its walls, and fallen clumps of plaster littered the floor inside, along with bird droppings and a thick layer of filth that had been tracked in from the streets and never cleaned up. He left wondering how long it would be before it simply gave up the ghost and crumbled into dust of its own accord, leaving the site free for Wren’s monstrosity.

The second bookseller L’Estrange had mentioned was James Allestry, who not only held the grand title of Stationer to the King, but was also the man who provided books for the Royal Society. Allestry’s premises were in a noble Tudor house that stood in the cathedral’s yard, but although he answered Chaloner’s questions politely enough, he was able to add nothing more than that he had been furious when he had been fined, and that members of the Royal Society had made sure the King had known what had happened. His Majesty was outraged, Allestry declared, although Chaloner suspected the regal annoyance derived from the fact that he had been pestered with such a matter in the first place, rather than the iniquity of the fine itself.

‘Do not think I murdered Newburne, though,’ said the bookseller as Chaloner reached for the door latch to let himself out. ‘I would have stabbed him in his black heart, not given him a cucumber.’

‘Did you know cucumbers were poisonous?’

‘Everyone knows it, although I was always sceptical, to be honest,’ replied Allestry. ‘I am not sceptical now, though. I wonder if L’Estrange likes them. I may send him a basket if he does. I hear they can be bought in Smithfield and Covent Garden these days.’

Chaloner walked to Thames Street, the western end of which stood in the shadow of Baynard Castle, a handsome fifteenth-century palace. The building perched on the banks of the mighty Thames, and twice a day, muddy brown waters lapped around the feet of its elegant buttresses. Chaloner imagined they were currently lapping rather higher than was comfortable for its occupants, given the volume of rainwater that was being discharged into the river upstream.

Richard Hodgkinson’s print-shop was a vast, windowless basement, located near the palace’s back gate. It was a gloomy place. Its walls dripped moisture and a recent flood had left puddles on the floor, which combined to give the impression that the whole place was below water level.

Printing was a grubby business, and everything in the room was black and sticky with spilled ink. It was noisy, too, with clanking machinery and apprentices yelling to each other as they manipulated heavy plates and sheaves of paper. Nimble-fingered typesetters selected letters from neat rows of boxes, and a listless boy stirred a vat of reeking chemicals. The place stank of hot oil and the thick, sludgy ink that was kept fluid over charcoal fires. There was a greasy mist in the air that did nothing to improve the atmosphere, and Chaloner was able to deduce, from the way the workmen stared curiously at him, that visitors were rare.

Hodgkinson was a smiling, energetic man with an unfashionable beard and hands so deeply stained with the materials of his trade that Chaloner doubted they were ever fully clean.

‘You want to purchase cards?’ he asked eagerly. ‘To advertise your business? I can do some in red, although it costs extra. You wear riding boots, so are you connected with horses? Have you lost one? If you look in Thursday’s Newes, you will see three separate notices for nags that have been pilfered, and two are returned already.’

‘Did Newburne ever advertise a lost horse?’

Hodgkinson was startled. ‘Newburne? What does he have to do with anything?’

‘The Lord Chancellor has asked me to ascertain how he died. I understand you were with him at the time.’

Hodgkinson gaped at him. ‘The Lord Chancellor is interested? Why? Newburne died a natural death — he ate a dangerous fruit.’

‘The Earl is interested in many things,’ said Chaloner smoothly. ‘And L’Estrange tells me he has asked you to look into the matter on his behalf. Will you tell me what you have learned so far? The Earl will be very grateful.’

Hodgkinson nodded keenly. ‘I am always willing to help the government, although you must remember that I am a printer, not a constable, and do not possess the skills necessary for looking into sudden deaths. However, I shall tell you what I have gathered to date. As you will be aware, the dead man was responsible for the expression, “Arise, Tom Newburne”, but he will not be doing much arising now. He is dead for certain this time.’

Chaloner regarded him blankly. ‘He has been dead before?’

‘Yes — he died during the Bartholomew Fair. I witnessed the incident myself.’

Chaloner did not know as much about this most famous of London festivals as he should have done. ‘In August?’ he asked carefully, hoping to elicit more information.

Hodgkinson regarded him oddly. ‘Of course in August. That is when it always takes place. It lasts two weeks, when all is flurry, noise and colour, and then Smithfield reverts back to normal.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner, wondering how ‘normal’ Smithfield could be when the likes of Crisp were said to control it. ‘So, Newburne went to the Bartholomew Fair in August …’

‘He, I and several others were watching a rope-dancer, when a stone struck his head. He keeled over and lay as still as a corpse. Then Annie Petwer comes along and shouts, “arise, Tom Newburne” and up he leaps, like Lazarus.’

‘Who is Annie Petwer?’ asked Chaloner.

‘A trollop. She charged him five shillings for her services, but I have never seen a man more willing to part with his money. Newburne was a miserly fellow, despite the fact that he was rich.’

‘I am not sure I understand precisely what happened. Who threw the stone? Annie Petwer?’

‘No one threw it; it was flicked up by a passing carriage. It happens all the time, as you will know if you have spent any time in the city.’

‘And this woman stepped forward and told him to stand up?’ It did not sound very likely, and Chaloner was not sure he believed it.

Hodgkinson grinned. ‘Exactly! And now you know where that particular expression comes from.’

‘I see. Newburne is famous, then?’

‘Locally famous, although he was a rogue, if you want the truth. He did a lot of business with Ellis Crisp, and I am sure you do not need me to tell you what that says about a man.’ He pursed his lips.

‘I do not,’ agreed Chaloner, ‘but what did Newburne have to do with Crisp and his gang of Hectors?’

‘He gave Crisp’s various business ventures a veneer of legality, and advised him on how to win confrontations with the law. It was unnecessary really, because people are so frightened of Crisp that they tend to let him do what he wants anyway.’

‘Are you afraid?’

Hodgkinson rubbed his bearded chin. ‘I own a small shop on Duck Lane, which is in Smithfield, so I am obliged to pay Crisp a sum of money each month. If I refuse, my stall is subject to thefts and broken windows. I would not say I am afraid exactly, but I own a healthy respect for his authority.’

‘So Newburne was involved in this extortion?’

Hodgkinson looked uncomfortable. ‘You have a blunt way of putting things! Newburne told Crisp to call it a safety tax, which sounds a lot nicer. Do you really want to know all this? It will see you in danger if you report it to the Lord Chancellor. Crisp has built quite an empire for himself, and he will not appreciate you telling the government about him. Besides, I suspect they already know, and are wisely turning a blind eye.’

‘It is wise to ignore bullies who demand money with menaces?’

‘Very wise. And the fools who told the Butcher they did not want his protection now wish they had kept their mouths shut — those who have not been baked in his pies, of course.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner. He turned the discussion back to the solicitor. ‘What happened the day Newburne died — not the time at the Bartholomew Fair, but his real death last Wednesday? L’Estrange says you were with him then, too.’

Hodgkinson nodded. ‘I had just finished printing the latest edition of The Newes when Newburne happened by. He was not a man I would normally have chosen for company, but he offered to buy me a pie at the Smithfield meat market, and I never decline a free meal. Well, who does?’

‘I thought Newburne did everything with his close friend Heneage Finch.’

‘He did usually, but Finch plays in a consort of trumpets and was busy that evening. If Finch had been available, Newburne would never have asked me to join him.’

‘Does Finch ever perform with a musician called Maylord?’

‘Maylord the violist? I would not have thought so. Maylord was extremely good, and I doubt he would have bothered with an amateur like Finch. Why do you ask?’

‘Idle curiosity. You did not like Newburne, did you, despite him buying you pies?’

‘Not much. But I did not kill him.’

‘Was he killed? You said he died from eating cucumbers.’

Hodgkinson looked flustered. ‘I am trying to tell you what happened, but you keep interrupting. So, Newburne and I walked to the market, where we ate pies and drank ale. Then we stopped to watch the dancing monkeys, and he bought a cucumber from the costermongery on Duck Lane. He had some marchpanes, too, and a gingerbread cake. He had been moaning about feeling sick most of the afternoon, but then, without warning, he suddenly gripped his belly and dropped to the ground.’

‘Did he complain about feeling sick before or after he ate all this food?’

‘Both. He was a heavy drinker, and I assumed too much wine on an empty stomach had made him costive. I encouraged him to eat, because I thought food might ameliorate his sour humours.’

‘Did he choke?’ asked Chaloner, thinking that if Newburne had swallowed ale, pies, cakes and a cucumber, there would have been ample opportunity for someone to slip him poison — if poisoned he was. If Newburne had been feeling ill anyway, perhaps none of the food was responsible.

‘He started gasping for breath and clutching his stomach. I thought he was drunk at first — as I said, he enjoyed his wine.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then he just died. He gasped a few times, shuddered and lay still. When froth poured from his mouth, I realised he was genuinely ill, but by then it was too late — and there was no Annie Petwer to tell him to arise. He lies in St Bartholomew the Less, if you want to inspect his corpse. I have been several times, but he is definitely dead this time.’

‘Where can I find Annie Petwer?’

Hodgkinson shrugged. ‘God knows. I imagine she lives in London, though. The Fair attracts a lot of folk from the country, but I would say Annie Petwer is local.’

Chaloner shook his head, bemused by the tale. ‘What do you think happened to Newburne? A fit? An aversion to cucumbers? Poison?’

‘When L’Estrange asked me to investigate, I paid a surgeon to inspect the body. The fellow has written me a certificate saying Newburne really did die from cucumbers.’ He extracted a document from a pile on a desk, holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger, so as not to soil it with his inky hands. ‘Here. He says cucumbers cause dangerous vapours to collect in the veins, and these eventually result in a fatal imbalance of the humours. I have no reason to doubt his conclusions.’

Chaloner read what was written. The medic had cited the great Greek physician Galen to support his hypothesis, and his own credentials included membership of the Company of Barber-Surgeons, so he was unlikely to be a complete charlatan. Chaloner tapped the letter thoughtfully. ‘Unfortunately, this does not tell us whether the cucumber was dosed with some kind of toxin, or whether Newburne just suffered a bad reaction to this type of fruit.’

Hodgkinson scratched his head. ‘I suppose not. However, the surgeon said lots of people die from cucumbers, so there is no reason to suspect foul play. Is there anything else I can tell you? If not, I had better be getting back to work, or we will be late with the bills for the play at the Duke’s House this evening.’

‘One more question: do you know where Henry Muddiman lives?’

Hodgkinson regarded him warily. ‘His office is at the sign of the Seven Stars, near the New Exchange on The Strand. Why? Are you not convinced by my explanations? You intend to follow your own investigation, even though there is nothing to look into?’

‘I doubt the Lord Chancellor will be satisfied with what I have uncovered so far.’

Hodgkinson’s expression was grave. ‘You seem a decent man, so here is a friendly warning: walk away from Newburne while you can. It is what I intend to do myself.’

‘That sounds like a threat.’

‘It is not meant to be. To be frank, it crossed my mind that Newburne might have fallen foul of Crisp somehow — friends turned enemies and all that — and if it was a good man who lay dead, I might press the matter. But we are talking about Newburne here. He is not worth dying for.’

‘So you do not believe his death was natural? You are sceptical of your surgeon’s conclusions?’

Hodgkinson looked shifty. ‘I do believe them — and that is what I shall tell L’Estrange. I am not brave enough to do anything else. Look, I like the Lord Chancellor — he is a sober, godly fellow among all those debauched courtiers. Tell him to ignore Newburne, and use his spies to defeat his enemies at White Hall instead. It will be better for all of us that way.’

Unfortunately, Chaloner suspected the Earl would not agree. Pensions cost a good deal of money, and what was the life of an insolent spy when compared to a fortune?