The Butcher Of Smithfield

Chapter 4

Chaloner was not very good at ascertaining causes of death from corpses, but he had acquired a certain expertise over the years, and knew he should visit Newburne’s in St Bartholomew the Less as soon as possible. Hodgkinson’s surgeon had declared there to be no suspicious circumstances, and if Chaloner also saw nothing to suggest the medic had been mistaken — such as broken teeth or bruised lips — then perhaps the commonly accepted tale about Newburne’s death was true, and he had indeed died from eating something that had disagreed with him.

Yet there were questions to be answered, even so. Had someone forced him to eat cucumbers, knowing they would do him harm? And did the fact that he was so universally detested really have nothing to do with his death? Chaloner decided he had better speak to Muddiman about the matter regardless, as he was the obvious suspect for any foul play. And there was still Finch’s opinion to consider — the only person in the city said to have liked the solicitor. Chaloner supposed he should also interview Newburne’s wife, although he would have to tread carefully. He doubted she would be very forthcoming once she learned he worked for the man who was trying to wriggle out of paying her pension. Mulling over all he had learned, he walked to the church.

St Bartholomew the Less was located at the edge of the vast, open, diamond-shaped space that was Smithfield. Livestock lowed and bleated in the semi-permanent stocks, unsettled by the stench of blood and entrails from the nearby butchers’ stalls. As he approached the church, Chaloner glanced at the people he passed, wondering whether any were members of the notorious Hector clan. He was disconcerted to note that the area contained more than its share of disreputable types, and he did not like the way loutish-looking men gathered on street corners in small but menacing groups.

The smaller of the two churches dedicated to St Bartholomew had been chapel to the nearby hospital of the same name, and was full of memorials to worthy surgeons and physicians. There were fine stained-glass windows, most depicting scenes from the Bible that involved healing, and the font, screen and pulpit were carved from old, black oak. It smelled of damp prayer-books and the pine cones someone had piled along the windowsills, and its thick, ancient walls muffled the racket from outside. Chaloner was pleased to find it deserted. Ever cautious, he placed a pewter jug by the door, so that if anyone opened it, the receptacle would be knocked over, and the resulting clatter would warn him to stop what he was doing.

He made for the lady chapel, where an elaborately carved coffin was covered by a pall of heavily embroidered material. Hurrying, because he was sure he would not be alone for long, he dragged the cloth away, revealing the man underneath. Newburne had been slightly built, with a small, thin moustache, like the King’s. Under his rich wig, his pate was bald and shiny, and Chaloner recalled the Earl commenting on Newburne’s hairless state. Although Chaloner knew better than to make assumptions about a man’s character from the look of his corpse, there was definitely something about Newburne that suggested deceitfulness and villainy.

But it was not the time for leisurely analysis, so Chaloner began his physical examination. First, he opened Newburne’s mouth, and looked down his throat. As far as he could tell, it was clear, and he did not think Newburne had choked on his cucumber. His teeth were intact, and there was no indication of bruising around the lips. There was, however, a faint smell of something rank, which made him wonder whether the solicitor had ingested something that had done him no good. There was no sign that he had been struck on the head, although a faint scar on his left temple was evidence of an older injury; Chaloner supposed it had been caused by the stone that had allowed Annie Petwer to order him up from the dead.

He put all to rights, and stared thoughtfully at the corpse. Hodgkinson’s description of Newburne’s death, along with the smell that lingered around his mouth, suggested poisoning was not out of the question. But was it a natural reaction to eating a fruit generally deemed dangerous, or had someone deliberately ended his life? And if the latter was true, then had the toxin been in the cucumber? Hodgkinson said the solicitor had also partaken of pie, wine, gingerbread and marchpanes, and any one of them could have held something dangerous. Further, Hodgkinson had mentioned Newburne complaining of feeling ill even before he had made a pig of himself. Chaloner considered what he knew about poisons.

Newburne had died quickly, which suggested the substance had been strong. And if it was strong, then it would have left marks — on the innards it had damaged, but also on other parts of Newburne’s body it might have touched during the process of ingestion, namely his hands and lips. Chaloner looked in the mouth again, and thought he could detect tiny blisters. Then he turned his attention to the hands. They were cold, limp and unpleasant to the touch, but it was worth the experience, because there were green stains on the fingers, and an underlying redness that looked as though the skin had burned. There was the same unpleasant odour, too, and when Chaloner dipped a corner of the pall into a puddle on a nearby windowsill, and tried to scrub the marks away, they remained. He had his answer: Newburne had been provided with a caustic substance that had damaged his fingers and then killed him after he had swallowed it. Such a thing would not occur naturally in a cucumber, which meant someone had probably put it there.

He left the church with a sense of achievement, and went to the stalls that fringed the edge of the Smithfield Meat Market, looking for the costermongery on Duck Lane, where Hodgkinson said Newburne had bought his cucumber. There was only one, because most vendors preferred to sell their wares at Covent Garden or Gracechurch Street, which were famous for their agricultural produce. A sign declared it was the shop at the Lamb — the Lamb being the seedy tavern two doors down — and it sold spices, baskets and pewter plates, as well as a surprisingly varied array of fruit and vegetables. Judging from its neat shelves and well-dressed staff, it was a profitable enterprise. Between it and the Lamb was an odorous establishment that displayed printed cards in its grimy windows. Chaloner wondered whether it was significant that Newburne had purchased his cucumber from the shop that was located next to one of Hodgkinson’s two print-works.

‘A cucumber?’ asked the man who came to serve him. On the side of the counter was a pile of advertisements that claimed he was Samuel Yeo, grocer and merchant. ‘They cost threepence — expensive at this time of year, because they need to be grown inside, for warmth. Is it for a lady?

‘No,’ asked Chaloner suspiciously, handing over half his worldly wealth. ‘Why would it be?’

‘Because they use them to obtain beauteous complexions,’ explained Yeo.

‘Presumably, they can also be eaten?’

Yeo smiled. ‘They can indeed, and the seeds are excellent for ulcers in the bladder or expelling an excess of wind, so there are benefits to including them in your diet.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner.

Yeo detected his scepticism. ‘There is a school of thought that says they are dangerous, but do not believe it. Any fruit is poisonous if taken with greed, and cucumbers are no different. Will there be anything else? We had a consignment of fresh spices this morning — galingale and cubebs. Take some galingale — its mild ginger flavour will disguise the taste of any rancid meat you need to use up. If you make a purchase, I shall include a handful of my fine peppery cubebs, too.’

Chaloner parted with another penny in the interests of his investigation. He put the spices in his pocket, hoping it would not be too long before he had an opportunity to buy something to cook them with, and that when he did, galingale would not be needed to disguise its state of decomposition.

‘This is an unusual location for a costermonger’s shop,’ he said conversationally. ‘Most are at Covent Garden.’

‘We do well here, though. People come to Smithfield for meat, then stop to buy a few carrots or a couple of onions for a stew. We save them a walk.’

‘Do you own the shop yourself, Mr Yeo?’

‘God bless you, no! The owner is a courtier at White Hall, but he never visits. Mr Newburne managed the business for him, and paid him his quarterly profits. It was an arrangement that suited them both. And me, too — I make a good living without the worry of complex finances.’

Chaloner regarded him in surprise. ‘Newburne managed this shop? And it was here that he bought the cucumber that killed him?’

Yeo became indignant. ‘People say he died of cucumbers, but I know for a fact that he swallowed pie, cakes and ale as well. He came to demand a cucumber because he said he had pains in his bladder, but it was not our fine fruit that caused his demise. It was something else.’

‘He thought the cucumber would make him feel better? How ill was he?’

‘He was experiencing some mild discomfort, probably as a result of all the things he had eaten when he was out walking with Hodgkinson. He was a greedy man — and not a nice one, either.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He used his association with Butcher Crisp to bully people. He often came here for food, and he took what he wanted, but never paid for it. When Jones of the Lamb complained that Newburne never paid for his ale, Newburne told Crisp to raise the price of his safety tax. That taught us all to keep our mouths shut.’

‘Newburne had that sort of influence over Crisp?’

‘He did according to him, although I suspect Crisp pleases himself what he does. There he is.’

He pointed through the open door, and Chaloner saw a man of medium height, swathed in an unfashionable but practical cloak and a tall sugarloaf hat. The Butcher was surrounded by a pack of disreputable-looking henchmen, and he walked with a cat-like arrogance. His people clustered around him in a way that suggested they expected an attack at any moment, and Chaloner supposed constant unease was the lot of a man who made his money by preying on others. He considered going to talk to him about Newburne, but what could he say? That he knew the solicitor had helped with his illegal activities? Crisp’s answer was likely to be ‘so what?’ Reluctantly, because he was getting desperate for concrete clues, Chaloner decided it would be wiser to tackle Crisp only when he had a better idea of what to ask.

Once outside, he slit the cucumber with his dagger and smeared the greenish milk that seeped out across his wrist. He let it dry, but it came off with the most perfunctory of rubs, and it was not the same dark hue as the marks on Newburne, anyway. It confirmed his suspicion that it had not been natural cucumber juice that had caused the damage to the solicitor’s hands and mouth. He shoved the fruit in his pocket, but realised the discovery had left him with more questions than answers.

He was perturbed that Newburne had been unpopular in quite so many ways. The man had spied on Muddiman. He had persecuted booksellers, even ones with powerful patrons like Nott and Allestry. He worked for L’Estrange, who was also detested. He associated with an underworld king and helped him extort money from people. Almost everyone Chaloner had spoken to admitted disliking the man, and even Newburne’s associates — Crisp and the Hectors — were not above suspicion. It was not unknown for criminals to turn on each other with fatal results.

And was there a connection between Newburne’s death and Maylord’s? It seemed they had not known each other, and they had certainly not moved in the same circles. Had Maylord’s killer left a cucumber at the scene of his crime because it seemed to be a cause of death that no one would question? Then what about the others who had died from the same thing: Valentine Pettis, Colonel Beauclair and the sedan-men? Had they been murdered, too? They were almost certainly buried, so Chaloner could not inspect their bodies. But what could a military man, a horse-trader, two labourers, a shady solicitor and a musician have in common?

He decided he would ask questions about the other deaths if the opportunity arose, but that he would have his hands full with unveiling Newburne’s poisoner and Maylord’s smotherer. And he had promised to investigate Mary Cade for Thurloe, too. He would be busy enough without enlarging his investigation to include men who might well have died natural deaths. He sighed, and hoped a visit to Muddiman would provide him with some answers.

* * *

Chaloner walked south along the Old Bailey. It was not raining, although there was an unpleasant chill in the air, and the kind of dampness that suggested the clouds were gathering their strength for future downpours. Although it was barely noon, the day was dark because of the lowering greyness above. Eventually, he reached The Strand, and asked directions to Muddiman’s office. He was directed to a tall, respectable house near the New Exchange. Although it was old, it was well-maintained, and there was evidence that recent money had been spent on it — the roof boasted new tiles, the window shutters were freshly painted, and the plaster façade was unusually clean.

He knocked on the door, and was admitted to a comfortable room on the ground floor. It was dominated by a large table that was piled high with papers and pamphlets. He took the opportunity to sift through a few, hoping to find evidence that Muddiman obtained his news from an official government source, but instead he learned that some of the men who subscribed to the newsletters responded in kind by providing Muddiman with information of their own. There was a lot of correspondence about the recent uprising in the north, providing a variety of different opinions. Reading them all would provide the newsmonger with a more balanced view of the situation than just accepting the government’s version of events, and Chaloner was not surprised people preferred Muddiman’s objectivity to L’Estrange’s one-sided rants.

There were also notices in foreign languages, especially French, along with a smattering of scribbled messages from courtiers. None carried news of any great import, and he supposed Muddiman included them to give his readers some light-hearted relief, as a break from the serious political analyses. Also among the chaos was a pamphlet on ‘exploding oil’ by John Lawrence of Blackfriars, who blithely recommended leaving his compound in places where burglars might find it — the moment a felon tried to use the volatile oil, it would ignite and spare the city the expense of a trial.

After a few moments, a pretty lady in a black wig arrived, smiling and gracious.

‘I am afraid my husband has gone out to his favourite coffee house — the Folly on the Thames — with Giles Dury. You have only just missed them. They have been working all morning.’

Chaloner gestured to the table. ‘On their newsletters?’

‘On Henry’s newsletters. Giles is just an assistant, and his wife is a seamstress at White Hall.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner, thinking it was an odd piece of information to impart. Unless, of course, Mrs Muddiman was trying to tell him that she was a cut above the mere Mrs Dury.

‘Roger sees her there occasionally,’ she went on disapprovingly. ‘That means she has an unfair advantage over me, because he does not like coming here.’

‘Roger? You mean L’Estrange?’ Joanna Brome had told Chaloner that L’Estrange had a reputation for seducing other men’s wives, but surely he would not make a play for Muddiman’s and Dury’s?

‘L’Estrange,’ she echoed with a dreamy smile. ‘A very handsome man. Do you not think?’

‘Too rakish for my taste,’ Chaloner replied uneasily. Was she the reason L’Estrange was so willing to draw his sword against Muddiman outside the Rainbow Coffee House? He was hoping to dispatch his rival and so get at his spouse? ‘And I prefer men who do not wear earrings.’

‘It is the earrings I like,’ she said with a conspiratorial grin. ‘I bought Henry a set, but he refuses to wear them.’

‘I wonder why,’ muttered Chaloner.

The Folly, or the Floating Coffee House, was a timber shed on a barge. It was usually anchored midstream, and patrons were obliged to hire skiffs to reach it. That day, however, the Thames was so swollen that the Folly had been moored near the Savoy Palace, and customers could embark directly from the Somerset Stairs. Several men hovered outside it. Some were the drivers of private carriages — which could only just fit down the narrow alley leading from The Strand, and woe betide anyone walking in the opposite direction — and others were idle boatmen whose trade was suspended because of the state of the river. One fellow stood out as not belonging there. He was large, with a face that was the colour and shape of a ripe plum, and he carried a tray of apples that no one seemed very interested in buying.

The Folly was not a large establishment, although it was horrendously crowded, so it was impossible for Chaloner to avoid the coffee-boy who came to see what he wanted to drink. He bought a dish of coffee with his last penny token, and managed to secure a seat at Muddiman’s table. The newsmonger was holding forth about the northern rebellion, declaring that the newsbooks had given it a significance it did not deserve. It was, he claimed, a silly prank devised by a dozen harmless zealots, and not the great, terrifying revolt L’Estrange had described in that day’s Intelligencer. Men smoked and listened as Muddiman systematically destroyed his rival’s arguments. He put his case so well, and with such close attention to detail, that Chaloner found himself doubting the veracity of L’Estrange’s reports, too. Eventually, most patrons finished their noonday victuals and went back to work, and Chaloner was able to speak to Muddiman in reasonable privacy.

The newsmonger was dressed in fashionable clothes, and clearly took pride in his appearance. He carried a town sword with a delicately jewelled hilt that looked as though it would be useless in a fight, and perched on his head was the yellow wig he had worn the previous day, when he had argued with L’Estrange. His round face was clean and pink from a recent shaving, and Chaloner felt grubby and disreputable by comparison.

With him was the companion who had protected him from L’Estrange, taller and broader than his friend, but just as handsomely attired. He introduced himself as Giles Dury when Chaloner told them who he was and what he wanted, then crossed his long legs and sat back with an amused grin. His superior, laconic demeanour was an attitude often affected by courtiers, and Chaloner supposed Dury had learned it from them, perhaps when visiting his wife the seamstress.

‘So, you are the Earl of Clarendon’s man,’ said Muddiman, looking Chaloner up and down with thinly masked disdain. ‘And you are here to question me about Newburne.’

Dury sniggered. ‘Poor Newburne! He will not be arising now, for Annie Petwer or anyone else. Do you know how that saying came about?’

‘A stone struck his head-’ began Chaloner.

‘That is a tale he invented to disguise its real meaning,’ said Dury, chuckling. ‘He was stunned by the stone, but he leapt to his feet in self-defence when he heard Annie Petwer telling him to arise. She was his lover, and “arising” was something he seldom did, according to her.’

‘He was impotent,’ elaborated Muddiman, obviously thinking Chaloner might not understand the joke unless it was explained. ‘Do you know why a grand man like the Earl of Clarendon should be interested in what happened to a devious snake like Newburne?’

‘He is interested in the sudden death of anyone connected with the government’s newsbooks.’

‘How very thorough of him,’ drawled Dury. ‘But then, he is a tediously thorough man.’

Chaloner sipped his coffee and winced at the flavour: the beans had been over-roasted, and the resulting brew was bitter.

‘Well?’ demanded Muddiman. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Did you have dealings with Newburne?’

Muddiman drank some coffee, sufficiently used to the Folly’s habit of bean-burning that no expression of distaste crossed his face. Indeed, he looked as though it was perfectly acceptable, and waved to the coffee boy to bring him more. ‘Not directly, although I knew L’Estrange had ordered him to watch me. Both Spymaster Williamson and L’Estrange are jealous of my newsletters — and with good cause. I disseminate information Londoners are pleased to have.’

‘The only items of interest in The Newes and The Intelligencer are the advertisements for lost and stolen horses,’ added Dury. He snickered maliciously. ‘A man simply cannot live without knowing such things.’

Muddiman picked up a copy of The Intelligencer from the table, using his thumb and forefinger, as if he considered it unclean. ‘A man cannot live without knowing that L’Estrange deems the Norwich Quakers “licentious and incorrigible”, either, or that the Danish court plans to hold — of all things — a meeting! I cannot imagine how readers contain their excitement at such tidings.’

‘Poor Brome,’ said Dury with mock sympathy. ‘He had the makings of a decent newsman, but now he debases himself by associating with L’Estrange. The same goes for his frightened mouse of a wife.’

‘Rabbit,’ corrected Muddiman. ‘Joanna is too tall to be a mouse.’

Their spite was beginning to be annoying, and Chaloner felt the sniping attack on Joanna was wholly unnecessary. ‘So Newburne spied on you,’ he said, forcing himself to be patient. ‘Did you meet him in any other capacity?’

‘What other capacity?’ demanded Dury contemptuously. ‘We did not condone his persecution of booksellers, so we had nothing to do with that. Furthermore, we distance ourselves from L’Estrange’s newsbooks and the idiots who work on them. And we certainly have nothing to do with Ellis Crisp.’

‘Despite all this, Newburne’s evil reputation was not entirely justified,’ said Muddiman. His eyes gleamed, and Chaloner was not sure if he was being serious. ‘He was dishonest, but he was not as corrupt as people would have you believe. He was wealthy, as attested by the fact that he owned several houses, but that does not mean he earned his whole fortune by cheating, theft and extortion.’

‘It was Crisp’s doing; he deliberately allowed the rumours to grow to improbable levels,’ agreed Dury. ‘It is obvious why: Newburne was more useful to him as a disreputable villain who would do anything for the right price. It enhanced Crisp’s reputation, too — made people more nervous of him.’

Muddiman chuckled. ‘Is that possible? The Butcher of Smithfield does not need anyone more nervous of him.’

‘The Earl is concerned that Newburne’s death may have nothing to do with cucumbers,’ said Chaloner, not really interested in their malicious musings. He watched their reactions to his comment closely, but could read nothing in them.

‘He certainly ate one before he died,’ said Muddiman evenly. ‘Hodgkinson is witness to that, and so were several bystanders.’

‘Perhaps he ate it knowing it would have fatal consequences,’ said Dury with a grin. ‘I have heard it said that he was a Roman Catholic, and papists are odd about matters of conscience. I expect his many sins overwhelmed him at last, and he killed himself in a fit of penitence.’

‘Remorse led him to commit the even greater sin of self-murder?’ asked Chaloner, thinking he had never heard such rubbish. ‘That does not sound like the act of a dutiful son of Rome.’

‘Then maybe he was drunk.’ Dury was resentful that his theory should be so disdainfully dismissed. ‘He did not know what he was doing. Do you know for a fact that there is something odd about Newburne’s death, or have you allowed the Earl’s suspicions to influence you? I heard Hodgkinson hired a surgeon to inspect the body, and he said cucumbers were the cause of death.’

‘How do you know about the surgeon?’ asked Chaloner.

‘We are newsmongers,’ Dury sneered. ‘Very little happens in the city without it being reported to us. Another example is your own little foray into the world of reporting. You wrote a piece on Portugal for Thursday’s Newes. L’Estrange is delighted with it.’

‘But only because he thinks it will be exclusively his to print,’ added Muddiman slyly. ‘Of course, you could earn yourself ten shillings, if you were to share it with us.’

Chaloner pretended to consider the offer, his mind working fast. His first assumption was that they had a spy in L’Estrange’s office, who was selling secrets. Then he realised that any such spy would have given them the entire piece — it was not very long, and would have taken no more than a moment to copy. Ergo, they had learned about his article another way. Ivy Lane was a busy thoroughfare, and loiterers would be difficult to spot by people preoccupied with work. Had Muddiman, or one of his scribes, lurked outside Brome’s shop and overheard part of a conversation? It seemed most likely.

‘I do not want your money, thank you,’ he said, smiling pleasantly at them. ‘The Earl would not approve of me accepting bribes. Do you believe Newburne died of eating cucumbers? Honestly?’

Muddiman shrugged, clearly disappointed with his response. ‘There is no reason to think otherwise. Of course, he had more enemies than stars in the sky, so it would not shock me to learn one of them had elbowed him into his grave.’

‘Enemies like you?’ asked Chaloner innocently.

‘No, not like me. If I had killed him, I would have done it discreetly, and there would be no Lord Chancellor’s spy sniffing around the case.’

‘You bought three cucumbers from the market in Covent Garden the day before Newburne died. I do not suppose one of those ended up inside him, did it?’

Muddiman smiled, although there was a glimmer of alarm in his eyes. ‘I wondered how long it would be before someone gossiped about that in order to see me in trouble. I use cucumbers in a decoction for wind, but I certainly would never eat one. Nor would I expect anyone else to do so.’

‘Tell me how you lost control of the newsbooks to L’Estrange,’ said Chaloner, abruptly changing the subject in an attempt to unsettle him. ‘It happened recently, I understand, forcing you to resort to handwritten news.’

His tactic worked, because Muddiman’s expression was decidedly uneasy. ‘My newsbooks were popular and lucrative, but success attracts envious eyes. Have you ever met Spymaster Williamson?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘He was jealous of my financial success, so he lobbied for me to be dismissed and L’Estrange to be appointed in my place — L’Estrange shares the newsbooks’ profits with Williamson, you see, whereas I kept them all for myself. But Williamson badly misjudged the situation. I have spent years in the business of newsmongering, and it did not take me many days to establish a list of men willing to pay for a weekly letter that contains good, reliable news.’

‘How long a list?’

‘I sell to about a hundred and fifty customers, each of whom pays a minimum of five pounds per annum. Some give me as much as twenty pounds.’ Muddiman’s expression was smug. ‘I make more than a thousand pounds a year, while the newsbooks manage less than two hundred.’

‘Our success has stunned Williamson,’ added Dury. ‘But it should not have done. L’Estrange’s publications are rubbish, and our newsletters have flourished, at least in part, because of them — people subscribe to us because the newsbooks are so dismally bad. Williamson has lumbered himself with a worthless editor and publications that are a national joke.’

‘I imagine he is not pleased,’ said Chaloner. It was a gross understatement. Williamson was shockingly greedy, and would be furious to think of a thousand pounds going into Muddiman’s pocket.

Muddiman grinned. ‘He is livid. Of course, I understand his sense of loss: money is important, and it is certainly all I want from life. Yet I have learned that the best way to get rich is by maintaining decent standards in my work. L’Estrange has not understood that lesson, despite Brome’s valiant efforts, and his purse and Williamson’s are suffering the consequences.’

‘We have told you all we know now,’ said Dury, standing and stretching languorously. ‘And I have a report to write about the northern rebellion — to tell folk what really happened up there. You should be wary of pursuing this Newburne business any further, though. There are some things that even the Lord Chancellor’s spies should not risk, and tampering with Butcher Crisp is one of them.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. ‘What do you think he might do?’

‘Anything he likes,’ replied Dury. ‘Stay away from the man if you value your life. Just go back to White Hall and tell your Earl that there is nothing about Newburne’s death to investigate.’

Chaloner left the Folly feeling that he had learned very little, except that Muddiman and Dury might well have dispatched Newburne, and that the feud over the newsbooks was more bitter and complex than he had first realised. He was about to visit Newburne’s friend Heneage Finch, when he became aware that he was being watched — the plum-faced apple-seller was regarding him with more than a passing interest. He recalled thinking earlier that the man stood out as not belonging, and the feeling intensified when he saw he was making no attempt to hawk his wares.

The trader was a hulking fellow, who wore good riding boots below a scruffy coat. His knuckles were scarred from fighting, but there was a copy of The Intelligencer poking from his pocket, suggesting he had acquired a modicum of education. He did not carry a sword, but there was a long dagger at his waist, and a bulge near his knee suggested there was another in his boot. All told, he was a man of strange contradictions — and he was no more an apple-seller than was Chaloner.

‘How much?’ Chaloner asked, to ascertain whether the man knew the going rate for his goods.

The fellow regarded him appraisingly. ‘Good coffee, was it? What did you talk about with those fine gentlemen in there?’

Chaloner was startled by the ingenuous interrogation. ‘I do not see that is any of your affair.’

‘You want an apple? Then answer some questions.’

Chaloner held out his hand, and was presented with a somewhat wizened specimen. He started to eat it anyway, despite the fact that it was brown in the middle and maggots had been there before him. It had obviously been discarded by a more reputable merchant, and had been retrieved from a refuse pile to provide the man with a cover. Chaloner had done much the same himself in the past, although he hoped his disguises had been rather less transparent.

‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.

‘Who are you?’ asked the apple-seller. ‘And what did you want with Muddiman?’

The apple-seller was clearly someone’s spy, so Chaloner opted for honesty. A number of people already knew who he was and what he was doing, and if he lied and was later found out, it might cause needless trouble. ‘The Earl of Clarendon ordered me to investigate the death of Thomas Newburne.’

The apple-seller jerked his head towards the coffee barge. ‘I would love to tell you Muddiman or Dury had a hand in it, but I have been watching them for weeks — ever since L’Estrange was given power of the newsbooks — and I know for a fact that they are innocent.’

‘You work for Williamson,’ surmised Chaloner. He supposed he should have guessed; the Earl had already told him that the Spymaster would commission his own agents to find out what had happened to the solicitor. ‘Are you looking into Newburne’s death? What is your name?’

‘My name is unimportant. And my remit is to watch Muddiman and Dury — nothing else.’

‘Why them?’

The apple-seller sighed impatiently. ‘Because the newsbooks are important. They are the way the government communicates with its people, so they need to be protected from dangerous enemies like Muddiman and Dury. That is what I am doing.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘But Newburne was employed to work on the very newsbooks you are paid to safeguard. His death might be a hostile move against them.’

The man stared at him in a way that suggested the idea had not occurred to him before. It did not say much for the efficiency and cunning of Williamson’s secret service. ‘I suppose it might,’ he conceded reluctantly. ‘Muddiman and Dury had nothing to do with it, though. I watch them day and night.’

‘What happens when you sleep?’

‘I only rest when they are in bed. And they rise late, so I am awake before them in the mornings.’

Chaloner was appalled when he saw the man genuinely believed he had them covered twenty-four hours a day — and appalled that Williamson was apparently satisfied with the situation. ‘How can you be sure they did not hire someone to do their dirty work? That Newburne was not killed on their orders, while they sipped coffee and you watched them?’

The apple-seller regarded him askance, and Chaloner suspected an astute pair like Muddiman and Dury would run circles around the fellow. One would slip out of a back door while the other sat in plain view, and Williamson’s spy would have no idea what was happening.

‘They would not do that,’ the man declared resentfully. ‘They would not dare.’

‘What do you think happened to Newburne?’ Chaloner asked, ignoring the claim. He suspected he was wasting his time in soliciting the opinion of such a fellow, but there was no harm in being thorough.

‘He swallowed too much cucumber. He was a glutton for expensive things and they cost threepence. Most people use them in decoctions for wind, but he actually ate the one he got from the costermongery in Smithfield. Witnesses said he took real bites, like you are doing with that apple.’

‘If I were to suggest to you that his cucumber had been poisoned, and invited you to guess who might have tampered with it, what would you say?’

‘That neither of us has an hour to spend naming all the possible candidates. However, if I were a betting man, my money would be on L’Estrange.’

Chaloner was taken aback. If the apple-seller was watching Muddiman for Williamson, then it meant he and L’Estrange were on the same side. It was thus an odd choice of suspects. ‘Why?’

‘Because Newburne had dealings with Ellis Crisp, the Butcher of Smithfield, who operates on the wrong side of the law. Newburne was useful to L’Estrange, but embarrassing, if you take my meaning. It is like hiring Hectors for certain government business. They are good value for money — and efficient at what they do — but you would not want the general populace knowing about it.’

‘Are you speaking hypothetically here? Or are you saying Williamson appoints known criminals on the government’s behalf?’

The apple-seller gazed at him in puzzlement. ‘I thought you said you worked for the Lord Chancellor. Of course Williamson makes use of felons! It works out cheaper to hire them as and when they are needed, than to maintain an organised band of louts on a permanent basis. You look shocked. Are you new to government service, then?’

Chaloner was not shocked at all, although he could not help but note that Thurloe had never allowed himself to stoop to such tactics. ‘I did not know the Earl-’

‘The Earl does not run an intelligence service and have a turbulent city to control, so I doubt he is obliged to sully his hands by consorting with villains. But we digress. If you want a suspect for Newburne — assuming he really was murdered — then look to L’Estrange. Hah! Muddiman and Dury are coming off the barge. They are waving to me, damn it! I hate it when they do that. They are not supposed to know I am here.’

Chaloner finished the apple and left the man to his business, thinking Williamson’s spy was no proof of guilt, innocence or anything else as far as Dury and Muddiman were concerned.

There was still an hour of daylight left, so Chaloner went to see if he could find Heneage Finch at his home on Ave Maria Lane. It was not difficult to identify the house, because the notes of a trumpet sonata were tumbling through the window of an upper floor. Finch was an enthusiastic but indifferent player, and his performance was not enhanced by the fact that he had chosen a dire composition. It was full of discord, and sounded as though it had been written by someone who could not read music. Or perhaps it was Finch who could not read, and he was butchering a perfectly respectable air.

Chaloner climbed the stairs to the first floor, and found himself in a corridor that had no windows, so was entirely devoid of outside light. A lamp hung on the wall, but it was almost empty of fuel, and illuminated very little. The whole building had a vaguely neglected air and smelled of burned cabbage. He knocked on the door, and a man answered with his trumpet still in one hand. He was tall and thin, with pockmarked skin and the largest ears Chaloner had ever seen.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I assume you are the fellow who has taken the room next door? My friend Newburne used to rent it, but he …’

He trailed off and looked away; someone was distressed by the solicitor’s death, at least. Chaloner did not disavow him of the notion that they were neighbours, hoping he might learn more than if Finch thought he was on an errand for the government.

‘You play well,’ he said, smiling pleasantly. ‘Where did you learn?’

‘I taught myself,’ said Finch, gesturing that Chaloner was to step inside his room. It was poorly furnished and messy, and smelled of wet boots and the mould that was growing up one of its walls. ‘I am not very good, although I do play in a consort. My name is Hen Finch, by the way.’

‘Tom Heyden. Did you say Newburne rented the room next door? I thought he owned a mansion on Old Jewry.’

‘He did, but he kept a room here, too, because it is near the newsbook office, and only a short walk to Hodgkinson’s print-house on Thames Street. Sometimes he was obliged to work late at both places, and no man who values his life likes walking too far in the dark.’

‘True enough. I was pickpocketed yesterday,’ lied Chaloner, to encourage him to talk more.

Finch shot him a sympathetic glance. ‘I was robbed once, but Newburne had a word with people, and I got everything back. He was a good friend, and I shall miss him.’

‘He knew the thieves who attacked you?’

‘Ellis Crisp did. He and Newburne were colleagues.’

Chaloner pretended to be astonished. ‘Colleagues? But surely Crisp is a felon?’

Finch stared at his feet. ‘I was horrified when Newburne agreed to perform certain legal duties for him — mostly property conveyancing or getting the Hectors out of prison — but he said it was a good career opportunity, and it did make him rich. Besides, he said not all of Crisp’s dealings are unethical or against the law. Some of his business is perfectly respectable.’

Chaloner was sure that was true: it would be virtually impossible for a man to do everything on a criminal basis, and there would be times when Crisp had no choice but to revert to legitimate tactics.

‘I do not like the sound of his pies, though,’ Finch went on in a low, uneasy voice. ‘And I shall never eat one, no matter how hungry I might be. They are said to contain the bodies of his enemies.’

‘So I have heard,’ said Chaloner, trying to keep the scepticism from his voice.

‘Working for L’Estrange did not make poor Newburne very popular, either,’ continued Finch unhappily. ‘But people did not know him. If they had taken the time to forge a friendship, as I did, they would have found him charming, witty and kind. He was a great lover of music, and often hired professional consorts to play for him.’

‘Did he ever hire a violist called Maylord?’

‘Not as far as I know, although he heard Maylord perform at White Hall once. He heard Smegergill on the virginal, too, although I think Smegergill is not as talented as he used to be. It must be because his fingers are stiffening with age, and I suspect his days as a musician are numbered.’

Chaloner smiled his satisfaction. A real connection at last! He had known there had to be one. ‘I admired Maylord myself. It is a pity both he and Newburne are dead of cucumbers.’

‘I heard a surgeon was hired to confirm the nature of Newburne’s demise, but I have no faith in leeches. Perhaps he was eating a cucumber when he died — Hodgkinson says so, and he is an honest sort — but can we be sure it actually caused his death? Personally, I think someone did away with him.’

‘Really? Who do you suspect?’

Finch fiddled with his trumpet. ‘A bookseller, perhaps. They broke the law, but acted as though it was Newburne’s fault when he caught them. Or L’Estrange, because he did not like the fact that Newburne worked for Crisp, as well as for him. Still, we shall never know, because it is far too dangerous a matter to probe.’

Chaloner pretended to agree, then paused as he was about to leave. ‘I do not recognise the sonata you were playing. What was it?’

Finch waved a hand to where the music lay on the windowsill. ‘It is a composition I found when Newburne’s wife and I cleaned out his room — your room now. She said I could have it as a keepsake, and I have been struggling to master it for his sake. It occurred to me that he might have written it himself, and I thought I might play it at his funeral.’

‘Do you think it strikes the right tone for such an occasion?’ asked Chaloner, trying to be tactful.

Finch smiled sadly. ‘I suppose not. The melody is not pleasant, and there are too many discordant intervals. I have not been asked to perform anyway. I offered, but L’Estrange told me in no uncertain terms that he wanted professional musicians. And no one goes against what L’Estrange wants. He is a bold and powerful man.’

‘He certainly likes to think so,’ said Chaloner.

* * *

Dusk brought the promised rain, and Chaloner sloshed to White Hall through water that was pouring from the higher parts of the city. When he glimpsed the river between The Strand’s mansions, he saw it running swift and brown in the last of the daylight. He wondered whether it would burst its banks.

He needed to do three things at the palace: tell the Earl what he had learned about Newburne, collect his back-pay from the Accompting House, and speak to Smegergill about Maylord. When he arrived, however, he found the accompters already gone home — the Court refused to buy lantern fuel until after the Feast of All Souls, so until then, work finished when it became too dark to see. The same was not true of the Earl’s clerk Bulteel, who was bent over his ledgers by the light of a single candle.

‘You will spoil your eyes,’ said Chaloner, watching him rub them. ‘Ask the Earl for a lamp.’

‘The Court is not made of money,’ snapped the Earl, appearing suddenly at the door to his office. ‘And we must all forgo life’s little luxuries in the interests of fiscal efficiency. What do you want, Heyden, other than to encourage my clerks to make unreasonable demands? I am busy.’

‘I came to tell you that I inspected Newburne’s body today, and I am sure he was fed a toxic substance. Not a cucumber, but something else.’

‘I am not surprised, given his unpopularity. Who is the culprit? And was it connected to his work for L’Estrange? I spoke to Williamson about him paying the pension, since the newsbooks are his remit, but he said I was the one who made the promise, so I should be the one to honour it. It is a highly unsatisfactory state of affairs, and I want you to resolve it as soon as possible.’

Chaloner tried to read his expression in the dim light. Was he being ordered to ‘discover’ that Newburne’s death was unrelated to his government post, to relieve the Earl of an unwelcome expense? He was used to dishonesty, but Thurloe had never asked him to cheat anyone, and he found he did not like the notion that his new master might have different expectations. It occurred to him that it was just as well Williamson did not want him in the government’s intelligence services, because he doubted the Spymaster would tolerate squeamish principles among his operatives. He was beginning to suspect that Clarendon might not, either, and decided he had better mask his distaste.

‘There are a lot of suspects, sir,’ he said vaguely. ‘I will continue the investigation tomorrow.’

‘Very well, but do not take too long — Newburne’s widow wants a decision.’ The Earl turned to his secretary, indicating Chaloner was dismissed. ‘What did you want me to sign, Bulteel? This? What is it? I cannot see in this light.’

‘You could forgo the luxury of reading it in the interests of fiscal efficiency,’ retorted Chaloner, before he could stop himself. The Earl’s oblique order had unsettled him, and he began to question all over again the man’s motive for commissioning the investigation. Was it really to avoid paying a pension, or was there a darker, more sinister reason? He found he did not trust Clarendon to tell him the truth, and it was his wariness of the man’s unfathomable games that had prompted the insolent remark.

Anger darkened the Earl’s face. ‘One day you will push me too far, Heyden. And do not think Thurloe will protect you, because his sun is setting fast. Watch your tongue, or you will regret it.’

‘Have you lost your senses?’ demanded Bulteel, when Clarendon had stamped away, slamming the door behind him. ‘He is the Lord Chancellor of England! Can you not find a lesser mortal to insult?’

Chaloner felt his temper subside. Bulteel was right: nothing would be gained from antagonising the man who paid his wages. And if the Earl was not prepared to be honest, then the investigation was just going to take that much longer and he would have to wait for his answers.

‘I do not suppose you know if Smegergill’s consort is playing tonight, do you?’ he asked, feeling it was time he did something to find out who had smothered Maylord. He had had enough of the Earl and Newburne for one day.

‘Yes — at the Charterhouse near Aldersgate Street. However, it is a private soirée, so you will not be admitted. You will have to wait until Thursday if you want to hear him. His group — well, it is Greeting’s consort, really — is due to play for Newburne’s funeral, which is a public occasion.’

Chaloner was inclined to give up and go home. He had had almost nothing to eat that day — which he suspected might have been partly responsible for his petty remark to the Earl — and he was still tired from his sea-voyage from Portugal. But he was not sure when he would have time to look into Maylord’s trouble if he did not act when he had a free evening, so he forced himself past the end of Fetter Lane and the tempting sanctuary of his rooms, and on to where the Charterhouse school comprised the remains of an old Carthusian monastery, set amid pleasant gardens.

Bulteel was right in saying he would not be allowed inside, so he did not try. Instead, he found a doorway, and sheltered from the rain as best he could, waiting for the party to be over. Drops pattered on to his hat, and he sent silent thanks to Isabella for making him a gift that would not only protect him from attack, but that was completely waterproof, too.

He was used to standing still for long periods of time, because spying often necessitated that sort of activity, but he was cold and miserable even so. He was not far from Smithfield, and drunken yells and women’s shrieks suggested that neither darkness nor inclement weather curtailed the activities that so shocked the Puritan broadsheet writers. He wondered whether it was Butcher Crisp’s infamous Hectors who were making such an ungodly racket.

It was some time before the concert came to an end and the entertainers emerged wearily through the back gate. A carriage had been hired to take them to their homes, and Greeting was one of the first to climb in it. Chaloner was careful to stay out of sight: Greeting was a gossip and he did not want the Lord Chancellor to learn he was investigating Maylord’s death as well as Newburne’s, and risk annoying him even further. Smegergill — described by St Margaret’s verger as having a sadly poxed face — was the last to leave; he walked slowly, as if his joints hurt. Chaloner stamped life into his frozen feet before moving to waylay him.

Smegergill was older than Maylord had been. His hair was white, and his face scored with wrinkles. He still possessed an imposing physique, though, despite his age and pain-ridden gait, and the gaze that fell on Chaloner when he emerged from the darkness was imperious. The spy recalled Thurloe saying that the musician could be ‘difficult’, and hoped he would not decline to answer questions — or suggest he asked them at a more reasonable time of day.

‘I am a friend of Maylord’s, sir,’ Chaloner said, holding his hands in front of him to show he was unarmed. He spoke softly, so Greeting would not hear him and recognise his voice. ‘He wrote to me, but I have only just returned to London, and I am afraid I was too late to find out what he wanted.’

‘Chaloner?’ asked Smegergill, peering at him. ‘Nephew of the regicide?’

It was not how he usually identified himself, and Chaloner was immediately alert for trouble, bracing himself to make a run for it when the man yelled that a dangerous rebel was lurking in the shadows. Smegergill sensed his unease and reached out to touch his arm.

‘It is all right. I was your father’s friend, too — he died during the wars, fighting for the wrong side, like so many good men. You have nothing to fear from me.’

Chaloner did not recall his father ever mentioning Smegergill, but the wars had been a long time ago, and his father had entertained a long succession of men in hooded cloaks during those turbulent years. The musician might well have been one of his clandestine guests.

‘Did Maylord tell you what he-’

Smegergill silenced him quickly. ‘Maylord said he had written to Frederick Chaloner’s son, and you look uncannily like your father. I have been expecting you. Do you remember me? I was at your house in Buckinghamshire many times before and during the wars.’

‘I am sorry.’

Smegergill seemed surprised. ‘Well, I suppose you were only a child.’

‘Hurry up, Smegergill!’ shouted Greeting impatiently. ‘I am exhausted and want to go home, but the coachman says Hingston and I are to be dropped off last, because we live in Smithfield. The longer you dally, the later we will be in our beds.’

‘It is what we always do,’ objected the driver, not liking the censure in Greeting’s voice. ‘We always take the furthest home first, and the nearest last. It is common practice.’

‘Go without me,’ called Smegergill. ‘I am with the son of a friend; he will see me safely home.’

‘Be sure he does, then,’ ordered Greeting, leaning forward in an attempt to see them. Chaloner moved into the shadows, and Greeting was not curious enough to step out into the rain for a better look. ‘Good virginals players are rare these days, and you will be missed if anything happens to you. Keep your hands warm. We are playing for L’Estrange again tomorrow, and you know how critical he can be if our playing does not reach his exacting standards.’

The carriage rattled off. ‘My mother played the virginals,’ said Chaloner. ‘And so do my sisters.’

‘All your siblings are talented that way,’ said Smegergill fondly. ‘Far more so than your regicide uncle, whose only skills were for politics and intrigue. But we should not talk about him; he is best forgotten in this current climate. Is that oak tree still at the gate to your father’s manor? Each May-day, he had it decorated with ribbons, and there was music from dawn to dusk.’

‘It blew down.’ It was a pity, because the spring celebrations under the Chaloners’ oak were famous across the whole county, and they had continued even when the Puritans had declared such festivities illegal. Maylord had been a regular guest, and had declared it his favourite event of the year.

Smegergill shook his head sadly. ‘Everything is changing, and not for the better. What can I do for you, Chaloner? Or may I call you Frederick?’

‘Frederick was my father, sir. I am Thomas.’

‘Quite so, quite so. Maylord said he wrote to you because he wanted your help. He discovered something, and he did not know what to do about it. Documents.’

Chaloner’s pulse quickened. ‘Documents? Do you know what was in them?’

Smegergill sighed. ‘He would not let me read them, because he said it would be dangerous, and I am too old and wise to have pressed him. We play music in the homes of wealthy, powerful men, and I suppose he discovered something amiss in one of them. He was agitated over the last two weeks — he even left his pleasant cottage on Thames Street, and refused to tell anyone where he was going.’

‘The Rhenish Wine House in Westminster,’ supplied Chaloner. He took a breath, deciding a blunt approach would be the best one. ‘He was murdered. Suffocated.’

Smegergill’s hands flew to his face in horror. ‘No! He said he feared assassins, but I thought he was overreacting. Are you sure about this? Everyone else said he died of cucumbers.’

‘I inspected his body, so yes, I am sure.’

Smegergill looked away, and Chaloner saw a tear course down his leathery cheek. It was some time before he spoke. ‘I should have guessed, but the truth is that I did not want to see the truth. He hated cucumbers — he avoided all green fruits, because he said touching them gave him itching skin and boils. He would never have eaten one. Damn my foolish blindness!’

‘Do you have any idea who might have meant him harm?’

‘None at all — everyone loved him. Why? I hope you do not intend to investigate. It might prove to be dangerous.’

‘I would like to see his killer face the justice of the law-courts.’

Smegergill regarded him unhappily. ‘I do not know about this. I was fond of your father, and I do not want to see his son in peril.’

‘Do not worry about that, sir. Smothering an old man and harming me do not represent the same sort of challenge, and the killer may decide there are limits to the risks he is willing to take. But we will not know unless we see these documents. Do you know where they might be?’

Smegergill smiled sadly. ‘It was my friendship with your father that prompted me to warn you against investigating, but I am glad you are not a coward. Maylord was my closest friend, and I do not want his murderer to go free. I shall help you find out what really happened. What shall we do first? You say he lived in the Rhenish Wine House?’

Chaloner did not like the notion of embroiling Smegergill in whatever Maylord had discovered, but did not want to alienate him by excluding him too soon. ‘We should read these documents before deciding on a course of action.’

Smegergill gripped his arm. ‘You are a good boy, Frederick. I shall tell your father when I see him.’

‘I am Thomas, sir, and my father died years ago.’

‘So he did. During the wars, fighting for the wrong side, like me. I am a Royalist now.’

‘So am I,’ said Chaloner, beginning to have serious reservations about Smegergill’s potential as an ally. ‘Do you think Maylord’s documents will be in his room?’

‘He would not tell me where he had put them — for my own safety, apparently. It will take a cunning lad like you to discover where he hid these papers, though; I doubt a silly old man like me will have any luck. Where is the carriage that will carry me home? We can ask the driver to take us to Maylord’s lodgings first.’

‘It has already gone. We shall have to hire another.’

‘Of course. But it is no good waiting here for one to come along, not at this time of night. We shall have to walk to Long Lane. There are always hackneys in Long Lane, ready to take people home from the Smithfield taverns.’

Chaloner assumed he meant the brothels. ‘What about your hands? Greeting told you to keep them warm. Perhaps you should go home, and leave me to-’

‘I am seventy years old,’ said Smegergill sharply. ‘And during that time I have learned how to look after myself. I may be forgetful, but I am not stupid.’

Chaloner was startled by the sudden curtness, and supposed it was what Thurloe had meant when he had described Smegergill as difficult. He mumbled an apology, then hastened to grab the musician’s arm when he started to stalk off in entirely the wrong direction. He turned him around gently, and began to ask questions, knowing it would be unwise to place too much trust in the old man’s memory, but desperate enough to take intelligence from any source available, no matter how addled.

‘Was anything else worrying Maylord? Other than the contents of these documents?’

‘He thought he was being cheated,’ replied Smegergill as they walked. The streets were dimly lit by lanterns placed outside some houses, but the rain-clouds blotted out any light there might have been from the moon. ‘Do you know Cromwell? He has a discerning ear for music.’

‘How did Maylord think he was being cheated?’

‘He owned some property, although I forget what, exactly. He told me it was not making the sort of returns it should, and was quite upset about it. Do you play the viol, Frederick? No! You said you play the virginals, like your mother. You see? I am not as senile as you think!’

Long Lane was wholly devoid of hackney carriages, so they turned south, taking a short-cut to Duck Lane, which Smegergill insisted would be teeming with coaches. They had just reached St Bartholomew the Great and its dark, leafy graveyard, when the hairs on Chaloner’s neck stood on end, the way they always did when something was amiss. He stopped dead in his tracks and listened hard.

‘Perhaps you should find the man who cheated Maylord over his property,’ chattered Smegergill, ‘They might have argued and come to blows. Perhaps he stabbed poor Maylord.’

Chaloner drew his sword and pushed the musician behind him. Something was definitely wrong.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Smegergill. Alarm flashed in his eyes. ‘Is it the Bedlam men?’

Chaloner had no idea what he was talking about, and was more concerned about the danger lurking in the shadows, anyway. ‘The what?’

‘The wardens from St Mary’s Bethlehem — the lunatic house,’ Smegergill gabbled. ‘Two Court musicians have been locked away there recently, and I might be their next victim.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner, most of his attention on the churchyard, because he was certain someone was hiding there. ‘You are not insane.’

‘Neither were they. You will not let them take me, will you? The others were snatched on dark nights, just like this one.’

Chaloner silenced him with an urgent wave of his hand and took a step towards the trees. Then something struck him hard on the jaw and his senses reeled. He fell to his knees and saw a stone at his feet; someone had lobbed it with considerable strength and accuracy. He was vaguely aware of footsteps behind him and of Smegergill speaking, but the words were a meaningless buzz. He tried to stand, but his movements were sluggish and uncoordinated, and he was powerless to prevent the sword being pulled from his fingers.

Then he was dragged off the road and into the churchyard. He struggled, but too many hands were holding him, and he was dizzy and disorientated. A kick to his stomach effectively quashed any further attempts to extricate himself, leaving him gasping for breath. When someone started to go through his pockets, he supposed he was the latest victim of Smithfield’s infamous Hectors. He was disgusted with himself, furious that common thieves had so easily bested a man of his experience.

‘Nothing,’ came one voice. Chaloner supposed his purse had been found, and for once he was glad it was empty. ‘Except a cucumber.’

‘A poisonous one?’ asked someone else. He laughed nasally, as though he had a cold. ‘Make him eat it.’

‘Where is the old man?’ said a third man. His lilting accent said he was from north of the border. ‘He was here a moment ago.’

Chaloner made a mammoth effort to break free, and the dagger he kept in his sleeve slipped into the palm of his hand. One man tried to grab it, but reeled back with a badly sliced finger for his pains. Chaloner had just staggered to his feet when someone dealt him a powerful blow with a cudgel. It was hard enough that it would certainly have killed him, had he not been wearing Isabella’s metal-lined hat. Even so, it knocked him flat, and he could not have moved to save his life. He heard more voices, then there was a soft crack, as if a blow had fallen. Moments later, someone kicked him in the side, although not very hard. It was followed by more footsteps and silence.