The Butcher Of Smithfield

Chapter 7

For the first time since Chaloner had returned from Portugal, the sun was shining when he woke. It caught the brown leaves in the churchyard of St Dunstan-in-the-West, and turned them to a deep, glowing orange that shimmered in the breeze. Yet even the glories of a bright autumn day did not distract him from his worries.

He was deeply disturbed by what he had witnessed at Leybourn’s house the previous evening, and his inclination was to visit the Fleet Prison in a concerted effort to see what could be learned about Mary. But Newburne was due to be buried at noon, and there was a chance that Chaloner might overhear something important as the mourners talked together. He would be no good to Leybourn if he was obliged to leave London because of a lack of employment, so he decided to dedicate the morning to the solicitor’s murder.

Newburne had lived on Old Jewry, an affluent thoroughfare that ran between Cheapside and the London Wall, which boasted two churches and the kind of houses that were owned by the upper mercantile classes. It did not take him long to identify Newburne’s home. It was one of the largest, and a lot of money had recently been spent on it. He recalled the tales of Newburne’s wealth, and saw they had been true — and so they should be, he thought. The man had earned a wage from L’Estrange, had business dealings with Crisp, and had been in the Lord Chancellor’s pay.

It was too early for anything to be happening, but Robin’s Coffee House was opposite, and provided a comfortable refuge in which to watch and wait. He found a seat in the window, and handed over a large leather token worth threepence to the coffee-boy; his cat had knocked a jar from the mantelpiece that morning, and he had recovered the token from among the shards. It was enough to buy him three dishes of a thick black sludge that felt as though it was doing harm when he swallowed it, and free access to a fire and The Newes, published that morning. Men came to drink before they started work, all thrusting through the door with the cry, ‘What news?’ Most received the reply that there had been an outrage perpetrated on Mr Cobb. Curious to know what outrage, Chaloner read:

It came to me this day, from a very sure hand, that one Mr Cobb, the Vicar of Wollaston, Northamptonshire, applying himself according to his duty to God and the lawes of the land to the Reading of the Divine Service, found the Common Prayerbook so bedaubed with tar and grease upon the services for the day that he was obliged to borrow another. Something I should add to this, of what I myself know for a certain truth. But first, it is too early to mention it; and secondly, it is too foule for the Honour of the Nation to be made publique.

It sounded intriguing, and Chaloner wondered whether L’Estrange really did have a ‘foule’ secret to impart to his readers, or whether it was just a device to make them buy the next issue. He glanced across the road, but Newburne’s house was still closed, so he read that Rowland Pepin, famous for his Cure of the Rupture and Broken Belly, also made ‘easy truffles of all kinds’, and that Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges still worked against coughs, catarrhs and strongness of breath. He also learned that in Vienna, there was news of the Turks ‘up and down’, which was vague enough to mean nothing at all. His own piece was there, too, although it had been edited to make it more sensational than it should have been.

Eventually, when he started thinking he should have gone to the Fleet Prison after all, the door to Newburne’s mansion opened, and people began to arrive to pay their respects. First in was a man in a cloak and a large hat, surrounded by a mob of heavily armed henchmen. The Butcher of Smithfield was obviously intent on dispatching his obligations early, although Chaloner did not imagine there would be much of a queue, given Newburne’s unpopularity. He was surprised to see he was wrong: the funeral was not due to take place for another three hours, but a huge number of folk followed Crisp’s example. Chaloner could only assume they were making obligatory appearances, so as not to offend one of Newburne’s three powerful and generally nasty masters. After a while, when the initial rush was over and Crisp and his henchmen had gone, the spy attached himself to a party of law-clerks and followed them inside.

The front parlour contained Newburne and his coffin, reclaimed from St Bartholomew the Less for the occasion, and Dorcus Newburne. She was prettier than he expected, and her face was kind. She sat in a chair at the foot of the casket, clothed in black from head to toe. L’Estrange was at her side, hand resting solicitously on her shoulder, while Brome and Joanna hovered uncertainly nearby.

Brome looked uncomfortable in his dark mourning gear. The sword he wore was thin and new, and Chaloner was under the impression that it had never been drawn. Joanna was equally awkward in a boned waistcoat that over-accentuated her skinny figure. She eschewed the current fashion for wigs, and her brown hair still fell in the ridiculous rabbitear style he had come to associate with her. She was pale and sad, and her large brown eyes looked bigger than usual that day. When Dorcus began to cry, she knelt next to her and held her hand. L’Estrange leaned down to murmur something encouraging, and the widow reached up to touch his cheek. He shot her one of his grins, all flashing teeth, gleaming eyes and glinting earrings, but the smile faded when he spotted Chaloner. Ignoring Dorcus’s squeal of distress, he abandoned his post and came to grab the spy’s wrist, shunting him into an antechamber where they could speak privately.

‘I told you: I do not want the Earl meddling in Newburne’s death,’ he hissed. ‘Why are you here?’

‘The Lord Chancellor sent me to represent him,’ said Chaloner, freeing himself with rather more vigour than was necessary. He disliked being manhandled.

L’Estrange folded his arms and looked resentful. ‘I am sorry for you. Funerals are grim affairs, and I would give a good deal to be elsewhere today. However, Dorcus has need of me, so here I am.’

‘I am sure she does,’ muttered Chaloner.

‘These occasions invariably attract phanatiques,’ grumbled L’Estrange, waving a disparaging hand towards the mourning chamber. ‘The types who daub tar on prayer-books.’

Chaloner could not see any obvious religious bigots. ‘Where are they?’

L’Estrange flapped another vigorous hand, so his earrings swung. ‘The booksellers for a start. Why do you think I want to fine them all into oblivion? Then there is Muddiman — a brazen phanatique. Even Brome and Joanna display disconcerting signs of treachery on occasion — I heard them playing music composed by Locke last night, and he was a damned Roundhead!’

‘Did you retrieve Newburne’s key?’ asked Chaloner, changing the subject. L’Estrange was deranged, and should not be allowed to control the government’s sole means of disseminating information. He might use it to start another civil war. ‘You said you-’

‘I cannot bring myself to do it,’ interrupted L’Estrange. ‘Not today. I will ask tomorrow, when her husband is not in the coffin next to us. I plan to pay her a little private visit in the morning.’

He waggled his eyebrows, and Chaloner regarded him askance, astonished that he should baulk at asking for a key, but think nothing of foisting romantic attentions on her. Or was it Chaloner who had no understanding of such matters? It was, after all, L’Estrange who had the harem.

‘Someone is stealing your stories,’ he pointed out. ‘And anything that damages your newsbooks also harms the government. You cannot afford to have a vital key missing.’

L’Estrange glowered at him. ‘How does the Earl put up with your impudence? He is not a tolerant man, by any stretch of the imagination. I thought about what you said yesterday, incidentally — your conclusions about the annotated Newes and that ledger — and I have decided your theory is irrelevant. Someone must have broken into my office and stolen that one set of proofs, but it was a random event, not a regular occurrence. And the ledger can be interpreted in a number of ways.’

Chaloner gaped at him, scarcely believing his ears. Was the man really so blind? ‘But-’

‘The leak is not at my office. My Angels are beyond reproach, and I forbid you to speak to them. So, the matter is closed, just like the death of Newburne. You will forget both incidents.’

Chaloner saw there was no point in arguing. L’Estrange’s mind was made up and, as with most ignorant men, it would be virtually impossible to change. Instead, he thought about the enigmatic comment at the end of the prayer-book article.

‘Do you really have a foul secret to impart to the nation, when the time is right?’

‘You have been reading The Newes,’ said L’Estrange, pleased. ‘I hope it will pique your interest enough to purchase The Intelligencer on Monday. And yes, I know lots of foul secrets about all manner of dreadful phanatiques.’

Chaloner was disappointed. ‘I thought that might be the case.’

‘Phanatiques are a danger to us all,’ ranted L’Estrange. ‘And that is why you must leave my newsbooks alone. Tell the Earl there is nothing to investigate — about Newburne or these so-called leaks. If you disobey, you will be sorry. You look very well, by the way.’

Chaloner did not like the juxtaposition of the two comments. ‘Is there any reason I should not?’

L’Estrange shrugged. ‘None at all. Let us hope you stay that way.’

Chaloner returned to the mourning room. He was about to introduce himself to Dorcus Newburne as a clerk from the Victualling Office, but L’Estrange reached her first.

‘This is Heyden, the Lord Chancellor’s man,’ he said with a sneer. ‘Come to pay his respects.’

‘Why would the Earl send a representative here?’ Dorcus asked tearfully. ‘He promised me a pension, but now he is trying to wriggle out of honouring it.’

Chaloner winced. ‘He sends his deepest sympathy, ma’am,’ he said gently.

She looked away, touched by the kindness in his voice. ‘My husband was on official business when he died, you know. In fact, you can tell the Earl that I believe he was murdered in the course of his duties.’

‘He died of cucumbers, Dorcus,’ said L’Estrange, a little impatiently. ‘It is horrible, I know, but it could happen to anyone.’

‘But he did not like cucumbers,’ protested Dorcus, beginning to cry. ‘And who can blame him? He said he was unwell before he left for work last Wednesday, so perhaps he was already ill then.’

‘Did he eat breakfast that day?’ asked Chaloner, ignoring L’Estrange’s furious glare for disobeying his orders and pursuing the investigation.

Dorcus shook her head. ‘And no dinner the night before, either, because he was too late home. All he had were some lozenges — the ones he usually took for pains in his stomach. And we all know why he had to purchase so many of those: because he was anxious about working for so many powerful men.’

‘But he did eat a cucumber, my dear,’ said L’Estrange, trying hard to mask his irritation, but not succeeding very well. ‘Hodgkinson was with him when he devoured it, and there are other witnesses, too. He did not dislike them as much as you think.’

Dorcus wiped her eyes. ‘He might have swallowed some of the seeds to ease his wind, I suppose, but they should not have killed him. There is something odd going on, and I want my pension.’

‘Leave it to me, pretty lady,’ crooned L’Estrange; his voice was soft, but he still glared at the spy. ‘I shall make sure you are awarded your pension. You certainly do not want Heyden prying into your husband’s private life.’

‘Arise, Tom Newburne,’ said Dorcus bitterly, clutching Joanna’s fingers hard enough to make her wince. ‘Will I never be allowed to forget the shame of that nickname? I should not have let him drink so much last Christmas, and then he would not have tried to knight the Archbishop of Canterbury with that wooden sword.’

‘Did he?’ asked L’Estrange, startled. ‘Here is a tale I have never heard before.’

‘Nor I,’ said Joanna, equally taken aback. ‘We were aware that he liked a drink, but he was always quiet in his cups. Of course, I am not saying he was a drunkard, only that he-’

‘Christmas was different,’ interrupted Dorcus shortly. ‘He was in a good mood then, because Butcher Crisp had offered him a share in his pie enterprise.’

‘Oh, dear!’ whispered Joanna. ‘Did he accept? Only they are said to contain … well, they are …’

‘Pork?’ asked Dorcus, apparently unaware of the rumours that surrounded Crisp’s baked goods. ‘I like pork, especially when cooked with sage and onion.’

‘Did your husband know a musician called Maylord?’ asked Chaloner, before the conversation could veer too far into uncharted waters. ‘He is said to have died of cucumbers, too.’

L’Estrange’s eyebrows drew together in a scowl, but Dorcus answered before he could stop her. ‘Thomas did not fraternise with artisans. He liked music, but not as supplied by that dissolute Court.’

Chaloner had more questions to ask, because he was not sure what to think about Dorcus. Was she really the grieving, dignified widow she appeared, or did she know more about her husband’s devious activities than she was prepared to admit? Her determination to have the pension, even though she was already rich, was testament to a certain greed, and he was keen to gauge her measure. He was not to be granted the opportunity, however, because L’Estrange declared she was looking pale. Before she could demur, he had gathered her into his arms and swept her upstairs. They were followed by astonished stares from the assembled mourners.

‘Heavens!’ said Brome, watching them go. ‘That is bold, even by his standards.’

‘She did look wan, though,’ said Joanna. ‘And even he will refrain from seduction on this of all days.’

Brome struggled to be as charitable as his wife. ‘Perhaps he just wanted to separate her from Heyden. He has said all along that he does not want the Earl prying into his business.’

‘Has he?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Does he have a lot to hide, then?’

‘I expect so,’ said Joanna guilelessly. ‘He does work for the government, after all. Yet, for all his faults, he is gentle with women, and Dorcus is in kind hands now.’

Brome sighed his relief. ‘Good. I am more than happy to comfort a distressed widow, but I suspect everyone thinks we are hypocrites for it. We disliked Newburne as much as the next man.’

‘Let them think what they like,’ declared Joanna spiritedly. ‘We are doing what is right. Dorcus needs friends, and it is common decency to help her. I am surprised to see so many people here, though. Crisp was the first to arrive, and I think he brought every last Hector with him. I had no idea he was master of such an enormous body of men. They marched in like the Parliamentarians’ New Model Army, all cudgels, guns and glittering swords.’

‘I was afraid they might burgle the house while they were here,’ said Brome. ‘There is a rumour that Newburne owned a box of valuable jewels, you see, and I thought they might decide to have a look for it. But they behaved like perfect gentlemen.’

‘They will not burgle in broad daylight,’ said Joanna. ‘And there is nothing to say the hoard is here anyway. It might be in one of his other houses — his Thames Street cottage, or the attic he hired on Ave Maria Lane, for example. Of course, that is assuming the box actually exists. I doubt it does.’

‘Did he rent rooms at the Rhenish Wine House, too?’ asked Chaloner, wondering if he could establish a connection between the solicitor and the mysterious Wenum.

Brome and Joanna looked blankly at each other. ‘Not as far as we know,’ replied Brome. ‘Why? Have you discovered otherwise? If so, then it means you have ignored our advice and are continuing to probe.’ There was concern in his eyes, an emotion that was reflected in Joanna’s face, too.

‘A friend of mine died of cucumbers in the Rhenish Wine House, just two days after Newburne,’ Chaloner explained, touched by the fact that they seemed anxious for him.

‘You mean Maylord?’ asked Joanna. She rested her hand on his arm in a shy gesture of sympathy. ‘I had no idea you were acquainted. I am so sorry. We heard him play several times in White Hall.’

‘L’Estrange invited us there, because he knows we like music,’ explained Brome. ‘But do not try to change the subject, Heyden. Our warnings about Newburne were not delivered lightly. In fact, we heard just moments ago that the case may have claimed another casualty. Newburne’s friend Finch has been found dead in his room.’

Chaloner gazed at them in shock. ‘How did he die?’

Brome was unhappy. ‘I do not want to tell you. It may encourage you to dive even deeper into these murky waters, laying your life on the line for men who are not worth the risk.’

Joanna agreed. ‘Your Earl may be the most upright man at Court, but that does not make him an angel, while Crisp … well, suffice to say you are best not attracting his attention, if you can help it.’

Brome seemed to sense they were wasting their breath, and switched to something less contentious. ‘Joanna wants to hear more about the pirates of Alicante, so will you dine with us tomorrow? We may even have some music after, but do not tell L’Estrange, or he will want to come, too.’

‘And then he will do all the talking, and we shall hear nothing about privateers,’ said Joanna. She took Chaloner’s hand, rabbit-eyes pleading. ‘Please come. We would both like to know you better.’

‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner, supposing he was about to make new friends. It was about time, especially as Leybourn was all but lost to Mary and Temperance’s brothel was turning her into a stranger. He was used to being alone, but that did not mean he was never lonely.

‘Finch,’ said Brome unhappily. ‘I said I would not tell you how he died, but perhaps if I do, you will understand the folly of pursuing your investigation further. L’Estrange told us the news when we arrived here: Finch died of eating cucumbers.’

Finch’s house was not far from Old Jewry, and Chaloner had more than an hour before the funeral. He walked briskly, and arrived to find, unlike last time, that there was a bright lamp burning in the corridor on the first floor; he supposed the death of a tenant had forced the landlord to make his building more hospitable to the friends and relatives who might visit. He put his ear to Finch’s door, but it was silent within. He tried the handle. It was locked, but it did not take him long to pick it open. He slipped inside and secured the door behind him.

He was not sure what he had expected to find, but it was not Finch’s body sprawled on the bed; he had assumed someone would have moved it, or at least straightened the contorted limbs, as a sign of respect.

He went to inspect it. Finch had been playing his trumpet when he had been overcome, because it was lying on the floor at his side. Since no one who loved music would drop an instrument without good cause, Chaloner supposed it had slipped from his fingers as he had breathed his last. He examined it closely, then put it back where he had found it. He glanced at the table, where a cucumber — or most of one — lay on a plate. There was a knife next to it, as though Finch had been chopping off pieces to eat. There was also a box of Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges.

He was about to leave when he heard heavy feet ascending the stairs. Unlike at the Rhenish Wine House, this time he was not caught with nowhere to hide. He stepped smartly into the adjoining pantry, which had its own door that led to the hallway. He opened it a crack and peered out, just as the person reached the bedchamber and began to examine the door. He frowned thoughtfully when he recognised the hulking form of the apple-seller.

What was Williamson’s spy doing there, when he should have been watching Muddiman and Dury? Had he been relieved of that duty and given a different assignment, perhaps because it was obvious that his quarry knew he was there? Curiously, Chaloner crept down the corridor as the apple-seller — declining to waste time on picking the lock — smashed the door by hurling his burly frame at it. It shattered into pieces, which meant he could not close it behind him. Thus Chaloner was able to watch exactly what he was doing inside.

The apple-seller looked slowly around the room. His eyes lingered briefly on the body and, like Chaloner, he knelt to examine the trumpet. Then he stood and walked to the windowsill, on which lay a sheet of music and a half-eaten pie. He grabbed the music and stuffed it in his pocket. Chaloner was mystified. The fellow’s scarred knuckles suggested he would not be manually dextrous enough to manage an instrument — unless it was a drum. Or had Williamson ordered him to collect documents, and he had taken the music because he did not know the difference between letters and notes?

‘-funeral at noon,’ came a familiar drawl from the stairs. ‘Are you going? It might be fun.’

Chaloner had been so intent on watching the apple-seller that he had not noticed the soft-footed approach of other people. The apple-seller also spun around at the noise, and Chaloner found himself trapped between him and the advancing newcomers. He punched the lamp with his fist, plunging the hallway into darkness. The men on the stairs yelled their indignation.

The apple-seller was rushing towards the corridor, determined to lay hands on whoever was spying on him, so Chaloner darted back to Finch’s pantry and aimed for the window. There was a grunt of surprise when the apple-seller found the hallway empty, and Chaloner began to wrestle with the casement catch. It was rusty, and would not move. He pulled harder, and it squeaked open just as the apple-seller realised Finch had more than one room. Chaloner scrambled on to the sill and launched himself out, sliding down a roof that was slick with slime. He reached the edge, put a hand down to steady himself, and jumped into a gloomy little yard. It was not a huge leap, but landing jolted his lame leg, and he felt the familiar twinge that meant he would limp for the rest of the day.

He ducked when tiles began to smash around him. At first, he assumed the apple-seller was throwing them, but he glanced up to see the big man trying to claw his way across the roof. It was unequal to his weight, and he released a howl of alarm when he began to slide off. Chaloner hobbled towards the gate. As he did so, he glanced up and saw two heads at Finch’s open window. They belonged to Muddiman and Dury, and he realised it had been Dury’s drawl he had heard on the stairs.

He was confused. Were the newsmongers following the apple-seller now? And why were any of them visiting Finch? He sensed he could not afford to be identified until he understood what was happening, so he kept his head low, Isabella’s hat shielding his face, as he wrenched open the gate and hurried into the alley on the other side. He heard a thump and several more crashes as the apple-seller finally lost his battle with gravity and hit the ground. Moments later, Chaloner was walking along Cheapside with his hands in his pockets. He was fairly sure none of the three had gained a good look at him in the shadowy yard, but he bundled his coat under his arm and exchanged his hat for a black cap anyway. There was no point in taking unnecessary chances.

He tried to work out what had happened. Had the apple-seller been sent by Williamson, to look for documents on the government’s behalf? But why were Muddiman and Dury there — and why had Dury been lurking in the Golden Lion the previous night? Was it because Finch was actually the mysterious Nobert Wenum, and they wanted to dispose of any evidence that might prove it? Finch was Newburne’s friend, after all, and Newburne might well have passed him the newsbooks’ secrets. Yet Finch had been poor, living in a room that verged on the squalid, and there was nothing to suggest he had earned the fortune detailed in the ledger.

The bells of St Olave’s Church were already tolling for Newburne’s funeral, and Chaloner walked faster when they stopped. He was going to be late. As he went, he turned his thoughts to what his brief foray to Ave Maria Lane had told him about Finch’s death.

There had been green stains on the man’s fingers, and blisters in his mouth. Like Newburne, he had been poisoned. However, Chaloner was sure the cucumber had not been responsible for two reasons. First, not enough had been eaten to do a man serious harm, even if Finch had suffered from an aversion to them. And secondly, no wind-player ever ate while he practised, because fragments of food might become lodged in an instrument’s innards. Chaloner was sure the cucumber had been left as a diversion, to ensure no one looked deeper into Finch’s demise. He smiled grimly. But the killer was out of luck, because Chaloner would look deeper, and he would discover who had murdered the hapless trumpeter.

Chaloner was late for the funeral. He opened a door that clanked, so people turned to look at him. A few minutes later, the door rattled a second time, and Dury and Muddiman entered. Chaloner nodded a greeting to them, and the offhand way they responded confirmed that they had not identified him with the disturbance at Finch’s house.

Deciding to take the bull by the horns, he sauntered towards them. They were looking especially foppish that day, with more lace than a courtesan’s boudoir and a good deal more perfume. He glanced at their feet and saw both wore clean shoes with long toes and gleaming silver buckles. They had not walked to the church from Ave Maria Lane, but had been transported.

‘Sedan-chairs,’ explained Muddiman, seeing where he was looking. ‘It is the only way to travel these days. Carriages are too big for alleys, and hackneys are unpredictable — you never know when they might stop and order you out. Sedans are small, manoeuvrable and, if you pay them well, fast.’

‘I keep my own,’ added Dury. ‘Do you?’

Chaloner shook his head. Apart from the fact that he seldom had the money for such extravagance, sedans had an unpleasant jerking motion that took some getting used to. ‘What business makes you late for the requiem of the man who sold you L’Estrange’s news?’ he asked bluntly.

Muddiman’s eyebrows shot up, and Chaloner suspected he would have issued a jeering laugh had he not been in a church. ‘I produce high-quality work from impeccable sources, and I would never deign to accept anything from Newburne — or any other of L’Estrange’s minions.’

‘A man named Wenum kept a ledger that suggests otherwise,’ said Chaloner, wishing he had brought it with him. ‘It details payments made for specific items of news over the last six months. I am sure Williamson will be very interested to learn how you are undermining the government.’

‘He will not believe you,’ said Dury. ‘He has had us followed for weeks, hoping to catch us out, but we have nothing to hide. Besides, Wenum is dead — he fell in the Thames about a week ago — so there is no one to corroborate your accusations.’

‘And do not think this ledger will prove anything, either,’ added Muddiman, grinning. ‘It will be a forgery. L’Estrange is not the only newsmonger with powerful patrons, and ours will not see us in trouble over some book of dubious origin.’

Chaloner wondered how they came to know the manner of Wenum’s death, when no one at the Rhenish Wine House had been able to enlighten him. Did it mean Muddiman and Dury had decided Wenum had become too much of a risk, so they had killed him before he could expose them?

‘There was a commotion at Hen Finch’s house on Ave Maria Lane not long ago,’ he said, abruptly changing the subject. ‘I saw you two leaving it.’

‘We went to arrange his funeral with the landlord,’ said Dury slyly. ‘His friend Newburne is obviously not in a position to do it. Poor Finch. Another victim of the wicked curse of the cucumber.’

Muddiman chuckled softly when he understood Chaloner’s interest in the trumpeter. ‘You think Finch is Wenum! Well, it is an intriguing theory, but bear in mind that Wenum was swept to his death by the swollen river a week ago, and Finch was still alive last night.’

‘At least a dozen people have died in the floods so far,’ said Dury, regarding the spy in amusement. ‘They like to watch the Thames race by, but they stand too close to the edge and lose their footing. It could happen to anyone. Even you.’ The grin faded, leaving an expression that was far from amiable.

‘So, have we answered all your questions now?’ asked Muddiman, inspecting his fingernails. ‘Do you have enough to satisfy your Earl’s curiosity about matters that are none of his concern?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But I shall.’

Muddiman’s expression hardened. ‘How we get our news is our affair, and it is not something we shall reveal to the Lord Chancellor’s creature. Be warned: stay away from us.’

Chaloner treated the remark with the contempt it deserved by ignoring it. ‘Why are you here? You say you did not buy news from Newburne, but I cannot imagine you were friends with him.’

‘Everyone in the publishing trade is here,’ replied Dury, gesturing around him with a shrug. ‘It would look odd if we stayed away, and such occasions are wonderful opportunities for business.’

Chaloner moved away from them. Their clumsy attempts at intimidation did not bother him, but they were the kind of men who gave the Court a bad name — selfish, avaricious, deceitful and superior. Perhaps Williamson had been right to remove Muddiman from the newsbooks, because Chaloner certainly would not trust him to be a loyal servant of the Crown.

At the end of the service, the vicar announced that L’Estrange had organised some music, as a mark of affection for a lost friend. There were a number of bemused glances at L’Estrange’s claim that he and Newburne had been close, and even Dorcus looked startled. Brome kept his face admirably blank, although Chaloner could see Joanna gaping at his side. The consort hired for the task was Greeting’s, and the playing was excellent, despite the fact that they had lost Maylord and Smegergill within a few days of each other. Chaloner recalled Maylord’s urgent note with a pang of guilt, a feeling that intensified when he thought about his failure to protect Smegergill. He leaned against a pillar full of dark thoughts, and took no pleasure in music that would normally have delighted him.

L’Estrange enjoyed it, though. The church was perfect for both the style of consort and the airs that had been selected, and Chaloner could tell from the editor’s satisfied expression that he had expected no less. The violists were inspired by the way the acoustics complemented their playing, and it was clear to everyone that L’Estrange had taken advantage of the situation to perform a musical experiment to please himself. It had nothing to do with paying tribute to his ‘dear friend Newburne’.

When the performance was over, the musicians were treated to some unexpected and wholly inappropriate applause, so the vicar was obliged to clear his throat to bring the proceedings back to sombre order. Greeting muttered something about another commission, and slipped out through a side door. Chaloner followed, and waylaid him by an ornate tombstone bearing the name of Sir Robert Large, a former Lord Mayor of London. It was looking like rain again, and the sky was dark, even though it was barely noon.

Greeting gave a jubilant grin when he saw Chaloner. ‘Did you hear us? It was not just the building that rendered the conditions perfect for that particular combination of instruments, it was the fact that the church was full of people. They absorbed some of the echo you get in these old places — but not too much. L’Estrange knew what he was doing when he commissioned us to play those particular pieces.’

‘Have you heard any more rumours about the deaths of Maylord or Smegergill?’

Greeting became sombre at the mention of his dead colleagues. ‘Only that the Hectors are determined to catch Smegergill’s killer. Apparently, one of them — a fellow called Ireton — knew Smegergill, although I find that hard to believe.’

‘Knew him in what capacity?’

Greeting shrugged. ‘I have no idea. Perhaps they were neighbours or frequented the same coffee house. Or perhaps Ireton was learning a musical instrument. Personally, I prefer to confine myself to respectable patrons, but not everyone has that luxury.’

Chaloner recalled being told that some of the Hectors were professional men, not mere louts, so supposed it was not impossible that one had purchased music lessons. A connection scratched at the back of his mind, and he struggled to make sense of it. It was to do with noses. Thurloe had talked about Maylord’s plethora of wealthy students and Smegergill’s lack of them — with the exception of ‘a long-nosed lutanist whom no one liked’. One of the Hectors who had attacked Chaloner owned a sizeable nose. Had Smegergill been giving him lessons? Could that explain why Chaloner had heard Smegergill talking to the Hectors after the initial attack — they knew each other? But if they were acquainted, then why had Smegergill been killed? Or were the Hectors innocent, as they claimed, and someone else had come along and dispatched the old man for reasons of his own?

‘Of course,’ Greeting was saying, ‘this Ireton fellow could be lying. Incidentally, have you heard that Hen Finch is dead of cucumbers? The news is all over White Hall.’

‘Who told you?’

‘My colleague Hingston, who is sharing my room at the moment because his house is flooded. But he had it from Muddiman, so it must be right. The news is only a couple of hours old, which shows Muddiman has an excellent intelligence-gathering network. No wonder Williamson is jealous of it.’

Muddiman again, thought Chaloner, wondering whether the newsmonger had the information first because he had perpetrated the crime. But then surely he would have maintained his distance, and let others do the gossiping?

‘Did you know Finch played the trumpet?’ he asked.

‘Yes, but he was not very good. I shall have to inspect his body this afternoon, and poke around in his rooms. You were not surprised when I told you about Finch’s death, which means you already knew. Have you heard any interesting rumours about it? I have been charged to investigate, you see.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘You have? By whom?’

‘My consort performs for Spymaster Williamson on occasion, and I happened to be with him, discussing the music for a dinner he is hosting, when his spy Hickes came to say that Muddiman was spreading the word about Finch. Williamson ordered him to look into it, but then confided that the fellow would be unlikely to turn up any sensible answers. So I offered to find him a few instead.’

‘Why did you do that?’ asked Chaloner, mystified. ‘You are a musician, not a spy.’

‘A musician whose outgoings exceed his income,’ explained Greeting ruefully. ‘I told you: I can no longer make ends meet. No one hires a tatty consort for his soirées, but looking the part is expensive, as you will know. Those clothes must have cost you a pretty penny.’

‘You volunteered to work for Williamson?’

Greeting pulled a face. ‘I had no choice. I moved to cheaper rooms, and I still cannot afford the damned rent. You seem to do well from espionage — do not deny it, because Williamson told me you are no victualling clerk, and that you spy for the Earl of Clarendon. So, we are colleagues, and if you tell me what you know about Finch, I will tell you something about Maylord in return.’

‘What makes you think I am interested in Maylord?’ Chaloner was not pleased that Williamson had been talking about him — a spymaster should know better. Of course, this particular spymaster detested Chaloner, and would doubtless be delighted to see him and his investigation compromised.

‘You quizzed me about him the other day, and I know he was a friend of your father’s, because he told me so himself. Of course you want to find out why he was so upset before he died.’

There was no point in denying it, so Chaloner inclined his head. ‘Go on, then.’

Greeting looked sly. ‘You first.’

Chaloner folded his arms. ‘Would you eat a cucumber while you played a trumpet?’

Greeting was bemused by the question. ‘Of course not. I would not eat anything — a crumb might get lodged somewhere, and cause a blockage at an inconvenient moment. Why?’

‘Because I heard there was a piece of food lodged inside Finch’s instrument. Someone wanted an investigator — you — to think Finch was eating a cucumber, and so died of natural causes.’

What Chaloner did not mention was that the piece he had found when he examined the instrument had been planted in a place it could not have reached, had it been in a player’s mouth — whoever put it there knew nothing about trumpets. It was not much of a clue, but it was better than nothing. Chaloner frowned as something else occurred to him. He had reasoned that Finch would not have been munching a cucumber as he played, but what about the half-devoured pie in the window? The same applied, which suggested Finch had been performing and someone else had been eating while he listened. Who? The killer? Or someone quite innocent of the whole affair?

‘Who told you this?’ demanded Greeting.

‘One of Finch’s neighbours,’ lied Chaloner. ‘No names. We do not want him murdered, too.’

Greeting nodded acquiescence. ‘Very well. Thank you. I shall tell Williamson that Finch’s death is certainly suspicious, and Hickes can do the rest. He is supposed to be Williamson’s top agent, after all, no matter how much Williamson grumbles about him behind his back. I agreed to ask a few questions, but my consort will never be hired if my clients think I am a spy.’

‘Who is Hickes? What does he look like?’

‘Yes, you would do well to avoid him. I am sure he is a Hector — he certainly behaves like one. He is over there, look, gasping for breath like a pair of bellows. He is supposed to be following Muddiman and Dury, but he finds it hard to keep up with them, especially when they send their private carriage in one direction, then leap into sedan-chairs that take them in another.’

Chaloner gaped. ‘The apple-seller? Surely not! He is the best Williamson can muster?’

‘Apple-seller? I suppose you have seen him in one of his disguises. They are never very good.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin, lost in thought. The Earl had told him that Hickes was investigating Newburne’s murder, but Hickes had declared Muddiman and Dury innocent. So why was he still following them, and not concentrating on other suspects? Had he lied, perhaps to throw a rival investigator off the scent? And what about Greeting? Had he really offered to spy for Williamson in such a casual manner? And had Williamson really been willing to accept the musician’s services under such conditions? It did not seem likely, and Chaloner supposed Greeting was just another person of whom to be wary at White Hall — a liar who undertook dubious assignments.

‘What are you going to tell me in return?’ he asked. ‘About Maylord.’

Greeting smiled amiably. ‘Two things. First, there are descriptions circulating about Smegergill’s killer — medium height, stocky build and very fast on his feet. He sounds rather like you, and I know for a fact that you wanted to talk to him. I am making an assumption-’

‘I never harmed Smegergill,’ said Chaloner, alarmed. He was horrified that Greeting had associated him with the description, because it suggested the musician was more clever — or better informed — than he let on, and if he told the Hectors, it would be a nuisance. Chaloner could not find Newburne’s killer in the time allotted to him, and dodge murderous henchmen at the same time.

‘He went off with some rogue after our Monday night performance, although the villain took care to hide his face when I tried to look at it. It was not you, though — I glimpsed his general shape before he stepped into the shadows and he was too short to be you.’

‘And the second thing?’

‘Both Maylord and Smegergill branched out into other kinds of music before they died, but it was not good music. I cannot help wondering whether they had commissions from someone who wanted a particular kind of sound, although it was not one real art-lovers would favour …’

Chaloner thought about the discordant music he had found in Maylord’s chimney. ‘What of it?’

‘Ellis Crisp has an eclectic taste in music. I am told he favours tunes from the East.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘Maylord and Smegergill were playing melodies for Crisp?’

Greeting raised his hands. ‘I am combining two points of information and drawing a conclusion, not repeating a fact. Perhaps it has a bearing on Maylord’s death — or Smegergill’s — and perhaps it does not. But I should be off: Ireton is inside, and I want to be gone before he comes out.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I am medium height, stocky build, and very fast on my feet, and I was in Smithfield the evening Smegergill was killed, because I live there. I do not want Ireton thinking I am the culprit.’

The funeral procession was moving out of the church and towards the hole in the churchyard by the time Greeting left. Chaloner lagged at the end, watching. At the front was Dorcus, held up by L’Estrange on one side and Joanna on the other. Brome was a solid, reassuring presence behind. He placed his cloak solicitously around Dorcus’s shoulders when she shivered in the drizzle.

‘A sorry sight.’

Chaloner turned to see Hodgkinson standing behind him. The printer was clad entirely in black as a mark of respect for the deceased, and his face was suitably sombre. His beard looked darker than usual, too, and Chaloner wondered if he had put soot in it for the occasion. The current mourning fashion at Court was not only to wear dowdy clothes, but to eradicate anything shiny, too — buckles, jewellery and even weapons. It seemed that Hodgkinson had thoughtfully extended the prohibition to his facial hair.

‘Very sorry,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘I was told Ellis Crisp is here. Which one is he?’

Hodgkinson scanned the faces. ‘I cannot see him at the moment. There is his father, though: Sir Nicholas.’ He pointed to a heavily built man in his sixties who moved with an arrogant swagger. Four liveried servants held a canopy above his head, to ensure he was not dripped on, and Chaloner was not surprised he had sired a son who had carved a small kingdom for himself in Smithfield.

‘I do not think I will linger if the Butcher is here,’ said Hodgkinson uneasily. ‘I owe him October’s safety tax for my shop in Duck Lane, but I do not have it with me. I would rather deliver it myself this afternoon, than have his men ask for it now. I do not like the way they make requests.’

He hurried away, leaving Chaloner inspecting the crowds for the sort of man who could inspire such fear among law-abiding citizens. No one stood out as particularly menacing, although he spotted his three attackers — Nose, the Scot, and Fingerless. At some point they would pay for what had happened to Smegergill. Nose glanced in his direction, and Chaloner tensed, wondering whether he would be recognised. But none of his clothes were the same as the ones he had worn during the attack — even Isabella’s hat had been replaced by another, albeit reluctantly — and the churchyard had been dark. He relaxed when the man’s gaze passed him by.

He was surprised to see Leybourn among the mourners, although the surveyor’s coat was a rather bright blue and the buckles on his shoes gleamed defiantly. Mary was at his side, clinging to his arm. Chaloner was tempted to ask why she had been entertaining three felons the night before — and whether Leybourn had noticed the absence of his best goblets — but it was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. He would do better to delay the interrogation until he could demand production of the silverware and actually show Leybourn the bell that warned her when he was coming.

Leybourn was pleased to see him. ‘Tom! Are you better?’

‘Why are you here, Will? I thought you did not like Newburne — his spying saw you fined.’

‘I detested the man, but every bookseller in London is here, and Dorcus has invited us all to a funeral party afterwards. It will be an excellent opportunity to meet colleagues I have not seen in ages. And do not think me a hypocrite for accepting the hospitality of his widow, because everyone feels the way I do. Besides, if Dorcus provides some decent victuals, I may even warm to her husband’s memory.’

‘Why are you here, Mr Heyden?’ asked Mary sweetly. ‘I thought you did not know Newburne. Or are you hoping to make the acquaintance of Ellis Crisp? I am told he is here today.’

‘No, he is not hoping to meet the Butcher,’ said Leybourn firmly. ‘He knows too many devious people as it is. And so do you, if the truth be told, Mary. I do not like the look of some of the men with whom you have exchanged greetings today.’

‘You mean Hectors?’ asked Chaloner, with a sweetly innocent smile of his own.

‘Hectors?’ echoed Leybourn, shocked. ‘Do not be ridiculous, Tom! She may have nodded to one or two disreputable types, but they were certainly not Hectors.’

Mary’s expression was martyred. ‘They are men from whom I buy victuals at the market, no more. It would have been rude to ignore their polite good-days. Your friend is having some mischievous sport at my expense, William. Tell him to stop.’

‘Yes, stop it, Tom,’ said Leybourn sternly. ‘A funeral is no place for japes.’

‘If you want to meet Ellis Crisp, you must hurry, Mr Heyden,’ said Mary, with another false smile. ‘He is just getting into a carriage with his father.’

‘No,’ said Leybourn in alarm, gripping his shoulder when Chaloner stepped away. ‘Tom, don’t.’

But Chaloner was only moving to get a better look at the man; he still preferred to delay accosting him until he had a clearer understanding of his role in the various deaths he was investigating. As the carriage rattled away, he caught the briefest glimpse of a face. It was round, pink and smiling.

‘It is odd that a respectable merchant should have a son who is a butcher-cum-underworld king,’ he mused, when the coach had gone. ‘I understand Sir Nicholas is a member of the Council for Trade.’

Leybourn gave a bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Do not be too impressed by titles. Sir Nicholas is a powerful advocate for the African slave trade, which does not make him respectable at all. I would say both make their fortunes in dirty business. And look at the Hectors, moving around the mourners with their ears flapping. They are listening to disparaging comments, so Crisp will know his enemies. It is a bit like Newburne, spying on the booksellers.’

‘Be careful,’ warned Chaloner sharply, suspecting Mary might do likewise.

But Leybourn was not listening. ‘Look, there is Allestry, and Nott is with him!’ he exclaimed with pleasure. ‘I have not seen them in weeks. They were also victimised by Newburne.’

The two booksellers were with their wives. The men were talking together, but the women were lagging behind, watching L’Estrange. When the editor happened to glance in their direction, both waved coquettishly at him. Chaloner was amused to note that L’Estrange was the subject of admiring glances from a number of ladies among the crowd, which led him to suppose that the Army of Angels was rather larger than he had been led to believe.

When he turned to mention it to Leybourn, he found him gone to greet his colleagues, leaving Mary behind. Chaloner expected her to follow, sure she would not want the company of a man she so openly despised, but she lingered uncertainly. He glanced to one side and saw the Scottish Hector standing not far away. He was not looking at Mary, but it was clear he intended to approach her as soon as she was alone. Meanwhile, Mary seemed to draw confidence from his proximity.

‘You are a murderer, Heyden,’ she said coldly. Fortunately, a gust of wind took her words, and the Scot did not hear them. ‘There is a description circulating about the man who dispatched the elderly musician, and it matches yours. I have not forgotten the blood on your hands when you arrived later that very same night, and I am drawing my own conclusions.’

‘Then they will be wrong,’ said Chaloner, more calmly than he felt. ‘Smegergill was a friend of my father’s, and I had no reason to harm him. Indeed, his death is a source of great sadness to me.’

‘I do not believe you.’

Chaloner shrugged, effecting carelessness. ‘Then ask Will about me. He will tell you I am not the sort of man who goes around killing old people.’

‘He said you work for the government — that men of power give you unusual commissions. He believes these duties account for your condition that night. He also said you are fiercely loyal to the King, and would do anything for him. Perhaps that includes murdering old musicians.’

Chaloner knew Leybourn had offered the explanation because he had not wanted her to think badly of him. However, confiding such details carried its own dangers, and Chaloner heartily wished Leybourn had said nothing at all. He was about to reply when she gave a sudden frown, and he turned to see Thurloe walking towards them.

‘Another of William’s faithful friends,’ she sneered. ‘He is happier with me than when he just had you two for company. Why can you not accept that, and leave us alone?’

‘He means a great deal to me, madam,’ said Thurloe. He shot her one of his unreadable smiles. ‘I love him as a brother, and would sacrifice anything to see him content.’

Mary was momentarily disconcerted, not quite sure what he was saying. Nor was Chaloner, although he doubted the ex-Spymaster was merely making pleasant conversation. If Mary had any sense, she would take pains to ensure she did nothing to annoy Thurloe.

‘I do not want William associating with murderers,’ she said loudly, resuming her attack on Chaloner, who was easier to read. ‘You killed Smegergill, which probably means you killed Maylord, too. They were friends, and the death of one almost drove the other insane before you dispatched him. I heard Smegergill went around telling people that he was Caesar.’

‘Thomas has not killed anyone, madam,’ said Thurloe. He leaned closer to her, and his voice was smooth and softly menacing. Even Chaloner, who had known him for years, was slightly unsettled by it. ‘At least, not yet. He was out of the country when Maylord died, and this can be proven by a dozen witnesses in a court of law. You would be wise to drop your accusations.’

She was unnerved, but not such a novice in the world of deception that she was ready to back away without some bluster. ‘You think you can prise me away from William, but you are wrong. He loves me, and I shall stay with him for as long as I choose. And I meant what I said the other night, Heyden: you will be sorry if you cross me — and so will William.’

She stamped away, and the Scottish Hector moved to intercept her. She took a breath, and Chaloner sensed she was about to tell him what had transpired. Then she glanced back, and there was something in Thurloe’s expression that stopped her. She swallowed hard and reconsidered; from her gestures, Chaloner could tell she was making innocuous observations about the funeral.

‘She is just a bag of wind,’ said Thurloe, watching. ‘She cannot harm you.’

‘Yes, she can. She is talking to one of the men who attacked me in Smithfield. He visited her late last night, and when he left he stole Will’s silver goblets — the ones from the Royal Society.’

Thurloe was horrified. ‘That particular man is a Hector — a fellow called Kirby. I arrested him on suspicion of conspiring to murder Cromwell once, but was forced to release him for lack of evidence. I have always assumed the Hectors’ loyalty to the Cavalier cause during the Commonwealth is why the government has turned a blind eye to their felonious activities ever since the Restoration.’

‘And perhaps why Williamson hires them when he needs dirty work done.’

‘Very possibly. So, it seems Mary Cade is dangerous after all.’

Chaloner nodded, but made no other reply. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the three investigations that confronted him, and he was afraid for Leybourn.

Thurloe patted his arm consolingly. ‘You will find answers, do not fear. But do not allow yourself to be blinded by guilt over Smegergill. I have told you before that there may be more to his death than a harmless old man hit over the head and left to drown.’

‘I am running out of time,’ said Chaloner gloomily. ‘The Earl wants Newburne’s killer named by Monday, and I will be dismissed if I fail. And I have a thousand questions but no answers.’

Thurloe gave one of his small smiles. ‘I have an answer for you. Nobert Wenum. I was mulling it over last night, and it is an anagram. Rearrange the letters, and what do you get?’

Chaloner stared at him, his mind working fast. ‘Tom Newburne!’

Thurloe inclined his head. ‘Precisely. So, the man with the annotated copy of The Newes, who kept a careful record of the sales he made to L’Estrange’s rivals, was none other than your devious solicitor. You should not be surprised — you already knew he was corrupt.’

Chaloner was not happy with the explanation. ‘I also know he was clever, so why would he choose such an obvious alias?’

‘It was not obvious, Thomas. You had not worked it out.’

But Chaloner was still not convinced. ‘The landlord of the Rhenish Wine House made disparaging remarks about Newburne. I doubt he would have let him rent one of his attics.’

‘Newburne disguised his name, so perhaps he disguised his face, too. What did the neighbour say about Wenum? That he had a jaw that looked leprous? One of the first things I taught you about disguises is that if you give yourself an outstanding characteristic — a scarlet nose, a big moustache, lousy hair — people will see that and nothing else. Perhaps Newburne devised himself a disfiguring rash knowing that no one would remember anything more about him.’

Chaloner supposed it made sense. And if it had been Newburne renting the room next to Maylord, it made for another connection between the two deaths. Had Maylord heard or seen something about the lawyer’s dubious activities that had frightened him into trying to solicit Chaloner’s help?

‘Only two men have made positive comments about Newburne,’ he mused. ‘His friend Finch, who was not objective. And Muddiman, who said Newburne was not as corrupt as everyone claimed.’

Thurloe saw where his analysis was going. ‘The ledger is proof that Wenum — Newburne — was selling secrets to L’Estrange’s rivals, including Muddiman. Muddiman’s assertion that Newburne was not as bad as he appeared may have been him protecting an ally. You still look doubtful. Don’t be. Sometimes things really are just what they seem.’

Late that night, Chaloner revisited Hen Finch’s home. The body had been removed, and so had various other items, including anything written. As no house was ever completely devoid of documents — all men had a letter from a friend, a deed of ownership, or even a bill of sale tucked away somewhere — he assumed they had been removed en masse. He had no idea whether Finch was associated with Newburne’s corrupt dealings, but someone was obviously taking no chances.

Next, he went to Newburne’s house on Old Jewry, watching it from the garden until he was sure everyone was in bed and all lights doused. A window on the first floor had been left open, and he scaled the wall and climbed inside with a confidence born of experience. He listened carefully, but the household was exhausted by the strains of the day, and everyone was sound asleep.

He had paid careful attention to Dorcus’s tearful eulogies during the post-funeral gathering, and had concluded she had had scant idea about the real nature of her husband’s businesses. She had also expressed surprise when Hodgkinson had mentioned late nights kept when the newsbooks were being printed, leading Chaloner to deduce that she and Newburne had occupied separate bedrooms. There were several chambers on the upper floor, but only one with a door left open. Chaloner stepped inside it, and knew from its lingering aroma of sweat and tobacco that it had been used by a man.

He closed the door and lit the lamp, and it did not take him long to locate what he had come to find. There was a tiny box on a shelf near the window, with a piece of paper glued to the lid that identified its contents as Theophilus Buckworth’s Personal Lozenges. He assumed they were the pills Dorcus said her husband had swallowed the day he had died.

Wearing gloves, he picked one up and sniffed it, but could not tell whether its unpleasant aroma was medicinal or something sinister. He rubbed it on the inside of his wrist, under the lace of his cuff, and it left a greenish smear. Nothing happened, so he searched the rest of the room, disappointed when it yielded nothing to help his investigation. He supposed the solicitor had kept his sensitive papers in his various lairs across the city. Then he became aware of an unpleasant burning on his arm. He pulled up his sleeve and saw blisters. He rinsed them with water from a pitcher in the closet, but they continued to sting for some time, even so.

He now had an explanation for two deaths. The lozenges had killed Newburne, although not instantly, and he had lived long enough for the cucumber to bear the blame — perhaps the burning had induced him to swallow something he thought would cool his innards. Lozenges had also killed Finch, because Chaloner had seen an identical box on the table by the cucumber. However, like Finch’s papers, the lozenges had been removed by the time Chaloner had returned. So who had taken them?

He himself had seen three people in the room: Hickes, then Dury and Muddiman. Had the newsletter men gone to remove the evidence of their crime, only to find Chaloner and Hickes were there before them? Had Hickes committed the murder, perhaps on Williamson’s orders, and had gone to collect poison and papers once he was sure Finch was dead? Or was someone else responsible? Greeting’s sudden decision to serve Williamson had left Chaloner uneasy, for example.

Or did the lozenges actually serve to absolve Muddiman? He had bought cucumbers from Covent Garden the day before Newburne’s death, allegedly for medicinal purposes. Now Chaloner knew lozenges were responsible, it meant cucumbers were irrelevant. Or were they? Someone was still leaving them at the scenes of his crimes, to confuse any investigation that might take place. Chaloner scratched his itching wrist, and heartily wished he could find a clue that would provide him with answers, not just more questions.