The Butcher Of Smithfield

Chapter 8

The following day, Chaloner was disconcerted to wake to the realisation that he had been dreaming about Joanna. He could not imagine why, as he usually preferred women with more spirit, and he sat up feeling vaguely ashamed of himself. He recalled her invitation to dine at noon, and found he was looking forward to it. His occupation played havoc with any social life he might have had, so such occasions were rare for him. The notion of pleasant company, good food — or any food, for that matter — and perhaps some music was an attractive proposition for a man who knew so few people in the great, seething metropolis that was London.

The streets were bathed in the kind of dull, grey light that presaged more rain, and his cat was sodden when it nudged open the window and made its way inside. It had a rat in its mouth, which it left by the hearth. Chaloner hoped it would restrict itself to rodents, and not graduate to birds, because he liked birds. He was going to toss the rat out of the window, but there was already too much traffic, and he did not want a fight to ensue because it hit someone. As it was too large to fit comfortably in his pocket, he placed it on the mantelpiece, intending to throw it out when he returned that night.

A sixth sense warned him that someone was lurking in the shadows near the door when he started to leave the house, and his landlord was lucky not to find himself slammed against the wall with a dagger at his throat. Chaloner had warned Ellis before about loitering in the dark, but as the man did not know what Chaloner did for a living, he had no way of knowing that ignoring the advice might have potentially fatal consequences.

‘The rent,’ said Ellis, rubbing his hands together like a fly. Surreptitiously, Chaloner returned his knife to its customary hiding place. ‘It is overdue. And you owe me for August and September, too.’

‘I know,’ said Chaloner apologetically. ‘There has been an administrative hiccup at the Victualling Office, but it should be resolved by Monday.’

That was the Earl’s deadline, and by then, Chaloner would either be able to request an advance on his salary, or would have to acquire the money by some other means. Of course, if Mary and the Hectors had their way, he might also be dead, which would be a pity for Ellis; the man had been remarkably patient with his impecunious tenant, and Chaloner hated being in debt to him.

Ellis continued to rub his hands. ‘I shall have to charge extra for the tench your cat had yesterday. I left it on my kitchen table, and she made off with it when my back was turned. Then she had the gall to sit on the roof and devour it before my very eyes, bold as brass.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, hoping the animal would not transpire to be expensive. ‘She brought me a rat this morning. I do not suppose you would consider accepting that as a replacement?’

He was joking, but Ellis considered the offer carefully. ‘Rat is a good winter dish, but I do prefer tench. Besides, rats are ten a penny these days, with all this rising water.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘You eat rats?’

‘Of course. Do not tell me you have never tried them?’

‘Only during the wars, when there was nothing else.’

‘Then you will know they are a sadly underrated meat. There is nothing like rat stew on a cold night, especially when flavoured with plenty of sage and an onion.’

Chaloner walked to the Fleet Prison, a grim edifice with its sturdy gate, thick walls and tiny barred windows. It crouched on the eastern bank of the river for which it was named, adding its own reek to the stinking industries that surrounded it — bone boilers, makers of glue and paint, and the dye-works. There were always people outside the Fleet, mostly kin of the inmates, who had the pinched, hopeless look of extreme poverty about them. Chaloner was sure they would not turn up their noses at rat stew.

Because of his past experiences in gaols, it took considerable willpower to walk up to the door and start a conversation with the guards. As he had no money to buy information, he was subjected to insults, threats and even a physical assault before he found a warden willing to talk to him. Unfortunately, the man did not seem entirely sane, and confided to Chaloner that he worked in the prison because it was the only place where he felt safe from an attack by sparrows.

‘Look,’ he whispered, gesturing to the surrounding rooftops. ‘They just sit there, biding their time. Then, when your attention strays, they swoop down and peck out your eyes. You must have read about phanatiques in the newsbooks? Well, the writer actually refers to sparrows. It is code, see.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner. He showed the sketch he had made of Mary. ‘Do you know if she has ever been in the Fleet Prison?’

‘Yes, but not for debt, though, like most of them. She was in for thievery, but her husband came and greased the right hands, if you know what I mean. Her name is Annabel Reade.’

‘She is married?

‘To a man,’ supplied the guard helpfully. ‘She stole from Richard Bridges, the Cornhill linen-draper. He sells calico to the navy, although the sparrows get most of it for their nests. She was his cook-maid, and had his silver off him when he dismissed her for not doing what she was hired for.’

Chaloner recalled Leybourn saying that he and Mary were obliged to send for food from cook-shops, because she lacked any culinary skills herself, and his kitchen had been rendered a pigsty. So, Leybourn was not the first man to discover Mary possessed no real domestic abilities.

‘Richard Bridges lives on Cornhill?’ he asked, deciding to talk to the man that morning. Now he knew Mary was linked to the Hectors, and by extension to Newburne, he did not feel he was wasting time by investigating her past. All three enquiries — Newburne, Maylord and Smegergill, and Mary — had merged to a certain extent, and exploring one might well yield answers to the others.

The guard nodded. ‘He accused her of theft, but then he came here with Reade’s husband and said there had been a misunderstanding. Can you see that bird looking at us? See its beady eyes?’

‘Buy a cat,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Sparrows will not attack if there is a cat about.’

‘I had one,’ said the porter gloomily, ‘but the sparrows ate it. Every last morsel.’

The Stocks Market was at the junction of Cornhill and Cheapside, and Friday was one of its busiest days. Cows, sheep, geese, chickens, goats and pigs were driven down the road to feed London’s growling stomach, and Cheapside was a chaos of noise and movement. One drover had decided the best way to get his cattle to market was to stampede them there, and they cut a bloody swathe through anything that stood in their way. Carts were overturned, animals broke away from their owners, and horses bucked and pranced. Feathers were thick in the air as birds squawked their panic, and stray dogs added to the confusion by barking and worrying at the hapless beasts.

Chaloner was trying to hurry, aware that he had a lot to do before dining at noon, but was forced to slow down when, within the space of a few moments, he narrowly avoided being crushed by an escaped bull, pecked by a frightened swan and run over by a driverless cart. Other pedestrians were less fortunate, and the cries of the injured and furious added to the general cacophony.

When he eventually reached Cornhill, he was directed to a handsome mansion. Temperance’s good clothes and his confident manner bought him access to the linen-draper’s front parlour without being obliged to state his business first. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, fretting about Leybourn. It was not long before someone coughed behind him, and he turned to see a man unremarkable in every way, except for two very rosy cheeks. Bridges smiled nervously when Chaloner took the liberty of informing him that he was with the Lord Chancellor’s office.

‘We are investigating Annabel Reade,’ he said, producing her picture.

Bridges’s anxiety intensified. ‘That is her, although the artist should make her jowls bigger.’

‘I understand she was employed by you, and that she stole some silver.’

Bridges shook his head vehemently. ‘There was a mistake. I found the items I thought she had taken, and her husband and I immediately went to the prison, where I paid for her release.’

Chaloner regarded the man sympathetically. He was terrified. ‘Did someone force you to-’

‘No!’ cried Bridges, in what amounted to a squawk. ‘She was innocent! She took nothing, and I should have been more careful when I laid charges against an upright, honest woman. And now you must excuse me. I leave for Tangier in a few days, and there is a great deal to do.’

‘Who is doing this?’ Chaloner asked gently. ‘Making you abandon your home and sail for a-’

‘No one!’ shouted Bridges. His red cheeks had turned a ghastly grey. ‘I am going to inspect calico for the navy. No one is driving me away. You must leave — and please do not tell anyone you have been here. I will make it worth your while.’

Chaloner stopped him when he started to reach for his purse. ‘No one will know, I promise, but I need your help. Annabel Reade is now preying on another man. His name is Leybourn, and he-’

‘Will Leybourn?’ interrupted Bridges. ‘He designed the astrological ring-dial I keep in my garden. I shall miss it when I go to Tangier. Poor Leybourn. If Reade has her claws in him, then …’

‘I would like to prise them out,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I need solid evidence.’

‘I cannot help you.’ Bridges was close to tears. ‘Not even for Leybourn. You will have to find someone else. God knows, there must be more of us who were deceived by the woman.’

‘Then tell me about her husband. Who is he?’

‘He called himself Mr Reade, although I have no way of knowing if it was his real name. He is a fierce fellow with a number of fierce friends. I do not want to attract his attention again. Not ever.’

‘Hectors?’ asked Chaloner.

Bridges looked out of the window, and did not reply.

‘If you are leaving, what do you have to lose?’ asked Chaloner, suppressing the urge to grab the man and shake the information out of him. ‘Even Hectors cannot touch you in Tangier.’

‘I am not gone yet, and I shall be leaving a house and valued servants to mind it. I am sorry, but I must protect my interests. Leybourn is clever; he will devise his own way out of his predicament.’

Only if he knew he was in one, thought Chaloner. He tried to press Bridges further, but the draper stubbornly refused to say more, and eventually called for his retainers, threatening to remove Chaloner by force if he did not leave of his own volition. Chaloner turned after he had stepped outside.

‘If you have second thoughts, my name is Heyden, and I can be reached through the Golden Lion.’

‘I will not have second thoughts,’ said Bridges firmly. ‘Not for anyone.’

It was ten o’clock, and Chaloner still had two hours before he was due to dine with Brome and Joanna. He walked inside the Royal Exchange, to think about what to do next. The Royal Exchange had been built a hundred years before, as a place where merchants could meet to do business. It comprised a rectangle of tiered shops around a cloister-like piazza, and was always busy. Finding a spot where he would not be jostled or asked to buy something was not easy, but he managed eventually, and stood staring across the rain-swept square, considering what he had learned.

What was Crisp’s — and his Hectors’ — role in the murders Chaloner was investigating? The Butcher had employed Newburne; he may have commissioned music from Maylord and Smegergill; and the unhappy Finch had been playing tunes that were similar to the discordant harmonies found in Maylord’s chimney. Mary Cade also claimed to know him, and given that she entertained Hectors in Leybourn’s home, it was possible that her artful deception on Leybourn was being conducted with Crisp’s blessing and help. They had certainly rallied when Bridges had exposed her felonious activities. Yet the connections between Crisp and the murders were like cobwebs; they appeared to be substantial, but they were not — and Chaloner could not prove Crisp was involved in any of the deaths.

Reluctantly, he supposed he would have to make the Butcher’s acquaintance after all. He was not really ready to tackle a man whom everyone said was powerful and dangerous, but with only three days to go before he lost his last chance of intelligence work — and probably even less time before Mary told her cronies that he was the man they were hunting for the Smegergill incident — he was out of options. Resigned to what he was sure would be a difficult interview, he made his way to Smithfield.

The meat market was hectic. The pens in the great open space were full of bleating sheep and lowing cattle, and men yelled and bartered, oblivious to the eye-watering stench of old urine, manure and rotting entrails from the nearby slaughterhouses. Hectors moved in small, confident bands, exchanging nods and sums of money with drovers and merchants, and a baker’s-boy was doing a roaring trade with his tray of fruit pastries. Two sharp-featured youths jostled a clerk Chaloner knew from White Hall; when the fellow whipped around to face them, a third thief cut his purse strings from behind. When something similar started to happen to the spy, one reeled away with a bleeding nose, while the other found himself flat on his back with Chaloner’s foot across his throat.

‘Where can I find Ellis Crisp?’ Chaloner asked quietly.

‘I do not know,’ squeaked the pickpocket in alarm. ‘No one does. You have to arrange a meeting through one of his Hectors. Jonas Kirby is the best. That is him, over there.’

He pointed, and Chaloner recognised the Scot. He released the lad, and regarded Kirby thoughtfully. Perhaps an early confrontation with the Butcher could be avoided after all. Kirby had attacked Chaloner the night Smegergill had died; he had been with Nose in Wenum’s room; and he had stolen one of Leybourn’s silver goblets. He could answer some questions in his master’s stead.

Chaloner’s coat had a hood, and he used it to conceal his face as he lurked in an ally near Duck Lane. Kirby was selling Leybourn’s goblet to a fat cleric, who should have known better than to buy it. The Scot was well dressed for a henchman, although Chaloner imagined the clothes were stolen, perhaps from someone who had been stripped when he had been robbed in a dark churchyard. He supposed he was lucky he and Smegergill had not been subjected to that indignity at least.

Eventually, Kirby completed his business and moved towards a dim thoroughfare that was home to a number of seedy taverns. Chaloner accosted him as he was about to enter a particularly dingy one; the sign above its door advertised it as the Bear. A smell of cooking pies wafted from it, although the aroma was rank and meaty, and not in the least bit appetising.

‘Jonas Kirby,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘I want to talk to you.’

Kirby struggled to mask his surprise that someone had managed to creep so close behind him without being heard. ‘You were at Newburne’s funeral,’ he gabbled. ‘Leybourn’s friend. What do you want?’

From that response, Chaloner surmised that Mary had not yet shared her suspicions about his role in Smegergill’s death. ‘I thought we could talk about the Rhenish Wine House. You were there with a long-nosed man whom I believe is called Ireton.’

Kirby’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, it was you we almost caught, was it? Ireton will want to meet you — he objected to someone searching Maylord’s place before us, and removing valuable documents.’

‘There were no documents. Perhaps someone else was there before both of us.’

Kirby looked sceptical, then took a sudden step forward. A knife appeared in his hand, but Chaloner was faster. He had knocked the weapon away and had his own blade under Kirby’s chin before the henchman realised what was happening.

‘Easy!’ squawked Kirby, when Chaloner’s blade nicked his neck. ‘There is no need for rough manners. Let me buy you a pie. The Bear does good pies — Crisp’s best.’

He smiled weakly, but then there was a second dagger in his hand. Chaloner had been anticipating such a move, and hooked Kirby’s feet from under him, causing him to fall flat on his back, while the weapon skittered into the nearest drain. The noise brought several patrons to the tavern door, and at least two sniggered when they saw Kirby sprawled on the filthy ground. Kirby glowered at Chaloner as he waved them away, and the spy saw he would not forget his humiliation in a hurry.

‘What do you want from me?’ he growled.

‘The answers to some questions. Shall we go and sit down, like civilised men?’

Kirby climbed slowly to his feet, then led the way inside the Bear. Chaloner looked around quickly. A back door led to an unsavoury little yard that reeked of urine, and there was a gate that would open into Duck Lane. He took the seat by the wall, leaving Kirby the one that would bear the brunt of any attack from the main entrance. As they sat, a dirty pot-boy slapped two pies on a rickety table, and mumbled something about them coming compliments of the owner.

‘You killed Smegergill,’ said Chaloner, pushing the pie away from him. Despite his nagging hunger, its oily scent was making him queasy and he found he was loath to touch anything that might contain parts of Crisp’s enemies.

‘I never touched him,’ declared Kirby vehemently. ‘None of us did. I hit his friend hard enough to scramble his brains, but he somehow survived, and must have vented his spleen on the old man when he came to. He was younger — medium height, sturdy build. A bit like you, now I think about it.’

‘It was not me. Why do you think he killed Smegergill?’

‘Because no one else was there, and Smegergill was alive when we left him. Ireton had talked to him, and told him that if he kept quiet, he could escape unscathed.’

Had Ireton killed him, then, Chaloner wondered, while his accomplices were under the illusion the old man was being offered his life? ‘What was the purpose of the attack?’

‘We were following orders. Find the Court musicians; kill the younger one; let the old man go. We only found out later that it was Smegergill. We all know him — by sight at least — because he always plays the organ at the Bartholomew Fair.’

‘Orders from whom?’

Kirby looked as though he might refuse to answer, so Chaloner drew his dagger. ‘I do not know! We had written instructions. They said we were to get letters from the young one’s purse, but it was empty and there were no letters. They were early, too, so we were not quite ready for them. We had to improvise, which is why I forgot to make sure he was really dead.’

‘How do you know you attacked the right people?’

‘Because Smegergill was wearing the uniform of the King’s Music. It is distinctive, so of course they were the right ones.’

Several facts settled into a sensible pattern in Chaloner’s mind at last, and the germ of a solution began to take shape. He saw his unplanned waylaying of Smegergill had set in motion a chain of events that no one could have predicted.

‘Greeting,’ he murmured to himself. ‘His elderly friend Hingston is staying at his Smithfield lodgings, because his home is flooded. They were expected to walk past the churchyard later that night, because the driver of their carriage demanded extra money to take them all the way home, and ousted them when they could not pay. It was deliberate. And they were both wearing uniforms.’

Kirby ate his pie while Chaloner continued to analyse his conclusions in silence. So, no one had wanted to kill him or Smegergill. The intended victim had been Greeting, who probably did have letters with him, given that he, by his own admission, worked for Williamson. Chaloner supposed he would have to talk to Greeting and ascertain what he had been carrying that night.

So what had happened to Smegergill? Kirby, Ireton and Fingerless had followed their orders — or thought they had — and Ireton had gone to demand Smegergill’s silence, while Kirby and Fingerless searched Chaloner. Had Ireton killed Smegergill when he realised the wrong men had been attacked? Yet Kirby did not seem to think a mistake had been made, and so perhaps Ireton did not, either. So, why had Smegergill ended up dead?

Chaloner thought about the elderly musician. Thurloe had distrusted him, while Temperance and Maude had conflicting opinions: one thought he was coolly rational, amusing himself at the expense of gullible sympathisers, while the other believed he was losing his wits. Which was true? And what of Greeting’s information — that Smegergill had enjoyed an association with Hectors? Had playing the organ for the Bartholomew Fair led to other things? But if Smegergill was friends with the Hectors, then why had he been killed? Surely, he would have been spared? Or had he annoyed Crisp by being ‘difficult’, and Ireton had taken the opportunity to dispatch him?

A flicker of movement interrupted his reflections. Someone was outside: the Hectors were finally ready to rescue their crony. Chaloner indicated with a flick of his dagger that Kirby was to stand, then shoved him hard before he was properly balanced, so he went sprawling through the entranceway. The timing was perfect. Kirby became hopelessly entangled with his friends, which gave Chaloner vital seconds to escape. The spy opened the back door and shot into the yard. The gate was locked, forcing him to scramble over the wall, thus losing the small advantage of time he had gained.

The lock did not slow Kirby down. He kicked it once, and the gate flew into pieces. With half a dozen Hectors at his heels, he thundered after Chaloner, screaming for someone to stop him. A few passers-by made half-hearted lunges, but most looked the other way, unwilling to become involved. The spy tore along Duck Lane, grabbing an apple cart as he went, and spinning it to spill its contents across the road. Two of his pursuers took tumbles. Then a ponderous meat wagon moved to block the road in front of him. Without breaking speed, he aimed for the space between the moving wheels, curled into a ball and rolled under the thing to shoot out the other side. Frustrated howls indicated the pursuing Hectors were unwilling to duplicate the manoeuvre, and they bellowed at the driver to get out of their way. The sudden clamour panicked the horses, making them difficult to control.

Chaloner raced on, and found himself near the costermongery where he had purchased the cucumber. Loath to run further than necessary, he considered taking refuge in it, but it was closed and shuttered. Then he remembered that Hodgkinson owned the shop next door. He slipped through the door and saw the printer talking to a customer. Unseen, he ducked under a table and peered into the street through a crack in the wall. Kirby lumbered by, backed by a dozen men, all yelling and waving cudgels.

Chaloner stayed where he was, feeling his heartbeat slow to a more normal rate after his exertions. In the grime under the counter, his fingers encountered something hard. With most of his attention still on the street, he retrieved the object and glanced at it. It was a Fountain Inkhorn, like the one Thurloe had lent him when he had been sketching Mary. This pen was silver, and looked valuable.

‘Well,’ came a laconic voice that made him jump. ‘The Lord Chancellor’s spy under a table? Whatever next?’

Chaloner climbed quickly to his feet to find himself facing Muddiman. The newsmonger was looking particularly elegant that day, in a suit of lemon satin and tiny white shoes. Chaloner thought it was the most impractical outfit he could possibly have chosen, given the unpredictable weather and the state of the roads. He glanced towards Hodgkinson, but the printer’s attention was still focussed on his client, and he had not noticed what was happening by his counter.

‘I found this,’ said Chaloner, holding up the Fountain Inkhorn in an attempt to explain away his curious behaviour. ‘Someone must have dropped it.’

‘I see,’ replied Muddiman, and his grin suggested he did not believe a word of it. ‘Look at the state of you! I hope you do not plan on going anywhere nice for dinner.’

‘Christ!’ Chaloner regarded his clothes in dismay. The dive under the cart had left him filthy.

‘Allow me,’ said Muddiman, dabbing at the mess with his handkerchief. ‘No, that is no good. You need a woman with a cloth. I shall pay for one if you tell me something novel about Portugal. You did a splendid piece for L’Estrange — the best thing in the entire issue — so now you can help me.’

‘L’Estrange forbade it,’ said Chaloner, aware that it would unwise to accept Muddiman’s offer when the newsbooks’ printer was within earshot. It would cause trouble for certain.

‘I am sure he did,’ said Muddiman, amused. ‘And are you going to obey him? I suppose you are afraid of what Spymaster Williamson might have to say if you assert your independence, are you?’

‘Spymaster Williamson does not deign to speak to the likes of me.’

‘You are lucky — he will not leave me alone. He set Hickes after me, which is fast becoming tiresome, while his creature L’Estrange makes constant accusations about me stealing his news.’

Chaloner showed him the ledger he had recovered from the Rhenish Wine House — the one Muddiman had denied existing when he had last mentioned it. ‘I would say L’Estrange has good cause to think his news is being stolen.’

Muddiman took it. ‘A forgery, as I said yesterday. Besides, Wenum is dead, and without his testimony, this nasty little document means nothing.’

‘It still proves you paid for news you should not have had. And if you are talking about corroborative testimony, you are obviously anticipating that you will be charged in a court of law, where specific proceedings are followed. I do not think Williamson confines himself to that sort of trial.’

Muddiman regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Even he would be playing with fire if he attempted that sort of tactic on an influential newsman. It would be asking for editorials to be written about suppression and corruption. Still, I take your point. How much do you want for your silence?’

Chaloner replaced the ledger in his pocket. ‘I am not for sale.’

Muddiman raised startled eyebrows. ‘No wonder you have the look of poverty about you! Why do you not take what is freely offered? Everyone else does, for which I daily thank God. My newsletters would not be nearly as good if men in positions of power declined to do business with me.’

‘Was Wenum in a position of power, then? I know he did not work at the newsbook offices or at Hodgkinson’s print-houses.’

Muddiman’s smug smile was back in place. ‘I understand he drowned in the Thames; he fell in near White Hall, where all the politicians and clerks lurk, if you take my meaning. Unfortunately, his corpse was never recovered, so who knows how he really died?’

A missing corpse was very convenient, thought Chaloner. ‘I think Nobert Wenum was actually Tom Newburne — the names contain the same letters, which seems too coincidental to overlook. Perhaps that explains why no body was recovered.’

Muddiman chuckled. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you worked out the Newburne-Wenum connection. However, I can tell you from my long experience as a newsmonger that things are seldom what they seem, and that “facts” are multi-faceted. People say there are two sides to every story, but I would contest that there are usually a good many more.’

‘You are no doubt right. So, are you telling me that Newburne and Wenum were not the same?’

‘We always met in the dark, so I cannot say with certainty, although he did have the most awful rash on his jaw. I could scarcely take my eyes off it, and spent most of our encounters praying that it was not contagious. However, I also know such things can be achieved with powders and paints. So, perhaps it was Newburne, but I suspect it was not.’

‘Do you ever take Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges?’ asked Chaloner, trying a different tack.

‘Why?’ Muddiman shot back. ‘Do they guard against death by cucumber?’

‘Why are you here?’ asked Chaloner, seeing he was not going to get very far with questions about Newburne, Wenum or Finch. ‘Hodgkinson is L’Estrange’s printer — and thus L’Estrange’s ally.’

‘Why should that prevent me from using his services?’ Muddiman showed Chaloner a printed bill, which advertised his handwritten newspapers, delivered promptly each week and containing domestic news no man of business or affairs would want to miss. He laughed at Chaloner’s astonishment. ‘It was Dury’s idea — it allows us to flick a thumb at Williamson, as well as L’Estrange. Ah, Hodgkinson, you are free at last. Heyden has been admiring your work on my notices.’

Hodgkinson looked sheepish. ‘He made me a very good offer, Heyden, and L’Estrange’s newsbooks will not run for ever. I may need Mr Muddiman’s patronage when they collapse.’

‘When they collapse?’ queried Chaloner sharply.

Muddiman nodded with great confidence. ‘It is only a matter of time. Who wants to read that the vicar of Wollaston found himself with a dirty prayer-book? Or reports confiding that Turks are “up and down”, whatever that means? Besides, once the government realises that the newsbooks’ only real function is to facilitate the return of lost horses, it will withdraw its investment. Eh, Hodgkinson?’

Hodgkinson nodded uncomfortably. ‘I am afraid you may be right.’

‘Have you shared these concerns with Spymaster Williamson?’ asked Chaloner of the printer.

Hodgkinson looked horrified. ‘No! Why? Will you tell him? If you do, please do not say you heard it from me. I am just a man trying to make a living. Besides, I would not be forced to do business with Mr Muddiman if Williamson did his job and kept the city in order. The safety tax imposed by the Butcher of Smithfield is crippling, and this is the only way I can make ends meet.’

‘A valid point,’ said Muddiman, not seeming to care that Hodgkinson had all but admitted their association to be an unsavoury one. ‘But I doubt Heyden will be talking to Williamson. Our dear Spymaster has a nasty habit of shooting messengers who bring bad news, which is why his spies seldom tell him much of import. Especially stupid old Hickes.’

‘Did I hear you say you need a woman with a cloth?’ asked Hodgkinson, keen to change the subject. ‘Brome said you are dining with him today, and Joanna will not think much if you arrive looking like that. I will fetch Mother Sales.’ He was gone before Chaloner could stop him.

‘Poor Hodgkinson,’ said Muddiman with a sigh. ‘He wants to be loyal to L’Estrange, but he can see the portents of doom. It is a pity Brome cannot. I have offered him an alliance, but he declines, misguided fool. But you are not so foolish, I think.’

‘No, I am not. So I will not give you intelligence about Portugal, because L’Estrange will know exactly where it came from.’

Muddiman’s expression was crafty. ‘True, but perhaps you heard chatter about the Spanish court while you were there. L’Estrange will not associate that with you. And you really do need the services of a cloth if you want to impress Joanna. The rabbit will not appreciate mud all over her nice burrow. Yet how will you pay this venerable old crone? I can tell from here that your purse is empty.’

Chaloner supposed there was no harm in repeating some Spanish gossip to Muddiman, and he did not want to make a direct enemy of a man whose role and motives in the murders he did not understand. And nor was there time to go home and change. ‘There is to be a marriage contract drawn up between the Infanta Margarita and the Emperor. The political ramifications of such an alliance-’

‘I know what the repercussions will be, and they are far-reaching,’ interrupted Muddiman. ‘Do not concern yourself with analysis: leave that to the experts, like me. You are sure about this contract? If you feed me dross, I shall certainly find out.’

Chaloner shrugged, not blaming him for being cautious. ‘I overheard it, but it is true.’

Muddiman grinned. ‘You have made a wise decision, my friend. I shall pay Mother Sales on your behalf, and you have acceded to the polite request of a powerful man. And I am a powerful man, Heyden. People want very much to stay on the right side of me.’

Chaloner was not sure if he was being threatened or cajoled. ‘Do they?’

‘They do. Now what do you say to another arrangement? If you agree to look no further into this Newburne and Wenum business, I will add you to my list of subscribers. As my newsletters cost a minimum of five pounds a year, this is a generous offer.’

‘It is indeed. Generous enough to lead me to surmise that you must have a strong reason for wanting the matter quietly forgotten, and that Newburne — Wenum — was indeed your informant at L’Estrange’s office.’

‘You can assume what you like. It is a free world, although it will not stay that way if L’Estrange succeeds in censoring everything that is printed.’

‘Is that what drives you?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Freedom to write what you like?’

Muddiman laughed. The foppish image was suddenly gone, and Chaloner had a glimpse of something else entirely. ‘Lord, no! That would be tediously moral, would it not? My sole aim in life is to make money. And why not? The pursuit of wealth is an honourable goal, and honest after a fashion.’

‘Mother Sales will be here shortly,’ said Hodgkinson, returning rather breathlessly. He patted his beard, as if he was afraid his exertions might have ruffled it. ‘She is just finishing Kirby’s breeches. They are covered in blood again — not his, though, more is the pity.’

Chaloner handed him the Fountain Inkhorn he had found. ‘Is this yours?’

Hodgkinson almost snatched it from him. ‘Where did you find it? I thought it was gone for good! The King sent it to me when I agreed to print L’Estrange’s newsbooks. It is silver, but it is more valuable to me than the weight of its precious metal.’

‘The King gave me a clock,’ said Muddiman boastfully. ‘A big gold one.’

‘You must be very proud of it,’ said Hodgkinson, upstaged.

Muddiman shrugged. ‘I sold it for twenty pounds. I would much rather have the money.’

Mother Sales’s cloth managed its duties better than Chaloner anticipated. He was quite wet by the time she had finished, and some stains remained, but at least he did not look as though he had been fighting. He walked quickly to Ivy Lane, and knocked on the door just as the bells chimed twelve.

The Brome residence was larger than he had first thought. Besides the spacious chamber that was used as the bookshop, and the office above that was occupied by L’Estrange, there was a pleasant sitting room overlooking a garden at the back. A narrow corridor led to a kitchen, and there were bedrooms on the floors above. It was not grand, but it was warm, welcoming and full of the signs of a contented life — plenty of books on the shelves, a virginals in the corner and mewling kittens in a box near the hearth. He was pleasantly surprised to find Leybourn there, too, and his spirits rose even further when he learned that Mary had had a prior engagement, so could not come.

‘It is good of you to invite me, Brome,’ said Leybourn, settling more comfortably on a bench and stretching his hands towards the fire. ‘It has been ages since we enjoyed a meal together.’

‘Far too long,’ agreed Joanna, beaming at him. ‘However, we asked you to join us several times in the last few months, but you are always too busy.’ She blushed furiously. ‘That is not a criticism, of course. I just meant to say that Mary must be occupying a lot of your time.’

‘Oh, she is,’ said Leybourn with one of his guileless grins. ‘We are always doing something or other. I cannot recall a time in my life when I have been to more plays and fashionable soirées. It is expensive, but no cost is too high to see my sweet Mary happy.’

Chaloner managed to mask his concern at the comment, but Joanna’s rabbit-like features creased into an expression of open dismay. He was not the only one with reservations about Mary Cade.

‘Two of my silver goblets have disappeared, Tom,’ said Leybourn unhappily, when she and Brome had gone to fetch the food from the kitchen. ‘The ones from the Royal Society. Mary reminds me that the last time we saw them was before you visited, but I know you have no interest in baubles.’

Chaloner was not surprised she had taken the chance to malign him, and wondered what other poisonous things she had said. ‘I saw some that looked remarkably similar in the hands of a man called Jonas Kirby recently. Ask Mary if she knows him.’

Leybourn shot him a puzzled frown. ‘She will not know Kirby — he is a Hector. But how did he come by my cups? I suppose he must have broken in when we were out. Mary forgets to lock up sometimes.’

‘Is that so?’ murmured Chaloner flatly.

‘Here we are,’ announced Brome from the door, carrying a large tureen. Joanna was behind him with a basket of bread. ‘Rabbit stew.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Leybourn, disconcerted. ‘I do not think I can eat it, not with Joanna … I mean …’

Chaloner was not so squeamish, and as it was one of few decent meals he had had in weeks, his appreciation was genuine. Afterwards, slightly queasy from gluttony, he sat by the fire and listened to Brome and Leybourn debate the merits of Gunter’s Quadrant, while Joanna played with the kittens. It was a pleasant, happy scene, and he did not want it to end. It was the first time he had felt so relaxed and contented since the love of his life, Metje, had died the previous year.

‘Have you met Mary, Mr Heyden?’ asked Joanna in a low voice, once Brome and Leybourn were so engrossed in their debate that neither would have noticed anything short of an earthquake.

‘I am afraid so.’

She regarded him sombrely. ‘William is a very dear friend, and he deserves better than her. If you can find a way to prise them apart, and you need my help, you only need ask.’

‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I cannot think of anything that will not see him hurt.’

She frowned. ‘Then perhaps we can think of something together. The thought of that horrible woman using poor William for her own selfish ends makes me want to … to knock out all her teeth!’

‘I know,’ said Brome loudly, in response to some point the surveyor was making. ‘I have all your publications, do not forget. And I have read them.’

‘Have you?’ asked Chaloner, impressed. ‘There are dozens of them, all equally incomprehensible.’

‘How is Dorcus Newburne?’ asked Leybourn, changing the subject. He was used to Chaloner’s lack of appreciation for his chosen art, but that did not mean he liked it. ‘Still missing her vile husband?’

‘She loved him, William,’ said Joanna reproachfully. ‘And he had some virtues.’

‘Such as fining good men and spying,’ said Leybourn acidly. ‘I am sorry if she is unhappy, but I disliked him intensely. And I refuse to say nice things about him just because he is dead.’

‘He loved music,’ said Joanna stubbornly. ‘That is a virtue. I recall seeing him with Maylord only last week, planning a concert for her birthday.’

‘Do you think they kept it a secret from her?’ asked Chaloner, recalling how Dorcus had denied an acquaintance between her husband and Maylord when he had asked her about it.

‘They tried, but she knew anyway,’ said Brome. ‘She was looking forward to it, although with husband and musician gone, I suppose she will have to find some other way to celebrate.’

There was a short silence, during which Chaloner experienced a sharp pang of grief for his old friend. ‘Do you like working for L’Estrange?’ he asked, keen to talk about something else for a while.

Brome glanced towards the door, to ensure it was closed. ‘He is not an easy master, but my association with him has certainly allowed my business to expand — we sell almost all the government’s publications now. I suppose I could object when he treats me like an errant schoolboy, but I do not want to lose everything over a minor spat. The bookshop is important to me — to us.’

‘Hush!’ said Joanna in an urgent whisper. ‘I think he is coming.’

‘I saw you arrive an hour ago,’ said L’Estrange to Chaloner, marching in when Brome opened the door to his impatient rap, ‘but I thought I would let you eat your rabbit before we had some music.’

‘You mean to play now?’ asked Chaloner, startled by the presumption. ‘Here?’

‘Why not?’ L’Estrange snapped imperious fingers, and two servants entered, carrying viols. ‘I am in the mood, and no one can have anything better to do. What do you play, Leybourn?’

‘I sing,’ declared Leybourn loftily. Chaloner’s heart sank. Leybourn did not have a good voice, which L’Estrange was sure to comment on, and the surveyor was sensitive about it.

‘Very well, then,’ said L’Estrange. ‘You can trill to us, and we shall have some proper consort playing when you have finished. Did you practise those airs I gave you, Heyden?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly, resenting the intrusion. He saw Joanna and Brome did not appear very keen, either, and hastened to stand up for them. ‘And I do not feel like music now. It is not-’

‘What was in this rabbit stew?’ demanded L’Estrange of Brome. ‘A lot of suet, to make his brains muddy? Come on, come on. It is only for a few minutes. Joanna can play the virginals to our viols. She is not very good, but we shall choose a piece where she does not have to do much.’

Chaloner might have laughed, had the man not been insulting people whose hospitality he was enjoying. He was about to tell him to go to Hell when Brome began to set chairs into consort formation and Joanna sat at the virginals, shooting the spy a glance that begged him not to make a fuss. Chaloner nodded acquiescence, although he objected to being bullied, and thought Brome a fool for not drawing the line at being ordered about in his own home. L’Estrange tapped the chairs with his bow, to indicate where he wanted people to sit, and then he was ready.

Unfortunately, so was Leybourn. He began to sing in a key entirely of his own devising, impossible to match, and the resulting harmony was far from pleasant. L’Estrange’s jaw dropped at the caterwauling and he struggled to find the right notes. Chaloner smiled encouragingly at the surveyor, maliciously gratified to note that L’Estrange was not enjoying it at all.

Stop!’ shouted Leybourn, breaking off and glaring at L’Estrange. ‘You are hopelessly out of tune. Just be quiet, and let Tom play. He knows what he is doing with a viol.’

Joanna’s eyes were bright with suppressed laughter, and the spy wondered if she had known what was going to happen — that she and Brome had allowed L’Estrange to prevail because they had heard Leybourn sing before. The surveyor warbled his way through two more ballads, while L’Estrange’s face contorted in agony, like a man sucking lemons. When he had finished, Leybourn picked up his coat.

‘I am afraid I cannot entertain you any longer, because Mary will be waiting for me. Thank you for your hospitality, Joanna. I hope you visit us soon. Mary does not cook, but our local tavern makes an excellent game pie, and Chyrurgeons’ Hall opposite has an ice-house, which means sherbets.’

‘I thought they used the ice for keeping corpses fresh,’ said Chaloner uneasily.

Leybourn waved an airy hand. ‘They wash everything off.’ Leaving his friends wondering exactly what was meant by ‘everything’, he sailed out.

‘I am glad he has gone,’ declared L’Estrange. ‘I do not think I could have endured much more of that, but was loath to tell him he sounded like a scalded cat lest he subjected me to more of his repertoire to prove me wrong.’

He launched into a well-known piece without giving them time to find the right music from the sheaf he had thrust at them, but they quickly fell in, and the sound of three viols and virginals was pleasing, although there was something muted and flat about the virginals, as though the damp had got at it. L’Estrange was not happy with the result, though.

‘Perhaps it should be played on the trumpet,’ he mused.

‘No,’ said Brome, uncharacteristically firm. ‘Trumpets are vulgar, raucous instruments, and four of them would make for a racket. What else do you have?’

‘This,’ said L’Estrange, passing out more sheets. ‘I would like to hear it played as a quartet.’

The music was written by someone with a cramped hand that was not easy to decipher, but although the poor quality of the manuscript might have resulted in a few wrong notes, it could not account for all the discord. Chaloner glanced at Brome’s page after a particularly jarring interval, sure the bookseller must have lost his place, but the fault lay in the music, not the player.

‘Enough!’ cried Joanna, putting her hands over her ears. ‘I do not mind humouring you with pleasant tunes, Mr L’Estrange, but this is horrible.’

L’Estrange grimaced. ‘My apologies. I just wanted to hear the piece aloud. It pains me to admit it, but I am not good at anticipating how an air will sound, just by looking at notes. My playing is excellent, of course, and the fault lies in the fact that I was not taught to read as well.’

While Brome replaced the chairs and L’Estrange lectured Joanna on her posture, Chaloner studied all four scores together. Unlike the newsbook editor, he was good at reading music on paper, but could tell that whoever had composed this particular arrangement had done so with scant regard to melody or mode. The timing fitted, so everyone started and finished together, but that was about all. He recalled the other odd music he had encountered recently — the ‘documents’ he had recovered from Maylord’s chimney. Surreptitiously, he pulled one of the sheets from his pocket and compared it to L’Estrange’s. What he saw made his thoughts whirl in confusion.

Both were penned by the same hand, because there were identical eccentricities of notation. But why would Maylord and L’Estrange own pieces by the same composer — especially as that composer was one whose ‘tunes’ would never be popular, not even with the tone-deaf? Then it occurred to him that he had come across two more examples. First, there had been sheet music in Wenum’s room, although all he could recall about that was that it was an unattractive jig. And secondly, Finch had been playing a discordant melody the first time Chaloner had visited; he had probably been practising it before he had been poisoned, too, because it had been lying on the windowsill. Then Hickes had come along and stuffed it in his pocket. Chaloner had assumed Hickes could not read and had just taken something with writing on it, but what if he was wrong? What if the music was significant?

And that was not all. Greeting had said that Maylord and Smegergill had been heard playing odd tunes of late, and had made the assumption that they had been commissioned to perform for someone with eclectic tastes — namely Crisp. Was Greeting right? Chaloner was not at all sure, because he had not heard anyone else say the Butcher of Smithfield was artistically inclined, and ‘tunes of the Orient’ seemed rather an exotic interest for a meat merchant with a penchant for putting his enemies in pies.

He reviewed what he knew, trying to be objective. Four sets of the odd music had been in possession of four different men: Maylord, who had been smothered; Finch and Newburne-Wenum, who had been poisoned; and now L’Estrange. Chaloner shoved Maylord’s ‘document’ out of sight when L’Estrange came towards him.

‘May I keep this?’ he asked, waving the score they had just played. ‘To practise?’

L’Estrange raised his eyebrows. ‘If you must, but you will be wasting your time. I do not think greater familiarity will make it sound any better.’

‘How did you come by it?’ Chaloner asked curiously.

L’Estrange looked oddly furtive. He shrugged, so his earrings glinted. ‘Oh, here and there,’ he replied vaguely. ‘And now, unless you have practised the air I wrote and are ready and willing to play it to perfection, I have more important things to do than dally with amateurs.’

‘Have you, indeed?’ murmured Chaloner, watching the editor stalk out.

L’Estrange wanted another news item about Portugal, so Chaloner sat in the editor’s office and penned a description of the preparations that were taking place in Lisbon for the predicted war with Spain. Even as he wrote, he was sure the newsbook readers would prefer a report on the Queen’s health.

‘Nonsense,’ declared L’Estrange, when Chaloner said so. ‘However, I suppose I can include a sentence about Monsieur de Harcourt, who had a dangerous fit of apoplexy in Paris last week.’

‘Who is Monsieur de Harcourt?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Damned if I know,’ replied L’Estrange. ‘But the news should satisfy any ghoulish cravings among my readership for tales of sickness.’

Chaloner left when Mrs Nott arrived for a proofreading session, although her careful face-paints and immaculate dress suggested she intended to do more than just look for typographical errors. He heard the office door lock behind him when he stepped out, although L’Estrange called out that it was only a precaution against phanatiques. Chaloner was tempted to ask why it had not been secured when he had been working there, but there was no point in deliberately antagonising the man. He walked down the stairs, treading softly out of habit, rather than with any serious desire to move unseen. He had almost reached the bottom, when he heard voices in what he assumed was the kitchen. He glanced towards it, and saw a familiar figure framed in the doorway, standing with his back to him. It was Hickes, the apple-seller, commonly thought to be Williamson’s ‘best spy’. Chaloner ducked into a coat-cupboard when he heard the faint clink of coins. A purse was changing hands.

‘Leave through the rear door,’ said Brome in a low voice. ‘I do not want L’Estrange to see you.’

‘I can well imagine,’ said Hickes dryly. ‘Until next time, then.’

Chaloner was in a quandary. Why was Hickes giving money to Brome? Was it to provide the Spymaster with inside information about L’Estrange? Chaloner had assumed that, because Williamson and L’Estrange were on the same side, one would have no need to monitor the other. Yet the world of the newsmongers was opaque and confusing, and he was not sure who owed allegiance to whom. He already had proof that Hodgkinson had developed an understanding with Muddiman, and Newburne had been betraying the newsbooks on a regular basis, if the ledger was to be believed. Chaloner scratched his head, not sure what to think. He liked Brome, and sincerely hoped there would be an innocent explanation for what he had just witnessed.

His instinctive dive into a hiding place had left him in an awkward position. Brome was now in the kitchen, and Chaloner could not leave as long as he was there, because he would be seen — and he did not want Brome to think he had enjoyed his hospitality and then immediately resorted to clandestine activities in his home. So, as there was no way he could escape from the coats until the coast was clear, he was obliged to wait. Joanna was in the shop, serving a customer.

‘Read it back to me,’ the man was demanding. He sounded excited. ‘I want to hear it, to make sure you have it right. This is very important, and we cannot afford a single mistake.’

‘“Mr Turner’s dentifrices, which clean the teeth, making them white as ivory,” ’ intoned Joanna. ‘“Prevents toothache, makes the breath sweet and preserves the gums from canker and impostumes.”’

The man rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘You have it perfectly! That is just what Mr Turner’s dentifrices do, and your words will have folk clamouring at my door for them. Read on, read on!’

‘“They are sold by Mr Rokkes at the Lamb and Ink Bottle, at the east end of St Paul’s Church.”’

‘Yes, yes!’ cried Rokkes. ‘And it will appear just like that? My own name on the line below the praise for Mr Turner’s dentifrice?’

‘Just like that, Mr Rokkes,’ said Joanna, beaming at him. ‘I imagine you will recoup your five shillings in a matter of days. Will you sign the ledger, to say you have given us the fee?’

Rokkes left the shop singing to himself, but Joanna had done no more than scatter sand on the wet ink before a figure materialised from where it had been lurking on the stairs. Uneasily, Chaloner wondered just how long it had been there, and what else it had seen.

‘We should not accept notices from men like him,’ said L’Estrange softly. ‘It is a waste of space.’

‘He paid his five shillings,’ objected Joanna. He had made her jump with his sudden appearance. ‘And people might prefer to read about teeth than horses, for a change. Of course, I am not saying dentifrices are more interesting than livestock in the overall scheme of things-’

‘Horses raise the tone of a publication,’ argued L’Estrange. ‘On the other hand, Mr Turner’s dentifrices will make us a laughing stock. Can you imagine what Muddiman will say, when he reads that this concoction acts against impostumes? I do not even know what impostumes are. Do you?’

‘Abscesses,’ replied Joanna promptly. ‘Or persons with dubious morals, when used figuratively. Where is Mrs Nott? Not that I think she has dubious morals, of course, but-’

‘Proof-reading.’ L’Estrange glanced down the corridor, saw Brome silhouetted in the kitchen, and moved briskly out of his line of sight to catch Joanna’s hand. He held it to his lips, and treated her to one of his wolfish, gap-toothed grins. She did not seem outraged by the unsolicited gesture, but her smile did not seem overly encouraging, either. Chaloner watched in confusion, wondering what sort of man flirted with his employee’s wife while another woman eagerly awaited his attentions upstairs.

‘I had better take these notices to Hodgkinson,’ said Joanna, heading for the coat-cupboard. ‘We do not want The Intelligencer to be printed late again.’

Chaloner braced himself for discovery, but rescue came from an unexpected quarter. Without taking his eyes off Joanna, L’Estrange reached back and snagged her cloak, tweaking it off the peg and whisking it around her shoulders in a single suave manoeuvre. Surreptitiously, Chaloner eased deeper into the remaining garments, thinking it fortunate that Brome owned so many of them. When Joanna staggered slightly, L’Estrange put both hands on her waist in a move that was unmistakeably intimate.

‘Steady,’ he breathed, his mouth close to her ear. ‘We do not want you to fall.’

It was some time before Chaloner was able to escape, and his mind was full of questions, not just about the significance of the music, but about Brome and Joanna, too. What was the meaning of Hickes’s visit, and had L’Estrange really made a play for Joanna? Chaloner liked her, but failed to see her as someone to be seduced. Then it occurred to him that L’Estrange might not be so fussy. However, he was left with an uncomfortable, sordid feeling about the entire situation, and wished he had not witnessed it.

He had not gone far when he saw Hickes emerge from a cook-shop with a pie in his hand. Thinking it was a good opportunity to question him about Brome, he moved to intercept the man, but changed his mind at the last minute. He began to follow him instead, finding comfort in the familiar business of trailing someone. He was not sure what he hoped to achieve, but Hickes was moving with purpose, and Chaloner had the sense that it would be helpful to know where he was going. He kept his distance as Hickes trudged along, but he need not have bothered. Hickes was more interested in evading the spray from carts than in making sure he was not being pursued, and tracking him was absurdly easy.

It was not long before Williamson’s master spy reached the Fleet bridge at Ludgate. Crossing it was easier said than done, though, because the normally sluggish stream had become a raging torrent, and the structure was awash. The water was only calf-deep, but it flowed wickedly fast, and Chaloner saw two men take a tumble, only saved from being swept away by clutching the balustrades. Hickes was too heavy to be toppled, and splashed carelessly through the hazard. Chaloner was more wary; he skidded twice and almost fell, and knew it would not be long before the authorities deemed the bridge too dangerous to keep open. Eventually, Hickes arrived at Muddiman’s office on The Strand, where he took up station opposite, and began to eat his pie. With nothing better to do, Chaloner approached him.

‘You should be wary of those things,’ he said in a low voice that made the man jump. ‘I have heard they are not very wholesome.’

‘Ellis Crisp’s are not,’ agreed Hickes, regaining his composure quickly. ‘I do not eat my friends — and anyone who opposes the Butcher of Smithfield can consider himself a friend of mine.’

‘I know. You are Mr Hickes, ostensibly Clerk of the Letter Office, but actually Williamson’s spy.’

Hickes grimaced his annoyance. ‘Who told you that? Muddiman? Well, I suppose it does not matter. Are you going to tell me who you are? You fibbed last time. You said you worked for the Earl of Clarendon, but I looked on his payroll and you are not listed.’

‘So I have discovered,’ replied Chaloner ruefully. ‘Are Muddiman and Dury in?’

‘Muddiman went to Smithfield this morning, but he came back, and the pair of them have been at their writing ever since. Can you see them, sitting at the table?’

Chaloner wondered whether it was words or music they were poring over so intently. ‘And they have been there all afternoon? Are you sure? You have not gone off on an errand of your own?’

‘I have not moved,’ said Hickes firmly. He nodded towards Muddiman’s house. ‘You can ask them if you do not believe me. They look up every so often and wave.’

‘Do you know Henry Brome?’ asked Chaloner, bemused by the brazen lie.

‘We have never met. Why? Do you want to know when he goes out, so you can visit Joanna? She is a sweet lady, and I might tip a hat at her myself, but Mrs Hickes would not like it.’

Chaloner supposed he had no idea Mrs Hickes was a member of the Army of Angels, and all that entailed. ‘Do many men visit Joanna, then?’

‘No, she is a respectable soul. It was your motives I was questioning. Why do you ask about her husband? Because there must be something suspect about a man who can put up with L’Estrange?’

‘Is there something suspect about him?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Does he accept bribes or-’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Hickes firmly. ‘I have never met him, as I said.’

‘Did you know Hen Finch?’ asked Chaloner, to see if Hickes dissembled about everything.

‘You are full of questions today. Why do you want to know about him?’

‘Because a man matching your description ransacked his chambers yesterday.’

Hickes glared at him. ‘It is rude to ask a question if you already know the answer. And I did not ransack his chambers — I was very respectful. Williamson ordered me to take a look around, but I was too late, because someone else was there before me. The thief was after documents.’

‘How do you know what he wanted?’

Hickes regarded him patronisingly. ‘Because Finch was poor. He owned nothing of value, so what other reason could a burglar have had for being there? He was a trumpeter, but I dislike music, personally, except when it is used to heal the sick. Did you know Greeting played his violin to cure the Queen of distemper?’

‘I understand Finch and Newburne shared a fondness for music — for pleasure, not medicine.’

‘There is a lot of it about,’ said Hickes distastefully. ‘Finch once trumpeted to Maylord’s viol, and Newburne was among the listeners. I was forced to sit through it, too, because Muddiman and Dury were there.’

Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. Could Hickes be trusted to tell the truth about an association between Maylord and the unsavoury solicitor? Of course, this was really a link between Maylord and Finch, and Newburne had just happened to be there. Yet if Hickes was right, then music was a connection between three men who had been murdered.

‘What did Williamson expect you to find in Finch’s room?’ he asked.

‘Jewels.’

‘Jewels?’ pressed Chaloner, when no further explanation was forthcoming. ‘What sort of jewels?’

‘All sorts. Surely, you have heard the rumour that Newburne owned a box of them? Well, Williamson wanted me to see if Finch had it, given that his widow denies all knowledge. Personally, I do not believe it exists, but he told me to look anyway.’

‘Is that all? Williamson did not tell you to collect letters? Or music? Or evidence that Finch — with Newburne’s help — might have been selling items of news to L’Estrange’s rivals?’

Hickes glared at Chaloner and while his attention was taken, Dury slipped out of the house he was supposed to be watching. Hickes did not notice. ‘You have a suspicious mind! If you must know, he also told me to collect anything written, so he could decide whether it was significant. Unfortunately, the thief had got it all, and virtually nothing was left. Williamson was vexed, I can tell you!’

Chaloner assumed the killer was responsible — he had eaten his pie while Finch had suffered the effects of the deadly lozenges, then he had grabbed all the documents he could find, set the cucumber and fled. Later, after Hickes and Chaloner had been, he had returned to the scene of his crime and removed the pills and any remaining papers — Chaloner doubted Hickes had mounted a very thorough search, and he himself had not had time before he had been interrupted.

‘Finch did not die of cucumbers, though,’ said Hickes, somewhat out of the blue. Chaloner raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘I know there was one on a plate near his body, but there were some green tablets, too, and I think they killed him. I saw boxes of Theophilus Buckworth’s Personal Lozenges when Colonel Beauclair and Valentine Pettis perished, you see.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘You refer to two of the other men who died after eating cucumbers?’

Hickes nodded. ‘But Beauclair had a box of these lozenges in addition to the cucumber by his bed. I saw both when I inspected his body.’

‘What led you to do that?’

‘Protocol. Beauclair died in White Hall, and Williamson’s secret service is obliged to look into all deaths that occur there, even natural ones.’

‘And Pettis? He was a horse-trader, I believe.’

‘He died in Hyde Park, showing off some nags, but because the King happened to be there, his death had to be probed, too. Pettis was allegedly eating cucumber before he died, but he also had a pot of these Personal Lozenges in his pocket. They were wrapped nice, and I thought they might have been given to him as a gift. They made my fingers itch when I picked one up.’

Chaloner was surprised Hickes had looked past the obvious, when it must have been tempting to opt for the easy solution and put the blame on cucumbers. He saw he would be wise not to underestimate James Hickes, tempting though it was to see him as a dull-witted lout barely capable of following his Spymaster’s instructions. Hickes continued with his explanation.

‘My wife eats cucumbers all the time — for wind — but they never harm her. And Pettis and Beauclair were strong, healthy men, so I do not believe a mere cucumber could have felled them. Maylord was also said to have died of cucumbers, although I know for a fact that anything green brought him out in hives. He would never had touched one, not unless someone forced him. It is patently obvious that someone poisoned all these men, although Williamson refuses to believe me.’

‘You have told him your theory?’

‘He just laughed at me,’ said Hickes resentfully. ‘He said it was the sort of rubbish he would expect from a man whose salary amounts to less than ten pounds a year.’

‘You should have demanded an increase, then, so he will take you more seriously in the future.’

Hickes chuckled. ‘I wish I had thought of that. Mrs Hickes has been on at me to get a rise, because she wants to buy herself some new clothes. She likes dressing up and going out.’

Chaloner was sure she did, especially if it involved a trip to the newsbook offices. He took his leave of Hickes, walking briskly to catch up with Dury. He followed him to the Rainbow Coffee House on Fleet Street, where Dury chose a table in the window. Within moments, he was joined by someone who was already inside. It was long-nosed Ireton, the Hector with the penchant for attacking people in dark churchyards. Chaloner watched them talk together until hunger and weariness drove him home.