Yet there were questions to be answered, even so. Had someone forced him to eat cucumbers, knowing they would do him harm? And did the fact that he was so universally detested really have nothing to do with his death? Chaloner decided he had better speak to Muddiman about the matter regardless, as he was the obvious suspect for any foul play. And there was still Finch’s opinion to consider – the only person in the city said to have liked the solicitor. Chaloner supposed he should also interview Newburne’s wife, although he would have to tread carefully. He doubted she would be very forthcoming once she learned he worked for the man who was trying to wriggle out of paying her pension. Mulling over all he had learned, he walked to the church.
St Bartholomew the Less was located at the edge of the vast, open, diamond-shaped space that was Smithfield. Livestock lowed and bleated in the semi-permanent stocks, unsettled by the stench of blood and entrails from the nearby butchers’ stalls. As he approached the church, Chaloner glanced at the people he passed, wondering whether any were members of the notorious Hector clan. He was disconcerted to note that the area contained more than its share of disreputable types, and he did not like the way loutish-looking men gathered on street corners in small but menacing groups.
The smaller of the two churches dedicated to St Bartholomew had been chapel to the nearby hospital of the same name, and was full of memorials to worthy surgeons and physicians. There were fine stained-glass windows, most depicting scenes from the Bible that involved healing, and the font, screen and pulpit were carved from old, black oak. It smelled of damp prayer-books and the pine cones someone had piled along the windowsills, and its thick, ancient walls muffled the racket from outside. Chaloner was pleased to find it deserted. Ever cautious, he placed a pewter jug by the door, so that if anyone opened it, the receptacle would be knocked over, and the resulting clatter would warn him to stop what he was doing.
He made for the lady chapel, where an elaborately carved coffin was covered by a pall of heavily embroidered material. Hurrying, because he was sure he would not be alone for long, he dragged the cloth away, revealing the man underneath. Newburne had been slightly built, with a small, thin moustache, like the King’s. Under his rich wig, his pate was bald and shiny, and Chaloner recalled the Earl commenting on Newburne’s hairless state. Although Chaloner knew better than to make assumptions about a man’s character from the look of his corpse, there was definitely something about Newburne that suggested deceitfulness and villainy.
But it was not the time for leisurely analysis, so Chaloner began his physical examination. First, he opened Newburne’s mouth, and looked down his throat. As far as he could tell, it was clear, and he did not think Newburne had choked on his cucumber. His teeth were intact, and there was no indication of bruising around the lips. There was, however, a faint smell of something rank, which made him wonder whether the solicitor had ingested something that had done him no good. There was no sign that he had been struck on the head, although a faint scar on his left temple was evidence of an older injury; Chaloner supposed it had been caused by the stone that had allowed Annie Petwer to order him up from the dead.
He put all to rights, and stared thoughtfully at the corpse. Hodgkinson’s description of Newburne’s death, along with the smell that lingered around his mouth, suggested poisoning was not out of the question. But was it a natural reaction to eating a fruit generally deemed dangerous, or had someone deliberately ended his life? And if the latter was true, then had the toxin been in the cucumber? Hodgkinson said the solicitor had also partaken of pie, wine, gingerbread and marchpanes, and any one of them could have held something dangerous. Further, Hodgkinson had mentioned Newburne complaining of feeling ill even before he had made a pig of himself. Chaloner considered what he knew about poisons.
Newburne had died quickly, which suggested the substance had been strong. And if it was strong, then it would have left marks – on the innards it had damaged, but also on other parts of Newburne’s body it might have touched during the process of ingestion, namely his hands and lips. Chaloner looked in the mouth again, and thought he could detect tiny blisters. Then he turned his attention to the hands. They were cold, limp and unpleasant to the touch, but it was worth the experience, because there were green stains on the fingers, and an underlying redness that looked as though the skin had burned. There was the same unpleasant odour, too, and when Chaloner dipped a corner of the pall into a puddle on a nearby windowsill, and tried to scrub the marks away, they remained. He had his answer: Newburne had been provided with a caustic substance that had damaged his fingers and then killed him after he had swallowed it. Such a thing would not occur naturally in a cucumber, which meant someone had probably put it there.
He left the church with a sense of achievement, and went to the stalls that fringed the edge of the Smithfield Meat Market, looking for the costermongery on Duck Lane, where Hodgkinson said Newburne had bought his cucumber. There was only one, because most vendors preferred to sell their wares at Covent Garden or Gracechurch Street, which were famous for their agricultural produce. A sign declared it was the shop at the Lamb – the Lamb being the seedy tavern two doors down – and it sold spices, baskets and pewter plates, as well as a surprisingly varied array of fruit and vegetables. Judging from its neat shelves and well-dressed staff, it was a profitable enterprise. Between it and the Lamb was an odorous establishment that displayed printed cards in its grimy windows. Chaloner wondered whether it was significant that Newburne had purchased his cucumber from the shop that was located next to one of Hodgkinson’s two print-works.
‘A cucumber?’ asked the man who came to serve him. On the side of the counter was a pile of advertisements that claimed he was Samuel Yeo, grocer and merchant. ‘They cost threepence – expensive at this time of year, because they need to be grown inside, for warmth. Is it for a lady?
‘No,’ asked Chaloner suspiciously, handing over half his worldly wealth. ‘Why would it be?’
‘Because they use them to obtain beauteous complexions,’ explained Yeo.
‘Presumably, they can also be eaten?’
Yeo smiled. ‘They can indeed, and the seeds are excellent for ulcers in the bladder or expelling an excess of wind, so there are benefits to including them in your diet.’
‘Right,’ said Chaloner.
Yeo detected his scepticism. ‘There is a school of thought that says they are dangerous, but do not believe it. Any fruit is poisonous if taken with greed, and cucumbers are no different. Will there be anything else? We had a consignment of fresh spices this morning – galingale and cubebs. Take some galingale – its mild ginger flavour will disguise the taste of any rancid meat you need to use up. If you make a purchase, I shall include a handful of my fine peppery cubebs, too.’
Chaloner parted with another penny in the interests of his investigation. He put the spices in his pocket, hoping it would not be too long before he had an opportunity to buy something to cook them with, and that when he did, galingale would not be needed to disguise its state of decomposition.
‘This is an unusual location for a costermonger’s shop,’ he said conversationally. ‘Most are at Covent Garden.’
‘We do well here, though. People come to Smithfield for meat, then stop to buy a few carrots or a couple of onions for a stew. We save them a walk.’
‘Do you own the shop yourself, Mr Yeo?’
‘God bless you, no! The owner is a courtier at White Hall, but he never visits. Mr Newburne managed the business for him, and paid him his quarterly profits. It was an arrangement that suited them both. And me, too – I make a good living without the worry of complex finances.’
Chaloner regarded him in surprise. ‘Newburne managed this shop? And it was here that he bought the cucumber that killed him?’
Yeo became indignant. ‘People say he died of cucumbers, but I know for a fact that he swallowed pie, cakes and ale as well. He came to demand a cucumber because he said he had pains in his bladder, but it was not our fine fr
uit that caused his demise. It was something else.’
‘He thought the cucumber would make him feel better? How ill was he?’
‘He was experiencing some mild discomfort, probably as a result of all the things he had eaten when he was out walking with Hodgkinson. He was a greedy man – and not a nice one, either.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He used his association with Butcher Crisp to bully people. He often came here for food, and he took what he wanted, but never paid for it. When Jones of the Lamb complained that Newburne never paid for his ale, Newburne told Crisp to raise the price of his safety tax. That taught us all to keep our mouths shut.’
‘Newburne had that sort of influence over Crisp?’
‘He did according to him, although I suspect Crisp pleases himself what he does. There he is.’
He pointed through the open door, and Chaloner saw a man of medium height, swathed in an unfashionable but practical cloak and a tall sugarloaf hat. The Butcher was surrounded by a pack of disreputable-looking henchmen, and he walked with a cat-like arrogance. His people clustered around him in a way that suggested they expected an attack at any moment, and Chaloner supposed constant unease was the lot of a man who made his money by preying on others. He considered going to talk to him about Newburne, but what could he say? That he knew the solicitor had helped with his illegal activities? Crisp’s answer was likely to be ‘so what?’ Reluctantly, because he was getting desperate for concrete clues, Chaloner decided it would be wiser to tackle Crisp only when he had a better idea of what to ask.
Once outside, he slit the cucumber with his dagger and smeared the greenish milk that seeped out across his wrist. He let it dry, but it came off with the most perfunctory of rubs, and it was not the same dark hue as the marks on Newburne, anyway. It confirmed his suspicion that it had not been natural cucumber juice that had caused the damage to the solicitor’s hands and mouth. He shoved the fruit in his pocket, but realised the discovery had left him with more questions than answers.
He was perturbed that Newburne had been unpopular in quite so many ways. The man had spied on Muddiman. He had persecuted booksellers, even ones with powerful patrons like Nott and Allestry. He worked for L’Estrange, who was also detested. He associated with an underworld king and helped him extort money from people. Almost everyone Chaloner had spoken to admitted disliking the man, and even Newburne’s associates – Crisp and the Hectors – were not above suspicion. It was not unknown for criminals to turn on each other with fatal results.
And was there a connection between Newburne’s death and Maylord’s? It seemed they had not known each other, and they had certainly not moved in the same circles. Had Maylord’s killer left a cucumber at the scene of his crime because it seemed to be a cause of death that no one would question? Then what about the others who had died from the same thing: Valentine Pettis, Colonel Beauclair and the sedan-men? Had they been murdered, too? They were almost certainly buried, so Chaloner could not inspect their bodies. But what could a military man, a horse-trader, two labourers, a shady solicitor and a musician have in common?
He decided he would ask questions about the other deaths if the opportunity arose, but that he would have his hands full with unveiling Newburne’s poisoner and Maylord’s smotherer. And he had promised to investigate Mary Cade for Thurloe, too. He would be busy enough without enlarging his investigation to include men who might well have died natural deaths. He sighed, and hoped a visit to Muddiman would provide him with some answers.
* * *
Chaloner walked south along the Old Bailey. It was not raining, although there was an unpleasant chill in the air, and the kind of dampness that suggested the clouds were gathering their strength for future downpours. Although it was barely noon, the day was dark because of the lowering greyness above. Eventually, he reached The Strand, and asked directions to Muddiman’s office. He was directed to a tall, respectable house near the New Exchange. Although it was old, it was well-maintained, and there was evidence that recent money had been spent on it – the roof boasted new tiles, the window shutters were freshly painted, and the plaster façade was unusually clean.
He knocked on the door, and was admitted to a comfortable room on the ground floor. It was dominated by a large table that was piled high with papers and pamphlets. He took the opportunity to sift through a few, hoping to find evidence that Muddiman obtained his news from an official government source, but instead he learned that some of the men who subscribed to the newsletters responded in kind by providing Muddiman with information of their own. There was a lot of correspondence about the recent uprising in the north, providing a variety of different opinions. Reading them all would provide the newsmonger with a more balanced view of the situation than just accepting the government’s version of events, and Chaloner was not surprised people preferred Muddiman’s objectivity to L’Estrange’s one-sided rants.
There were also notices in foreign languages, especially French, along with a smattering of scribbled messages from courtiers. None carried news of any great import, and he supposed Muddiman included them to give his readers some light-hearted relief, as a break from the serious political analyses. Also among the chaos was a pamphlet on ‘exploding oil’ by John Lawrence of Blackfriars, who blithely recommended leaving his compound in places where burglars might find it – the moment a felon tried to use the volatile oil, it would ignite and spare the city the expense of a trial.
After a few moments, a pretty lady in a black wig arrived, smiling and gracious.
‘I am afraid my husband has gone out to his favourite coffee house – the Folly on the Thames – with Giles Dury. You have only just missed them. They have been working all morning.’
Chaloner gestured to the table. ‘On their newsletters?’
‘On Henry’s newsletters. Giles is just an assistant, and his wife is a seamstress at White Hall.’
‘Right,’ said Chaloner, thinking it was an odd piece of information to impart. Unless, of course, Mrs Muddiman was trying to tell him that she was a cut above the mere Mrs Dury.
‘Roger sees her there occasionally,’ she went on disapprovingly. ‘That means she has an unfair advantage over me, because he does not like coming here.’
‘Roger? You mean L’Estrange?’ Joanna Brome had told Chaloner that L’Estrange had a reputation for seducing other men’s wives, but surely he would not make a play for Muddiman’s and Dury’s?
‘L’Estrange,’ she echoed with a dreamy smile. ‘A very handsome man. Do you not think?’
‘Too rakish for my taste,’ Chaloner replied uneasily. Was she the reason L’Estrange was so willing to draw his sword against Muddiman outside the Rainbow Coffee House? He was hoping to dispatch his rival and so get at his spouse? ‘And I prefer men who do not wear earrings.’
‘It is the earrings I like,’ she said with a conspiratorial grin. ‘I bought Henry a set, but he refuses to wear them.’
‘I wonder why,’ muttered Chaloner.
The Folly, or the Floating Coffee House, was a timber shed on a barge. It was usually anchored midstream, and patrons were obliged to hire skiffs to reach it. That day, however, the Thames was so swollen that the Folly had been moored near the Savoy Palace, and customers could embark directly from the Somerset Stairs. Several men hovered outside it. Some were the drivers of private carriages – which could only just fit down the narrow alley leading from The Strand, and woe betide anyone walking in the opposite direction – and others were idle boatmen whose trade was suspended because of the state of the river. One fellow stood out as not belonging there. He was large, with a face that was the colour and shape of a ripe plum, and he carried a tray of apples that no one seemed very interested in buying.
The Folly was not a large establishment, although it was horrendously crowded, so it was impossible for Chaloner to avoid the coffee-boy who came to see what he wanted to drink. He bought a dish of coffee with his last penny token, and managed to secure a seat at Muddi
man’s table. The newsmonger was holding forth about the northern rebellion, declaring that the newsbooks had given it a significance it did not deserve. It was, he claimed, a silly prank devised by a dozen harmless zealots, and not the great, terrifying revolt L’Estrange had described in that day’s Intelligencer. Men smoked and listened as Muddiman systematically destroyed his rival’s arguments. He put his case so well, and with such close attention to detail, that Chaloner found himself doubting the veracity of L’Estrange’s reports, too. Eventually, most patrons finished their noonday victuals and went back to work, and Chaloner was able to speak to Muddiman in reasonable privacy.
The newsmonger was dressed in fashionable clothes, and clearly took pride in his appearance. He carried a town sword with a delicately jewelled hilt that looked as though it would be useless in a fight, and perched on his head was the yellow wig he had worn the previous day, when he had argued with L’Estrange. His round face was clean and pink from a recent shaving, and Chaloner felt grubby and disreputable by comparison.
With him was the companion who had protected him from L’Estrange, taller and broader than his friend, but just as handsomely attired. He introduced himself as Giles Dury when Chaloner told them who he was and what he wanted, then crossed his long legs and sat back with an amused grin. His superior, laconic demeanour was an attitude often affected by courtiers, and Chaloner supposed Dury had learned it from them, perhaps when visiting his wife the seamstress.
‘So, you are the Earl of Clarendon’s man,’ said Muddiman, looking Chaloner up and down with thinly masked disdain. ‘And you are here to question me about Newburne.’
Dury sniggered. ‘Poor Newburne! He will not be arising now, for Annie Petwer or anyone else. Do you know how that saying came about?’
‘A stone struck his head—’ began Chaloner.
The Butcher Of Smithfield: Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 3) Page 11