‘Tom Heyden. Did you say Newburne rented the room next door? I thought he owned a mansion on Old Jewry.’
‘He did, but he kept a room here, too, because it is near the newsbook office, and only a short walk to Hodgkinson’s print-house on Thames Street. Sometimes he was obliged to work late at both places, and no man who values his life likes walking too far in the dark.’
‘True enough. I was pickpocketed yesterday,’ lied Chaloner, to encourage him to talk more.
Finch shot him a sympathetic glance. ‘I was robbed once, but Newburne had a word with people, and I got everything back. He was a good friend, and I shall miss him.’
‘He knew the thieves who attacked you?’
‘Ellis Crisp did. He and Newburne were colleagues.’
Chaloner pretended to be astonished. ‘Colleagues? But surely Crisp is a felon?’
Finch stared at his feet. ‘I was horrified when Newburne agreed to perform certain legal duties for him – mostly property conveyancing or getting the Hectors out of prison – but he said it was a good career opportunity, and it did make him rich. Besides, he said not all of Crisp’s dealings are unethical or against the law. Some of his business is perfectly respectable.’
Chaloner was sure that was true: it would be virtually impossible for a man to do everything on a criminal basis, and there would be times when Crisp had no choice but to revert to legitimate tactics.
‘I do not like the sound of his pies, though,’ Finch went on in a low, uneasy voice. ‘And I shall never eat one, no matter how hungry I might be. They are said to contain the bodies of his enemies.’
‘So I have heard,’ said Chaloner, trying to keep the scepticism from his voice.
‘Working for L’Estrange did not make poor Newburne very popular, either,’ continued Finch unhappily. ‘But people did not know him. If they had taken the time to forge a friendship, as I did, they would have found him charming, witty and kind. He was a great lover of music, and often hired professional consorts to play for him.’
‘Did he ever hire a violist called Maylord?’
‘Not as far as I know, although he heard Maylord perform at White Hall once. He heard Smegergill on the virginal, too, although I think Smegergill is not as talented as he used to be. It must be because his fingers are stiffening with age, and I suspect his days as a musician are numbered.’
Chaloner smiled his satisfaction. A real connection at last! He had known there had to be one. ‘I admired Maylord myself. It is a pity both he and Newburne are dead of cucumbers.’
‘I heard a surgeon was hired to confirm the nature of Newburne’s demise, but I have no faith in leeches. Perhaps he was eating a cucumber when he died – Hodgkinson says so, and he is an honest sort – but can we be sure it actually caused his death? Personally, I think someone did away with him.’
‘Really? Who do you suspect?’
Finch fiddled with his trumpet. ‘A bookseller, perhaps. They broke the law, but acted as though it was Newburne’s fault when he caught them. Or L’Estrange, because he did not like the fact that Newburne worked for Crisp, as well as for him. Still, we shall never know, because it is far too dangerous a matter to probe.’
Chaloner pretended to agree, then paused as he was about to leave. ‘I do not recognise the sonata you were playing. What was it?’
Finch waved a hand to where the music lay on the windowsill. ‘It is a composition I found when Newburne’s wife and I cleaned out his room – your room now. She said I could have it as a keepsake, and I have been struggling to master it for his sake. It occurred to me that he might have written it himself, and I thought I might play it at his funeral.’
‘Do you think it strikes the right tone for such an occasion?’ asked Chaloner, trying to be tactful.
Finch smiled sadly. ‘I suppose not. The melody is not pleasant, and there are too many discordant intervals. I have not been asked to perform anyway. I offered, but L’Estrange told me in no uncertain terms that he wanted professional musicians. And no one goes against what L’Estrange wants. He is a bold and powerful man.’
‘He certainly likes to think so,’ said Chaloner.
* * *
Dusk brought the promised rain, and Chaloner sloshed to White Hall through water that was pouring from the higher parts of the city. When he glimpsed the river between The Strand’s mansions, he saw it running swift and brown in the last of the daylight. He wondered whether it would burst its banks.
He needed to do three things at the palace: tell the Earl what he had learned about Newburne, collect his back-pay from the Accompting House, and speak to Smegergill about Maylord. When he arrived, however, he found the accompters already gone home – the Court refused to buy lantern fuel until after the Feast of All Souls, so until then, work finished when it became too dark to see. The same was not true of the Earl’s clerk Bulteel, who was bent over his ledgers by the light of a single candle.
‘You will spoil your eyes,’ said Chaloner, watching him rub them. ‘Ask the Earl for a lamp.’
‘The Court is not made of money,’ snapped the Earl, appearing suddenly at the door to his office. ‘And we must all forgo life’s little luxuries in the interests of fiscal efficiency. What do you want, Heyden, other than to encourage my clerks to make unreasonable demands? I am busy.’
‘I came to tell you that I inspected Newburne’s body today, and I am sure he was fed a toxic substance. Not a cucumber, but something else.’
‘I am not surprised, given his unpopularity. Who is the culprit? And was it connected to his work for L’Estrange? I spoke to Williamson about him paying the pension, since the newsbooks are his remit, but he said I was the one who made the promise, so I should be the one to honour it. It is a highly unsatisfactory state of affairs, and I want you to resolve it as soon as possible.’
Chaloner tried to read his expression in the dim light. Was he being ordered to ‘discover’ that Newburne’s death was unrelated to his government post, to relieve the Earl of an unwelcome expense? He was used to dishonesty, but Thurloe had never asked him to cheat anyone, and he found he did not like the notion that his new master might have different expectations. It occurred to him that it was just as well Williamson did not want him in the government’s intelligence services, because he doubted the Spymaster would tolerate squeamish principles among his operatives. He was beginning to suspect that Clarendon might not, either, and decided he had better mask his distaste.
‘There are a lot of suspects, sir,’ he said vaguely. ‘I will continue the investigation tomorrow.’
‘Very well, but do not take too long – Newburne’s widow wants a decision.’ The Earl turned to his secretary, indicating Chaloner was dismissed. ‘What did you want me to sign, Bulteel? This? What is it? I cannot see in this light.’
‘You could forgo the luxury of reading it in the interests of fiscal efficiency,’ retorted Chaloner, before he could stop himself. The Earl’s oblique order had unsettled him, and he began to question all over again the man’s motive for commissioning the investigation. Was it really to avoid paying a pension, or was there a darker, more sinister reason? He found he did not trust Clarendon to tell him the truth, and it was his wariness of the man’s unfathomable games that had prompted the insolent remark.
Anger darkened the Earl’s face. ‘One day you will push me too far, Heyden. And do not think Thurloe will protect you, because his sun is setting fast. Watch your tongue, or you will regret it.’
‘Have you lost your senses?’ demanded Bulteel, when Clarendon had stamped away, slamming the door behind him. ‘He is the Lord Chancellor of England! Can you not find a lesser mortal to insult?’
Chaloner felt his temper subside. Bulteel was right: nothing would be gained from antagonising the man who paid his wages. And if the Earl was not prepared to be honest, then the investigation was just going to take that much longer and he would have to wait for his answers.
‘I do not suppose you know if Smegergill’s consort is playing
tonight, do you?’ he asked, feeling it was time he did something to find out who had smothered Maylord. He had had enough of the Earl and Newburne for one day.
‘Yes – at the Charterhouse near Aldersgate Street. However, it is a private soirée, so you will not be admitted. You will have to wait until Thursday if you want to hear him. His group – well, it is Greeting’s consort, really – is due to play for Newburne’s funeral, which is a public occasion.’
Chaloner was inclined to give up and go home. He had had almost nothing to eat that day – which he suspected might have been partly responsible for his petty remark to the Earl – and he was still tired from his sea-voyage from Portugal. But he was not sure when he would have time to look into Maylord’s trouble if he did not act when he had a free evening, so he forced himself past the end of Fetter Lane and the tempting sanctuary of his rooms, and on to where the Charterhouse school comprised the remains of an old Carthusian monastery, set amid pleasant gardens.
Bulteel was right in saying he would not be allowed inside, so he did not try. Instead, he found a doorway, and sheltered from the rain as best he could, waiting for the party to be over. Drops pattered on to his hat, and he sent silent thanks to Isabella for making him a gift that would not only protect him from attack, but that was completely waterproof, too.
He was used to standing still for long periods of time, because spying often necessitated that sort of activity, but he was cold and miserable even so. He was not far from Smithfield, and drunken yells and women’s shrieks suggested that neither darkness nor inclement weather curtailed the activities that so shocked the Puritan broadsheet writers. He wondered whether it was Butcher Crisp’s infamous Hectors who were making such an ungodly racket.
It was some time before the concert came to an end and the entertainers emerged wearily through the back gate. A carriage had been hired to take them to their homes, and Greeting was one of the first to climb in it. Chaloner was careful to stay out of sight: Greeting was a gossip and he did not want the Lord Chancellor to learn he was investigating Maylord’s death as well as Newburne’s, and risk annoying him even further. Smegergill – described by St Margaret’s verger as having a sadly poxed face – was the last to leave; he walked slowly, as if his joints hurt. Chaloner stamped life into his frozen feet before moving to waylay him.
Smegergill was older than Maylord had been. His hair was white, and his face scored with wrinkles. He still possessed an imposing physique, though, despite his age and pain-ridden gait, and the gaze that fell on Chaloner when he emerged from the darkness was imperious. The spy recalled Thurloe saying that the musician could be ‘difficult’, and hoped he would not decline to answer questions – or suggest he asked them at a more reasonable time of day.
‘I am a friend of Maylord’s, sir,’ Chaloner said, holding his hands in front of him to show he was unarmed. He spoke softly, so Greeting would not hear him and recognise his voice. ‘He wrote to me, but I have only just returned to London, and I am afraid I was too late to find out what he wanted.’
‘Chaloner?’ asked Smegergill, peering at him. ‘Nephew of the regicide?’
It was not how he usually identified himself, and Chaloner was immediately alert for trouble, bracing himself to make a run for it when the man yelled that a dangerous rebel was lurking in the shadows. Smegergill sensed his unease and reached out to touch his arm.
‘It is all right. I was your father’s friend, too – he died during the wars, fighting for the wrong side, like so many good men. You have nothing to fear from me.’
Chaloner did not recall his father ever mentioning Smegergill, but the wars had been a long time ago, and his father had entertained a long succession of men in hooded cloaks during those turbulent years. The musician might well have been one of his clandestine guests.
‘Did Maylord tell you what he—’
Smegergill silenced him quickly. ‘Maylord said he had written to Frederick Chaloner’s son, and you look uncannily like your father. I have been expecting you. Do you remember me? I was at your house in Buckinghamshire many times before and during the wars.’
‘I am sorry.’
Smegergill seemed surprised. ‘Well, I suppose you were only a child.’
‘Hurry up, Smegergill!’ shouted Greeting impatiently. ‘I am exhausted and want to go home, but the coachman says Hingston and I are to be dropped off last, because we live in Smithfield. The longer you dally, the later we will be in our beds.’
‘It is what we always do,’ objected the driver, not liking the censure in Greeting’s voice. ‘We always take the furthest home first, and the nearest last. It is common practice.’
‘Go without me,’ called Smegergill. ‘I am with the son of a friend; he will see me safely home.’
‘Be sure he does, then,’ ordered Greeting, leaning forward in an attempt to see them. Chaloner moved into the shadows, and Greeting was not curious enough to step out into the rain for a better look. ‘Good virginals players are rare these days, and you will be missed if anything happens to you. Keep your hands warm. We are playing for L’Estrange again tomorrow, and you know how critical he can be if our playing does not reach his exacting standards.’
The carriage rattled off. ‘My mother played the virginals,’ said Chaloner. ‘And so do my sisters.’
‘All your siblings are talented that way,’ said Smegergill fondly. ‘Far more so than your regicide uncle, whose only skills were for politics and intrigue. But we should not talk about him; he is best forgotten in this current climate. Is that oak tree still at the gate to your father’s manor? Each May-day, he had it decorated with ribbons, and there was music from dawn to dusk.’
‘It blew down.’ It was a pity, because the spring celebrations under the Chaloners’ oak were famous across the whole county, and they had continued even when the Puritans had declared such festivities illegal. Maylord had been a regular guest, and had declared it his favourite event of the year.
Smegergill shook his head sadly. ‘Everything is changing, and not for the better. What can I do for you, Chaloner? Or may I call you Frederick?’
‘Frederick was my father, sir. I am Thomas.’
‘Quite so, quite so. Maylord said he wrote to you because he wanted your help. He discovered something, and he did not know what to do about it. Documents.’
Chaloner’s pulse quickened. ‘Documents? Do you know what was in them?’
Smegergill sighed. ‘He would not let me read them, because he said it would be dangerous, and I am too old and wise to have pressed him. We play music in the homes of wealthy, powerful men, and I suppose he discovered something amiss in one of them. He was agitated over the last two weeks – he even left his pleasant cottage on Thames Street, and refused to tell anyone where he was going.’
‘The Rhenish Wine House in Westminster,’ supplied Chaloner. He took a breath, deciding a blunt approach would be the best one. ‘He was murdered. Suffocated.’
Smegergill’s hands flew to his face in horror. ‘No! He said he feared assassins, but I thought he was overreacting. Are you sure about this? Everyone else said he died of cucumbers.’
‘I inspected his body, so yes, I am sure.’
Smegergill looked away, and Chaloner saw a tear course down his leathery cheek. It was some time before he spoke. ‘I should have guessed, but the truth is that I did not want to see the truth. He hated cucumbers – he avoided all green fruits, because he said touching them gave him itching skin and boils. He would never have eaten one. Damn my foolish blindness!’
‘Do you have any idea who might have meant him harm?’
‘None at all – everyone loved him. Why? I hope you do not intend to investigate. It might prove to be dangerous.’
‘I would like to see his killer face the justice of the law-courts.’
Smegergill regarded him unhappily. ‘I do not know about this. I was fond of your father, and I do not want to see his son in peril.’
‘Do not worry about that, sir. Smotheri
ng an old man and harming me do not represent the same sort of challenge, and the killer may decide there are limits to the risks he is willing to take. But we will not know unless we see these documents. Do you know where they might be?’
Smegergill smiled sadly. ‘It was my friendship with your father that prompted me to warn you against investigating, but I am glad you are not a coward. Maylord was my closest friend, and I do not want his murderer to go free. I shall help you find out what really happened. What shall we do first? You say he lived in the Rhenish Wine House?’
Chaloner did not like the notion of embroiling Smegergill in whatever Maylord had discovered, but did not want to alienate him by excluding him too soon. ‘We should read these documents before deciding on a course of action.’
Smegergill gripped his arm. ‘You are a good boy, Frederick. I shall tell your father when I see him.’
‘I am Thomas, sir, and my father died years ago.’
‘So he did. During the wars, fighting for the wrong side, like me. I am a Royalist now.’
‘So am I,’ said Chaloner, beginning to have serious reservations about Smegergill’s potential as an ally. ‘Do you think Maylord’s documents will be in his room?’
‘He would not tell me where he had put them – for my own safety, apparently. It will take a cunning lad like you to discover where he hid these papers, though; I doubt a silly old man like me will have any luck. Where is the carriage that will carry me home? We can ask the driver to take us to Maylord’s lodgings first.’
‘It has already gone. We shall have to hire another.’
‘Of course. But it is no good waiting here for one to come along, not at this time of night. We shall have to walk to Long Lane. There are always hackneys in Long Lane, ready to take people home from the Smithfield taverns.’
Chaloner assumed he meant the brothels. ‘What about your hands? Greeting told you to keep them warm. Perhaps you should go home, and leave me to—’
The Butcher Of Smithfield: Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 3) Page 13