L’Estrange enjoyed it, though. The church was perfect for both the style of consort and the airs that had been selected, and Chaloner could tell from the editor’s satisfied expression that he had expected no less. The violists were inspired by the way the acoustics complemented their playing, and it was clear to everyone that L’Estrange had taken advantage of the situation to perform a musical experiment to please himself. It had nothing to do with paying tribute to his ‘dear friend Newburne’.
When the performance was over, the musicians were treated to some unexpected and wholly inappropriate applause, so the vicar was obliged to clear his throat to bring the proceedings back to sombre order. Greeting muttered something about another commission, and slipped out through a side door. Chaloner followed, and waylaid him by an ornate tombstone bearing the name of Sir Robert Large, a former Lord Mayor of London. It was looking like rain again, and the sky was dark, even though it was barely noon.
Greeting gave a jubilant grin when he saw Chaloner. ‘Did you hear us? It was not just the building that rendered the conditions perfect for that particular combination of instruments, it was the fact that the church was full of people. They absorbed some of the echo you get in these old places – but not too much. L’Estrange knew what he was doing when he commissioned us to play those particular pieces.’
‘Have you heard any more rumours about the deaths of Maylord or Smegergill?’
Greeting became sombre at the mention of his dead colleagues. ‘Only that the Hectors are determined to catch Smegergill’s killer. Apparently, one of them – a fellow called Ireton – knew Smegergill, although I find that hard to believe.’
‘Knew him in what capacity?’
Greeting shrugged. ‘I have no idea. Perhaps they were neighbours or frequented the same coffee house. Or perhaps Ireton was learning a musical instrument. Personally, I prefer to confine myself to respectable patrons, but not everyone has that luxury.’
Chaloner recalled being told that some of the Hectors were professional men, not mere louts, so supposed it was not impossible that one had purchased music lessons. A connection scratched at the back of his mind, and he struggled to make sense of it. It was to do with noses. Thurloe had talked about Maylord’s plethora of wealthy students and Smegergill’s lack of them – with the exception of ‘a long-nosed lutanist whom no one liked’. One of the Hectors who had attacked Chaloner owned a sizeable nose. Had Smegergill been giving him lessons? Could that explain why Chaloner had heard Smegergill talking to the Hectors after the initial attack – they knew each other? But if they were acquainted, then why had Smegergill been killed? Or were the Hectors innocent, as they claimed, and someone else had come along and dispatched the old man for reasons of his own?
‘Of course,’ Greeting was saying, ‘this Ireton fellow could be lying. Incidentally, have you heard that Hen Finch is dead of cucumbers? The news is all over White Hall.’
‘Who told you?’
‘My colleague Hingston, who is sharing my room at the moment because his house is flooded. But he had it from Muddiman, so it must be right. The news is only a couple of hours old, which shows Muddiman has an excellent intelligence-gathering network. No wonder Williamson is jealous of it.’
Muddiman again, thought Chaloner, wondering whether the newsmonger had the information first because he had perpetrated the crime. But then surely he would have maintained his distance, and let others do the gossiping?
‘Did you know Finch played the trumpet?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but he was not very good. I shall have to inspect his body this afternoon, and poke around in his rooms. You were not surprised when I told you about Finch’s death, which means you already knew. Have you heard any interesting rumours about it? I have been charged to investigate, you see.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘You have? By whom?’
‘My consort performs for Spymaster Williamson on occasion, and I happened to be with him, discussing the music for a dinner he is hosting, when his spy Hickes came to say that Muddiman was spreading the word about Finch. Williamson ordered him to look into it, but then confided that the fellow would be unlikely to turn up any sensible answers. So I offered to find him a few instead.’
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Chaloner, mystified. ‘You are a musician, not a spy.’
‘A musician whose outgoings exceed his income,’ explained Greeting ruefully. ‘I told you: I can no longer make ends meet. No one hires a tatty consort for his soirées, but looking the part is expensive, as you will know. Those clothes must have cost you a pretty penny.’
‘You volunteered to work for Williamson?’
Greeting pulled a face. ‘I had no choice. I moved to cheaper rooms, and I still cannot afford the damned rent. You seem to do well from espionage – do not deny it, because Williamson told me you are no victualling clerk, and that you spy for the Earl of Clarendon. So, we are colleagues, and if you tell me what you know about Finch, I will tell you something about Maylord in return.’
‘What makes you think I am interested in Maylord?’ Chaloner was not pleased that Williamson had been talking about him – a spymaster should know better. Of course, this particular spymaster detested Chaloner, and would doubtless be delighted to see him and his investigation compromised.
‘You quizzed me about him the other day, and I know he was a friend of your father’s, because he told me so himself. Of course you want to find out why he was so upset before he died.’
There was no point in denying it, so Chaloner inclined his head. ‘Go on, then.’
Greeting looked sly. ‘You first.’
Chaloner folded his arms. ‘Would you eat a cucumber while you played a trumpet?’
Greeting was bemused by the question. ‘Of course not. I would not eat anything – a crumb might get lodged somewhere, and cause a blockage at an inconvenient moment. Why?’
‘Because I heard there was a piece of food lodged inside Finch’s instrument. Someone wanted an investigator – you – to think Finch was eating a cucumber, and so died of natural causes.’
What Chaloner did not mention was that the piece he had found when he examined the instrument had been planted in a place it could not have reached, had it been in a player’s mouth – whoever put it there knew nothing about trumpets. It was not much of a clue, but it was better than nothing. Chaloner frowned as something else occurred to him. He had reasoned that Finch would not have been munching a cucumber as he played, but what about the half-devoured pie in the window? The same applied, which suggested Finch had been performing and someone else had been eating while he listened. Who? The killer? Or someone quite innocent of the whole affair?
‘Who told you this?’ demanded Greeting.
‘One of Finch’s neighbours,’ lied Chaloner. ‘No names. We do not want him murdered, too.’
Greeting nodded acquiescence. ‘Very well. Thank you. I shall tell Williamson that Finch’s death is certainly suspicious, and Hickes can do the rest. He is supposed to be Williamson’s top agent, after all, no matter how much Williamson grumbles about him behind his back. I agreed to ask a few questions, but my consort will never be hired if my clients think I am a spy.’
‘Who is Hickes? What does he look like?’
‘Yes, you would do well to avoid him. I am sure he is a Hector – he certainly behaves like one. He is over there, look, gasping for breath like a pair of bellows. He is supposed to be following Muddiman and Dury, but he finds it hard to keep up with them, especially when they send their private carriage in one direction, then leap into sedan-chairs that take them in another.’
Chaloner gaped. ‘The apple-seller? Surely not! He is the best Williamson can muster?’
‘Apple-seller? I suppose you have seen him in one of his disguises. They are never very good.’
Chaloner rubbed his chin, lost in thought. The Earl had told him that Hickes was investigating Newburne’s murder, but Hickes had declared Muddiman and Dury innocent. So why was he still following
them, and not concentrating on other suspects? Had he lied, perhaps to throw a rival investigator off the scent? And what about Greeting? Had he really offered to spy for Williamson in such a casual manner? And had Williamson really been willing to accept the musician’s services under such conditions? It did not seem likely, and Chaloner supposed Greeting was just another person of whom to be wary at White Hall – a liar who undertook dubious assignments.
‘What are you going to tell me in return?’ he asked. ‘About Maylord.’
Greeting smiled amiably. ‘Two things. First, there are descriptions circulating about Smegergill’s killer – medium height, stocky build and very fast on his feet. He sounds rather like you, and I know for a fact that you wanted to talk to him. I am making an assumption—’
‘I never harmed Smegergill,’ said Chaloner, alarmed. He was horrified that Greeting had associated him with the description, because it suggested the musician was more clever – or better informed – than he let on, and if he told the Hectors, it would be a nuisance. Chaloner could not find Newburne’s killer in the time allotted to him, and dodge murderous henchmen at the same time.
‘He went off with some rogue after our Monday night performance, although the villain took care to hide his face when I tried to look at it. It was not you, though – I glimpsed his general shape before he stepped into the shadows and he was too short to be you.’
‘And the second thing?’
‘Both Maylord and Smegergill branched out into other kinds of music before they died, but it was not good music. I cannot help wondering whether they had commissions from someone who wanted a particular kind of sound, although it was not one real art-lovers would favour …’
Chaloner thought about the discordant music he had found in Maylord’s chimney. ‘What of it?’
‘Ellis Crisp has an eclectic taste in music. I am told he favours tunes from the East.’
Chaloner stared at him. ‘Maylord and Smegergill were playing melodies for Crisp?’
Greeting raised his hands. ‘I am combining two points of information and drawing a conclusion, not repeating a fact. Perhaps it has a bearing on Maylord’s death – or Smegergill’s – and perhaps it does not. But I should be off: Ireton is inside, and I want to be gone before he comes out.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I am medium height, stocky build, and very fast on my feet, and I was in Smithfield the evening Smegergill was killed, because I live there. I do not want Ireton thinking I am the culprit.’
The funeral procession was moving out of the church and towards the hole in the churchyard by the time Greeting left. Chaloner lagged at the end, watching. At the front was Dorcus, held up by L’Estrange on one side and Joanna on the other. Brome was a solid, reassuring presence behind. He placed his cloak solicitously around Dorcus’s shoulders when she shivered in the drizzle.
‘A sorry sight.’
Chaloner turned to see Hodgkinson standing behind him. The printer was clad entirely in black as a mark of respect for the deceased, and his face was suitably sombre. His beard looked darker than usual, too, and Chaloner wondered if he had put soot in it for the occasion. The current mourning fashion at Court was not only to wear dowdy clothes, but to eradicate anything shiny, too – buckles, jewellery and even weapons. It seemed that Hodgkinson had thoughtfully extended the prohibition to his facial hair.
‘Very sorry,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘I was told Ellis Crisp is here. Which one is he?’
Hodgkinson scanned the faces. ‘I cannot see him at the moment. There is his father, though: Sir Nicholas.’ He pointed to a heavily built man in his sixties who moved with an arrogant swagger. Four liveried servants held a canopy above his head, to ensure he was not dripped on, and Chaloner was not surprised he had sired a son who had carved a small kingdom for himself in Smithfield.
‘I do not think I will linger if the Butcher is here,’ said Hodgkinson uneasily. ‘I owe him October’s safety tax for my shop in Duck Lane, but I do not have it with me. I would rather deliver it myself this afternoon, than have his men ask for it now. I do not like the way they make requests.’
He hurried away, leaving Chaloner inspecting the crowds for the sort of man who could inspire such fear among law-abiding citizens. No one stood out as particularly menacing, although he spotted his three attackers – Nose, the Scot, and Fingerless. At some point they would pay for what had happened to Smegergill. Nose glanced in his direction, and Chaloner tensed, wondering whether he would be recognised. But none of his clothes were the same as the ones he had worn during the attack – even Isabella’s hat had been replaced by another, albeit reluctantly – and the churchyard had been dark. He relaxed when the man’s gaze passed him by.
He was surprised to see Leybourn among the mourners, although the surveyor’s coat was a rather bright blue and the buckles on his shoes gleamed defiantly. Mary was at his side, clinging to his arm. Chaloner was tempted to ask why she had been entertaining three felons the night before – and whether Leybourn had noticed the absence of his best goblets – but it was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. He would do better to delay the interrogation until he could demand production of the silverware and actually show Leybourn the bell that warned her when he was coming.
Leybourn was pleased to see him. ‘Tom! Are you better?’
‘Why are you here, Will? I thought you did not like Newburne – his spying saw you fined.’
‘I detested the man, but every bookseller in London is here, and Dorcus has invited us all to a funeral party afterwards. It will be an excellent opportunity to meet colleagues I have not seen in ages. And do not think me a hypocrite for accepting the hospitality of his widow, because everyone feels the way I do. Besides, if Dorcus provides some decent victuals, I may even warm to her husband’s memory.’
‘Why are you here, Mr Heyden?’ asked Mary sweetly. ‘I thought you did not know Newburne. Or are you hoping to make the acquaintance of Ellis Crisp? I am told he is here today.’
‘No, he is not hoping to meet the Butcher,’ said Leybourn firmly. ‘He knows too many devious people as it is. And so do you, if the truth be told, Mary. I do not like the look of some of the men with whom you have exchanged greetings today.’
‘You mean Hectors?’ asked Chaloner, with a sweetly innocent smile of his own.
‘Hectors?’ echoed Leybourn, shocked. ‘Do not be ridiculous, Tom! She may have nodded to one or two disreputable types, but they were certainly not Hectors.’
Mary’s expression was martyred. ‘They are men from whom I buy victuals at the market, no more. It would have been rude to ignore their polite good-days. Your friend is having some mischievous sport at my expense, William. Tell him to stop.’
‘Yes, stop it, Tom,’ said Leybourn sternly. ‘A funeral is no place for japes.’
‘If you want to meet Ellis Crisp, you must hurry, Mr Heyden,’ said Mary, with another false smile. ‘He is just getting into a carriage with his father.’
‘No,’ said Leybourn in alarm, gripping his shoulder when Chaloner stepped away. ‘Tom, don’t.’
But Chaloner was only moving to get a better look at the man; he still preferred to delay accosting him until he had a clearer understanding of his role in the various deaths he was investigating. As the carriage rattled away, he caught the briefest glimpse of a face. It was round, pink and smiling.
‘It is odd that a respectable merchant should have a son who is a butcher-cum-underworld king,’ he mused, when the coach had gone. ‘I understand Sir Nicholas is a member of the Council for Trade.’
Leybourn gave a bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Do not be too impressed by titles. Sir Nicholas is a powerful advocate for the African slave trade, which does not make him respectable at all. I would say both make their fortunes in dirty business. And look at the Hectors, moving around the mourners with their ears flapping. They are listening to disparaging comments, so Crisp will know his enemies. It is a bit like Newburne, spying on the booksellers.’
>
‘Be careful,’ warned Chaloner sharply, suspecting Mary might do likewise.
But Leybourn was not listening. ‘Look, there is Allestry, and Nott is with him!’ he exclaimed with pleasure. ‘I have not seen them in weeks. They were also victimised by Newburne.’
The two booksellers were with their wives. The men were talking together, but the women were lagging behind, watching L’Estrange. When the editor happened to glance in their direction, both waved coquettishly at him. Chaloner was amused to note that L’Estrange was the subject of admiring glances from a number of ladies among the crowd, which led him to suppose that the Army of Angels was rather larger than he had been led to believe.
When he turned to mention it to Leybourn, he found him gone to greet his colleagues, leaving Mary behind. Chaloner expected her to follow, sure she would not want the company of a man she so openly despised, but she lingered uncertainly. He glanced to one side and saw the Scottish Hector standing not far away. He was not looking at Mary, but it was clear he intended to approach her as soon as she was alone. Meanwhile, Mary seemed to draw confidence from his proximity.
‘You are a murderer, Heyden,’ she said coldly. Fortunately, a gust of wind took her words, and the Scot did not hear them. ‘There is a description circulating about the man who dispatched the elderly musician, and it matches yours. I have not forgotten the blood on your hands when you arrived later that very same night, and I am drawing my own conclusions.’
‘Then they will be wrong,’ said Chaloner, more calmly than he felt. ‘Smegergill was a friend of my father’s, and I had no reason to harm him. Indeed, his death is a source of great sadness to me.’
‘I do not believe you.’
Chaloner shrugged, effecting carelessness. ‘Then ask Will about me. He will tell you I am not the sort of man who goes around killing old people.’
The Butcher Of Smithfield: Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 3) Page 23