Temperance smiled thinly as he stood to leave. ‘Are you sure you would not like a dish of coffee or a pipe before you go? How about some pickled rhubarb? That is said to soothe sharp tempers.’
Chaloner left feeling less than manly, a sensation that was becoming stronger and more frequent as Temperance’s real personality began to flower. He could not drink her coffee, tobacco was an expensive habit he could not afford to acquire, and he was squeamish about her political opinions. Perhaps she knew she unsettled him, and did it on purpose, to amuse herself. He had seen more of the world than she ever would, and had met people with far more radical views than the ones she propounded, but she was his gentle Temperance, and the change in her was disconcerting. He wondered how long it would be before they no longer had anything in common, and their friendship began to flounder.
Maude’s information about Annie Petwer was the first real clue he had had about Newburne for some time, so Chaloner decided a visit to Leybourn was in order, but when he emerged from Hercules’ Pillars Alley, everyone appeared to be heading for the river. He listened to snippets of conversation as people passed, and learned that the tide was still rising, and they were hurrying to see if it would breach its banks. He joined the throng moving towards Temple Stairs – he did not want to be the only person in London walking in a different direction.
When he reached the river, he thought there were far too many folk standing on the wooden platform that formed the Temple Stairs; water was lapping across its slick surface, and there was a very real danger of someone being swept off. He stayed well back, looking away when a cow floated past, lowing its distress. A boatman set out after it, determined to have the prize, and the crowd watched in stunned silence when the bobbing craft capsized the moment it approached the struggling animal. The boat was swept on, but there was no sign of its owner.
Then Chaloner saw a familiar face. Leybourn bought the paper he used for writing his books from a stationer at Temple Stairs, and often visited the area; he had a ream of it under his arm. Chaloner went to stand next to him, looking around for Mary. He could not see her, and supposed Leybourn must have made the journey alone. He wondered what sort of gathering was taking place in the surveyor’s house when he was out, and was tempted to run to Monkwell Street to find out.
‘Hello, Tom. This is a grim business. Did you see that poor fellow? Drowned, just like that.’
‘White Hall is preparing for the worst, too – bakers are ferrying cakes to the Banqueting House.’
Leybourn stifled a gulp of laughter. ‘Do not make jokes at such a time; it is not seemly. Thames Street is suffering. Hodgkinson told me he has had to suspend all his paper from the ceiling beams. He cannot take it elsewhere, because the streets are so foul with mud that carts cannot get through.’
‘This weather cannot last much longer.’
‘It will if the prophets of doom are right, and God is producing another Flood to relieve the world of wickedness.’ Leybourn’s voice became pained. ‘And London is wicked – I was burgled last night.’
‘Were you?’ asked Chaloner, experiencing a sharp pang of guilt when he saw the distress on his friend’s face. He had been going to tell Leybourn what he knew about the missing silver goblets, but saw it would not be a good time.
‘My money sack is gone.’ Leybourn glanced behind him. ‘Mary says you took it.’
‘Why would she think that?’ Chaloner’s indignation was genuine, given the circumstances.
‘Because the thief knew exactly where to look, and she thinks you are the only one who knows where I keep it. I dare not mention that Temperance knows, too, lest Mary takes against her as well. She says you are jealous of my new-found happiness.’
‘I am not jealous of what you have with Mary,’ said Chaloner ambiguously.
Leybourn was too lost in his own misery to pick up subtle nuances. ‘She detests Thurloe, too, although I cannot imagine why. He has never been anything but courteous to her, although perhaps a little cold. Her disapproval of you I understand – you can be downright rude. She says I should no longer have anything to do with either of you.’
‘She is still with you, then?’ asked Chaloner, disappointed she had not packed her bags the moment she learned Kirby’s mission had failed.
Leybourn gaped at him. ‘What a vile thing to say! Of course she is still with me! Do you think she only wants me for my money? She loves me, not my wealth.’
‘He is right,’ said Mary. Her voice close behind Leybourn made the surveyor jump, although Chaloner had seen her coming. ‘The theft of this sack means nothing, and I shall stay with him for as long as I choose … I mean as long as he will have me.’
‘I will have you for ever,’ vowed Leybourn passionately. ‘And I will marry you—’
‘Yes, we do not doubt each other,’ interrupted Mary, patting his cheek in a way Chaloner thought patronising. She turned to the spy, and her expression changed from condescention to naked hostility. ‘But the same cannot be said for you. William trusts you, but I have reservations, so I shall give you a chance to prove yourself to him. He was saving up to buy a Gunter’s Quadrant and there is such an instrument in a shop in Moorfield. Will you get it for him?’
‘I do not have that sort of money,’ said Chaloner, surprised she should think he did. Or perhaps she thought he should use Leybourn’s hoard for the purpose.
‘It would be a wonderful thing to own,’ said Leybourn wistfully. ‘I almost had enough before …’
‘If he had one, he would be able to survey St James’s Park, and earn himself a fortune,’ interrupted Mary. ‘He has already been offered the commission, but he cannot accept without owning the necessary implements. I repeat: will you get it for him?’
‘You mean steal it?’ asked Chaloner, finally understanding what she was telling him to do.
‘I mean borrow it,’ corrected Mary slyly. ‘You will do it if you are his friend.’
‘But if he is seen using this quadrant, it will be obvious where it came from,’ Chaloner pointed out, aware of Leybourn looking uncomfortable – although not uncomfortable enough to tell her to stop. ‘People will assume he stole it.’
Mary gave one of her nasty smiles. ‘Then you will have to step forward and take the blame. But I doubt you need worry. William tells me you are adept at worming your way out of difficult situations, and that you have practical experience of thievery. Incidentally, where were you last night?’
Chaloner answered with an observation of his own. ‘I understand your friend Kirby was lurking in the area at the time when Will was burgled. Ask him the identity of the culprit. Or should we see what Annie Petwer or Annabel Reade have to say?’
‘Tom,’ said Leybourn sharply. ‘I do not like your tone.’
‘You have been asking questions about me?’ asked Mary, not sounding as alarmed or shocked as Chaloner thought she should have done. ‘That is ungentlemanly. But do not hope to drive a wedge between me and William over my past, because he already knows about the false charges laid at my door by that horrible Richard Bridges.’
‘Does he know you were Tom Newburne’s lover, too?’
‘Tom!’ cried Leybourn, appalled. ‘Enough! That is my wife you insult.’
‘I did know Newburne,’ said Mary coldly. ‘But I most certainly was not his lover, and if you claim otherwise, I will make you very sorry.’
Chaloner left Temple Stairs with a sense that he had underestimated Mary, and that she was winning the battle for Leybourn. He also did not like the challenge she had laid at his feet regarding the quadrant. Obviously, her intention was that he should be caught committing a crime. Was she hoping Leybourn would be implicated, too, and that when they were both hanged for theft, she would be left with house, shop and what remained of his money? But that would not happen, because Leybourn’s brother would inherit – Chaloner had witnessed the will himself. He supposed she must have some other plan in mind, and knew he should learn what it was before it swung into action.
&n
bsp; And what should he think about her denial that she had been Newburne’s lover? He had accepted Temperance’s story without question, because it made sense in the light of the other things he knew about Mary Cade, Annie Petwer and Annabel Reade. But could Temperance have been wrong? She listened to gossip, and it would not be the first time she had repeated a tale that had no basis in fact.
He put Mary from his mind – with difficulty – and walked to Old Jewry, intending to do two things: ask Dorcus Newburne if her husband had kept a mistress, and locate the solicitor’s mythical hoard. As he walked, he tried to stay in the lee of the wind that swept in from the river. It was verging on a gale, and rattled loose tiles on the housetops. Birds struggled against the confused air currents, trees roared and swayed, and dead brown leaves swirled in fierce little eddies.
He reached Old Jewry eventually, and knocked on the door to Newburne’s house. A servant showed him into a pleasant chamber at the front. He had not been waiting many moments before the door opened, and Dorcus swept in. She wore black, to indicate mourning, but the cloth was of the finest quality, and she looked elegant and prosperous. She had recovered from the funeral’s ordeal, and her face was no longer pale; she did not look happy, but neither was she prostrate with grief.
‘Have you come to bring me news about my pension?’
‘Only to say that the matter has gone to the relevant committee for discussion,’ he lied. It would explain the delay, and he could hardly tell her the truth if he wanted her cooperation.
She sighed. ‘Good. It was promised to me, and I intend to make the government keep its word.’
‘Do you need it urgently, ma’am? Shall I ask the Earl to expedite the matter?’
She smiled faintly. ‘It is kind of you to offer, but I do not need the money at all, because my husband was very rich. In fact, I intend to donate it all to St Olave’s Church when it comes.’
Chaloner was puzzled. ‘If you intend to give it away, why petition for it with such fervour?’
‘It is a matter of principle. My husband was your master’s eyes and ears for years, and most recently in the newsbook business. Williamson would have killed him if he had found out, but the Earl promised to protect him. Then my husband died, allegedly of cucumbers, but we all know it was poison.’
‘You think Williamson murdered your husband?’ It was possible; the Spymaster was ruthless.
She nodded slowly. ‘He might have done, although there were others who disliked Thomas, too. But that is not the point. The real issue is that your Earl vowed to look after him, and he failed. I want the government to pay for its broken promise, and this is the only way I can think of to do it. I want to hit the Earl where it most hurts – in the coffers.’
It was certainly having the desired effect, thought Chaloner: the Earl hated the notion of being out of pocket. ‘Your husband’s funeral was well attended. I do not suppose Annie Petwer was—’
Dorcus’s eyes narrowed. ‘I suppose someone told you “Arise, Tom Newburne” was to do with a mistress, but I explained how that expression came about – his antics with a wooden sword.’
‘You seem very sure.’
‘I am sure. Thomas had a pox ten years ago, and it left him with no interest in women. Hence it is impossible that he could have had a lover. And his rising from the dead was another silly tale, too.’
‘Hodgkinson says otherwise, and he was there.’
‘Hodgkinson is an impressionable fool. No stone flung up by a passing carriage can carry enough force to kill a man – and why should some trollop suddenly be possessed of an ability to resurrect? I met Annie Petwer once; she loves money, and if she thought for an instant that she had saved Thomas, she would have demanded a massive reward. She never did. Hodgkinson is being fanciful.’
‘Why would he fabricate such a story?’
She smiled. ‘Well, it did make him a popular raconteur in the coffee houses for a few weeks. I imagine he has told the tale so many times that he now believes it.’
Chaloner supposed Mary had been telling the truth when she denied being Newburne’s mistress. The alleged association was pure fabrication, although Chaloner suspected Mary Cade had had her reasons for calling herself Annie Petwer when the incident was supposed to have taken place. And he was sure they would not be innocent ones. ‘When we last met, I asked whether you knew a Court musician called Thomas Maylord. You said you did not, but—’
‘But you were actually talking about Tom Mallard,’ she interrupted. ‘I realised afterwards that I had misled you, although it was not intentional. It was just the way you said his name, and I was upset anyway, so not thinking clearly. Yes, my husband knew Mallard.’
Chaloner was annoyed with himself. He knew perfectly well that the musician had used a variety of spellings and pronunciations for his name, depending on the occasion. Many entertainers did, as a device to appeal to different kinds of audiences. ‘In what capacity?’
‘I suppose it does not matter if I tell you now, but he was secretly learning the flageolet. He wanted to surprise me with a tune on my birthday. Mallard was teaching him.’
‘How did he come to choose Maylord as a tutor?’ Chaloner was uncertain about her claim, because everyone else had said the decent Maylord would have had nothing to do with Newburne.
‘He was the best, and my husband was determined to learn. Mallard refused at first, but Thomas could be very persuasive. He yielded in the end.’
So, thought Chaloner, perhaps whatever had driven Maylord into his frenzy of agitation was something heard or seen during one of these lessons. After all, Newburne had worked for three – and possibly more – very dubious masters. Any one of them might have embroiled the solicitor in business that Maylord would have found shocking.
‘This is a fine house,’ he said, moving on to his next quest: learning the way to Newburne’s hidden jewels. ‘And you have a pretty garden, too. Is that a sage bush?’
She beamed at him. ‘I have worked hard to make this a decent home. Would you like to see it?’
When he accepted, he was shown every room from attic to basement. It was indeed a pleasant dwelling. Dorcus stood at the top of the stairs while he descended the cellar steps, and his eyes immediately lit on a patch on the beaten-earth floor that had been recently disturbed. Bulteel was right!
Chaloner took his leave, then doubled back to the garden. Now familiar with not only the house, but its servants and routines, he let himself in through the pantry door and made for the basement again. It was dark, but the light from the single barred window was enough to see by. He scratched away the soil with his dagger until he reached a layer of sacking. Wrapped within it was a box. The box was small, no larger than a pocket prayerbook, and was ornately designed. It was secured by a pair of locks that were far too large for it. Chaloner stared at them for a moment, then, on a whim, inserted the keys he had taken from Maylord and Smegergill. They fitted perfectly, and he pushed back the lid to find the little container brimming to the top with precious stones. Newburne had indeed hidden himself a fortune.
Chapter 10
Chaloner gazed at the jewels, amazed that both finding the box and opening it had been so easy. But now what? Should he take it with him? It would be easy enough to steal, hidden in a pocket, but the problem was that he did not have anywhere secure to keep it. His rooms were no good, and he was loath to burden Thurloe with a second hoard to mind. However, he suspected it would be safe in Newburne’s cellar – the solicitor had been dead for almost two weeks and Chaloner could tell by the state of the hole that no one else had been to inspect it. Then he could collect it later, when it could be taken straight to the Earl.
His mind made up, he replaced box and dirt, stamping down firmly when the hole was filled. For good measure, he dragged a barrel across it, too, to conceal evidence of disturbance. He even took cobwebs from the ceiling and draped them over the cask, and only left when he was sure no visible sign of his visit remained. He was just making his escape through th
e garden when he heard voices.
The back gate opened, and two people entered. One was Dorcus, and the other was L’Estrange. Chaloner was just wondering why the editor should be with her when L’Estrange’s hand slipped around her waist in a way that made her giggle.
‘All right,’ the spy murmured to himself. ‘That answers that question.’
He was about to duck back inside the house and hide until he could leave without being seen when a servant came to the rear door. With weary resignation, he saw he was trapped. So he knelt next to the sage bush, and did not have to try very hard to feign awkward embarrassment when Dorcus and L’Estrange approached him.
‘You have caught me red-handed,’ he said with a feeble grin. ‘I realised after I had gone that my wife would be furious if I did not take her a cutting of your splendid sage. I knocked at your front door, but there was no reply.’
‘You did not tell me you were married,’ said L’Estrange, earrings and teeth flashing as he grinned. ‘What is the lucky lady’s name and where do you live?’
‘I am often complimented on my sage,’ said Dorcus before Chaloner could reply. ‘Please pick some, and tell your wife it is best with pork.’
Chaloner tried to look as though he knew what he was doing as he gathered several handfuls. While he did so, he noticed the maid was smiling prettily at L’Estrange, who was leering back at her.
‘Take an onion, too,’ suggested Dorcus. She grabbed one that had been overlooked when the rest of the crop had been harvested, and lobbed it. Her throw went suspiciously wide of Chaloner, and struck the servant in the middle of her white apron. The maid squealed her dismay at the mess.
‘I brought the galingale you needed, Sybilla,’ said Dorcus, brandishing a package rather menacingly. ‘For the pie you are supposed to be making.’
‘Thank you.’ Sybilla turned to simper at L’Estrange. ‘Will there be company for dinner?’
The Butcher Of Smithfield: Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 3) Page 31