‘There might,’ said L’Estrange, waggling his eyebrows at her. ‘It depends what is on offer.’
‘Beef pie with galingale,’ replied Dorcus. ‘We thought we had plenty, but the rats had been at it.’
‘Rats are all over the place these days,’ said Chaloner, thinking L’Estrange’s behaviour made him a particularly predatory one. ‘It must be the weather.’
‘It must,’ agreed Dorcus. ‘Especially now the river is on the rise. I met Roger at the market, and he escorted me home because the Walbrook has burst its culverts and water is gushing everywhere.’
‘Phanatiques have opened secret floodgates,’ explained L’Estrange, eliciting small squeals of alarm from both women. ‘They are trying to drown us in our beds.’
‘Most of us will not be in our beds at this late hour,’ said Chaloner, suspecting the same could not be said of L’Estrange and his ladies. ‘So this devilish plot to take the city by water is doomed to failure.’
‘Here is your onion,’ said Sybilla, tossing it to him. She turned to L’Estrange. ‘Do come in, sir.’
L’Estrange entered the house like a king, the two women fussing behind him. Chaloner stuffed the onion and sage into his pocket, and supposed he was fortunate that Dorcus had been so credulous about his admiration for her herbs – and that L’Estrange had been more interested in recruiting Angels for his Army than in the curious behaviour of the Lord Chancellor’s spy.
As he walked down the path, Chaloner thought about the keys that had fitted the jewel box. Had Maylord and Smegergill stolen them from Newburne? Had that been the cause of Maylord’s agitation? Obviously, it had not been Newburne himself that had worried the musician, because Maylord had written his urgent note on Friday night, and Newburne had been dead for two days by then. An unpleasant sinking feeling gripped Chaloner as he considered the possibility that Maylord had poisoned the solicitor.
He reached the back gate and stepped outside. And tripped over Giles Dury, who was kneeling with his eye glued to a crack in the wood.
‘Damn it all!’ cried the newsman as he went sprawling into the mud. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Leaving,’ replied Chaloner dryly. ‘And you?’
‘Following L’Estrange,’ snapped Dury, trying to brush himself down. ‘It is Saturday.’
‘I see. You always follow L’Estrange on Saturdays, do you?’
‘Of course. It is the day he collects the parliamentary summaries for his Monday newsbook. He always indulges in a dalliance on his way home, and …’ He trailed off, angry at himself.
‘And you take the opportunity to examine his papers while his attention is on his conquests,’ finished Chaloner in understanding. ‘That is why the newsletters so often pre-empt the newsbooks! I thought someone was selling you his reports, but you just steal them for yourselves.’
‘We do not steal,’ objected Dury. ‘We just read what happens to be left lying around. He usually goes to a brothel, which makes life simple, although his selection of Dorcus presents more of a challenge. And not all our news comes from the parliamentary summaries, anyway. Just some of it.’
‘Your spy gives you the rest,’ said Chaloner. ‘Wenum.’
‘Wenum,’ echoed Dury with a sigh. ‘I believed the rumour that said he fell in the Thames, but now Muddiman tells me he was probably Newburne in disguise. I never met Wenum, so had no reason to know – it was Muddiman who went to buy news from him, not me. Muddiman said the man was always careful to stick to the shadows, and now we know why: he did not want to be recognised.’
‘By buying secrets from Newburne, and by reading the confidential summaries issued to L’Estrange, you have been undermining the government’s newsbooks. I suspect that is treason.’
Dury started to draw his sword, but stopped when he saw Chaloner held a dagger and was ready to throw it. He sneered. ‘What are you going to do? Take me to the Tower? I will scream if you try.’
Chaloner was thoughtful. Technically, he should escort Dury to the nearest prison, but he had no desire to deliver anyone into Spymaster Williamson’s vengeful hands, and he was still uncertain about the shifting allegiances of the newsmen and their masters. He decided that arresting Dury was not the best course of action. At least, not yet.
‘If I say nothing to Williamson about this, will you answer some questions?’
Dury was immediately wary. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’
‘You don’t, but you are hardly in a position to negotiate. You can take my offer or you can go to the Tower. It is your choice, but you will reveal the information either way.’
Dury shrugged, feigning nonchalance but failing miserably. He was beginning to be frightened. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Why have you been following me? I saw you in the Golden Lion.’
‘That is easy.’ Dury sounded relieved. ‘Muddiman wanted me to make you an offer: five pounds plus a year’s free newsletters if you feed bad intelligence to L’Estrange. We want him discredited and Muddiman reinstated. Will you do it?’
Chaloner laughed at the notion. ‘No! Williamson would kill me for certain.’
‘Do not be so sure. He is married, and L’Estrange has taken to visiting his home when he is out at work. I do not understand what women see in L’Estrange, personally. It must be the earrings.’
Chaloner wondered if he should buy Leybourn a pair. ‘Have you seen him with Joanna Brome?’ he asked, more from idle curiosity than a genuine need to know.
‘I do not envy her position! If she yields, she betrays her husband, whom she loves. If she resists, L’Estrange might destroy her shop. As far as I know, she has managed to evade the choice so far by giving L’Estrange just enough encouragement to keep him keen, but not capitulating completely.’
‘I saw you meet Ireton at the Rainbow Coffee House yesterday. Why?’
Dury shrugged again. ‘Why do you think? To acquire information. A newsman is not particular about his sources, and Ireton offered to sell me a tale about the murder of a Court musician called Smegergill. I thought he might have some original intelligence, but I was wrong. All he wanted was to declare the Hectors innocent. Unfortunately for him, our readers will be outraged if I write nice things about criminals, so I can use nothing of what he told me.’
It made sense, so Chaloner moved to another question. ‘Why did you and Muddiman search Finch’s room? I saw you there, so do not tell me you did not.’
Dury sighed resentfully. ‘You certainly want your pound of flesh! You had better not betray me after all this. Williamson is not the only one who knows how to hire Hectors. I shall pay a few to visit you if you breathe one word of our discussion to anyone.’
‘Just answer the question.’
Dury regarded him with dislike. ‘We followed Hickes there – we saw him receive a note as he stood outside our house, and we thought it would be fun to see where he went. We watched him chase a thief, and laughed ourselves silly when he fell off the roof.’
‘What did you find in Finch’s room?’ Perhaps Dury had removed the deadly lozenges.
‘We had a quick look around in an attempt to understand why Hickes had been sent there so urgently, but there was nothing obvious. The first thief must have grabbed any pertinent evidence. So, although we had high hopes of a decent scandal – preferably one involving the government – we were disappointed. We already knew Finch was dead, so it was not as if we discovered the body.’
‘How did you know Finch was dead?’
‘Muddiman heard it in Robin’s Coffee House, which is not far from Finch’s home. He often frequents Robin’s, because it is also close to Brome’s shop, and so allows him to spy on L’Estrange. Do not look disapproving, Heyden – L’Estrange does it to us. Now, is there anything else, or am I free to go about my business?’
‘You mean the business of reading L’Estrange’s reports while he frolics with Dorcus?’
‘And the maid. If you look the other way, I will make it worth your while. We nee
d this intelligence, and it is too late to tap into other sources this week. Your interference will cost us dear.’
‘Pity,’ said Chaloner unsympathetically.
It was a gloomy crowd that braved the storm and circled the gaping pit in the graveyard for Maylord’s funeral. Greeting came to stand next to Chaloner, both blinking rain from their eyes.
‘I am soaked through,’ grumbled Greeting when the dismal ceremony was over. ‘Come to the Rhenish Wine House with me. I shall buy some cheap wine and we can drink to Maylord. You owe me for saving you last night, and I would not mind picking your brains about Smegergill in return. Williamson summoned me this morning, and was livid when I told him I had no luck in tracking down the killer. He ordered me to try again, so I need all the help I can get.’
It was not the most enticing of offers, but Chaloner accepted, thinking it would be a good opportunity to pass Smegergill’s ring to its rightful owner, and thus be rid of the responsibility. They entered the fuggy warmth of the hostelry, clothes dripping. Landlord Genew was drying his bald pate with a cloth, and informed them that he would not have left his tavern for anyone other than dear old Maylord on such a foul day. He ushered them to a table near the fire, and brought a jug of spiced wine. Chaloner would have preferred something to eat, but Greeting was more interested in liquid refreshment, and he was paying. The musician drank one cup in a single swallow, then poured himself another, listening intently while Chaloner related some of what he knew about Smegergill’s death. He did not tell Greeting everything. No spy was ever that honest with a man who might later transpire to be an enemy – especially one who was working for Williamson.
‘Were you aware that Maylord knew Newburne?’ Chaloner asked, watching Greeting down his second cup and reach for the third. ‘And both died of cucumbers?’
Greeting nodded. ‘I recently heard from my colleague Hingston that Maylord was secretly teaching Newburne the flageolet, although it was like tutoring a goat, apparently. And then of course there is the Smithfield connection – something I uncovered just this morning, because Smegergill was Maylord’s sole beneficiary, but I am Smegergill’s, much to my astonishment.’
‘What Smithfield connection?’ Greeting did not look astonished, and Chaloner was not about to forget that the devious musician had been in desperate need of money, and now he had inherited a fortune. Was it really a coincidence? And there was another thing: surely, it was odd for Williamson to order Smegergill’s heir to explore the circumstances of Smegergill’s death? Or was the Spymaster unaware of the connection between the two men?
‘Maylord owned a shop there. I vaguely recall him telling me that he had bought one from a distant cousin a few years ago, but he could not be bothered with it, so Newburne managed it for him. Apparently, it earned a respectable income, but Maylord recently became aware that Newburne had been less than honest with him.’
Chaloner’s thoughts whirled while Greeting drank more wine. Smegergill had said Maylord thought he was being cheated, and learning that Newburne was the culprit came as no surprise. The spy considered the likely outcome of Maylord’s suspicions. He would have tackled the solicitor about the discrepancies, but Newburne would naturally have denied the accusations, so Maylord would have needed proof. He had begun to pry. His Thames Street house was near one of Newburne’s properties, and perhaps it was there that the secret music lessons had taken place. But then what? Had Maylord uncovered more than he had bargained for, and had that knowledge driven him to write the agitated note to Chaloner? Or had he laid hold of the keys to Newburne’s jewel box as an act of petty revenge, and then realised he had bitten off more than he could chew?
And what did Smegergill know about the affair? When Chaloner had asked, Smegergill said that Maylord had refused to confide on the grounds of ensuring his friend’s safety. Was it true? There were a number of reasons why Chaloner now thought it was not. First, Smegergill had been in possession of a key to Newburne’s box, and although it was possible he did not know what it was, Chaloner thought it unlikely – it would not have been on his person if he had considered it unimportant. Second, Smegergill knew some Hectors, and Chaloner was beginning to believe Ireton’s contention that he and his cronies had not killed the man. Did that mean Smegergill and the felons were in league somehow? And finally, Chaloner had not forgotten Thurloe’s instinctive distrust of the man. Smegergill was an enigma. Some people found him ‘difficult’, some thought he was losing his mind, and others considered him harmless. They could not all be right, so which was the real man?
‘What do you know about Smegergill?’ he asked, watching Greeting finish the wine in the jug.
‘I have learned that he was actually French, although you would not know it to speak to him. He worked in Paris for years, but came here about a decade ago. He was musician to Cromwell, but that dubious connection was overlooked in view of his talent – along with the fact that he composed a rather nice Birthday Ode for the Duke of Buckingham.’
‘Was he in England before the wars?’
Greeting shook his head. ‘He arrived long after that. Why?’
‘He said he knew me as a child. He remembered a particular tree on my father’s estate.’
‘Then he was mistaken – he could be confused on occasion.’
But Chaloner was becoming increasingly convinced that Smegergill was not as confused as he had let people think. He thought about the discussion in which Smegergill had claimed he was a friend of Chaloner’s family. On reflection, it contained inconsistencies. One example was Smegergill saying that all Chaloner’s siblings were talented musicians, which was untrue: his sisters were skilled, but his brothers were adequate at best. Then there was the May-day celebration under the oak on the Chaloner estate. Maylord had loved the occasion, and had probably told Smegergill about it. And then, Chaloner realised with a flash of understanding, Smegergill had passed off the memories as his own.
But why? The answer was chillingly clear. Maylord must have confided to Smegergill that he had written to Chaloner – an intelligence officer – about his troubles. But Smegergill had inherited those troubles, along with his friend’s goods, and he had no one to help him. And then along came Chaloner, eager to learn the truth behind Maylord’s death. The spy ran through more of the conversation in his head: Smegergill’s forgetfulness and eccentricity had occurred later, after he had established that Chaloner was willing to help him.
So, what had Smegergill hoped they might learn together? Could it have been the location of the documents he had mentioned? Chaloner stared into his cup. Of course it was! Maylord had hidden them well enough to fool amateurs, and Smegergill knew the services of a professional spy were needed to locate them. Of course, Maylord had hidden them too well for professional spies, too, and all Chaloner had been able to unearth was music.
‘Poor old Maylord,’ Greeting was saying. ‘Smegergill arranged for him to come here, you know. He suddenly became frightened in Thames Street, so Smegergill spoke to Genew on his behalf. Smegergill and I were the only ones who knew about Maylord’s abrupt relocation.’
Chaloner stared at him. ‘Smegergill told me he did not know where Maylord had moved.’
‘Perhaps he forgot, although I confess I did not think his absent-mindedness had reached those sorts of levels. He must have decided he did not want to tell you for some reason.’
Chaloner nodded, while more solutions snapped clear in his mind. Smegergill’s purse had been empty, so how had he intended to pay for the coach to the Rhenish Wine House? The answer was that he knew his Hector friends would be willing to give him a ride. And what would have happened after Chaloner had located the documents? The spy doubted Smegergill would have been willing to share. So what had gone wrong in St Bartholomew’s churchyard, and why had Smegergill died? Chaloner already knew Greeting was the real target, and Ireton must have realised the mistake as soon as he recognised a man he knew. Smegergill had not called for help, which suggested he had not been overly alarmed at the t
ime.
Unsettled by his conclusions, Chaloner handed over Smegergill’s ring; the keys he decided to keep. ‘This belonged to Smegergill, so it is now legally yours.’
‘I thought the murderer had stolen that from his body.’ Greeting regarded him warily.
‘If I were the culprit, do you think I would give you evidence of my guilt in a crowded tavern? I have already admitted that I was with him when he died, and now I am telling you that I took his ring, too. I was not thinking clearly at the time, but I swear I never intended to keep it.’
‘Then I shall give you the benefit of the doubt,’ said Greeting, although there was uncertainty in his voice. ‘My fortunes are on the rise today. I may even be able to buy my way clear of Williamson.’
Chaloner doubted it: Spymasters did not relinquish hold over their victims that easily.
Greeting stared at the ring. ‘This was actually Maylord’s, but Smegergill took to wearing it after he died. You think Smegergill was losing his wits, but Maylord was the one really worried about it. Look.’ He prised up the stone, revealing a space inside. A tiny scroll of paper dropped out.
Chaloner caught it as it rolled to the edge of the table. ‘What is it?’
Greeting smiled sadly. ‘It is common knowledge that the keepers of Bedlam will not take you if you know the answers to two questions: your date of birth and the names of your parents. Maylord often told me he was anticipating a visit from the Bedlam men, and once confided that he kept the answers to both questions inside his ring, just in case the wardens arrived and his memory failed him.’
Chaloner wrestled with the minute scrap of paper, thinking it would not have helped Maylord, because it would have taken him too long to unfurl; the Bedlam men would have had him anyway. ‘Smegergill was a shade mad, though,’ he said as he struggled. ‘He went around telling people he was Caesar.’
Greeting laughed. ‘But he was Caesar. As a child, he was adopted by a dean called Caesar, and he often used the name for his compositions. I know it does not sound very likely, but it is perfectly true. Personally, I suspect he was as sane as you and me, and probably a good deal more clever.’
The Butcher Of Smithfield: Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 3) Page 32