‘From him, no, but I would not confide anything you do not want Mary to know, too. He tells her more than he should about his business, and I do not like the company she keeps.’
‘What company?’
‘Men with a felonious look about them. I was Spymaster General, so I know a scoundrel when I see one. William has no idea what manner of folk he entertains in his house of an evening. Did he tell you how he and Mary met? She went to buy a book, and he fell in love the moment he saw her. I suspect she spotted a lonely man, and homed in like a snake to its prey. I was delighted at first — he is not successful with ladies and deserves a companion — but then he introduced us and all my instincts told me she is not what he believes her to be. You and I must find a way to loosen the claws she has fastened around his heart.’
‘Not if he loves her. He will not thank us for that.’
‘Wait until you meet her before taking that sort of stance,’ advised Thurloe. There was a steely look in his eye that warned Chaloner not to argue. He had not been appointed to one of the most powerful posts in the Commonwealth for nothing, and there was an iron core in him to which wise men deferred. ‘And then we shall discuss it.’
They were silent for a moment, each wrapped in his own concerns. Absently, Thurloe nodded a greeting to one of his fellow benchers, then turned back to Chaloner.
‘You were asking about Smegergill before we became sidetracked with Mary. He is an excellent virginals player — or was, before age stiffened his fingers. He is still very good, but nothing compared to what he was in Cromwell’s time. He and Maylord were friends, because both performed for the Commonwealth’s court, and then joined the King’s after the Restoration. Maylord may well have confided any worries he had to Smegergill. However, before you interview him, I should warn you that he has a reputation for being difficult.’
‘Difficult?’
‘Eccentric and unpredictable. At times he is charm itself, while on other occasions he is moody and sullen. The artistic temperament, I suppose. You can be rather like that yourself.’
Chaloner had only ever been ‘moody and sullen’ with Thurloe when he had had good cause, and felt it was an unfair observation. It was not the time to discuss past misunderstandings, though. ‘I do not suppose you have heard any rumours about what might have been bothering Maylord?’
‘Unfortunately not. However, I met him at White Hall about a week ago, and he asked if I knew where you might be, intimating that there was a matter with which you might be able to help him. I offered him my services, but he declined. So, I have no idea why he was distressed, although I think we can safely assume that it relates to his murder. Of course, he died two days after Newburne, so it is possible that Maylord’s killer latched on to cucumbers because of Newburne.’
Chaloner nodded slowly. ‘You mean no one thought it odd that Newburne died of eating cucumbers, so the killer assumed — rightly — that no eyebrows would be raised when the same thing happened to Maylord. That means the two deaths are unrelated, that Maylord’s killer just heard what happened to Newburne and used it as an excuse.’
‘It means he took a cucumber with him when he killed Maylord, which shows a degree of premeditation. Other than that, there is no connection between the two victims that I can see: Newburne was a corrupt and hated lawyer, and Maylord was a popular musician with many friends.’
‘The verger at St Margaret’s mentioned three other recent cucumber deaths …’
‘Actually, there have been four.’ Thurloe’s extensive circle of ex-colleagues, former employees and acquaintances still kept him well supplied with gossip and intelligence. ‘A royal equerry named Colonel Beauclair, Valentine Pettis the horse-dealer, and two sedan-chairmen. There was no suggestion of foul play with any of them, although they have all died within the last month.’
‘Did they know each other? Or were they acquainted with Newburne or Maylord?’
‘Beauclair was interested in riding, the army and virtually nothing else; he would have had nothing in common with a musician and a solicitor. I suppose he might have met Pettis the horse-dealer, though. Meanwhile, Beauclair rode everywhere, Maylord walked, and Newburne had his own carriage, so I doubt any of them knew the sedan-men. What do you plan to do? Look into Maylord’s death, as well as Newburne’s?’
‘Maylord was my father’s closest friend, and whoever smothered him with enough force to break teeth deserves to face justice. I will hunt down his killer. And I have no choice but to investigate Newburne. The Earl pays me, and I cannot pick and choose from the commissions he dispenses.’
‘All I can tell you about Newburne is that a man called Heneage Finch was almost the only person in London prepared to spend any time in his company.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘Even the most villainous of men have some friends, and I think Finch was just that — a fellow able to look beyond Newburne’s corrupt, sly manner to see something worthy of companionship. Perhaps he can tell you whether Newburne had a penchant for cucumbers. So, you have two tasks now: interviewing Finch about his friend Newburne, and Smegergill about his friend Maylord.’
‘I will start tomorrow.’
‘I do not think people will be rushing to help once they learn your aim is to investigate Newburne’s death — assuming there is anything to explore, of course. Even rotten lawyers die of natural causes sometimes. Meanwhile, Williamson will object to your interference, and the Earl is angry with you for leaving England for so long. Trust no one — not even Leybourn, I am sorry to say.’
It was good advice, and Chaloner fully intended to follow it.
It was dark when Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn and began to walk to Monkwell Street near Cripplegate, where Leybourn lived. Although the streets were still busy, a different kind of citizen was beginning to emerge for business. Men tried to bump into him as he went, in an attempt to pick his pockets, and youths with dirty faces and oily hands offered to sell him goods at improbably low prices. Chaloner had no money to pay a linksman to light his path, and closed his mind to what he might be treading in as he made his way along the wide thoroughfare called Holborn. Shops were still open, and displays of gloves, spices, wigs, baskets, pots and mirrors could be seen within. Stray dogs had formed a pack near the bridge that spanned the filthy Fleet River, and were feeding on something that lay in the road; they snarled at anyone who went too close.
It took him a long time to reach Leybourn’s home, because the streets were so badly flooded. He gave up trying to keep his feet dry, and sloshed through the debris-filled puddles, some of which reached his calves. Thick, sucking mud gripped the wheels of carriages and carts, so their owners had scant control over them, and in some places, they had been abandoned altogether. One lay on its side, and a gang of men were stripping it of anything that could be carried away. Another had caught fire when one of its lamps had been shaken loose by a violent skidding motion; vagrants clustered around, warming their hands in the blaze. Through the flames, Chaloner could see a figure trapped inside, and did not like to imagine what the parish constables would find when they came to clear the wreckage in the morning.
He dived into a doorway when several horsemen cantered recklessly towards him, whooping and cheering as they went. They reeled drunkenly in their saddles, and one had a semi-naked woman perched behind him. A passing leatherworker grimaced in distaste at the spectacle.
‘That was the Duke of Buckingham and his cronies. Do we really want them playing ambassador to hostile foreign powers, or directing our country’s fiscal policies?’