‘I will hire you a female companion,’ offered Leybourn, going to the hearth and ladling something into three wooden cups. Chaloner recoiled from the strength of the brew, and knew it would make him drunk if he downed it on an empty stomach. ‘A maid would be useful, now two of us live here.’
Chaloner agreed, because Leybourn’s usually pleasant kitchen was sordid. Unwashed pots were piled on every surface, a bucket of slops had been sitting so long that there was mould growing in the scum across the top, and the floor was sticky, making him feel like wiping his feet on the way out. He was not the most assiduous of housekeepers himself, but at least he usually scoured his dirty pans within a day, and he never left uneaten food on plates for so long that it rotted. The room was a disgrace, and he was surprised his friend could not see it.
‘I do not want a companion,’ said Mary, rather too quickly. ‘You are soaking, poor love! Come and sit by the fire, and warm yourself before you take a chill.’
‘I could eat a horse,’ declared Leybourn, allowing himself to be cosseted. ‘What do we have?’
‘Beetroot,’ said Mary, waving her hand in a gesture that indicated it might be anywhere.
‘I should be going,’ said Chaloner, backing away. He was also hungry, but not desperate enough to resort to beetroot.
‘Please stay,’ said Leybourn, although he spoke absently and most of his attention was on Mary. ‘I want to show you Christopher Wren’s treatise on weather glasses.’
‘Another time,’ said Chaloner. He set the metheglin on the table. ‘It has been a pleasure, Mrs Leybourn.’
Chapter 3
Early the next morning, Chaloner woke thinking about Leybourn’s infatuation with Mary. He supposed he should be grateful that their union had not been sanctioned by the Church, because it would be easier to dissolve when — and he was sure it was only a matter of time — Leybourn came to his senses and saw he could do very much better. What was Mary gaining from the arrangement? The answer was obvious: a life of luxury with a man who thought she could do no wrong, gifts, and a home in which to entertain when her lover was out. Chaloner could see exactly why she did not want her victim’s friends interfering with her business.
But the spy’s first duty that day was not Leybourn, but the investigation into Newburne’s death, which he would begin by visiting L’Estrange on Ivy Lane. He found a green front-buttoned coat he had always liked, and a pair of loose breeches. It was not the most fashionable of attires, but it was warm, functional and not too moth-or mouse-ravaged. His boots were sturdy and good for walking, and Isabella’s hat would keep both sun and rain from his eyes. Having unimpaired vision was important in his line of work, and although he did not expect the day to bring too many dangers — at least, not like the kind he had recently endured in Spain — he was too experienced to be complacent.
The only thing to eat was a lump of dried meat from the last of his travelling supplies, so he soaked it in water until it was soft. He offered some to the cat, which turned up its nose and went to sit in the window. It began to wash its face, and a gnawed tail near the hearth told him it had acquired itself a fresher meal while he had been sleeping. The dried meat was sadly rancid, and he supposed he should spend his last sixpence to lay in some essential supplies, although it would not buy much and he did not like the notion of being totally penniless. He decided to visit White Hall and claim his back-pay as soon as he had a spare moment.
It had rained heavily during the night, and dawn bathed the streets in a cold, grey light that turned the sodden buildings to shades of brown and beige. It made the city look ugly, and so did the piles of manure, kitchen filth and rubbish that sat at irregular intervals along the sides of the road, each glistening and slick with slime. Dogs and rats scavenged among them, while kites and pigeons perched on the rooftops and waited their turn.
Ivy Lane was a narrow thoroughfare that ran north from St Paul’s Cathedral, and Brome’s Bookshop, in which L’Estrange had his headquarters, was in the middle, near the junction with Paternoster Row. It was a large, well-appointed building with freshly painted timbers and real glass in the windows. The first floor was L’Estrange’s domain — Chaloner could see him pacing back and forth in front of a desk — while the attics comprised living accommodation for the bookseller and his family. The ground floor housed the shop itself, a spacious chamber with neat rows of shelves.
Chaloner pushed open a door that jangled, and entered. The books on sale comprised mostly government-sponsored publications on such diverse subjects as the trees of Bermuda, theology, and various editions of the Seaman’s Kalender. The floor was clean, the tables dusted, and the entire place gave off an air of quiet efficiency. For all that, Chaloner preferred the chaotic jumble of Leybourn’s premises, although he was sure Brome would be able to access any tome in his collection within moments, whereas it sometimes took Leybourn days to locate a specific book. Brome’s was a place for busy men who knew what they wanted; Leybourn’s was for browsers.
As Chaloner stepped inside, the shopkeeper left the customer he was serving and came to greet the new arrival. He was tall, with thinning ginger hair that was mostly concealed by a brown wig. His eyes were a pleasant shade of green, and he wore spectacles on a chain around his neck. When he smiled, his teeth were white and even. He introduced himself as Henry Brome, and politely asked if Chaloner would mind waiting a few moments until he had finished dealing with Mr Smith. A copy of The Intelligencer was provided in the meantime, which Brome said had come directly from the printing presses that morning. It was a refreshing change from being ignored until the first client had left, as happened in most shops.
The spy sat at a table and scanned the newsbook’s contents. There were reports from Paris, Denmark and Vienna, and a note about the Queen’s health, but most of the eight pages were given over to a tirade about an uprising of phanatiques in York, Richmond and Preston. Chaloner grinned when he read, I will not trouble you with hear-says and Reports, but …’ and the editor then went on to give a great list of unsubstantiated rumours.
‘A bright bay mare,’ said the customer, when Brome returned to him. ‘Twelve hands high, with three white feet and wall-eyes. And you can say there is a reward of twenty shillings for her safe return, on application to Richard Smith at the Bell in Smithfield. That is me.’
Brome finished writing down the instructions and smiled. ‘I shall make sure the notice appears in Thursday’s Newes, Mr Smith. And I hope it brings you luck.’
‘I believe it might,’ replied Smith. ‘When Captain Hammond lost his gelding, one of your advertisements saw it back within three days! Making news of horse-thievery means it is more difficult for these villains to operate, and you are doing us a great service.’
‘I am delighted to hear it,’ said Brome. He looked pained. ‘Of course, the real function of our newsbooks is not to help find missing horses, but to keep the public informed of current affairs.’
Smith laughed, long and hard. ‘Believe me, Brome, no one buys the newsbooks for their coverage of current affairs! We buy them for the horses, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar. And speaking of horses, you can write that mine was stolen by a villain called Edward Treen. One of my servants saw him quite clearly, but he managed to ride off before we could stop him. Make sure you name Treen.’
‘We had better not,’ said Brome, rather wearily. ‘He might sue you for defamation of character, and the courts cannot be relied upon to dispense just verdicts these days. It is safer to leave the notice as it is.’