‘That is a fine instrument,’ said Chaloner, rather more interested in the viol than in pursuing his dangerous assignment for the Earl. ‘Is it Spanish?’
‘Why, yes,’ said L’Estrange, pleasantly surprised. ‘How did you know? Do you play?’ He went to a cupboard before Chaloner could reply, and the spy saw several more instruments inside it, all equally handsome. ‘Let us have a duet, then. It is difficult to find people willing to master the viol these days, because there is a modern preference for the violin. Or the flageolet, God forbid!’
‘God forbid, indeed,’ murmured Chaloner, running his hands appreciatively over the fingerboard while L’Estrange slapped a sheet of music in front of him.
‘One, two,’ announced L’Estrange, before launching into the piece with considerable gusto. Chaloner fumbled to catch up, and L’Estrange scowled. ‘Count your beats, man!’
Apart from a few occasions when he had used his artistic skills to gain access to the sly Portuguese duke, Chaloner had had no time for music since June, and his lack of practice showed. He played badly, aware of L’Estrange’s grimaces when he missed notes or his timing was poor. He would have done better had it been an air he knew, but it was unfamiliar and the notation was cramped and difficult to read. When it was finished, L’Estrange sat back and tapped it with his bow.
‘Do you like it?’
‘No.’
L’Estrange laughed. ‘I composed it, and I am rather proud of it, to be frank. However, at least you were honest. Take it home, and we shall try it again in a few days — when you will make no mistakes, of course. But you did not come here to entertain me. What does the Earl want?’
‘Two things. He has asked me to provide you with news about Portugal, and-’
‘News?’ pounced L’Estrange. ‘Good! I will pay you double if you sell these reports only to me. Triple, if Muddiman asks for them and you tell him to go to Hell. What was the second thing?’
‘He wants me to ascertain whether there was anything odd about the death of Thomas Newburne.’
‘Does, he by God! Why? What business is it of his?’
‘I wish I knew,’ muttered Chaloner.
‘Newburne ate a cucumber. I admit it is an odd way to go, but it is not entirely unknown. Colonel Beauclair and a couple of sedan-chair carriers went the same way, just this last month.’
‘You think Newburne died of natural causes?’
‘Of course he did. Obviously, he encountered a lot of dubious characters when he was working on my behalf — phanatiques, no less. But no one killed him.’
‘When you speak of dubious characters, do you mean men like the Butcher of Smithfield?’
‘Actually, I was referring to the booksellers he met. His association with Ellis Crisp was his own affair, and none of mine. However, I would have ordered him to consort with the Devil himself, if it meant safeguarding the King and his government. That is why I agreed to become Surveyor of the Press — to serve His Majesty with all the means at my disposal, legitimate or otherwise.’
‘Suppressing books on mathematics is serving the King?’ Chaloner was thinking of Leybourn.
‘Yes, and so is stamping out dishonesty in the publishing trade. I have fined dozens of booksellers for breaking the law, including James Allestry who supplies the Royal Society, and William Nott who counts your master, the Lord Chancellor, among his customers. I mean to root out disobedience wherever I find it, even among those who consider themselves too grand for fines and disgrace.’
Chaloner was inclined to tell him that alienating an entire profession was probably not the best way to make a success of his appointment — and that there was a difference between enforcing the law and gratuitous persecution — but he held his tongue. ‘What do you think happened to Newburne?’
‘I have already told you: he ate a cucumber.’ L’Estrange reflected for a moment. ‘Of course, the fruit could have been fed to him by phanatiques. They are always lurking in coffee houses and taverns, waiting to strike.’
Chaloner thought he was being paranoid. ‘I doubt they-’
‘Are you one of them?’ demanded L’Estrange. ‘Yes, I imagine you are: your viol finger-work smacks of that old reprobate Maylord — a loyal Parliamentarian first, but then a Royalist when he saw it would serve him better. He had a very distinctive style of playing, and you mimic it.’
‘I have never been taught by Maylord,’ said Chaloner. But his father had, and he had passed the lessons to his son. He was impressed by L’Estrange’s powers of observation, because he had not even been aware that the man had been studying him. ‘Did Newburne play the viol with you?’
L’Estrange snorted his derision. ‘Hardly! He liked music, but he had no talent for it.’
‘I do not suppose he had lessons from Maylord, did he?’
The editor snorted a second time. ‘Maylord was a good man who would never have subjected himself to Newburne’s low company. Why do you ask? Is it because both died from cucumbers and you think there might be a connection between them? If so, then you are wasting your time.’
Chaloner would make up his own mind about that. ‘How well did you know Newburne?’
‘I did not give him a cucumber, if that is what you are asking. Have you ever heard the saying, “Arise Tom Newburne”?’
Chaloner nodded, although he did not admit that it had only been the previous day.
‘It refers to his promotion from common lawyer to a man who worked for me — my arrival in London marked a dramatic upsurge in his fortunes. It is a by-word for anything that rises quickly.’
‘Is it?’ asked Chaloner, bemused. ‘I was told it meant something else.’
‘Then you were told wrong,’ declared L’Estrange. ‘Probably by a phanatique, trying to cause mischief. Tell me his name, and I will arrange for him to be visited by some of Newburne’s persuasive friends — Hectors. They are useful fellows to know when dealing with dissidents.’
‘It was the Earl of Clarendon. Do you want his address, or do you know where he lives?’
L’Estrange glowered at him. ‘You should have told me who you were talking about. The Earl and I have known each other for years, and I mean him no harm. Indeed, he has always been a good friend to me, and I to him.’
‘You hired Newburne to do what, exactly?’ asked Chaloner, going back to his investigation.
‘Mostly to visit booksellers and assess their stock for unlicensed publications. He was paid a shilling for every one that he discovered, which was a fine incentive for him to succeed. He was good at it, too. He was also in charge of watching Henry Muddiman. Do you know Muddiman?’
‘Only by reputation.’
‘You mean his reputation as a villainous rogue, who ran a pair of sub-standard newsbooks before Spymaster Williamson arranged for me to be promoted into his place?’
‘Something like that.’
‘He is a sly devil, and owes allegiance to nothing but money. We all want to be wealthy, but some of us have other interests, too. He does not. Newburne was paid to watch him, to see where he obtains the intelligence for his filthy newsletters. They undermine my newsbooks, you see.’
‘Can you not suppress them?’ asked Chaloner facetiously. ‘As you have the mathematicians?’
Irony was lost on L’Estrange. ‘Muddiman does not need one of my licenses, because his reports are handwritten, not printed. And as he does not sell them in shops, they are not within my purvey.’
‘They appear in taverns, though,’ said Chaloner. ‘I have seen them myself.’
‘Landlords subscribe to them, because newsletters attract customers eager for information. I do not like it, but it is within the law, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Unfortunately.’
‘Did Newburne ever attempt to steal news from Muddiman? Or try to prevent the newsletters from being written?’