‘Yes, but he never succeeded, because Muddiman was far too clever for him. However, much as I would love to see Muddiman swing for murder, I am afraid he did not kill Newburne. No one did — the man died because he ate a cucumber. Do you have anything else to ask me?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Good, because I have had enough of being interrogated. I have answered all your questions, so you can tell the Earl that I co-operated. However, I do not want you prying into Newburne’s death any further, because I have appointed a man of my own to do it.’
‘Who?’ asked Chaloner in surprise. ‘And why, if you claim there is nothing odd about-’
‘Hodgkinson, the fellow who prints my newsbooks. He was with Newburne when he died, so he is the perfect man for the task. And the reason I asked him to investigate is because I do not want the stink of murder hanging around my office. It is all the fault of people like you, you know.’
‘Like me?’
‘Suspicious types, who see conspiracy everywhere. Newburne’s death was natural, and Hodgkinson will prove it. In fact, he has probably proved it already, so go and speak to him yourself. He lives on Thames Street, although I imagine he will be at Smithfield today; he has a booth on Duck Lane, where he sells printed certificates for meat. Talk to him, then go back to your Earl and tell him there is nothing about Newburne that warrants further investigation.’
‘And what of the phanatiques who you say may have given Newburne the cucumber?’
L’Estrange shot him a wolfish grin, and his earrings flashed. ‘Hodgkinson will ferret those out for me, if they exist. You will not interfere. If you disobey, I promise you will be sorry.’
* * *
Before Chaloner left Brome’s shop, he wrote a brief report about the Portuguese preparations for war with Spain. As he scribbled, he considered his next move. There were now several people he was obliged to interview. First, there was the solicitor’s friend Finch. Next, there was Hodgkinson the printer, who, for all Chaloner knew, might already have solved the case. And finally, there were the two prestigious booksellers, Nott and Allestry. Like Leybourn, the pair had endured L’Estrange’s persecution, and he wanted to assess whether they felt sufficiently bitter to avenge themselves on his informant. Chaloner knew Nott owned the shop that stood across the road from Brome’s, because he had collected books from it for the Earl in the past, so he decided to start there.
When he arrived, Nott was entertaining an important visitor, whose magnificent coach stood outside, selfishly blocking the entire road.
‘Heyden,’ said the Earl of Clarendon amiably, as the spy entered. ‘Nott is rebinding my copy of Rushworth’s Historical Collections. Shall I have it done in blue-dyed calfskin or red?’
‘Green,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether the Earl was there by chance, or whether he was ensuring his spy was doing as he was told. He found himself deeply suspicious. ‘Blue is common, and red is favoured by courtesans who cannot read.’
The Earl gaped at him. ‘Most of my collection is bound in red or blue.’
‘I shall fetch some more samples, sir,’ said Nott, beating a prudent retreat. ‘In green.’
‘I have started looking into Newburne’s death,’ said Chaloner, when they were alone. ‘So far, everyone has either warned me away because Newburne knew a lot of dangerous people, or they say it is quite normal for men to die from eating cucumbers and that I am wasting my time.’
‘I saw you go into Brome’s shop,’ said the Earl. ‘Which tale did he spin you? That Newburne’s death was natural? Or that you will endanger yourself if you persist with your enquiries?’
‘Both. Why do you want this case investigated, sir? At White Hall, I was under the impression that L’Estrange had asked for your help in finding out what happened, but he was bemused when I offered my services, and tells me they are not needed. So, what is the real reason? Is it because your own bookseller, Nott, was victimised by Newburne, and you think he might be the culprit?’
Clarendon pursed his lips. ‘What a wild imagination you have! I like Nott, and it would be a shame if you learn he is the killer — if there is a killer. He really does produce excellent bindings.’
‘You did not tell me that other people have died from ingesting cucumbers, either,’ added Chaloner, trying not to sound accusatory. He did not succeed, because he was angry with the Earl for playing games with secrets, and his temper was up.
‘I did not tell you, because I did not know,’ snapped Clarendon, irritable in his turn. ‘If it is true, then perhaps I have sent you on a wild goose chase, and there is nothing to assess. However, Newburne was unpleasant and he engaged in sordid dealings — if he was not murdered, I shall be very surprised.’
‘But why do you want to know? What is Newburne to you? Did you hire him to help you with something? He had a reputation for knowing a good many villains.’
The Earl glared at him. ‘Was that an accidental conjunction of two statements, or do you imply that I am one of these “villains”?’
It had been an accident: Chaloner was not so foolish as to call his master a villain to his face. All he had meant to say was that Newburne might have known the right people for the unpalatable tasks that often went hand-in-hand with high government office, and that Clarendon might have used Newburne much as he was currently using Chaloner. However, he was not so chagrined by his slip of the tongue that he failed to notice the Earl had used the gaffe to avoid answering his question.
‘Did he work for you?’ he pressed.
Clarendon grimaced. ‘You really are an insolent fellow, Heyden. Were you like this with Thurloe? Accusing him of sordid dealings and then demanding answers to questions that are none of your concern?’ He sighed crossly. ‘Very well, I shall tell you what you want to know, although I would appreciate discretion.’
‘I am always discreet,’ said Chaloner, offended by the slur on his professionalism.
‘So you say, but there are men with deep pockets who seem able to bribe just about anyone these days, so you will forgive my scepticism. I employed Newburne when I was first appointed Lord Chancellor. He served me well for a while, and I was so pleased with his diligence that I arranged for him to receive a state pension. Then I discovered he was less than honourable, and I dismissed him.’
‘Employed him to do what?’
‘Petty legal work, although that is irrelevant to what I am trying to tell you. When my secretary, Bulteel, uncovered evidence that Newburne was stealing from me, I sent the man away in disgrace and thought no more about it. After a week or two, he started to work for L’Estrange who, as Surveyor of the Press, is also a government official. The upshot is that, technically speaking, Newburne never left government service, and as with all state pensions, there is a clause stipulating that a sum of money will be paid to the next-of-kin if the holder dies while engaged on official business.’
‘And because you organised the award, you — not L’Estrange — are liable to pay it?’
‘Precisely! You have it in a nutshell. Newburne’s widow came to see me the day after he died and reminded me of my promise — showed me the documents I had signed. Now, I do not mind the expense if he really did die while conducting government business, but I am not so keen on paying if he was murdered because of some corrupt dealing of his own. That is what I want you to find out.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner. So, he was being commissioned to see whether a widow could be cheated of her due. He began to wish he had stayed in Portugal.
‘She is not poor,’ said the Earl sharply, reading his mind. ‘And all I want is the truth; if you say Newburne died while working for L’Estrange, then I shall happily honour the debt. However, as the pension will come from money raised by taxing the people, I am under a moral obligation to spend it properly, not squander it on tricksters.’