‘Right,’ said Chaloner noncommittally. ‘Why did you not tell me this yesterday?’
‘You looked tired, and I did not want to burden you with too much information. Ah, here is Nott. Oh, no! I do not like green bindings at all.’
Chaloner had no idea whether he finally had the truth, but supposed that cash might well motivate the Earl into wanting to know what had really happened. Clarendon selected blue leather for his books, then was gone in a flurry of noise, horses and lace. Chaloner was left alone with Nott.
‘It must be galling for you, living opposite the man who fined you for selling unlicensed texts,’ he said, rather baldly. The Earl had annoyed him, and he did not feel like being circumspect.
Nott — a small man with hair tied in an odd bun at the back of his head — grinned. ‘It was, but now Newburne will no longer be slinking in and out, life will be much more pleasant. Did the Earl order you to investigate the death? If so, I would be careful, if I were you. There is not a man in London sorry to see him in his coffin.’
‘So I have been told,’ said Chaloner sourly. ‘Several times.’
The sky was overcast when Chaloner left Ivy Lane, and a bitter wind blew in from the north-west. He cut through St Paul’s Cathedral, thinking that while it appeared to be magnificent from a distance, Leybourn had been right to voice his concerns about its structural integrity. Cracks snaked up its walls, and fallen clumps of plaster littered the floor inside, along with bird droppings and a thick layer of filth that had been tracked in from the streets and never cleaned up. He left wondering how long it would be before it simply gave up the ghost and crumbled into dust of its own accord, leaving the site free for Wren’s monstrosity.
The second bookseller L’Estrange had mentioned was James Allestry, who not only held the grand title of Stationer to the King, but was also the man who provided books for the Royal Society. Allestry’s premises were in a noble Tudor house that stood in the cathedral’s yard, but although he answered Chaloner’s questions politely enough, he was able to add nothing more than that he had been furious when he had been fined, and that members of the Royal Society had made sure the King had known what had happened. His Majesty was outraged, Allestry declared, although Chaloner suspected the regal annoyance derived from the fact that he had been pestered with such a matter in the first place, rather than the iniquity of the fine itself.
‘Do not think I murdered Newburne, though,’ said the bookseller as Chaloner reached for the door latch to let himself out. ‘I would have stabbed him in his black heart, not given him a cucumber.’
‘Did you know cucumbers were poisonous?’
‘Everyone knows it, although I was always sceptical, to be honest,’ replied Allestry. ‘I am not sceptical now, though. I wonder if L’Estrange likes them. I may send him a basket if he does. I hear they can be bought in Smithfield and Covent Garden these days.’
Chaloner walked to Thames Street, the western end of which stood in the shadow of Baynard Castle, a handsome fifteenth-century palace. The building perched on the banks of the mighty Thames, and twice a day, muddy brown waters lapped around the feet of its elegant buttresses. Chaloner imagined they were currently lapping rather higher than was comfortable for its occupants, given the volume of rainwater that was being discharged into the river upstream.
Richard Hodgkinson’s print-shop was a vast, windowless basement, located near the palace’s back gate. It was a gloomy place. Its walls dripped moisture and a recent flood had left puddles on the floor, which combined to give the impression that the whole place was below water level.
Printing was a grubby business, and everything in the room was black and sticky with spilled ink. It was noisy, too, with clanking machinery and apprentices yelling to each other as they manipulated heavy plates and sheaves of paper. Nimble-fingered typesetters selected letters from neat rows of boxes, and a listless boy stirred a vat of reeking chemicals. The place stank of hot oil and the thick, sludgy ink that was kept fluid over charcoal fires. There was a greasy mist in the air that did nothing to improve the atmosphere, and Chaloner was able to deduce, from the way the workmen stared curiously at him, that visitors were rare.
Hodgkinson was a smiling, energetic man with an unfashionable beard and hands so deeply stained with the materials of his trade that Chaloner doubted they were ever fully clean.
‘You want to purchase cards?’ he asked eagerly. ‘To advertise your business? I can do some in red, although it costs extra. You wear riding boots, so are you connected with horses? Have you lost one? If you look in Thursday’s Newes, you will see three separate notices for nags that have been pilfered, and two are returned already.’
‘Did Newburne ever advertise a lost horse?’
Hodgkinson was startled. ‘Newburne? What does he have to do with anything?’
‘The Lord Chancellor has asked me to ascertain how he died. I understand you were with him at the time.’
Hodgkinson gaped at him. ‘The Lord Chancellor is interested? Why? Newburne died a natural death — he ate a dangerous fruit.’
‘The Earl is interested in many things,’ said Chaloner smoothly. ‘And L’Estrange tells me he has asked you to look into the matter on his behalf. Will you tell me what you have learned so far? The Earl will be very grateful.’
Hodgkinson nodded keenly. ‘I am always willing to help the government, although you must remember that I am a printer, not a constable, and do not possess the skills necessary for looking into sudden deaths. However, I shall tell you what I have gathered to date. As you will be aware, the dead man was responsible for the expression, “Arise, Tom Newburne”, but he will not be doing much arising now. He is dead for certain this time.’
Chaloner regarded him blankly. ‘He has been dead before?’
‘Yes — he died during the Bartholomew Fair. I witnessed the incident myself.’
Chaloner did not know as much about this most famous of London festivals as he should have done. ‘In August?’ he asked carefully, hoping to elicit more information.
Hodgkinson regarded him oddly. ‘Of course in August. That is when it always takes place. It lasts two weeks, when all is flurry, noise and colour, and then Smithfield reverts back to normal.’
‘Right,’ said Chaloner, wondering how ‘normal’ Smithfield could be when the likes of Crisp were said to control it. ‘So, Newburne went to the Bartholomew Fair in August …’
‘He, I and several others were watching a rope-dancer, when a stone struck his head. He keeled over and lay as still as a corpse. Then Annie Petwer comes along and shouts, “arise, Tom Newburne” and up he leaps, like Lazarus.’
‘Who is Annie Petwer?’ asked Chaloner.
‘A trollop. She charged him five shillings for her services, but I have never seen a man more willing to part with his money. Newburne was a miserly fellow, despite the fact that he was rich.’
‘I am not sure I understand precisely what happened. Who threw the stone? Annie Petwer?’
‘No one threw it; it was flicked up by a passing carriage. It happens all the time, as you will know if you have spent any time in the city.’
‘And this woman stepped forward and told him to stand up?’ It did not sound very likely, and Chaloner was not sure he believed it.
Hodgkinson grinned. ‘Exactly! And now you know where that particular expression comes from.’
‘I see. Newburne is famous, then?’
‘Locally famous, although he was a rogue, if you want the truth. He did a lot of business with Ellis Crisp, and I am sure you do not need me to tell you what that says about a man.’ He pursed his lips.
‘I do not,’ agreed Chaloner, ‘but what did Newburne have to do with Crisp and his gang of Hectors?’