‘He gave Crisp’s various business ventures a veneer of legality, and advised him on how to win confrontations with the law. It was unnecessary really, because people are so frightened of Crisp that they tend to let him do what he wants anyway.’
‘Are you afraid?’
Hodgkinson rubbed his bearded chin. ‘I own a small shop on Duck Lane, which is in Smithfield, so I am obliged to pay Crisp a sum of money each month. If I refuse, my stall is subject to thefts and broken windows. I would not say I am afraid exactly, but I own a healthy respect for his authority.’
‘So Newburne was involved in this extortion?’
Hodgkinson looked uncomfortable. ‘You have a blunt way of putting things! Newburne told Crisp to call it a safety tax, which sounds a lot nicer. Do you really want to know all this? It will see you in danger if you report it to the Lord Chancellor. Crisp has built quite an empire for himself, and he will not appreciate you telling the government about him. Besides, I suspect they already know, and are wisely turning a blind eye.’
‘It is wise to ignore bullies who demand money with menaces?’
‘Very wise. And the fools who told the Butcher they did not want his protection now wish they had kept their mouths shut — those who have not been baked in his pies, of course.’
‘Right,’ said Chaloner. He turned the discussion back to the solicitor. ‘What happened the day Newburne died — not the time at the Bartholomew Fair, but his real death last Wednesday? L’Estrange says you were with him then, too.’
Hodgkinson nodded. ‘I had just finished printing the latest edition of The Newes when Newburne happened by. He was not a man I would normally have chosen for company, but he offered to buy me a pie at the Smithfield meat market, and I never decline a free meal. Well, who does?’
‘I thought Newburne did everything with his close friend Heneage Finch.’
‘He did usually, but Finch plays in a consort of trumpets and was busy that evening. If Finch had been available, Newburne would never have asked me to join him.’
‘Does Finch ever perform with a musician called Maylord?’
‘Maylord the violist? I would not have thought so. Maylord was extremely good, and I doubt he would have bothered with an amateur like Finch. Why do you ask?’
‘Idle curiosity. You did not like Newburne, did you, despite him buying you pies?’
‘Not much. But I did not kill him.’
‘Was he killed? You said he died from eating cucumbers.’
Hodgkinson looked flustered. ‘I am trying to tell you what happened, but you keep interrupting. So, Newburne and I walked to the market, where we ate pies and drank ale. Then we stopped to watch the dancing monkeys, and he bought a cucumber from the costermongery on Duck Lane. He had some marchpanes, too, and a gingerbread cake. He had been moaning about feeling sick most of the afternoon, but then, without warning, he suddenly gripped his belly and dropped to the ground.’
‘Did he complain about feeling sick before or after he ate all this food?’
‘Both. He was a heavy drinker, and I assumed too much wine on an empty stomach had made him costive. I encouraged him to eat, because I thought food might ameliorate his sour humours.’
‘Did he choke?’ asked Chaloner, thinking that if Newburne had swallowed ale, pies, cakes and a cucumber, there would have been ample opportunity for someone to slip him poison — if poisoned he was. If Newburne had been feeling ill anyway, perhaps none of the food was responsible.
‘He started gasping for breath and clutching his stomach. I thought he was drunk at first — as I said, he enjoyed his wine.’
‘And then what?’
‘Then he just died. He gasped a few times, shuddered and lay still. When froth poured from his mouth, I realised he was genuinely ill, but by then it was too late — and there was no Annie Petwer to tell him to arise. He lies in St Bartholomew the Less, if you want to inspect his corpse. I have been several times, but he is definitely dead this time.’
‘Where can I find Annie Petwer?’
Hodgkinson shrugged. ‘God knows. I imagine she lives in London, though. The Fair attracts a lot of folk from the country, but I would say Annie Petwer is local.’
Chaloner shook his head, bemused by the tale. ‘What do you think happened to Newburne? A fit? An aversion to cucumbers? Poison?’
‘When L’Estrange asked me to investigate, I paid a surgeon to inspect the body. The fellow has written me a certificate saying Newburne really did die from cucumbers.’ He extracted a document from a pile on a desk, holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger, so as not to soil it with his inky hands. ‘Here. He says cucumbers cause dangerous vapours to collect in the veins, and these eventually result in a fatal imbalance of the humours. I have no reason to doubt his conclusions.’
Chaloner read what was written. The medic had cited the great Greek physician Galen to support his hypothesis, and his own credentials included membership of the Company of Barber-Surgeons, so he was unlikely to be a complete charlatan. Chaloner tapped the letter thoughtfully. ‘Unfortunately, this does not tell us whether the cucumber was dosed with some kind of toxin, or whether Newburne just suffered a bad reaction to this type of fruit.’
Hodgkinson scratched his head. ‘I suppose not. However, the surgeon said lots of people die from cucumbers, so there is no reason to suspect foul play. Is there anything else I can tell you? If not, I had better be getting back to work, or we will be late with the bills for the play at the Duke’s House this evening.’
‘One more question: do you know where Henry Muddiman lives?’
Hodgkinson regarded him warily. ‘His office is at the sign of the Seven Stars, near the New Exchange on The Strand. Why? Are you not convinced by my explanations? You intend to follow your own investigation, even though there is nothing to look into?’
‘I doubt the Lord Chancellor will be satisfied with what I have uncovered so far.’
Hodgkinson’s expression was grave. ‘You seem a decent man, so here is a friendly warning: walk away from Newburne while you can. It is what I intend to do myself.’
‘That sounds like a threat.’
‘It is not meant to be. To be frank, it crossed my mind that Newburne might have fallen foul of Crisp somehow — friends turned enemies and all that — and if it was a good man who lay dead, I might press the matter. But we are talking about Newburne here. He is not worth dying for.’
‘So you do not believe his death was natural? You are sceptical of your surgeon’s conclusions?’
Hodgkinson looked shifty. ‘I do believe them — and that is what I shall tell L’Estrange. I am not brave enough to do anything else. Look, I like the Lord Chancellor — he is a sober, godly fellow among all those debauched courtiers. Tell him to ignore Newburne, and use his spies to defeat his enemies at White Hall instead. It will be better for all of us that way.’
Unfortunately, Chaloner suspected the Earl would not agree. Pensions cost a good deal of money, and what was the life of an insolent spy when compared to a fortune?
Chapter 4
Chaloner was not very good at ascertaining causes of death from corpses, but he had acquired a certain expertise over the years, and knew he should visit Newburne’s in St Bartholomew the Less as soon as possible. Hodgkinson’s surgeon had declared there to be no suspicious circumstances, and if Chaloner also saw nothing to suggest the medic had been mistaken — such as broken teeth or bruised lips — then perhaps the commonly accepted tale about Newburne’s death was true, and he had indeed died from eating something that had disagreed with him.
Yet there were questions to be answered, even so. Had someone forced him to eat cucumbers, knowing they would do him harm? And did the fact that he was so universally detested really have nothing to do with his death? Chaloner decided he had better speak to Muddiman about the matter regardless, as he was the obvious suspect for any foul play. And there was still Finch’s opinion to consider — the only person in the city said to have liked the solicitor. Chaloner supposed he should also interview Newburne’s wife, although he would have to tread carefully. He doubted she would be very forthcoming once she learned he worked for the man who was trying to wriggle out of paying her pension. Mulling over all he had learned, he walked to the church.