St Bartholomew the Less was located at the edge of the vast, open, diamond-shaped space that was Smithfield. Livestock lowed and bleated in the semi-permanent stocks, unsettled by the stench of blood and entrails from the nearby butchers’ stalls. As he approached the church, Chaloner glanced at the people he passed, wondering whether any were members of the notorious Hector clan. He was disconcerted to note that the area contained more than its share of disreputable types, and he did not like the way loutish-looking men gathered on street corners in small but menacing groups.
The smaller of the two churches dedicated to St Bartholomew had been chapel to the nearby hospital of the same name, and was full of memorials to worthy surgeons and physicians. There were fine stained-glass windows, most depicting scenes from the Bible that involved healing, and the font, screen and pulpit were carved from old, black oak. It smelled of damp prayer-books and the pine cones someone had piled along the windowsills, and its thick, ancient walls muffled the racket from outside. Chaloner was pleased to find it deserted. Ever cautious, he placed a pewter jug by the door, so that if anyone opened it, the receptacle would be knocked over, and the resulting clatter would warn him to stop what he was doing.
He made for the lady chapel, where an elaborately carved coffin was covered by a pall of heavily embroidered material. Hurrying, because he was sure he would not be alone for long, he dragged the cloth away, revealing the man underneath. Newburne had been slightly built, with a small, thin moustache, like the King’s. Under his rich wig, his pate was bald and shiny, and Chaloner recalled the Earl commenting on Newburne’s hairless state. Although Chaloner knew better than to make assumptions about a man’s character from the look of his corpse, there was definitely something about Newburne that suggested deceitfulness and villainy.
But it was not the time for leisurely analysis, so Chaloner began his physical examination. First, he opened Newburne’s mouth, and looked down his throat. As far as he could tell, it was clear, and he did not think Newburne had choked on his cucumber. His teeth were intact, and there was no indication of bruising around the lips. There was, however, a faint smell of something rank, which made him wonder whether the solicitor had ingested something that had done him no good. There was no sign that he had been struck on the head, although a faint scar on his left temple was evidence of an older injury; Chaloner supposed it had been caused by the stone that had allowed Annie Petwer to order him up from the dead.
He put all to rights, and stared thoughtfully at the corpse. Hodgkinson’s description of Newburne’s death, along with the smell that lingered around his mouth, suggested poisoning was not out of the question. But was it a natural reaction to eating a fruit generally deemed dangerous, or had someone deliberately ended his life? And if the latter was true, then had the toxin been in the cucumber? Hodgkinson said the solicitor had also partaken of pie, wine, gingerbread and marchpanes, and any one of them could have held something dangerous. Further, Hodgkinson had mentioned Newburne complaining of feeling ill even before he had made a pig of himself. Chaloner considered what he knew about poisons.
Newburne had died quickly, which suggested the substance had been strong. And if it was strong, then it would have left marks — on the innards it had damaged, but also on other parts of Newburne’s body it might have touched during the process of ingestion, namely his hands and lips. Chaloner looked in the mouth again, and thought he could detect tiny blisters. Then he turned his attention to the hands. They were cold, limp and unpleasant to the touch, but it was worth the experience, because there were green stains on the fingers, and an underlying redness that looked as though the skin had burned. There was the same unpleasant odour, too, and when Chaloner dipped a corner of the pall into a puddle on a nearby windowsill, and tried to scrub the marks away, they remained. He had his answer: Newburne had been provided with a caustic substance that had damaged his fingers and then killed him after he had swallowed it. Such a thing would not occur naturally in a cucumber, which meant someone had probably put it there.
He left the church with a sense of achievement, and went to the stalls that fringed the edge of the Smithfield Meat Market, looking for the costermongery on Duck Lane, where Hodgkinson said Newburne had bought his cucumber. There was only one, because most vendors preferred to sell their wares at Covent Garden or Gracechurch Street, which were famous for their agricultural produce. A sign declared it was the shop at the Lamb — the Lamb being the seedy tavern two doors down — and it sold spices, baskets and pewter plates, as well as a surprisingly varied array of fruit and vegetables. Judging from its neat shelves and well-dressed staff, it was a profitable enterprise. Between it and the Lamb was an odorous establishment that displayed printed cards in its grimy windows. Chaloner wondered whether it was significant that Newburne had purchased his cucumber from the shop that was located next to one of Hodgkinson’s two print-works.
‘A cucumber?’ asked the man who came to serve him. On the side of the counter was a pile of advertisements that claimed he was Samuel Yeo, grocer and merchant. ‘They cost threepence — expensive at this time of year, because they need to be grown inside, for warmth. Is it for a lady?
‘No,’ asked Chaloner suspiciously, handing over half his worldly wealth. ‘Why would it be?’
‘Because they use them to obtain beauteous complexions,’ explained Yeo.
‘Presumably, they can also be eaten?’
Yeo smiled. ‘They can indeed, and the seeds are excellent for ulcers in the bladder or expelling an excess of wind, so there are benefits to including them in your diet.’
‘Right,’ said Chaloner.
Yeo detected his scepticism. ‘There is a school of thought that says they are dangerous, but do not believe it. Any fruit is poisonous if taken with greed, and cucumbers are no different. Will there be anything else? We had a consignment of fresh spices this morning — galingale and cubebs. Take some galingale — its mild ginger flavour will disguise the taste of any rancid meat you need to use up. If you make a purchase, I shall include a handful of my fine peppery cubebs, too.’
Chaloner parted with another penny in the interests of his investigation. He put the spices in his pocket, hoping it would not be too long before he had an opportunity to buy something to cook them with, and that when he did, galingale would not be needed to disguise its state of decomposition.
‘This is an unusual location for a costermonger’s shop,’ he said conversationally. ‘Most are at Covent Garden.’
‘We do well here, though. People come to Smithfield for meat, then stop to buy a few carrots or a couple of onions for a stew. We save them a walk.’
‘Do you own the shop yourself, Mr Yeo?’
‘God bless you, no! The owner is a courtier at White Hall, but he never visits. Mr Newburne managed the business for him, and paid him his quarterly profits. It was an arrangement that suited them both. And me, too — I make a good living without the worry of complex finances.’
Chaloner regarded him in surprise. ‘Newburne managed this shop? And it was here that he bought the cucumber that killed him?’