Yeo became indignant. ‘People say he died of cucumbers, but I know for a fact that he swallowed pie, cakes and ale as well. He came to demand a cucumber because he said he had pains in his bladder, but it was not our fine fruit that caused his demise. It was something else.’
‘He thought the cucumber would make him feel better? How ill was he?’
‘He was experiencing some mild discomfort, probably as a result of all the things he had eaten when he was out walking with Hodgkinson. He was a greedy man — and not a nice one, either.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He used his association with Butcher Crisp to bully people. He often came here for food, and he took what he wanted, but never paid for it. When Jones of the Lamb complained that Newburne never paid for his ale, Newburne told Crisp to raise the price of his safety tax. That taught us all to keep our mouths shut.’
‘Newburne had that sort of influence over Crisp?’
‘He did according to him, although I suspect Crisp pleases himself what he does. There he is.’
He pointed through the open door, and Chaloner saw a man of medium height, swathed in an unfashionable but practical cloak and a tall sugarloaf hat. The Butcher was surrounded by a pack of disreputable-looking henchmen, and he walked with a cat-like arrogance. His people clustered around him in a way that suggested they expected an attack at any moment, and Chaloner supposed constant unease was the lot of a man who made his money by preying on others. He considered going to talk to him about Newburne, but what could he say? That he knew the solicitor had helped with his illegal activities? Crisp’s answer was likely to be ‘so what?’ Reluctantly, because he was getting desperate for concrete clues, Chaloner decided it would be wiser to tackle Crisp only when he had a better idea of what to ask.
Once outside, he slit the cucumber with his dagger and smeared the greenish milk that seeped out across his wrist. He let it dry, but it came off with the most perfunctory of rubs, and it was not the same dark hue as the marks on Newburne, anyway. It confirmed his suspicion that it had not been natural cucumber juice that had caused the damage to the solicitor’s hands and mouth. He shoved the fruit in his pocket, but realised the discovery had left him with more questions than answers.
He was perturbed that Newburne had been unpopular in quite so many ways. The man had spied on Muddiman. He had persecuted booksellers, even ones with powerful patrons like Nott and Allestry. He worked for L’Estrange, who was also detested. He associated with an underworld king and helped him extort money from people. Almost everyone Chaloner had spoken to admitted disliking the man, and even Newburne’s associates — Crisp and the Hectors — were not above suspicion. It was not unknown for criminals to turn on each other with fatal results.
And was there a connection between Newburne’s death and Maylord’s? It seemed they had not known each other, and they had certainly not moved in the same circles. Had Maylord’s killer left a cucumber at the scene of his crime because it seemed to be a cause of death that no one would question? Then what about the others who had died from the same thing: Valentine Pettis, Colonel Beauclair and the sedan-men? Had they been murdered, too? They were almost certainly buried, so Chaloner could not inspect their bodies. But what could a military man, a horse-trader, two labourers, a shady solicitor and a musician have in common?
He decided he would ask questions about the other deaths if the opportunity arose, but that he would have his hands full with unveiling Newburne’s poisoner and Maylord’s smotherer. And he had promised to investigate Mary Cade for Thurloe, too. He would be busy enough without enlarging his investigation to include men who might well have died natural deaths. He sighed, and hoped a visit to Muddiman would provide him with some answers.
* * *
Chaloner walked south along the Old Bailey. It was not raining, although there was an unpleasant chill in the air, and the kind of dampness that suggested the clouds were gathering their strength for future downpours. Although it was barely noon, the day was dark because of the lowering greyness above. Eventually, he reached The Strand, and asked directions to Muddiman’s office. He was directed to a tall, respectable house near the New Exchange. Although it was old, it was well-maintained, and there was evidence that recent money had been spent on it — the roof boasted new tiles, the window shutters were freshly painted, and the plaster façade was unusually clean.
He knocked on the door, and was admitted to a comfortable room on the ground floor. It was dominated by a large table that was piled high with papers and pamphlets. He took the opportunity to sift through a few, hoping to find evidence that Muddiman obtained his news from an official government source, but instead he learned that some of the men who subscribed to the newsletters responded in kind by providing Muddiman with information of their own. There was a lot of correspondence about the recent uprising in the north, providing a variety of different opinions. Reading them all would provide the newsmonger with a more balanced view of the situation than just accepting the government’s version of events, and Chaloner was not surprised people preferred Muddiman’s objectivity to L’Estrange’s one-sided rants.
There were also notices in foreign languages, especially French, along with a smattering of scribbled messages from courtiers. None carried news of any great import, and he supposed Muddiman included them to give his readers some light-hearted relief, as a break from the serious political analyses. Also among the chaos was a pamphlet on ‘exploding oil’ by John Lawrence of Blackfriars, who blithely recommended leaving his compound in places where burglars might find it — the moment a felon tried to use the volatile oil, it would ignite and spare the city the expense of a trial.
After a few moments, a pretty lady in a black wig arrived, smiling and gracious.
‘I am afraid my husband has gone out to his favourite coffee house — the Folly on the Thames — with Giles Dury. You have only just missed them. They have been working all morning.’
Chaloner gestured to the table. ‘On their newsletters?’
‘On Henry’s newsletters. Giles is just an assistant, and his wife is a seamstress at White Hall.’
‘Right,’ said Chaloner, thinking it was an odd piece of information to impart. Unless, of course, Mrs Muddiman was trying to tell him that she was a cut above the mere Mrs Dury.
‘Roger sees her there occasionally,’ she went on disapprovingly. ‘That means she has an unfair advantage over me, because he does not like coming here.’
‘Roger? You mean L’Estrange?’ Joanna Brome had told Chaloner that L’Estrange had a reputation for seducing other men’s wives, but surely he would not make a play for Muddiman’s and Dury’s?
‘L’Estrange,’ she echoed with a dreamy smile. ‘A very handsome man. Do you not think?’
‘Too rakish for my taste,’ Chaloner replied uneasily. Was she the reason L’Estrange was so willing to draw his sword against Muddiman outside the Rainbow Coffee House? He was hoping to dispatch his rival and so get at his spouse? ‘And I prefer men who do not wear earrings.’
‘It is the earrings I like,’ she said with a conspiratorial grin. ‘I bought Henry a set, but he refuses to wear them.’
‘I wonder why,’ muttered Chaloner.
The Folly, or the Floating Coffee House, was a timber shed on a barge. It was usually anchored midstream, and patrons were obliged to hire skiffs to reach it. That day, however, the Thames was so swollen that the Folly had been moored near the Savoy Palace, and customers could embark directly from the Somerset Stairs. Several men hovered outside it. Some were the drivers of private carriages — which could only just fit down the narrow alley leading from The Strand, and woe betide anyone walking in the opposite direction — and others were idle boatmen whose trade was suspended because of the state of the river. One fellow stood out as not belonging there. He was large, with a face that was the colour and shape of a ripe plum, and he carried a tray of apples that no one seemed very interested in buying.