The Folly was not a large establishment, although it was horrendously crowded, so it was impossible for Chaloner to avoid the coffee-boy who came to see what he wanted to drink. He bought a dish of coffee with his last penny token, and managed to secure a seat at Muddiman’s table. The newsmonger was holding forth about the northern rebellion, declaring that the newsbooks had given it a significance it did not deserve. It was, he claimed, a silly prank devised by a dozen harmless zealots, and not the great, terrifying revolt L’Estrange had described in that day’s Intelligencer. Men smoked and listened as Muddiman systematically destroyed his rival’s arguments. He put his case so well, and with such close attention to detail, that Chaloner found himself doubting the veracity of L’Estrange’s reports, too. Eventually, most patrons finished their noonday victuals and went back to work, and Chaloner was able to speak to Muddiman in reasonable privacy.
The newsmonger was dressed in fashionable clothes, and clearly took pride in his appearance. He carried a town sword with a delicately jewelled hilt that looked as though it would be useless in a fight, and perched on his head was the yellow wig he had worn the previous day, when he had argued with L’Estrange. His round face was clean and pink from a recent shaving, and Chaloner felt grubby and disreputable by comparison.
With him was the companion who had protected him from L’Estrange, taller and broader than his friend, but just as handsomely attired. He introduced himself as Giles Dury when Chaloner told them who he was and what he wanted, then crossed his long legs and sat back with an amused grin. His superior, laconic demeanour was an attitude often affected by courtiers, and Chaloner supposed Dury had learned it from them, perhaps when visiting his wife the seamstress.
‘So, you are the Earl of Clarendon’s man,’ said Muddiman, looking Chaloner up and down with thinly masked disdain. ‘And you are here to question me about Newburne.’
Dury sniggered. ‘Poor Newburne! He will not be arising now, for Annie Petwer or anyone else. Do you know how that saying came about?’
‘A stone struck his head-’ began Chaloner.
‘That is a tale he invented to disguise its real meaning,’ said Dury, chuckling. ‘He was stunned by the stone, but he leapt to his feet in self-defence when he heard Annie Petwer telling him to arise. She was his lover, and “arising” was something he seldom did, according to her.’
‘He was impotent,’ elaborated Muddiman, obviously thinking Chaloner might not understand the joke unless it was explained. ‘Do you know why a grand man like the Earl of Clarendon should be interested in what happened to a devious snake like Newburne?’
‘He is interested in the sudden death of anyone connected with the government’s newsbooks.’
‘How very thorough of him,’ drawled Dury. ‘But then, he is a tediously thorough man.’
Chaloner sipped his coffee and winced at the flavour: the beans had been over-roasted, and the resulting brew was bitter.
‘Well?’ demanded Muddiman. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Did you have dealings with Newburne?’
Muddiman drank some coffee, sufficiently used to the Folly’s habit of bean-burning that no expression of distaste crossed his face. Indeed, he looked as though it was perfectly acceptable, and waved to the coffee boy to bring him more. ‘Not directly, although I knew L’Estrange had ordered him to watch me. Both Spymaster Williamson and L’Estrange are jealous of my newsletters — and with good cause. I disseminate information Londoners are pleased to have.’
‘The only items of interest in The Newes and The Intelligencer are the advertisements for lost and stolen horses,’ added Dury. He snickered maliciously. ‘A man simply cannot live without knowing such things.’
Muddiman picked up a copy of The Intelligencer from the table, using his thumb and forefinger, as if he considered it unclean. ‘A man cannot live without knowing that L’Estrange deems the Norwich Quakers “licentious and incorrigible”, either, or that the Danish court plans to hold — of all things — a meeting! I cannot imagine how readers contain their excitement at such tidings.’
‘Poor Brome,’ said Dury with mock sympathy. ‘He had the makings of a decent newsman, but now he debases himself by associating with L’Estrange. The same goes for his frightened mouse of a wife.’
‘Rabbit,’ corrected Muddiman. ‘Joanna is too tall to be a mouse.’
Their spite was beginning to be annoying, and Chaloner felt the sniping attack on Joanna was wholly unnecessary. ‘So Newburne spied on you,’ he said, forcing himself to be patient. ‘Did you meet him in any other capacity?’
‘What other capacity?’ demanded Dury contemptuously. ‘We did not condone his persecution of booksellers, so we had nothing to do with that. Furthermore, we distance ourselves from L’Estrange’s newsbooks and the idiots who work on them. And we certainly have nothing to do with Ellis Crisp.’
‘Despite all this, Newburne’s evil reputation was not entirely justified,’ said Muddiman. His eyes gleamed, and Chaloner was not sure if he was being serious. ‘He was dishonest, but he was not as corrupt as people would have you believe. He was wealthy, as attested by the fact that he owned several houses, but that does not mean he earned his whole fortune by cheating, theft and extortion.’
‘It was Crisp’s doing; he deliberately allowed the rumours to grow to improbable levels,’ agreed Dury. ‘It is obvious why: Newburne was more useful to him as a disreputable villain who would do anything for the right price. It enhanced Crisp’s reputation, too — made people more nervous of him.’
Muddiman chuckled. ‘Is that possible? The Butcher of Smithfield does not need anyone more nervous of him.’
‘The Earl is concerned that Newburne’s death may have nothing to do with cucumbers,’ said Chaloner, not really interested in their malicious musings. He watched their reactions to his comment closely, but could read nothing in them.
‘He certainly ate one before he died,’ said Muddiman evenly. ‘Hodgkinson is witness to that, and so were several bystanders.’
‘Perhaps he ate it knowing it would have fatal consequences,’ said Dury with a grin. ‘I have heard it said that he was a Roman Catholic, and papists are odd about matters of conscience. I expect his many sins overwhelmed him at last, and he killed himself in a fit of penitence.’
‘Remorse led him to commit the even greater sin of self-murder?’ asked Chaloner, thinking he had never heard such rubbish. ‘That does not sound like the act of a dutiful son of Rome.’
‘Then maybe he was drunk.’ Dury was resentful that his theory should be so disdainfully dismissed. ‘He did not know what he was doing. Do you know for a fact that there is something odd about Newburne’s death, or have you allowed the Earl’s suspicions to influence you? I heard Hodgkinson hired a surgeon to inspect the body, and he said cucumbers were the cause of death.’
‘How do you know about the surgeon?’ asked Chaloner.
‘We are newsmongers,’ Dury sneered. ‘Very little happens in the city without it being reported to us. Another example is your own little foray into the world of reporting. You wrote a piece on Portugal for Thursday’s Newes. L’Estrange is delighted with it.’
‘But only because he thinks it will be exclusively his to print,’ added Muddiman slyly. ‘Of course, you could earn yourself ten shillings, if you were to share it with us.’
Chaloner pretended to consider the offer, his mind working fast. His first assumption was that they had a spy in L’Estrange’s office, who was selling secrets. Then he realised that any such spy would have given them the entire piece — it was not very long, and would have taken no more than a moment to copy. Ergo, they had learned about his article another way. Ivy Lane was a busy thoroughfare, and loiterers would be difficult to spot by people preoccupied with work. Had Muddiman, or one of his scribes, lurked outside Brome’s shop and overheard part of a conversation? It seemed most likely.