‘What happens when you sleep?’
‘I only rest when they are in bed. And they rise late, so I am awake before them in the mornings.’
Chaloner was appalled when he saw the man genuinely believed he had them covered twenty-four hours a day — and appalled that Williamson was apparently satisfied with the situation. ‘How can you be sure they did not hire someone to do their dirty work? That Newburne was not killed on their orders, while they sipped coffee and you watched them?’
The apple-seller regarded him askance, and Chaloner suspected an astute pair like Muddiman and Dury would run circles around the fellow. One would slip out of a back door while the other sat in plain view, and Williamson’s spy would have no idea what was happening.
‘They would not do that,’ the man declared resentfully. ‘They would not dare.’
‘What do you think happened to Newburne?’ Chaloner asked, ignoring the claim. He suspected he was wasting his time in soliciting the opinion of such a fellow, but there was no harm in being thorough.
‘He swallowed too much cucumber. He was a glutton for expensive things and they cost threepence. Most people use them in decoctions for wind, but he actually ate the one he got from the costermongery in Smithfield. Witnesses said he took real bites, like you are doing with that apple.’
‘If I were to suggest to you that his cucumber had been poisoned, and invited you to guess who might have tampered with it, what would you say?’
‘That neither of us has an hour to spend naming all the possible candidates. However, if I were a betting man, my money would be on L’Estrange.’
Chaloner was taken aback. If the apple-seller was watching Muddiman for Williamson, then it meant he and L’Estrange were on the same side. It was thus an odd choice of suspects. ‘Why?’
‘Because Newburne had dealings with Ellis Crisp, the Butcher of Smithfield, who operates on the wrong side of the law. Newburne was useful to L’Estrange, but embarrassing, if you take my meaning. It is like hiring Hectors for certain government business. They are good value for money — and efficient at what they do — but you would not want the general populace knowing about it.’
‘Are you speaking hypothetically here? Or are you saying Williamson appoints known criminals on the government’s behalf?’
The apple-seller gazed at him in puzzlement. ‘I thought you said you worked for the Lord Chancellor. Of course Williamson makes use of felons! It works out cheaper to hire them as and when they are needed, than to maintain an organised band of louts on a permanent basis. You look shocked. Are you new to government service, then?’
Chaloner was not shocked at all, although he could not help but note that Thurloe had never allowed himself to stoop to such tactics. ‘I did not know the Earl-’
‘The Earl does not run an intelligence service and have a turbulent city to control, so I doubt he is obliged to sully his hands by consorting with villains. But we digress. If you want a suspect for Newburne — assuming he really was murdered — then look to L’Estrange. Hah! Muddiman and Dury are coming off the barge. They are waving to me, damn it! I hate it when they do that. They are not supposed to know I am here.’
Chaloner finished the apple and left the man to his business, thinking Williamson’s spy was no proof of guilt, innocence or anything else as far as Dury and Muddiman were concerned.
There was still an hour of daylight left, so Chaloner went to see if he could find Heneage Finch at his home on Ave Maria Lane. It was not difficult to identify the house, because the notes of a trumpet sonata were tumbling through the window of an upper floor. Finch was an enthusiastic but indifferent player, and his performance was not enhanced by the fact that he had chosen a dire composition. It was full of discord, and sounded as though it had been written by someone who could not read music. Or perhaps it was Finch who could not read, and he was butchering a perfectly respectable air.
Chaloner climbed the stairs to the first floor, and found himself in a corridor that had no windows, so was entirely devoid of outside light. A lamp hung on the wall, but it was almost empty of fuel, and illuminated very little. The whole building had a vaguely neglected air and smelled of burned cabbage. He knocked on the door, and a man answered with his trumpet still in one hand. He was tall and thin, with pockmarked skin and the largest ears Chaloner had ever seen.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I assume you are the fellow who has taken the room next door? My friend Newburne used to rent it, but he …’
He trailed off and looked away; someone was distressed by the solicitor’s death, at least. Chaloner did not disavow him of the notion that they were neighbours, hoping he might learn more than if Finch thought he was on an errand for the government.
‘You play well,’ he said, smiling pleasantly. ‘Where did you learn?’
‘I taught myself,’ said Finch, gesturing that Chaloner was to step inside his room. It was poorly furnished and messy, and smelled of wet boots and the mould that was growing up one of its walls. ‘I am not very good, although I do play in a consort. My name is Hen Finch, by the way.’
‘Tom Heyden. Did you say Newburne rented the room next door? I thought he owned a mansion on Old Jewry.’
‘He did, but he kept a room here, too, because it is near the newsbook office, and only a short walk to Hodgkinson’s print-house on Thames Street. Sometimes he was obliged to work late at both places, and no man who values his life likes walking too far in the dark.’
‘True enough. I was pickpocketed yesterday,’ lied Chaloner, to encourage him to talk more.
Finch shot him a sympathetic glance. ‘I was robbed once, but Newburne had a word with people, and I got everything back. He was a good friend, and I shall miss him.’
‘He knew the thieves who attacked you?’
‘Ellis Crisp did. He and Newburne were colleagues.’
Chaloner pretended to be astonished. ‘Colleagues? But surely Crisp is a felon?’
Finch stared at his feet. ‘I was horrified when Newburne agreed to perform certain legal duties for him — mostly property conveyancing or getting the Hectors out of prison — but he said it was a good career opportunity, and it did make him rich. Besides, he said not all of Crisp’s dealings are unethical or against the law. Some of his business is perfectly respectable.’
Chaloner was sure that was true: it would be virtually impossible for a man to do everything on a criminal basis, and there would be times when Crisp had no choice but to revert to legitimate tactics.
‘I do not like the sound of his pies, though,’ Finch went on in a low, uneasy voice. ‘And I shall never eat one, no matter how hungry I might be. They are said to contain the bodies of his enemies.’
‘So I have heard,’ said Chaloner, trying to keep the scepticism from his voice.
‘Working for L’Estrange did not make poor Newburne very popular, either,’ continued Finch unhappily. ‘But people did not know him. If they had taken the time to forge a friendship, as I did, they would have found him charming, witty and kind. He was a great lover of music, and often hired professional consorts to play for him.’
‘Did he ever hire a violist called Maylord?’
‘Not as far as I know, although he heard Maylord perform at White Hall once. He heard Smegergill on the virginal, too, although I think Smegergill is not as talented as he used to be. It must be because his fingers are stiffening with age, and I suspect his days as a musician are numbered.’
Chaloner smiled his satisfaction. A real connection at last! He had known there had to be one. ‘I admired Maylord myself. It is a pity both he and Newburne are dead of cucumbers.’
‘I heard a surgeon was hired to confirm the nature of Newburne’s demise, but I have no faith in leeches. Perhaps he was eating a cucumber when he died — Hodgkinson says so, and he is an honest sort — but can we be sure it actually caused his death? Personally, I think someone did away with him.’