‘Really? Who do you suspect?’
Finch fiddled with his trumpet. ‘A bookseller, perhaps. They broke the law, but acted as though it was Newburne’s fault when he caught them. Or L’Estrange, because he did not like the fact that Newburne worked for Crisp, as well as for him. Still, we shall never know, because it is far too dangerous a matter to probe.’
Chaloner pretended to agree, then paused as he was about to leave. ‘I do not recognise the sonata you were playing. What was it?’
Finch waved a hand to where the music lay on the windowsill. ‘It is a composition I found when Newburne’s wife and I cleaned out his room — your room now. She said I could have it as a keepsake, and I have been struggling to master it for his sake. It occurred to me that he might have written it himself, and I thought I might play it at his funeral.’
‘Do you think it strikes the right tone for such an occasion?’ asked Chaloner, trying to be tactful.
Finch smiled sadly. ‘I suppose not. The melody is not pleasant, and there are too many discordant intervals. I have not been asked to perform anyway. I offered, but L’Estrange told me in no uncertain terms that he wanted professional musicians. And no one goes against what L’Estrange wants. He is a bold and powerful man.’
‘He certainly likes to think so,’ said Chaloner.
* * *
Dusk brought the promised rain, and Chaloner sloshed to White Hall through water that was pouring from the higher parts of the city. When he glimpsed the river between The Strand’s mansions, he saw it running swift and brown in the last of the daylight. He wondered whether it would burst its banks.
He needed to do three things at the palace: tell the Earl what he had learned about Newburne, collect his back-pay from the Accompting House, and speak to Smegergill about Maylord. When he arrived, however, he found the accompters already gone home — the Court refused to buy lantern fuel until after the Feast of All Souls, so until then, work finished when it became too dark to see. The same was not true of the Earl’s clerk Bulteel, who was bent over his ledgers by the light of a single candle.
‘You will spoil your eyes,’ said Chaloner, watching him rub them. ‘Ask the Earl for a lamp.’
‘The Court is not made of money,’ snapped the Earl, appearing suddenly at the door to his office. ‘And we must all forgo life’s little luxuries in the interests of fiscal efficiency. What do you want, Heyden, other than to encourage my clerks to make unreasonable demands? I am busy.’
‘I came to tell you that I inspected Newburne’s body today, and I am sure he was fed a toxic substance. Not a cucumber, but something else.’
‘I am not surprised, given his unpopularity. Who is the culprit? And was it connected to his work for L’Estrange? I spoke to Williamson about him paying the pension, since the newsbooks are his remit, but he said I was the one who made the promise, so I should be the one to honour it. It is a highly unsatisfactory state of affairs, and I want you to resolve it as soon as possible.’
Chaloner tried to read his expression in the dim light. Was he being ordered to ‘discover’ that Newburne’s death was unrelated to his government post, to relieve the Earl of an unwelcome expense? He was used to dishonesty, but Thurloe had never asked him to cheat anyone, and he found he did not like the notion that his new master might have different expectations. It occurred to him that it was just as well Williamson did not want him in the government’s intelligence services, because he doubted the Spymaster would tolerate squeamish principles among his operatives. He was beginning to suspect that Clarendon might not, either, and decided he had better mask his distaste.
‘There are a lot of suspects, sir,’ he said vaguely. ‘I will continue the investigation tomorrow.’
‘Very well, but do not take too long — Newburne’s widow wants a decision.’ The Earl turned to his secretary, indicating Chaloner was dismissed. ‘What did you want me to sign, Bulteel? This? What is it? I cannot see in this light.’
‘You could forgo the luxury of reading it in the interests of fiscal efficiency,’ retorted Chaloner, before he could stop himself. The Earl’s oblique order had unsettled him, and he began to question all over again the man’s motive for commissioning the investigation. Was it really to avoid paying a pension, or was there a darker, more sinister reason? He found he did not trust Clarendon to tell him the truth, and it was his wariness of the man’s unfathomable games that had prompted the insolent remark.
Anger darkened the Earl’s face. ‘One day you will push me too far, Heyden. And do not think Thurloe will protect you, because his sun is setting fast. Watch your tongue, or you will regret it.’
‘Have you lost your senses?’ demanded Bulteel, when Clarendon had stamped away, slamming the door behind him. ‘He is the Lord Chancellor of England! Can you not find a lesser mortal to insult?’
Chaloner felt his temper subside. Bulteel was right: nothing would be gained from antagonising the man who paid his wages. And if the Earl was not prepared to be honest, then the investigation was just going to take that much longer and he would have to wait for his answers.
‘I do not suppose you know if Smegergill’s consort is playing tonight, do you?’ he asked, feeling it was time he did something to find out who had smothered Maylord. He had had enough of the Earl and Newburne for one day.
‘Yes — at the Charterhouse near Aldersgate Street. However, it is a private soirée, so you will not be admitted. You will have to wait until Thursday if you want to hear him. His group — well, it is Greeting’s consort, really — is due to play for Newburne’s funeral, which is a public occasion.’
Chaloner was inclined to give up and go home. He had had almost nothing to eat that day — which he suspected might have been partly responsible for his petty remark to the Earl — and he was still tired from his sea-voyage from Portugal. But he was not sure when he would have time to look into Maylord’s trouble if he did not act when he had a free evening, so he forced himself past the end of Fetter Lane and the tempting sanctuary of his rooms, and on to where the Charterhouse school comprised the remains of an old Carthusian monastery, set amid pleasant gardens.
Bulteel was right in saying he would not be allowed inside, so he did not try. Instead, he found a doorway, and sheltered from the rain as best he could, waiting for the party to be over. Drops pattered on to his hat, and he sent silent thanks to Isabella for making him a gift that would not only protect him from attack, but that was completely waterproof, too.
He was used to standing still for long periods of time, because spying often necessitated that sort of activity, but he was cold and miserable even so. He was not far from Smithfield, and drunken yells and women’s shrieks suggested that neither darkness nor inclement weather curtailed the activities that so shocked the Puritan broadsheet writers. He wondered whether it was Butcher Crisp’s infamous Hectors who were making such an ungodly racket.
It was some time before the concert came to an end and the entertainers emerged wearily through the back gate. A carriage had been hired to take them to their homes, and Greeting was one of the first to climb in it. Chaloner was careful to stay out of sight: Greeting was a gossip and he did not want the Lord Chancellor to learn he was investigating Maylord’s death as well as Newburne’s, and risk annoying him even further. Smegergill — described by St Margaret’s verger as having a sadly poxed face — was the last to leave; he walked slowly, as if his joints hurt. Chaloner stamped life into his frozen feet before moving to waylay him.
Smegergill was older than Maylord had been. His hair was white, and his face scored with wrinkles. He still possessed an imposing physique, though, despite his age and pain-ridden gait, and the gaze that fell on Chaloner when he emerged from the darkness was imperious. The spy recalled Thurloe saying that the musician could be ‘difficult’, and hoped he would not decline to answer questions — or suggest he asked them at a more reasonable time of day.