‘Not if they have any sense. And you had better not interfere, either. The Earl told me today that you must discover what happened to Newburne as a matter of urgency. The widow paid him another visit this morning, and he will not want you pursuing other enquiries as long as she is on the warpath.’
Trying not to limp, Chaloner walked to Westminster. Eventually, he reached the Rhenish Wine House, entering its smoky, humid interior with a sigh of relief — it had been a long walk for a man not in the best of health. His heart sank when he saw a porter at the foot of the stairs that led to the private rooms above. He had no money to bribe his way past, and doubted he would be allowed by wearing his current outfit, anyway. He needed a distraction.
It did not take him long to devise one. The dead mouse was still in his pocket, because he had forgotten to dispose of it. He waited until Landlord Genew placed a bowl of stew in front of a patron whose attention was fixed on one of the serving women, and dropped the small body into the food as he passed the man’s table. Then he perused the newsbooks while he waited for a reaction.
The Intelligencer was the only thing on offer, because Muddiman’s newsletters had already been claimed by other patrons. He read a frenzied editorial about the rebellion in York that made him wonder whether its writer was in his right mind, and learned that Mistress Atwood’s house at Havering had been broken open and the good lady relieved of two silver cups. Meanwhile, Mr Benjamin Farrow of Eltham, Kent had lost a ‘broad bay mare’ while he was out at his coffee house, and the Queen was suffering from a distemper, which Chaloner thought made her sound like a dog.
He glanced at the ogler, and wished the man would tear his longing gaze away from the maid and pay attention to his stew. He was beginning to think he might have to consider another way to distract the porter, when a spoon was finally dipped into the bowl. The results were well worth the wait. The ogler suddenly found himself with a mouthful of fur; he spat the offending object across the table, and began to gag. The porter and Genew rushed towards him, and Chaloner darted up the stairs unseen.
The attic, where Genew had said Maylord had lived, was five storeys up, and Chaloner was breathing hard by the time he reached the top. He found himself faced with three doors, any one of which might be Maylord’s room. He listened intently at the first, trying to ascertain whether it was occupied, then took a small metal probe from his pocket and inserted it into the lock when he thought it was not.
It did not take him many moments to pick his way inside. The room was tiny, sparsely furnished, and not very clean. The absence of any kind of musical instrument told him it was not Maylord’s, and he was about to close the door and try the next chamber when something caught his eye. There was a small table in the window, placed to catch the light, and on it was one of L’Estrange’s newsbooks. It had been smothered in red ink. Intrigued, he slipped into the room and closed the door behind him.
The newsbook’s typeface was fuzzy, and whoever had been reading it had marked all the typographical errors that had been found. There were also notes in the margin, which Chaloner recognised as instructions to a printer. The date on the front page said Thursday 5 November, and he realised he was looking at a future issue of The Newes, not one already in circulation. Someone had obviously been given the task of checking the text, and was in the process of correcting it. Puzzled, Chaloner turned his attention to the pile of documents that sat next to it. The first sheet comprised a summary of the second item in the newsbook, which described a recent earthquake in Quebec. Other articles had been paraphrased, too, and hidden underneath them was a small book in which every précis had been carefully logged. A sum of money was entered in the margin against each, as if denoting its value. More lists appeared on previous pages, but these had initials next to them.
When Chaloner flicked through the book, he saw the accumulation of small amounts of cash amounted to a considerable whole — someone had made a lot of money by copying L’Estrange’s news. He studied the ledger more closely. There were several sets of initials, but the most common was HM. Chaloner could only assume it referred to Henry Muddiman. No wonder people claimed L’Estrange provided old news, and that Muddiman always told it first!
But who would betray the government’s official newsbooks, something that would almost certainly be deemed an act of treason? Hodgkinson the printer? Chaloner immediately discounted him on the grounds that he was unlikely to be entrusted with checking the text he himself had set. What about Brome or Joanna? Would they have the courage for such a dangerous activity? Somehow, Chaloner did not think so. He supposed he would have to find out who proof-read L’Estrange’s early drafts, and investigate them accordingly.
He began a systematic search of the room, looking for clues as to the traitor’s identity. Several law books lay on a shelf, along with a copy of a tome in Latin. When he picked it up, it fell open to a page that had a red cross at the top; the reader had wanted to highlight something. The title showed it to be a text by Galen, which Chaloner translated as On the Powers of Foods. The marked section contained the heading Cucumeris, and went on to say that eating these particular fruits caused cold, thick juice to accumulate in the veins, which could not be converted to good blood without problems.
Chaloner rubbed his head. Someone had been reading about the toxic effects of cucumbers — or the theory according to the ancients, at least. It was a person with a connection to L’Estrange’s newsbooks, who also had an interest in law. The obvious conclusion was that it was Newburne, because he was a solicitor associated with cucumbers, but he had lived in Old Jewry, and would not have needed a garret in the Rhenish Wine House. Then Chaloner recalled what Finch had said: that Newburne had rented a room in Ivy Lane, because it was near L’Estrange and the print-house. The solicitor had been rich, so perhaps he had leased other places across the city, too, to facilitate his various duties for L’Estrange, and perhaps Crisp, as well.
Aware that time was passing, Chaloner abandoned his musing, and returned to his search. There was a sheet of music on the windowsill, although there was no instrument to go with it. He transposed the written notes into a tune in his head. It was not an attractive jig, and he wondered why the composer had bothered. He put it back where he had found it, and dropped to his knees to look under the bed. In the deepest shadows, hidden among the balls of fluff and a greasy layer of dust, was a scrap of paper. He retrieved it with his dagger, but was disappointed to find it was just a receipt for the rent. Then he saw the payee’s name on the back: Nobert Wenum. So, the occupant was not Newburne after all, but someone Chaloner had never heard of.
There was no more to be learned from the dismal little chamber, so he headed for the door. He was about to open it when his eye fell on the small book that still lay on the table. At some point, he was going to have to tell L’Estrange that an employee called Wenum was betraying his trust, and the ledger offered solid proof of it. He slid it and the annotated Newes into his pocket, then left. There was still a commotion coming from downstairs, suggesting the ogler was making the kind of fuss that went before a claim for compensation.
He put his ear to the door of the second room, but someone was snoring inside, so he went to the third. The lock was more obstinate than Wenum’s, newer and stronger. Had Maylord installed it himself, and it was testament to the fact that he knew he was in mortal danger? Picking it took too long, and Chaloner was sweating by the time he had it open.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He knew he was in the right place when he saw two viols and a table that was covered in music. Some was in Maylord’s hand, and Chaloner hoped someone would play it one day. He picked up a page, and the haunting melody that sailed through his head made him want to grab one of the viols and bow it immediately. Reluctantly, he set it down.