He discovered that the bishops had successfully vetoed a Bill that granted indulgences to Catholics, and the King — unfashionably tolerant of ‘popery’ — was furious about it. The old Archbishop of Canterbury had died, and was succeeded by a man who was unlikely to soothe troubled waters. The Devil was making regular appearances in a house in Wiltshire, obliging the Queen to send agents to investigate — Chaloner was grateful he had not been given that commission — and the King had hesitated to acknowledge Lady Castlemaine’s latest baby as his own; she was said to be livid at what amounted to a slur on her fidelity.
‘How do you know all this?’ he asked when they had finished. Their chatter had saved him the bother of reading back-issues of the newsbooks, and knowing Court gossip and a smattering of current affairs made him feel less of an alien in his own country.
‘Our customers often bring newsletters for us to read,’ explained Temperance. ‘After all, everyone is interested in intelligence these days. It is the latest fashion.’
‘We buy the newsbooks,’ elaborated Maude, ‘but they are a waste of money. The newsletters are better, especially Muddiman’s. L’Estrange’s rags contain a lot of rubbish that the government wants us to believe, but that must be taken with a fistful of salt. Take Monday’s Intelligencer, for example. Were phanatiques really intent on seizing York? Or does L’Estrange exaggerate?’
‘Muddiman says the rebellion was confined to a few misguided lunatics,’ said Temperance. ‘So, I think we can ignore L’Estrange’s attempts to make us think we are on the brink of another civil war.’
Chaloner was sure their opinion of the newsbooks echoed that of most Londoners, and thought Williamson had better do something to improve them before they slipped so far into disrepute that they would never recover.
‘Have you met L’Estrange’s assistant, Tom?’ asked Maude. Her expression could best be described as lecherous. ‘Henry Brome is a lovely man, and it is a pity he is married.’
‘I do not think much of Joanna,’ said Temperance immediately. ‘Far too thin. And she reminds me of a rabbit — all teeth, ears and eyes. I cannot abide skinny women.’
Chaloner regarded her in surprise. Temperance was not usually catty, and he supposed her own expanding waistline made her jealous of those who had theirs under control. ‘I rather like her.’
‘Everyone likes her,’ drawled Temperance acidly. ‘She is so sweet. Personally, I usually feel like grabbing her by the throat and shaking some backbone into her. Timid little mouse!’
Chaloner laughed at her vehemence. ‘I prefer her to some of the people I have met since arriving back in London. And speaking of unpleasant men, you mentioned the death of a solicitor called Newburne earlier. Did you ever meet him?’
‘He came here once,’ said Temperance, not seeming to think there was anything odd in the question. ‘He was a small, bald fellow with the kind of moustache that made him look debauched — like the King’s. I did not like him. He pawed the girls, then left without paying.’
‘Actually,’ countered Maude, ‘he told Preacher Hill that he would send payment with Ellis Crisp. Of course, it amounts to the same thing. Who would dare ask Crisp for money?’
‘It is curious that Newburne died of cucumbers,’ mused Temperance. ‘There has been a lot of it about of late. First, there was that charming Colonel Beauclair, equerry to the Master of Horse. Then there was Valentine Pettis, the pony-dealer-’
‘Two men associated with nags,’ said Chaloner, wondering if it was significant.
‘And finally two sedan-chairmen,’ finished Temperance, ‘who had nothing to do with nags, because they are effectively mules themselves. I expect it is just a bad year for cucumbers, probably because of the rain. Perhaps the dismal weather produced a crop with unusually evil vapours.’
‘Do not forget Maylord,’ added Maude. ‘He died of cucumbers, too, although he once told me he never ate anything green. He said it made him break out in boils.’
‘I miss Maylord,’ said Temperance sadly. ‘He came here to play for us sometimes. He told me he taught your father the viol, Tom. Is it true?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘Did he perform for you during the last two weeks or so? Someone told me he was upset about something, and I would like to know what.’
‘Money,’ supplied Maude helpfully. ‘He thought someone had cheated him of some, and was very angry about it — not like him at all. He did not say how much he was owed or the name of the debtor, but it was obviously a substantial sum or he would not have been so agitated. Did you hear his close friend Smegergill was murdered on Sunday? At Smithfield.’
‘Was he?’ asked Temperance, startled. ‘That is a pity. I cannot say I took to Smegergill, because he was odd, but I am sorry to hear he met a violent end.’
‘How was he odd?’ asked Chaloner.
‘He was losing his memory, and was convinced he was about to be committed to Bedlam,’ replied Temperance. ‘He often made peculiar remarks about it — the kind that make a person uncomfortable.’
‘That was his idea of a joke,’ argued Maude. ‘He did not really believe there was anything wrong with him. It was just something he liked to claim, perhaps so people would contradict him and say he was as sane as the rest of us. Which he was.’
Temperance was thoughtful. ‘Do you really think so? I was under the impression that it was a genuine fear, and he was becoming more forgetful.’
Maude remained firm. ‘It was clear he was just amusing himself by pretending to be addled. I saw him laughing fit to burst once when he told the Duke of Buckingham he was turning into an elephant, and the Duke responded by providing him with a large handkerchief for blowing his trunk.’
‘Well, he once told me that his name was Caesar, and so he should be allowed to rule White Hall,’ said Temperance, unconvinced. ‘That is not normal behaviour by anyone’s standards. But we should discuss something else before we quarrel. Have you seen William since you returned, Tom? He has fallen in with a very devious person.’
‘He brought her to meet us,’ said Maude. ‘She was more interested in our silverware than our company, and then she said she knew plenty of ladies who would like to work for us.’
‘They will not be ladies,’ said Temperance disapprovingly. ‘And we are very selective about who we hire. We have our reputation to consider, and I doubt she knows any respectable girls.’
Chaloner doubted the whores who worked for Temperance would be deemed ‘respectable girls’ by most Londoners, either. He showed them his drawing. ‘I am going to take this to Newgate today, to see if anyone recognises her.’
Maude regarded the picture critically. ‘You need to make her eyes colder and harder, and add more weight to her jowls. I am glad you intend to separate her from Mr Leybourn. If you do not, she will have every penny from him, and crush his heart, too. We will help you.’
‘How?’
‘My sister lives in Smithfield, and her cakes are just as popular with villains as with law-abiding men. Leave your picture with me, and I will ask her about Mary Cade.’
‘She told me she was a friend of Ellis Crisp,’ said Chaloner.
Maude immediately shoved the drawing back across the table. ‘Well, in that case, I shall mind my own business. And so should you. No one should put himself on the wrong side of Butcher Crisp.’
Temperance was appalled. ‘Are you saying William is in the clutches of the Hectors? But that is terrible! We must do something to save him, even if it does mean coming to blows with Crisp.’