‘Is there anyone in London not on your list of suspects?’
Bulteel thought carefully. ‘The Queen. She had a distemper at the time of Newburne’s death, and was in bed, surrounded by physicians. But I had better deliver these letters, or you will not be the only one to suffer the Earl’s sour temper.’
Chaloner watched him scurry away, all frayed gown and flapping sleeves. Was he telling the truth? Was the Earl’s determination to catch Newburne’s killer explained at last? And did it really matter, given that Chaloner was obliged to solve the case anyway, if he wanted a job at the end of the week? He was about to leave White Hall when he saw Greeting hurrying towards the Privy Gardens with a violin under his arm. He knew he should go to Ivy Lane and tell L’Estrange about Wenum, but Smegergill’s death was preying on his mind, and he wanted answers.
‘The Queen is still ill, and her surgeon says music might help,’ said Greeting rather breathlessly when Chaloner waylaid him. ‘He has chosen me to play, so I cannot talk to you for long.’
‘I thought she was getting better.’
‘She is, which some courtiers attribute to a rather lovely air I composed and played to her myself. She actually smiled when I finished it, and told me I was an angel.’
‘Was she delirious?’
Greeting winced. ‘I suppose that remark pertains to my shabby clothes. Where did you buy that coat? I wish my Court appointment provided me with a decent income. I can never make ends meet, no matter how hard I try. Will you put in a word for me with the Lord Chancellor? I understand you clerk for him, when your duties at the Victualling Office allow. I could clerk, too, in my spare time.’
‘I was sorry to hear about Smegergill. I understand he was a member of your consort.’
‘I could hardly believe it, especially so soon after Maylord. I live in Smithfield, and Hingston — the organist — is staying with me, because his house is flooded. It might have been we who were attacked.’
Chaloner was surprised he should think so. ‘I thought a coach was provided, to deliver you all safely home. You were never in any danger.’
Greeting pulled a disagreeable face. ‘You obviously do not hire many hackneys. When only Hingston and I were left, the driver demanded a higher fare than we had agreed, and when we refused, he ordered us out. We walked past the very place where Smegergill was murdered. Indeed, we saw Crisp arrive to inspect the scene of the crime, but we never dreamed Smegergill was the victim. We should not have let him go with that stranger; I blame myself for not demanding the villain’s identity.’
‘Would Smegergill not have resented the interference? I was told he could be difficult.’
Greeting gave a wan smile. ‘That is putting it mildly — he was downright contumacious at times.’
‘He told me he was afraid he might be taken to Bedlam.’
‘He often talked about that, but I am not sure if it was a genuine concern or a bizarre way of fishing for compliments — his mind could be very sharp at times. Two of our colleagues were taken to Bedlam recently, although not for insanity. There is a rumour that they were spies, and that Williamson caught them red-handed. It sent a clear message to all would-be informers: dabble in espionage at your peril.’
‘You are wet,’ said Chaloner, indicating Greeting’s sodden clothes. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘I have just come from the Rhenish Wine House, where Maylord’s will was read. He left everything to Smegergill, and it is a pity the old man did not survive to enjoy any of it.’
‘Did Maylord own a lot of property, then?’
‘A fair amount — two houses, a large collection of books and musical instruments, a shop of some kind, money invested with bankers. Oh, and there was a fine nag, too.’
‘Nag?’ Chaloner was thinking about the other cucumber victims — the equerry and the horse-trader.
‘A racing beast. He kept it at Newmarket, although I do not think he was very interested in the sport. It was an investment, for when he could no longer earn a living by music. There is a lesson for us, Heyden. There is no point in worrying about the future, because there may not be one.’
‘I have been told that someone owed him money, or that he was being cheated.’
‘Very possibly. It would explain why he was angry and nervous in the two weeks before he died. The Court is infested with vultures, and his good nature would have made him easy prey.’
‘Poor Smegergill,’ said Chaloner sadly. ‘Maylord’s money would have kept him from Bedlam.’
‘He knew he was Maylord’s beneficiary — we all did. There are those who say he gave Maylord the cucumber, because he wanted his inheritance.’
Chaloner did not believe for an instant that Smegergill had hastened Maylord’s end. The old man’s distress when told his friend had been murdered was genuine. ‘What do you think?’
Greeting raised his eyebrows. ‘That this is White Hall, and people would gossip about the saints themselves, should they be unfortunate enough to find themselves here.’
Chaloner walked to Ivy Lane, thinking about the best way to tell L’Estrange about Wenum. He did not want to accuse someone who might have been a much-loved friend, and risk L’Estrange brandishing a sword at him. Chaloner would probably win the encounter, but he did not want to be arrested for wounding a government official — or worse.
When he arrived, Brome’s shop was full. The bookseller and Joanna were dealing with a healthy queue of customers, while L’Estrange was grumbling about the length of time it took for his papers to be printed. Hodgkinson was explaining that ink took a while to dry, and that rushing the process resulted in smudged and unreadable text.
‘Alcohol of sulphur,’ said Chaloner. L’Estrange and the printer stared at him. ‘In Holland, printers add alcohol of sulphur to ink, because they say it promotes faster drying. I have no idea if it works-’
‘Buy some,’ ordered L’Estrange, turning back to Hodgkinson. ‘We must do something to give us an edge over Muddiman. But why are you here, Heyden? I told you I do not want you investigating Newburne’s demise. He died of cucumbers, so let that mark the end of the matter.’
‘I came to give you more intelligence about Portugal,’ replied Chaloner. He handed over the notice he had written in Thurloe’s room the previous evening.
L’Estrange read aloud. ‘“About the beginning of October, the Earl of San Juao, with 5500 foot, 1300 horse and 8 field pieces entered into old Castile, out of the province Tras os Montes, and passed far into the country without opposition, where he sacked a matter of 60 towns and places, but burnt none, for His Majesty had forbidden it”. Is this true?’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Of course it is true!’
‘Have you sold this to Muddiman, too?’ demanded L’Estrange. His earrings glittered as walked to the window to read the rest of the report, and Chaloner thought he moved like a tiger, all compact muscles and soft-footed tread. ‘You hope to be paid twice for the same piece?’
Chaloner half-wished he had thought of it. ‘Is that what your other sources do?’
L’Estrange finished reading and shoved the paper in his pocket. ‘They would not dare. The government newsbooks are Spymaster Williamson’s domain, and only a fool crosses him.’
Was Wenum a fool, then, wondered Chaloner. Did betraying the Spymaster account for his death, and perhaps Newburne’s, too? Was this what the Lord Chancellor wanted his spy to discover — that a powerful minister was responsible for a series of murders? And if so, was it to bring Williamson down with the disgrace, to acquire a way of controlling the Spymaster for his own ends, or to pit Chaloner against a deadly adversary to avenge himself for what he saw as a lack of loyalty?