Chaloner gaped at him, scarcely believing his ears. Was the man really so blind? ‘But-’
‘The leak is not at my office. My Angels are beyond reproach, and I forbid you to speak to them. So, the matter is closed, just like the death of Newburne. You will forget both incidents.’
Chaloner saw there was no point in arguing. L’Estrange’s mind was made up and, as with most ignorant men, it would be virtually impossible to change. Instead, he thought about the enigmatic comment at the end of the prayer-book article.
‘Do you really have a foul secret to impart to the nation, when the time is right?’
‘You have been reading The Newes,’ said L’Estrange, pleased. ‘I hope it will pique your interest enough to purchase The Intelligencer on Monday. And yes, I know lots of foul secrets about all manner of dreadful phanatiques.’
Chaloner was disappointed. ‘I thought that might be the case.’
‘Phanatiques are a danger to us all,’ ranted L’Estrange. ‘And that is why you must leave my newsbooks alone. Tell the Earl there is nothing to investigate — about Newburne or these so-called leaks. If you disobey, you will be sorry. You look very well, by the way.’
Chaloner did not like the juxtaposition of the two comments. ‘Is there any reason I should not?’
L’Estrange shrugged. ‘None at all. Let us hope you stay that way.’
Chaloner returned to the mourning room. He was about to introduce himself to Dorcus Newburne as a clerk from the Victualling Office, but L’Estrange reached her first.
‘This is Heyden, the Lord Chancellor’s man,’ he said with a sneer. ‘Come to pay his respects.’
‘Why would the Earl send a representative here?’ Dorcus asked tearfully. ‘He promised me a pension, but now he is trying to wriggle out of honouring it.’
Chaloner winced. ‘He sends his deepest sympathy, ma’am,’ he said gently.
She looked away, touched by the kindness in his voice. ‘My husband was on official business when he died, you know. In fact, you can tell the Earl that I believe he was murdered in the course of his duties.’
‘He died of cucumbers, Dorcus,’ said L’Estrange, a little impatiently. ‘It is horrible, I know, but it could happen to anyone.’
‘But he did not like cucumbers,’ protested Dorcus, beginning to cry. ‘And who can blame him? He said he was unwell before he left for work last Wednesday, so perhaps he was already ill then.’
‘Did he eat breakfast that day?’ asked Chaloner, ignoring L’Estrange’s furious glare for disobeying his orders and pursuing the investigation.
Dorcus shook her head. ‘And no dinner the night before, either, because he was too late home. All he had were some lozenges — the ones he usually took for pains in his stomach. And we all know why he had to purchase so many of those: because he was anxious about working for so many powerful men.’
‘But he did eat a cucumber, my dear,’ said L’Estrange, trying hard to mask his irritation, but not succeeding very well. ‘Hodgkinson was with him when he devoured it, and there are other witnesses, too. He did not dislike them as much as you think.’
Dorcus wiped her eyes. ‘He might have swallowed some of the seeds to ease his wind, I suppose, but they should not have killed him. There is something odd going on, and I want my pension.’
‘Leave it to me, pretty lady,’ crooned L’Estrange; his voice was soft, but he still glared at the spy. ‘I shall make sure you are awarded your pension. You certainly do not want Heyden prying into your husband’s private life.’
‘Arise, Tom Newburne,’ said Dorcus bitterly, clutching Joanna’s fingers hard enough to make her wince. ‘Will I never be allowed to forget the shame of that nickname? I should not have let him drink so much last Christmas, and then he would not have tried to knight the Archbishop of Canterbury with that wooden sword.’
‘Did he?’ asked L’Estrange, startled. ‘Here is a tale I have never heard before.’
‘Nor I,’ said Joanna, equally taken aback. ‘We were aware that he liked a drink, but he was always quiet in his cups. Of course, I am not saying he was a drunkard, only that he-’
‘Christmas was different,’ interrupted Dorcus shortly. ‘He was in a good mood then, because Butcher Crisp had offered him a share in his pie enterprise.’
‘Oh, dear!’ whispered Joanna. ‘Did he accept? Only they are said to contain … well, they are …’
‘Pork?’ asked Dorcus, apparently unaware of the rumours that surrounded Crisp’s baked goods. ‘I like pork, especially when cooked with sage and onion.’
‘Did your husband know a musician called Maylord?’ asked Chaloner, before the conversation could veer too far into uncharted waters. ‘He is said to have died of cucumbers, too.’
L’Estrange’s eyebrows drew together in a scowl, but Dorcus answered before he could stop her. ‘Thomas did not fraternise with artisans. He liked music, but not as supplied by that dissolute Court.’
Chaloner had more questions to ask, because he was not sure what to think about Dorcus. Was she really the grieving, dignified widow she appeared, or did she know more about her husband’s devious activities than she was prepared to admit? Her determination to have the pension, even though she was already rich, was testament to a certain greed, and he was keen to gauge her measure. He was not to be granted the opportunity, however, because L’Estrange declared she was looking pale. Before she could demur, he had gathered her into his arms and swept her upstairs. They were followed by astonished stares from the assembled mourners.
‘Heavens!’ said Brome, watching them go. ‘That is bold, even by his standards.’
‘She did look wan, though,’ said Joanna. ‘And even he will refrain from seduction on this of all days.’
Brome struggled to be as charitable as his wife. ‘Perhaps he just wanted to separate her from Heyden. He has said all along that he does not want the Earl prying into his business.’
‘Has he?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Does he have a lot to hide, then?’
‘I expect so,’ said Joanna guilelessly. ‘He does work for the government, after all. Yet, for all his faults, he is gentle with women, and Dorcus is in kind hands now.’
Brome sighed his relief. ‘Good. I am more than happy to comfort a distressed widow, but I suspect everyone thinks we are hypocrites for it. We disliked Newburne as much as the next man.’
‘Let them think what they like,’ declared Joanna spiritedly. ‘We are doing what is right. Dorcus needs friends, and it is common decency to help her. I am surprised to see so many people here, though. Crisp was the first to arrive, and I think he brought every last Hector with him. I had no idea he was master of such an enormous body of men. They marched in like the Parliamentarians’ New Model Army, all cudgels, guns and glittering swords.’
‘I was afraid they might burgle the house while they were here,’ said Brome. ‘There is a rumour that Newburne owned a box of valuable jewels, you see, and I thought they might decide to have a look for it. But they behaved like perfect gentlemen.’
‘They will not burgle in broad daylight,’ said Joanna. ‘And there is nothing to say the hoard is here anyway. It might be in one of his other houses — his Thames Street cottage, or the attic he hired on Ave Maria Lane, for example. Of course, that is assuming the box actually exists. I doubt it does.’
‘Did he rent rooms at the Rhenish Wine House, too?’ asked Chaloner, wondering if he could establish a connection between the solicitor and the mysterious Wenum.
Brome and Joanna looked blankly at each other. ‘Not as far as we know,’ replied Brome. ‘Why? Have you discovered otherwise? If so, then it means you have ignored our advice and are continuing to probe.’ There was concern in his eyes, an emotion that was reflected in Joanna’s face, too.