‘A friend of mine died of cucumbers in the Rhenish Wine House, just two days after Newburne,’ Chaloner explained, touched by the fact that they seemed anxious for him.
‘You mean Maylord?’ asked Joanna. She rested her hand on his arm in a shy gesture of sympathy. ‘I had no idea you were acquainted. I am so sorry. We heard him play several times in White Hall.’
‘L’Estrange invited us there, because he knows we like music,’ explained Brome. ‘But do not try to change the subject, Heyden. Our warnings about Newburne were not delivered lightly. In fact, we heard just moments ago that the case may have claimed another casualty. Newburne’s friend Finch has been found dead in his room.’
Chaloner gazed at them in shock. ‘How did he die?’
Brome was unhappy. ‘I do not want to tell you. It may encourage you to dive even deeper into these murky waters, laying your life on the line for men who are not worth the risk.’
Joanna agreed. ‘Your Earl may be the most upright man at Court, but that does not make him an angel, while Crisp … well, suffice to say you are best not attracting his attention, if you can help it.’
Brome seemed to sense they were wasting their breath, and switched to something less contentious. ‘Joanna wants to hear more about the pirates of Alicante, so will you dine with us tomorrow? We may even have some music after, but do not tell L’Estrange, or he will want to come, too.’
‘And then he will do all the talking, and we shall hear nothing about privateers,’ said Joanna. She took Chaloner’s hand, rabbit-eyes pleading. ‘Please come. We would both like to know you better.’
‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner, supposing he was about to make new friends. It was about time, especially as Leybourn was all but lost to Mary and Temperance’s brothel was turning her into a stranger. He was used to being alone, but that did not mean he was never lonely.
‘Finch,’ said Brome unhappily. ‘I said I would not tell you how he died, but perhaps if I do, you will understand the folly of pursuing your investigation further. L’Estrange told us the news when we arrived here: Finch died of eating cucumbers.’
Finch’s house was not far from Old Jewry, and Chaloner had more than an hour before the funeral. He walked briskly, and arrived to find, unlike last time, that there was a bright lamp burning in the corridor on the first floor; he supposed the death of a tenant had forced the landlord to make his building more hospitable to the friends and relatives who might visit. He put his ear to Finch’s door, but it was silent within. He tried the handle. It was locked, but it did not take him long to pick it open. He slipped inside and secured the door behind him.
He was not sure what he had expected to find, but it was not Finch’s body sprawled on the bed; he had assumed someone would have moved it, or at least straightened the contorted limbs, as a sign of respect.
He went to inspect it. Finch had been playing his trumpet when he had been overcome, because it was lying on the floor at his side. Since no one who loved music would drop an instrument without good cause, Chaloner supposed it had slipped from his fingers as he had breathed his last. He examined it closely, then put it back where he had found it. He glanced at the table, where a cucumber — or most of one — lay on a plate. There was a knife next to it, as though Finch had been chopping off pieces to eat. There was also a box of Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges.
He was about to leave when he heard heavy feet ascending the stairs. Unlike at the Rhenish Wine House, this time he was not caught with nowhere to hide. He stepped smartly into the adjoining pantry, which had its own door that led to the hallway. He opened it a crack and peered out, just as the person reached the bedchamber and began to examine the door. He frowned thoughtfully when he recognised the hulking form of the apple-seller.
What was Williamson’s spy doing there, when he should have been watching Muddiman and Dury? Had he been relieved of that duty and given a different assignment, perhaps because it was obvious that his quarry knew he was there? Curiously, Chaloner crept down the corridor as the apple-seller — declining to waste time on picking the lock — smashed the door by hurling his burly frame at it. It shattered into pieces, which meant he could not close it behind him. Thus Chaloner was able to watch exactly what he was doing inside.
The apple-seller looked slowly around the room. His eyes lingered briefly on the body and, like Chaloner, he knelt to examine the trumpet. Then he stood and walked to the windowsill, on which lay a sheet of music and a half-eaten pie. He grabbed the music and stuffed it in his pocket. Chaloner was mystified. The fellow’s scarred knuckles suggested he would not be manually dextrous enough to manage an instrument — unless it was a drum. Or had Williamson ordered him to collect documents, and he had taken the music because he did not know the difference between letters and notes?
‘-funeral at noon,’ came a familiar drawl from the stairs. ‘Are you going? It might be fun.’
Chaloner had been so intent on watching the apple-seller that he had not noticed the soft-footed approach of other people. The apple-seller also spun around at the noise, and Chaloner found himself trapped between him and the advancing newcomers. He punched the lamp with his fist, plunging the hallway into darkness. The men on the stairs yelled their indignation.
The apple-seller was rushing towards the corridor, determined to lay hands on whoever was spying on him, so Chaloner darted back to Finch’s pantry and aimed for the window. There was a grunt of surprise when the apple-seller found the hallway empty, and Chaloner began to wrestle with the casement catch. It was rusty, and would not move. He pulled harder, and it squeaked open just as the apple-seller realised Finch had more than one room. Chaloner scrambled on to the sill and launched himself out, sliding down a roof that was slick with slime. He reached the edge, put a hand down to steady himself, and jumped into a gloomy little yard. It was not a huge leap, but landing jolted his lame leg, and he felt the familiar twinge that meant he would limp for the rest of the day.
He ducked when tiles began to smash around him. At first, he assumed the apple-seller was throwing them, but he glanced up to see the big man trying to claw his way across the roof. It was unequal to his weight, and he released a howl of alarm when he began to slide off. Chaloner hobbled towards the gate. As he did so, he glanced up and saw two heads at Finch’s open window. They belonged to Muddiman and Dury, and he realised it had been Dury’s drawl he had heard on the stairs.
He was confused. Were the newsmongers following the apple-seller now? And why were any of them visiting Finch? He sensed he could not afford to be identified until he understood what was happening, so he kept his head low, Isabella’s hat shielding his face, as he wrenched open the gate and hurried into the alley on the other side. He heard a thump and several more crashes as the apple-seller finally lost his battle with gravity and hit the ground. Moments later, Chaloner was walking along Cheapside with his hands in his pockets. He was fairly sure none of the three had gained a good look at him in the shadowy yard, but he bundled his coat under his arm and exchanged his hat for a black cap anyway. There was no point in taking unnecessary chances.
He tried to work out what had happened. Had the apple-seller been sent by Williamson, to look for documents on the government’s behalf? But why were Muddiman and Dury there — and why had Dury been lurking in the Golden Lion the previous night? Was it because Finch was actually the mysterious Nobert Wenum, and they wanted to dispose of any evidence that might prove it? Finch was Newburne’s friend, after all, and Newburne might well have passed him the newsbooks’ secrets. Yet Finch had been poor, living in a room that verged on the squalid, and there was nothing to suggest he had earned the fortune detailed in the ledger.