The bells of St Olave’s Church were already tolling for Newburne’s funeral, and Chaloner walked faster when they stopped. He was going to be late. As he went, he turned his thoughts to what his brief foray to Ave Maria Lane had told him about Finch’s death.
There had been green stains on the man’s fingers, and blisters in his mouth. Like Newburne, he had been poisoned. However, Chaloner was sure the cucumber had not been responsible for two reasons. First, not enough had been eaten to do a man serious harm, even if Finch had suffered from an aversion to them. And secondly, no wind-player ever ate while he practised, because fragments of food might become lodged in an instrument’s innards. Chaloner was sure the cucumber had been left as a diversion, to ensure no one looked deeper into Finch’s demise. He smiled grimly. But the killer was out of luck, because Chaloner would look deeper, and he would discover who had murdered the hapless trumpeter.
Chaloner was late for the funeral. He opened a door that clanked, so people turned to look at him. A few minutes later, the door rattled a second time, and Dury and Muddiman entered. Chaloner nodded a greeting to them, and the offhand way they responded confirmed that they had not identified him with the disturbance at Finch’s house.
Deciding to take the bull by the horns, he sauntered towards them. They were looking especially foppish that day, with more lace than a courtesan’s boudoir and a good deal more perfume. He glanced at their feet and saw both wore clean shoes with long toes and gleaming silver buckles. They had not walked to the church from Ave Maria Lane, but had been transported.
‘Sedan-chairs,’ explained Muddiman, seeing where he was looking. ‘It is the only way to travel these days. Carriages are too big for alleys, and hackneys are unpredictable — you never know when they might stop and order you out. Sedans are small, manoeuvrable and, if you pay them well, fast.’
‘I keep my own,’ added Dury. ‘Do you?’
Chaloner shook his head. Apart from the fact that he seldom had the money for such extravagance, sedans had an unpleasant jerking motion that took some getting used to. ‘What business makes you late for the requiem of the man who sold you L’Estrange’s news?’ he asked bluntly.
Muddiman’s eyebrows shot up, and Chaloner suspected he would have issued a jeering laugh had he not been in a church. ‘I produce high-quality work from impeccable sources, and I would never deign to accept anything from Newburne — or any other of L’Estrange’s minions.’
‘A man named Wenum kept a ledger that suggests otherwise,’ said Chaloner, wishing he had brought it with him. ‘It details payments made for specific items of news over the last six months. I am sure Williamson will be very interested to learn how you are undermining the government.’
‘He will not believe you,’ said Dury. ‘He has had us followed for weeks, hoping to catch us out, but we have nothing to hide. Besides, Wenum is dead — he fell in the Thames about a week ago — so there is no one to corroborate your accusations.’
‘And do not think this ledger will prove anything, either,’ added Muddiman, grinning. ‘It will be a forgery. L’Estrange is not the only newsmonger with powerful patrons, and ours will not see us in trouble over some book of dubious origin.’
Chaloner wondered how they came to know the manner of Wenum’s death, when no one at the Rhenish Wine House had been able to enlighten him. Did it mean Muddiman and Dury had decided Wenum had become too much of a risk, so they had killed him before he could expose them?
‘There was a commotion at Hen Finch’s house on Ave Maria Lane not long ago,’ he said, abruptly changing the subject. ‘I saw you two leaving it.’
‘We went to arrange his funeral with the landlord,’ said Dury slyly. ‘His friend Newburne is obviously not in a position to do it. Poor Finch. Another victim of the wicked curse of the cucumber.’
Muddiman chuckled softly when he understood Chaloner’s interest in the trumpeter. ‘You think Finch is Wenum! Well, it is an intriguing theory, but bear in mind that Wenum was swept to his death by the swollen river a week ago, and Finch was still alive last night.’
‘At least a dozen people have died in the floods so far,’ said Dury, regarding the spy in amusement. ‘They like to watch the Thames race by, but they stand too close to the edge and lose their footing. It could happen to anyone. Even you.’ The grin faded, leaving an expression that was far from amiable.
‘So, have we answered all your questions now?’ asked Muddiman, inspecting his fingernails. ‘Do you have enough to satisfy your Earl’s curiosity about matters that are none of his concern?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But I shall.’
Muddiman’s expression hardened. ‘How we get our news is our affair, and it is not something we shall reveal to the Lord Chancellor’s creature. Be warned: stay away from us.’
Chaloner treated the remark with the contempt it deserved by ignoring it. ‘Why are you here? You say you did not buy news from Newburne, but I cannot imagine you were friends with him.’
‘Everyone in the publishing trade is here,’ replied Dury, gesturing around him with a shrug. ‘It would look odd if we stayed away, and such occasions are wonderful opportunities for business.’
Chaloner moved away from them. Their clumsy attempts at intimidation did not bother him, but they were the kind of men who gave the Court a bad name — selfish, avaricious, deceitful and superior. Perhaps Williamson had been right to remove Muddiman from the newsbooks, because Chaloner certainly would not trust him to be a loyal servant of the Crown.
At the end of the service, the vicar announced that L’Estrange had organised some music, as a mark of affection for a lost friend. There were a number of bemused glances at L’Estrange’s claim that he and Newburne had been close, and even Dorcus looked startled. Brome kept his face admirably blank, although Chaloner could see Joanna gaping at his side. The consort hired for the task was Greeting’s, and the playing was excellent, despite the fact that they had lost Maylord and Smegergill within a few days of each other. Chaloner recalled Maylord’s urgent note with a pang of guilt, a feeling that intensified when he thought about his failure to protect Smegergill. He leaned against a pillar full of dark thoughts, and took no pleasure in music that would normally have delighted him.
L’Estrange enjoyed it, though. The church was perfect for both the style of consort and the airs that had been selected, and Chaloner could tell from the editor’s satisfied expression that he had expected no less. The violists were inspired by the way the acoustics complemented their playing, and it was clear to everyone that L’Estrange had taken advantage of the situation to perform a musical experiment to please himself. It had nothing to do with paying tribute to his ‘dear friend Newburne’.
When the performance was over, the musicians were treated to some unexpected and wholly inappropriate applause, so the vicar was obliged to clear his throat to bring the proceedings back to sombre order. Greeting muttered something about another commission, and slipped out through a side door. Chaloner followed, and waylaid him by an ornate tombstone bearing the name of Sir Robert Large, a former Lord Mayor of London. It was looking like rain again, and the sky was dark, even though it was barely noon.
Greeting gave a jubilant grin when he saw Chaloner. ‘Did you hear us? It was not just the building that rendered the conditions perfect for that particular combination of instruments, it was the fact that the church was full of people. They absorbed some of the echo you get in these old places — but not too much. L’Estrange knew what he was doing when he commissioned us to play those particular pieces.’