‘Have you heard any more rumours about the deaths of Maylord or Smegergill?’
Greeting became sombre at the mention of his dead colleagues. ‘Only that the Hectors are determined to catch Smegergill’s killer. Apparently, one of them — a fellow called Ireton — knew Smegergill, although I find that hard to believe.’
‘Knew him in what capacity?’
Greeting shrugged. ‘I have no idea. Perhaps they were neighbours or frequented the same coffee house. Or perhaps Ireton was learning a musical instrument. Personally, I prefer to confine myself to respectable patrons, but not everyone has that luxury.’
Chaloner recalled being told that some of the Hectors were professional men, not mere louts, so supposed it was not impossible that one had purchased music lessons. A connection scratched at the back of his mind, and he struggled to make sense of it. It was to do with noses. Thurloe had talked about Maylord’s plethora of wealthy students and Smegergill’s lack of them — with the exception of ‘a long-nosed lutanist whom no one liked’. One of the Hectors who had attacked Chaloner owned a sizeable nose. Had Smegergill been giving him lessons? Could that explain why Chaloner had heard Smegergill talking to the Hectors after the initial attack — they knew each other? But if they were acquainted, then why had Smegergill been killed? Or were the Hectors innocent, as they claimed, and someone else had come along and dispatched the old man for reasons of his own?
‘Of course,’ Greeting was saying, ‘this Ireton fellow could be lying. Incidentally, have you heard that Hen Finch is dead of cucumbers? The news is all over White Hall.’
‘Who told you?’
‘My colleague Hingston, who is sharing my room at the moment because his house is flooded. But he had it from Muddiman, so it must be right. The news is only a couple of hours old, which shows Muddiman has an excellent intelligence-gathering network. No wonder Williamson is jealous of it.’
Muddiman again, thought Chaloner, wondering whether the newsmonger had the information first because he had perpetrated the crime. But then surely he would have maintained his distance, and let others do the gossiping?
‘Did you know Finch played the trumpet?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but he was not very good. I shall have to inspect his body this afternoon, and poke around in his rooms. You were not surprised when I told you about Finch’s death, which means you already knew. Have you heard any interesting rumours about it? I have been charged to investigate, you see.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘You have? By whom?’
‘My consort performs for Spymaster Williamson on occasion, and I happened to be with him, discussing the music for a dinner he is hosting, when his spy Hickes came to say that Muddiman was spreading the word about Finch. Williamson ordered him to look into it, but then confided that the fellow would be unlikely to turn up any sensible answers. So I offered to find him a few instead.’
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Chaloner, mystified. ‘You are a musician, not a spy.’
‘A musician whose outgoings exceed his income,’ explained Greeting ruefully. ‘I told you: I can no longer make ends meet. No one hires a tatty consort for his soirées, but looking the part is expensive, as you will know. Those clothes must have cost you a pretty penny.’
‘You volunteered to work for Williamson?’
Greeting pulled a face. ‘I had no choice. I moved to cheaper rooms, and I still cannot afford the damned rent. You seem to do well from espionage — do not deny it, because Williamson told me you are no victualling clerk, and that you spy for the Earl of Clarendon. So, we are colleagues, and if you tell me what you know about Finch, I will tell you something about Maylord in return.’
‘What makes you think I am interested in Maylord?’ Chaloner was not pleased that Williamson had been talking about him — a spymaster should know better. Of course, this particular spymaster detested Chaloner, and would doubtless be delighted to see him and his investigation compromised.
‘You quizzed me about him the other day, and I know he was a friend of your father’s, because he told me so himself. Of course you want to find out why he was so upset before he died.’
There was no point in denying it, so Chaloner inclined his head. ‘Go on, then.’
Greeting looked sly. ‘You first.’
Chaloner folded his arms. ‘Would you eat a cucumber while you played a trumpet?’
Greeting was bemused by the question. ‘Of course not. I would not eat anything — a crumb might get lodged somewhere, and cause a blockage at an inconvenient moment. Why?’
‘Because I heard there was a piece of food lodged inside Finch’s instrument. Someone wanted an investigator — you — to think Finch was eating a cucumber, and so died of natural causes.’
What Chaloner did not mention was that the piece he had found when he examined the instrument had been planted in a place it could not have reached, had it been in a player’s mouth — whoever put it there knew nothing about trumpets. It was not much of a clue, but it was better than nothing. Chaloner frowned as something else occurred to him. He had reasoned that Finch would not have been munching a cucumber as he played, but what about the half-devoured pie in the window? The same applied, which suggested Finch had been performing and someone else had been eating while he listened. Who? The killer? Or someone quite innocent of the whole affair?
‘Who told you this?’ demanded Greeting.
‘One of Finch’s neighbours,’ lied Chaloner. ‘No names. We do not want him murdered, too.’
Greeting nodded acquiescence. ‘Very well. Thank you. I shall tell Williamson that Finch’s death is certainly suspicious, and Hickes can do the rest. He is supposed to be Williamson’s top agent, after all, no matter how much Williamson grumbles about him behind his back. I agreed to ask a few questions, but my consort will never be hired if my clients think I am a spy.’
‘Who is Hickes? What does he look like?’
‘Yes, you would do well to avoid him. I am sure he is a Hector — he certainly behaves like one. He is over there, look, gasping for breath like a pair of bellows. He is supposed to be following Muddiman and Dury, but he finds it hard to keep up with them, especially when they send their private carriage in one direction, then leap into sedan-chairs that take them in another.’
Chaloner gaped. ‘The apple-seller? Surely not! He is the best Williamson can muster?’
‘Apple-seller? I suppose you have seen him in one of his disguises. They are never very good.’
Chaloner rubbed his chin, lost in thought. The Earl had told him that Hickes was investigating Newburne’s murder, but Hickes had declared Muddiman and Dury innocent. So why was he still following them, and not concentrating on other suspects? Had he lied, perhaps to throw a rival investigator off the scent? And what about Greeting? Had he really offered to spy for Williamson in such a casual manner? And had Williamson really been willing to accept the musician’s services under such conditions? It did not seem likely, and Chaloner supposed Greeting was just another person of whom to be wary at White Hall — a liar who undertook dubious assignments.
‘What are you going to tell me in return?’ he asked. ‘About Maylord.’
Greeting smiled amiably. ‘Two things. First, there are descriptions circulating about Smegergill’s killer — medium height, stocky build and very fast on his feet. He sounds rather like you, and I know for a fact that you wanted to talk to him. I am making an assumption-’
‘I never harmed Smegergill,’ said Chaloner, alarmed. He was horrified that Greeting had associated him with the description, because it suggested the musician was more clever — or better informed — than he let on, and if he told the Hectors, it would be a nuisance. Chaloner could not find Newburne’s killer in the time allotted to him, and dodge murderous henchmen at the same time.