‘He went off with some rogue after our Monday night performance, although the villain took care to hide his face when I tried to look at it. It was not you, though — I glimpsed his general shape before he stepped into the shadows and he was too short to be you.’
‘And the second thing?’
‘Both Maylord and Smegergill branched out into other kinds of music before they died, but it was not good music. I cannot help wondering whether they had commissions from someone who wanted a particular kind of sound, although it was not one real art-lovers would favour …’
Chaloner thought about the discordant music he had found in Maylord’s chimney. ‘What of it?’
‘Ellis Crisp has an eclectic taste in music. I am told he favours tunes from the East.’
Chaloner stared at him. ‘Maylord and Smegergill were playing melodies for Crisp?’
Greeting raised his hands. ‘I am combining two points of information and drawing a conclusion, not repeating a fact. Perhaps it has a bearing on Maylord’s death — or Smegergill’s — and perhaps it does not. But I should be off: Ireton is inside, and I want to be gone before he comes out.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I am medium height, stocky build, and very fast on my feet, and I was in Smithfield the evening Smegergill was killed, because I live there. I do not want Ireton thinking I am the culprit.’
The funeral procession was moving out of the church and towards the hole in the churchyard by the time Greeting left. Chaloner lagged at the end, watching. At the front was Dorcus, held up by L’Estrange on one side and Joanna on the other. Brome was a solid, reassuring presence behind. He placed his cloak solicitously around Dorcus’s shoulders when she shivered in the drizzle.
‘A sorry sight.’
Chaloner turned to see Hodgkinson standing behind him. The printer was clad entirely in black as a mark of respect for the deceased, and his face was suitably sombre. His beard looked darker than usual, too, and Chaloner wondered if he had put soot in it for the occasion. The current mourning fashion at Court was not only to wear dowdy clothes, but to eradicate anything shiny, too — buckles, jewellery and even weapons. It seemed that Hodgkinson had thoughtfully extended the prohibition to his facial hair.
‘Very sorry,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘I was told Ellis Crisp is here. Which one is he?’
Hodgkinson scanned the faces. ‘I cannot see him at the moment. There is his father, though: Sir Nicholas.’ He pointed to a heavily built man in his sixties who moved with an arrogant swagger. Four liveried servants held a canopy above his head, to ensure he was not dripped on, and Chaloner was not surprised he had sired a son who had carved a small kingdom for himself in Smithfield.
‘I do not think I will linger if the Butcher is here,’ said Hodgkinson uneasily. ‘I owe him October’s safety tax for my shop in Duck Lane, but I do not have it with me. I would rather deliver it myself this afternoon, than have his men ask for it now. I do not like the way they make requests.’
He hurried away, leaving Chaloner inspecting the crowds for the sort of man who could inspire such fear among law-abiding citizens. No one stood out as particularly menacing, although he spotted his three attackers — Nose, the Scot, and Fingerless. At some point they would pay for what had happened to Smegergill. Nose glanced in his direction, and Chaloner tensed, wondering whether he would be recognised. But none of his clothes were the same as the ones he had worn during the attack — even Isabella’s hat had been replaced by another, albeit reluctantly — and the churchyard had been dark. He relaxed when the man’s gaze passed him by.
He was surprised to see Leybourn among the mourners, although the surveyor’s coat was a rather bright blue and the buckles on his shoes gleamed defiantly. Mary was at his side, clinging to his arm. Chaloner was tempted to ask why she had been entertaining three felons the night before — and whether Leybourn had noticed the absence of his best goblets — but it was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. He would do better to delay the interrogation until he could demand production of the silverware and actually show Leybourn the bell that warned her when he was coming.
Leybourn was pleased to see him. ‘Tom! Are you better?’
‘Why are you here, Will? I thought you did not like Newburne — his spying saw you fined.’
‘I detested the man, but every bookseller in London is here, and Dorcus has invited us all to a funeral party afterwards. It will be an excellent opportunity to meet colleagues I have not seen in ages. And do not think me a hypocrite for accepting the hospitality of his widow, because everyone feels the way I do. Besides, if Dorcus provides some decent victuals, I may even warm to her husband’s memory.’
‘Why are you here, Mr Heyden?’ asked Mary sweetly. ‘I thought you did not know Newburne. Or are you hoping to make the acquaintance of Ellis Crisp? I am told he is here today.’
‘No, he is not hoping to meet the Butcher,’ said Leybourn firmly. ‘He knows too many devious people as it is. And so do you, if the truth be told, Mary. I do not like the look of some of the men with whom you have exchanged greetings today.’
‘You mean Hectors?’ asked Chaloner, with a sweetly innocent smile of his own.
‘Hectors?’ echoed Leybourn, shocked. ‘Do not be ridiculous, Tom! She may have nodded to one or two disreputable types, but they were certainly not Hectors.’
Mary’s expression was martyred. ‘They are men from whom I buy victuals at the market, no more. It would have been rude to ignore their polite good-days. Your friend is having some mischievous sport at my expense, William. Tell him to stop.’
‘Yes, stop it, Tom,’ said Leybourn sternly. ‘A funeral is no place for japes.’
‘If you want to meet Ellis Crisp, you must hurry, Mr Heyden,’ said Mary, with another false smile. ‘He is just getting into a carriage with his father.’
‘No,’ said Leybourn in alarm, gripping his shoulder when Chaloner stepped away. ‘Tom, don’t.’
But Chaloner was only moving to get a better look at the man; he still preferred to delay accosting him until he had a clearer understanding of his role in the various deaths he was investigating. As the carriage rattled away, he caught the briefest glimpse of a face. It was round, pink and smiling.
‘It is odd that a respectable merchant should have a son who is a butcher-cum-underworld king,’ he mused, when the coach had gone. ‘I understand Sir Nicholas is a member of the Council for Trade.’
Leybourn gave a bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Do not be too impressed by titles. Sir Nicholas is a powerful advocate for the African slave trade, which does not make him respectable at all. I would say both make their fortunes in dirty business. And look at the Hectors, moving around the mourners with their ears flapping. They are listening to disparaging comments, so Crisp will know his enemies. It is a bit like Newburne, spying on the booksellers.’
‘Be careful,’ warned Chaloner sharply, suspecting Mary might do likewise.
But Leybourn was not listening. ‘Look, there is Allestry, and Nott is with him!’ he exclaimed with pleasure. ‘I have not seen them in weeks. They were also victimised by Newburne.’
The two booksellers were with their wives. The men were talking together, but the women were lagging behind, watching L’Estrange. When the editor happened to glance in their direction, both waved coquettishly at him. Chaloner was amused to note that L’Estrange was the subject of admiring glances from a number of ladies among the crowd, which led him to suppose that the Army of Angels was rather larger than he had been led to believe.
When he turned to mention it to Leybourn, he found him gone to greet his colleagues, leaving Mary behind. Chaloner expected her to follow, sure she would not want the company of a man she so openly despised, but she lingered uncertainly. He glanced to one side and saw the Scottish Hector standing not far away. He was not looking at Mary, but it was clear he intended to approach her as soon as she was alone. Meanwhile, Mary seemed to draw confidence from his proximity.