He closed the door and lit the lamp, and it did not take him long to locate what he had come to find. There was a tiny box on a shelf near the window, with a piece of paper glued to the lid that identified its contents as Theophilus Buckworth’s Personal Lozenges. He assumed they were the pills Dorcus said her husband had swallowed the day he had died.
Wearing gloves, he picked one up and sniffed it, but could not tell whether its unpleasant aroma was medicinal or something sinister. He rubbed it on the inside of his wrist, under the lace of his cuff, and it left a greenish smear. Nothing happened, so he searched the rest of the room, disappointed when it yielded nothing to help his investigation. He supposed the solicitor had kept his sensitive papers in his various lairs across the city. Then he became aware of an unpleasant burning on his arm. He pulled up his sleeve and saw blisters. He rinsed them with water from a pitcher in the closet, but they continued to sting for some time, even so.
He now had an explanation for two deaths. The lozenges had killed Newburne, although not instantly, and he had lived long enough for the cucumber to bear the blame — perhaps the burning had induced him to swallow something he thought would cool his innards. Lozenges had also killed Finch, because Chaloner had seen an identical box on the table by the cucumber. However, like Finch’s papers, the lozenges had been removed by the time Chaloner had returned. So who had taken them?
He himself had seen three people in the room: Hickes, then Dury and Muddiman. Had the newsletter men gone to remove the evidence of their crime, only to find Chaloner and Hickes were there before them? Had Hickes committed the murder, perhaps on Williamson’s orders, and had gone to collect poison and papers once he was sure Finch was dead? Or was someone else responsible? Greeting’s sudden decision to serve Williamson had left Chaloner uneasy, for example.
Or did the lozenges actually serve to absolve Muddiman? He had bought cucumbers from Covent Garden the day before Newburne’s death, allegedly for medicinal purposes. Now Chaloner knew lozenges were responsible, it meant cucumbers were irrelevant. Or were they? Someone was still leaving them at the scenes of his crimes, to confuse any investigation that might take place. Chaloner scratched his itching wrist, and heartily wished he could find a clue that would provide him with answers, not just more questions.
Chapter 8
The following day, Chaloner was disconcerted to wake to the realisation that he had been dreaming about Joanna. He could not imagine why, as he usually preferred women with more spirit, and he sat up feeling vaguely ashamed of himself. He recalled her invitation to dine at noon, and found he was looking forward to it. His occupation played havoc with any social life he might have had, so such occasions were rare for him. The notion of pleasant company, good food — or any food, for that matter — and perhaps some music was an attractive proposition for a man who knew so few people in the great, seething metropolis that was London.
The streets were bathed in the kind of dull, grey light that presaged more rain, and his cat was sodden when it nudged open the window and made its way inside. It had a rat in its mouth, which it left by the hearth. Chaloner hoped it would restrict itself to rodents, and not graduate to birds, because he liked birds. He was going to toss the rat out of the window, but there was already too much traffic, and he did not want a fight to ensue because it hit someone. As it was too large to fit comfortably in his pocket, he placed it on the mantelpiece, intending to throw it out when he returned that night.
A sixth sense warned him that someone was lurking in the shadows near the door when he started to leave the house, and his landlord was lucky not to find himself slammed against the wall with a dagger at his throat. Chaloner had warned Ellis before about loitering in the dark, but as the man did not know what Chaloner did for a living, he had no way of knowing that ignoring the advice might have potentially fatal consequences.
‘The rent,’ said Ellis, rubbing his hands together like a fly. Surreptitiously, Chaloner returned his knife to its customary hiding place. ‘It is overdue. And you owe me for August and September, too.’
‘I know,’ said Chaloner apologetically. ‘There has been an administrative hiccup at the Victualling Office, but it should be resolved by Monday.’
That was the Earl’s deadline, and by then, Chaloner would either be able to request an advance on his salary, or would have to acquire the money by some other means. Of course, if Mary and the Hectors had their way, he might also be dead, which would be a pity for Ellis; the man had been remarkably patient with his impecunious tenant, and Chaloner hated being in debt to him.
Ellis continued to rub his hands. ‘I shall have to charge extra for the tench your cat had yesterday. I left it on my kitchen table, and she made off with it when my back was turned. Then she had the gall to sit on the roof and devour it before my very eyes, bold as brass.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, hoping the animal would not transpire to be expensive. ‘She brought me a rat this morning. I do not suppose you would consider accepting that as a replacement?’
He was joking, but Ellis considered the offer carefully. ‘Rat is a good winter dish, but I do prefer tench. Besides, rats are ten a penny these days, with all this rising water.’
Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘You eat rats?’
‘Of course. Do not tell me you have never tried them?’
‘Only during the wars, when there was nothing else.’
‘Then you will know they are a sadly underrated meat. There is nothing like rat stew on a cold night, especially when flavoured with plenty of sage and an onion.’
Chaloner walked to the Fleet Prison, a grim edifice with its sturdy gate, thick walls and tiny barred windows. It crouched on the eastern bank of the river for which it was named, adding its own reek to the stinking industries that surrounded it — bone boilers, makers of glue and paint, and the dye-works. There were always people outside the Fleet, mostly kin of the inmates, who had the pinched, hopeless look of extreme poverty about them. Chaloner was sure they would not turn up their noses at rat stew.
Because of his past experiences in gaols, it took considerable willpower to walk up to the door and start a conversation with the guards. As he had no money to buy information, he was subjected to insults, threats and even a physical assault before he found a warden willing to talk to him. Unfortunately, the man did not seem entirely sane, and confided to Chaloner that he worked in the prison because it was the only place where he felt safe from an attack by sparrows.
‘Look,’ he whispered, gesturing to the surrounding rooftops. ‘They just sit there, biding their time. Then, when your attention strays, they swoop down and peck out your eyes. You must have read about phanatiques in the newsbooks? Well, the writer actually refers to sparrows. It is code, see.’
‘Right,’ said Chaloner. He showed the sketch he had made of Mary. ‘Do you know if she has ever been in the Fleet Prison?’
‘Yes, but not for debt, though, like most of them. She was in for thievery, but her husband came and greased the right hands, if you know what I mean. Her name is Annabel Reade.’
‘She is married?
‘To a man,’ supplied the guard helpfully. ‘She stole from Richard Bridges, the Cornhill linen-draper. He sells calico to the navy, although the sparrows get most of it for their nests. She was his cook-maid, and had his silver off him when he dismissed her for not doing what she was hired for.’