Chaloner recalled Leybourn saying that he and Mary were obliged to send for food from cook-shops, because she lacked any culinary skills herself, and his kitchen had been rendered a pigsty. So, Leybourn was not the first man to discover Mary possessed no real domestic abilities.
‘Richard Bridges lives on Cornhill?’ he asked, deciding to talk to the man that morning. Now he knew Mary was linked to the Hectors, and by extension to Newburne, he did not feel he was wasting time by investigating her past. All three enquiries — Newburne, Maylord and Smegergill, and Mary — had merged to a certain extent, and exploring one might well yield answers to the others.
The guard nodded. ‘He accused her of theft, but then he came here with Reade’s husband and said there had been a misunderstanding. Can you see that bird looking at us? See its beady eyes?’
‘Buy a cat,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Sparrows will not attack if there is a cat about.’
‘I had one,’ said the porter gloomily, ‘but the sparrows ate it. Every last morsel.’
The Stocks Market was at the junction of Cornhill and Cheapside, and Friday was one of its busiest days. Cows, sheep, geese, chickens, goats and pigs were driven down the road to feed London’s growling stomach, and Cheapside was a chaos of noise and movement. One drover had decided the best way to get his cattle to market was to stampede them there, and they cut a bloody swathe through anything that stood in their way. Carts were overturned, animals broke away from their owners, and horses bucked and pranced. Feathers were thick in the air as birds squawked their panic, and stray dogs added to the confusion by barking and worrying at the hapless beasts.
Chaloner was trying to hurry, aware that he had a lot to do before dining at noon, but was forced to slow down when, within the space of a few moments, he narrowly avoided being crushed by an escaped bull, pecked by a frightened swan and run over by a driverless cart. Other pedestrians were less fortunate, and the cries of the injured and furious added to the general cacophony.
When he eventually reached Cornhill, he was directed to a handsome mansion. Temperance’s good clothes and his confident manner bought him access to the linen-draper’s front parlour without being obliged to state his business first. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, fretting about Leybourn. It was not long before someone coughed behind him, and he turned to see a man unremarkable in every way, except for two very rosy cheeks. Bridges smiled nervously when Chaloner took the liberty of informing him that he was with the Lord Chancellor’s office.
‘We are investigating Annabel Reade,’ he said, producing her picture.
Bridges’s anxiety intensified. ‘That is her, although the artist should make her jowls bigger.’
‘I understand she was employed by you, and that she stole some silver.’
Bridges shook his head vehemently. ‘There was a mistake. I found the items I thought she had taken, and her husband and I immediately went to the prison, where I paid for her release.’
Chaloner regarded the man sympathetically. He was terrified. ‘Did someone force you to-’
‘No!’ cried Bridges, in what amounted to a squawk. ‘She was innocent! She took nothing, and I should have been more careful when I laid charges against an upright, honest woman. And now you must excuse me. I leave for Tangier in a few days, and there is a great deal to do.’
‘Who is doing this?’ Chaloner asked gently. ‘Making you abandon your home and sail for a-’
‘No one!’ shouted Bridges. His red cheeks had turned a ghastly grey. ‘I am going to inspect calico for the navy. No one is driving me away. You must leave — and please do not tell anyone you have been here. I will make it worth your while.’
Chaloner stopped him when he started to reach for his purse. ‘No one will know, I promise, but I need your help. Annabel Reade is now preying on another man. His name is Leybourn, and he-’
‘Will Leybourn?’ interrupted Bridges. ‘He designed the astrological ring-dial I keep in my garden. I shall miss it when I go to Tangier. Poor Leybourn. If Reade has her claws in him, then …’
‘I would like to prise them out,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I need solid evidence.’
‘I cannot help you.’ Bridges was close to tears. ‘Not even for Leybourn. You will have to find someone else. God knows, there must be more of us who were deceived by the woman.’
‘Then tell me about her husband. Who is he?’
‘He called himself Mr Reade, although I have no way of knowing if it was his real name. He is a fierce fellow with a number of fierce friends. I do not want to attract his attention again. Not ever.’
‘Hectors?’ asked Chaloner.
Bridges looked out of the window, and did not reply.
‘If you are leaving, what do you have to lose?’ asked Chaloner, suppressing the urge to grab the man and shake the information out of him. ‘Even Hectors cannot touch you in Tangier.’
‘I am not gone yet, and I shall be leaving a house and valued servants to mind it. I am sorry, but I must protect my interests. Leybourn is clever; he will devise his own way out of his predicament.’
Only if he knew he was in one, thought Chaloner. He tried to press Bridges further, but the draper stubbornly refused to say more, and eventually called for his retainers, threatening to remove Chaloner by force if he did not leave of his own volition. Chaloner turned after he had stepped outside.
‘If you have second thoughts, my name is Heyden, and I can be reached through the Golden Lion.’
‘I will not have second thoughts,’ said Bridges firmly. ‘Not for anyone.’
It was ten o’clock, and Chaloner still had two hours before he was due to dine with Brome and Joanna. He walked inside the Royal Exchange, to think about what to do next. The Royal Exchange had been built a hundred years before, as a place where merchants could meet to do business. It comprised a rectangle of tiered shops around a cloister-like piazza, and was always busy. Finding a spot where he would not be jostled or asked to buy something was not easy, but he managed eventually, and stood staring across the rain-swept square, considering what he had learned.
What was Crisp’s — and his Hectors’ — role in the murders Chaloner was investigating? The Butcher had employed Newburne; he may have commissioned music from Maylord and Smegergill; and the unhappy Finch had been playing tunes that were similar to the discordant harmonies found in Maylord’s chimney. Mary Cade also claimed to know him, and given that she entertained Hectors in Leybourn’s home, it was possible that her artful deception on Leybourn was being conducted with Crisp’s blessing and help. They had certainly rallied when Bridges had exposed her felonious activities. Yet the connections between Crisp and the murders were like cobwebs; they appeared to be substantial, but they were not — and Chaloner could not prove Crisp was involved in any of the deaths.
Reluctantly, he supposed he would have to make the Butcher’s acquaintance after all. He was not really ready to tackle a man whom everyone said was powerful and dangerous, but with only three days to go before he lost his last chance of intelligence work — and probably even less time before Mary told her cronies that he was the man they were hunting for the Smegergill incident — he was out of options. Resigned to what he was sure would be a difficult interview, he made his way to Smithfield.
The meat market was hectic. The pens in the great open space were full of bleating sheep and lowing cattle, and men yelled and bartered, oblivious to the eye-watering stench of old urine, manure and rotting entrails from the nearby slaughterhouses. Hectors moved in small, confident bands, exchanging nods and sums of money with drovers and merchants, and a baker’s-boy was doing a roaring trade with his tray of fruit pastries. Two sharp-featured youths jostled a clerk Chaloner knew from White Hall; when the fellow whipped around to face them, a third thief cut his purse strings from behind. When something similar started to happen to the spy, one reeled away with a bleeding nose, while the other found himself flat on his back with Chaloner’s foot across his throat.