‘Where can I find Ellis Crisp?’ Chaloner asked quietly.
‘I do not know,’ squeaked the pickpocket in alarm. ‘No one does. You have to arrange a meeting through one of his Hectors. Jonas Kirby is the best. That is him, over there.’
He pointed, and Chaloner recognised the Scot. He released the lad, and regarded Kirby thoughtfully. Perhaps an early confrontation with the Butcher could be avoided after all. Kirby had attacked Chaloner the night Smegergill had died; he had been with Nose in Wenum’s room; and he had stolen one of Leybourn’s silver goblets. He could answer some questions in his master’s stead.
Chaloner’s coat had a hood, and he used it to conceal his face as he lurked in an ally near Duck Lane. Kirby was selling Leybourn’s goblet to a fat cleric, who should have known better than to buy it. The Scot was well dressed for a henchman, although Chaloner imagined the clothes were stolen, perhaps from someone who had been stripped when he had been robbed in a dark churchyard. He supposed he was lucky he and Smegergill had not been subjected to that indignity at least.
Eventually, Kirby completed his business and moved towards a dim thoroughfare that was home to a number of seedy taverns. Chaloner accosted him as he was about to enter a particularly dingy one; the sign above its door advertised it as the Bear. A smell of cooking pies wafted from it, although the aroma was rank and meaty, and not in the least bit appetising.
‘Jonas Kirby,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘I want to talk to you.’
Kirby struggled to mask his surprise that someone had managed to creep so close behind him without being heard. ‘You were at Newburne’s funeral,’ he gabbled. ‘Leybourn’s friend. What do you want?’
From that response, Chaloner surmised that Mary had not yet shared her suspicions about his role in Smegergill’s death. ‘I thought we could talk about the Rhenish Wine House. You were there with a long-nosed man whom I believe is called Ireton.’
Kirby’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, it was you we almost caught, was it? Ireton will want to meet you — he objected to someone searching Maylord’s place before us, and removing valuable documents.’
‘There were no documents. Perhaps someone else was there before both of us.’
Kirby looked sceptical, then took a sudden step forward. A knife appeared in his hand, but Chaloner was faster. He had knocked the weapon away and had his own blade under Kirby’s chin before the henchman realised what was happening.
‘Easy!’ squawked Kirby, when Chaloner’s blade nicked his neck. ‘There is no need for rough manners. Let me buy you a pie. The Bear does good pies — Crisp’s best.’
He smiled weakly, but then there was a second dagger in his hand. Chaloner had been anticipating such a move, and hooked Kirby’s feet from under him, causing him to fall flat on his back, while the weapon skittered into the nearest drain. The noise brought several patrons to the tavern door, and at least two sniggered when they saw Kirby sprawled on the filthy ground. Kirby glowered at Chaloner as he waved them away, and the spy saw he would not forget his humiliation in a hurry.
‘What do you want from me?’ he growled.
‘The answers to some questions. Shall we go and sit down, like civilised men?’
Kirby climbed slowly to his feet, then led the way inside the Bear. Chaloner looked around quickly. A back door led to an unsavoury little yard that reeked of urine, and there was a gate that would open into Duck Lane. He took the seat by the wall, leaving Kirby the one that would bear the brunt of any attack from the main entrance. As they sat, a dirty pot-boy slapped two pies on a rickety table, and mumbled something about them coming compliments of the owner.
‘You killed Smegergill,’ said Chaloner, pushing the pie away from him. Despite his nagging hunger, its oily scent was making him queasy and he found he was loath to touch anything that might contain parts of Crisp’s enemies.
‘I never touched him,’ declared Kirby vehemently. ‘None of us did. I hit his friend hard enough to scramble his brains, but he somehow survived, and must have vented his spleen on the old man when he came to. He was younger — medium height, sturdy build. A bit like you, now I think about it.’
‘It was not me. Why do you think he killed Smegergill?’
‘Because no one else was there, and Smegergill was alive when we left him. Ireton had talked to him, and told him that if he kept quiet, he could escape unscathed.’
Had Ireton killed him, then, Chaloner wondered, while his accomplices were under the illusion the old man was being offered his life? ‘What was the purpose of the attack?’
‘We were following orders. Find the Court musicians; kill the younger one; let the old man go. We only found out later that it was Smegergill. We all know him — by sight at least — because he always plays the organ at the Bartholomew Fair.’
‘Orders from whom?’
Kirby looked as though he might refuse to answer, so Chaloner drew his dagger. ‘I do not know! We had written instructions. They said we were to get letters from the young one’s purse, but it was empty and there were no letters. They were early, too, so we were not quite ready for them. We had to improvise, which is why I forgot to make sure he was really dead.’
‘How do you know you attacked the right people?’
‘Because Smegergill was wearing the uniform of the King’s Music. It is distinctive, so of course they were the right ones.’
Several facts settled into a sensible pattern in Chaloner’s mind at last, and the germ of a solution began to take shape. He saw his unplanned waylaying of Smegergill had set in motion a chain of events that no one could have predicted.
‘Greeting,’ he murmured to himself. ‘His elderly friend Hingston is staying at his Smithfield lodgings, because his home is flooded. They were expected to walk past the churchyard later that night, because the driver of their carriage demanded extra money to take them all the way home, and ousted them when they could not pay. It was deliberate. And they were both wearing uniforms.’
Kirby ate his pie while Chaloner continued to analyse his conclusions in silence. So, no one had wanted to kill him or Smegergill. The intended victim had been Greeting, who probably did have letters with him, given that he, by his own admission, worked for Williamson. Chaloner supposed he would have to talk to Greeting and ascertain what he had been carrying that night.
So what had happened to Smegergill? Kirby, Ireton and Fingerless had followed their orders — or thought they had — and Ireton had gone to demand Smegergill’s silence, while Kirby and Fingerless searched Chaloner. Had Ireton killed Smegergill when he realised the wrong men had been attacked? Yet Kirby did not seem to think a mistake had been made, and so perhaps Ireton did not, either. So, why had Smegergill ended up dead?
Chaloner thought about the elderly musician. Thurloe had distrusted him, while Temperance and Maude had conflicting opinions: one thought he was coolly rational, amusing himself at the expense of gullible sympathisers, while the other believed he was losing his wits. Which was true? And what of Greeting’s information — that Smegergill had enjoyed an association with Hectors? Had playing the organ for the Bartholomew Fair led to other things? But if Smegergill was friends with the Hectors, then why had he been killed? Surely, he would have been spared? Or had he annoyed Crisp by being ‘difficult’, and Ireton had taken the opportunity to dispatch him?
A flicker of movement interrupted his reflections. Someone was outside: the Hectors were finally ready to rescue their crony. Chaloner indicated with a flick of his dagger that Kirby was to stand, then shoved him hard before he was properly balanced, so he went sprawling through the entranceway. The timing was perfect. Kirby became hopelessly entangled with his friends, which gave Chaloner vital seconds to escape. The spy opened the back door and shot into the yard. The gate was locked, forcing him to scramble over the wall, thus losing the small advantage of time he had gained.