‘Lord!’ muttered Leybourn, disconcerted. ‘I do not think I can eat it, not with Joanna … I mean …’
Chaloner was not so squeamish, and as it was one of few decent meals he had had in weeks, his appreciation was genuine. Afterwards, slightly queasy from gluttony, he sat by the fire and listened to Brome and Leybourn debate the merits of Gunter’s Quadrant, while Joanna played with the kittens. It was a pleasant, happy scene, and he did not want it to end. It was the first time he had felt so relaxed and contented since the love of his life, Metje, had died the previous year.
‘Have you met Mary, Mr Heyden?’ asked Joanna in a low voice, once Brome and Leybourn were so engrossed in their debate that neither would have noticed anything short of an earthquake.
‘I am afraid so.’
She regarded him sombrely. ‘William is a very dear friend, and he deserves better than her. If you can find a way to prise them apart, and you need my help, you only need ask.’
‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I cannot think of anything that will not see him hurt.’
She frowned. ‘Then perhaps we can think of something together. The thought of that horrible woman using poor William for her own selfish ends makes me want to … to knock out all her teeth!’
‘I know,’ said Brome loudly, in response to some point the surveyor was making. ‘I have all your publications, do not forget. And I have read them.’
‘Have you?’ asked Chaloner, impressed. ‘There are dozens of them, all equally incomprehensible.’
‘How is Dorcus Newburne?’ asked Leybourn, changing the subject. He was used to Chaloner’s lack of appreciation for his chosen art, but that did not mean he liked it. ‘Still missing her vile husband?’
‘She loved him, William,’ said Joanna reproachfully. ‘And he had some virtues.’
‘Such as fining good men and spying,’ said Leybourn acidly. ‘I am sorry if she is unhappy, but I disliked him intensely. And I refuse to say nice things about him just because he is dead.’
‘He loved music,’ said Joanna stubbornly. ‘That is a virtue. I recall seeing him with Maylord only last week, planning a concert for her birthday.’
‘Do you think they kept it a secret from her?’ asked Chaloner, recalling how Dorcus had denied an acquaintance between her husband and Maylord when he had asked her about it.
‘They tried, but she knew anyway,’ said Brome. ‘She was looking forward to it, although with husband and musician gone, I suppose she will have to find some other way to celebrate.’
There was a short silence, during which Chaloner experienced a sharp pang of grief for his old friend. ‘Do you like working for L’Estrange?’ he asked, keen to talk about something else for a while.
Brome glanced towards the door, to ensure it was closed. ‘He is not an easy master, but my association with him has certainly allowed my business to expand — we sell almost all the government’s publications now. I suppose I could object when he treats me like an errant schoolboy, but I do not want to lose everything over a minor spat. The bookshop is important to me — to us.’
‘Hush!’ said Joanna in an urgent whisper. ‘I think he is coming.’
‘I saw you arrive an hour ago,’ said L’Estrange to Chaloner, marching in when Brome opened the door to his impatient rap, ‘but I thought I would let you eat your rabbit before we had some music.’
‘You mean to play now?’ asked Chaloner, startled by the presumption. ‘Here?’
‘Why not?’ L’Estrange snapped imperious fingers, and two servants entered, carrying viols. ‘I am in the mood, and no one can have anything better to do. What do you play, Leybourn?’
‘I sing,’ declared Leybourn loftily. Chaloner’s heart sank. Leybourn did not have a good voice, which L’Estrange was sure to comment on, and the surveyor was sensitive about it.
‘Very well, then,’ said L’Estrange. ‘You can trill to us, and we shall have some proper consort playing when you have finished. Did you practise those airs I gave you, Heyden?’
‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly, resenting the intrusion. He saw Joanna and Brome did not appear very keen, either, and hastened to stand up for them. ‘And I do not feel like music now. It is not-’
‘What was in this rabbit stew?’ demanded L’Estrange of Brome. ‘A lot of suet, to make his brains muddy? Come on, come on. It is only for a few minutes. Joanna can play the virginals to our viols. She is not very good, but we shall choose a piece where she does not have to do much.’
Chaloner might have laughed, had the man not been insulting people whose hospitality he was enjoying. He was about to tell him to go to Hell when Brome began to set chairs into consort formation and Joanna sat at the virginals, shooting the spy a glance that begged him not to make a fuss. Chaloner nodded acquiescence, although he objected to being bullied, and thought Brome a fool for not drawing the line at being ordered about in his own home. L’Estrange tapped the chairs with his bow, to indicate where he wanted people to sit, and then he was ready.
Unfortunately, so was Leybourn. He began to sing in a key entirely of his own devising, impossible to match, and the resulting harmony was far from pleasant. L’Estrange’s jaw dropped at the caterwauling and he struggled to find the right notes. Chaloner smiled encouragingly at the surveyor, maliciously gratified to note that L’Estrange was not enjoying it at all.
Stop!’ shouted Leybourn, breaking off and glaring at L’Estrange. ‘You are hopelessly out of tune. Just be quiet, and let Tom play. He knows what he is doing with a viol.’
Joanna’s eyes were bright with suppressed laughter, and the spy wondered if she had known what was going to happen — that she and Brome had allowed L’Estrange to prevail because they had heard Leybourn sing before. The surveyor warbled his way through two more ballads, while L’Estrange’s face contorted in agony, like a man sucking lemons. When he had finished, Leybourn picked up his coat.
‘I am afraid I cannot entertain you any longer, because Mary will be waiting for me. Thank you for your hospitality, Joanna. I hope you visit us soon. Mary does not cook, but our local tavern makes an excellent game pie, and Chyrurgeons’ Hall opposite has an ice-house, which means sherbets.’
‘I thought they used the ice for keeping corpses fresh,’ said Chaloner uneasily.
Leybourn waved an airy hand. ‘They wash everything off.’ Leaving his friends wondering exactly what was meant by ‘everything’, he sailed out.
‘I am glad he has gone,’ declared L’Estrange. ‘I do not think I could have endured much more of that, but was loath to tell him he sounded like a scalded cat lest he subjected me to more of his repertoire to prove me wrong.’
He launched into a well-known piece without giving them time to find the right music from the sheaf he had thrust at them, but they quickly fell in, and the sound of three viols and virginals was pleasing, although there was something muted and flat about the virginals, as though the damp had got at it. L’Estrange was not happy with the result, though.
‘Perhaps it should be played on the trumpet,’ he mused.
‘No,’ said Brome, uncharacteristically firm. ‘Trumpets are vulgar, raucous instruments, and four of them would make for a racket. What else do you have?’
‘This,’ said L’Estrange, passing out more sheets. ‘I would like to hear it played as a quartet.’
The music was written by someone with a cramped hand that was not easy to decipher, but although the poor quality of the manuscript might have resulted in a few wrong notes, it could not account for all the discord. Chaloner glanced at Brome’s page after a particularly jarring interval, sure the bookseller must have lost his place, but the fault lay in the music, not the player.
‘Enough!’ cried Joanna, putting her hands over her ears. ‘I do not mind humouring you with pleasant tunes, Mr L’Estrange, but this is horrible.’
L’Estrange grimaced. ‘My apologies. I just wanted to hear the piece aloud. It pains me to admit it, but I am not good at anticipating how an air will sound, just by looking at notes. My playing is excellent, of course, and the fault lies in the fact that I was not taught to read as well.’