While Brome replaced the chairs and L’Estrange lectured Joanna on her posture, Chaloner studied all four scores together. Unlike the newsbook editor, he was good at reading music on paper, but could tell that whoever had composed this particular arrangement had done so with scant regard to melody or mode. The timing fitted, so everyone started and finished together, but that was about all. He recalled the other odd music he had encountered recently — the ‘documents’ he had recovered from Maylord’s chimney. Surreptitiously, he pulled one of the sheets from his pocket and compared it to L’Estrange’s. What he saw made his thoughts whirl in confusion.
Both were penned by the same hand, because there were identical eccentricities of notation. But why would Maylord and L’Estrange own pieces by the same composer — especially as that composer was one whose ‘tunes’ would never be popular, not even with the tone-deaf? Then it occurred to him that he had come across two more examples. First, there had been sheet music in Wenum’s room, although all he could recall about that was that it was an unattractive jig. And secondly, Finch had been playing a discordant melody the first time Chaloner had visited; he had probably been practising it before he had been poisoned, too, because it had been lying on the windowsill. Then Hickes had come along and stuffed it in his pocket. Chaloner had assumed Hickes could not read and had just taken something with writing on it, but what if he was wrong? What if the music was significant?
And that was not all. Greeting had said that Maylord and Smegergill had been heard playing odd tunes of late, and had made the assumption that they had been commissioned to perform for someone with eclectic tastes — namely Crisp. Was Greeting right? Chaloner was not at all sure, because he had not heard anyone else say the Butcher of Smithfield was artistically inclined, and ‘tunes of the Orient’ seemed rather an exotic interest for a meat merchant with a penchant for putting his enemies in pies.
He reviewed what he knew, trying to be objective. Four sets of the odd music had been in possession of four different men: Maylord, who had been smothered; Finch and Newburne-Wenum, who had been poisoned; and now L’Estrange. Chaloner shoved Maylord’s ‘document’ out of sight when L’Estrange came towards him.
‘May I keep this?’ he asked, waving the score they had just played. ‘To practise?’
L’Estrange raised his eyebrows. ‘If you must, but you will be wasting your time. I do not think greater familiarity will make it sound any better.’
‘How did you come by it?’ Chaloner asked curiously.
L’Estrange looked oddly furtive. He shrugged, so his earrings glinted. ‘Oh, here and there,’ he replied vaguely. ‘And now, unless you have practised the air I wrote and are ready and willing to play it to perfection, I have more important things to do than dally with amateurs.’
‘Have you, indeed?’ murmured Chaloner, watching the editor stalk out.
L’Estrange wanted another news item about Portugal, so Chaloner sat in the editor’s office and penned a description of the preparations that were taking place in Lisbon for the predicted war with Spain. Even as he wrote, he was sure the newsbook readers would prefer a report on the Queen’s health.
‘Nonsense,’ declared L’Estrange, when Chaloner said so. ‘However, I suppose I can include a sentence about Monsieur de Harcourt, who had a dangerous fit of apoplexy in Paris last week.’
‘Who is Monsieur de Harcourt?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Damned if I know,’ replied L’Estrange. ‘But the news should satisfy any ghoulish cravings among my readership for tales of sickness.’
Chaloner left when Mrs Nott arrived for a proofreading session, although her careful face-paints and immaculate dress suggested she intended to do more than just look for typographical errors. He heard the office door lock behind him when he stepped out, although L’Estrange called out that it was only a precaution against phanatiques. Chaloner was tempted to ask why it had not been secured when he had been working there, but there was no point in deliberately antagonising the man. He walked down the stairs, treading softly out of habit, rather than with any serious desire to move unseen. He had almost reached the bottom, when he heard voices in what he assumed was the kitchen. He glanced towards it, and saw a familiar figure framed in the doorway, standing with his back to him. It was Hickes, the apple-seller, commonly thought to be Williamson’s ‘best spy’. Chaloner ducked into a coat-cupboard when he heard the faint clink of coins. A purse was changing hands.
‘Leave through the rear door,’ said Brome in a low voice. ‘I do not want L’Estrange to see you.’
‘I can well imagine,’ said Hickes dryly. ‘Until next time, then.’
Chaloner was in a quandary. Why was Hickes giving money to Brome? Was it to provide the Spymaster with inside information about L’Estrange? Chaloner had assumed that, because Williamson and L’Estrange were on the same side, one would have no need to monitor the other. Yet the world of the newsmongers was opaque and confusing, and he was not sure who owed allegiance to whom. He already had proof that Hodgkinson had developed an understanding with Muddiman, and Newburne had been betraying the newsbooks on a regular basis, if the ledger was to be believed. Chaloner scratched his head, not sure what to think. He liked Brome, and sincerely hoped there would be an innocent explanation for what he had just witnessed.
His instinctive dive into a hiding place had left him in an awkward position. Brome was now in the kitchen, and Chaloner could not leave as long as he was there, because he would be seen — and he did not want Brome to think he had enjoyed his hospitality and then immediately resorted to clandestine activities in his home. So, as there was no way he could escape from the coats until the coast was clear, he was obliged to wait. Joanna was in the shop, serving a customer.
‘Read it back to me,’ the man was demanding. He sounded excited. ‘I want to hear it, to make sure you have it right. This is very important, and we cannot afford a single mistake.’
‘“Mr Turner’s dentifrices, which clean the teeth, making them white as ivory,” ’ intoned Joanna. ‘“Prevents toothache, makes the breath sweet and preserves the gums from canker and impostumes.”’
The man rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘You have it perfectly! That is just what Mr Turner’s dentifrices do, and your words will have folk clamouring at my door for them. Read on, read on!’
‘“They are sold by Mr Rokkes at the Lamb and Ink Bottle, at the east end of St Paul’s Church.”’
‘Yes, yes!’ cried Rokkes. ‘And it will appear just like that? My own name on the line below the praise for Mr Turner’s dentifrice?’
‘Just like that, Mr Rokkes,’ said Joanna, beaming at him. ‘I imagine you will recoup your five shillings in a matter of days. Will you sign the ledger, to say you have given us the fee?’
Rokkes left the shop singing to himself, but Joanna had done no more than scatter sand on the wet ink before a figure materialised from where it had been lurking on the stairs. Uneasily, Chaloner wondered just how long it had been there, and what else it had seen.
‘We should not accept notices from men like him,’ said L’Estrange softly. ‘It is a waste of space.’
‘He paid his five shillings,’ objected Joanna. He had made her jump with his sudden appearance. ‘And people might prefer to read about teeth than horses, for a change. Of course, I am not saying dentifrices are more interesting than livestock in the overall scheme of things-’
‘Horses raise the tone of a publication,’ argued L’Estrange. ‘On the other hand, Mr Turner’s dentifrices will make us a laughing stock. Can you imagine what Muddiman will say, when he reads that this concoction acts against impostumes? I do not even know what impostumes are. Do you?’