‘Abscesses,’ replied Joanna promptly. ‘Or persons with dubious morals, when used figuratively. Where is Mrs Nott? Not that I think she has dubious morals, of course, but-’
‘Proof-reading.’ L’Estrange glanced down the corridor, saw Brome silhouetted in the kitchen, and moved briskly out of his line of sight to catch Joanna’s hand. He held it to his lips, and treated her to one of his wolfish, gap-toothed grins. She did not seem outraged by the unsolicited gesture, but her smile did not seem overly encouraging, either. Chaloner watched in confusion, wondering what sort of man flirted with his employee’s wife while another woman eagerly awaited his attentions upstairs.
‘I had better take these notices to Hodgkinson,’ said Joanna, heading for the coat-cupboard. ‘We do not want The Intelligencer to be printed late again.’
Chaloner braced himself for discovery, but rescue came from an unexpected quarter. Without taking his eyes off Joanna, L’Estrange reached back and snagged her cloak, tweaking it off the peg and whisking it around her shoulders in a single suave manoeuvre. Surreptitiously, Chaloner eased deeper into the remaining garments, thinking it fortunate that Brome owned so many of them. When Joanna staggered slightly, L’Estrange put both hands on her waist in a move that was unmistakeably intimate.
‘Steady,’ he breathed, his mouth close to her ear. ‘We do not want you to fall.’
It was some time before Chaloner was able to escape, and his mind was full of questions, not just about the significance of the music, but about Brome and Joanna, too. What was the meaning of Hickes’s visit, and had L’Estrange really made a play for Joanna? Chaloner liked her, but failed to see her as someone to be seduced. Then it occurred to him that L’Estrange might not be so fussy. However, he was left with an uncomfortable, sordid feeling about the entire situation, and wished he had not witnessed it.
He had not gone far when he saw Hickes emerge from a cook-shop with a pie in his hand. Thinking it was a good opportunity to question him about Brome, he moved to intercept the man, but changed his mind at the last minute. He began to follow him instead, finding comfort in the familiar business of trailing someone. He was not sure what he hoped to achieve, but Hickes was moving with purpose, and Chaloner had the sense that it would be helpful to know where he was going. He kept his distance as Hickes trudged along, but he need not have bothered. Hickes was more interested in evading the spray from carts than in making sure he was not being pursued, and tracking him was absurdly easy.
It was not long before Williamson’s master spy reached the Fleet bridge at Ludgate. Crossing it was easier said than done, though, because the normally sluggish stream had become a raging torrent, and the structure was awash. The water was only calf-deep, but it flowed wickedly fast, and Chaloner saw two men take a tumble, only saved from being swept away by clutching the balustrades. Hickes was too heavy to be toppled, and splashed carelessly through the hazard. Chaloner was more wary; he skidded twice and almost fell, and knew it would not be long before the authorities deemed the bridge too dangerous to keep open. Eventually, Hickes arrived at Muddiman’s office on The Strand, where he took up station opposite, and began to eat his pie. With nothing better to do, Chaloner approached him.
‘You should be wary of those things,’ he said in a low voice that made the man jump. ‘I have heard they are not very wholesome.’
‘Ellis Crisp’s are not,’ agreed Hickes, regaining his composure quickly. ‘I do not eat my friends — and anyone who opposes the Butcher of Smithfield can consider himself a friend of mine.’
‘I know. You are Mr Hickes, ostensibly Clerk of the Letter Office, but actually Williamson’s spy.’
Hickes grimaced his annoyance. ‘Who told you that? Muddiman? Well, I suppose it does not matter. Are you going to tell me who you are? You fibbed last time. You said you worked for the Earl of Clarendon, but I looked on his payroll and you are not listed.’
‘So I have discovered,’ replied Chaloner ruefully. ‘Are Muddiman and Dury in?’
‘Muddiman went to Smithfield this morning, but he came back, and the pair of them have been at their writing ever since. Can you see them, sitting at the table?’
Chaloner wondered whether it was words or music they were poring over so intently. ‘And they have been there all afternoon? Are you sure? You have not gone off on an errand of your own?’
‘I have not moved,’ said Hickes firmly. He nodded towards Muddiman’s house. ‘You can ask them if you do not believe me. They look up every so often and wave.’
‘Do you know Henry Brome?’ asked Chaloner, bemused by the brazen lie.
‘We have never met. Why? Do you want to know when he goes out, so you can visit Joanna? She is a sweet lady, and I might tip a hat at her myself, but Mrs Hickes would not like it.’
Chaloner supposed he had no idea Mrs Hickes was a member of the Army of Angels, and all that entailed. ‘Do many men visit Joanna, then?’
‘No, she is a respectable soul. It was your motives I was questioning. Why do you ask about her husband? Because there must be something suspect about a man who can put up with L’Estrange?’
‘Is there something suspect about him?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Does he accept bribes or-’
‘I have no idea,’ replied Hickes firmly. ‘I have never met him, as I said.’
‘Did you know Hen Finch?’ asked Chaloner, to see if Hickes dissembled about everything.
‘You are full of questions today. Why do you want to know about him?’
‘Because a man matching your description ransacked his chambers yesterday.’
Hickes glared at him. ‘It is rude to ask a question if you already know the answer. And I did not ransack his chambers — I was very respectful. Williamson ordered me to take a look around, but I was too late, because someone else was there before me. The thief was after documents.’
‘How do you know what he wanted?’
Hickes regarded him patronisingly. ‘Because Finch was poor. He owned nothing of value, so what other reason could a burglar have had for being there? He was a trumpeter, but I dislike music, personally, except when it is used to heal the sick. Did you know Greeting played his violin to cure the Queen of distemper?’
‘I understand Finch and Newburne shared a fondness for music — for pleasure, not medicine.’
‘There is a lot of it about,’ said Hickes distastefully. ‘Finch once trumpeted to Maylord’s viol, and Newburne was among the listeners. I was forced to sit through it, too, because Muddiman and Dury were there.’
Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. Could Hickes be trusted to tell the truth about an association between Maylord and the unsavoury solicitor? Of course, this was really a link between Maylord and Finch, and Newburne had just happened to be there. Yet if Hickes was right, then music was a connection between three men who had been murdered.
‘What did Williamson expect you to find in Finch’s room?’ he asked.
‘Jewels.’
‘Jewels?’ pressed Chaloner, when no further explanation was forthcoming. ‘What sort of jewels?’
‘All sorts. Surely, you have heard the rumour that Newburne owned a box of them? Well, Williamson wanted me to see if Finch had it, given that his widow denies all knowledge. Personally, I do not believe it exists, but he told me to look anyway.’
‘Is that all? Williamson did not tell you to collect letters? Or music? Or evidence that Finch — with Newburne’s help — might have been selling items of news to L’Estrange’s rivals?’
Hickes glared at Chaloner and while his attention was taken, Dury slipped out of the house he was supposed to be watching. Hickes did not notice. ‘You have a suspicious mind! If you must know, he also told me to collect anything written, so he could decide whether it was significant. Unfortunately, the thief had got it all, and virtually nothing was left. Williamson was vexed, I can tell you!’