Chaloner assumed the killer was responsible — he had eaten his pie while Finch had suffered the effects of the deadly lozenges, then he had grabbed all the documents he could find, set the cucumber and fled. Later, after Hickes and Chaloner had been, he had returned to the scene of his crime and removed the pills and any remaining papers — Chaloner doubted Hickes had mounted a very thorough search, and he himself had not had time before he had been interrupted.
‘Finch did not die of cucumbers, though,’ said Hickes, somewhat out of the blue. Chaloner raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘I know there was one on a plate near his body, but there were some green tablets, too, and I think they killed him. I saw boxes of Theophilus Buckworth’s Personal Lozenges when Colonel Beauclair and Valentine Pettis perished, you see.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘You refer to two of the other men who died after eating cucumbers?’
Hickes nodded. ‘But Beauclair had a box of these lozenges in addition to the cucumber by his bed. I saw both when I inspected his body.’
‘What led you to do that?’
‘Protocol. Beauclair died in White Hall, and Williamson’s secret service is obliged to look into all deaths that occur there, even natural ones.’
‘And Pettis? He was a horse-trader, I believe.’
‘He died in Hyde Park, showing off some nags, but because the King happened to be there, his death had to be probed, too. Pettis was allegedly eating cucumber before he died, but he also had a pot of these Personal Lozenges in his pocket. They were wrapped nice, and I thought they might have been given to him as a gift. They made my fingers itch when I picked one up.’
Chaloner was surprised Hickes had looked past the obvious, when it must have been tempting to opt for the easy solution and put the blame on cucumbers. He saw he would be wise not to underestimate James Hickes, tempting though it was to see him as a dull-witted lout barely capable of following his Spymaster’s instructions. Hickes continued with his explanation.
‘My wife eats cucumbers all the time — for wind — but they never harm her. And Pettis and Beauclair were strong, healthy men, so I do not believe a mere cucumber could have felled them. Maylord was also said to have died of cucumbers, although I know for a fact that anything green brought him out in hives. He would never had touched one, not unless someone forced him. It is patently obvious that someone poisoned all these men, although Williamson refuses to believe me.’
‘You have told him your theory?’
‘He just laughed at me,’ said Hickes resentfully. ‘He said it was the sort of rubbish he would expect from a man whose salary amounts to less than ten pounds a year.’
‘You should have demanded an increase, then, so he will take you more seriously in the future.’
Hickes chuckled. ‘I wish I had thought of that. Mrs Hickes has been on at me to get a rise, because she wants to buy herself some new clothes. She likes dressing up and going out.’
Chaloner was sure she did, especially if it involved a trip to the newsbook offices. He took his leave of Hickes, walking briskly to catch up with Dury. He followed him to the Rainbow Coffee House on Fleet Street, where Dury chose a table in the window. Within moments, he was joined by someone who was already inside. It was long-nosed Ireton, the Hector with the penchant for attacking people in dark churchyards. Chaloner watched them talk together until hunger and weariness drove him home.
Chapter 9
Time was running out for Chaloner, but he had reached a dead end with Newburne’s death. He smiled wryly as he sat in his room with the cat for company. He had never particularly liked working for the Earl, but now there was a very real danger of dismissal, he was determined to make sure it did not happen. It was a ridiculous situation, and he wished Cromwell had not died, the Commonwealth had not collapsed, Thurloe was still Spymaster, and he was still a regularly paid intelligence officer working overseas. His life had been a good deal less complicated — and less impoverished — when he had been under Thurloe’s orders.
He dragged his mind away from his own predicament, and began to consider his investigations, beginning with Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges. The advertisement in The Intelligencer meant a lot of them were being sold, so it was clear they were not all deadly. Ergo, someone had devised a way of doctoring them, and chose who they would kill — namely Newburne, Finch, Colonel Beauclair and Valentine Pettis. And perhaps others, too, whose names Chaloner did not know. Then cucumbers were left at the scene of the crime, and rumour allowed to take over. Yet there had been a cucumber with Maylord’s body, too, although Chaloner knew for a fact that he had not been poisoned. Did that mean there were two killers? Or was Maylord smothered because he refused to eat the green pills? Several people had mentioned Maylord’s aversion to green food.
Chaloner reviewed the victims in more detail. Beauclair was an equerry in His Majesty’s Horse, and Pettis had been a horse-dealer. Maylord had owned a racing horse. Newburne had no equine connection, as far Chaloner he knew, and Finch had been too poor to dabble in the exclusive world of expensive nags. And the two sedan-chairmen had connections to cucumbers, but not to horses. He wracked his brain for a clearer connection, but gave up when no answers were forthcoming.
Restlessly, he went to his viol and began to play. Of course, there was also a musical connection between some of the victims and suspects. Finch had been trumpeting one of the tuneless compositions when he had died. Maylord had kept a bundle of them in his chimney. Greeting thought Smegergill and Maylord had been commissioned to perform peculiar music for Crisp. L’Estrange had insisted that Chaloner, Brome and Joanna play one of the pieces, so he could hear how it sounded. Newburne had shared an interest in music with Finch and Maylord, although Dorcus Newburne had denied that her husband had owned an acquaintance with the violist.
When he heard the night-watch shout that it was ten o’clock on a cold, wet night, Chaloner stood and stretched. He had no desire to go out, but Leybourn was his friend, and it was his duty to protect him from Mary. Thus he had to acquire the surveyor’s hidden money before it was either stolen or she demanded so many gifts that it dwindled to nothing. Chaloner was sure she would leave Leybourn the moment his fortune was gone, and a timely burglary might encourage her to relinquish her prey sooner rather than later. He recalled Joanna’s offer to help him prise Mary away from Leybourn, and smiled. He was sure breaking and entering was not what she had in mind, but equally sure her affection for Leybourn would compel her to rise to the challenge — or try to rise, at any rate. He doubted she would be much of an asset, though, and he had always preferred working alone.
The cat unearthed something from a dark corner and began to eat, which reminded him of the rat on the mantelpiece. Unfortunately, his landlord was saying goodbye to a friend on the doorstep below, and Chaloner could not lob the thing out of the window as long as they were there; nor did he fancy carrying it downstairs in his hand, so it stayed where it was. He donned dark, shabby clothes and Isabella’s hat, then walked down the stairs, letting himself out through the back door to avoid questions from Ellis.
He padded through the sodden streets, sure London could not absorb much more rain, and wishing it would stop. The Ludgate bridge was closed, so he was obliged to use the Holborn crossing over the Fleet instead. The diversion meant he would have to approach Cripplegate via the edge of Smithfield, but he was not overly concerned. His scruffy attire would render him an unattractive target for Hectors, and as long as he stayed out of trouble, he would not be recognised — either as the man who had humiliated Kirby that day, or as the ‘musician’ they thought they had been paid to kill the previous Sunday.