‘You have some very odd skills,’ grumbled Greeting. ‘Bandying swords with felons, scaling walls, knowing your way around dark cemeteries. Is this where part-time spying for the Lord Chancellor leads? What are you doing here at this time of night, anyway? I thought you lived on Fetter Lane.’
‘I could ask you the same question,’ said Chaloner, still alert for any sign of pursuit.
‘Hodgkinson owns a print-shop on Duck Lane and I rent the attic above it. We live here — you do not. And what were you thinking of, taking on Hectors? Are you insane?’
‘Are you insane?’ countered Chaloner. ‘I cannot see Hectors being very happy about heavy-fingered gunmen taking up residence in their domain, either.’
‘He is right,’ said Hodgkinson sternly to the agitated musician. ‘I told you to point it and wait for me to sneak up behind them, not merrily blast away at whatever took your fancy. The sound of a gun discharging might have brought the entire gang down on us.’
Chaloner regarded them uncertainly, not sure what to make of their timely appearance. ‘You are working together?’
‘Williamson wants to know what really happened to Smegergill — he investigates all White Hall deaths.’ Greeting was shaking almost uncontrollably now the danger was over. ‘So he told me to come to the place where he was murdered, to see what kind of villains lurk. He believes such men are creatures of habit, and rarely stray far from the scenes of their crimes. I think he normally hires Hectors for this sort of thing, but as one of them might be the killer, he ordered me here instead.’
‘It is brave of you to do it, though,’ said Chaloner, thinking the man was a fool to accept such a commission when his ability to protect himself was dubious, to say the least.
Greeting seemed close to tears. ‘I had no choice! He said my consort would never play again if I did not do as he asked. If I had known that offering my services once would amount to me selling my soul, I would never have done it. I am not cut out for this sort of thing. I am an artist, not some lout who wanders around in filthy clothing and knows how to fight and climb walls.’
‘And you?’ Chaloner asked Hodgkinson, overlooking the insult on the grounds that Greeting probably did not realise what he had said. ‘Are you blackmailed into helping Williamson, too?’
‘Greeting and I are friends — I publish his music, and he rents my attic. When he told me what he had been compelled to do, I offered to help, because I did not think he should do it alone.’
‘Luckily for you, Heyden,’ added Greeting shakily. ‘I am no Sir Galahad, and would never have tackled Ireton and his friends had Hodgkinson not told me what to do.’
‘Why did you risk yourselves?’ asked Chaloner, declining to mention that he had never been in any real danger. Ireton had represented a challenge, but not with Treen getting in the way and grabbing his arms. And unfortunately for Greeting and Hodgkinson, their act of bravado was likely to have grave consequences for their future in the area.
‘Because Treen said you were the man who attacked Kirby today,’ replied Hodgkinson sheepishly. ‘That makes you a hero to anyone who resents the Hectors and their safety taxes, and we wanted to save you from them. However, our rescue did not go quite as planned. Greeting forgot to put on his mask, and then he fired his dag before I was in position.’
‘Mask?’ Greeting looked at the material in his hand, then groaned. ‘Oh, Christ! That means they saw my face! What have I done? Damn Williamson and his unreasonable demands! And damn you, too, Heyden. I told Hodgkinson we should not interfere, regardless of your courage in pressing a knife to Kirby’s throat. And speaking of murderous attacks, Ireton seemed to think you might know more about Smegergill’s demise than you have led me to believe. Is it true?’
‘I did not kill Smegergill,’ said Chaloner quietly.
‘So you have said before. However, you were with him when he was attacked, because Ireton recognised you, and he is not stupid. And you do match the description given by the witnesses.’
‘Heyden is not the killer,’ said Hodgkinson with considerable conviction. Greeting looked at him in surprise, and so did Chaloner. The printer hastened to explain himself. ‘Whoever killed Smegergill also stole his ring, and Heyden is no thief. He found a valuable pen this morning — he could have kept it, but he returned it to me without a moment’s hesitation. A man who kills for money does not blithely relinquish a silver Fountain Inkhorn.’
Chaloner sincerely hoped they would not ask to see the contents of his pockets, because Smegergill’s ring was in one of them. ‘I was with Smegergill that night,’ he admitted. ‘And I failed to protect him, to my eternal shame.’
Greeting nodded his satisfaction. ‘I knew you were involved somehow. But if you say you did not harm Smegergill, then I shall believe you. Maylord always said nice things about you, and that is good enough for me. How much longer do we have to stay here? I am wet through and want to go home.’
‘You cannot go home,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘You do not have anything to tell Williamson yet — other than that Treen and his cronies charge an unofficial toll for using Aldersgate, and he probably knows that already. You will have to go back, and see who else comes crawling along.’
‘Ireton, Kirby and Treen attacked the wrong two men the night Smegergill died,’ Chaloner said to Greeting, when Hodgkinson had gone to see if the coast was clear. ‘They were ordered to ambush an old musician and his younger companion, and be sure to kill the latter. But their victims arrived early, and they made a mess of the attack. I believe the real target was you. Not me, and not Smegergill.’
Greeting gazed at him. ‘Me? I do not believe you.’
‘Your coachman was probably bribed to make you get out of his carriage early, forcing you to walk the rest of the way. And Smegergill’s unanticipated decision to forgo your consort’s official transport led to a case of mistaken identity. You were carrying documents that night, and Ireton was charged to steal them. What were they? Something you were commissioned to deliver to Williamson?’
Greeting’s face was white. ‘This cannot be true,’ he said shakily.
‘Spying is a dangerous game, Greeting. People die all the time, especially those who work for Williamson — he considers them a readily disposable asset. You can keep his confidence if you like, but bear in mind that he will not be equally loyal to you.’
‘It was music,’ said Greeting in a low, frightened voice. ‘Just music. I tried to tell you.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘You mean the strange tunes you said Smegergill and Maylord had been practising? It was their music you were carrying?’
‘I think so. L’Estrange was at the Charterhouse concert that night, and Williamson told me to collect papers from him and take them to White Hall the following day. L’Estrange gave me a pouch, and I peeped inside when I got home. It was just music.’
Chaloner was confused. Had L’Estrange exchanged letters for tunes, because he knew the courier was going to be intercepted in St Bartholomew’s churchyard? ‘Presumably, you delivered the pouch to Williamson the next day. Was he surprised to see you? What did he say when he opened it?’
Greeting gazed at him, then raised an unsteady hand to rub his eyes. ‘What have I embroiled myself in? I have no idea whether he was surprised to see me, because his face is always impassive and impossible to read. He took the package, inspected it briefly, then threw the whole lot on the fire.’
Leybourn’s house was in darkness, so Chaloner let himself in through the back door. The surveyor kept his worldly wealth under a floorboard in the attic he used as a study, but before Chaloner could start up the stairs, he heard someone coming down them. Not wanting to be caught, he slid into a cupboard, taking refuge among brooms, rags and a brimming bucket of slops that someone had shoved out of sight and forgotten about. The stench in the confined space almost took his breath away.