When he passed the Rainbow Coffee House, he met Joseph Thompson, the rector of his parish church, who invited him inside to share a dish of chocolate. Chaloner accepted, although chocolate was a foul, oily, bitter beverage that few men could swallow without wincing. He and Thompson began a lively discussion about the political implications of the Infanta Margarita’s marriage contract to the Emperor, which had featured in Muddiman’s latest newsletter, although most other patrons said they did not care about foreign weddings. However, they all said they were looking forward to the next Intelligencer, because they had been told there was to be an especially large missing-horse section.
‘Perhaps it will mention the Queen’s distemper, too,’ said Thompson eagerly. ‘And more news about that dreadful earthquake in Quebec.’
The men at his table scoffed derisively. ‘It will hold forth about phanatiques,’ said one.
‘It was probably phanatiques who caused the earthquake,’ said another, making his cronies laugh.
It was raining hard when Chaloner left the Rainbow, and he thought about his investigations as he walked to White Hall. As far as Mary was concerned, his enquiries were complete. He had satisfied himself that she was definitely a felon — Bridges’ reluctant testimony proved that, and so did Kirby’s theft of the sack — and she only wanted Leybourn for his money. Now the surveyor did not have any, she would leave him and move to greener pastures. Of course, Leybourn also owned a pleasant house, a thriving business and a stock of books and valuable mathematical implements, but Chaloner did not think they would be enough to hold her. He was sorry his friend was about to have his heart broken, but knew it would have happened anyway, with or without his interference.
Less satisfactory was his investigation into the murder of Newburne. What could he tell the Earl about it? That he was uncovering more information with every passing day, but that it made no sense? That he had started off with Muddiman as his prime suspect, because the newsletter-man had bought cucumbers at Covent Garden the day before Newburne had died, but that now his list of potential culprits included virtually everyone he had met and some folk he had not? For example, Joanna and L’Estrange were more intimate than was respectable, and Newburne might have tried to blackmail them. Meanwhile, Brome was an enigma, and Chaloner had no idea whose side he was on. Then there were hundreds of booksellers who wanted Newburne dead, and even the Army of Angels might have exchanged innocent lozenges for ones that were deadly. So might Newburne’s wife, or Crisp. The cucumbers or poison connected Newburne to Colonel Beauclair, Valentine Pettis, the sedan-chairmen and Maylord. And there was the music.
And Maylord? Chaloner had no clue as to who might have smothered him, and nor did he understand the strands that linked the musician to the other cucumber deaths. The same went for Smegergill, although he was beginning to question his previous certainty that Ireton, Kirby and Treen were responsible.
He arrived at White Hall, and found it in chaos. Servants rushed everywhere, staggering under the weight of furniture, heaps of paper, kitchen equipment, armfuls of clothes and the contents of the King’s scientific laboratory. The last time Chaloner had witnessed such alarm was during the first civil war, when the Royalists had won a number of battles and Parliament-loyal settlements had packed all they could carry in the face of imminent invasion. Then Cromwell had trained the New Model Army, and it had been Cavalier households that had faced the humiliation of enemy occupation.
‘What is happening?’ he asked a passing soldier, a rough fellow called Sergeant Picard.
‘The tide is coming in,’ explained Picard tersely.
Chaloner prevented him from dashing off. ‘It does that most days. Twice, usually.’
‘Well, this time it is worse,’ said Picard, freeing himself impatiently. ‘It is predicted to be an unusually high one, and the river has already breached its banks around Deptford.’
‘Is the palace being evacuated?’ But Picard was gone, and Chaloner was left to make what he would of the situation.
The frenzy reached new heights when it was discovered that one of the kitchens was on fire, too. Because White Hall comprised mostly timber-framed buildings, Chaloner ran towards the smoke to see what could be done to prevent an inferno. He and a competent military man, who said he was John Bayspoole, Surveyor of Stables, grabbed buckets and doused the flames between them, while scullions watched but could not be induced to help in any significant way. The blaze was not a serious one, so it was not long before they had it under control.
Bayspoole wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. ‘Everyone is so obsessed by the notion of flood that they forget fire is a far more serious hazard. And look at those cooks! They are racing to save their precious cakes, but there are horses waiting to be evacuated. Has the world gone mad, when a pastry is considered more important than a palfrey?’
Chaloner watched the bakers dodge around them, bearing trays of tarts. They were still warm from the ovens, and their scent was enough to make a hungry man dizzy. ‘Did you know Colonel Beauclair?’ he asked, to take his mind off his empty stomach.
‘Owned a fine black stallion and a sweet bay mare. Died of eating cucumbers, apparently, although I suspect the real culprit was those green lozenges he was sent. The spy Hickes showed them to me.’
‘Sent by whom?’
‘Some acquaintance from his coffee house, probably. His horses went missing after his death, which was a damned shame, because I would have bought the black stallion from his heirs.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘You think he was killed because someone wanted his horses?’
Bayspoole nodded. ‘Of course. Horses are the only thing worth stealing, as far as I am concerned. You can keep your jewels and your fine gold, but horses … speaking of which, I had better go and make sure the King’s beasts are taken to St James’s Park, because no one else will bother.’
He hurried away, and Chaloner resumed his walk to the Earl’s offices, deep in thought. Horses were a theme in the murders — Maylord had owned one, Beauclair was an equerry and Pettis was a horse-trader. Had Maylord been killed for his nag, too? But what about Newburne and Finch? They had nothing to do with horses. Or did they? Both had lived near Smithfield, which was famous for its livestock. And Crisp was the Butcher of Smithfield.
Chaloner reached the Privy Gardens, and climbed the stairs to the Earl’s offices, but they were abandoned by everyone except Bulteel, who was working with the air of a wounded martyr.
‘Has the Earl threatened to dismiss you again?’ asked Chaloner, wondering why the clerk was always at his desk. He knew Bulteel was married, because the happy day had been the previous January, and Bulteel had given him a piece of cake. It had been very good cake, too, better than anything he had had since. He rubbed his stomach, and wished he could stop thinking about food.
Bulteel sighed. ‘He says if I cannot find a more efficient way of managing his business, he will hire another secretary. But this is the most efficient system, and there is no way I can make it better.’
‘And I am a good spy,’ said Chaloner ruefully, ‘but he makes me feel as though I am more of a nuisance than an asset.’
Bulteel regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you and I should join forces.’
Chaloner smiled, always ready to forge new alliances. He was wary of trusting anyone at White Hall, but there was no reason why he and Bulteel should not assist each other from time to time. ‘All right. Do you know anything that will help me with Newburne?’