‘He was the best, and my husband was determined to learn. Mallard refused at first, but Thomas could be very persuasive. He yielded in the end.’
So, thought Chaloner, perhaps whatever had driven Maylord into his frenzy of agitation was something heard or seen during one of these lessons. After all, Newburne had worked for three — and possibly more — very dubious masters. Any one of them might have embroiled the solicitor in business that Maylord would have found shocking.
‘This is a fine house,’ he said, moving on to his next quest: learning the way to Newburne’s hidden jewels. ‘And you have a pretty garden, too. Is that a sage bush?’
She beamed at him. ‘I have worked hard to make this a decent home. Would you like to see it?’
When he accepted, he was shown every room from attic to basement. It was indeed a pleasant dwelling. Dorcus stood at the top of the stairs while he descended the cellar steps, and his eyes immediately lit on a patch on the beaten-earth floor that had been recently disturbed. Bulteel was right!
Chaloner took his leave, then doubled back to the garden. Now familiar with not only the house, but its servants and routines, he let himself in through the pantry door and made for the basement again. It was dark, but the light from the single barred window was enough to see by. He scratched away the soil with his dagger until he reached a layer of sacking. Wrapped within it was a box. The box was small, no larger than a pocket prayerbook, and was ornately designed. It was secured by a pair of locks that were far too large for it. Chaloner stared at them for a moment, then, on a whim, inserted the keys he had taken from Maylord and Smegergill. They fitted perfectly, and he pushed back the lid to find the little container brimming to the top with precious stones. Newburne had indeed hidden himself a fortune.
Chapter 10
Chaloner gazed at the jewels, amazed that both finding the box and opening it had been so easy. But now what? Should he take it with him? It would be easy enough to steal, hidden in a pocket, but the problem was that he did not have anywhere secure to keep it. His rooms were no good, and he was loath to burden Thurloe with a second hoard to mind. However, he suspected it would be safe in Newburne’s cellar — the solicitor had been dead for almost two weeks and Chaloner could tell by the state of the hole that no one else had been to inspect it. Then he could collect it later, when it could be taken straight to the Earl.
His mind made up, he replaced box and dirt, stamping down firmly when the hole was filled. For good measure, he dragged a barrel across it, too, to conceal evidence of disturbance. He even took cobwebs from the ceiling and draped them over the cask, and only left when he was sure no visible sign of his visit remained. He was just making his escape through the garden when he heard voices.
The back gate opened, and two people entered. One was Dorcus, and the other was L’Estrange. Chaloner was just wondering why the editor should be with her when L’Estrange’s hand slipped around her waist in a way that made her giggle.
‘All right,’ the spy murmured to himself. ‘That answers that question.’
He was about to duck back inside the house and hide until he could leave without being seen when a servant came to the rear door. With weary resignation, he saw he was trapped. So he knelt next to the sage bush, and did not have to try very hard to feign awkward embarrassment when Dorcus and L’Estrange approached him.
‘You have caught me red-handed,’ he said with a feeble grin. ‘I realised after I had gone that my wife would be furious if I did not take her a cutting of your splendid sage. I knocked at your front door, but there was no reply.’
‘You did not tell me you were married,’ said L’Estrange, earrings and teeth flashing as he grinned. ‘What is the lucky lady’s name and where do you live?’
‘I am often complimented on my sage,’ said Dorcus before Chaloner could reply. ‘Please pick some, and tell your wife it is best with pork.’
Chaloner tried to look as though he knew what he was doing as he gathered several handfuls. While he did so, he noticed the maid was smiling prettily at L’Estrange, who was leering back at her.
‘Take an onion, too,’ suggested Dorcus. She grabbed one that had been overlooked when the rest of the crop had been harvested, and lobbed it. Her throw went suspiciously wide of Chaloner, and struck the servant in the middle of her white apron. The maid squealed her dismay at the mess.
‘I brought the galingale you needed, Sybilla,’ said Dorcus, brandishing a package rather menacingly. ‘For the pie you are supposed to be making.’
‘Thank you.’ Sybilla turned to simper at L’Estrange. ‘Will there be company for dinner?’
‘There might,’ said L’Estrange, waggling his eyebrows at her. ‘It depends what is on offer.’
‘Beef pie with galingale,’ replied Dorcus. ‘We thought we had plenty, but the rats had been at it.’
‘Rats are all over the place these days,’ said Chaloner, thinking L’Estrange’s behaviour made him a particularly predatory one. ‘It must be the weather.’
‘It must,’ agreed Dorcus. ‘Especially now the river is on the rise. I met Roger at the market, and he escorted me home because the Walbrook has burst its culverts and water is gushing everywhere.’
‘Phanatiques have opened secret floodgates,’ explained L’Estrange, eliciting small squeals of alarm from both women. ‘They are trying to drown us in our beds.’
‘Most of us will not be in our beds at this late hour,’ said Chaloner, suspecting the same could not be said of L’Estrange and his ladies. ‘So this devilish plot to take the city by water is doomed to failure.’
‘Here is your onion,’ said Sybilla, tossing it to him. She turned to L’Estrange. ‘Do come in, sir.’
L’Estrange entered the house like a king, the two women fussing behind him. Chaloner stuffed the onion and sage into his pocket, and supposed he was fortunate that Dorcus had been so credulous about his admiration for her herbs — and that L’Estrange had been more interested in recruiting Angels for his Army than in the curious behaviour of the Lord Chancellor’s spy.
As he walked down the path, Chaloner thought about the keys that had fitted the jewel box. Had Maylord and Smegergill stolen them from Newburne? Had that been the cause of Maylord’s agitation? Obviously, it had not been Newburne himself that had worried the musician, because Maylord had written his urgent note on Friday night, and Newburne had been dead for two days by then. An unpleasant sinking feeling gripped Chaloner as he considered the possibility that Maylord had poisoned the solicitor.
He reached the back gate and stepped outside. And tripped over Giles Dury, who was kneeling with his eye glued to a crack in the wood.
‘Damn it all!’ cried the newsman as he went sprawling into the mud. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Leaving,’ replied Chaloner dryly. ‘And you?’
‘Following L’Estrange,’ snapped Dury, trying to brush himself down. ‘It is Saturday.’
‘I see. You always follow L’Estrange on Saturdays, do you?’
‘Of course. It is the day he collects the parliamentary summaries for his Monday newsbook. He always indulges in a dalliance on his way home, and …’ He trailed off, angry at himself.
‘And you take the opportunity to examine his papers while his attention is on his conquests,’ finished Chaloner in understanding. ‘That is why the newsletters so often pre-empt the newsbooks! I thought someone was selling you his reports, but you just steal them for yourselves.’
‘We do not steal,’ objected Dury. ‘We just read what happens to be left lying around. He usually goes to a brothel, which makes life simple, although his selection of Dorcus presents more of a challenge. And not all our news comes from the parliamentary summaries, anyway. Just some of it.’