And what did Smegergill know about the affair? When Chaloner had asked, Smegergill said that Maylord had refused to confide on the grounds of ensuring his friend’s safety. Was it true? There were a number of reasons why Chaloner now thought it was not. First, Smegergill had been in possession of a key to Newburne’s box, and although it was possible he did not know what it was, Chaloner thought it unlikely — it would not have been on his person if he had considered it unimportant. Second, Smegergill knew some Hectors, and Chaloner was beginning to believe Ireton’s contention that he and his cronies had not killed the man. Did that mean Smegergill and the felons were in league somehow? And finally, Chaloner had not forgotten Thurloe’s instinctive distrust of the man. Smegergill was an enigma. Some people found him ‘difficult’, some thought he was losing his mind, and others considered him harmless. They could not all be right, so which was the real man?
‘What do you know about Smegergill?’ he asked, watching Greeting finish the wine in the jug.
‘I have learned that he was actually French, although you would not know it to speak to him. He worked in Paris for years, but came here about a decade ago. He was musician to Cromwell, but that dubious connection was overlooked in view of his talent — along with the fact that he composed a rather nice Birthday Ode for the Duke of Buckingham.’
‘Was he in England before the wars?’
Greeting shook his head. ‘He arrived long after that. Why?’
‘He said he knew me as a child. He remembered a particular tree on my father’s estate.’
‘Then he was mistaken — he could be confused on occasion.’
But Chaloner was becoming increasingly convinced that Smegergill was not as confused as he had let people think. He thought about the discussion in which Smegergill had claimed he was a friend of Chaloner’s family. On reflection, it contained inconsistencies. One example was Smegergill saying that all Chaloner’s siblings were talented musicians, which was untrue: his sisters were skilled, but his brothers were adequate at best. Then there was the May-day celebration under the oak on the Chaloner estate. Maylord had loved the occasion, and had probably told Smegergill about it. And then, Chaloner realised with a flash of understanding, Smegergill had passed off the memories as his own.
But why? The answer was chillingly clear. Maylord must have confided to Smegergill that he had written to Chaloner — an intelligence officer — about his troubles. But Smegergill had inherited those troubles, along with his friend’s goods, and he had no one to help him. And then along came Chaloner, eager to learn the truth behind Maylord’s death. The spy ran through more of the conversation in his head: Smegergill’s forgetfulness and eccentricity had occurred later, after he had established that Chaloner was willing to help him.
So, what had Smegergill hoped they might learn together? Could it have been the location of the documents he had mentioned? Chaloner stared into his cup. Of course it was! Maylord had hidden them well enough to fool amateurs, and Smegergill knew the services of a professional spy were needed to locate them. Of course, Maylord had hidden them too well for professional spies, too, and all Chaloner had been able to unearth was music.
‘Poor old Maylord,’ Greeting was saying. ‘Smegergill arranged for him to come here, you know. He suddenly became frightened in Thames Street, so Smegergill spoke to Genew on his behalf. Smegergill and I were the only ones who knew about Maylord’s abrupt relocation.’
Chaloner stared at him. ‘Smegergill told me he did not know where Maylord had moved.’
‘Perhaps he forgot, although I confess I did not think his absent-mindedness had reached those sorts of levels. He must have decided he did not want to tell you for some reason.’
Chaloner nodded, while more solutions snapped clear in his mind. Smegergill’s purse had been empty, so how had he intended to pay for the coach to the Rhenish Wine House? The answer was that he knew his Hector friends would be willing to give him a ride. And what would have happened after Chaloner had located the documents? The spy doubted Smegergill would have been willing to share. So what had gone wrong in St Bartholomew’s churchyard, and why had Smegergill died? Chaloner already knew Greeting was the real target, and Ireton must have realised the mistake as soon as he recognised a man he knew. Smegergill had not called for help, which suggested he had not been overly alarmed at the time.
Unsettled by his conclusions, Chaloner handed over Smegergill’s ring; the keys he decided to keep. ‘This belonged to Smegergill, so it is now legally yours.’
‘I thought the murderer had stolen that from his body.’ Greeting regarded him warily.
‘If I were the culprit, do you think I would give you evidence of my guilt in a crowded tavern? I have already admitted that I was with him when he died, and now I am telling you that I took his ring, too. I was not thinking clearly at the time, but I swear I never intended to keep it.’
‘Then I shall give you the benefit of the doubt,’ said Greeting, although there was uncertainty in his voice. ‘My fortunes are on the rise today. I may even be able to buy my way clear of Williamson.’
Chaloner doubted it: Spymasters did not relinquish hold over their victims that easily.
Greeting stared at the ring. ‘This was actually Maylord’s, but Smegergill took to wearing it after he died. You think Smegergill was losing his wits, but Maylord was the one really worried about it. Look.’ He prised up the stone, revealing a space inside. A tiny scroll of paper dropped out.
Chaloner caught it as it rolled to the edge of the table. ‘What is it?’
Greeting smiled sadly. ‘It is common knowledge that the keepers of Bedlam will not take you if you know the answers to two questions: your date of birth and the names of your parents. Maylord often told me he was anticipating a visit from the Bedlam men, and once confided that he kept the answers to both questions inside his ring, just in case the wardens arrived and his memory failed him.’
Chaloner wrestled with the minute scrap of paper, thinking it would not have helped Maylord, because it would have taken him too long to unfurl; the Bedlam men would have had him anyway. ‘Smegergill was a shade mad, though,’ he said as he struggled. ‘He went around telling people he was Caesar.’
Greeting laughed. ‘But he was Caesar. As a child, he was adopted by a dean called Caesar, and he often used the name for his compositions. I know it does not sound very likely, but it is perfectly true. Personally, I suspect he was as sane as you and me, and probably a good deal more clever.’
Chaloner had an uncomfortable feeling that Greeting was right, and that he had been a fool to let the old man deceive him so completely. He turned his attention to the paper, which comprised not a reminder of sires and birthdays, but a fragment of music — a scale with letters written underneath. He gazed at it with sorrow, assuming Maylord had been afraid he would forget those, too. Yet when he looked more closely, he saw the letters did not correspond with the names of the notes — for example, C-sharp had the letter T under it, while E-flat had a W.