‘This is not answers for the Bedlam men.’
Greeting took it from him, regarded it with disinterest, then tossed it on the fire before Chaloner could stop him. ‘Poor Maylord! It looks as though he really was losing his mind.’
Chaloner left the Rhenish Wine House and went home for dry clothes, selecting some of the better ones from the pile Maude had delivered. The cat was among them, having clawed them into a nest of its own design, and it was not pleased when it was ousted. It had deposited another rat by the hearth, which went to join the growing pile on the mantelpiece. Chaloner put the onion and sage next to them, and was reminded of his landlord’s recipe for rat stew. He sincerely hoped it would not be necessary.
Wearing an old-fashioned cloak that was far better at repelling rain than any coat, he left for Monkwell Street. The altercation with Leybourn was preying on his mind, and he wanted to apologise to him for accusing Mary of being Newburne’s whore. The streets were awash, and he abandoned any attempt to keep his feet dry; to do otherwise necessitated the kind of acrobatics for which he had no energy. The Fleet bridge at Ludgate was open again, although water lapped perilously close to the top of it, and a layer of odorous sludge along one side showed the level to which it had flooded the previous night.
He arrived at Monkwell Street, where Leybourn’s brother told him the couple had gone to Smithfield. Chaloner was uneasy. Why would Mary take him there? Was she intending to have him murdered, then lay claim to his house on the grounds that they had been living as man and wife?
‘I liked Mary at first, because she made Will happy,’ said Rob Leybourn, as Chaloner prepared to go after them. ‘But she has some very unpalatable friends.’
‘Like Jonas Kirby?’
‘He is among the better ones. She has invited Ellis Crisp for dinner tomorrow — the Butcher of Smithfield! I would assume she wants our business to fail by forcing Will to associate with villains, but then she only hurts herself. Did you know he lost all his money to burglars last night? Until he makes more there will be no funds for plays and soirées. She must be livid, and I would not want to be in the thief ’s shoes.’
‘He is so bedazzled by her that he would probably go into debt rather than disappoint her.’
Rob sighed. ‘Bewitched, more like. Still, he has not had a woman in years, so I suppose you cannot blame him for grabbing the one who hurls herself at him. I just wish it had not been her. Are you going to find him? Keep him busy, if you can — I plan to move his most valuable books to my house this afternoon. There are fewer than there should be, and I think she has been selling them off. I want the rest where she cannot get at them.’
When Chaloner reached Duck Lane, he saw a great gathering of people. To his consternation, their attention seemed to be focussed on Hodgkinson’s print-shop. Crisp’s henchmen were out in force, jostling people for amusement. No one had the courage to tell them to behave themselves.
‘What happened?’ he asked a disreputable-looking man with a patch over one eye.
‘A death in the costermongery. Or maybe the print-shop. I cannot tell from here.’
‘Someone else has died of cucumbers?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
But the man shrugged as he slunk away, grumbling that there was nothing to be seen and that he was wasting his time.
Chaloner looked for someone else to question, and saw a number of familiar faces among the crowd. L’Estrange was grinning contentedly, and Chaloner supposed his good humour derived from the fact that he had enjoyed his morning with Dorcus. Joanna and Brome were with him, both looking thoroughly wet and miserable. Not far away, Leybourn was talking to the influential booksellers, Nott and Allestry. Mary kept tugging his arm to make him leave, but he had the animated expression on his face that said he was discussing mathematics, and all the tugging in the world would not budge him. Not far away, Muddiman was conversing with a pair of drovers, and Chaloner eased closer in an attempt to eavesdrop. What he learned made him smile, because it answered at least one mystery.
The rain came down harder still, driving some of the onlookers away. L’Estrange was among them. Chaloner watched him shoulder his way through the gathering, not caring who he shoved, and anyone who objected could expect to be called ‘damned phanatique’. Unfortunately, Leybourn was in one of his feisty moods, and took exception to the remark. Chaloner hurried forward when L’Estrange’s sword came out of its scabbard. Leybourn struggled to draw his own but, not for the first time, disuse and poor maintenance caused it to stick. Then it came free in a rush, almost depriving Nott of his peculiar hair-bun.
‘Come on, then,’ the surveyor yelled, holding the weapon like an axe. Immediately, people began to form a circle around the combatants. ‘Fight an honest bookseller, and let us see who God favours.’
There was a cheer from the onlookers, but L’Estrange responded by performing several fancy swishes that showed his superior training, and the applause faltered. Leybourn was about to be skewered. Chaloner looked around for Mary, expecting her to urge him to walk away from a confrontation he could not win, but she remained suspiciously silent.
‘I shall defend myself in the event of an attack,’ announced L’Estrange loftily, eyeing Leybourn with disdain when he attempted to duplicate the display and ended up dropping his blade. ‘But I decline to debase myself by fooling about with amateurs. Is that your wife, Leybourn? She is a pretty lady.’
Leybourn was confused by the compliment. He bent to retrieve his weapon. ‘Yes, she is.’
‘Well, if she is made a widow out of this, you can trust me to comfort her in her sorrows,’ said L’Estrange, winking at her. Mary smiled coquettishly.
‘Tell him where to go, Mary,’ ordered Leybourn icily. There was a pause. ‘Mary?’
‘Put your blade in his gizzard, Leybourn,’ suggested Nott, jumping back when the surveyor made another of his undisciplined swings. ‘God knows, he deserves it.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner, stepping forward to grab the surveyor’s shoulder. ‘Duelling is illegal.’
‘Heyden is right,’ said Brome, elbowing his way through the throng to join them. Joanna was at his heels, eyes wide with alarm. ‘L’Estrange is an excellent swordsman, and you will certainly lose this encounter. Walk away while you are still in one piece.’
‘You were insulted,’ whispered Mary in Leybourn’s other ear. ‘Will you meekly accept it?’
Chaloner waited for Leybourn to realise she was encouraging him to enjoin a brawl that would see him killed, but he seemed to have lost his senses as well as his heart. He shoved the spy behind him and held his rapier in a grip that would see him disarmed in the first riposte. Brome’s expression was one of horror, but Joanna darted past him and punched L’Estrange in the chest.
‘Leave him alone, you horrible man!’ she cried. The editor regarded her in astonishment, which turned to rage when people began to laugh. Joanna’s bravado began to dissolve. ‘I am not saying you are horrible all the time, but you are horrible when you challenge weaker men … I mean, you are …’
Abruptly, she turned and fled, scuttling behind her husband. Several onlookers snickered, but Chaloner thought she had at least tried to conquer her fear and make a stand to help a friend, and he respected her for it.
‘You are a phanatique, Leybourn,’ declared L’Estrange, turning back to his prey. ‘Why else would you be fined for the sale of unlicensed books?’
If L’Estrange had expected his observation to earn him the crowd’s support, he had miscalculated badly. There were booksellers and printers among them, and their sympathies were clearly not with the Government’s official censor. Leybourn found himself with growing support and, with alarm, Chaloner saw him draw strength from it.
‘Run him through, Leybourn,’ yelled Nott to accompanying cheers. ‘Williamson will no doubt appoint another cur to do his bidding, but he cannot be as bad as this mongrel.’