Muddiman laughed again, and clapped his hands. ‘Extraordinary though it may seem, you are the first to guess that was me. Even Dury has not caught on. Arise, Tom Newburne! What does it mean? Does anyone know? Everyone thinks he does, but ask a dozen Londoners and they will all tell you different things. I amused myself by setting whispers and watching them ignite. Newburne was appalled, because it made him visible when he wanted anonymity. No defrauder wants to be famous.’
‘You told me the phrase meant he was Catholic. Dury had a lewd interpretation. Hodgkinson thinks Newburne rose from the dead. Leybourn said it describes men who drink too much and miss church. L’Estrange claims it means a rapid rise to power. Bulteel believes it refers to promotion in the face of brazen dishonesty. The Earl of Clarendon uses it as a curse-’
‘But my favourite is the one I told Newburne’s wife — that business about knighting people with a wooden sword. He did nothing of the sort, of course.’
‘You adapted the story to suit the recipient, playing on their superstitions, interests, fears and hopes. And you did it well, especially with Hodgkinson. The man actually witnessed Newburne’s encounter with Annie Petwer, yet you managed to make him think he had seen something completely different.’
‘Malleable minds. It is fun to shape them. Why do you think I became a newsmonger?’
‘You said it was to make lots of money.’
Muddiman cackled. ‘Well, there is that, too.’
‘Hickes is following you,’ said Chaloner, looking to where the hulking spy was making a bad job of pretending to inspect some sausages. ‘So who is watching Dury?’
‘I have no idea. We quarrelled today — because of you, in fact. I told him he should have taken firmer measures in Dorcus Newburne’s garden, and he told me he is not that sort of fellow.’
‘Firmer measures? You mean such as killing me?’
‘It would have saved us a good deal of trouble, although we appreciate your Spanish reports. Why do you refuse to help bring down L’Estrange? Surely you must see his venture cannot run much longer? People are already complaining about the poor quality of his news, and I am offering you an opportunity to back the winning side.’
‘I prefer not to work against the government when I can help it. Spymasters have a strange way of regarding such activities as treason.’
Muddiman smirked, an expression Chaloner found impossible to interpret. ‘My newsletters are better written, more informative and more popular than the rubbish Williamson lets L’Estrange print. You are a fool to throw in your lot with them, when I can make you rich.’
Wealth would do no one any good if his head was on a pole outside Westminster Hall, Chaloner thought, as he watched the newsmonger slink away with Hickes on his heels. He turned his attention to Hodgkinson’s print-shop, where the crowd had dwindled to a handful of crones. Like the costermongery next to it, water was trickling from under its door.
‘It is still in there,’ announced one old lady mysteriously, when he went to stand among them. ‘People do not believe us, but we know what we saw.’
‘A body,’ elaborated another. ‘We spotted its feet, but then Mr Hodgkinson came and hauled it inside, so no one else got to see it.’
‘It will have to come out eventually, though,’ said the first. ‘And when it does, we will call everyone back. Folk will see we are no Bedlam-toms, seeing things that are not there. We are sane; it is the rest of the world that runs mad.’
Chaloner entered the shop. The floor was ankle-deep in water, and Hodgkinson, dirty, wet and agitated, was scooping it into buckets. Lying on a bench, covered with a blanket, was indeed a body. Chaloner pulled the cover away, and was shocked to recognise Giles Dury.
‘I have had a dreadful morning,’ said Hodgkinson wearily, flopping into a chair and wiping his face with his inky fingers. He looked ready to cry. ‘Both my print-shops are flooded, I had to arrange for The Intelligencer to be published by my nephew — and he is charging me a fortune for the privilege — and then Dury chooses my premises in which to die? I shall be ruined!’
‘I imagine Dury is none too thrilled with the situation, either. What happened?’
‘You can see the mess I am in, so when L’Estrange, Brome and Joanna came here to discuss the problem with tomorrow’s printing, I suggested we talk in St Bartholomew’s Church instead. I must have forgotten to lock my door, because when I came home, there was Dury — dead on my floor.’
‘Murdered?’
‘No! I brought all the broken guttering inside after it collapsed last night, to prevent it from being stolen. He must have bumped into it in the dark, causing some to slip and hit him. What shall I do? Those harridans are waiting like vultures, and I cannot carry him out when they are watching. One is sure to start a rumour that I killed him — and I never did!’
Chaloner inspected the body again. Dury had certainly been hit with something heavy, because his skull was badly crushed. He glanced at the offending guttering, and supposed it might well have caused the damage. Of course, any other weighty implement would have done the same, and there was no way of telling whether there had been an unfortunate accident or something else entirely.
‘What was he doing here in the first place?’ he asked.
‘He must have come to spy,’ said Hodgkinson. Tears of frustration, self-pity and anger began to flow. ‘He and Muddiman are short of material for their next newsletter, so obviously he came to poke about here, to see what he could find. It was certainly his own fault, but what am I going to do?’
Hodgkinson was right to be worried, thought Chaloner. People would wonder why one of the newsbooks’ enemies should end up dead on his premises. There was not much he could say to comfort the man, so he settled for advising him to contact the proper authorities before his dallying really did begin to look suspicious. Hodgkinson had made a few half-hearted enquiries, but no one had seen Dury enter his shop. People had remembered L’Estrange, Brome and Joanna arriving — and then leaving moments later for the church — but Dury had apparently taken care to remain invisible.
Chaloner’s mind teemed with questions as he left the print-shop. Had Dury died in an unfortunate accident, or had someone assisted him into his grave? Hodgkinson, L’Estrange, Joanna and Brome could not have harmed him, because they had all been in the church together. Of course, it was possible to buy anything in London, including the services of assassins, so alibis meant little. Or was the culprit Muddiman, because he and Dury had quarrelled? Or was Williamson taking measures against the success of the newsletters? Chaloner was still weighing up the possibilities when Leybourn accosted him. The surveyor had been waiting for him at the end of Duck Lane.
‘I do not recall telling Mary you were in the New Model Army, or about Spain and Portugal,’ he said sheepishly. ‘But I suppose I must have done. Please do not be angry with her for blurting it out.’
‘Well, we are even with our wrongful accusations now,’ said Chaloner. ‘Hers almost saw me attacked for being a phanatique, and mine had her in the distasteful role of Newburne’s mistress.’
‘Do not worry. I did something that has soothed the hurt of your unkind words: I have made her the sole beneficiary of my will. She will have my house, shop, books and mathematical instruments.’
Chaloner regarded him in horror. ‘What about your brother? Surely some of that belongs to him?’
‘Actually, it is all mine — we share the profits, but that was only ever a temporary arrangement. However, times change and I have a wife to consider now. Rob will not mind.’
Chaloner suspected Rob would mind very much. With a sick feeling, he recalled Mary’s eagerness for Leybourn to fight L’Estrange: she already wanted him dead. ‘Are you sure that is wise?’ he asked lamely, suppressing the urge to tell Leybourn he was a damned fool.