‘Quite sure,’ said Leybourn. ‘You think she wants me for my money, but you are wrong. If she did, she would have left when my sack was stolen. She will do anything for me, even asking you to break the law by stealing me a Gunter’s Quadrant. She is a true friend. Here she is now.’
Chaloner saw Mary approaching — and L’Estrange walking in the opposite direction with a distinct bounce in his step. He was appalled. Mary would not risk being disinherited for infidelity, so her obvious course of action would be to kill Leybourn before she began wooing her next victim. And as L’Estrange clearly represented a far more lucrative catch, Leybourn’s time was fast running out.
‘There you are, William,’ said Mary coolly. ‘Still keeping bad company, I see, despite my advice.’
‘He wants to apologise,’ said Leybourn. Chaloner blinked at him. He did not mind apologising to Leybourn, but he was damned if he was going to do it to Mary. ‘Over what he said about Newburne.’
‘It is too late. He declared war on me, and I spit on his truce. Come, William. Mr Kirby is waiting for us near Mallard’s Costermongery, and I want to confirm the arrangements for tomorrow’s dinner. He has agreed to tell Mr Crisp what time to come.’
‘Near where?’ asked Chaloner sharply. ‘Mallard’s what?’
‘I was not talking to you,’ said Mary icily.
‘Mallard’s Costermongery,’ supplied Leybourn. ‘You must know it. It sells excellent cubebs.’
‘Mallard’s? You mean Maylord’s?’
‘The Court musician,’ said Mary impatiently. ‘Some folk called him Maylord, but his cousin — who sold him the shop — referred to himself as Mallard, so that is the name we continue to use. Apparently, Newburne cheated the poor fellow mercilessly. And that is the man you accuse me of seducing! You are a foul-tongued rogue, Heyden, and I hope L’Estrange runs you through one day.’
Clues were coming faster than Chaloner could process them, so he went to a grubby coffee-shop on Long Lane to think. The stench of burning beans, the sewage-laden mud that had been tracked inside, and the ever-present reek of tobacco was so potent that it made him nauseous. He had no money to buy coffee, but he had information. When the proprietor greeted him with ‘What news?’ he offered some in exchange for a hot drink and a quiet table. The owner was regaled with a detailed account of the plague that was raging in Amsterdam, and the Dutch physicians’ prediction that it might soon break loose to afflict other major cities.
The coffee house was full of talk about the near-flooding of White Hall. One man was arguing the case for moving the royal residence to Hampton Court, to be safe from such disasters, but most customers thought the King should stay where he was. With luck, they said, he would be seized by the Thames and carried back to France where he belonged, and if a few courtiers drowned on the way, then so much the better.
Chaloner sipped the hot coffee, feeling it sear his empty stomach and turn it to acid. He would not have drunk it at all, had he not been so cold. He thought about his investigation. Maylord had owned a shop that sold cucumbers. Was that significant? Had Maylord learned his wares featured in some peculiar deaths and that was the cause of his agitation? And had the killer then turned on him? Chaloner knew his first step should be to question the people who worked in the costermongery. He abandoned the coffee house and retraced his steps.
‘We are closed,’ called Yeo, when Chaloner hammered on the door. ‘Come back-’
‘Does Thomas Maylord own this shop?’ demanded Chaloner, forcing his way inside. ‘You said last time I was here that the proprietor was someone at Court.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Yeo, puzzled. ‘Originally, it belonged to Simon Mallard, but he sold it to his cousin, Thomas. Thomas never came here, though. Not once.’
‘He had an aversion to greenery. He thought it gave him hives.’
‘That is right,’ nodded Yeo. ‘His solicitor, Newburne, handled the business for him, and Mallard received the profits at the end of each quarter-year. After the September payment, Mallard claimed he was being cheated, and that the amount paid to him should have been higher.’
‘Was he right?’
Yeo shrugged, but his expression showed he thought the answer was yes.
Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. Many questions relating to Maylord were now answered. Newburne had been defrauding him, and during the process of exposing the solicitor’s dishonesty, Maylord had become frightened by something. He had appealed to Chaloner for help when Newburne had been murdered, but two days later he had followed the solicitor to the grave. Then Smegergill had become involved, and he had been killed, too. Yet although Chaloner had a clearer understanding of what had happened, he still had no idea about the identity of the killer.
When he arrived home, he found a letter had been left for him at the Golden Lion. It was from the linen-draper, Richard Bridges.
Sir,
I am compelld to telle the Truth, becaus the lie sitts heavye on my conscience. Annabel Reade was more than cooke-mayde to me; she lived as my Wyfe. When I learnd she was Marryed to Another, we argued and she was gone the next Day with sylver. The constables sett after her, she was tooke to Hange. But Hectors compelld me to buye her Freedome. Synce then they have demanded informations — mostly Gossyp from cofye-howses — and I Feare they use the Intelligences for Theevery. I saile for Tangier tonyght, and there they cannot reach mee, althou you must Watche for my hous and my Servants. Leybourn is a goode man, so save hym.
Yr servt Richd Bridges.
That evening, Chaloner sat in his attic trying to make sense of all he had learned. Rain pattered on the roof, which was leaking in several places. He lit a fire with a log he had found on his way home, and attempted to review the new information, but he was so hungry, he could not concentrate. He glanced up and saw three tails dangling off the mantelpiece. Sighing, he drew his knife, supposing that what he had eaten during the wars was good enough for now. He skinned and filleted the rats, then dropped them in a pot with the onion and sage from Dorcus’s garden. There was salt and dried peas in the pantry, so he added them, too, along with the cucumber and the spices he had bought from Yeo.
While the concoction simmered, he thought about his investigations, although answers continued to elude him, and he was distracted by the notion that Leybourn might be in grave danger. But eventually, a plan began to take shape, and he decided to implement it the following day. He shot to his feet when he heard a noise on the stairs. It sounded like a lone man, coming openly with no effort to disguise his approach. His dagger dropped into his hand when there was a sharp knock.
‘Heyden? It is Hickes. I need to talk to you. I came earlier, but you were out.’
Wondering what Williamson’s best spy could want, Chaloner opened the door warily, and gestured for him to enter. The cat came to sniff at him, and Hickes picked it up, ruffling its fur in a way that made Chaloner relax a little. Hickes would not be fussing over an animal if his intentions were too unfriendly.
‘This is nice,’ Hickes said, looking round appreciatively. ‘Cosy.’
‘The roof leaks, there are cracks in the walls, and the whole thing might tumble down at any moment,’ Chaloner replied. ‘Apart from that, it is a palace.’
‘It is just the rain,’ said Hickes, going to stand by the window, still cradling the cat. ‘It is doing all manner of harm, but when the ground dries, these old buildings will shore themselves up.’
Chaloner suspected the weather was going to bear the blame for a great many future evils, whether it was guilty or not. He closed the door and went to kneel by the fire. Hickes came to squat next to him, stretching his hands towards the flames. The cat squirmed in a way that said it wanted a lap, so Hickes obligingly arranged himself for its comfort. Chaloner supposed the man would not place himself in such an indefensible position if he intended to launch an attack, and allowed himself to relax his guard a little more.