‘I brought some oil for your lamp,’ said Hickes, producing a flask with a genial smile. ‘You so seldom light it, that it is difficult to tell if you are in or not. Shall I fill it for you?’
‘Thank you, but there is enough light from the fire. So, you have been watching me, have you? Dury has, too. Did you work together? I cannot see Williamson being pleased with that arrangement.’
Hickes was shocked by the suggestion. ‘We most certainly did not! I work alone. It is better that way, because then I do not need to worry about who can be trusted.’
Chaloner could not argue with that premise.
‘I do not like L’Estrange,’ said Hickes, somewhat out of the blue. ‘He asked my wife to proof-read his newsbooks, but she can barely write her name, so I cannot imagine what use she is to him. She still helps him twice a week, though.’
Chaloner was not sure what to say. ‘He seems to employ a lot of women.’
Hickes was shaking his head. ‘I cannot believe you thought I was working with Muddiman and Dury! They did offer me a bribe to leave them alone, but these things get back to Williamson, and I have no wish to die. You know what he is like when crossed — dangerous, vindictive and persistent.’
‘So I have been told. Do you spy on anyone other than Muddiman and Dury? L’Estrange, for example, perhaps by paying one of his colleagues for information?’
Hickes looked like a deer caught in a bright light. ‘No,’ he blurted, in a way that made it clear the answer was yes. ‘And I do not want to talk about L’Estrange. As I said, I cannot abide the man.’
Chaloner shrugged. The clumsy denial was an answer in itself. Clearly, Williamson did not trust L’Estrange, either, and Brome was being paid to monitor him. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, thinking that all the intrigue and scandal in the foreign courts he had visited had nothing on London.
‘That smells good,’ said Hickes, indicating the cooking pot with a flick of his thumb. ‘What is it?’
‘Rat stew. Would you like some?’
Hickes laughed; he thought Chaloner was joking. ‘If you have enough.’
It felt almost companionable, eating with someone by the fire while the weather raged outside. The stew tasted better than Chaloner remembered, and he supposed the spices made the difference. When they had finished, Hickes pulled a pipe from his pocket and began to tamp it with tobacco. Chaloner fetched his viol, feeling like music now he was full. Hickes grimaced in disapproval when he began to play, but listened quietly, cat in his lap, and it was some time before he spoke.
‘Did you know Dury is dead?’ he asked.
Chaloner nodded. ‘Killed by guttering.’
Hickes seemed about to spit in disgust, but remembered where he was and settled for making a hawking sound instead. ‘He took a blow to the head, but I saw his neck before they took the body to the church. His collar had been arranged just so, but I noticed the bruises at the sides of his neck. Someone took his throat in their hands and squeezed. Would you like me to demonstrate?’
‘No, thank you.’ Chaloner was surprised — yet again — that Hickes had thought to look beyond the obvious, especially as it had not occurred to him to do so. He stopped playing, better to concentrate, because he was disgusted with himself for his negligence. ‘Why did you inspect the body?’
‘Because he died on my watch. Williamson thinks I was careless, and has ordered me to find out what happened — although it is unfair of him to expect me to watch Dury and Muddiman at the same time. So, I looked at the body, although I cannot imagine how I will prove whether L’Estrange or Hodgkinson is the guilty party.’
‘What makes you think it is either of them?’
‘Because they are the ones with motives. L’Estrange wants to get back at Muddiman for being a better newsman. And Hodgkinson is a printer, so hates men who handwrite their news. It is obvious.’
It was not obvious at all, and Chaloner thought Hickes was an odd man — thorough and dogged on one hand, but apt to draw false conclusions on the other. ‘L’Estrange and Hodgkinson were doing business with Brome and Joanna when Dury died. Thus they have alibis in each other, although that does not mean they did not hire someone to do their dirty work. Is this why you came to see me? To tell me your suspicions about Dury’s death?’
Hickes looked sheepish. ‘Actually, I came to give you this. It is the music I found in Finch’s room. You asked whether I had collected any documents. Well, this was all I could find. By the time I managed to return for a more thorough search, everything else had been removed.’
Chaloner took the proffered sheet. It was, without question, the same kind of music that had been in Maylord’s chimney, and that L’Estrange had asked him and the Bromes to play. He kept his expression carefully neutral. ‘Did you know Muddiman and Dury followed you to Finch’s house the first time you went there?’
Hickes gaped at him. ‘They never did! I would have noticed — I am a professional spy.’
‘Right.’ Chaloner held up the piece of paper. ‘Why do you think I should want this?’
Hickes shrugged, and looked more uncomfortable than ever. ‘It is a sort of peace-offering — like the oil. I am confused and worried, and no longer know who to trust. I think Dury’s killer might be after me now.’ He showed Chaloner a small box with a label declaring the contents to be Theophilus Buckworth’s Personal Lozenges. Inside were several green tablets.
‘I hope you do not expect me to eat one of these.’
‘Of course not — they are an example of the poisonous pills I was telling you about last time. They were sent to me today, along with a note saying they ward off chills in men who stand around in the rain a lot. My wife encouraged me to swallow a couple, because my chest has been bothering me.’
‘But you know better than to consume gifts from anonymous donors,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether Mrs Hickes was aiming to clear the field so she could pursue L’Estrange unfettered.
‘Hodgkinson is missing,’ said Hickes, while Chaloner was still mulling over the implications of the pills. ‘He disappeared not long after Dury was killed. Do you not think that is suspicious?’
‘No, because he summoned the constables.’ Chaloner ignored the nagging voice in his head that told him the printer might only have sent for them because he had been caught with a body, and that to do otherwise would have looked suspect. He continued less certainly. ‘And how do you know he is missing? Perhaps he went with the constables to make an official report, or has gone to stay with friends because his properties are flooded. You are not “missing” after such a short period of time.’
‘When I found him gone, I searched his Duck Lane print-house,’ said Hickes. He handed Chaloner another piece of paper with music on it. ‘I found this. Will you play it?’
Chaloner started to oblige, but Hickes soon held up his hand for silence.
‘I thought so,’ said Williamson’s man disapprovingly. ‘It is that nasty, disjointed stuff that Finch said he found in Newburne’s room. He played it for me on his trumpet.’
Chaloner compared the two pieces. ‘They are almost certainly by the same composer.’
‘Hodgkinson is a dangerous, devious fellow,’ Hickes continued. ‘And I must speak to him about Dury as soon as possible. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?’
Chaloner did not think the printer was missing, devious or dangerous, and Hickes’s conclusions said his judgement could not be trusted. ‘No, but I will tell you if I find out.’
‘You should, because you may need my help soon. First, a lot of very unpleasant men are after you, and you need friends. And second, your friend Leybourn is keeping bad company.’