The Earl became prissy. ‘I use it as an expletive, although I avoid foul language, as a rule.’
‘That is foul language?’
‘Yes, when spoken with feeling,’ replied Clarendon tartly. ‘And please do not offer to teach me a few epithets you consider more apposite, because coarse swearing is anathema to me.’
The interview was becoming a bit of a trial, and Chaloner was still tired after his long journey. Manfully, he tried to stifle his exasperation. ‘Is there anything else?’
Clarendon rattled on as if he had not spoken. ‘I am surprised you have never come across the saying, although I suppose you have not had much chance to familiarise yourself with London customs, given that you have not deigned to live here for more than a few weeks in the last decade. But what else can I tell you about Newburne? He was about fifty years of age, and very corrupt. He was unethical in a number of ways, but one of his most brazen was in taking bribes from printers and booksellers to keep quiet about pamphlets published without a royal license. Oh, and he had no hair.’
It was a curious combination of facts. ‘Did you know him personally?’
Clarendon waved the fat hand again. ‘I met him once or twice when I visited L’Estrange. His funeral is on Thursday, so you do not have many days, should you wish to inspect the corpse.’
‘So, you think he was murdered,’ surmised Chaloner. ‘You do not think the cucumber killed him, or you would not suggest I examine the body.’
Clarendon frowned at the remark. ‘I do not know if he died naturally, Heyden — that is what I want you to find out. Of course, you must ask your questions discreetly, because, as you pointed out, Williamson will not appreciate us interfering with a government investigation.’
Chaloner tried one last time to elicit the whole truth from the man. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’
‘No,’ said the Earl briskly. He stood and rubbed his hands together; Chaloner did not think he had ever seen a more furtive gesture. ‘You will want to question L’Estrange, of course, but you cannot barge in unannounced, so tell him you have just returned from Spain and Portugal, and that you have intelligence for his newsbooks. You must have learned something there that English readers will find interesting.’
Chaloner was pleasantly surprised. It was a good idea, and would allow him access to Newburne’s place of work without arousing suspicion. ‘I can think of a few odds and ends.’
‘Good, although it would be a kindness to the government if these “odds and ends” were actually true. It is embarrassing when a snippet of information is printed, and it later transpires to be a lie — these things are difficult to deny once they are in the public domain, you see. And there is just one more thing before you go.’
‘Sir?’ Chaloner did not like the sly expression on the Lord Chancellor’s face.
‘L’Estrange is a man of fierce passions, and he despises phanatiques most of all.’
‘Fanatics?’
‘Meaning Puritans, Roundheads and regicides. So, watch what you tell him about yourself.’
Chaloner was bemused. ‘I am none of those things, sir — especially the latter.’
‘But your uncle was a king-killer, and the Chaloner clan is still full of dedicated Parliamentarians. No one in London knows your real name except me, Thurloe and your friend William Leybourn. Make sure it stays that way, because L’Estrange will kill you if he finds out who you are.’
‘He is welcome to try,’ muttered Chaloner.
The Earl did not hear him. ‘You can start your investigation tomorrow. L’Estrange’s offices are on Ivy Lane — that is near St Paul’s, in case you do not know — and he will be open for business at dawn. Do not forget to keep me informed.’
Chaloner left Worcester House with a vague sense of unease. He was not particularly worried about L’Estrange, but he did not like the notion that there was something he was not being told. Was the Earl deliberately sending him half-prepared into a dangerous situation, to punish him for serving the Queen? Chaloner wanted to believe the Lord Chancellor was above such pettiness, but found he was unable to do so.
Chapter 2
Weak sunshine was beginning to slant through the clouds as Chaloner left Worcester House, and when he glanced down one of the lanes that led to the river, he saw a rainbow shimmering in the dark clouds above Southwark. The ground was sticky from the recent deluge, and a clot of rubbish had blocked one of the drains, so The Strand was flooded with a filthy brown ooze. Chaloner leapt to one side as a cart thundered past, spraying pedestrians with watery filth.
He walked towards Westminster, intending to pay his respects to the dead Maylord. There were at least two Rhenish wine houses in the area, which specialised in the sale of the dry white vintages that were produced around the River Rhine. He had learned from Greeting that Maylord’s home was in the oldest of them, a large, venerable building on a narrow lane called Wise’s Alley. It was four storeys high, and had vines carved along the front. It had been in the hands of the Genew family for at least sixty years, and was frequented by clerks from White Hall, as well as officials from the Houses of Parliament and the Exchequer.
As soon as he was inside, Chaloner’s eyes began to smart. Because it was noon, the tavern was full of people enjoying their midday victuals, and it seemed that every one of them had a pipe; the smoke was so dense that Chaloner could not see the back of the room at all. Men, and a few women, sat at tables reading, drinking pale Rhenish wine, and eating chops or fish. The odour of seafood past its best combined unpleasantly with the stink of burning logs on the hearth and the patrons’ wet feet. Someone had dropped a newsbook on the floor, so Chaloner retrieved it, shaking off the excess mud and water. It comprised eight small pages, and proudly declared itself as The Newes, published for the satisfaction and Information of the People With privilege. He turned to the back and saw it was printed by ‘Thomas Hodgkinson, living in Thames Street, over against Baynard’s Castle’.
Unlike a coffee house, there was no expectation for patrons to sit together and be sociable, so he found an empty table, instinctively choosing one where he could sit with his back to the wall. He ordered buttered ale — warm beer mixed with melted butter and spices — and paid for it with a token he had found in his pocket. A chronic shortage of small change had led many taverners to produce their own: they comprised discs of metal or leather that were widely accepted in lieu of real money. Although not strictly legal tender, most Londoners usually had several in their purses at any given time, and most respectable establishments accepted them.
Landlord Genew was a thin, unhealthy man in a clean white apron. It was said that he tasted every cask of wine that was broached, to ensure his customers were never served with wares that were anything less than the best. Chaloner did not think his devotion to quality was doing him much good, because his skin had a yellowish sheen and his eyes were bloodshot. Genew shook his grizzled head sadly when he learned what Chaloner had come to do.
‘Poor Maylord. He owned a house in Thames Street, but moved here two weeks ago.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘He told his friends that he wanted to be near his work at White Hall, but he confided the truth to me. It was to avoid a cousin who visited him at inappropriate hours. He said she wanted to seduce him.’
Chaloner knew Maylord had no family, and wondered why the musician had felt the need to lie. ‘Has she been to pay her respects to his body?’
‘He lies in St Margaret’s Church — my patrons do not like the notion of a corpse rotting above their heads as they drink, so he could not stay here — but the vergers say no kin have been, male or female. Many friends have, though. The vergers have been all but overwhelmed.’
‘He was a popular man,’ said Chaloner, assailed by another wave of sadness.