‘Mary Cade,’ said Chaloner unhappily.
‘Annie Petwer, Annabel Reade, Mary Cade. Call her what you like. Her real name is Anne Pettis.’
‘Pettis? But that is the name of the horse-trader who died of cucumbers.’
‘He was her first husband. However, if he died a natural death, I will dance naked in St Paul’s Cathedral. She killed him — I would stake my life on it.’
Chaloner regarded him in alarm. ‘You said you found some of these green lozenges on Pettis’s body. If Mary killed Pettis, then it means she must have dispatched Newburne, Finch, Beauclair and all the others, too. And she is in Will’s house.’
‘She will not kill him tonight — not the same day he changed his will. He is safe for a while yet.’
Recalling how eagerly Mary — he could not think of her as Anne — had encouraged Leybourn to fight with L’Estrange, Chaloner was not so sure. ‘How do you know so much about her?’
‘Williamson sends me to watch various Hectors sometimes. I knew it would not be long before she found another victim. Bridges managed to extricate himself, although it was expensive, but the fellow between him and Pettis ended up floating in the Thames. His name was Nobert Wenum.’
‘Wenum?’ echoed Chaloner, bewildered. ‘But he was Newburne.’
Hickes gazed back, nonplussed. ‘He was not! He was a totally different man, I followed him several times after he met Muddiman, and he was not Newburne. I am totally certain of it. I can see why Muddiman might have thought so, but he is wrong.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not seeing at all.
Chaloner waited a few minutes after Hickes had gone, then left via the back door. He sent a message to Thurloe about Wenum, then trudged through the deserted streets towards Smithfield. He wore an oiled cloak against the foul weather, and Isabella’s hat against attack. He did not think anyone would be following him, but he was cautious by nature, and took a circuitous route across the city, using alleys that would have been dark during the day, but that were pitch black at night. He crossed the River Fleet farther north than usual. It was a vicious torrent, and the bridge creaked as he used it, low and deep. He suspected it would be washed away by morning.
When he reached Smithfield, he headed for the Bear alehouse, making the assumption that it was one of Kirby’s regular haunts. He took up station behind a water-butt, but did not have long to wait, because it was already late and even Hectors needed to sleep. First out was big-nosed Ireton, who emerged to saunter fearlessly up Long Lane. Chaloner had intended to waylay Kirby, but decided Ireton would do just as well. He trailed the felon to a pleasant little cottage, and watched him unlock the door. He waited until the lamp was doused in the upper chamber, then let himself in. He saw a lute on the table downstairs, which served to confirm some of the conclusions he had drawn.
Ireton was fast asleep when Chaloner stepped into the bedchamber, but woke fast when a knife was pressed against his throat. He opened his mouth to yell for help, but closed it sharply as the blade begin to bite. He lay still, and waited to hear what his assailant wanted of him.
‘Maylord,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘What happened to him?’
‘Oh, it is you,’ said Ireton, immediately recognising the voice. He sneered, confidence returning now he was facing an opponent he knew. ‘Mary Cade told me about you, but I am confused. Who do you work for? It is not Williamson, and I doubt the Lord Chancellor would dare send a man against the Hectors. He, like most sensible politicians, treats us with respect.’
‘If you tell me the truth, you will live to see tomorrow. If you lie, I will cut your throat and drop your body in the Fleet. So, I repeat: what happened to Maylord?’
There was something in Chaloner’s low, purposeful tone that convinced Ireton he meant business. ‘Maylord?’ The Hector realised his voice was a bleat, and struggled to compose himself.
Chaloner began to test the theory he had so painstakingly deduced. ‘You killed him on Smegergill’s orders. You smothered him with a cushion — using enough force to break teeth — and left the cucumber to cause confusion. Did Smegergill tell you to do that?’
‘A confession will see me hang,’ said Ireton slyly. ‘But if I keep quiet, you can prove nothing.’
It was answer enough for Chaloner, and he itched to punch the man — or shove a pillow over his face. ‘Smegergill was teaching you the lute — Greeting said he had taken on some dubious pupils.’
‘Am I more dubious than a man who breaks into houses and threatens their occupants with knives?’
Chaloner ignored him. ‘You talked a lot during your sessions together. He told you how Newburne’s dishonesty was depriving Maylord of the profits from his costermongery. Perhaps it was you who suggested something should be done about it. Regardless, Smegergill encouraged Maylord to watch Newburne, and possibly convinced him to poke about in Newburne’s house.’
Ireton’s voice dripped contempt. ‘Prove it.’
‘The proof lies in the fact that Maylord suddenly elected to give Newburne — a man he despised — lessons on the flageolet; it is clear there was a reason for his abrupt acquiescence. Both owned houses on Thames Street, and I imagine the lessons took place there. During one of these tutorials, something happened to unnerve Maylord, so Smegergill helped him move to a different part of the city. Smegergill said he did not know where Maylord had gone, but he was lying.’
Ireton regarded Chaloner with contempt, but the temptation to gloat was stronger than his desire to say nothing that would help the spy unravel the mystery. ‘Of course, he was lying! He knew where Maylord went, although he could not find where he hid his valuables. Maylord kept that from him.’
‘And that is why he wanted me to go to the Rhenish Wine House with him. He anticipated that a professional spy would have better luck.’
‘So, what did you find?’ asked Ireton, curious despite himself. ‘Documents?’
‘Music. I have assumed it is irrelevant, but perhaps I should not have done. Maylord understood its significance, even if I do not — at least, not yet. Who wrote it? And who is it for?’
Ireton laughed derisively. ‘Music? Do not be a fool! Smegergill wanted a key, not music. He said it would pave the way to a box of priceless jewels. Why do you think I went to the Rhenish Wine House the day after he died? It was not for music, I assure you!’
Chaloner frowned. Locks could be smashed, so why had Smegergill wanted Maylord’s key? ‘Proof of ownership,’ he said in understanding. ‘Whoever has a key can show the hoard is his.’
Ireton inclined his head, but made no other reply.
‘Did you know there were two keys?’ asked Chaloner. He could see from Ireton’s expression that he did not: Smegergill had not been honest with his accomplices, either. ‘He already had one.’
‘You lie! Maylord stole the only one when he was teaching Newburne the flageolet. Then, because Newburne had been cheating Maylord for years, Smegergill told him to say the box was his. The key was proof of ownership, as you said. But then Maylord got cold feet, and began to baulk at carrying the plan through.’
‘So you killed him,’ said Chaloner.
‘I decline to say,’ replied Ireton, although the uneasy flicker in his eyes told Chaloner that he had. ‘And you can prove nothing. After Maylord was dispatched, Smegergill was going to retrieve the key and claim the treasure in his stead. He offered me a share for my silence.’
‘So, who killed Newburne? Smegergill?’
‘We were both at a musical soirée when Newburne died. You can check, if you like — a dozen people saw us.’ Ireton could not resist a brag. ‘Smegergill’s idea of leaving that cucumber with Maylord was a stroke of genius. No one except you is remotely suspicious. Do you know why he devised the plan that would see Maylord the owner of Newburne’s hoard?’
Chaloner nodded, aware that Ireton’s boast about the cucumber was guilty knowledge of Maylord’s death. ‘He wanted Maylord rich, because he was the sole beneficiary of Maylord’s will. He intended to kill his friend from the start — not to squander the money on wild enjoyment, but to support him in his old age. His joints were stiffening, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before he could no longer earn a living from the virginals. Now, tell me what transpired between you and Smegergill in the churchyard the night he died.’