‘It explains why Ireton was ready to commit murder with him — he was protecting Hector business, as well as doing a favour for his friend and music-master. So, at last you know what frightened Maylord: it started with a hare-brained scheme — probably devised in the heat of the moment and later regretted — to defraud Newburne of his jewels, but it ended with him stumbling into the Hectors’ latest venture.’
‘He must have found the coded music while acquiring Newburne’s keys and, being a musician, it piqued his interest. He must have taken some, and become worried when he realised its significance.’
‘Do you think Finch was translating the music when he was murdered?’ asked Thurloe.
‘No, because he was playing it at the time. You do not need to play it to translate — in fact, it is better if you do not, because the melody is irrelevant. But there was a second person in the room when Finch died, someone eating a pie. I suspect he knew what the music entailed, and killed Finch to make sure he never worked it out.’
‘That particular missive said there were “too many horses”. Do you know what that means?’
‘Yes, I think so. The music directs Hectors to prey on specific victims, but it has been too successful. The message from Finch’s room is a warning, urging the perpetrators to cut back before their activities become obvious.’
Thurloe was uncertain. ‘Obvious?’ he echoed doubtfully. ‘Obvious to whom?’
‘To anyone reading the newsbooks, had the operation been allowed to continue at such a furious pace. It is not obvious now, because the warning was heeded.’
‘If advertising means the return of these valuable beasts, then it is small wonder that so many men are clamouring to buy newsbook notices.’ Thurloe frowned. ‘Horse-thievery has always occurred around Smithfield. I see all manner of connections emerging here, and I imagine you do, too.’
Chaloner nodded. ‘The music is directed at Smithfield-based men like Ireton, who plays the lute and so has an understanding of notation. Of course, it was the one thing I did not bother to ask him last night. He and the Hectors — Treen was actually seen taking Smith’s mare — steal these beasts, then Smithfield horse-dealers, such as Valentine Pettis, help to sell them. Pettis was Mary Cade’s husband, so I doubt his role in the business was an honest one.’
‘Rewards are offered for the safe delivery of most of these animals, so if Pettis could not effect a sale, the thieves could still profit from their crime by returning them to their grateful owners.’
‘Perhaps that is why Pettis was killed: he preferred a sale to a reward, because it would be more lucrative. He became greedy, and someone was obliged to stop him before he spoiled everything. Did I tell you that the night Greeting was supposed to have been ambushed, he was carrying music between L’Estrange and Spymaster Williamson?’
‘Yes — but that does not mean Greeting or L’Estrange are actively involved. L’Estrange might have somehow acquired the music from the villains, and was dutifully passing it to Williamson for investigation.’
‘Then why did Williamson toss it on the fire as soon as it was delivered? It is not impossible that L’Estrange wrote the music himself — he is an accomplished violist — for Williamson to pass to the Hectors. Williamson often hires Hectors, and we should not forget that he has allocated a singularly stupid agent to investigate this particular case.’
‘One who might have died giving you exploding oil for your lamp,’ mused Thurloe. ‘You said there was music on Wenum’s windowsill, too, but that is to be expected, given that Wenum is Newburne. And Newburne would certainly have involved himself in this, you can be sure of that.’
‘Hickes would not agree with you about the Newburne-Wenum connection. According to him, Wenum was one of Mary’s victims, found floating in the Thames.’
‘Then he is mistaken. I set my servant to work when I received your note earlier. Records are kept of drownings, but Wenum is not among them. Wenum is Newburne, which explains why Wenum has not been seen since the solicitor died. And, more to the point, we cannot overlook the very obvious fact that the names are anagrams of each other. Hickes must have been listening to unsubstantiated gossip, and he is not intelligent enough to know the difference between fact and speculation.’
Chaloner supposed he might be right, although an element of doubt remained. ‘He is an odd combination of credulous and astute.’
Thurloe was not interested in Hickes. ‘I visited “Wenum’s” attic in the Rhenish Wine House the other day, and I saw the book — Galen’s tome on foods — that you mentioned. That edition is actually rare and very expensive, so I took it to Nott the bookseller, and asked him to find out who bought it. He undertook similar tasks for me during the Commonwealth, so I have high hopes that proof will not be long in coming. I fully expect the owner to be wealthy old Newburne.’
Chaloner nodded vaguely, unwilling to commit himself one way or the other. He did not know what to think about Wenum.
‘What will you do today?’ asked Thurloe, when the spy made no other reply. ‘Other than keep your distance from Smithfield, of course.’
‘Speak to Hickes, ask who gave him the oil. Then question Muddiman about what Dury was doing in Hodgkinson’s print-house.’ Chaloner was not very enthusiastic, because he did not think either would provide him with the answers he so desperately needed.
‘You said Hickes wanted information about Hodgkinson’s whereabouts. If he refuses to cooperate, you can persuade him with the intelligence that Hodgkinson has a sister in Chelsey.’
‘How do you know that?’
Thurloe’s smile was enigmatic. ‘Hodgkinson is a printer. Such people have the means to flood the streets with seditious literature, so naturally, he was of interest to me during the Commonwealth.’
‘Hickes said he was dangerous. Is that what he meant?’
‘Hodgkinson is dangerous. He may seem amiable and pleasant, but he has a core of steel — and iron fists to go with it. He associates with insalubrious men, too. Why do you think he has a print-shop at Smithfield, of all places? It is not to sell cards and advertisements, believe me.’
Chaloner stared at him. ‘Have I underestimated him?’
‘You have if you think he is some harmless innocent. Why? Did you cross him?’
‘Not as far as I know. So that explains why he was willing to “help” Greeting search for Smegergill’s killer in Smithfield. He is a Hector himself!’
Chaloner returned to his rooms to don different clothes before going to see Hickes, hurrying because he could not afford to waste time. Bells were ringing to call people to church, but it was pouring with rain again, and those who did brave the weather did so resentfully. His cat was still out, and he hoped it had not come to grief in the swollen runnels and streams that gushed to join the bloated Thames.
He strode to The Strand, in the hope that Hickes would be at his customary spot outside Muddiman’s house, but even the regular street-traders seemed to have given up the battle against the elements, and the city felt strangely deserted. The only other place he could think to look was White Halclass="underline" if Hickes was Williamson’s spy, then someone there would know where he lived. He asked Bulteel, whose bloodshot eyes and rumpled clothes indicated he had been working all night. The clerk leaned back in his chair and massaged his back.
‘Hickes lives in Axe Yard, Westminster, but I doubt he will be accepting visitors today. There is a rumour that he has been poisoned. Rat stew, apparently.’
‘I had rat stew last night, and I am not poisoned,’ said Chaloner, wondering if Mrs Hickes had persuaded her husband to swallow one of Theophilus Buckworth’s Personal Lozenges after all.
Bulteel shuddered. ‘You old soldiers! I have heard them wax lyrical about the lost delights of rat stew before, but I did not think they would eat it when more pleasant alternatives were available.’