‘Proof-reading,’ replied Greeting, when Hickes only moaned. ‘With L’Estrange in Ivy Lane.’
Chaloner helped Hickes sit up and sip his concoction. ‘My sister uses this for upset stomachs.’
‘She is not the one who taught you how to cook, is she?’ asked Hickes weakly. ‘Why are you here?’
‘You asked last night if I knew where Hodgkinson might be. He has a sister in Chelsey.’
‘We know,’ said Greeting. ‘Williamson sent me there to look for the wretched man, but she has not seen him in weeks. However, it is good of you to come and tell us, and in return, I have something for you. I learned it last night, and planned to track you down today anyway.’
‘You mean about Butcher Crisp?’ asked Hickes, gagging slightly when Chaloner made him drink too fast. ‘What Williamson told us before I was taken poorly? Yes, tell him all that.’
‘Actually, I was thinking about Smegergill,’ said Greeting. ‘When I went through his belongings — which are now mine — I found documents telling me three things. First, Maylord was definitely being cheated by Newburne. Second, Smegergill was teaching the lute to a Hector called Ireton. And third, I was astonished to discover that Smegergill owned several magnificent horses currently stabled at the Haymarket. Unfortunately, I have a bad feeling he did not come by them honestly.’
‘What makes you think that?’ asked Chaloner, thoughts churning.
‘Because records show he acquired them after Maylord had accused Newburne of cheating him. I think there was extortion going on, and he was given these nags to keep him quiet. However, if you blackmail felons, you should not be surprised when you are presented with stolen property. I took Bayspoole with me — as Surveyor of His Majesty’s Stables, he knows horses — and he said one of the stallions belonged to Colonel Beauclair.’
And Beauclair was one of the men who had been poisoned with Personal Lozenges and a cucumber left to disguise the fact, thought Chaloner. Ends were beginning to come together, to make sense at last. He knew from the encoded music that Beauclair’s horse had been stolen by Hectors.
‘What did Williamson tell you about Crisp?’ he asked Hickes, moving to another subject.
‘That he has taken to killing his own people. He is now more than just an underworld king: he is a despot, who gains in power every day.’
‘I asked Williamson why he did not crush the fellow,’ added Greeting. ‘He is Spymaster, after all. But he said something I did not understand: that he needs to weigh the advantages first. What advantages? Surely, there are none to having such a man loose in our city?’
Chaloner suspected that Williamson had allowed himself to become more closely allied to Crisp than most respectable citizens would consider appropriate. He said nothing, and Greeting packed up his violin and left, saying he was due to play in the Chapel Royal for Sunday prayers. When he had gone, Hickes claimed he was feeling better, and that the Sick Dance had finally worked its magic.
‘My stew did not make you ill,’ stated Chaloner firmly. ‘What else did you eat?’
‘Nothing, other than what I had at your house,’ replied Hickes, rather shiftily.
Chaloner analysed the words with care. ‘Last night, you said you had visited me earlier in the day, but I was out. So, when you say you have had nothing other than at my house, are you actually saying you ate something more than the stew?’
Hickes flushed scarlet. ‘I was hungry, but I was going to replace it. Honestly.’
‘Replace what?’
‘The cake outside your door. I thought I would just sample a piece while I was waiting, but you did not return, so I had another. And suddenly the whole thing was gone.’
‘You ate food that just happened to be lying around?’ Chaloner was disgusted. ‘I thought you knew better. You had no problem rejecting the Personal Lozenges.’
‘Yes, but this was cake,’ insisted Hickes earnestly. ‘Cake is different.’
Chaloner suspected there was no point trying to convince him otherwise. ‘Who was it from? Was there a letter with it? A message?’
‘I threw it away when I accidentally finished the cake. It could not have been from whom it said, anyway, because he is missing.’
‘Hodgkinson?’ Chaloner was confused.
‘It must have been from him, because it was a beautifully printed letter. However, I made up for eating the cake by giving you the oil.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Chaloner, removing the flask from his pocket and holding it in the air. ‘The oil. It contains something volatile, so it was fortunate we did not use it. Where did you get it from?’
Hickes grabbed it, sniffed its contents and regarded him in horror. ‘You are right! It was another gift. So, there were two attempts on us in one night?’
‘One on each, I imagine: you should be blown up, I should be poisoned. Who gave you the oil?’
‘I do not know. It was left for me on my doorstep.’
‘And you did not question it?’ Chaloner was amazed Hickes had survived so long in the treacherous world of espionage, given that he seemed not to take even the most basic of precautions.
‘Why would I? Lamp fuel is not food, to contain poison. It did not occur to me that someone might make it explode. Why am I a target, anyway? Watching Muddiman is hardly dangerous.’
‘Right,’ said Chaloner, lacking the energy to explain that a good spy considered every situation dangerous. He turned his attention to analysing the current situation, replacing the oil in his pocket as he did so. ‘The perpetrator is becoming worried, and is taking precautions to protect himself.’
‘But who is it?’ asked Hickes fearfully. ‘And how do we stop him?’
Chaloner had no idea. ‘Just answer a few more questions before I go. I saw you with Henry Brome on Friday, and you were giving him money. You lied about it when I asked. Why?’
‘Damn! We are always so careful, too. Brome is a decent man — truthful and loyal to the government — but Williamson says L’Estrange is not very trustworthy. So, he pays Brome a small salary for information about L’Estrange.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘Anything and everything. Williamson is not a good Spymaster — Thurloe did not have to pay men to spy on his own people, because he knew whom he could trust. Williamson does not.’
‘What kind of things does Brome tell you?’
‘That L’Estrange charges five shillings for each advertisement placed in the newsbooks, but tells Williamson it is only four.’
‘So, L’Estrange is dishonest?’
‘He is a government official, so of course he is dishonest! Upright ones are few and far between, and extremely poor. Take Bulteel, for example. He is honest, and it costs him a fortune in bribes.’
‘What else did Brome tell you about L’Estrange?’
‘Nothing much. Personally, I think Williamson is wrong to distrust him. He has his faults — more than most men — but his loyalty to the government is total and absolute.’
‘He cheats it of money.’
‘That is different — petty. It is hardly worth the risk for Brome to reveal these things. His wife is after him to stop, because if L’Estrange ever found out, there would be a terrible scene, and she says it is not worth the pittance Williamson pays. Or would pay, if he were not tardy with settling his bills.’
‘Do you believe Brome tells you the truth? He passes you everything he finds out?’
Hickes nodded grimly. ‘Oh, yes! You see, Williamson discovered that, as a youth, Brome wrote a pamphlet praising the Commonwealth. He says it is treason, and has poor Brome so frightened that he would never dare hold anything back.’
‘Poor Brome indeed.’
‘But even so, it is better than what is happening to the other booksellers — fined so heavily they will spend the rest of their lives in debtors’ prison. Where are you going?’
‘To see L’Estrange.’
The foul weather meant there were no free hackneys, so Chaloner travelled to Ivy Lane on foot. On The Strand, he met Muddiman, who invited him to read a draft analysis about the proposed Spanish marriage contract. The spy did not want to dally, but Muddiman remained a suspect for Newburne’s murder, and he could do worse than ask the newsman a few questions.