‘You must be shocked by Dury’s death,’ he said quietly.
Muddiman’s expression was bleak. ‘It started as a game, but it has now become something infinitely more deadly. Whose side will you back?’
‘Fortunately, I do not need to make such choices. All I need do is learn who murdered Newburne — and he was murdered.’
Muddiman sighed. ‘So much has happened since Newburne’s death that I had all but forgotten about it. However, I can tell you that it had nothing to do with politics and struggles for power. It did not even have anything to do with controlling the hearts and minds of London through the news. It was about horses.’
Chaloner nodded. ‘I know. Coded messages are passing between criminals, telling them which ones to steal on which nights. It is all contained in music.’
‘I suspected it would not take you long to work that out, especially when I learned L’Estrange had given you a copy of one of the messages. You spies are trained to notice that sort of thing, I believe.’
Chaloner did not like to admit it had taken him longer than it should have done. ‘How do you know about the code? Are you part of the deception?’
Muddiman gave a wan smile. ‘I am not, although I would not mind a share of the profits. The perpetrators must be making a fortune, and I envy them.’
‘I would not recommend an association with Hectors — look what happened to Newburne. And I suspect it was they who recently sent me a poisoned cake, too. Hickes ate it and is lucky to be alive.’
Muddiman looked shocked. ‘Hickes is not a bad man. I am sorry he is a casualty of this war.’
‘Do you know the identity of the killer?’ asked Chaloner, not bothering to mention the exploding oil. ‘If so, then please tell me. Too many people have died already, and he needs to be stopped.’
‘I would rather not ally myself to someone in the Earl of Clarendon’s retinue, if it is all the same to you. It would spoil my reputation as an independent observer.’
‘I want to stop a murderer, not rule the country. Talk to me. Tell me what you know.’
‘You talk to me. Tell me what you know. We have both worked out that the horrible music that is sailing rather freely around London contains orders to horse thieves — and to answer your earlier question, I learned about it from my search of Finch’s room. I doubt he had put the pieces together, but I am far more clever. Start from the beginning. Explain how you think this operation functions.’
Chaloner resented the squandered time, but was also aware that he desperately needed any answers the newsman might be willing to share. ‘Very well. Coffee houses are places to exchange gossip — such as who is away from home, or perhaps who plans to ride alone on a lonely road. These tales are carefully culled, and passed to the Hectors.’ He thought about the letter Bridges had sent him, revealing how he had been forced to pass such chatter to Hectors after his accusations had almost seen Mary hanged for theft.
Muddiman inclined his head. ‘I concur. Butcher Crisp is a powerful criminal, who has a network of people listening in coffee houses. The intelligence is passed to him, and he sends instructions to villains such as Ireton in the form of music.’
‘Why music? Why not a simpler system? Or why not word of mouth?’
‘Because the music code is very secure — only a few people can decipher it — and it totally conceals the identity of the sender.’
This did not seem right. ‘But you and I both know the sender is Crisp.’
‘Yes, but we cannot prove it, can we? You will have to catch him writing the music in order to be sure of his guilt. And using music means the recipients of these orders never meet the man who issues them. Ergo, they can never testify against him. So, what happens after the horses are stolen?’
Chaloner was still unconvinced, but he pressed on. ‘If the victims advertise in The Newes or The Intelligencer, their property is often returned. L’Estrange has five shillings for every notice printed, and perhaps even a share of the reward when the thieves restore the horses to their rightful owners.’
Muddiman laughed humourlessly. ‘He gains from the paid advertisements, but I doubt he knows about the music. He plays it from time to time, but I suspect its real meaning has eluded him.’
Chaloner was not so sure. ‘You have a tendency to underestimate him, because of his campaign against phantom phanatiques, but that is a mistake. Even if he does not understand how the music relays messages to thieves, he knows the meaning of an increased demand for newsbook notices.’
Muddiman gazed at him. ‘Are you saying these thefts benefit him, by encouraging people to buy his newsbooks? The advertisements actually improve circulation?’
‘That is exactly what I am saying. Victims have their property returned after buying these notices. They discuss it in the coffee houses. More horses are stolen, and more notices bought. More people purchase the newsbooks to see which of their friends have lost animals — or had them recovered. And once the newsbook is bought, people read the other stories, too. It is about gaining hearts and minds.’
Muddiman shrugged. ‘You may be right, although L’Estrange still has a problem in that people take his “news” with a pinch of salt. If he limited himself to writing reports, rather than indulging in rants, his publications might be a threat to me. But they are not, not as they stand.’
‘Do you know how Dury died? Hickes thinks Hodgkinson did it.’
‘When I saw Hickes examine Dury’s body, I waited until he had gone and went to do the same. I saw the bruises on his throat, so I know he was strangled. But they were bruises, not dirty marks.’
Chaloner understood what he was saying. ‘Hodgkinson’s hands are always inky, and he would have left traces of dye on Dury’s neck. But if Hodgkinson is not guilty, then who is?’
‘L’Estrange?’ asked Muddiman with a shrug. ‘Not Hickes — he would not have inspected Giles’s neck, if he had been responsible. Crisp? After all, Dury did die in Smithfield. Wenum, perhaps.’
‘Wenum is Newburne.’
‘I doubt it, as I have told you already. I appreciate it is odd that Nobert Wenum should happen to spell Tom Newburne, but perhaps it was Wenum’s private joke.’
Chaloner was not sure about anything connected with Wenum. ‘Then who is he? He abandoned his room about the same time that Newburne died. And you told me he drowned in the Thames.’
‘But his body was never recovered, was it? Maybe he realised the stakes were being raised, and ran while he could. Spying is a dangerous business, as I am sure you know all too well.’
The streets were so badly flooded that it was difficult for Chaloner to move very fast through them. Many were solid sheets of water, under the surface of which lurked potholes and other hazards. The continued rain made no difference to his clothes: he could not have been more wet had he jumped in the river. Everyone was the same, and he could even hear some houses groaning, as if their waterlogged timbers were beginning to buckle. Then people started to yell the news that a roof had collapsed in Canning Street, and three people had been crushed to death.
When Chaloner arrived at Ivy Lane, L’Estrange was not there. Brome and Joanna, removing hats and coats after Sunday church, said he had gone out but added that he had declined to say where. Brome ventured the opinion that his errand had almost certainly not been religious, and that one of the Angels was probably involved. Chaloner had been ready for a confrontation, and L’Estrange’s absence was an anticlimax. He experienced an overwhelming weariness, his sleepless night beginning to catch up with him.