‘Even that horrible Spymaster Williamson and his creature Hickes visited, although they were under a moral obligation to put in an appearance, because Maylord was a Court employee.’
‘Do you still have his belongings?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether there was something among Maylord’s possessions that might give some clue as to what had upset him before he had died. Although the notion of pawing through them was distasteful, he thought Maylord would not have minded, under the circumstances. ‘Or have you already let his room?’
Genew was offended. ‘Of course not! That would be deemed as acting with indecent haste. They will remain in situ until his funeral next Saturday. It is only one of the attics on the top floor anyway, and the rent is insignificant.’
‘Do you know if he was ever visited by a solicitor called Newburne?’ asked Chaloner, keen to ascertain whether there was a connection between the two men, other than cucumbers.
‘If he had, I would not have let him in,’ declared Genew. ‘Newburne had fingers in far too many rancid pies, and Maylord would never have endured an acquaintance with a fellow like him, anyway.’
‘Newburne was involved in illegal activities?’
Genew became uneasy. ‘Perhaps they were not illegal as such, but they were unpopular. He used to spy on me — to make sure I only provide official newsbooks for my customers to read. Had I bought others, he would have reported me to L’Estrange, and I would have been fined.’
When Genew had gone, Chaloner drank the buttered ale and read The Newes. Its front page was dominated by a harangue from the editor about a conspiracy of phanatiques in the north: Well, gentlemen, after all this Noyse and Bustle, was there really a plot or no, do ye think? That’s the plot now, my masters, to persuade the people that there was no Plot at all, and that all this Hurly-burly and alarme was nothing in the whole world but a Trick of State. Chaloner grimaced. The country was still reeling from two decades of war and regime change, so the last thing it needed was someone in authority braying about conspiracy and rebellion.
Next came a detailed report about a ‘sad bay mare with a long tail (if not cut off)’ that had been stolen from Mr Sherard Lorinston, grocer of Smithfield. Anyone coming forward with information was promised to be ‘well satisfied for his pains’. It was tedious stuff, and Chaloner soon lost interest.
The Rhenish Wine House also subscribed to a newsletter service — the handwritten epistles that were not subject to the same censorship laws as printed newsbooks, so could contain all manner of items barred from the printing presses. The one that had been left on Chaloner’s table was dog-eared and well fingered, indicating it had been read a lot. He saw from the date that it and The Newes had been produced the same day, but L’Estrange’s official offering had clearly been received with considerably less enthusiasm than the handwritten one. He turned to the back page, and saw it came from the office of Henry Muddiman. The obvious preference for Muddiman’s work to L’Estrange’s productions indicated that the ousted editor represented a serious challenge to his successor.
‘Do not believe everything you read in those things,’ whispered a soft voice close behind him.
Chaloner pretended to be surprised, but the truth was that he had noticed someone attempting to creep up on him several minutes before. He also knew, from the clumsy way the man moved, that it was William Leybourn, mathematician, surveyor and bookseller of Monkwell Street, Cripplegate. Leybourn was Chaloner’s closest friend in London, a tall, stoop-shouldered man with long straight hair and a hooked nose. He had gained weight since Chaloner had last seen him; his cheeks were rounder, and there was a distinct paunch above the belt that held up his fashionable silken breeches.
‘How did you know I was here?’ Chaloner asked, returning the surveyor’s grin of greeting with genuine pleasure.
‘We clever spies know how to find a man newly returned to the city,’ said Leybourn smugly.
Chaloner ignored the fact that Leybourn was not really a spy — he only dabbled in espionage to help their mutual friend, John Thurloe — and began to assess how he might have been tracked down. ‘You are wearing unusually fine clothes, so I surmise you were one of the party of mathematicians who met the King today. Greeting was playing there, and he told you we had met. He mentioned we had discussed Maylord’s death, and you made the logical assumption that I would visit his home.’
Leybourn grimaced. ‘You make it sound obvious, but it was actually an ingenious piece of deduction. I came as soon as I could politely escape from the King.’
‘Why? What is the urgency?’
‘You disappear for months, without a word of farewell, and you want to know why friends are eager to see you? Thurloe said you were gone overseas, but refused to say where, and I have been worried. Many countries boil with war and tension, and I doubt whatever you were doing was safe.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner ruefully. ‘It was not safe.’
Leybourn clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well, I am pleased to see you home, and I have a lot to tell you. What do you think of the newsbooks, by the way? Or do you prefer the newsletters?’
‘Do you read the newsbooks?’
Leybourn shot him an arch glance. ‘Why would I read anything penned by L’Estrange? All he does is rant about matters he does not understand, hoping to earn Williamson’s approval and be promoted to some other post beyond his meagre abilities. However, his newsbooks do contain notices about stolen horses, which is something in their favour.’
‘You mean the advertisements?’ asked Chaloner, startled. In Portugal, such snippets were printed at the end of the publications, in smaller type, but in L’Estrange’s journals, they were prominently placed between items of news, which lent them an importance they should not have had.
‘Most people ignore L’Estrange’s pitiful excuse for editorials and only read the advertisements. For example, last Monday’s Intelligencer told me that one Captain Hammond was deprived of a dappled grey gelding near Clapham. Now that is interesting.’
‘It is?’ Chaloner wondered if Leybourn was being facetious.
‘Yes, for two reasons. First, it tells me Hammond is in town, which is good to know, because he owes me money. And secondly, I am now aware that I must commiserate with him when we meet. There is a great yearning for news these days, you see — it is a lucrative and booming business.’
‘Is it?’
‘Oh, yes. These last few months have witnessed a burning desire to know what is happening at home and overseas. Of course, if you want real news, you must subscribe to Muddiman’s weekly letters.’ Leybourn tapped the handwritten sheet in front of Chaloner with a bony forefinger. ‘He is a professional journalist, not a pamphleteer like L’Estrange, and so can be trusted to tell the truth.’
‘You cannot trust L’Estrange?’
‘Of course not! He is the government’s mouthpiece, and only fools believe anything they say. But suppressing the news is not his only talent. It is his job to censor — which he thinks means “macerate” — every book published, too. You should see what he did to my pamphlet on surveying.’
Chaloner wondered what Leybourn could have written that was controversial; surveying was hardly a subject that would have insurgents champing at the bit. ‘What did you do? Tell your readers how to build palaces that will collapse and crush unpopular courtiers?’
‘It was almost entirely given over to technical calculations, and needed no editing from an amateur. But edit L’Estrange did, and the result was an incomprehensible jumble that made me look like a half-wit. And I am not the only one to suffer. There were six hundred booksellers in London a couple of years ago, but he fined so many of them for breaking his silly rules, that there are only fifty of us left. His vicious tactics have put many good men in debtors’ prison.’