‘So the Butcher was not Hodgkinson?’ said Leybourn, beginning to pant.
Chaloner ran harder, splashing through water and oblivious to the spray that flew around him. ‘No.’
‘Maybe Muddiman is, then,’ gasped Leybourn. ‘For several reasons. He gave exploding oil to Hickes, to dispatch him before he reported something really incriminating to Williamson. He hired Hodgkinson to betray L’Estrange’s secrets. He probably killed Dury, because they argued. He bought cucumbers from Covent Garden the day before one was left at the scene of Newburne’s death. And he is bitter because he lost control of the newsbooks to L’Estrange.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Muddiman is not the Butcher.’
‘Yes he is,’ countered Leybourn firmly. ‘And that is why he is at his coffee house and not at home tonight. He is on this side of the Fleet River, because he is preparing to seize his Smithfield throne.’
Lights burned in the Turk’s Head Coffee House. The windows had steamed up, so it was impossible to see inside, and the distinctive reek of burned coffee wafted into the street, combining unpleasantly with the stench of overloaded sewers. Chaloner was about to go in, when the door opened and Muddiman himself bustled out. He carried a bag, and behind him were two servants bearing boxes. The newsman raised his arm and a cart immediately rattled towards him, loaded with goods and covered with a sheet of oiled canvas.
‘Going somewhere?’ asked Chaloner softly, stepping in front of him.
Muddiman jumped in alarm. ‘The river is set to burst its banks, and I do not want to be here when it does. Besides, I meet L’Estrange everywhere I go these days, and he has a nasty habit of drawing his sword. Without Dury to protect me, I am safer in the country.’
‘L’Estrange is in there?’ asked Leybourn, trying to peer through the glass. ‘Have you considered the fact that he may have good reason to grab his weapon when you appear? You are a killer, and thus a dangerous man. You murdered Newburne with poisonous lozenges, and left one of the cucumbers you bought by his side.’
Chaloner winced.
‘I did no such thing,’ objected Muddiman indignantly. ‘My wife used those fruits to make me a remedy for wind. Ask her, my servants and my apothecary. They concocted the potion together.’
Chaloner suspected he was telling the truth, because it was a tale that could easily be verified, and Muddiman was not stupid.
‘You gave a flask of exploding oil to Hickes,’ Leybourn went on, going for his suspect like a dog with a rat.
‘Did I?’ asked Muddiman coldly. ‘Do you think me a fool, then, to blow up the Spymaster’s best agent? Besides, Hickes is no threat to me. He is incompetent.’
‘But now Dury is dead, Hickes will concentrate all his attention on you, and that will be inconvenient,’ said Leybourn, shaking off the warning hand that Chaloner laid on his arm.
Muddiman sighed. ‘You might have a point, if I was doing something I do not want Williamson to know about. But I am not.’
‘How about buying secrets from Hodgkinson?’ asked Chaloner, shoving Leybourn hard in an attempt to make him shut up. ‘Secrets that have damaged Williamson’s newsbooks?’
‘Hodgkinson has confessed to being Wenum, so do not deny it,’ added Leybourn.
‘You are lying,’ said Muddiman dismissively. ‘Hodgkinson is not Wenum. Wenum had something wrong with his face, and Hodgkinson has a beard-’ He stopped speaking as he saw how the two facts fitted together, but quickly rallied. ‘You cannot prove I sent Hickes the oil.’
‘Actually, I can,’ said Chaloner. ‘When I visited your office on Monday, I saw a pamphlet on such devices, and Brome just said he sold you one. It is not a subject a man reads about for fun, as I am sure Williamson will agree when he searches your home and finds it. But that is not your only crime. You are also responsible for Brome spying on L’Estrange. You sent Williamson some silly broadsheet Brome wrote as a child, knowing Williamson would use it to force him into turning informer.’
Muddiman sneered. ‘You call that a crime? Besides, it was Williamson who resorted to blackmail, not I. All I did was send our noble Spymaster an anonymous gift. It was a waste of time, though. I wanted Brome to discover something so unsavoury about L’Estrange that it would see him ousted, but he learned nothing we do not know already. And neither of them had the wits to work out the business with the music and the stolen horses.’
‘I have decided you are right: Muddiman is not Crisp,’ whispered Leybourn in Chaloner’s ear. His voice was hard and cold. ‘L’Estrange is.’
‘He is not,’ said Chaloner irritably. ‘He cannot be, because-’
He broke off when the door to the coffee house creaked, and the editor himself stepped out.
‘Hah!’ yelled Leybourn in savage delight.
‘Christ!’ sighed Chaloner, bracing himself for yet more trouble. ‘What wretched timing!’
L’Estrange grinned when he saw Muddiman talking to Chaloner and Leybourn, and gave a bow that was intended to be insulting. ‘All the phanatiques together. What are you plotting this time?’
‘Your downfall,’ replied Leybourn bitingly. ‘I was just about to explain to Tom how you send coded messages to criminals, telling them when to steal horses, so you can collect five shillings when the hapless victim is obliged to advertise the loss in your nasty little newsbooks.’
‘It is a fascinating theory,’ drawled Muddiman. ‘And I wish Dury were here to hear it. However, I shall be sure to repeat it in my next newsletter, so others can enjoy it, too.’
Chaloner was not surprised when L’Estrange’s sword was whipped from its scabbard, or when Leybourn struggled to do the same. He drew his own and stood between them, wishing L’Estrange had stayed in the coffee house for just a few moments longer. He had just missed a second night of sleep, and his wits were not as sharp as they should have been — he was not sure he was alert enough to prevent the brewing skirmish by trying to reason with them.
‘I am no horse thief,’ snapped L’Estrange. He ignored Leybourn and lunged at Muddiman, furious when his blow was parried by Chaloner’s blade.
Muddiman jerked into Leybourn, who promptly dropped his weapon in the water that lapped around their feet.
‘No?’ demanded the newsmonger, rashly provocative. ‘Then tell Heyden why you wanted Newburne’s death quietly forgotten. Dury was looking into the matter for me, but you warned him and Heyden to leave the matter well alone.’
‘Of course I did,’ exploded L’Estrange. ‘Newburne died of cucumbers. There was no need for an investigation, because cucumbers kill people all the time. I am a newsman, so party to this sort of information. I could name half a dozen people who have died of cucumbers this year alone.’
‘And it did not occur to you that this is odd?’ Muddiman grabbed Leybourn and cowered behind him, as L’Estrange brandished his sword and Chaloner tried to keep it from landing on someone. Leybourn was desperately scrabbling around in the water for his lost weapon, and Chaloner might have laughed at the ludicrousness of the situation, had he not been so tired or so worried about what might be happening in Smithfield.
‘Of course it is not odd. People die of peculiar things all the time. Besides, if you must know the truth, I was paying court to Dorcus Newburne when her husband breathed his last, and I knew what Dury would have made of that — he would have said it was motive for murder. Damned phanatique!’
‘Hah!’ exclaimed Leybourn, as he found his blade at last. It came out of the water like Excalibur. ‘And you, Muddiman? Why did you order Tom not to investigate Newburne?’
‘Because Dury was doing it,’ replied Chaloner, when Muddiman realised he was in more danger from Leybourn’s undisciplined swipes than L’Estrange’s determined lunges. The newsman ducked and weaved, more interested in protecting himself than in answering questions. ‘And he did not want us tripping over each other in the search for clues.’