‘I am a friend of Maylord’s, sir,’ Chaloner said, holding his hands in front of him to show he was unarmed. He spoke softly, so Greeting would not hear him and recognise his voice. ‘He wrote to me, but I have only just returned to London, and I am afraid I was too late to find out what he wanted.’
‘Chaloner?’ asked Smegergill, peering at him. ‘Nephew of the regicide?’
It was not how he usually identified himself, and Chaloner was immediately alert for trouble, bracing himself to make a run for it when the man yelled that a dangerous rebel was lurking in the shadows. Smegergill sensed his unease and reached out to touch his arm.
‘It is all right. I was your father’s friend, too — he died during the wars, fighting for the wrong side, like so many good men. You have nothing to fear from me.’
Chaloner did not recall his father ever mentioning Smegergill, but the wars had been a long time ago, and his father had entertained a long succession of men in hooded cloaks during those turbulent years. The musician might well have been one of his clandestine guests.
‘Did Maylord tell you what he-’
Smegergill silenced him quickly. ‘Maylord said he had written to Frederick Chaloner’s son, and you look uncannily like your father. I have been expecting you. Do you remember me? I was at your house in Buckinghamshire many times before and during the wars.’
‘I am sorry.’
Smegergill seemed surprised. ‘Well, I suppose you were only a child.’
‘Hurry up, Smegergill!’ shouted Greeting impatiently. ‘I am exhausted and want to go home, but the coachman says Hingston and I are to be dropped off last, because we live in Smithfield. The longer you dally, the later we will be in our beds.’
‘It is what we always do,’ objected the driver, not liking the censure in Greeting’s voice. ‘We always take the furthest home first, and the nearest last. It is common practice.’
‘Go without me,’ called Smegergill. ‘I am with the son of a friend; he will see me safely home.’
‘Be sure he does, then,’ ordered Greeting, leaning forward in an attempt to see them. Chaloner moved into the shadows, and Greeting was not curious enough to step out into the rain for a better look. ‘Good virginals players are rare these days, and you will be missed if anything happens to you. Keep your hands warm. We are playing for L’Estrange again tomorrow, and you know how critical he can be if our playing does not reach his exacting standards.’
The carriage rattled off. ‘My mother played the virginals,’ said Chaloner. ‘And so do my sisters.’
‘All your siblings are talented that way,’ said Smegergill fondly. ‘Far more so than your regicide uncle, whose only skills were for politics and intrigue. But we should not talk about him; he is best forgotten in this current climate. Is that oak tree still at the gate to your father’s manor? Each May-day, he had it decorated with ribbons, and there was music from dawn to dusk.’
‘It blew down.’ It was a pity, because the spring celebrations under the Chaloners’ oak were famous across the whole county, and they had continued even when the Puritans had declared such festivities illegal. Maylord had been a regular guest, and had declared it his favourite event of the year.
Smegergill shook his head sadly. ‘Everything is changing, and not for the better. What can I do for you, Chaloner? Or may I call you Frederick?’
‘Frederick was my father, sir. I am Thomas.’
‘Quite so, quite so. Maylord said he wrote to you because he wanted your help. He discovered something, and he did not know what to do about it. Documents.’
Chaloner’s pulse quickened. ‘Documents? Do you know what was in them?’
Smegergill sighed. ‘He would not let me read them, because he said it would be dangerous, and I am too old and wise to have pressed him. We play music in the homes of wealthy, powerful men, and I suppose he discovered something amiss in one of them. He was agitated over the last two weeks — he even left his pleasant cottage on Thames Street, and refused to tell anyone where he was going.’
‘The Rhenish Wine House in Westminster,’ supplied Chaloner. He took a breath, deciding a blunt approach would be the best one. ‘He was murdered. Suffocated.’
Smegergill’s hands flew to his face in horror. ‘No! He said he feared assassins, but I thought he was overreacting. Are you sure about this? Everyone else said he died of cucumbers.’
‘I inspected his body, so yes, I am sure.’
Smegergill looked away, and Chaloner saw a tear course down his leathery cheek. It was some time before he spoke. ‘I should have guessed, but the truth is that I did not want to see the truth. He hated cucumbers — he avoided all green fruits, because he said touching them gave him itching skin and boils. He would never have eaten one. Damn my foolish blindness!’
‘Do you have any idea who might have meant him harm?’
‘None at all — everyone loved him. Why? I hope you do not intend to investigate. It might prove to be dangerous.’
‘I would like to see his killer face the justice of the law-courts.’
Smegergill regarded him unhappily. ‘I do not know about this. I was fond of your father, and I do not want to see his son in peril.’
‘Do not worry about that, sir. Smothering an old man and harming me do not represent the same sort of challenge, and the killer may decide there are limits to the risks he is willing to take. But we will not know unless we see these documents. Do you know where they might be?’
Smegergill smiled sadly. ‘It was my friendship with your father that prompted me to warn you against investigating, but I am glad you are not a coward. Maylord was my closest friend, and I do not want his murderer to go free. I shall help you find out what really happened. What shall we do first? You say he lived in the Rhenish Wine House?’
Chaloner did not like the notion of embroiling Smegergill in whatever Maylord had discovered, but did not want to alienate him by excluding him too soon. ‘We should read these documents before deciding on a course of action.’
Smegergill gripped his arm. ‘You are a good boy, Frederick. I shall tell your father when I see him.’
‘I am Thomas, sir, and my father died years ago.’
‘So he did. During the wars, fighting for the wrong side, like me. I am a Royalist now.’
‘So am I,’ said Chaloner, beginning to have serious reservations about Smegergill’s potential as an ally. ‘Do you think Maylord’s documents will be in his room?’
‘He would not tell me where he had put them — for my own safety, apparently. It will take a cunning lad like you to discover where he hid these papers, though; I doubt a silly old man like me will have any luck. Where is the carriage that will carry me home? We can ask the driver to take us to Maylord’s lodgings first.’
‘It has already gone. We shall have to hire another.’
‘Of course. But it is no good waiting here for one to come along, not at this time of night. We shall have to walk to Long Lane. There are always hackneys in Long Lane, ready to take people home from the Smithfield taverns.’
Chaloner assumed he meant the brothels. ‘What about your hands? Greeting told you to keep them warm. Perhaps you should go home, and leave me to-’
‘I am seventy years old,’ said Smegergill sharply. ‘And during that time I have learned how to look after myself. I may be forgetful, but I am not stupid.’
Chaloner was startled by the sudden curtness, and supposed it was what Thurloe had meant when he had described Smegergill as difficult. He mumbled an apology, then hastened to grab the musician’s arm when he started to stalk off in entirely the wrong direction. He turned him around gently, and began to ask questions, knowing it would be unwise to place too much trust in the old man’s memory, but desperate enough to take intelligence from any source available, no matter how addled.