Should Chaloner do as he had threatened, and ask questions about Mary until he discovered her secrets? Thurloe would certainly encourage him to do so. Or should he stand back and wait for Leybourn to learn the truth himself? Leybourn was a grown man, so well able to make his own decisions. Or was he? Perhaps she had bewitched him, and he was no longer responsible for himself. Besides, interfering in matters that were none of his concern was how Chaloner made his living, and it was difficult to stand by and watch a friend make a terrible mistake. He decided he would add Mary Cade to his list of enquiries, and discover as much about her as he could. That made three investigations. He considered them in turn, aware that all had connections to the mysterious Crisp.
First, Mary claimed to know Ellis Crisp, bragging that she was in a position to order a repeat attack of the one that had almost killed Chaloner that night. Or was she just trying to unnerve him? He was not sure how to proceed with her, although a visit to Newgate was as good a place as any to start. He would make a sketch of her and show it to the guards, to see if they recognised her as a criminal. He had recently discovered a talent for drawing, and knew he could produce a reasonable likeness. He would need money to bribe them for information, though, so he would have to visit White Hall first, to collect his back-pay.
Secondly, there was his enquiry into Newburne’s death. Why had so many people advised him to abandon the investigation? They could not all have sinister reasons for doing so. He sensed the warnings of Brome, Joanna and Hodgkinson had been kindly meant, and so was Leybourn’s, but what about those issued by Muddiman, Dury, the booksellers and L’Estrange? Even Finch, Newburne’s friend, declared himself unwilling to look into the matter. Could Crisp, who was only a felon when all was said and done, really terrify so many people? Chaloner decided to ask Thurloe the following day. The ex-Spymaster was sure to have heard of such an infamous villain.
And finally, there was the smothering of Maylord. Maylord was linked to Crisp — albeit tangentially — because Chaloner had been attacked by Hectors while walking in Smithfield with Maylord’s friend. The villains had been quietly proficient, and had hauled him and Smegergill off the road and into the privacy of the churchyard with a minimum of commotion. He imagined it was exactly the kind of activity at which the legendary Hectors would excel. Was Crisp responsible, because he did not want Newburne’s death investigated? Or was it coincidence that the attack had occurred in Crisp’s domain? As soon as it was light, Chaloner decided to visit the Rhenish Wine House and find the documents Smegergill had mentioned — assuming they existed, and were not the product of a confused mind.
He went to the jug on the table and drank some water. His head ached and so did the bruise on his chin where the stone had struck him, and he knew his wits were still not properly clear. He thought about the attack, still sickened by his failure to protect Smegergill. What had the old man been going to tell him about Maylord being cheated? Had a vital clue about Maylord’s death been lost because of his own carelessness? He removed the ring and the key from his pocket, and stared at them. He knew he should not have taken them, because he now had the added responsibility of returning them to Smegergill’s next of kin — hopefully without being accused of the murder himself.
He went back to his bed, and jumped in alarm when the cat suddenly joined him there. He spent several minutes trying to oust it, but each time he shoved it away, it came back. In the end, he gave up, and allowed it to nestle in a warm ball at his side. It began to purr, and he supposed there was something comforting in the close presence of another living creature. Perhaps that was what Leybourn craved, and was why he was prepared to overlook Mary’s all too obvious failings. He wondered what the surveyor would say if his friends suggested replacing Mary with a cat.
Chaloner had not meant to sleep and was startled when he awoke to hear the church bells chiming eleven o’clock, horrified that so much of the day had been lost. It meant he would not be able to visit White Hall and claim his back-pay, because there were other duties that had to come first. His head ached when he sat up, but not as badly as it had done the night before. The pain made him irritable, though, and he swore under his breath when the cat jumped up on to the bed again. He grimaced in revulsion when he saw a mouse in its jaws, and tried to push it away. It deposited the corpse on the bedclothes and mewed in expectation of reward. It did not receive one, because Chaloner’s larder was bare, and he had nothing to give it.
His temper flared again when he went to fetch his sword from the pantry, and the animal tripped him by winding around his ankles. The stumble jarred his lame leg, which was still stiff from his slide into the ditch. All in all, it was not a good start to the day.
The clothes he had worn the previous night were wet, muddy and ripped, which was a problem, because they were the best he had. He picked through the others helplessly, eventually choosing a shirt that was yellow with age, and a pair of breeches he recalled wearing during the wars. His jaw was purple from its encounter with the stone, and it made him distinctive, which was always something he tried to avoid. So he darkened his stubble with soot from the chimney, then found a leather cap that hung low over his forehead and cheeks. Once he put Isabella’s dented hat on top, very little of his face was visible. He felt slovenly and disreputable, and the presence of a dead mouse in his pocket — ready to be tossed into the nearest gutter — did not help, but he supposed the garb would do for Newgate and the Rhenish Wine House, the latter of which he intended to enter without being seen.
In Fleet Street, he saw the Earl’s clerk, Bulteel, who shrieked in alarm when a scruffy man seized his shoulder and bade him good-day. He stopped abruptly when he recognised Chaloner’s grey eyes.
‘We should pay you more,’ he said shakily. ‘You look terrible.’
‘You should pay me more,’ Chaloner agreed. ‘My disguise is good, then?’
‘I did not recognise you. You have even changed the way you walk — you were limping. Did you hear about Smegergill the musician? He was killed in Smithfield last night, for his purse and a valuable ring. Some bystanders saw the culprit and gave chase, but the devil eluded them.’
‘One of the Hectors?’ asked Chaloner, thinking of the ring and key in his pocket. He had considered leaving them at home, but there was nowhere good to hide them, and he had decided they would be safer on his person.
‘Apparently not, and they are said to be furious that someone dared to commit murder on their territory. I suspect they are telling the truth, because usually they brag about such crimes — it shows they do what they like and no one can stop them. The killer must be terrified, because Butcher Crisp has vowed to catch him and put him in a pie.’
‘Did these witnesses give a good description of the culprit?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
‘He kept his face concealed, but they say he was injured as Smegergill battled for his life, because he was unsteady on his feet. Personally, I hope Crisp roasts him alive. What kind of monster would harm a helpless old fellow like Smegergill?’
‘Is anything being done? Legally, I mean — not whatever the Hectors are about.’
‘Nothing can be done. It is their domain, and Crisp is the one who will be asking questions.’
Chaloner was aghast. ‘But what about the constables? Murder is a capital crime. Surely, they will want it investigated themselves, not leave a band of felons to do it?’