It occurred to him that Maylord had died in that very room, and that his body had been found there with the cucumber nearby. There was no cucumber now, although a plate adorned with dried green smudges showed how the killer had almost succeeded in masking his crime. Warily, Chaloner inspected a cushion that lay on the bed, and dropped it in distaste when he saw a pinkish stain and a small tear: Maylord’s blood-tinged saliva and a rip caused by a broken tooth. He turned his attention to his search and the documents Smegergill thought were hidden there.
As an intelligencer, Chaloner knew most of the tricks people used when they wanted to conceal things. He tested the floor for loose boards, assessed walls and ceiling for hidden compartments, and ran his hands along the undersides of beds and chests. Finally, he inspected the chimney. It was brick, and he almost missed the fact that one stone stood very slightly proud of the others. He was impressed, and doubted it would have been noticeable to anyone but a professional spy. He jiggled it until he was able to draw it out. Behind it was a tiny recess containing a bundle of papers and a key. The key was identical to the one he had taken from Smegergill. However, there was nothing in Maylord’s room for either of them to open.
He stuffed documents and key in his pocket, intending to examine them later, certain they would shed light on why Maylord had been murdered. Perhaps they would also explain why the old man had thought he was being cheated, and why he had spent the last two weeks of his life in nervous agitation. Chaloner was just replacing the brick when he heard voices in the corridor outside. He leapt to his feet and glanced around quickly. There was nowhere to hide: the bed was solid with drawers at the bottom, and the chest by the window was too small for him to climb inside. There was a scraping sound as a key was inserted in the lock.
‘Thank you, Genew,’ came a voice Chaloner had heard before. He flattened himself against the wall as the door opened. ‘You are dismissed. Go downstairs and placate your mouse-eating patron.’
The landlord’s footsteps retreated along the corridor, and two men entered the room. The one at the front was tall and lean, with an impossibly large nose. Chaloner deduced quickly that he was in charge, while the thickset, pugilistic fellow behind was his henchman. When they started to talk to each other, he knew they were two of the three who had attacked him the previous night — the henchman’s Scottish burr was unmistakeable, while the leader spoke nasally, as though he had a cold. Chaloner stayed stock still, although at least this time he had surprise on his side.
The leader, whom Chaloner had dubbed Nose, looked quickly around the room, and his eyes lit on the soot that had been dislodged when Chaloner had removed the stone from the chimney. He swung round fast, reaching for his sword as he did so. Wasting no time, Chaloner felled the Scot with a clip to the chin, then raced through the door and shot along the corridor. Unfortunately, he had not expected a third man to be keeping guard at the top of the stairs. He cursed his stupidity. Of course there would be three, just as there had been three the previous night. The man’s hand was tucked inside his coat, and Chaloner realised he was the one who had all but lost a finger during their previous fracas.
The injured man braced himself as Chaloner thundered towards him, and the spy only just avoided the lead piping that flashed towards his skull. It struck the wall and punched a hole in the plaster. He hit the man’s jaw when he was still off balance, and followed it with a sharp jab to the neck. There was a howl of fury from Nose and the sound of running footsteps. Chaloner took the stairs too fast, wincing when his weak knee twisted in a way that he knew would slow him down. He reached the second floor, but sensed they would catch him before he gained the front door. And if not, then he could never outrun them on the streets while he was limping.
Just when he was beginning to think he might have to stand and fight, a door opened and a well-dressed man stepped out, key in hand. Chaloner darted towards him, shoving him back inside the chamber and closing the door behind them. The man opened his mouth to object, but snapped it shut when he saw the dagger. Chaloner put his finger to his lips, and the man nodded, terrified. The spy understood his fear, knowing how he must look with his unshaven face, old clothes and wild appearance. Feet clattered on the stairs outside, and then there was silence.
Chaloner hobbled to the bed and indicated his prisoner was to sit next to him. The man complied, shaking almost uncontrollably.
‘I mean you no harm,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘May I wait here until the commotion is over?’
He held a knife, so his captive knew there was really no choice, but the polite request served to reassure nonetheless. ‘They are Hectors,’ he whispered, desperate to appear helpful. ‘They used to visit Wenum, who was probably one, too.’
‘Used to visit?’ queried Chaloner.
‘He is recently dead, according to Landlord Genew. I am not sure how, but it was probably unnatural — Wenum was a sly man, and he doubtless met a sly end. I never did like him. The skin rotted on his chin, which made him look like a leper. Oh, Lord! He was not your friend, was he?’
Chaloner laughed at the fellow’s horrified embarrassment. ‘No. What else can you tell me about him?’
Relieved, the man hastened to oblige. ‘He spent very little time here, and used his room mostly for business, which is why Hectors and other devious types were always queuing up to get in.’
‘So, Wenum is dead and Maylord is dead,’ said Chaloner thoughtfully. ‘It seems to me that the Rhenish Wine House is a dangerous place to live.’
The man’s eyes went wide. ‘Perhaps I had better move, then, because I do not want trouble. Why do you think I always turned a blind eye to Wenum and his dealings? When I realised he did business with Hectors, I went out of my way to avoid him, as any sane man would have done. What have you done to incur their wrath?’
‘We had a disagreement about some property. Did Wenum know Ellis Crisp, then?’
‘Wenum knew Hectors; I have no idea if he knew Crisp. I almost met Crisp myself once, at a dinner for the Company of Butchers, of which I am a member, but he cancelled last minute. I cannot say I was sorry. We did not really want him to join our ranks.’
Chaloner was confused. ‘You mean Crisp practises his trade without a licence from the relevant guild? I thought that was impossible — and illegal.’
‘Normally, it is, but he just arrived in Smithfield and started work, and by the time we decided to take action against him, he had accrued too much power to be stopped. He gives us meat merchants a bad name, especially regarding the alleged contents of his pies. We asked him to attend our dinner, because some of our members thought he might mend his ways if we let him into the fold. Personally, I am sceptical, and would rather keep my distance from the fellow.’
Chaloner suspected he was right to be wary, and thought the Company was naïve to imagine they could tame Crisp’s antics with an offer of membership. ‘What about Maylord? Did you ever see Crisp visiting him? You were neighbours these last two weeks.’
The man’s face softened. ‘Poor Maylord. Something upset him badly before he died, which is probably why he moved here. It did not save him though. Cucumbers got him regardless.’
‘Did you ask him what was the matter?’
‘He declined to confide. I cannot say why, but I was under the impression that someone owed him money and he was having trouble getting it back.’
‘Did you ever see Wenum and Maylord together?’