‘If people are so frightened of Williamson, then why are Muddiman’s newsletters so often ahead of the newsbooks?’ Chaloner asked. ‘Obviously someone is not afraid to sell secrets.’
L’Estrange’s eyes narrowed, and his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. ‘You have a blunt tongue, and I am tempted to cut it out. The Lord Chancellor will not mind — he has complained about your insolence on several occasions.’
‘Do not stoop to violence, Roger,’ said a chubby woman, edging forward to rest her hand on his arm. She was pretty after a fashion, with pale blue eyes. ‘It will make a mess on the floor.’
L’Estrange’s expression immediately softened. ‘Mrs Hickes, my dear,’ he crooned, bending to kiss her cheek; she simpered at him. ‘You know I would do nothing to offend you.’
‘Mrs Hickes is the spouse of Williamson’s best spy,’ whispered Hodgkinson in Chaloner’s ear. ‘Hickes is also supposed to be investigating Newburne’s death, although I am told he has had scant success so far.’
‘His mind is probably on what L’Estrange is doing to his wife,’ murmured Chaloner, thinking of Mrs Muddiman and wondering whether any woman was safe from the man’s advances.
Hodgkinson chuckled. ‘I wish I knew his secret. They all seem to melt at his feet, even the ones devoted to their husbands. Like Mrs Newburne.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. Was this yet another motive for murder? ‘Did they actually-’
‘They enjoyed each other’s company when Newburne was out. Beyond that, I know nothing.’
‘Did Newburne know nothing, too?’
‘I cannot say, although it is no secret that L’Estrange has a penchant for married ladies. However, even if Newburne did not know about the visits, he certainly would have been aware that L’Estrange would go a-calling sooner or later.’
Chaloner watched Mrs Hickes leave the bookshop with the other customers, and was astonished to note that she was not the only one who flung L’Estrange a longing glance as she walked through the door. So did the wife of Mr Smith of the Bell Inn, who had apparently come to make sure the advertisement for his stolen horse was going to appear in The Newes the following day.
‘We were talking about betrayal, Heyden,’ said L’Estrange, dropping his courtly leer as soon as the ladies had gone, and only he, Hodgkinson, Brome and Joanna were left. Chaloner noticed that L’Estrange’s liking for married women did not extend to Joanna, whom he all but ignored. ‘You want to know why Muddiman always has the news before me? It is because of phanatiques.’
Joanna stepped forward, her eyes great frightened orbs. ‘It is not phanatiques,’ she said in a trembling voice, clearly uneasy at contradicting the great man. ‘Someone is sending our intelligence to rivals, but not for sinister political reasons. The traitor is being paid for them. It is all about money.’
‘Nobert Wenum,’ said Chaloner. ‘Does he work for you?’
All four looked blankly at each other. ‘I have never heard of him,’ said Brome. ‘He is nothing to do with the bookshop.’
‘And there is no one at my print-houses by that name, either,’ added Hodgkinson. ‘Who is he?’
‘The man who has been selling your secrets.’ Chaloner handed over the annotated copy of The Newes and the ledger, with a brief explanation of what each logged entry meant.
Hodgkinson snatched the paper from the startled L’Estrange. His jaw dropped and he turned to Chaloner in horror. ‘But this is not due to be made public until tomorrow! How did you come by it?’
‘And this book?’ asked Joanna, peering over L’Estrange’s shoulder. ‘Where did you find it? It proves something is amiss — just as Henry and I have suspected for weeks. Oh, dear!’
Brome’s face was filled with dismay. ‘So, it is true, after all? I was hoping we were mistaken, because betraying the official newsbooks is such a monstrous thing. Treason, in fact.’
‘I found both in a room rented by Wenum,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Apparently, he has a rash on his jaw and is probably a Hector.’
‘That describes you,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘There is a mark on your jaw, and you might be a Hector. You work for a government minister, and they are not averse to hiring felons for certain business.’
‘Do not confuse Heyden’s Earl with Williamson,’ said Joanna quietly. ‘They are not the same.’
Chaloner was not so sure. ‘Can you think of anyone else who matches that description?’ he asked, looking at each one in turn.
Hodgkinson shook his head, L’Estrange continued to glare at the ledger, and Joanna’s expression was one of appalled disbelief. Her mouth hung open slightly, so her teeth seemed longer than usual.
‘Can you tell us anything else about him?’ asked Brome. ‘The colour of his hair? His height?’
‘I have never seen him,’ said Chaloner. He pointed to the paper Hodgkinson still held. ‘However, it looks as though he was proof-reading The Newes in his lodgings. If you give me a list of the people you employ in such a capacity, I can investigate them for you.’
Brome and Joanna exchanged an acutely uncomfortable glance. ‘Perhaps you had better tell him, Mr L’Estrange,’ said Joanna unhappily. She cringed when the editor glared at her, but she stood her ground. ‘Tell him their names. Please.’
‘My proof-readers are not traitors,’ declared L’Estrange, lobbing the ledger at Chaloner to express his contempt for the evidence it provided. ‘I do not employ men for that task, and especially not Hectors with rashes. I hire women. So, you can take your damned accusations elsewhere.’
Chaloner tried to be patient. ‘Then perhaps one of these women passed the proofs to Wenum-’
‘No!’ snapped L’Estrange. ‘There are a dozen ladies who work as my proof-readers, and I can vouch for the loyalty of every one. I call them my Army of Angels, and they make a pleasant change from dealing with damned phanatiques.’ He glared around, suggesting he thought there were several damned phanatiques in the room with him at that precise moment.
‘Tell me who they are,’ pressed Chaloner. ‘If they have done nothing wrong, it will-’
‘I most certainly shall not. This is none of your affair — and none of the Lord Chancellor’s either. They are good ladies, and I will not let you loose on them.’
‘But we need this matter resolved,’ said Brome, making no effort to hide his frustration. He turned to Chaloner. ‘They are the wives of wealthy citizens who have time for the careful, painstaking work of checking type for errors. It is not difficult, but it is exacting, and not everyone has an eye for it.’
‘Ladies are better than men,’ said L’Estrange, on the defensive now. ‘Men are careless, and you never know when one might transpire to be a phanatique.’
Brome appealed to the editor’s sense of self-preservation. ‘If Williamson sees that annotated paper, he will draw the same conclusion Heyden did — that a proof-reader is responsible. We do not want him thinking we are protecting the culprit, because it will mean us losing our shop, and you losing your government appointments.’
L’Estrange scowled. ‘I worked hard for these posts. I will not let anyone take them from me.’
‘Then let us make sure no one does.’ Brome turned to Chaloner. ‘Our proof-readers include Mrs Smith and Mrs Hickes, both of whom were here just now. Also, Mrs Newburne, Mrs Muddiman …’
‘The wife of your rival?’ asked Chaloner, shocked. ‘And she does this proof-reading at home?’
‘Of course not!’ shouted L’Estrange, shooting Brome and then Chaloner furious glares. ‘She does it here. They all do. We go upstairs together, and I supervise them very closely. No draft newsbook ever leaves the premises. I am inordinately fond of Mrs Muddiman, but I am not such a fool as to let her take a pre-published journal to her husband’s lair.’
But he was fool enough to let her see them in the first place, thought Chaloner, and if she had a good memory, she might even be able to quote them verbatim to her grateful spouse. Then he recalled the way she had spoken about L’Estrange and wondered whether the editor’s piratical charm was sufficient to keep a still tongue in her head. He was bemused. Surely not every woman L’Estrange encountered fell for him, especially if she knew she was only one of dozens so favoured? Chaloner could see nothing remotely attractive in the dark, glittering features, the swinging earrings and the gap-toothed grin, but supposed there was no accounting for taste.