The lock did not slow Kirby down. He kicked it once, and the gate flew into pieces. With half a dozen Hectors at his heels, he thundered after Chaloner, screaming for someone to stop him. A few passers-by made half-hearted lunges, but most looked the other way, unwilling to become involved. The spy tore along Duck Lane, grabbing an apple cart as he went, and spinning it to spill its contents across the road. Two of his pursuers took tumbles. Then a ponderous meat wagon moved to block the road in front of him. Without breaking speed, he aimed for the space between the moving wheels, curled into a ball and rolled under the thing to shoot out the other side. Frustrated howls indicated the pursuing Hectors were unwilling to duplicate the manoeuvre, and they bellowed at the driver to get out of their way. The sudden clamour panicked the horses, making them difficult to control.
Chaloner raced on, and found himself near the costermongery where he had purchased the cucumber. Loath to run further than necessary, he considered taking refuge in it, but it was closed and shuttered. Then he remembered that Hodgkinson owned the shop next door. He slipped through the door and saw the printer talking to a customer. Unseen, he ducked under a table and peered into the street through a crack in the wall. Kirby lumbered by, backed by a dozen men, all yelling and waving cudgels.
Chaloner stayed where he was, feeling his heartbeat slow to a more normal rate after his exertions. In the grime under the counter, his fingers encountered something hard. With most of his attention still on the street, he retrieved the object and glanced at it. It was a Fountain Inkhorn, like the one Thurloe had lent him when he had been sketching Mary. This pen was silver, and looked valuable.
‘Well,’ came a laconic voice that made him jump. ‘The Lord Chancellor’s spy under a table? Whatever next?’
Chaloner climbed quickly to his feet to find himself facing Muddiman. The newsmonger was looking particularly elegant that day, in a suit of lemon satin and tiny white shoes. Chaloner thought it was the most impractical outfit he could possibly have chosen, given the unpredictable weather and the state of the roads. He glanced towards Hodgkinson, but the printer’s attention was still focussed on his client, and he had not noticed what was happening by his counter.
‘I found this,’ said Chaloner, holding up the Fountain Inkhorn in an attempt to explain away his curious behaviour. ‘Someone must have dropped it.’
‘I see,’ replied Muddiman, and his grin suggested he did not believe a word of it. ‘Look at the state of you! I hope you do not plan on going anywhere nice for dinner.’
‘Christ!’ Chaloner regarded his clothes in dismay. The dive under the cart had left him filthy.
‘Allow me,’ said Muddiman, dabbing at the mess with his handkerchief. ‘No, that is no good. You need a woman with a cloth. I shall pay for one if you tell me something novel about Portugal. You did a splendid piece for L’Estrange — the best thing in the entire issue — so now you can help me.’
‘L’Estrange forbade it,’ said Chaloner, aware that it would unwise to accept Muddiman’s offer when the newsbooks’ printer was within earshot. It would cause trouble for certain.
‘I am sure he did,’ said Muddiman, amused. ‘And are you going to obey him? I suppose you are afraid of what Spymaster Williamson might have to say if you assert your independence, are you?’
‘Spymaster Williamson does not deign to speak to the likes of me.’
‘You are lucky — he will not leave me alone. He set Hickes after me, which is fast becoming tiresome, while his creature L’Estrange makes constant accusations about me stealing his news.’
Chaloner showed him the ledger he had recovered from the Rhenish Wine House — the one Muddiman had denied existing when he had last mentioned it. ‘I would say L’Estrange has good cause to think his news is being stolen.’
Muddiman took it. ‘A forgery, as I said yesterday. Besides, Wenum is dead, and without his testimony, this nasty little document means nothing.’
‘It still proves you paid for news you should not have had. And if you are talking about corroborative testimony, you are obviously anticipating that you will be charged in a court of law, where specific proceedings are followed. I do not think Williamson confines himself to that sort of trial.’
Muddiman regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Even he would be playing with fire if he attempted that sort of tactic on an influential newsman. It would be asking for editorials to be written about suppression and corruption. Still, I take your point. How much do you want for your silence?’
Chaloner replaced the ledger in his pocket. ‘I am not for sale.’
Muddiman raised startled eyebrows. ‘No wonder you have the look of poverty about you! Why do you not take what is freely offered? Everyone else does, for which I daily thank God. My newsletters would not be nearly as good if men in positions of power declined to do business with me.’
‘Was Wenum in a position of power, then? I know he did not work at the newsbook offices or at Hodgkinson’s print-houses.’
Muddiman’s smug smile was back in place. ‘I understand he drowned in the Thames; he fell in near White Hall, where all the politicians and clerks lurk, if you take my meaning. Unfortunately, his corpse was never recovered, so who knows how he really died?’
A missing corpse was very convenient, thought Chaloner. ‘I think Nobert Wenum was actually Tom Newburne — the names contain the same letters, which seems too coincidental to overlook. Perhaps that explains why no body was recovered.’
Muddiman chuckled. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you worked out the Newburne-Wenum connection. However, I can tell you from my long experience as a newsmonger that things are seldom what they seem, and that “facts” are multi-faceted. People say there are two sides to every story, but I would contest that there are usually a good many more.’
‘You are no doubt right. So, are you telling me that Newburne and Wenum were not the same?’
‘We always met in the dark, so I cannot say with certainty, although he did have the most awful rash on his jaw. I could scarcely take my eyes off it, and spent most of our encounters praying that it was not contagious. However, I also know such things can be achieved with powders and paints. So, perhaps it was Newburne, but I suspect it was not.’
‘Do you ever take Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges?’ asked Chaloner, trying a different tack.
‘Why?’ Muddiman shot back. ‘Do they guard against death by cucumber?’
‘Why are you here?’ asked Chaloner, seeing he was not going to get very far with questions about Newburne, Wenum or Finch. ‘Hodgkinson is L’Estrange’s printer — and thus L’Estrange’s ally.’
‘Why should that prevent me from using his services?’ Muddiman showed Chaloner a printed bill, which advertised his handwritten newspapers, delivered promptly each week and containing domestic news no man of business or affairs would want to miss. He laughed at Chaloner’s astonishment. ‘It was Dury’s idea — it allows us to flick a thumb at Williamson, as well as L’Estrange. Ah, Hodgkinson, you are free at last. Heyden has been admiring your work on my notices.’
Hodgkinson looked sheepish. ‘He made me a very good offer, Heyden, and L’Estrange’s newsbooks will not run for ever. I may need Mr Muddiman’s patronage when they collapse.’
‘When they collapse?’ queried Chaloner sharply.