‘Speaking of musicians, have you seen Maylord today? He wants to meet me.’
Greeting’s eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been away? Yes, you must have been, because I have not seen you since that trouble involving the barber-surgeons last spring. You had some sort of set-to with Spymaster Williamson, and then you very wisely disappeared.’
Chaloner was bemused. ‘You think I ran away?’
Greeting shrugged. ‘I would, had I incurred Williamson’s displeasure. Our new Spymaster is not a man to cross, and folk do so at their peril. Several bold fellows are now banished to remote villages for speaking their minds, although at least they are alive to reflect on their folly. Not all his enemies are allowed to live, so I have heard.’
‘Williamson kills men he does not like?’ Chaloner was not sure he believed it. Spymasters were powerful men, with a lot of dubious resources at their fingertips, but only a very stupid one would use them for personal vendettas, and Williamson was far from stupid.
Greeting looked uncomfortable. ‘We should not be discussing such a topic, especially in White Hall. Nonetheless, I urge you to be careful. He does not like you – I heard him say so myself.’
‘That was indiscreet of him,’ said Chaloner disapprovingly. He could not imagine Cromwell’s old Spymaster, John Thurloe, ever making such a comment in front of a loose-tongued man like Greeting. Of course, Thurloe’s attitude to his work had been efficient and professional, and Williamson fell far short by comparison. ‘What did he say, exactly?’
Greeting shrugged. ‘Just that you were involved in the untimely death of a friend, and he resents you for it. I would stay low, if I were you.’
Chaloner hoped the Earl’s next commission would allow him to do so. And while it was true that one of Williamson’s cronies had met a violent end in Chaloner’s company, it had not been the spy’s fault. He felt it was unreasonable of Williamson to blame him for the mishap.
‘Maylord,’ he prompted. ‘Does he still live on Thames Street?’
Greeting frowned. ‘I had forgotten you and he were acquainted. He taught your father the viol, I understand, and was kind to you when you first arrived in London. He was a good man, and we all miss him. He died on Friday.’
Chaloner stared at him in shock. ‘No! I do not believe you.’
Greeting’s expression was sympathetic. ‘It is true, although I sincerely wish it were otherwise. He died of eating cucumbers.’
Chaloner gaped at him. Like all Englishmen, he knew cucumbers could be dangerous when eaten raw, but he had never heard of anyone actually dying from them. And surely Maylord could not be dead? Chaloner had known him all his life, and loved the old man’s sweet temper and innate decency. ‘He died on Friday?’ he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady.
‘Friday evening. He had been asking after you, too.’
‘Asking after me when? The day he died?’
Greeting shook his head. ‘Earlier – when he and I performed in Smithfield last Wednesday. He wanted to know if I had seen you, and was oddly distressed when I told him I had not.’
‘Do you know why?’
Greeting shook his head again. ‘But something was troubling the poor old devil, and it is a pity you were not here, because he clearly needed a friend. What do you think was upsetting him? Something to do with his music?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Chaloner, wishing with all his heart that he had been on hand to answer the old man’s call for help. His fingers curled tightly around the letter in his pocket. ‘And now I probably never will.’
Greeting was silent for a moment, then spoke softly. ‘He recently left his Thames Street cottage and took rooms at the Rhenish Wine House in Westminster. He said his move was a secret, and his closest friend – who you will recall is old Smegergill the virginals player – said he would not even tell him where he had gone.’
‘Yet he told you?’ asked Chaloner, rather sceptically. He still found it hard to believe that Maylord would have chosen Greeting as a confidant.
Greeting was offended. ‘Maylord liked me. When I asked him why he had left Thames Street, he told me he wanted to be nearer White Hall, but I am sure he was not telling the truth. I suspect it was all connected to whatever was bothering him.’
Chaloner regarded him unhappily. Maylord had loved his house, and would not have left it without good cause. The spy was deeply sorry that his friend had spent his last few days in a state of such agitation.
‘I had better go,’ said Greeting, when Chaloner did not speak. ‘The King has invited a party of mathematicians to meet him, and my consort – the little group of musicians under my direction – has been hired to play for the occasion. There is a fear that these worthy scientists may become tongue-tied with awe in His Majesty’s presence, and we are commissioned to fill any awkward silences with timely noise.’
Chaloner watched him go, feeling grief settle in the pit of his stomach. He felt something else, too – resentment that circumstances had prevented him from being there for Maylord, and guilt that he had let down a friend. He took a deep breath and forced his thoughts back to his White Hall duties, and the Earl.
He left the palace, and headed for The Strand, where the south side of the road was lined with handsome mansions, and the north side was faced with shops and mean dwellings of the kind that were owned by the poorer kind of tradesmen. Worcester House was not the finest home in the area, but it was smart enough to provide an imposing residence for a lord chancellor. It was mostly Tudor, boasting a forest of twisted, ornamental chimney-pots, stone mullions that were stained black with age, and a massive iron-studded gate.
Chaloner walked up the path, which was bordered by viciously trimmed little hedges, and knocked on the door. He was shown into a pleasant, lavender-scented chamber overlooking the gardens and asked to wait. He expected the Earl to finish what he was doing before deigning to meet a mere retainer, and was surprised when the great man bustled in just a few moments later.
England’s Lord Chancellor was a fussy, pedantic man, whose prim morals did not make him popular with the dissipated Court; the younger nobles mocked his prudery, and he had earned himself a reputation for being a killjoy. His appearance did not help, either: he was short, fat and wore overly ornate clothes that did not suit his stout frame. He had grown bigger since Chaloner had left for Lisbon, a result of a sedentary lifestyle and the Court’s rich food. That morning, he wore a massive blond periwig, with a dark red coat and matching satin breeches. Lace foamed at his neck, partly concealing his array of chins.
‘Heyden!’ he cried, touching the spy’s shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. Yet as soon as it was made, he seemed to regret it, because he became businesslike and aloof. ‘When did you return?’
‘Last night, sir, but too late to visit you. You would have been in bed.’
‘I doubt it,’ replied Clarendon, indicating his spy was to sit next to him on the window-seat. ‘I am up all hours with affairs of state. Do you recall that feud I was having with the Earl of Bristol? Well, after you had gone, he tried to impeach me in Parliament! He accused me of all manner of false crimes, but the House of Lords saw through his lies, and he is now banished to France.’
Chaloner nodded. He had heard the stories on his way home, and had been pleased: the flight of Bristol would mean one fewer enemy for him to worry about when he resumed the business of protecting his Earl.
‘My fortunes are on the rise again, thank God,’ Clarendon went on. ‘But unfortunately, my other foes – namely the Duke of Buckingham and the King’s favourite mistress – wait like vultures for me to make a mistake.’
Chaloner was not surprised; the Earl’s aloof manners had earned him a lot of enemies in White Hall. ‘I am sorry to hear that, sir.’
‘Today, however,’ said the Earl with an unfriendly look, ‘we had better talk about you. You abandoned me shamefully in June. The Queen summoned you to meet her, and you accepted the assignment she offered without once asking me whether it was con
venient for you to go.’
Chaloner was taken aback by this version of events. ‘That is not quite true, sir. I told Her Majesty that I was not the right man for the task she had in mind, and pointed out that I had duties here in London, but you ordered me to do as she asked.’
The Earl glared at him. ‘Well, of course I did when she was there, man! She asked if she might borrow you, and I could hardly refuse the request of a queen, could I? I am the Lord Chancellor, for God’s sake – a servant of the Crown. However, you should have thought of a reason to decline, and I am angry that you did not bother. I feel it was a betrayal.’
Chaloner suspected the Earl saw betrayal everywhere after what he had been through with Bristol. But what had happened in June was not his fault, and he felt he was being unfairly accused.
‘I did not ask to be summoned by her. I did not ask to go to Lisbon, either.’
Clarendon continued to glare. ‘She noticed you because you had the audacity to smile at her on an occasion when she felt the city was hostile towards her. She asked your name, and I just happened to mention that you knew Portuguese – her native language – as a point of conversation. I did not imagine for a moment that she would demand your services. It was not what I intended at all.’
‘No, sir,’ said Chaloner, thinking the Earl should have kept his mouth shut about his servant’s skills, if he had not wanted him poached.
‘And then news came about a fierce battle between Portugal and Spain, and she decided she needed intelligence from her own agent, a man she could trust. So off you went. She was pleased by what you did, by the way – uncovering that treacherous duke, who was undermining Portugal by feeding secrets to Spain – and I confess your reports were useful to me in determining certain points of foreign policy. But you should not have gone. I needed you here.’
Chaloner recalled the speed with which he had been dispatched – less than an hour to return to his lodgings, pack a few essentials and board the Lisbon-bound ship. He had rushed his preparations, because he had wanted a few moments to scribble a brief message to John Thurloe at Lincoln’s Inn – what the Queen had asked him to do was fraught with peril, and he had wanted one friend to know what had happened to him, in case he failed to return. He had been right to take such a precaution, because the escapade had transpired to be one of the most dangerous things he had ever done. And in an occupation like his, where risk was an everyday occurrence, that was saying a good deal.
‘You arranged my passage on that particular boat, sir,’ he pointed out, stubbornly refusing to accept all the blame. ‘Had you chosen a later one, we could have discussed—’
The Earl’s scowl deepened. ‘Lord, you are insolent! I am angry with you, but do you attempt to placate me with some suitable grovelling? No! You antagonise me with impudent observations about my past actions. I imagine you expect me to employ you again, but I am not sure I want a man who so eagerly races off to do the bidding of someone else.’
‘But you told me to go,’ objected Chaloner, becoming alarmed. Because he had been a spy for Cromwell’s regime, the King’s government was wary of him, and would never employ him in its intelligence service. Luckily, the Earl was capable of recognising talent when he saw it, and was willing to overlook former allegiances. However, if he changed his mind, then Chaloner was in trouble, because no one else would hire him, and he was qualified to do very little else. ‘Indeed, you ordered it.’
‘As I said, I assumed you would be clever enough to devise an excuse that would keep you at my side,’ snapped the Earl. ‘I suppose you were seduced by the money she gave you for your expenses, and by the reward she promised you on your return.’
‘Speaking of which, I have sixpence left. Do you think you could arrange an audience with her? The rent is overdue and the cupboard is bare.’
Clarendon looked a little spiteful. ‘Her Majesty is unwell, and the physicians are not letting anyone see her at the moment, so you will have to wait. Let us hope her illness does not cause her to forget her promises. It would be a pity to have risked your life and livelihood for a profit of sixpence.’
Chaloner decided he had better change the subject before the disagreement saw him in even deeper water. ‘Your secretary says there is something you would like me to do, sir. How may I help?’
‘Does he indeed?’ muttered the Earl venomously. ‘Well, there is something, as it so happens.’
‘What?’ asked Chaloner, when his master did not elaborate.
The Earl waved his hand carelessly. Chaloner had learned this was a bad sign, and that a dismissive flap from the Lord Chancellor invariably meant his spy was going to be asked to do something that was dangerous, only marginally legal, or both.
‘Have you heard about the new-style government newsbooks that came into being in August? One is called The Intelligencer, and it is published on Mondays. The other is called The Newes, and it comes out on Thursdays. They are edited by a man named L’Estrange, and Londoners complain that they are characterised by a marked absence of domestic news.’
‘Before I left, the newsbooks had different names, and were edited by Henry Muddiman.’
‘Things change fast in London,’ said Clarendon pointedly. ‘Sneak away for four months, and you will return to find nothing as you left it. But we are supposed to be talking about my business, not yours. The Intelligencer and The Newes superseded Muddiman’s publications, and they are now the only two newsbooks in the country. Spymaster Williamson appointed L’Estrange to edit them. He made him Surveyor of the Press, too.’
‘The posts of official censor and chief journalist are held by the same man?’ Chaloner tried not to sound shocked. It was a deplorable state of affairs, because it meant any ‘intelligence’ or ‘newes’ printed would be what the government had decided the public could have. He was surprised Williamson had been allowed to get away with it. However, it certainly explained why the newsbooks contained nothing of home affairs – the government did not want people to know what it was up to.
The Earl shot him a rueful glance. ‘It was not my idea, I assure you. Of course I am happy for the general populace to be kept in the dark about matters it cannot possibly comprehend, but this is too brazen an approach. And it is having a negative effect, in that anything we publish now is automatically regarded as political propaganda and is taken with a pinch of salt.’
‘And rightly so, because that is exactly what it will be. Williamson’s decision is a foolish one. A man of his intellect should know better.’
The Earl sighed. ‘Williamson ousted Muddiman with a shocking bit of deviousness, and appointed L’Estrange in his place. L’Estrange is totally loyal to the government, but he is too opinionated to be a good journalist. Muddiman is a far better newsman, and we should have left him alone.’
‘I saw Muddiman and L’Estrange arguing today, about whether an advertisement for lozenges can be classified as an item of news.’
‘I am not surprised – Muddiman has high standards of news-telling, while L’Estrange will include anything that uses up space. They differ fundamentally.’
‘What exactly would you like me to do, sir?’
‘L’Estrange visited me on Wednesday, and said one of his newsbook minions – a fellow called Thomas Newburne – is dead under peculiar circumstances. I would like you to look into the matter.’
Chaloner did not think that was a good idea. ‘If Newburne was working for L’Estrange, then it means he was a government employee and his death will come under Spymaster Williamson’s jurisdiction. Williamson already dislikes me, and will be angry if I interfere.’
‘I am the Lord Chancellor of England, so you will interfere if I tell you to,’ snapped Clarendon. ‘I do not care if Williamson is angry or not. Besides, I am sure he will conduct his own enquiry.’
‘Will he not share his conclusions with you?’
‘I would not trust them if he did,’ snorted the Earl. ‘The more I learn about Williamson, the less I respect his judgement. He is too
devious for his own good, and I do not approve of him dismissing a respected newsman like Muddiman or the dual appointment he foisted on L’Estrange.’
‘L’Estrange could have refused one of them.’
‘You do not “refuse” Williamson! Besides, I do not think L’Estrange has very good judgement, either. I like the man, and consider him an ally, but he is not very sensible.’
Sensible men did not draw their swords as a means to resolving arguments, so Chaloner suspected the Earl was right. He considered the ‘minion’ whose death he was supposed to investigate. ‘What happened to Newburne? How did he die?’
‘He passed away at the Smithfield Market. Have you heard of it?’
‘Of course,’ replied Chaloner, startled by the question.
The Earl grimaced. ‘You have spent so much time away that you seem more foreigner than Englishman most of the time. But let us return to Smithfield. Apart from being a venue for selling livestock, especially horses, it is also an area of great vice, where criminals roam in gangs. The biggest and most powerful clan calls itself the Hectors.’
Chaloner was not sure what the Earl was trying to tell him. ‘Newburne was killed by Hectors?’
‘Actually, no – at least, I do not think so. I was just trying to give you an impression of the area in which you will be working. Newburne was not killed by louts, as far as I understand the situation. He was killed by cucumbers.’
Chaloner’s thoughts whirled in confusion. Surely it was unusual for two people to expire from ingesting cucumbers in such a short period of time – Newburne on Wednesday and Maylord two days later? Had a bad batch been hawked around London, or were Newburne and Maylord just gluttons for that particular fruit? He was careful to keep his expression neutral – no good spy ever revealed what he was thinking – as he continued to question Clarendon.
‘Have you heard of any other cases of cucumber poisoning recently, sir?’
The Earl raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘No, but we all know they should be avoided, and I cannot imagine why Newburne should have been scoffing one. They are nasty, bitter things.’
The Butcher Of Smithfield: Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 3) Page 3
