The Butcher Of Smithfield: Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 3)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘You are wise to keep records, because they will protect you against allegations,’ said Smith darkly. ‘I knew L’Estrange during the wars, and he is a devil for thinking the worst of people. I heard in my coffee house yesterday that he has accused Muddiman of stealing his news.’

  Brome regarded him uneasily. ‘But Muddiman does steal his news – he pre-empted us with a report from Tangier only last week. That is theft, just as you losing your bay mare is theft.’

  ‘It is not the same at all,’ said Smith dismissively. ‘A horse cannot be compared to an item of foreign gossip. I was sorry to hear about Newburne, by the way. You must be very upset.’

  ‘L’Estrange will miss him,’ was all Brome said in reply.

  When Smith had gone, Brome turned to Chaloner with a smile, apologising for the delay and asking whether he had come to order a book, apply for a publishing license, or buy advertising space.

  ‘I have come to see Roger L’Estrange,’ replied Chaloner.

  ‘May I ask why?’ Brome shrugged sheepishly when Chaloner raised his eyebrows at the question. ‘I mean no disrespect, but it will be better for everyone if you tell me your business first. The last man I allowed in without an appointment transpired to be a phanatique, and the poor fellow was lucky to escape with one of his ears still attached.’

  From the rabid tone of the newsbooks and what he had witnessed outside the Rainbow Coffee House, Chaloner was not surprised to learn L’Estrange was in the habit of turning violent when confronted with people of whom he disapproved. ‘The Lord Chancellor asked me to see him regarding the release of information from Portugal. My name is Thomas Heyden.’

  Brome brightened. ‘Original news? Excellent! That will put him in a good mood, and it is kind of the Lord Chancellor to think of us. Are you one of his secretaries? A diplomatic emissary, perhaps?’

  ‘Just a clerk.’

  Brome regarded him astutely. ‘He does not send minions to foreign countries on his behalf, so you must be either relatively senior or trusted. But no matter; I can see from your expression that you would rather not discuss it. We are grateful for any accurate information, regardless of its origin.’

  Chaloner changed the subject. Brome’s wits were sharp, and he did not want the man guessing he was a spy. ‘You said L’Estrange was visited by a phanatique. Do many pay him court, then?’

  The bookseller grinned, a little conspiratorially. ‘They do, according to him. However, you must be aware that a phanatique is anyone even remotely sympathetic to Puritans, Roundheads or regicides. I am one at the moment, because I said it is time Cromwell’s skull was removed from the pole outside Westminster Hall. However, my suggestion has more to do with its nasty habit of blowing down in the wind than with any respect I might have had for its owner. The thing almost brained my wife last week, and most Londoners consider it something of a hazard.’

  Chaloner hoped Thurloe did not venture that way during storms, because he and Cromwell had been friends. ‘Is it true that a licence is needed to print any book or pamphlet in London now?’ he asked, wanting to learn more about L’Estrange’s official business before he met the man.

  ‘In the country,’ corrected Brome. ‘And not only is it illegal to manufacture a text without a licence from the Surveyor of the Press – L’Estrange – but it is against the law to sell them, too.’

  ‘I understand there are six hundred booksellers in the City alone,’ said Chaloner artlessly. ‘How does he regulate them all?’

  ‘There are only fifty now,’ said Brome. He looked away, and Chaloner was under the impression that he thought it a pity. ‘He hires men to visit the bookshops and ensure they only hawk legitimate tomes. Of course, these rules only apply to the printed word. He cannot control manuscripts – handwritten texts – such as the newsletters dictated by Muddiman to his army of scribes.’

  ‘Do you read any newsletters?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Brome, somewhat cagily. ‘That would be disloyal, because they are in direct competition with the official government newsbooks.’

  Casually, Chaloner leaned forward and tweaked a sheet of paper from under the ledger, stepping away smartly when Brome tried to snatch it back. Like all newsletters, it was addressed to a specific recipient – something a scribe could do, but that was impractical for a printing press – and the author’s name and address were carried banner-like across the top of the first page. In this case, the writer was Henry Muddiman, and his correspondent was Samuel Pepys.

  Brome’s face was scarlet with mortification. ‘That is … that is not mine.’

  ‘Pepys is a clerk at the navy office,’ said Chaloner, watching him intently. ‘I met him once.’

  Brome was appalled. ‘You know Pepys? Lord!’

  Chaloner was amused when he guessed the reason for Brome’s agitation. ‘Pepys does not subscribe to Muddiman’s newsletter, does he? You just borrowed his name, because he is respectable but relatively insignificant, and no one at Muddiman’s office would question his desire to purchase such a thing. Meanwhile, Muddiman thinks his missives are being read by a navy clerk, blissfully unaware that it actually goes straight into the hands of his greatest rival.’

  Brome coloured even further. ‘It sounds sordid when you put it like that. Muddiman sends out a hundred and fifty newsletters each week, so what difference can one more make? Besides, how else are we to monitor the competition?’

  Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. ‘This was not your idea, was it? And nor did you elect to pick on Pepys. Whose was it? L’Estrange’s?’

  Brome put his hands over his face and scrubbed his flushed cheeks. ‘He will skin me alive if he finds out I was careless enough to leave that lying around for the Lord Chancellor’s man to see. I told him it was stupid to use Pepys, but he would not listen. What if Muddiman meets Pepys, and asks how he likes the newsletters? It was only ever a matter of time before we were found out.’

  ‘So why take the risk?’

  ‘Because we need to know what is in them. Muddiman’s sources are invariably better than ours.’

  Chaloner was bemused. ‘How so? The newsbooks’ source of information is the government – and the government knows everything, because it receives a constant stream of information from its spies.’ He knew this for a fact, because he was one of those conduits.

  Brome swallowed. ‘I am afraid you have walked into a war here, Heyden. A news war. You are right: we should have the stories first, but the reality is quite different. Muddiman has contacts and methods – God alone knows who and what they are – which mean he nearly always pre-empts us.’

  Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘He was the newsbook editor himself until a few weeks ago. That means he knows the government clerks who provide this information. Perhaps he bribes them to speak to him first. It would be a risky thing to do on the clerks’ part, because if Spymaster Williamson finds out I doubt he will be very forgiving. But it is not impossible.’

  ‘No,’ acknowledged Brome. ‘It is not impossible. However, Williamson’s spies maintain the clerks are innocent. They watch them all the time, and have observed nothing untoward. So, we do not know how Muddiman always manages to get the news first.’

  ‘What was Newburne’s role in all this?’

  Brome was startled by the question. ‘I suppose you heard Smith consoling me about his death, did you? Poor Newburne! His remit was to spy on the booksellers and keep an eye on Muddiman’s dealings. Why do you ask about him particularly?’

  ‘The Lord Chancellor asked me to confirm that his death was a natural one,’ said Chaloner, deciding to be honest in the hope of learning more.

  ‘As well as providing us with information about Portugal?’ asked Brome doubtfully. ‘You own a strange combination of talents. And why does the Earl think something is amiss anyway?’

  ‘He did not say – he just ordered me to look into the matter.’

  Brome regarded him unhappily. ‘That will almost certainly prove to be dangerous. Newburne was an u
nsavoury man who knew a good many unsavoury people. Hectors, no less.’

  ‘The Smithfield gang?’

  ‘The very same. I am not exaggerating: you would be ill-advised to delve into Newburne’s affairs. However, if you are under orders from the Lord Chancellor, I suspect you have no choice. So, if you promise to say nothing about our unlawful use of Pepys’s name to procure those newsletters, I will tell you what I know of Newburne. Do I have your word, as a gentleman?’

  ‘You do.’

  Chaloner was astonished when Brome took a deep breath and began to speak – the man was naively trusting of someone he had only just met. ‘Newburne took bribes from some of the booksellers he caught breaking the law. He told them a gift to him would work out cheaper than a fine from L’Estrange.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Chaloner was disappointed: he already knew this.

  ‘Because I overheard their discussions, and I witnessed several payments made. I pretended not to notice, because I did not want to end up crushed between him and L’Estrange. He was an associate of Ellis Crisp, you see.’

  ‘Who is Ellis Crisp?’

  Brome regarded him incredulously. ‘Are you jesting? You must have heard of Ellis Crisp.’

  ‘I am only recently returned from Portugal.’

  ‘Perhaps you are, but even so …’ Good manners helped Brome overcome his disbelief at what he clearly regarded as rank ignorance. ‘Crisp is the butcher who controls Smithfield – not the legitimate business of selling meat and livestock, but the underworld that thrives in the area. He owns the Hectors, and it is his bidding they do. He is the most dangerous man in London. So now do you see why I urge you to caution as regards Newburne?’

  Chaloner nodded, although he had never heard of Crisp, and doubted the man would prove too daunting an opponent. He was grateful for the warning, though. He wondered if the Earl knew a powerful felon might be involved in Newburne’s death, which led him yet again to question his master’s reasons for ordering the investigation.

  ‘Do you think Crisp killed Newburne, then?’

  Brome was startled. ‘No, I think Newburne died from eating cucumbers, although I suppose he might have been forced to consume them against his will. I doubt it was by Crisp, though, because Newburne was said to be one of his most valued employees. On the other hand, Crisp is the kind of man to kill a wayward minion. There are many tales about the untamed violence of the man they call the Butcher of Smithfield.’

  ‘The Butcher of Smithfield?’ echoed Chaloner incredulously. He was tempted to smile, but he did not want to offend someone who was trying to be helpful. He struggled to keep his expression blank. ‘Does this title refer to his profession or his penchant for “untamed violence”?’

  ‘Both, I imagine, although I do not think he has much to do with the meat trade any more. However, I have been told that his pastries offer a convenient repository for his victims’ bodies.’

  This time Chaloner did not attempt to control his amusement, and laughed openly. ‘Then I doubt it is a very lucrative business. There cannot be many cannibals in London, and no one else will be inclined to dine on pies that own that sort of reputation.’

  Brome shrugged and looked away, and Chaloner saw the bookseller thought there might well be truth in the rumours. Not wanting to argue, he changed the subject.

  ‘Can I see L’Estrange today, or should I come back later?’

  Brome forced a smile. ‘I will ask for an interview now. If you are from the Earl of Clarendon, he will probably want to meet you. But be warned – he was not in a friendly frame of mind earlier, so you may have to … to speak with caution, so as not to ignite his fragile temper.’

  ‘He will not risk annoying the Earl by slicing the ears off his messengers.’

  Brome regarded him as though he was mad. ‘He does not care who he annoys – which makes for a good editor, I suppose. If you give me a moment, I will present him with Mr Smith’s advertisement first. It will put him in a better mood, because it means five shillings in the newsbooks’ coffers.’

  Bookshops were always pleasant places in which to while away time, and Chaloner was perfectly content to browse in Brome’s while he waited to be summoned to L’Estrange’s office. He noticed some of the texts had been penned by L’Estrange himself, most of them virulent attacks on Catholics, Puritans, science, Dutchmen, Quakers and, of course, phanatiques. Then he saw one that contained speeches made by some of the regicides before their executions. He took it down, and was startled to find a monologue by his uncle, who had neither been executed nor delivered a homily about what he had done. He read it in distaste, supposing L’Estrange had made it up. His uncle had been no saint, but he would never have uttered the viciously sectarian sentiments recorded in the poisonous little pamphlet, either. He replaced it on the shelf, feeling rather soiled for having touched it.

  Suddenly, there was an explosive yell from the chamber above. Someone was being dressed down. Chaloner moved towards the stairs, better to hear what was being said.

  ‘One advertisement?’ Chaloner recognised L’Estrange’s voice from the incident outside the Rainbow Coffee House. ‘Is that all? It is a Monday, and clients should be flooding through the door.’

  ‘It is early yet,’ stammered Brome. ‘And I thought you might like to see the first—’

  ‘Do not think,’ snapped L’Estrange unpleasantly. ‘Leave that to me.’

  Chaloner heard footsteps coming from a corridor that led to the back of the house and, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, moved quickly to stand by a pile of tomes about navigation and ocean mapping. He snatched up the top one, and was reading it when a woman entered the room. She closed the door at the base of the stairs, muffling the bad-tempered tirade that thundered from above.

  ‘Are you a sailor, sir?’ she asked politely. ‘If so, then may I direct you to a specific book? Or have you found what you are looking for?’

  Chaloner glanced up from his ‘reading’ to see a slender, doe-eyed lady, who was pretty in a timid, frightened sort of way. She was tall for a woman – almost as tall as him – although her clothes were sadly unfashionable, and overemphasised her willowy figure. When she smiled, she revealed teeth that were rather long, which, when combined with the eyes, put Chaloner in mind of a startled rabbit. The comparison might not have sprung quite so readily to mind had her hair not been gathered in two brown bunches at the side of her head, and allowed to hang down like floppy ears.

  ‘A sailor?’ he asked blankly.

  She nodded to the book he was holding. ‘Only mathematicians or nautical men are interested in Robert Moray’s Experiment of the Instrument for Sounding Depths. You do not look eccentric enough to be a man of science, so I conclude you must be a naval gentleman.’

  ‘I developed an interest in soundings on a recent sea voyage,’ lied Chaloner. ‘But I am just passing the time until I can see L’Estrange.’

  She looked alarmed. ‘I hope there is no trouble?’ Realising it was an odd question to ask, she attempted to smooth it over, digging herself a deeper hole with every word she gabbled. ‘That is not to say we are expecting trouble, of course. The newsbook offices are very peaceful most of the time. Very peaceful. We never have trouble. Well, not usually. What I mean is—’

  It seemed cruel to let her go on, so Chaloner interrupted. ‘No trouble, just government business.’

  ‘Thank God!’ she breathed. Then she shot him a sheepish grin. ‘You must think me a goose! All worked up and talking like the clappers over nothing. We lost a colleague recently, you see, and it upset us, even though we did not like him very much. That is to say we did not dislike him, but …’

  She trailed off unhappily, and looked longingly at the door that led to the back of the house, clearly itching to bolt. Chaloner felt sorry for her, thinking she was entirely the wrong sort of person to be employed in the devious business of selling news. He winced when the shouting from upstairs grew louder. ‘L’Estrange seems peeved.’

  ‘He i
s always peeved. Unless a lady happens along. Then he is all smiles and oily charm. If you want his favour, you might consider donning skirts.’ She blushed furiously. ‘I am not saying you look like the kind of man who likes dressing up in women’s clothing, because I am sure you do not, but …’

  ‘I never don skirts when I am in need of a shave,’ said Chaloner, taking pity on her a second time. ‘I find it spoils the effect.’

  The comment coaxed a smile from her. ‘You should not let that bother you – it will not be your face he is looking at.’

  ‘You are Mrs Brome?’

  ‘Joanna. My husband is Henry. But I expect you already know that. Silly me! Henry is always saying I talk too much, but he is a man, and they do not talk enough, generally speaking. Unless they are politicians or lawyers, of course. Then they are difficult to stop.’

  Chaloner was relieved when the door at the bottom of the stairs opened, and Brome returned. The bookseller’s face was flushed, and his wife rushed to his side with a wail of alarm.

  ‘It is all right, dearest,’ said Brome, patting her arm. He turned to Chaloner. ‘You have met my wife, I see. She helps me in my business. No one has a head for figures like my Joanna.’

  Joanna smiled shyly. ‘I do my best. And everything needs to be accounted for, because a single missing penny might result in an accusation of theft. L’Estrange is very particular about money.’

  ‘It does not sound as though he is easy to work with.’

  ‘He is good to us,’ said Joanna immediately. ‘Well, he is good most of the time, and—’

  ‘It is all right, Joanna,’ said Brome quietly. ‘Heyden is from White Hall, so I am sure he already knows about L’Estrange’s … idiosyncrasies.’

  Joanna heaved a heartfelt sigh. ‘Good! It is difficult to pretend all is well when Mr L’Estrange is in one of his moods, and I dislike closing the door and trying to distract customers with idle conversation in order to drown out his noisy rants. It feels duplicitous, and I am not very good at it anyway.’