‘We were delighted when he chose us to help him with the newsbooks,’ said Brome, seeming grateful to confide. ‘He said our shop suited him better than any other, because it is near all the booksellers at St Paul’s, and not far from his home. But he has such a black temper.’
‘Actually, he is a bully,’ whispered Joanna. She glanced nervously towards the stairs. ‘And neither of us were really “delighted” when he said he was going to use our shop from which to run his business. We like the money – he pays rent for his office and for our help with his newsbooks – but he is not someone we would befriend, if we had a choice. He is so … well, strong. And we are not.’
‘Yes and no,’ countered Brome. ‘He does not always get his own way.’
‘True,’ conceded Joanna. ‘We managed to prevent him from publishing that libellous attack on ex-Spymaster Thurloe last month. It took some doing, but he admitted we were right in the end – that there was no truth in the spiteful things he had written.’
‘I have no love for Cromwell’s ministers, but that editorial was pure fabrication, and would have made us a laughing stock,’ said Brome. ‘L’Estrange needs our commonsense and sanity.’
Chaloner did not think Joanna would be overly endowed with either, because she seemed rather eccentric to him. Then he reconsidered. Her gauche awkwardness was doubtless due to her shy and nervous nature, and he did not blame anyone for being fearful when the likes of L’Estrange was brooding upstairs. When she smiled at him, and he saw the sweet kindness in her face, he found himself feeling rather sorry for her. He smiled back.
‘He is in a foul mood today,’ Brome went on. ‘Unfortunately, he read that newsletter – the one addressed to Pepys – as soon as it arrived this morning, and it contains some of the stories we had planned to print in Thursday’s Newes.’
‘Again?’ asked Joanna, shocked. ‘But how? And what are we going to do? This cannot continue, because people will not buy the newsbooks if they are full of old intelligence.’
Chaloner frowned, not sure he fully understood the situation. ‘I would have thought printing would confer a significant advantage on you. Surely it is faster to print a hundred sheets than to handwrite them, like Muddiman has to do? How can he disseminate news more quickly than L’Estrange?’
‘Printing is a laborious process,’ explained Brome. ‘It involves hours of typesetting, and then, because compositors make mistakes, everything needs to be checked. Meanwhile, Muddiman employs an army of scribes. As soon as a letter is finished, a boy races off to deliver it, so news can be spread in a matter of minutes. We can flood the city with thousands of newsbooks, given time, but the newsletters are infinitely faster. The advantage is not as great as you might think.’
‘If you say the government clerks are not responsible for the leak of information, then what about someone here?’ asked Chaloner. He thought about Newburne, and decided ‘news-theft’ was an excellent motive for murder. Had the solicitor been selling L’Estrange’s stories to Muddiman, and been killed for his treachery?
Brome seemed to read his mind. ‘It was not Newburne. He was making too much money from L’Estrange to risk losing it.’
‘Is that why you are here?’ Joanna asked of Chaloner, suddenly displaying the same astuteness as her husband. ‘Someone at White Hall thinks Newburne’s death was not an accident, but connected to the news? Everyone has assumed the cucumber was responsible, but he did have enemies.’
‘He did,’ agreed Brome. ‘He was corrupt, and I do not think he will be greatly missed by anyone.’
‘His family will miss him,’ said Chaloner, supposing that even solicitors had them.
Joanna nodded slowly. ‘Yes, his wife is upset. However, if someone did kill him, the culprit will not take kindly to questions – and Newburne had some singularly unsavoury acquaintances.’
‘I have already told him all this,’ said Brome. ‘And in reply to your other observation, Heyden, no one here or at the printing-house would give our news to Muddiman. They would not dare, not with L’Estrange watching like a hawk and Spymaster Williamson looming in the background.’
‘That is true,’ said Joanna ruefully. ‘They would be too frightened, and I know how they feel. L’Estrange tends to draw his sword first and ask questions later, and between him and Williamson, our staff are thoroughly cowed into unquestioning obedience. Us included. Well, most of the time. We make a stand if he does something brazenly unwise, like that editorial on Thurloe, and—’
Brome steered Chaloner towards the stairs. ‘You had better not keep him waiting. We do not want a repeat of the ear incident.’
At the top of a flight of stairs that creaked, Brome opened the door to a pleasant office. Behind a large oaken desk sat the man Chaloner had seen squabbling with his rival in Fleet Street. His nose appeared even more prominently hooked close up, and the rings in his ears glittered. Because he looked so rakish and disreputable, Chaloner was astonished to see him holding a bass viol and bow.
‘You do not mind if I play while we talk, do you?’ he asked of Chaloner, waving a hand to indicate Brome was dismissed. The bookseller escaped with palpable relief. ‘I am beset by phanatiques on all sides and music is the only thing that gives me the resolve to do battle with them.’
‘That is a fine instrument,’ said Chaloner, rather more interested in the viol than in pursuing his dangerous assignment for the Earl. ‘Is it Spanish?’
‘Why, yes,’ said L’Estrange, pleasantly surprised. ‘How did you know? Do you play?’ He went to a cupboard before Chaloner could reply, and the spy saw several more instruments inside it, all equally handsome. ‘Let us have a duet, then. It is difficult to find people willing to master the viol these days, because there is a modern preference for the violin. Or the flageolet, God forbid!’
‘God forbid, indeed,’ murmured Chaloner, running his hands appreciatively over the fingerboard while L’Estrange slapped a sheet of music in front of him.
‘One, two,’ announced L’Estrange, before launching into the piece with considerable gusto. Chaloner fumbled to catch up, and L’Estrange scowled. ‘Count your beats, man!’
Apart from a few occasions when he had used his artistic skills to gain access to the sly Portuguese duke, Chaloner had had no time for music since June, and his lack of practice showed. He played badly, aware of L’Estrange’s grimaces when he missed notes or his timing was poor. He would have done better had it been an air he knew, but it was unfamiliar and the notation was cramped and difficult to read. When it was finished, L’Estrange sat back and tapped it with his bow.
‘Do you like it?’
‘No.’
L’Estrange laughed. ‘I composed it, and I am rather proud of it, to be frank. However, at least you were honest. Take it home, and we shall try it again in a few days – when you will make no mistakes, of course. But you did not come here to entertain me. What does the Earl want?’
‘Two things. He has asked me to provide you with news about Portugal, and—’
‘News?’ pounced L’Estrange. ‘Good! I will pay you double if you sell these reports only to me. Triple, if Muddiman asks for them and you tell him to go to Hell. What was the second thing?’
‘He wants me to ascertain whether there was anything odd about the death of Thomas Newburne.’
‘Does, he by God! Why? What business is it of his?’
‘I wish I knew,’ muttered Chaloner.
‘Newburne ate a cucumber. I admit it is an odd way to go, but it is not entirely unknown. Colonel Beauclair and a couple of sedan-chair carriers went the same way, just this last month.’
‘You think Newburne died of natural causes?’
‘Of course he did. Obviously, he encountered a lot of dubious characters when he was working on my behalf – phanatiques, no less. But no one killed him.’
‘When you speak of dubious characters, do you mean men like the Butcher of Smithfield?’
‘Actually, I was referring to the booksellers he met. His
association with Ellis Crisp was his own affair, and none of mine. However, I would have ordered him to consort with the Devil himself, if it meant safeguarding the King and his government. That is why I agreed to become Surveyor of the Press – to serve His Majesty with all the means at my disposal, legitimate or otherwise.’
‘Suppressing books on mathematics is serving the King?’ Chaloner was thinking of Leybourn.
‘Yes, and so is stamping out dishonesty in the publishing trade. I have fined dozens of booksellers for breaking the law, including James Allestry who supplies the Royal Society, and William Nott who counts your master, the Lord Chancellor, among his customers. I mean to root out disobedience wherever I find it, even among those who consider themselves too grand for fines and disgrace.’
Chaloner was inclined to tell him that alienating an entire profession was probably not the best way to make a success of his appointment – and that there was a difference between enforcing the law and gratuitous persecution – but he held his tongue. ‘What do you think happened to Newburne?’
‘I have already told you: he ate a cucumber.’ L’Estrange reflected for a moment. ‘Of course, the fruit could have been fed to him by phanatiques. They are always lurking in coffee houses and taverns, waiting to strike.’
Chaloner thought he was being paranoid. ‘I doubt they—’
‘Are you one of them?’ demanded L’Estrange. ‘Yes, I imagine you are: your viol finger-work smacks of that old reprobate Maylord – a loyal Parliamentarian first, but then a Royalist when he saw it would serve him better. He had a very distinctive style of playing, and you mimic it.’
‘I have never been taught by Maylord,’ said Chaloner. But his father had, and he had passed the lessons to his son. He was impressed by L’Estrange’s powers of observation, because he had not even been aware that the man had been studying him. ‘Did Newburne play the viol with you?’
L’Estrange snorted his derision. ‘Hardly! He liked music, but he had no talent for it.’
‘I do not suppose he had lessons from Maylord, did he?’
The editor snorted a second time. ‘Maylord was a good man who would never have subjected himself to Newburne’s low company. Why do you ask? Is it because both died from cucumbers and you think there might be a connection between them? If so, then you are wasting your time.’
Chaloner would make up his own mind about that. ‘How well did you know Newburne?’
‘I did not give him a cucumber, if that is what you are asking. Have you ever heard the saying, “Arise Tom Newburne”?’
Chaloner nodded, although he did not admit that it had only been the previous day.
‘It refers to his promotion from common lawyer to a man who worked for me – my arrival in London marked a dramatic upsurge in his fortunes. It is a by-word for anything that rises quickly.’
‘Is it?’ asked Chaloner, bemused. ‘I was told it meant something else.’
‘Then you were told wrong,’ declared L’Estrange. ‘Probably by a phanatique, trying to cause mischief. Tell me his name, and I will arrange for him to be visited by some of Newburne’s persuasive friends – Hectors. They are useful fellows to know when dealing with dissidents.’
‘It was the Earl of Clarendon. Do you want his address, or do you know where he lives?’
L’Estrange glowered at him. ‘You should have told me who you were talking about. The Earl and I have known each other for years, and I mean him no harm. Indeed, he has always been a good friend to me, and I to him.’
‘You hired Newburne to do what, exactly?’ asked Chaloner, going back to his investigation.
‘Mostly to visit booksellers and assess their stock for unlicensed publications. He was paid a shilling for every one that he discovered, which was a fine incentive for him to succeed. He was good at it, too. He was also in charge of watching Henry Muddiman. Do you know Muddiman?’
‘Only by reputation.’
‘You mean his reputation as a villainous rogue, who ran a pair of sub-standard newsbooks before Spymaster Williamson arranged for me to be promoted into his place?’
‘Something like that.’
‘He is a sly devil, and owes allegiance to nothing but money. We all want to be wealthy, but some of us have other interests, too. He does not. Newburne was paid to watch him, to see where he obtains the intelligence for his filthy newsletters. They undermine my newsbooks, you see.’
‘Can you not suppress them?’ asked Chaloner facetiously. ‘As you have the mathematicians?’
Irony was lost on L’Estrange. ‘Muddiman does not need one of my licenses, because his reports are handwritten, not printed. And as he does not sell them in shops, they are not within my purvey.’
‘They appear in taverns, though,’ said Chaloner. ‘I have seen them myself.’
‘Landlords subscribe to them, because newsletters attract customers eager for information. I do not like it, but it is within the law, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Unfortunately.’
‘Did Newburne ever attempt to steal news from Muddiman? Or try to prevent the newsletters from being written?’
‘Yes, but he never succeeded, because Muddiman was far too clever for him. However, much as I would love to see Muddiman swing for murder, I am afraid he did not kill Newburne. No one did – the man died because he ate a cucumber. Do you have anything else to ask me?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Good, because I have had enough of being interrogated. I have answered all your questions, so you can tell the Earl that I co-operated. However, I do not want you prying into Newburne’s death any further, because I have appointed a man of my own to do it.’
‘Who?’ asked Chaloner in surprise. ‘And why, if you claim there is nothing odd about—’
‘Hodgkinson, the fellow who prints my newsbooks. He was with Newburne when he died, so he is the perfect man for the task. And the reason I asked him to investigate is because I do not want the stink of murder hanging around my office. It is all the fault of people like you, you know.’
‘Like me?’
‘Suspicious types, who see conspiracy everywhere. Newburne’s death was natural, and Hodgkinson will prove it. In fact, he has probably proved it already, so go and speak to him yourself. He lives on Thames Street, although I imagine he will be at Smithfield today; he has a booth on Duck Lane, where he sells printed certificates for meat. Talk to him, then go back to your Earl and tell him there is nothing about Newburne that warrants further investigation.’
‘And what of the phanatiques who you say may have given Newburne the cucumber?’
L’Estrange shot him a wolfish grin, and his earrings flashed. ‘Hodgkinson will ferret those out for me, if they exist. You will not interfere. If you disobey, I promise you will be sorry.’
* * *
Before Chaloner left Brome’s shop, he wrote a brief report about the Portuguese preparations for war with Spain. As he scribbled, he considered his next move. There were now several people he was obliged to interview. First, there was the solicitor’s friend Finch. Next, there was Hodgkinson the printer, who, for all Chaloner knew, might already have solved the case. And finally, there were the two prestigious booksellers, Nott and Allestry. Like Leybourn, the pair had endured L’Estrange’s persecution, and he wanted to assess whether they felt sufficiently bitter to avenge themselves on his informant. Chaloner knew Nott owned the shop that stood across the road from Brome’s, because he had collected books from it for the Earl in the past, so he decided to start there.
When he arrived, Nott was entertaining an important visitor, whose magnificent coach stood outside, selfishly blocking the entire road.
‘Heyden,’ said the Earl of Clarendon amiably, as the spy entered. ‘Nott is rebinding my copy of Rushworth’s Historical Collections. Shall I have it done in blue-dyed calfskin or red?’
‘Green,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether the Earl was there by chance, or whether he was ensuring his spy was doing as he was told. He found
himself deeply suspicious. ‘Blue is common, and red is favoured by courtesans who cannot read.’
The Earl gaped at him. ‘Most of my collection is bound in red or blue.’
‘I shall fetch some more samples, sir,’ said Nott, beating a prudent retreat. ‘In green.’
‘I have started looking into Newburne’s death,’ said Chaloner, when they were alone. ‘So far, everyone has either warned me away because Newburne knew a lot of dangerous people, or they say it is quite normal for men to die from eating cucumbers and that I am wasting my time.’
‘I saw you go into Brome’s shop,’ said the Earl. ‘Which tale did he spin you? That Newburne’s death was natural? Or that you will endanger yourself if you persist with your enquiries?’
‘Both. Why do you want this case investigated, sir? At White Hall, I was under the impression that L’Estrange had asked for your help in finding out what happened, but he was bemused when I offered my services, and tells me they are not needed. So, what is the real reason? Is it because your own bookseller, Nott, was victimised by Newburne, and you think he might be the culprit?’
Clarendon pursed his lips. ‘What a wild imagination you have! I like Nott, and it would be a shame if you learn he is the killer – if there is a killer. He really does produce excellent bindings.’
‘You did not tell me that other people have died from ingesting cucumbers, either,’ added Chaloner, trying not to sound accusatory. He did not succeed, because he was angry with the Earl for playing games with secrets, and his temper was up.
‘I did not tell you, because I did not know,’ snapped Clarendon, irritable in his turn. ‘If it is true, then perhaps I have sent you on a wild goose chase, and there is nothing to assess. However, Newburne was unpleasant and he engaged in sordid dealings – if he was not murdered, I shall be very surprised.’
‘But why do you want to know? What is Newburne to you? Did you hire him to help you with something? He had a reputation for knowing a good many villains.’
The Earl glared at him. ‘Was that an accidental conjunction of two statements, or do you imply that I am one of these “villains”?’
The Butcher Of Smithfield: Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 3) Page 9
