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

by Susanna Gregory

  Thurloe came to rest a solicitous hand on his shoulder. ‘You have hated prisons ever since that episode in France a few years back. Why put yourself through the ordeal of a visit, when I can do it?’

  He had a point. Chaloner did own a deep-rooted aversion to gaols, and was willing to go to considerable lengths to avoid them. He nodded his thanks, and went to sit next to the fire.

  ‘We will prevail against this vixen, Tom. However, I am more concerned about you than William this afternoon. You are clearly not thinking straight, because you have not once asked why the men who almost killed you last night should be searching Maylord’s room today. What did they want? The documents? The key? Money? Maylord was comparatively wealthy, unlike Smegergill, whose unpredictable temper meant he had no rich pupils – with the possible exception of that big-nosed lutanist whom no one liked.’

  Chaloner had thought of little else all the way from the Rhenish Wine House, but had no idea why the three men should be in the same two places. ‘Perhaps they went to lay claim to Maylord’s key, because I took the identical one from Smegergill.’

  ‘That makes no sense. If they had wanted that, they would have removed it from Smegergill’s body when they had the chance. What is it for, do you think? It is too small for a door of any substance.’

  ‘A cupboard? A box?’

  Thurloe examined them both. ‘They could be chain-lock keys – devices that secure things to walls. Musical instruments, perhaps. Now, tell me, in detail this time, what happened in Smithfield last night.’

  Chaloner did not want to relive his failure yet again. ‘I cannot: it is still blurred. Why do you want to know anyway? I am painfully aware that it is my fault Smegergill died. I should not have let him walk around Smithfield at such a late hour, and I should not have let a gaggle of Hectors best me.’

  ‘Do not underestimate them, Tom. They are no mere louts like their rival gangs, the Muns or the Tityre Tus. Many were soldiers, and some are even professional men – such as Newburne and Wenum, it would seem. So, tell me what you recall. Leave nothing out.’

  With a sigh, Chaloner obliged, although it was an uncomfortable process. Thurloe listened without interrupting, then sat back thoughtfully.

  ‘I disliked Smegergill. He was secretive about his origins when I tried to vet him for Cromwell’s court, and you never knew when he was going to turn on you with a caustic remark.’

  ‘He was not caustic last night. He barely remembered our conversation from one sentence to the next, and at points he thought I was my father.’

  Thurloe steepled his fingers. ‘It seems to me that his role in the attack was ambiguous. No, do not argue, Tom. Hear me out. He could not have organised the ambush, because you went to see him out of the blue, and he had no time to make such arrangements. Yet he was not surprised by it, either.’

  Chaloner was astonished by the line the ex-Spymaster’s thinking had taken, and disagreed strongly with his interpretation. ‘How do you know he was not surprised?’ he demanded bitterly. ‘He never had the chance to discuss it with me, because he was dead before it was over.’

  ‘Think, Thomas, and analyse the evidence objectively, as I have taught you to do. You heard Smegergill talking to the attackers before you were dragged into the churchyard – talking, not yelling for help, as most men would have been doing.’

  ‘He was probably frightened. He was old, frail and not in his right wits. And if he believed the attackers were Bedlam men coming for him, then it is not surprising that he failed to raise the alarm.’

  ‘We are not talking about his failure to raise the alarm – although I find it odd that he did not at least cry out when armed rogues appeared – we are discussing the fact that he spoke to them. And he cannot have been overly witless, or Greeting would not have hired him to play in his consort. Greeting is fiercely ambitious, and is highly selective about the musicians he allows to join him.’

  Greeting was ambitious, Chaloner knew, and certainly would not tolerate a consort member who might do something to damage his reputation. ‘But this does not mean Smegergill—’

  ‘Then what about the fact that Smegergill suggested a specific location from which to take a carriage, but had no money with which to pay? Perhaps he had no intention of riding with you to Maylord’s room, and his real purpose was to keep you away from it at all costs. Everyone knows Smithfield is dangerous at night. Have you considered the possibility that he led you there deliberately, knowing what would happen?’

  ‘What happened was that he was killed and I escaped.’

  ‘And I am sure that was not the outcome he was anticipating. Besides, you would have died had you not been wearing your metal hat. They came closer than I like to think.’

  Chaloner still did not believe he was right. ‘There are all manner of explanations for his lack of money, including the fact that he was forgetful and may have overlooked filling his purse—’

  ‘Then why were you searched and he was not? He kept his ring and his key, despite the fact that the men who attacked you sound like professional thieves who would be unlikely to pass over such items. And you say his only injury was a small cut to his mouth?’

  ‘I heard a blow falling when I was lying on the ground. They did hit him.’

  Thurloe raised his hands defensively. ‘Then perhaps he is a victim after all. I am not saying there is anything odd about Smegergill, Tom, just that you should bear the possibility in mind. And you should not wallow too deeply in remorse until you are absolutely sure it is justified.’

  Chaloner was unconvinced. ‘What do you know about Crisp?’ he asked, to change the subject.

  ‘He is associated with everything illegal in the Smithfield area, but only for the last two years or so. I would not have tolerated him when I was in government – as I said, a military dictatorship confers all manner of advantages, and an absence of underworld kings is one of them.’

  ‘Have you heard his name associated with Newburne’s?’

  ‘No, but it does not surprise me that they knew each other: a felon and a corrupt lawyer make for comfortable bedfellows.’

  ‘Where does Crisp live? Who are his associates?’

  Thurloe scratched his head. ‘He must live in Smithfield, because that is his realm of influence. He is often seen there, surrounded by Hectors, but tends to shy away from appointments outside the area. Because he is rich, powerful and influential, some of the Guilds have tried to establish a connection with him – for business purposes – but he declines to make major public appearances.’

  ‘Maylord was smothered and Newburne was poisoned. Crisp knew them both.’

  ‘Crisp knew Newburne,’ corrected Thurloe. ‘We cannot be sure that he knew Maylord.’

  ‘He must have done – it was probably his men who visited Maylord’s room. Why would they have been there, if there was no connection? And do not say because of Smegergill – I do not believe he deliberately tried to have me killed by Hectors. Perhaps they met through Wenum. He was a Hector and he was Maylord’s neighbour at the Rhenish Wine House.’

  ‘But that neighbour said Maylord would have had nothing to do with Wenum, other than exchanging pleasantries in the hallway,’ pounced Thurloe. He hesitated. ‘I do not mean to tell you your business, Tom, but I have been wondering whether you ever intend to examine the documents you retrieved from Maylord. They might provide you with answers, and render some of our discussion obsolete.’

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, removing them from his pocket. ‘I had forgotten all about them.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ said Thurloe. ‘You are not yourself today, or you would have had them open the moment you arrived.’

  Chaloner untied the dirty ribbon that bound them together and unfolded the first sheet. Then he examined the second and the third. ‘Music,’ he said in astonishment. ‘It is just music.’

  Thurloe sat back, disappointed. ‘Well, I suppose Maylord was a composer.’

  ‘He did not compose these, though,’ said
Chaloner. ‘This is not his writing.’

  Chapter 6

  Thurloe wanted Chaloner to stay in his chambers while he went to speak to his informants about Mary Cade, and Chaloner did not object, because they were warm, comfortable and the pantry was well-stocked with food. He sat by the fire intending to study the music from Maylord’s chimney, write another article about Portugal as an excuse to re-visit L’Estrange, and think about his investigation. He dashed off the article quickly enough, but the music was difficult to understand and his investigation had him confounded, so he spent most of the time asleep. Hours later, Thurloe returned to say he had met with no success. Worse, he had failed to gain access to Newgate, because he had arrived too late, which meant Chaloner would have to go after all. The prospect did not fill the spy with enthusiasm.

  ‘No one knows Mary, except as a lady newly arrived in Cripplegate,’ Thurloe said, as he returned the drawing. He was tired and dispirited. ‘It is almost as if she never existed before she bewitched William.’

  ‘She existed,’ said Chaloner grimly. ‘The way she threatened me suggested I am not the first man she has tried to intimidate, and all we have to do is encourage her other victims to talk to us.’

  ‘We shall have to find them first. Perhaps they are all in the provinces. Will you travel the length and breadth of the country in an attempt to unveil her?’

  ‘If that is what it takes to save Will, then yes.’

  Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn at ten o’clock, when the streets were quiet, and most fires were doused. He walked to his lodgings, and slept until the bellman announced that it was five o’clock on a cold, rainy morning. He washed in the bucket of water his landlord had left for him, shaved, and rummaged in his clothes chest for something respectable to wear.

  His choices were even more limited than they had been the previous day, and he was obliged to settle for a shirt that was too small for him, and a purple coat he had been lent three months ago, but that he had forgotten to return. He bundled up the insect-ravaged remainder of his clothes and tossed them over his shoulder, intending to spend his last two pennies on matching thread as soon as the markets opened. He was perfectly capable of making basic repairs, and a lack of suitable attire would start to impede his work soon, by barring him from the places he needed to visit. Dick Whittington style, with the cat at his heels, he crept down the stairs and let himself out through the front door. When it saw drizzle falling steadily, the cat promptly turned around and stalked back inside again.

  It was still pitch black, although London was beginning to stir. Lamps and fires were lit in Fetter Lane, and the smell of burning wood mingled with the scent of bread from a nearby cook-shop. The aroma reminded Chaloner that he needed to acquire some money before he starved. He cursed under his breath when his first step ended in a splash, and freezing water seeped into his boots. He recalled Thurloe mentioning the previous day that the Houses of Parliament were flooded, and that prayers were being said all over the city for a break in the weather.

  He crossed Fleet Street, and aimed for Hercules’ Pillars Alley, a narrow lane named for the famous tavern that stood on its corner. Lights gleamed inside the inn, and muted cheers suggested a gambling session was in play. Since the Restoration, taverns had reverted to the age-old tradition of staying open for as long as their patrons demanded, and Londoners were proud of the fact that ale and wine were available in their city twenty-four hours a day.

  About halfway down the road was a tall, three-storey building separated from the traffic by a line of metal railings and an attractive courtyard. Its window shutters, firmly closed against the foul weather, were newly painted, and everything about the place bespoke quality and affluence. It belonged to Temperance North, who had once been Chaloner’s neighbour. She had invested her entire inheritance in the house, then stunned her friends by opening an elegant bordello that was very popular among wealthy courtiers. Chaloner loved Temperance like a sister, but had not yet been to tell her he was back from his latest travels. She would be hurt if he left it too long, so a visit was already overdue.

  He tapped on the door and waited, shivering as the wind blew rain into his face. Eventually, he heard a bar being removed, and the door was opened warily by a man called Preacher Hill. Hill was a nonconformist fanatic, who worked as a night-porter for Temperance, so his days could be free to stand in public places and spout inflammatory sermons. It was men like Hill who fanned the flames of religious dissent, and he and Chaloner had never seen eye to eye.

  ‘What do you want at this hour of the morning?’ demanded Hill. He glanced up at the sky. ‘It is still dark.’

  ‘Is Temperance ill?’ asked Chaloner, suddenly aware that had the ‘gentleman’s club’ been operating as normal, Hill would have been outside, helping patrons into carriages or on to horses. Lights would have been blazing from windows, and there would have been some sort of sound – soft music or the murmur of voices. He wondered if she had been attacked during the time he had been away, and forced to close.

  ‘She is well,’ replied Hill. He sighed, knowing better than to annoy his employer by dismissing her friends. ‘Come in and I will fetch her, although I cannot imagine she will be pleased to see you.’

  He stamped off down the hallway, and Chaloner waited uncertainly, noting that the chamber where the revelries usually took place was empty. It was also clean and tidy, and had clearly not been used for any sort of entertainment the night before.

  ‘Thomas!’ came Temperance’s voice from the stairs. She was wearing an elegant velvet mantua, a robe-like garment usually worn over night-clothes. ‘Where have you been these last four months? Mr Thurloe said you had gone abroad, but you could have left me a note, too, so I would not worry.’

  ‘There was no time.’ Chaloner was sorry to hear the reproach in her voice. He had very few friends in London – he would have fewer still if Mary Cade had her way over Leybourn – and he did not want to alienate any of them.

  She inspected his face, raising her hand to touch the bruise on his jaw. ‘You have been fighting, I see. You have not changed!’

  ‘You have,’ said Chaloner. She had grown plumper, and her glossy chestnut hair was set in the style favoured by Lady Castlemaine. There were expensive rings on her fingers, and she had somehow acquired the casual, mocking smile that was currently the vogue at White Hall. In all, they were not pleasant developments, and he wondered what was happening to her.

  ‘It has rained almost constantly since you left,’ she said, when he did not elaborate. ‘The old folk say it was the worst summer ever. Special prayers were said for the harvest, but they did scant good.’

  ‘It is the wrath of God,’ said Preacher Hill in a voice that was far too loud for the early hour. ‘He disapproves of debauchery, and sends a scourge of rain to lead us back to the path of righteousness.’

  Chaloner wanted to point out that this was rank hypocrisy from a man who earned his daily bread in a brothel, but he did not want to offend Temperance, so he held his tongue. He followed her along the hallway to the large, warm kitchen, while Hill disappeared on business of his own. Normally, the room was busy, as scullions prepared for the new day by scouring pans and fetching water. That morning, however, the hearth was a mass of dead, white ashes, and the room was still and silent. Temperance began to lay the fire, while Chaloner looked around him.

  ‘Where are your people? The cooks and the maids.’ And the prostitutes, he was tempted to add, but was still not quite sure how to refer to them without causing offence.

  ‘In bed,’ she replied. She glanced up at him. ‘Yesterday was All Saints and today is All Souls.’

  He regarded her blankly. ‘I do not understand.’

  She raised her eyebrows indignantly. ‘The club does not operate on religious high days, Thomas. That would be immoral.’

  Temperance was eager to tell Chaloner all that had happened in London during his absence. He did not ask whether she had heard about the deaths of Newburne and Maylord, but t
hey were included in her summary anyway. It was not long before she was joined by her matronly assistant Maude, and the discussion became even more detailed. Although listening to gossip was not something he particularly enjoyed, it was a necessary part of being a spy, and he was good at asking questions that prompted a decent flow of information.

  He discovered that the bishops had successfully vetoed a Bill that granted indulgences to Catholics, and the King – unfashionably tolerant of ‘popery’ – was furious about it. The old Archbishop of Canterbury had died, and was succeeded by a man who was unlikely to soothe troubled waters. The Devil was making regular appearances in a house in Wiltshire, obliging the Queen to send agents to investigate – Chaloner was grateful he had not been given that commission – and the King had hesitated to acknowledge Lady Castlemaine’s latest baby as his own; she was said to be livid at what amounted to a slur on her fidelity.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ he asked when they had finished. Their chatter had saved him the bother of reading back-issues of the newsbooks, and knowing Court gossip and a smattering of current affairs made him feel less of an alien in his own country.

  ‘Our customers often bring newsletters for us to read,’ explained Temperance. ‘After all, everyone is interested in intelligence these days. It is the latest fashion.’

  ‘We buy the newsbooks,’ elaborated Maude, ‘but they are a waste of money. The newsletters are better, especially Muddiman’s. L’Estrange’s rags contain a lot of rubbish that the government wants us to believe, but that must be taken with a fistful of salt. Take Monday’s Intelligencer, for example. Were phanatiques really intent on seizing York? Or does L’Estrange exaggerate?’

  ‘Muddiman says the rebellion was confined to a few misguided lunatics,’ said Temperance. ‘So, I think we can ignore L’Estrange’s attempts to make us think we are on the brink of another civil war.’