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

by Susanna Gregory

  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.

  Muddiman nodded with great confidence. ‘It is only a matter of time. Who wants to read that the vicar of Wollaston found himself with a dirty prayer-book? Or reports confiding that Turks are “up and down”, whatever that means? Besides, once the government realises that the newsbooks’ only real function is to facilitate the return of lost horses, it will withdraw its investment. Eh, Hodgkinson?’

  Hodgkinson nodded uncomfortably. ‘I am afraid you may be right.’

  ‘Have you shared these concerns with Spymaster Williamson?’ asked Chaloner of the printer.

  Hodgkinson looked horrified. ‘No! Why? Will you tell him? If you do, please do not say you heard it from me. I am just a man trying to make a living. Besides, I would not be forced to do business with Mr Muddiman if Williamson did his job and kept the city in order. The safety tax imposed by the Butcher of Smithfield is crippling, and this is the only way I can make ends meet.’

  ‘A valid point,’ said Muddiman, not seeming to care that Hodgkinson had all but admitted their association to be an unsavoury one. ‘But I doubt Heyden will be talking to Williamson. Our dear Spymaster has a nasty habit of shooting messengers who bring bad news, which is why his spies seldom tell him much of import. Especially stupid old Hickes.’

  ‘Did I hear you say you need a woman with a cloth?’ asked Hodgkinson, keen to change the subject. ‘Brome said you are dining with him today, and Joanna will not think much if you arrive looking like that. I will fetch Mother Sales.’ He was gone before Chaloner could stop him.

  ‘Poor Hodgkinson,’ said Muddiman with a sigh. ‘He wants to be loyal to L’Estrange, but he can see the portents of doom. It is a pity Brome cannot. I have offered him an alliance, but he declines, misguided fool. But you are not so foolish, I think.’

  ‘No, I am not. So I will not give you intelligence about Portugal, because L’Estrange will know exactly where it came from.’

  Muddiman’s expression was crafty. ‘True, but perhaps you heard chatter about the Spanish court while you were there. L’Estrange will not associate that with you. And you really do need the services of a cloth if you want to impress Joanna. The rabbit will not appreciate mud all over her nice burrow. Yet how will you pay this venerable old crone? I can tell from here that your purse is empty.’

  Chaloner supposed there was no harm in repeating some Spanish gossip to Muddiman, and he did not want to make a direct enemy of a man whose role and motives in the murders he did not understand. And nor was there time to go home and change. ‘There is to be a marriage contract drawn up between the Infanta Margarita and the Emperor. The political ramifications of such an alliance—’

  ‘I know what the repercussions will be, and they are far-reaching,’ interrupted Muddiman. ‘Do not concern yourself with analysis: leave that to the experts, like me. You are sure about this contract? If you feed me dross, I shall certainly find out.’

  Chaloner shrugged, not blaming him for being cautious. ‘I overheard it, but it is true.’

  Muddiman grinned. ‘You have made a wise decision, my friend. I shall pay Mother Sales on your behalf, and you have acceded to the polite request of a powerful man. And I am a powerful man, Heyden. People want very much to stay on the right side of me.’

  Chaloner was not sure if he was being threatened or cajoled. ‘Do they?’

  ‘They do. Now what do you say to another arrangement? If you agree to look no further into this Newburne and Wenum business, I will add you to my list of subscribers. As my newsletters cost a minimum of five pounds a year, this is a generous offer.’

  ‘It is indeed. Generous enough to lead me to surmise that you must have a strong reason for wanting the matter quietly forgotten, and that Newburne – Wenum – was indeed your informant at L’Estrange’s office.’

  ‘You can assume what you like. It is a free world, although it will not stay that way if L’Estrange succeeds in censoring everything that is printed.’

  ‘Is that what drives you?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Freedom to write what you like?’

  Muddiman laughed. The foppish image was suddenly gone, and Chaloner had a glimpse of something else entirely. ‘Lord, no! That would be tediously moral, would it not? My sole aim in life is to make money. And why not? The pursuit of wealth is an honourable goal, and honest after a fashion.’

  ‘Mother Sales will be here shortly,’ said Hodgkinson, returning rather breathlessly. He patted his beard, as if he was afraid his exertions might have ruffled it. ‘She is just finishing Kirby’s breeches. They are covered in blood again – not his, though, more is the pity.’

  Chaloner handed him the Fountain Inkhorn he had found. ‘Is this yours?’

  Hodgkinson almost snatched it from him. ‘Where did you find it? I thought it was gone for good! The King sent it to me when I agreed to print L’Estrange’s newsbooks. It is silver, but it is more valuable to me than the weight of its precious metal.’

  ‘The King gave me a clock,’ said Muddiman boastfully. ‘A big gold one.’

  ‘You must be very proud of it,’ said Hodgkinson, upstaged.

  Muddiman shrugged. ‘I sold it for twenty pounds. I would much rather have the money.’

  Mother Sales’s cloth managed its duties better than Chaloner anticipated. He was quite wet by the time she had finished, and some stains remained, but at least he did not look as though he had been fighting. He walked quickly to Ivy Lane, and knocked on the door just as the bells chimed twelve.

  The Brome residence was larger than he had first thought. Besides the spacious chamber that was used as the bookshop, and the office above that was occupied by L’Estrange, there was a pleasant sitting room overlooking a garden at the back. A narrow corridor led to a kitchen, and there were bedrooms on the floors above. It was not grand, but it was warm, welcoming and full of the signs of a contented life – plenty of books on the shelves, a virginals in the corner and mewling kittens in a box near the h
earth. He was pleasantly surprised to find Leybourn there, too, and his spirits rose even further when he learned that Mary had had a prior engagement, so could not come.

  ‘It is good of you to invite me, Brome,’ said Leybourn, settling more comfortably on a bench and stretching his hands towards the fire. ‘It has been ages since we enjoyed a meal together.’

  ‘Far too long,’ agreed Joanna, beaming at him. ‘However, we asked you to join us several times in the last few months, but you are always too busy.’ She blushed furiously. ‘That is not a criticism, of course. I just meant to say that Mary must be occupying a lot of your time.’

  ‘Oh, she is,’ said Leybourn with one of his guileless grins. ‘We are always doing something or other. I cannot recall a time in my life when I have been to more plays and fashionable soirées. It is expensive, but no cost is too high to see my sweet Mary happy.’

  Chaloner managed to mask his concern at the comment, but Joanna’s rabbit-like features creased into an expression of open dismay. He was not the only one with reservations about Mary Cade.

  ‘Two of my silver goblets have disappeared, Tom,’ said Leybourn unhappily, when she and Brome had gone to fetch the food from the kitchen. ‘The ones from the Royal Society. Mary reminds me that the last time we saw them was before you visited, but I know you have no interest in baubles.’

  Chaloner was not surprised she had taken the chance to malign him, and wondered what other poisonous things she had said. ‘I saw some that looked remarkably similar in the hands of a man called Jonas Kirby recently. Ask Mary if she knows him.’

  Leybourn shot him a puzzled frown. ‘She will not know Kirby – he is a Hector. But how did he come by my cups? I suppose he must have broken in when we were out. Mary forgets to lock up sometimes.’

  ‘Is that so?’ murmured Chaloner flatly.

  ‘Here we are,’ announced Brome from the door, carrying a large tureen. Joanna was behind him with a basket of bread. ‘Rabbit stew.’

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Leybourn, disconcerted. ‘I do not think I can eat it, not with Joanna … I mean …’

  Chaloner was not so squeamish, and as it was one of few decent meals he had had in weeks, his appreciation was genuine. Afterwards, slightly queasy from gluttony, he sat by the fire and listened to Brome and Leybourn debate the merits of Gunter’s Quadrant, while Joanna played with the kittens. It was a pleasant, happy scene, and he did not want it to end. It was the first time he had felt so relaxed and contented since the love of his life, Metje, had died the previous year.

  ‘Have you met Mary, Mr Heyden?’ asked Joanna in a low voice, once Brome and Leybourn were so engrossed in their debate that neither would have noticed anything short of an earthquake.

  ‘I am afraid so.’

  She regarded him sombrely. ‘William is a very dear friend, and he deserves better than her. If you can find a way to prise them apart, and you need my help, you only need ask.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I cannot think of anything that will not see him hurt.’

  She frowned. ‘Then perhaps we can think of something together. The thought of that horrible woman using poor William for her own selfish ends makes me want to … to knock out all her teeth!’

  ‘I know,’ said Brome loudly, in response to some point the surveyor was making. ‘I have all your publications, do not forget. And I have read them.’

  ‘Have you?’ asked Chaloner, impressed. ‘There are dozens of them, all equally incomprehensible.’

  ‘How is Dorcus Newburne?’ asked Leybourn, changing the subject. He was used to Chaloner’s lack of appreciation for his chosen art, but that did not mean he liked it. ‘Still missing her vile husband?’

  ‘She loved him, William,’ said Joanna reproachfully. ‘And he had some virtues.’

  ‘Such as fining good men and spying,’ said Leybourn acidly. ‘I am sorry if she is unhappy, but I disliked him intensely. And I refuse to say nice things about him just because he is dead.’

  ‘He loved music,’ said Joanna stubbornly. ‘That is a virtue. I recall seeing him with Maylord only last week, planning a concert for her birthday.’

  ‘Do you think they kept it a secret from her?’ asked Chaloner, recalling how Dorcus had denied an acquaintance between her husband and Maylord when he had asked her about it.

  ‘They tried, but she knew anyway,’ said Brome. ‘She was looking forward to it, although with husband and musician gone, I suppose she will have to find some other way to celebrate.’

  There was a short silence, during which Chaloner experienced a sharp pang of grief for his old friend. ‘Do you like working for L’Estrange?’ he asked, keen to talk about something else for a while.

  Brome glanced towards the door, to ensure it was closed. ‘He is not an easy master, but my association with him has certainly allowed my business to expand – we sell almost all the government’s publications now. I suppose I could object when he treats me like an errant schoolboy, but I do not want to lose everything over a minor spat. The bookshop is important to me – to us.’

  ‘Hush!’ said Joanna in an urgent whisper. ‘I think he is coming.’

  ‘I saw you arrive an hour ago,’ said L’Estrange to Chaloner, marching in when Brome opened the door to his impatient rap, ‘but I thought I would let you eat your rabbit before we had some music.’

  ‘You mean to play now?’ asked Chaloner, startled by the presumption. ‘Here?’

  ‘Why not?’ L’Estrange snapped imperious fingers, and two servants entered, carrying viols. ‘I am in the mood, and no one can have anything better to do. What do you play, Leybourn?’

  ‘I sing,’ declared Leybourn loftily. Chaloner’s heart sank. Leybourn did not have a good voice, which L’Estrange was sure to comment on, and the surveyor was sensitive about it.

  ‘Very well, then,’ said L’Estrange. ‘You can trill to us, and we shall have some proper consort playing when you have finished. Did you practise those airs I gave you, Heyden?’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly, resenting the intrusion. He saw Joanna and Brome did not appear very keen, either, and hastened to stand up for them. ‘And I do not feel like music now. It is not—’

  ‘What was in this rabbit stew?’ demanded L’Estrange of Brome. ‘A lot of suet, to make his brains muddy? Come on, come on. It is only for a few minutes. Joanna can play the virginals to our viols. She is not very good, but we shall choose a piece where she does not have to do much.’

  Chaloner might have laughed, had the man not been insulting people whose hospitality he was enjoying. He was about to tell him to go to Hell when Brome began to set chairs into consort formation and Joanna sat at the virginals, shooting the spy a glance that begged him not to make a fuss. Chaloner nodded acquiescence, although he objected to being bullied, and thought Brome a fool for not drawing the line at being ordered about in his own home. L’Estrange tapped the chairs with his bow, to indicate where he wanted people to sit, and then he was ready.

  Unfortunately, so was Leybourn. He began to sing in a key entirely of his own devising, impossible to match, and the resulting harmony was far from pleasant. L’Estrange’s jaw dropped at the caterwauling and he struggled to find the right notes. Chaloner smiled encouragingly at the surveyor, maliciously gratified to note that L’Estrange was not enjoying it at all.

  Stop!’ shouted Leybourn, breaking off and glaring at L’Estrange. ‘You are hopelessly out of tune. Just be quiet, and let Tom play. He knows what he is doing with a viol.’

  Joanna’s eyes were bright with suppressed laughter, and the spy wondered if she had known what was going to happen – that she and Brome had allowed L’Estrange to prevail because they had heard Leybourn sing before. The surveyor warbled his way through two more ballads, while L’Estrange’s face contorted in agony, like a man sucking lemons. When he had finished, Leybourn picked up his coat.

  ‘I am afraid I cannot entertain you any longer, because Mary will be waiting for me. Thank you for your hospitali
ty, Joanna. I hope you visit us soon. Mary does not cook, but our local tavern makes an excellent game pie, and Chyrurgeons’ Hall opposite has an ice-house, which means sherbets.’

  ‘I thought they used the ice for keeping corpses fresh,’ said Chaloner uneasily.

  Leybourn waved an airy hand. ‘They wash everything off.’ Leaving his friends wondering exactly what was meant by ‘everything’, he sailed out.

  ‘I am glad he has gone,’ declared L’Estrange. ‘I do not think I could have endured much more of that, but was loath to tell him he sounded like a scalded cat lest he subjected me to more of his repertoire to prove me wrong.’

  He launched into a well-known piece without giving them time to find the right music from the sheaf he had thrust at them, but they quickly fell in, and the sound of three viols and virginals was pleasing, although there was something muted and flat about the virginals, as though the damp had got at it. L’Estrange was not happy with the result, though.

  ‘Perhaps it should be played on the trumpet,’ he mused.

  ‘No,’ said Brome, uncharacteristically firm. ‘Trumpets are vulgar, raucous instruments, and four of them would make for a racket. What else do you have?’

  ‘This,’ said L’Estrange, passing out more sheets. ‘I would like to hear it played as a quartet.’

  The music was written by someone with a cramped hand that was not easy to decipher, but although the poor quality of the manuscript might have resulted in a few wrong notes, it could not account for all the discord. Chaloner glanced at Brome’s page after a particularly jarring interval, sure the bookseller must have lost his place, but the fault lay in the music, not the player.

  ‘Enough!’ cried Joanna, putting her hands over her ears. ‘I do not mind humouring you with pleasant tunes, Mr L’Estrange, but this is horrible.’

  L’Estrange grimaced. ‘My apologies. I just wanted to hear the piece aloud. It pains me to admit it, but I am not good at anticipating how an air will sound, just by looking at notes. My playing is excellent, of course, and the fault lies in the fact that I was not taught to read as well.’