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

by Susanna Gregory

  While Brome replaced the chairs and L’Estrange lectured Joanna on her posture, Chaloner studied all four scores together. Unlike the newsbook editor, he was good at reading music on paper, but could tell that whoever had composed this particular arrangement had done so with scant regard to melody or mode. The timing fitted, so everyone started and finished together, but that was about all. He recalled the other odd music he had encountered recently – the ‘documents’ he had recovered from Maylord’s chimney. Surreptitiously, he pulled one of the sheets from his pocket and compared it to L’Estrange’s. What he saw made his thoughts whirl in confusion.

  Both were penned by the same hand, because there were identical eccentricities of notation. But why would Maylord and L’Estrange own pieces by the same composer – especially as that composer was one whose ‘tunes’ would never be popular, not even with the tone-deaf ? Then it occurred to him that he had come across two more examples. First, there had been sheet music in Wenum’s room, although all he could recall about that was that it was an unattractive jig. And secondly, Finch had been playing a discordant melody the first time Chaloner had visited; he had probably been practising it before he had been poisoned, too, because it had been lying on the windowsill. Then Hickes had come along and stuffed it in his pocket. Chaloner had assumed Hickes could not read and had just taken something with writing on it, but what if he was wrong? What if the music was significant?

  And that was not all. Greeting had said that Maylord and Smegergill had been heard playing odd tunes of late, and had made the assumption that they had been commissioned to perform for someone with eclectic tastes – namely Crisp. Was Greeting right? Chaloner was not at all sure, because he had not heard anyone else say the Butcher of Smithfield was artistically inclined, and ‘tunes of the Orient’ seemed rather an exotic interest for a meat merchant with a penchant for putting his enemies in pies.

  He reviewed what he knew, trying to be objective. Four sets of the odd music had been in possession of four different men: Maylord, who had been smothered; Finch and Newburne–Wenum, who had been poisoned; and now L’Estrange. Chaloner shoved Maylord’s ‘document’ out of sight when L’Estrange came towards him.

  ‘May I keep this?’ he asked, waving the score they had just played. ‘To practise?’

  L’Estrange raised his eyebrows. ‘If you must, but you will be wasting your time. I do not think greater familiarity will make it sound any better.’

  ‘How did you come by it?’ Chaloner asked curiously.

  L’Estrange looked oddly furtive. He shrugged, so his earrings glinted. ‘Oh, here and there,’ he replied vaguely. ‘And now, unless you have practised the air I wrote and are ready and willing to play it to perfection, I have more important things to do than dally with amateurs.’

  ‘Have you, indeed?’ murmured Chaloner, watching the editor stalk out.

  L’Estrange wanted another news item about Portugal, so Chaloner sat in the editor’s office and penned a description of the preparations that were taking place in Lisbon for the predicted war with Spain. Even as he wrote, he was sure the newsbook readers would prefer a report on the Queen’s health.

  ‘Nonsense,’ declared L’Estrange, when Chaloner said so. ‘However, I suppose I can include a sentence about Monsieur de Harcourt, who had a dangerous fit of apoplexy in Paris last week.’

  ‘Who is Monsieur de Harcourt?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘Damned if I know,’ replied L’Estrange. ‘But the news should satisfy any ghoulish cravings among my readership for tales of sickness.’

  Chaloner left when Mrs Nott arrived for a proofreading session, although her careful face-paints and immaculate dress suggested she intended to do more than just look for typographical errors. He heard the office door lock behind him when he stepped out, although L’Estrange called out that it was only a precaution against phanatiques. Chaloner was tempted to ask why it had not been secured when he had been working there, but there was no point in deliberately antagonising the man. He walked down the stairs, treading softly out of habit, rather than with any serious desire to move unseen. He had almost reached the bottom, when he heard voices in what he assumed was the kitchen. He glanced towards it, and saw a familiar figure framed in the doorway, standing with his back to him. It was Hickes, the apple-seller, commonly thought to be Williamson’s ‘best spy’. Chaloner ducked into a coat-cupboard when he heard the faint clink of coins. A purse was changing hands.

  ‘Leave through the rear door,’ said Brome in a low voice. ‘I do not want L’Estrange to see you.’

  ‘I can well imagine,’ said Hickes dryly. ‘Until next time, then.’

  Chaloner was in a quandary. Why was Hickes giving money to Brome? Was it to provide the Spymaster with inside information about L’Estrange? Chaloner had assumed that, because Williamson and L’Estrange were on the same side, one would have no need to monitor the other. Yet the world of the newsmongers was opaque and confusing, and he was not sure who owed allegiance to whom. He already had proof that Hodgkinson had developed an understanding with Muddiman, and Newburne had been betraying the newsbooks on a regular basis, if the ledger was to be believed. Chaloner scratched his head, not sure what to think. He liked Brome, and sincerely hoped there would be an innocent explanation for what he had just witnessed.

  His instinctive dive into a hiding place had left him in an awkward position. Brome was now in the kitchen, and Chaloner could not leave as long as he was there, because he would be seen – and he did not want Brome to think he had enjoyed his hospitality and then immediately resorted to clandestine activities in his home. So, as there was no way he could escape from the coats until the coast was clear, he was obliged to wait. Joanna was in the shop, serving a customer.

  ‘Read it back to me,’ the man was demanding. He sounded excited. ‘I want to hear it, to make sure you have it right. This is very important, and we cannot afford a single mistake.’

  ‘“Mr Turner’s dentifrices, which clean the teeth, making them white as ivory,” ’ intoned Joanna. ‘“Prevents toothache, makes the breath sweet and preserves the gums from canker and impostumes.”’

  The man rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘You have it perfectly! That is just what Mr Turner’s dentifrices do, and your words will have folk clamouring at my door for them. Read on, read on!’

  ‘“They are sold by Mr Rokkes at the Lamb and Ink Bottle, at the east end of St Paul’s Church.”’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ cried Rokkes. ‘And it will appear just like that? My own name on the line below the praise for Mr Turner’s dentifrice?’

  ‘Just like that, Mr Rokkes,’ said Joanna, beaming at him. ‘I imagine you will recoup your five shillings in a matter of days. Will you sign the ledger, to say you have given us the fee?’

  Rokkes left the shop singing to himself, but Joanna had done no more than scatter sand on the wet ink before a figure materialised from where it had been lurking on the stairs. Uneasily, Chaloner wondered just how long it had been there, and what else it had seen.

  ‘We should not accept notices from men like him,’ said L’Estrange softly. ‘It is a waste of space.’

  ‘He paid his five shillings,’ objected Joanna. He had made her jump with his sudden appearance. ‘And people might prefer to read about teeth than horses, for a change. Of course, I am not saying dentifrices are more interesting than livestock in the overall scheme of things—’

  ‘Horses raise the tone of a publication,’ argued L’Estrange. ‘On the other hand, Mr Turner’s dentifrices will make us a laughing stock. Can you imagine what Muddiman will say, when he reads that this concoction acts against impostumes? I do not even know what impostumes are. Do you?’

  ‘Abscesses,’ replied Joanna promptly. ‘Or persons with dubious morals, when used figuratively. Where is Mrs Nott? Not that I think she has dubious morals, of course, but—’

  ‘Proof-reading.’ L’Estrange glanced down the corridor, saw Brome silhouetted in the kitchen, and moved briskly out of his
line of sight to catch Joanna’s hand. He held it to his lips, and treated her to one of his wolfish, gap-toothed grins. She did not seem outraged by the unsolicited gesture, but her smile did not seem overly encouraging, either. Chaloner watched in confusion, wondering what sort of man flirted with his employee’s wife while another woman eagerly awaited his attentions upstairs.

  ‘I had better take these notices to Hodgkinson,’ said Joanna, heading for the coat-cupboard. ‘We do not want The Intelligencer to be printed late again.’

  Chaloner braced himself for discovery, but rescue came from an unexpected quarter. Without taking his eyes off Joanna, L’Estrange reached back and snagged her cloak, tweaking it off the peg and whisking it around her shoulders in a single suave manoeuvre. Surreptitiously, Chaloner eased deeper into the remaining garments, thinking it fortunate that Brome owned so many of them. When Joanna staggered slightly, L’Estrange put both hands on her waist in a move that was unmistakeably intimate.

  ‘Steady,’ he breathed, his mouth close to her ear. ‘We do not want you to fall.’

  It was some time before Chaloner was able to escape, and his mind was full of questions, not just about the significance of the music, but about Brome and Joanna, too. What was the meaning of Hickes’s visit, and had L’Estrange really made a play for Joanna? Chaloner liked her, but failed to see her as someone to be seduced. Then it occurred to him that L’Estrange might not be so fussy. However, he was left with an uncomfortable, sordid feeling about the entire situation, and wished he had not witnessed it.

  He had not gone far when he saw Hickes emerge from a cook-shop with a pie in his hand. Thinking it was a good opportunity to question him about Brome, he moved to intercept the man, but changed his mind at the last minute. He began to follow him instead, finding comfort in the familiar business of trailing someone. He was not sure what he hoped to achieve, but Hickes was moving with purpose, and Chaloner had the sense that it would be helpful to know where he was going. He kept his distance as Hickes trudged along, but he need not have bothered. Hickes was more interested in evading the spray from carts than in making sure he was not being pursued, and tracking him was absurdly easy.

  It was not long before Williamson’s master spy reached the Fleet bridge at Ludgate. Crossing it was easier said than done, though, because the normally sluggish stream had become a raging torrent, and the structure was awash. The water was only calf-deep, but it flowed wickedly fast, and Chaloner saw two men take a tumble, only saved from being swept away by clutching the balustrades. Hickes was too heavy to be toppled, and splashed carelessly through the hazard. Chaloner was more wary; he skidded twice and almost fell, and knew it would not be long before the authorities deemed the bridge too dangerous to keep open. Eventually, Hickes arrived at Muddiman’s office on The Strand, where he took up station opposite, and began to eat his pie. With nothing better to do, Chaloner approached him.

  ‘You should be wary of those things,’ he said in a low voice that made the man jump. ‘I have heard they are not very wholesome.’

  ‘Ellis Crisp’s are not,’ agreed Hickes, regaining his composure quickly. ‘I do not eat my friends – and anyone who opposes the Butcher of Smithfield can consider himself a friend of mine.’

  ‘I know. You are Mr Hickes, ostensibly Clerk of the Letter Office, but actually Williamson’s spy.’

  Hickes grimaced his annoyance. ‘Who told you that? Muddiman? Well, I suppose it does not matter. Are you going to tell me who you are? You fibbed last time. You said you worked for the Earl of Clarendon, but I looked on his payroll and you are not listed.’

  ‘So I have discovered,’ replied Chaloner ruefully. ‘Are Muddiman and Dury in?’

  ‘Muddiman went to Smithfield this morning, but he came back, and the pair of them have been at their writing ever since. Can you see them, sitting at the table?’

  Chaloner wondered whether it was words or music they were poring over so intently. ‘And they have been there all afternoon? Are you sure? You have not gone off on an errand of your own?’

  ‘I have not moved,’ said Hickes firmly. He nodded towards Muddiman’s house. ‘You can ask them if you do not believe me. They look up every so often and wave.’

  ‘Do you know Henry Brome?’ asked Chaloner, bemused by the brazen lie.

  ‘We have never met. Why? Do you want to know when he goes out, so you can visit Joanna? She is a sweet lady, and I might tip a hat at her myself, but Mrs Hickes would not like it.’

  Chaloner supposed he had no idea Mrs Hickes was a member of the Army of Angels, and all that entailed. ‘Do many men visit Joanna, then?’

  ‘No, she is a respectable soul. It was your motives I was questioning. Why do you ask about her husband? Because there must be something suspect about a man who can put up with L’Estrange?’

  ‘Is there something suspect about him?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Does he accept bribes or—’

  ‘I have no idea,’ replied Hickes firmly. ‘I have never met him, as I said.’

  ‘Did you know Hen Finch?’ asked Chaloner, to see if Hickes dissembled about everything.

  ‘You are full of questions today. Why do you want to know about him?’

  ‘Because a man matching your description ransacked his chambers yesterday.’

  Hickes glared at him. ‘It is rude to ask a question if you already know the answer. And I did not ransack his chambers – I was very respectful. Williamson ordered me to take a look around, but I was too late, because someone else was there before me. The thief was after documents.’

  ‘How do you know what he wanted?’

  Hickes regarded him patronisingly. ‘Because Finch was poor. He owned nothing of value, so what other reason could a burglar have had for being there? He was a trumpeter, but I dislike music, personally, except when it is used to heal the sick. Did you know Greeting played his violin to cure the Queen of distemper?’

  ‘I understand Finch and Newburne shared a fondness for music – for pleasure, not medicine.’

  ‘There is a lot of it about,’ said Hickes distastefully. ‘Finch once trumpeted to Maylord’s viol, and Newburne was among the listeners. I was forced to sit through it, too, because Muddiman and Dury were there.’

  Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. Could Hickes be trusted to tell the truth about an association between Maylord and the unsavoury solicitor? Of course, this was really a link between Maylord and Finch, and Newburne had just happened to be there. Yet if Hickes was right, then music was a connection between three men who had been murdered.

  ‘What did Williamson expect you to find in Finch’s room?’ he asked.

  ‘Jewels.’

  ‘Jewels?’ pressed Chaloner, when no further explanation was forthcoming. ‘What sort of jewels?’

  ‘All sorts. Surely, you have heard the rumour that Newburne owned a box of them? Well, Williamson wanted me to see if Finch had it, given that his widow denies all knowledge. Personally, I do not believe it exists, but he told me to look anyway.’

  ‘Is that all? Williamson did not tell you to collect letters? Or music? Or evidence that Finch – with Newburne’s help – might have been selling items of news to L’Estrange’s rivals?’

  Hickes glared at Chaloner and while his attention was taken, Dury slipped out of the house he was supposed to be watching. Hickes did not notice. ‘You have a suspicious mind! If you must know, he also told me to collect anything written, so he could decide whether it was significant. Unfortunately, the thief had got it all, and virtually nothing was left. Williamson was vexed, I can tell you!’

  Chaloner assumed the killer was responsible – he had eaten his pie while Finch had suffered the effects of the deadly lozenges, then he had grabbed all the documents he could find, set the cucumber and fled. Later, after Hickes and Chaloner had been, he had returned to the scene of his crime and removed the pills and any remaining papers – Chaloner doubted Hickes had mounted a very thorough search, and he himself had not had time before he had been interrupted.
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br />   ‘Finch did not die of cucumbers, though,’ said Hickes, somewhat out of the blue. Chaloner raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘I know there was one on a plate near his body, but there were some green tablets, too, and I think they killed him. I saw boxes of Theophilus Buckworth’s Personal Lozenges when Colonel Beauclair and Valentine Pettis perished, you see.’

  Chaloner frowned. ‘You refer to two of the other men who died after eating cucumbers?’

  Hickes nodded. ‘But Beauclair had a box of these lozenges in addition to the cucumber by his bed. I saw both when I inspected his body.’

  ‘What led you to do that?’

  ‘Protocol. Beauclair died in White Hall, and Williamson’s secret service is obliged to look into all deaths that occur there, even natural ones.’

  ‘And Pettis? He was a horse-trader, I believe.’

  ‘He died in Hyde Park, showing off some nags, but because the King happened to be there, his death had to be probed, too. Pettis was allegedly eating cucumber before he died, but he also had a pot of these Personal Lozenges in his pocket. They were wrapped nice, and I thought they might have been given to him as a gift. They made my fingers itch when I picked one up.’

  Chaloner was surprised Hickes had looked past the obvious, when it must have been tempting to opt for the easy solution and put the blame on cucumbers. He saw he would be wise not to underestimate James Hickes, tempting though it was to see him as a dull-witted lout barely capable of following his Spymaster’s instructions. Hickes continued with his explanation.

  ‘My wife eats cucumbers all the time – for wind – but they never harm her. And Pettis and Beauclair were strong, healthy men, so I do not believe a mere cucumber could have felled them. Maylord was also said to have died of cucumbers, although I know for a fact that anything green brought him out in hives. He would never had touched one, not unless someone forced him. It is patently obvious that someone poisoned all these men, although Williamson refuses to believe me.’