‘You have told him your theory?’
‘He just laughed at me,’ said Hickes resentfully. ‘He said it was the sort of rubbish he would expect from a man whose salary amounts to less than ten pounds a year.’
‘You should have demanded an increase, then, so he will take you more seriously in the future.’
Hickes chuckled. ‘I wish I had thought of that. Mrs Hickes has been on at me to get a rise, because she wants to buy herself some new clothes. She likes dressing up and going out.’
Chaloner was sure she did, especially if it involved a trip to the newsbook offices. He took his leave of Hickes, walking briskly to catch up with Dury. He followed him to the Rainbow Coffee House on Fleet Street, where Dury chose a table in the window. Within moments, he was joined by someone who was already inside. It was long-nosed Ireton, the Hector with the penchant for attacking people in dark churchyards. Chaloner watched them talk together until hunger and weariness drove him home.
Chapter 9
Time was running out for Chaloner, but he had reached a dead end with Newburne’s death. He smiled wryly as he sat in his room with the cat for company. He had never particularly liked working for the Earl, but now there was a very real danger of dismissal, he was determined to make sure it did not happen. It was a ridiculous situation, and he wished Cromwell had not died, the Commonwealth had not collapsed, Thurloe was still Spymaster, and he was still a regularly paid intelligence officer working overseas. His life had been a good deal less complicated – and less impoverished – when he had been under Thurloe’s orders.
He dragged his mind away from his own predicament, and began to consider his investigations, beginning with Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges. The advertisement in The Intelligencer meant a lot of them were being sold, so it was clear they were not all deadly. Ergo, someone had devised a way of doctoring them, and chose who they would kill – namely Newburne, Finch, Colonel Beauclair and Valentine Pettis. And perhaps others, too, whose names Chaloner did not know. Then cucumbers were left at the scene of the crime, and rumour allowed to take over. Yet there had been a cucumber with Maylord’s body, too, although Chaloner knew for a fact that he had not been poisoned. Did that mean there were two killers? Or was Maylord smothered because he refused to eat the green pills? Several people had mentioned Maylord’s aversion to green food.
Chaloner reviewed the victims in more detail. Beauclair was an equerry in His Majesty’s Horse, and Pettis had been a horse-dealer. Maylord had owned a racing horse. Newburne had no equine connection, as far Chaloner he knew, and Finch had been too poor to dabble in the exclusive world of expensive nags. And the two sedan-chairmen had connections to cucumbers, but not to horses. He wracked his brain for a clearer connection, but gave up when no answers were forthcoming.
Restlessly, he went to his viol and began to play. Of course, there was also a musical connection between some of the victims and suspects. Finch had been trumpeting one of the tuneless compositions when he had died. Maylord had kept a bundle of them in his chimney. Greeting thought Smegergill and Maylord had been commissioned to perform peculiar music for Crisp. L’Estrange had insisted that Chaloner, Brome and Joanna play one of the pieces, so he could hear how it sounded. Newburne had shared an interest in music with Finch and Maylord, although Dorcus Newburne had denied that her husband had owned an acquaintance with the violist.
When he heard the night-watch shout that it was ten o’clock on a cold, wet night, Chaloner stood and stretched. He had no desire to go out, but Leybourn was his friend, and it was his duty to protect him from Mary. Thus he had to acquire the surveyor’s hidden money before it was either stolen or she demanded so many gifts that it dwindled to nothing. Chaloner was sure she would leave Leybourn the moment his fortune was gone, and a timely burglary might encourage her to relinquish her prey sooner rather than later. He recalled Joanna’s offer to help him prise Mary away from Leybourn, and smiled. He was sure breaking and entering was not what she had in mind, but equally sure her affection for Leybourn would compel her to rise to the challenge – or try to rise, at any rate. He doubted she would be much of an asset, though, and he had always preferred working alone.
The cat unearthed something from a dark corner and began to eat, which reminded him of the rat on the mantelpiece. Unfortunately, his landlord was saying goodbye to a friend on the doorstep below, and Chaloner could not lob the thing out of the window as long as they were there; nor did he fancy carrying it downstairs in his hand, so it stayed where it was. He donned dark, shabby clothes and Isabella’s hat, then walked down the stairs, letting himself out through the back door to avoid questions from Ellis.
He padded through the sodden streets, sure London could not absorb much more rain, and wishing it would stop. The Ludgate bridge was closed, so he was obliged to use the Holborn crossing over the Fleet instead. The diversion meant he would have to approach Cripplegate via the edge of Smithfield, but he was not overly concerned. His scruffy attire would render him an unattractive target for Hectors, and as long as he stayed out of trouble, he would not be recognised – either as the man who had humiliated Kirby that day, or as the ‘musician’ they thought they had been paid to kill the previous Sunday.
Smithfield never slept. The legal meat trade started very early in the morning, which meant some butchers began work in the middle of the night. Already, apprentices were cleaning and scrubbing by the flickering light of lamps. And for other businesses, the hours of darkness were their prime time. Taverns, bowling alleys, brothels and gambling dens were in full swing, while prostitutes flaunted their wares and sly men emerged from nowhere to sell blankets, wine, and their sisters – and brothers – at suspiciously low prices.
There was a large canvas-rigged structure near Duck Lane, and Chaloner could tell from the bouncing shadows within that it was full of people. He slipped inside, curious to know what had attracted such a huge audience. It was crammed to the gills with men, all swaggering and cheering. Among them were greasy-headed whores, revealing rotten teeth in boisterous laughter. The atmosphere was moist and warm, thick with the stench of sweat, cheap perfume and tobacco. Money was changing hands around a bloody little arena, and two proud birds were killing each other in a flurry of feathers and claws. Chaloner left in disgust; he had never understood the appeal of cock-fighting. He was almost outside, when he spotted a familiar dark-cloaked figure surrounded by Hectors. Crisp was evidently not so squeamish, and was settling himself down to enjoy the spectacle.
The city gates were always closed at night, but Chaloner needed to go through Aldersgate in order to reach Monkwell Street. He was just debating whether to charm his way past the guards or scale the famously ruinous wall to the north, when two burly figures moved out of the shadows to intercept him. The scene was illuminated by a lamp that hung from the gate itself, a flickering, unsteady light that swayed in the breeze. Of the official guards there was no sign.
‘Friend or foe?’ asked the larger of the pair. Chaloner recognised him immediately, although he hoped it was not mutual. It was Fingerless, the third member of the trio that included Kirby and Ireton. His left hand was still bandaged, and it was tucked inside his coat.
‘They are all friends at this time of night, Treen,’ quipped his crony with a snigger.
Treen, thought Chaloner, coldly dispassionate. Now he had all their names, and they would pay the price for what they had done to Smegergill, no matter how vehemently they denied harming him.
‘Anyone who gives us sixpence is a friend,’ laughed Treen. ‘Of course, anyone who refuses is a foe, but no one is that stupid.’
Chaloner wished he had given Smithfield a wider berth, because he did not want to enjoin a skirmish that would draw attention to himself – especially on an empty stomach and when he was already tired. If he had had sixpence, he would have handed it over, just to be rid of the nuisance Treen represented.
‘You do not want trouble with me,’ he said quietly. ‘Stand aside.’
His vo
ice carried enough conviction that Treen’s friend did as he was told, melting away as though he had never been there. Unfortunately, Treen had been a bully far too long, and could not tell when it was wiser to step away. Fury crossed his face and he drew his sword.
Chaloner sighed and did likewise. ‘You will regret this,’ he warned.
‘No,’ came another voice, this one sibilant and more educated than Treen’s. ‘You will regret it, because I know who you are. You are the villain who murdered Smegergill.’
Ireton’s nose was visible even in the dim light, and so was the sword he carried with the easy grace of the seasoned warrior. Uneasily, Chaloner peered into the shadows, hoping there were not more Hectors lurking there. While he was more than a match for Treen, being outnumbered by skilled swordsmen like Ireton was a different proposition entirely.
Treen turned towards his friend in astonishment. ‘He is the murderer? Are you sure?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Ireton. ‘I recognise his hat. And if you want more proof, look at his chin, at the bruise where my stone struck it. You should learn to be more observant, Treen.’
Treen shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Kirby and I did not waste time inspecting hats, because we were hunting for documents, like we were told. And then he almost severed my finger. He will pay for that – but not tonight. First, the Butcher will want to ask why he killed Smegergill, and then Kirby will want to talk to him about a certain rough interview that was conducted earlier today.’
Ireton shook his head firmly. ‘He dies now, by my hand. I do not approve of men who murder harmless old musicians.’ He began to advance, and Chaloner prepared to defend himself.
‘Wait!’ snapped Treen, rashly making a grab for Ireton’s sword arm. ‘Crisp will be furious if you kill him before he is interrogated. And if you cannot see that annoying the Butcher is unwise, then you should go back to strumming your lute and leave this sort of business to me.’
Ireton’s expression was dangerous. ‘How dare you countermand me! You are just a lout, a hireling Crisp uses for his dirty work. And you cannot even do that properly! If you had killed this man on Sunday, as you were ordered, we would not be in this situation now.’
They began to quarrel, leaving Chaloner somewhat nonplussed. He took a few steps away, aiming to leave while they were preoccupied. But Ireton saw what he was doing and came at him in a rush of flailing steel. The Hector was good, better than Chaloner had anticipated, and he saw they were fairly evenly matched. Then Treen lumbered forward and tried to pull Ireton away. Ireton’s expression was murderous, and Chaloner half expected him to skewer his comrade there and then.
‘Drop your weapons,’ came a voice that was far from steady. A figure stepped out of the shadows by the gate, holding a large, old-fashioned gun. It trembled in his hand. ‘Do it now, or I will kill you.’
Treen needed no second warning. His sword clattered to the ground, and he slunk away quickly, apparently one of those men who appreciated the deadly power of firearms, even ancient ones gripped by hands that shook. Ireton was not so easily intimidated, however, and his temper was up.
‘Go on, then,’ he sneered. ‘Shoot me.’
Chaloner felt Ireton’s assessment of the situation was accurate: the gunman was far too frightened to pull the trigger. Thus, when the still night air was shattered by a booming crack, it took everyone by surprise.
Chaloner leapt forward to disarm the astonished Ireton, who aimed a quick punch that forced the spy to duck, then tore away when he was off balance. Chaloner did not care, and made no attempt to stop him. When the running footsteps had been swallowed by the night, he turned to face his rescuer.
‘Christ!’ breathed Greeting unsteadily. He flopped down on a nearby wall, dag dangling limply from his fingers. ‘All I did was twitch and the damned thing went off. Did I hit anyone?’
Chaloner shook his head. ‘You can come out now, Hodgkinson. They have gone.’
The printer emerged cautiously from behind a water butt. He clutched a scarf, and had evidently intended to disguise himself before joining the affray. Greeting held a similar garment, but had forgotten to put it on. Amateurs, thought Chaloner in some disgust.
‘How did you know I was there?’ asked Hodgkinson uncomfortably.
‘I saw you.’ Chaloner pulled the shocked Greeting to his feet. ‘We cannot stay here. They will be back with reinforcements, because they will not appreciate you making fools of them. Come with me.’
He led the way to the crumbling section of the old city wall, although both printer and musician complained that it was too difficult a climb and made heavy work of the exercise. Eventually, he managed to pull, cajole and threaten them over the top, then took them to the churchyard of St Giles Cripplegate, where they hid among the trees until he was sure they were safe.
‘You have some very odd skills,’ grumbled Greeting. ‘Bandying swords with felons, scaling walls, knowing your way around dark cemeteries. Is this where part-time spying for the Lord Chancellor leads? What are you doing here at this time of night, anyway? I thought you lived on Fetter Lane.’
‘I could ask you the same question,’ said Chaloner, still alert for any sign of pursuit.
‘Hodgkinson owns a print-shop on Duck Lane and I rent the attic above it. We live here – you do not. And what were you thinking of, taking on Hectors? Are you insane?’
‘Are you insane?’ countered Chaloner. ‘I cannot see Hectors being very happy about heavy-fingered gunmen taking up residence in their domain, either.’
‘He is right,’ said Hodgkinson sternly to the agitated musician. ‘I told you to point it and wait for me to sneak up behind them, not merrily blast away at whatever took your fancy. The sound of a gun discharging might have brought the entire gang down on us.’
Chaloner regarded them uncertainly, not sure what to make of their timely appearance. ‘You are working together?’
‘Williamson wants to know what really happened to Smegergill – he investigates all White Hall deaths.’ Greeting was shaking almost uncontrollably now the danger was over. ‘So he told me to come to the place where he was murdered, to see what kind of villains lurk. He believes such men are creatures of habit, and rarely stray far from the scenes of their crimes. I think he normally hires Hectors for this sort of thing, but as one of them might be the killer, he ordered me here instead.’
‘It is brave of you to do it, though,’ said Chaloner, thinking the man was a fool to accept such a commission when his ability to protect himself was dubious, to say the least.
Greeting seemed close to tears. ‘I had no choice! He said my consort would never play again if I did not do as he asked. If I had known that offering my services once would amount to me selling my soul, I would never have done it. I am not cut out for this sort of thing. I am an artist, not some lout who wanders around in filthy clothing and knows how to fight and climb walls.’
‘And you?’ Chaloner asked Hodgkinson, overlooking the insult on the grounds that Greeting probably did not realise what he had said. ‘Are you blackmailed into helping Williamson, too?’
‘Greeting and I are friends – I publish his music, and he rents my attic. When he told me what he had been compelled to do, I offered to help, because I did not think he should do it alone.’
‘Luckily for you, Heyden,’ added Greeting shakily. ‘I am no Sir Galahad, and would never have tackled Ireton and his friends had Hodgkinson not told me what to do.’
‘Why did you risk yourselves?’ asked Chaloner, declining to mention that he had never been in any real danger. Ireton had represented a challenge, but not with Treen getting in the way and grabbing his arms. And unfortunately for Greeting and Hodgkinson, their act of bravado was likely to have grave consequences for their future in the area.
‘Because Treen said you were the man who attacked Kirby today,’ replied Hodgkinson sheepishly. ‘That makes you a hero to anyone who resents the Hectors and their safety taxes, and we wanted to save you from them. However, our rescu
e did not go quite as planned. Greeting forgot to put on his mask, and then he fired his dag before I was in position.’
‘Mask?’ Greeting looked at the material in his hand, then groaned. ‘Oh, Christ! That means they saw my face! What have I done? Damn Williamson and his unreasonable demands! And damn you, too, Heyden. I told Hodgkinson we should not interfere, regardless of your courage in pressing a knife to Kirby’s throat. And speaking of murderous attacks, Ireton seemed to think you might know more about Smegergill’s demise than you have led me to believe. Is it true?’
‘I did not kill Smegergill,’ said Chaloner quietly.
‘So you have said before. However, you were with him when he was attacked, because Ireton recognised you, and he is not stupid. And you do match the description given by the witnesses.’
‘Heyden is not the killer,’ said Hodgkinson with considerable conviction. Greeting looked at him in surprise, and so did Chaloner. The printer hastened to explain himself. ‘Whoever killed Smegergill also stole his ring, and Heyden is no thief. He found a valuable pen this morning – he could have kept it, but he returned it to me without a moment’s hesitation. A man who kills for money does not blithely relinquish a silver Fountain Inkhorn.’
Chaloner sincerely hoped they would not ask to see the contents of his pockets, because Smegergill’s ring was in one of them. ‘I was with Smegergill that night,’ he admitted. ‘And I failed to protect him, to my eternal shame.’
Greeting nodded his satisfaction. ‘I knew you were involved somehow. But if you say you did not harm Smegergill, then I shall believe you. Maylord always said nice things about you, and that is good enough for me. How much longer do we have to stay here? I am wet through and want to go home.’
‘You cannot go home,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘You do not have anything to tell Williamson yet – other than that Treen and his cronies charge an unofficial toll for using Aldersgate, and he probably knows that already. You will have to go back, and see who else comes crawling along.’
The Butcher Of Smithfield: Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 3) Page 28
