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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Firmer measures? You mean such as killing me?’

  ‘It would have saved us a good deal of trouble, although we appreciate your Spanish reports. Why do you refuse to help bring down L’Estrange? Surely you must see his venture cannot run much longer? People are already complaining about the poor quality of his news, and I am offering you an opportunity to back the winning side.’

  ‘I prefer not to work against the government when I can help it. Spymasters have a strange way of regarding such activities as treason.’

  Muddiman smirked, an expression Chaloner found impossible to interpret. ‘My newsletters are better written, more informative and more popular than the rubbish Williamson lets L’Estrange print. You are a fool to throw in your lot with them, when I can make you rich.’

  Wealth would do no one any good if his head was on a pole outside Westminster Hall, Chaloner thought, as he watched the newsmonger slink away with Hickes on his heels. He turned his attention to Hodgkinson’s print-shop, where the crowd had dwindled to a handful of crones. Like the costermongery next to it, water was trickling from under its door.

  ‘It is still in there,’ announced one old lady mysteriously, when he went to stand among them. ‘People do not believe us, but we know what we saw.’

  ‘A body,’ elaborated another. ‘We spotted its feet, but then Mr Hodgkinson came and hauled it inside, so no one else got to see it.’

  ‘It will have to come out eventually, though,’ said the first. ‘And when it does, we will call everyone back. Folk will see we are no Bedlam-toms, seeing things that are not there. We are sane; it is the rest of the world that runs mad.’

  Chaloner entered the shop. The floor was ankle-deep in water, and Hodgkinson, dirty, wet and agitated, was scooping it into buckets. Lying on a bench, covered with a blanket, was indeed a body. Chaloner pulled the cover away, and was shocked to recognise Giles Dury.

  ‘I have had a dreadful morning,’ said Hodgkinson wearily, flopping into a chair and wiping his face with his inky fingers. He looked ready to cry. ‘Both my print-shops are flooded, I had to arrange for The Intelligencer to be published by my nephew – and he is charging me a fortune for the privilege – and then Dury chooses my premises in which to die? I shall be ruined!’

  ‘I imagine Dury is none too thrilled with the situation, either. What happened?’

  ‘You can see the mess I am in, so when L’Estrange, Brome and Joanna came here to discuss the problem with tomorrow’s printing, I suggested we talk in St Bartholomew’s Church instead. I must have forgotten to lock my door, because when I came home, there was Dury – dead on my floor.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘No! I brought all the broken guttering inside after it collapsed last night, to prevent it from being stolen. He must have bumped into it in the dark, causing some to slip and hit him. What shall I do? Those harridans are waiting like vultures, and I cannot carry him out when they are watching. One is sure to start a rumour that I killed him – and I never did!’

  Chaloner inspected the body again. Dury had certainly been hit with something heavy, because his skull was badly crushed. He glanced at the offending guttering, and supposed it might well have caused the damage. Of course, any other weighty implement would have done the same, and there was no way of telling whether there had been an unfortunate accident or something else entirely.

  ‘What was he doing here in the first place?’ he asked.

  ‘He must have come to spy,’ said Hodgkinson. Tears of frustration, self-pity and anger began to flow. ‘He and Muddiman are short of material for their next newsletter, so obviously he came to poke about here, to see what he could find. It was certainly his own fault, but what am I going to do?’

  Hodgkinson was right to be worried, thought Chaloner. People would wonder why one of the newsbooks’ enemies should end up dead on his premises. There was not much he could say to comfort the man, so he settled for advising him to contact the proper authorities before his dallying really did begin to look suspicious. Hodgkinson had made a few half-hearted enquiries, but no one had seen Dury enter his shop. People had remembered L’Estrange, Brome and Joanna arriving – and then leaving moments later for the church – but Dury had apparently taken care to remain invisible.

  Chaloner’s mind teemed with questions as he left the print-shop. Had Dury died in an unfortunate accident, or had someone assisted him into his grave? Hodgkinson, L’Estrange, Joanna and Brome could not have harmed him, because they had all been in the church together. Of course, it was possible to buy anything in London, including the services of assassins, so alibis meant little. Or was the culprit Muddiman, because he and Dury had quarrelled? Or was Williamson taking measures against the success of the newsletters? Chaloner was still weighing up the possibilities when Leybourn accosted him. The surveyor had been waiting for him at the end of Duck Lane.

  ‘I do not recall telling Mary you were in the New Model Army, or about Spain and Portugal,’ he said sheepishly. ‘But I suppose I must have done. Please do not be angry with her for blurting it out.’

  ‘Well, we are even with our wrongful accusations now,’ said Chaloner. ‘Hers almost saw me attacked for being a phanatique, and mine had her in the distasteful role of Newburne’s mistress.’

  ‘Do not worry. I did something that has soothed the hurt of your unkind words: I have made her the sole beneficiary of my will. She will have my house, shop, books and mathematical instruments.’

  Chaloner regarded him in horror. ‘What about your brother? Surely some of that belongs to him?’

  ‘Actually, it is all mine – we share the profits, but that was only ever a temporary arrangement. However, times change and I have a wife to consider now. Rob will not mind.’

  Chaloner suspected Rob would mind very much. With a sick feeling, he recalled Mary’s eagerness for Leybourn to fight L’Estrange: she already wanted him dead. ‘Are you sure that is wise?’ he asked lamely, suppressing the urge to tell Leybourn he was a damned fool.

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Leybourn. ‘You think she wants me for my money, but you are wrong. If she did, she would have left when my sack was stolen. She will do anything for me, even asking you to break the law by stealing me a Gunter’s Quadrant. She is a true friend. Here she is now.’

  Chaloner saw Mary approaching – and L’Estrange walking in the opposite direction with a distinct bounce in his step. He was appalled. Mary would not risk being disinherited for infidelity, so her obvious course of action would be to kill Leybourn before she began wooing her next victim. And as L’Estrange clearly represented a far more lucrative catch, Leybourn’s time was fast running out.

  ‘There you are, William,’ said Mary coolly. ‘Still keeping bad company, I see, despite my advice.’

  ‘He wants to apologise,’ said Leybourn. Chaloner blinked at him. He did not mind apologising to Leybourn, but he was damned if he was going to do it to Mary. ‘Over what he said about Newburne.’

  ‘It is too late. He declared war on me, and I spit on his truce. Come, William. Mr Kirby is waiting for us near Mallard’s Costermongery, and I want to confirm the arrangements for tomorrow’s dinner. He has agreed to tell Mr Crisp what time to come.’

  ‘Near where?’ asked Chaloner sharply. ‘Mallard’s what?’

  ‘I was not talking to you,’ said Mary icily.

  ‘Mallard’s Costermongery,’ supplied Leybourn. ‘You must know it. It sells excellent cubebs.’

  ‘Mallard’s? You mean Maylord’s?’

  ‘The Court musician,’ said Mary impatiently. ‘Some folk called him Maylord, but his cousin – who sold him the shop – referred to himself as Mallard, so that is the name we continue to use. Apparently, Newburne cheated the poor fellow mercilessly. And that is the man you accuse me of seducing! You are a foul-tongued rogue, Heyden, and I hope L’Estrange runs you through one day.’

  Clues were coming faster than Chaloner could process them, so he went to a grubby coffee-shop on Long Lane to think. The stench of b
urning beans, the sewage-laden mud that had been tracked inside, and the ever-present reek of tobacco was so potent that it made him nauseous. He had no money to buy coffee, but he had information. When the proprietor greeted him with ‘What news?’ he offered some in exchange for a hot drink and a quiet table. The owner was regaled with a detailed account of the plague that was raging in Amsterdam, and the Dutch physicians’ prediction that it might soon break loose to afflict other major cities.

  The coffee house was full of talk about the near-flooding of White Hall. One man was arguing the case for moving the royal residence to Hampton Court, to be safe from such disasters, but most customers thought the King should stay where he was. With luck, they said, he would be seized by the Thames and carried back to France where he belonged, and if a few courtiers drowned on the way, then so much the better.

  Chaloner sipped the hot coffee, feeling it sear his empty stomach and turn it to acid. He would not have drunk it at all, had he not been so cold. He thought about his investigation. Maylord had owned a shop that sold cucumbers. Was that significant? Had Maylord learned his wares featured in some peculiar deaths and that was the cause of his agitation? And had the killer then turned on him? Chaloner knew his first step should be to question the people who worked in the costermongery. He abandoned the coffee house and retraced his steps.

  ‘We are closed,’ called Yeo, when Chaloner hammered on the door. ‘Come back—’

  ‘Does Thomas Maylord own this shop?’ demanded Chaloner, forcing his way inside. ‘You said last time I was here that the proprietor was someone at Court.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Yeo, puzzled. ‘Originally, it belonged to Simon Mallard, but he sold it to his cousin, Thomas. Thomas never came here, though. Not once.’

  ‘He had an aversion to greenery. He thought it gave him hives.’

  ‘That is right,’ nodded Yeo. ‘His solicitor, Newburne, handled the business for him, and Mallard received the profits at the end of each quarter-year. After the September payment, Mallard claimed he was being cheated, and that the amount paid to him should have been higher.’

  ‘Was he right?’

  Yeo shrugged, but his expression showed he thought the answer was yes.

  Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. Many questions relating to Maylord were now answered. Newburne had been defrauding him, and during the process of exposing the solicitor’s dishonesty, Maylord had become frightened by something. He had appealed to Chaloner for help when Newburne had been murdered, but two days later he had followed the solicitor to the grave. Then Smegergill had become involved, and he had been killed, too. Yet although Chaloner had a clearer understanding of what had happened, he still had no idea about the identity of the killer.

  When he arrived home, he found a letter had been left for him at the Golden Lion. It was from the linen-draper, Richard Bridges.

  Sir,

  I am compelld to telle the Truth, becaus the lie sitts heavye on my conscience. Annabel Reade was more than cooke-mayde to me; she lived as my Wyfe. When I learnd she was Marryed to Another, we argued and she was gone the next Day with sylver. The constables sett after her, she was tooke to Hange. But Hectors compelld me to buye her Freedome. Synce then they have demanded informations – mostly Gossyp from cofye-howses – and I Feare they use the Intelligences for Theevery. I saile for Tangier tonyght, and there they cannot reach mee, althou you must Watche for my hous and my Servants. Leybourn is a goode man, so save hym.

  Yr servt Richd Bridges.

  That evening, Chaloner sat in his attic trying to make sense of all he had learned. Rain pattered on the roof, which was leaking in several places. He lit a fire with a log he had found on his way home, and attempted to review the new information, but he was so hungry, he could not concentrate. He glanced up and saw three tails dangling off the mantelpiece. Sighing, he drew his knife, supposing that what he had eaten during the wars was good enough for now. He skinned and filleted the rats, then dropped them in a pot with the onion and sage from Dorcus’s garden. There was salt and dried peas in the pantry, so he added them, too, along with the cucumber and the spices he had bought from Yeo.

  While the concoction simmered, he thought about his investigations, although answers continued to elude him, and he was distracted by the notion that Leybourn might be in grave danger. But eventually, a plan began to take shape, and he decided to implement it the following day. He shot to his feet when he heard a noise on the stairs. It sounded like a lone man, coming openly with no effort to disguise his approach. His dagger dropped into his hand when there was a sharp knock.

  ‘Heyden? It is Hickes. I need to talk to you. I came earlier, but you were out.’

  Wondering what Williamson’s best spy could want, Chaloner opened the door warily, and gestured for him to enter. The cat came to sniff at him, and Hickes picked it up, ruffling its fur in a way that made Chaloner relax a little. Hickes would not be fussing over an animal if his intentions were too unfriendly.

  ‘This is nice,’ Hickes said, looking round appreciatively. ‘Cosy.’

  ‘The roof leaks, there are cracks in the walls, and the whole thing might tumble down at any moment,’ Chaloner replied. ‘Apart from that, it is a palace.’

  ‘It is just the rain,’ said Hickes, going to stand by the window, still cradling the cat. ‘It is doing all manner of harm, but when the ground dries, these old buildings will shore themselves up.’

  Chaloner suspected the weather was going to bear the blame for a great many future evils, whether it was guilty or not. He closed the door and went to kneel by the fire. Hickes came to squat next to him, stretching his hands towards the flames. The cat squirmed in a way that said it wanted a lap, so Hickes obligingly arranged himself for its comfort. Chaloner supposed the man would not place himself in such an indefensible position if he intended to launch an attack, and allowed himself to relax his guard a little more.

  ‘I brought some oil for your lamp,’ said Hickes, producing a flask with a genial smile. ‘You so seldom light it, that it is difficult to tell if you are in or not. Shall I fill it for you?’

  ‘Thank you, but there is enough light from the fire. So, you have been watching me, have you? Dury has, too. Did you work together? I cannot see Williamson being pleased with that arrangement.’

  Hickes was shocked by the suggestion. ‘We most certainly did not! I work alone. It is better that way, because then I do not need to worry about who can be trusted.’

  Chaloner could not argue with that premise.

  ‘I do not like L’Estrange,’ said Hickes, somewhat out of the blue. ‘He asked my wife to proof-read his newsbooks, but she can barely write her name, so I cannot imagine what use she is to him. She still helps him twice a week, though.’

  Chaloner was not sure what to say. ‘He seems to employ a lot of women.’

  Hickes was shaking his head. ‘I cannot believe you thought I was working with Muddiman and Dury! They did offer me a bribe to leave them alone, but these things get back to Williamson, and I have no wish to die. You know what he is like when crossed – dangerous, vindictive and persistent.’

  ‘So I have been told. Do you spy on anyone other than Muddiman and Dury? L’Estrange, for example, perhaps by paying one of his colleagues for information?’

  Hickes looked like a deer caught in a bright light. ‘No,’ he blurted, in a way that made it clear the answer was yes. ‘And I do not want to talk about L’Estrange. As I said, I cannot abide the man.’

  Chaloner shrugged. The clumsy denial was an answer in itself. Clearly, Williamson did not trust L’Estrange, either, and Brome was being paid to monitor him. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, thinking that all the intrigue and scandal in the foreign courts he had visited had nothing on London.

  ‘That smells good,’ said Hickes, indicating the cooking pot with a flick of his thumb. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Rat stew. Would you like some?’

  Hickes laughed; he thought Chaloner was joking. ‘If you have enough.’<
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  It felt almost companionable, eating with someone by the fire while the weather raged outside. The stew tasted better than Chaloner remembered, and he supposed the spices made the difference. When they had finished, Hickes pulled a pipe from his pocket and began to tamp it with tobacco. Chaloner fetched his viol, feeling like music now he was full. Hickes grimaced in disapproval when he began to play, but listened quietly, cat in his lap, and it was some time before he spoke.

  ‘Did you know Dury is dead?’ he asked.

  Chaloner nodded. ‘Killed by guttering.’

  Hickes seemed about to spit in disgust, but remembered where he was and settled for making a hawking sound instead. ‘He took a blow to the head, but I saw his neck before they took the body to the church. His collar had been arranged just so, but I noticed the bruises at the sides of his neck. Someone took his throat in their hands and squeezed. Would you like me to demonstrate?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Chaloner was surprised – yet again – that Hickes had thought to look beyond the obvious, especially as it had not occurred to him to do so. He stopped playing, better to concentrate, because he was disgusted with himself for his negligence. ‘Why did you inspect the body?’

  ‘Because he died on my watch. Williamson thinks I was careless, and has ordered me to find out what happened – although it is unfair of him to expect me to watch Dury and Muddiman at the same time. So, I looked at the body, although I cannot imagine how I will prove whether L’Estrange or Hodgkinson is the guilty party.’

  ‘What makes you think it is either of them?’

  ‘Because they are the ones with motives. L’Estrange wants to get back at Muddiman for being a better newsman. And Hodgkinson is a printer, so hates men who handwrite their news. It is obvious.’

  It was not obvious at all, and Chaloner thought Hickes was an odd man – thorough and dogged on one hand, but apt to draw false conclusions on the other. ‘L’Estrange and Hodgkinson were doing business with Brome and Joanna when Dury died. Thus they have alibis in each other, although that does not mean they did not hire someone to do their dirty work. Is this why you came to see me? To tell me your suspicions about Dury’s death?’