Chaloner was still unconvinced, but he pressed on. ‘If the victims advertise in The Newes or The Intelligencer, their property is often returned. L’Estrange has five shillings for every notice printed, and perhaps even a share of the reward when the thieves restore the horses to their rightful owners.’
Muddiman laughed humourlessly. ‘He gains from the paid advertisements, but I doubt he knows about the music. He plays it from time to time, but I suspect its real meaning has eluded him.’
Chaloner was not so sure. ‘You have a tendency to underestimate him, because of his campaign against phantom phanatiques, but that is a mistake. Even if he does not understand how the music relays messages to thieves, he knows the meaning of an increased demand for newsbook notices.’
Muddiman gazed at him. ‘Are you saying these thefts benefit him, by encouraging people to buy his newsbooks? The advertisements actually improve circulation?’
‘That is exactly what I am saying. Victims have their property returned after buying these notices. They discuss it in the coffee houses. More horses are stolen, and more notices bought. More people purchase the newsbooks to see which of their friends have lost animals – or had them recovered. And once the newsbook is bought, people read the other stories, too. It is about gaining hearts and minds.’
Muddiman shrugged. ‘You may be right, although L’Estrange still has a problem in that people take his “news” with a pinch of salt. If he limited himself to writing reports, rather than indulging in rants, his publications might be a threat to me. But they are not, not as they stand.’
‘Do you know how Dury died? Hickes thinks Hodgkinson did it.’
‘When I saw Hickes examine Dury’s body, I waited until he had gone and went to do the same. I saw the bruises on his throat, so I know he was strangled. But they were bruises, not dirty marks.’
Chaloner understood what he was saying. ‘Hodgkinson’s hands are always inky, and he would have left traces of dye on Dury’s neck. But if Hodgkinson is not guilty, then who is?’
‘L’Estrange?’ asked Muddiman with a shrug. ‘Not Hickes – he would not have inspected Giles’s neck, if he had been responsible. Crisp? After all, Dury did die in Smithfield. Wenum, perhaps.’
‘Wenum is Newburne.’
‘I doubt it, as I have told you already. I appreciate it is odd that Nobert Wenum should happen to spell Tom Newburne, but perhaps it was Wenum’s private joke.’
Chaloner was not sure about anything connected with Wenum. ‘Then who is he? He abandoned his room about the same time that Newburne died. And you told me he drowned in the Thames.’
‘But his body was never recovered, was it? Maybe he realised the stakes were being raised, and ran while he could. Spying is a dangerous business, as I am sure you know all too well.’
The streets were so badly flooded that it was difficult for Chaloner to move very fast through them. Many were solid sheets of water, under the surface of which lurked potholes and other hazards. The continued rain made no difference to his clothes: he could not have been more wet had he jumped in the river. Everyone was the same, and he could even hear some houses groaning, as if their waterlogged timbers were beginning to buckle. Then people started to yell the news that a roof had collapsed in Canning Street, and three people had been crushed to death.
When Chaloner arrived at Ivy Lane, L’Estrange was not there. Brome and Joanna, removing hats and coats after Sunday church, said he had gone out but added that he had declined to say where. Brome ventured the opinion that his errand had almost certainly not been religious, and that one of the Angels was probably involved. Chaloner had been ready for a confrontation, and L’Estrange’s absence was an anticlimax. He experienced an overwhelming weariness, his sleepless night beginning to catch up with him.
‘Then I should speak to Hodgkinson. It is urgent.’
‘He is not here, either,’ said Brome. ‘I have not seen him today, but that is not unusual for a Sunday. Can we help?’
‘You are soaking,’ said Joanna kindly. ‘Come and sit in the pantry and take some hot wine.’
Chaloner was loath to lose yet more time, but he did not know where else to go for answers. He accepted the wine, burning his mouth when he tried to drink it too soon. He felt like dashing the cup against the wall in frustration, because everything seemed to be taking too long, even wine to cool.
‘Do you know who writes that discordant racket for L’Estrange?’ he asked, trying to calm himself. ‘The stuff we tried to play on Friday?’
‘I do not think he commissions it,’ said Joanna, seeming to sense his brewing agitation, and speaking softly to soothe him. ‘And it is not delivered, as far as we know; he just acquires it. Henry believes it is some kind of code, and that he is communicating with someone.’
Chaloner regarded Brome sharply. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because the tunes are not real music,’ explained Brome. ‘The harmonies are wrong, and there are too many flats and sharps. He obtains information for his newsbooks from so many sources, that I have wondered whether these airs contain snippets of foreign intelligence, sent to him by spies.’
‘I disagree, though,’ said Joanna. ‘I believe it is just bad music. What do you think, Mr Heyden?’
‘That I prefer more traditional melodies,’ replied Chaloner noncommittally.
‘Well, I do not really want to know how L’Estrange gathers his news,’ said Brome with a shudder. ‘It is bound to be distasteful, and all I want is a quiet life with Joanna.’
Chaloner was afraid he was not going to have it. He disliked upsetting a man who had been friendly and hospitable towards him, but he needed to know for certain that Hickes had told the truth about Brome being in the Spymaster’s pay. He took a deep breath and launched into an attack.
‘I understand you spy on L’Estrange for Williamson,’ he began baldly.
Joanna’s sweet face crumpled into a mask of dismay, and the cup she had been holding clattered to the floor. ‘How dare you say such a thing! We have never—’
Brome silenced her by laying a hand on her shoulder. ‘Do not try to mislead him, dearest. It will only make matters worse, and if someone at White Hall has been indiscreet, then the safest course of action now is for us to tell the truth. Do not forget that Heyden is the Lord Chancellor’s man – and we cannot afford to be on the wrong side of another powerful member of government.’
‘No,’ said Joanna, regarding Chaloner with a stricken expression that cut him to the core. ‘I will not forget that. Not again.’ She turned and buried her face in her husband’s shoulder.
Brome’s voice shook slightly. ‘I had no choice but to do what Williamson asked, because he discovered something about me that I would rather was kept quiet.’
‘You wrote seditious pamphlets,’ said Chaloner.
Joanna’s head jerked up, eyes brimming with tears. ‘He wrote a pamphlet, when he was fifteen. It praised the Commonwealth when Cromwell was Protector, so was regarded as patriotic at the time. But now it is treason. It is unfair! Who did not do things then that he would never consider now?’
‘Who told you about the pamphlet?’ asked Brome hoarsely. ‘Surely not Williamson? He gave me his word that he would say nothing if I did as he asked.’
Joanna stood suddenly, and grabbed a poker from the fire. Her hands shook so badly that she was in danger of dropping it. ‘It does not matter who told him, but we cannot let him tell anyone else. The government will say we are phanatiques. They will seize our shop and we will be disgraced, ruined.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Brome uneasily. ‘Dash out his brains? In our sitting room?’
Tears slid so fast down Joanna’s cheeks that Chaloner imagined she was all but blinded. ‘I will not let him destroy you. I will not! They can hang me for murder, but I will protect you with all I have.’
‘Joanna, please,’ said Brome, making an unsteady lunge towards her. Joanna raised the weapon and he flinched backwards, stumbling into Ch
aloner. ‘This is not helping.’
Joanna aimed a blow at Chaloner, but he evaded it with ease, and grabbed the iron when she was off balance. She tried to resist, but it was not many moments before the poker was back in the hearth.
‘I doubt anyone will care about a pamphlet published so long ago,’ said Chaloner gently, helping Joanna into a chair. She was shaking violently and sobbing as if her heart would break. ‘Williamson has played on your fears – terrorised you into thinking he has uncovered a darker secret than is the case.’
Brome gazed miserably at him, and when he spoke, his voice was low with shame. ‘I penned a sentence that mocked the old king’s beard, and Williamson said I would hang if he ever had cause to show it to anyone at Court.’
It was Chaloner’s turn to stare. ‘He said that was seditious?’
Brome nodded, red with mortification. ‘I did not mean it. The King’s father had a very nice beard, and I imagine I was jealous of it at the time, because I did not have one.’
Chaloner rubbed his head, wondering how the Spymaster could sleep at night when he took advantage of such easy prey. ‘How did Williamson find out about it in the first place?’
Joanna was still crying, great shuddering sobs that wracked her body. Brome knelt next to her and held her tightly. ‘I believe someone sent it to him for malice, but I do not know who.’
Chaloner had his suspicions. ‘Muddiman. Or Dury. They produced the Commonwealth’s newsbooks, and probably have a fine collection of Parliamentarian literature between them.’
‘Muddiman has an excellent memory,’ conceded Brome slowly. ‘He must have recalled me writing something and looked it up. But why would he do such a spiteful thing?’
‘To sow the seeds of discord between L’Estrange and his assistant,’ explained Chaloner. ‘A weakened L’Estrange is a good thing for him.’
‘Oh, God!’ said Brome shakily. ‘Of course! I should have seen it weeks ago. I do not think I am cut out for this sort of subterfuge.’
Chaloner was sure of it. ‘So what have you told Williamson about L’Estrange?’
‘Nothing!’ cried Brome. ‘Because there is nothing to tell. Believe me, I would have uncovered something if it was there to find, given the pressure Williamson puts me under. L’Estrange is cantankerous, greedy, irritable and not always scrupulously honest with money, but these are minor faults, and he does nothing brazenly illegal.’
‘He is a rake,’ said Joanna. Her eyes had swollen from tears, and she gripped Brome’s coat so hard that her knuckles were white. ‘Mean and selfish. And likes to seduce other men’s wives.’
‘He has been after Joanna for ages,’ added Brome.
She gave him a wan smile, then turned back to Chaloner. ‘What will you do now? Inform L’Estrange what we have been doing? Or tell the Earl how I almost killed his spy with a poker?’
Chaloner was amused that she thought she had posed a danger to him. ‘It takes a ruthless, resilient kind of person to succeed in the news business. Perhaps you should revert to plain bookselling. But do not worry about L’Estrange. He will not learn what you have been doing from me.’
‘You are kind,’ sniffed Joanna. ‘And I shall tell you a secret in return. When L’Estrange refused to tell us where he was going, I set my maid to follow him. He went to Monkwell Street. I suspect Mary Cade is already priming her next victim, so it will not be long before she relinquishes her hold over William. It is good news.’
Chaloner did not think so; he was appalled. ‘She needs Will dead first, to inherit his property.’
Joanna’s jaw dropped. ‘Then we must make sure she does not succeed. I shall visit him at once—’
‘No,’ said Chaloner sharply, suspecting she would get herself hurt if she tried to interfere with Mary. ‘Leave them to me.’
‘We are not cowards,’ said Brome with quiet dignity. ‘We are not afraid to go to his rescue.’
‘I know,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘But trying to reason with him will do no good, and might even make the situation worse. We must devise another way to foil her.’
‘How?’ demanded Brome. ‘Will you let us help?’
Chaloner nodded, but had no intention of doing so. They would be a liability, and he could not look after them and Leybourn at the same time. He wished they would just leave London while they were still relatively unscathed. Joanna accepted his acquiescence without demur, and he saw it had not occurred to her that he might lie. She really was too innocent for her own good.
‘Very well,’ she said, ‘but I insist you borrow my gun.’
‘Your gun?’ Chaloner was not sure he had heard her properly.
‘It belonged to my father.’ She went to a chest and removed a small dag. The firing pin was broken, so it would not work, but Chaloner took it anyway, loath to hurt her feelings by refusing. ‘It is loaded. Well, I think it is loaded, but I am not really sure how it works, so …’
She trailed off helplessly, and Chaloner checked it was not before he tucked it in his belt. ‘I had better see if I can find L’Estrange.’
‘Then be careful,’ said Joanna, following him to the door. ‘And do not forget to tell us when you require help with Mary.’
‘Please do as she says,’ said Brome softly. ‘You need someone you can trust in this wicked city.’
Chaloner left the bookshop despising Williamson for dragging the Bromes into the murky world of espionage, especially on such a flimsy pretext. He found himself wanting to avenge them somehow, and hoped with all his heart that he would uncover evidence to prove the Spymaster did indeed hire Hectors for his dirty work. If so, then Chaloner would do all he could to see it included in Muddiman’s newsletters, with a view to creating a scandal that would see Williamson disgraced and dismissed. He set off towards Monkwell Street, but had taken no more than two or three steps before he heard his name being called. It was Nott the bookseller, whose premises were opposite.
‘Thurloe asked me to identify the owner of that Galen,’ he said when Chaloner went reluctantly to see what he wanted. ‘He said when I had my answer, I was to tell either him or you. I just happened to spot you coming from Brome’s house, and I thought—’
‘You know who bought it?’ interrupted Chaloner impatiently.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Nott. ‘Its binding makes it unique, you see, because it is—’
‘Who?’
Nott told him, and Chaloner felt the situation become more urgent than ever.
‘And there is something else,’ the bookseller burbled on. ‘Jonas Kirby was here earlier. He knows you and I are acquainted, because he asked me to give you a message.’
He handed Chaloner a folded piece of paper. When the spy opened it, all it contained was a crude drawing of a cat with a gibbet beneath it.
Daylight was fading by the time Chaloner reached Leybourn’s house. Door and windows were closed, and Leybourn’s colleague Allestry was loitering outside. Allestry was peeved because the surveyor had shut shop early after making an appointment with him. He had struggled all the way from St Paul’s in the teeming rain, and now would have to walk all the way home again for nothing. Concerned, Chaloner went to see Leybourn’s brother.
‘I have not seen him all day,’ said Rob. ‘Did you know he changed his will? I could not believe it! Mary says she will look after my family, but I do not trust her. I wish I could expose her as the lying cheat she is, but Kirby came to see me this morning, and said that if I did anything to malign her, he will hurt my children. She has won this war, Tom. We cannot fight her sort of battle.’
Chaloner thought about his missing cat. ‘They think they can intimidate us by striking at the things we hold dear. But they are in for a shock – I do not like bullies.’
Rob was alarmed. ‘There are too many of them to take on, and while I appreciate your loyalty to Will, there is no point in squandering your life. Do you know who is due to dine with him today? Ellis Crisp! Go home, Tom, and try not to think about it.’
‘The Butcher
of Smithfield,’ mused Chaloner. ‘I have been wanting to meet him for some time.’
The wind drowned any sound Chaloner might have made as he climbed up the back of Leybourn’s house and let himself in through an upstairs window. The door to the main bedchamber was closed, and when Chaloner opened it, something furry emerged to rub around his legs. He smiled, and spent a moment petting his cat, allowing it to purr and knead his shoulder with its claws. He wondered how Mary had explained its presence to Leybourn. It objected when he shut it in the bedroom again, but he could not risk it tripping him when he was trying to move stealthily, and it was safer where it was.
He crept downstairs, hearing voices raised in laughter. He smiled grimly: he had known someone was in, despite the air of abandonment outside. The reek of tobacco wafted towards him, along with the scent of new bread and roasting meat. He reached the bottom of the steps and peered through a gap in one of the door panels.
Leybourn was sitting at the head of his table, and Mary was at the foot. Between them were a number of familiar faces, including Kirby and Treen, both in their finest clothes. The Hectors were clearly on their best behaviour, but even so, their lack of manners showed in the clumsy way they used their silver table forks. Long-nosed Ireton was watching them with amused disdain. Next to Leybourn was a man Chaloner did not know. He was huge, with a heavy, brooding face and eyes so deeply set they were almost invisible. On Leybourn’s other side was a tiny fellow with a red face and pale eyes, like a pheasant. Prominent on the table was a dish of cucumbers and a huge pie. Chaloner supposed the latter had been furnished by the Butcher of Smithfield, and wondered whether it contained anyone he knew. Mary picked up the cucumbers.
‘Try one of these, William,’ she said. ‘They are delicious.’
‘No, thank you.’ Leybourn’s voice was strained, and Chaloner was under the impression he was not enjoying the party. ‘Galen says cucumbers are bad for the digestion.’
The Butcher Of Smithfield: Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 3) Page 38
