Chaloner suspected Hodgkinson had a different plan in mind, and he saw neither he nor Brome were going to be allowed to leave Thames Street alive. The printer’s crimes were simply too great to allow witnesses to live.
‘Stop!’
A dark shadow streaked from Leybourn’s arms as he struggled to draw his sword. There was a deafening bang, and something grazed Chaloner’s hat as he threw himself to the floor. He said yet another silent prayer of thanks for Isabella’s gift. A second boom followed the first. Water surged into his ears, and spray was everywhere. Then all was silent.
* * *
Cautiously, Chaloner clambered to his feet and saw Hodgkinson floating face-down and unmoving in the water. Brome stood with his gun dangling from his fingers, while Leybourn, alarmed by the sudden discharge of deadly weapons, had raced back outside, and was taking shelter in the street.
‘What have I done?’ whispered Brome, appalled. ‘Oh, God, what have I done?’
Chaloner spat foul water from his mouth. ‘It was not your fault. Hodgkinson—’
But Brome was full of anguish. ‘It was my fault! I took his life with this …’ Repelled, he flung the dag away from him, and stood wiping his hand on his coat, as if trying to clean it. When he next spoke, his voice was flat and expressionless. ‘I will take Newburne’s jewels to L’Estrange and ask him to return them to their rightful owners. Catching whoever tried to steal them from his cellar seems unimportant now. Why did you come here, if it was not for the treasure?’
‘To find evidence of Hodgkinson’s guilt.’ Chaloner did not explain that he had had the printer in his sights as the Butcher of Smithfield. ‘Why take the jewels to L’Estrange? You of all people know he is not always honest.’
Brome shrugged. ‘He is my master, and ethical in his own way. If I ask him to track down the victims of Newburne the phanatique, he will do it with all the fervour of an avenging angel. He is the best man for the task, other than perhaps your Earl. Unfortunately, though, Clarendon is on the other side of a flooded river.’
Chaloner gestured around the dark print-house. ‘Why did you come here tonight?’
‘Because Hodgkinson sent for me, and he was my friend.’ Brome’s voice trembled as he looked at the printer’s body. ‘I see I was wrong, and his betrayal emphasises the fact that I have no place here in London.’
‘You intend to run?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. ‘Don’t. It will look as though—’
‘I do not care what it looks like,’ said Brome in the same numb tone. ‘The situation has escalated out of control, and a prudent disappearance is the only option open to me. Will you give me a hour’s grace, for friendship’s sake? To collect Joanna and flee this horrible city? If you do not trust me to give the jewels to L’Estrange, then take them yourself.’
Chaloner declined to accept the proffered box. ‘I must go to Smithfield before the Butcher – whoever he is – assumes power. I cannot waste time with treasure.’
‘It is reckless and stupid to go to Smithfield without knowing the identity of the man you think is responsible for so much evil,’ said Brome, seeming to come out of his daze a little. ‘You need more information. Talk to Muddiman. He knows more about London than anyone else, and might be willing to help you prevent a catastrophe.’
‘All the way back to The Strand?’ Brome’s suggestion made sense, but it would take far too long.
‘The bridges are closed, so he cannot have gone home. Try his favourite coffee house – the Turk’s Head at St Paul’s. And while you are there, ask him about this exploding oil, too. He bought a pamphlet from me on the subject just last week.’
Leybourn emerged from the shadows to make a lunge for Brome as he left the print-house, but the bookseller flinched away from the clumsily wielded weapon and disappeared into the night.
‘Why are you letting him go?’ demanded Leybourn. ‘He just shot Hodgkinson. I saw him!’
Chaloner was too weary to explain. ‘He saved my life, Will. The least I can do is return the favour.’
Leybourn waved his sword again. ‘He is irrelevant, anyway. Our first duty is to stop the Butcher from realising his nefarious plans. So, shall we go straight to Smithfield, or shall we do as Brome suggested and see what Muddiman is prepared to tell us?’
‘Muddiman,’ replied Chaloner, hurrying into the street. ‘Brome is right: knowledge is power, and we do not have enough of it to tackle the Butcher yet.’
‘What about your cat?’ asked Leybourn, as the spy set off towards St Paul’s. He looked sheepish. ‘I am afraid I dropped it.’
Chaloner grimaced, wishing Leybourn had looked after the animal, as he had been told.
‘It will find its way home.’ Leybourn was trotting to keep up with him. ‘But I am not sure I understand what happened in there. Newburne’s treasure—’
‘I will explain later,’ said Chaloner, not wanting to waste breath that could be used for running. It was still dark, but the first glimmerings of dawn were lightening the night sky. It would come late, because of the rain, but at least he could see where he was going. ‘Hurry!’
‘So the Butcher was not Hodgkinson?’ said Leybourn, beginning to pant.
Chaloner ran harder, splashing through water and oblivious to the spray that flew around him. ‘No.’
‘Maybe Muddiman is, then,’ gasped Leybourn. ‘For several reasons. He gave exploding oil to Hickes, to dispatch him before he reported something really incriminating to Williamson. He hired Hodgkinson to betray L’Estrange’s secrets. He probably killed Dury, because they argued. He bought cucumbers from Covent Garden the day before one was left at the scene of Newburne’s death. And he is bitter because he lost control of the newsbooks to L’Estrange.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Muddiman is not the Butcher.’
‘Yes he is,’ countered Leybourn firmly. ‘And that is why he is at his coffee house and not at home tonight. He is on this side of the Fleet River, because he is preparing to seize his Smithfield throne.’
Lights burned in the Turk’s Head Coffee House. The windows had steamed up, so it was impossible to see inside, and the distinctive reek of burned coffee wafted into the street, combining unpleasantly with the stench of overloaded sewers. Chaloner was about to go in, when the door opened and Muddiman himself bustled out. He carried a bag, and behind him were two servants bearing boxes. The newsman raised his arm and a cart immediately rattled towards him, loaded with goods and covered with a sheet of oiled canvas.
‘Going somewhere?’ asked Chaloner softly, stepping in front of him.
Muddiman jumped in alarm. ‘The river is set to burst its banks, and I do not want to be here when it does. Besides, I meet L’Estrange everywhere I go these days, and he has a nasty habit of drawing his sword. Without Dury to protect me, I am safer in the country.’
‘L’Estrange is in there?’ asked Leybourn, trying to peer through the glass. ‘Have you considered the fact that he may have good reason to grab his weapon when you appear? You are a killer, and thus a dangerous man. You murdered Newburne with poisonous lozenges, and left one of the cucumbers you bought by his side.’
Chaloner winced.
‘I did no such thing,’ objected Muddiman indignantly. ‘My wife used those fruits to make me a remedy for wind. Ask her, my servants and my apothecary. They concocted the potion together.’
Chaloner suspected he was telling the truth, because it was a tale that could easily be verified, and Muddiman was not stupid.
‘You gave a flask of exploding oil to Hickes,’ Leybourn went on, going for his suspect like a dog with a rat.
‘Did I?’ asked Muddiman coldly. ‘Do you think me a fool, then, to blow up the Spymaster’s best agent? Besides, Hickes is no threat to me. He is incompetent.’
‘But now Dury is dead, Hickes will concentrate all his attention on you, and that will be inconvenient,’ said Leybourn, shaking off the warning hand that Chaloner laid on his arm.
Muddiman sighed. ‘You might have a point
, if I was doing something I do not want Williamson to know about. But I am not.’
‘How about buying secrets from Hodgkinson?’ asked Chaloner, shoving Leybourn hard in an attempt to make him shut up. ‘Secrets that have damaged Williamson’s newsbooks?’
‘Hodgkinson has confessed to being Wenum, so do not deny it,’ added Leybourn.
‘You are lying,’ said Muddiman dismissively. ‘Hodgkinson is not Wenum. Wenum had something wrong with his face, and Hodgkinson has a beard—’ He stopped speaking as he saw how the two facts fitted together, but quickly rallied. ‘You cannot prove I sent Hickes the oil.’
‘Actually, I can,’ said Chaloner. ‘When I visited your office on Monday, I saw a pamphlet on such devices, and Brome just said he sold you one. It is not a subject a man reads about for fun, as I am sure Williamson will agree when he searches your home and finds it. But that is not your only crime. You are also responsible for Brome spying on L’Estrange. You sent Williamson some silly broadsheet Brome wrote as a child, knowing Williamson would use it to force him into turning informer.’
Muddiman sneered. ‘You call that a crime? Besides, it was Williamson who resorted to blackmail, not I. All I did was send our noble Spymaster an anonymous gift. It was a waste of time, though. I wanted Brome to discover something so unsavoury about L’Estrange that it would see him ousted, but he learned nothing we do not know already. And neither of them had the wits to work out the business with the music and the stolen horses.’
‘I have decided you are right: Muddiman is not Crisp,’ whispered Leybourn in Chaloner’s ear. His voice was hard and cold. ‘L’Estrange is.’
‘He is not,’ said Chaloner irritably. ‘He cannot be, because—’
He broke off when the door to the coffee house creaked, and the editor himself stepped out.
‘Hah!’ yelled Leybourn in savage delight.
‘Christ!’ sighed Chaloner, bracing himself for yet more trouble. ‘What wretched timing!’
L’Estrange grinned when he saw Muddiman talking to Chaloner and Leybourn, and gave a bow that was intended to be insulting. ‘All the phanatiques together. What are you plotting this time?’
‘Your downfall,’ replied Leybourn bitingly. ‘I was just about to explain to Tom how you send coded messages to criminals, telling them when to steal horses, so you can collect five shillings when the hapless victim is obliged to advertise the loss in your nasty little newsbooks.’
‘It is a fascinating theory,’ drawled Muddiman. ‘And I wish Dury were here to hear it. However, I shall be sure to repeat it in my next newsletter, so others can enjoy it, too.’
Chaloner was not surprised when L’Estrange’s sword was whipped from its scabbard, or when Leybourn struggled to do the same. He drew his own and stood between them, wishing L’Estrange had stayed in the coffee house for just a few moments longer. He had just missed a second night of sleep, and his wits were not as sharp as they should have been – he was not sure he was alert enough to prevent the brewing skirmish by trying to reason with them.
‘I am no horse thief,’ snapped L’Estrange. He ignored Leybourn and lunged at Muddiman, furious when his blow was parried by Chaloner’s blade.
Muddiman jerked into Leybourn, who promptly dropped his weapon in the water that lapped around their feet.
‘No?’ demanded the newsmonger, rashly provocative. ‘Then tell Heyden why you wanted Newburne’s death quietly forgotten. Dury was looking into the matter for me, but you warned him and Heyden to leave the matter well alone.’
‘Of course I did,’ exploded L’Estrange. ‘Newburne died of cucumbers. There was no need for an investigation, because cucumbers kill people all the time. I am a newsman, so party to this sort of information. I could name half a dozen people who have died of cucumbers this year alone.’
‘And it did not occur to you that this is odd?’ Muddiman grabbed Leybourn and cowered behind him, as L’Estrange brandished his sword and Chaloner tried to keep it from landing on someone. Leybourn was desperately scrabbling around in the water for his lost weapon, and Chaloner might have laughed at the ludicrousness of the situation, had he not been so tired or so worried about what might be happening in Smithfield.
‘Of course it is not odd. People die of peculiar things all the time. Besides, if you must know the truth, I was paying court to Dorcus Newburne when her husband breathed his last, and I knew what Dury would have made of that – he would have said it was motive for murder. Damned phanatique!’
‘Hah!’ exclaimed Leybourn, as he found his blade at last. It came out of the water like Excalibur. ‘And you, Muddiman? Why did you order Tom not to investigate Newburne?’
‘Because Dury was doing it,’ replied Chaloner, when Muddiman realised he was in more danger from Leybourn’s undisciplined swipes than L’Estrange’s determined lunges. The newsman ducked and weaved, more interested in protecting himself than in answering questions. ‘And he did not want us tripping over each other in the search for clues.’
‘Let me at him,’ ordered L’Estrange, advancing purposefully on his rival. ‘I do not want to kill you, Heyden, so step aside before you are hurt. Muddiman, prepare to die! London will not mourn a phanatique of your standing.’
Muddiman shrieked as L’Estrange fought his way past Chaloner, whose attention was half on keeping Leybourn out of the fight, and he suddenly found himself exposed.
‘Stop him! I will tell you everything if you save me. Dury was investigating how messages in music helped criminals to steal horses, and Crisp slaughtered him when he came too close to the truth. He went to Hodgkinson’s print-shop in Smithfield for answers, and was strangled for his pains. A gutter was dropped on his head to conceal what really happened.’
‘The music is nothing,’ snapped L’Estrange, scowling when Chaloner grabbed his coat and spun him around, forcing him to halt his relentless advance. ‘Greeting takes the stuff to Williamson for me, because Williamson thinks it contains a code, but he is wrong. I have played it every way imaginable, and it is just music – from China, probably, which is why it is difficult for western ears to understand.’
L’Estrange was the one who was wrong, thought Chaloner, falling back quickly when the editor went on the offensive. Williamson knew exactly what the music meant. But why had the Spymaster tossed the music on the fire when Greeting had delivered it? He realised the answer was clear: Williamson had no intention of interfering with Hector business. And why? Because they obliged him with manpower when he needed something shady done.
Leybourn had been about to stab L’Estrange in the back while the editor’s attention was on Chaloner, but he lowered the weapon slowly as he considered the claims. ‘You are not Crisp, either,’ he said, sounding startled. ‘You cannot be, if you are passing the music to Williamson.’
Chaloner had had enough of dancing around with L’Estrange. He abandoned the fancy sword-play of Court and reverted to more brutal tactics – ones he had learned during the wars. In seconds, L’Estrange’s elegant weapon lay on the ground and the editor was nursing a bruised hand. Muddiman did not wait to see what else happened; he dashed to his cart, screaming at the driver to whip the horses into a gallop. Boxes dropped from the wagon as it careened away, and shadows emerged from nearby alleys to claim them.
‘How do you come by the music you send to Williamson?’ asked Chaloner, standing next to L’Estrange as they watched the newsmonger rattle away.
‘Brome keeps it hidden in Joanna’s virginals,’ replied L’Estrange sullenly, inspecting his fingers in the gathering light of dawn. ‘You must have noticed the instrument’s muted tones when we played together? Well, I looked inside it one day, and it was full of this odd music. Brome frets when a few pieces go missing occasionally, but I do not see the harm in taking a couple now and then. It pleases Williamson, and that should be reward enough.’
‘Brome,’ said Chaloner. He exchanged an appalled glance with Leybourn as the truth finally dawned. They had had the Butcher of Smithfield in their h
ands, and they had let him go.
‘I tried to tell you I did not trust Brome,’ said Leybourn, as they raced through the sodden streets towards Ivy Lane. ‘But you would not stop to listen, and I was overly ready to believe Muddiman was the culprit. Brome had two guns. He aimed at Hodgkinson with one, and you with the other. I saw him. Obviously, he sent us to the Turk’s Head to make us waste time.’
‘He did not make much attempt to disarm Hodgkinson, did he,’ said Chaloner, wondering why he had not seen it at the time. He supposed he was simply too tired. ‘He wanted him to shoot me.’
‘Because he could not tackle two fairly dangerous men at the same time,’ explained Leybourn. ‘If Hodgkinson had dispatched you, then he would have been left with only one. He might be the Butcher, but he does not do his own dirty work. He has Hectors for that. And Mary.’
‘He did not know Hodgkinson was Wenum, though. His surprise over that was genuine.’
‘And so was his retribution,’ said Leybourn. ‘Hodgkinson did not live long after that little secret came out, did he!’
The streets were light now, although it was a grey, sullen dawn that oppressed the spirits. People were sweeping water from their houses, and everywhere, buckets were being emptied. It was all to no avail: rain kept falling as if it intended to drown London and every living thing in it.
They reached Ivy Lane, and Chaloner skidded to a stop. He wished he was not so tired, and that he could think properly. Leybourn had not sheathed his sword; he was holding it like a battleaxe, and unless Chaloner devised some sort of strategy, his friend’s determination to avenge himself was going to cause some fatal problems.
‘We cannot just burst in,’ he said. Exhaustion slurred his words. ‘His Hectors will kill us.’
‘You have a plan?’
‘No,’ admitted Chaloner. He pointed to where Kirby was guarding the bookshop door. ‘But it looks as if Brome has already asserted control over his Hectors. Of course, they will be eager to do his bidding – I let him take Newburne’s treasure, so he has the wherewithal to pay them. I should have been suspicious when he offered to take the box to L’Estrange in the first place. He was supposed to be running for his life, and who cares about delivering stolen property under such circumstances?’
The Butcher Of Smithfield: Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 3) Page 41
