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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘That is a tale he invented to disguise its real meaning,’ said Dury, chuckling. ‘He was stunned by the stone, but he leapt to his feet in self-defence when he heard Annie Petwer telling him to arise. She was his lover, and “arising” was something he seldom did, according to her.’

  ‘He was impotent,’ elaborated Muddiman, obviously thinking Chaloner might not understand the joke unless it was explained. ‘Do you know why a grand man like the Earl of Clarendon should be interested in what happened to a devious snake like Newburne?’

  ‘He is interested in the sudden death of anyone connected with the government’s newsbooks.’

  ‘How very thorough of him,’ drawled Dury. ‘But then, he is a tediously thorough man.’

  Chaloner sipped his coffee and winced at the flavour: the beans had been over-roasted, and the resulting brew was bitter.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Muddiman. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Did you have dealings with Newburne?’

  Muddiman drank some coffee, sufficiently used to the Folly’s habit of bean-burning that no expression of distaste crossed his face. Indeed, he looked as though it was perfectly acceptable, and waved to the coffee boy to bring him more. ‘Not directly, although I knew L’Estrange had ordered him to watch me. Both Spymaster Williamson and L’Estrange are jealous of my newsletters – and with good cause. I disseminate information Londoners are pleased to have.’

  ‘The only items of interest in The Newes and The Intelligencer are the advertisements for lost and stolen horses,’ added Dury. He snickered maliciously. ‘A man simply cannot live without knowing such things.’

  Muddiman picked up a copy of The Intelligencer from the table, using his thumb and forefinger, as if he considered it unclean. ‘A man cannot live without knowing that L’Estrange deems the Norwich Quakers “licentious and incorrigible”, either, or that the Danish court plans to hold – of all things – a meeting! I cannot imagine how readers contain their excitement at such tidings.’

  ‘Poor Brome,’ said Dury with mock sympathy. ‘He had the makings of a decent newsman, but now he debases himself by associating with L’Estrange. The same goes for his frightened mouse of a wife.’

  ‘Rabbit,’ corrected Muddiman. ‘Joanna is too tall to be a mouse.’

  Their spite was beginning to be annoying, and Chaloner felt the sniping attack on Joanna was wholly unnecessary. ‘So Newburne spied on you,’ he said, forcing himself to be patient. ‘Did you meet him in any other capacity?’

  ‘What other capacity?’ demanded Dury contemptuously. ‘We did not condone his persecution of booksellers, so we had nothing to do with that. Furthermore, we distance ourselves from L’Estrange’s newsbooks and the idiots who work on them. And we certainly have nothing to do with Ellis Crisp.’

  ‘Despite all this, Newburne’s evil reputation was not entirely justified,’ said Muddiman. His eyes gleamed, and Chaloner was not sure if he was being serious. ‘He was dishonest, but he was not as corrupt as people would have you believe. He was wealthy, as attested by the fact that he owned several houses, but that does not mean he earned his whole fortune by cheating, theft and extortion.’

  ‘It was Crisp’s doing; he deliberately allowed the rumours to grow to improbable levels,’ agreed Dury. ‘It is obvious why: Newburne was more useful to him as a disreputable villain who would do anything for the right price. It enhanced Crisp’s reputation, too – made people more nervous of him.’

  Muddiman chuckled. ‘Is that possible? The Butcher of Smithfield does not need anyone more nervous of him.’

  ‘The Earl is concerned that Newburne’s death may have nothing to do with cucumbers,’ said Chaloner, not really interested in their malicious musings. He watched their reactions to his comment closely, but could read nothing in them.

  ‘He certainly ate one before he died,’ said Muddiman evenly. ‘Hodgkinson is witness to that, and so were several bystanders.’

  ‘Perhaps he ate it knowing it would have fatal consequences,’ said Dury with a grin. ‘I have heard it said that he was a Roman Catholic, and papists are odd about matters of conscience. I expect his many sins overwhelmed him at last, and he killed himself in a fit of penitence.’

  ‘Remorse led him to commit the even greater sin of self-murder?’ asked Chaloner, thinking he had never heard such rubbish. ‘That does not sound like the act of a dutiful son of Rome.’

  ‘Then maybe he was drunk.’ Dury was resentful that his theory should be so disdainfully dismissed. ‘He did not know what he was doing. Do you know for a fact that there is something odd about Newburne’s death, or have you allowed the Earl’s suspicions to influence you? I heard Hodgkinson hired a surgeon to inspect the body, and he said cucumbers were the cause of death.’

  ‘How do you know about the surgeon?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘We are newsmongers,’ Dury sneered. ‘Very little happens in the city without it being reported to us. Another example is your own little foray into the world of reporting. You wrote a piece on Portugal for Thursday’s Newes. L’Estrange is delighted with it.’

  ‘But only because he thinks it will be exclusively his to print,’ added Muddiman slyly. ‘Of course, you could earn yourself ten shillings, if you were to share it with us.’

  Chaloner pretended to consider the offer, his mind working fast. His first assumption was that they had a spy in L’Estrange’s office, who was selling secrets. Then he realised that any such spy would have given them the entire piece – it was not very long, and would have taken no more than a moment to copy. Ergo, they had learned about his article another way. Ivy Lane was a busy thoroughfare, and loiterers would be difficult to spot by people preoccupied with work. Had Muddiman, or one of his scribes, lurked outside Brome’s shop and overheard part of a conversation? It seemed most likely.

  ‘I do not want your money, thank you,’ he said, smiling pleasantly at them. ‘The Earl would not approve of me accepting bribes. Do you believe Newburne died of eating cucumbers? Honestly?’

  Muddiman shrugged, clearly disappointed with his response. ‘There is no reason to think otherwise. Of course, he had more enemies than stars in the sky, so it would not shock me to learn one of them had elbowed him into his grave.’

  ‘Enemies like you?’ asked Chaloner innocently.

  ‘No, not like me. If I had killed him, I would have done it discreetly, and there would be no Lord Chancellor’s spy sniffing around the case.’

  ‘You bought three cucumbers from the market in Covent Garden the day before Newburne died. I do not suppose one of those ended up inside him, did it?’

  Muddiman smiled, although there was a glimmer of alarm in his eyes. ‘I wondered how long it would be before someone gossiped about that in order to see me in trouble. I use cucumbers in a decoction for wind, but I certainly would never eat one. Nor would I expect anyone else to do so.’

  ‘Tell me how you lost control of the newsbooks to L’Estrange,’ said Chaloner, abruptly changing the subject in an attempt to unsettle him. ‘It happened recently, I understand, forcing you to resort to handwritten news.’

  His tactic worked, because Muddiman’s expression was decidedly uneasy. ‘My newsbooks were popular and lucrative, but success attracts envious eyes. Have you ever met Spymaster Williamson?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘He was jealous of my financial success, so he lobbied for me to be dismissed and L’Estrange to be appointed in my place – L’Estrange shares the newsbooks’ profits with Williamson, you see, whereas I kept them all for myself. But Williamson badly misjudged the situation. I have spent years in the business of newsmongering, and it did not take me many days to establish a list of men willing to pay for a weekly letter that contains good, reliable news.’

  ‘How long a list?’

  ‘I sell to about a hundred and fifty customers, each of whom pays a minimum of five pounds per annum. Some give me as much as twenty pounds.’ Muddiman’s expression was smug. ‘I make more than a thousand p
ounds a year, while the newsbooks manage less than two hundred.’

  ‘Our success has stunned Williamson,’ added Dury. ‘But it should not have done. L’Estrange’s publications are rubbish, and our newsletters have flourished, at least in part, because of them – people subscribe to us because the newsbooks are so dismally bad. Williamson has lumbered himself with a worthless editor and publications that are a national joke.’

  ‘I imagine he is not pleased,’ said Chaloner. It was a gross understatement. Williamson was shockingly greedy, and would be furious to think of a thousand pounds going into Muddiman’s pocket.

  Muddiman grinned. ‘He is livid. Of course, I understand his sense of loss: money is important, and it is certainly all I want from life. Yet I have learned that the best way to get rich is by maintaining decent standards in my work. L’Estrange has not understood that lesson, despite Brome’s valiant efforts, and his purse and Williamson’s are suffering the consequences.’

  ‘We have told you all we know now,’ said Dury, standing and stretching languorously. ‘And I have a report to write about the northern rebellion – to tell folk what really happened up there. You should be wary of pursuing this Newburne business any further, though. There are some things that even the Lord Chancellor’s spies should not risk, and tampering with Butcher Crisp is one of them.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. ‘What do you think he might do?’

  ‘Anything he likes,’ replied Dury. ‘Stay away from the man if you value your life. Just go back to White Hall and tell your Earl that there is nothing about Newburne’s death to investigate.’

  Chaloner left the Folly feeling that he had learned very little, except that Muddiman and Dury might well have dispatched Newburne, and that the feud over the newsbooks was more bitter and complex than he had first realised. He was about to visit Newburne’s friend Heneage Finch, when he became aware that he was being watched – the plum-faced apple-seller was regarding him with more than a passing interest. He recalled thinking earlier that the man stood out as not belonging, and the feeling intensified when he saw he was making no attempt to hawk his wares.

  The trader was a hulking fellow, who wore good riding boots below a scruffy coat. His knuckles were scarred from fighting, but there was a copy of The Intelligencer poking from his pocket, suggesting he had acquired a modicum of education. He did not carry a sword, but there was a long dagger at his waist, and a bulge near his knee suggested there was another in his boot. All told, he was a man of strange contradictions – and he was no more an apple-seller than was Chaloner.

  ‘How much?’ Chaloner asked, to ascertain whether the man knew the going rate for his goods.

  The fellow regarded him appraisingly. ‘Good coffee, was it? What did you talk about with those fine gentlemen in there?’

  Chaloner was startled by the ingenuous interrogation. ‘I do not see that is any of your affair.’

  ‘You want an apple? Then answer some questions.’

  Chaloner held out his hand, and was presented with a somewhat wizened specimen. He started to eat it anyway, despite the fact that it was brown in the middle and maggots had been there before him. It had obviously been discarded by a more reputable merchant, and had been retrieved from a refuse pile to provide the man with a cover. Chaloner had done much the same himself in the past, although he hoped his disguises had been rather less transparent.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the apple-seller. ‘And what did you want with Muddiman?’

  The apple-seller was clearly someone’s spy, so Chaloner opted for honesty. A number of people already knew who he was and what he was doing, and if he lied and was later found out, it might cause needless trouble. ‘The Earl of Clarendon ordered me to investigate the death of Thomas Newburne.’

  The apple-seller jerked his head towards the coffee barge. ‘I would love to tell you Muddiman or Dury had a hand in it, but I have been watching them for weeks – ever since L’Estrange was given power of the newsbooks – and I know for a fact that they are innocent.’

  ‘You work for Williamson,’ surmised Chaloner. He supposed he should have guessed; the Earl had already told him that the Spymaster would commission his own agents to find out what had happened to the solicitor. ‘Are you looking into Newburne’s death? What is your name?’

  ‘My name is unimportant. And my remit is to watch Muddiman and Dury – nothing else.’

  ‘Why them?’

  The apple-seller sighed impatiently. ‘Because the newsbooks are important. They are the way the government communicates with its people, so they need to be protected from dangerous enemies like Muddiman and Dury. That is what I am doing.’

  Chaloner was bemused. ‘But Newburne was employed to work on the very newsbooks you are paid to safeguard. His death might be a hostile move against them.’

  The man stared at him in a way that suggested the idea had not occurred to him before. It did not say much for the efficiency and cunning of Williamson’s secret service. ‘I suppose it might,’ he conceded reluctantly. ‘Muddiman and Dury had nothing to do with it, though. I watch them day and night.’

  ‘What happens when you sleep?’

  ‘I only rest when they are in bed. And they rise late, so I am awake before them in the mornings.’

  Chaloner was appalled when he saw the man genuinely believed he had them covered twenty-four hours a day – and appalled that Williamson was apparently satisfied with the situation. ‘How can you be sure they did not hire someone to do their dirty work? That Newburne was not killed on their orders, while they sipped coffee and you watched them?’

  The apple-seller regarded him askance, and Chaloner suspected an astute pair like Muddiman and Dury would run circles around the fellow. One would slip out of a back door while the other sat in plain view, and Williamson’s spy would have no idea what was happening.

  ‘They would not do that,’ the man declared resentfully. ‘They would not dare.’

  ‘What do you think happened to Newburne?’ Chaloner asked, ignoring the claim. He suspected he was wasting his time in soliciting the opinion of such a fellow, but there was no harm in being thorough.

  ‘He swallowed too much cucumber. He was a glutton for expensive things and they cost threepence. Most people use them in decoctions for wind, but he actually ate the one he got from the costermongery in Smithfield. Witnesses said he took real bites, like you are doing with that apple.’

  ‘If I were to suggest to you that his cucumber had been poisoned, and invited you to guess who might have tampered with it, what would you say?’

  ‘That neither of us has an hour to spend naming all the possible candidates. However, if I were a betting man, my money would be on L’Estrange.’

  Chaloner was taken aback. If the apple-seller was watching Muddiman for Williamson, then it meant he and L’Estrange were on the same side. It was thus an odd choice of suspects. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Newburne had dealings with Ellis Crisp, the Butcher of Smithfield, who operates on the wrong side of the law. Newburne was useful to L’Estrange, but embarrassing, if you take my meaning. It is like hiring Hectors for certain government business. They are good value for money – and efficient at what they do – but you would not want the general populace knowing about it.’

  ‘Are you speaking hypothetically here? Or are you saying Williamson appoints known criminals on the government’s behalf ?’

  The apple-seller gazed at him in puzzlement. ‘I thought you said you worked for the Lord Chancellor. Of course Williamson makes use of felons! It works out cheaper to hire them as and when they are needed, than to maintain an organised band of louts on a permanent basis. You look shocked. Are you new to government service, then?’

  Chaloner was not shocked at all, although he could not help but note that Thurloe had never allowed himself to stoop to such tactics. ‘I did not know the Earl—’

  ‘The Earl does not run an intelligence service and
have a turbulent city to control, so I doubt he is obliged to sully his hands by consorting with villains. But we digress. If you want a suspect for Newburne – assuming he really was murdered – then look to L’Estrange. Hah! Muddiman and Dury are coming off the barge. They are waving to me, damn it! I hate it when they do that. They are not supposed to know I am here.’

  Chaloner finished the apple and left the man to his business, thinking Williamson’s spy was no proof of guilt, innocence or anything else as far as Dury and Muddiman were concerned.

  There was still an hour of daylight left, so Chaloner went to see if he could find Heneage Finch at his home on Ave Maria Lane. It was not difficult to identify the house, because the notes of a trumpet sonata were tumbling through the window of an upper floor. Finch was an enthusiastic but indifferent player, and his performance was not enhanced by the fact that he had chosen a dire composition. It was full of discord, and sounded as though it had been written by someone who could not read music. Or perhaps it was Finch who could not read, and he was butchering a perfectly respectable air.

  Chaloner climbed the stairs to the first floor, and found himself in a corridor that had no windows, so was entirely devoid of outside light. A lamp hung on the wall, but it was almost empty of fuel, and illuminated very little. The whole building had a vaguely neglected air and smelled of burned cabbage. He knocked on the door, and a man answered with his trumpet still in one hand. He was tall and thin, with pockmarked skin and the largest ears Chaloner had ever seen.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I assume you are the fellow who has taken the room next door? My friend Newburne used to rent it, but he …’

  He trailed off and looked away; someone was distressed by the solicitor’s death, at least. Chaloner did not disavow him of the notion that they were neighbours, hoping he might learn more than if Finch thought he was on an errand for the government.

  ‘You play well,’ he said, smiling pleasantly. ‘Where did you learn?’

  ‘I taught myself,’ said Finch, gesturing that Chaloner was to step inside his room. It was poorly furnished and messy, and smelled of wet boots and the mould that was growing up one of its walls. ‘I am not very good, although I do play in a consort. My name is Hen Finch, by the way.’