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

by Susanna Gregory

  Chaloner touched the bruise on his jaw. ‘No. They threw a stone first, which slowed me down. That is not something inexperienced felons do. It meant I could not fight properly.’

  ‘Some of the Hectors carry slingshots, so I imagine that is what hit you. You are lucky to be alive, because it is not unknown for men to die after being struck by Smithfield-hurled missiles.’

  Chaloner wondered whether that was what had happened to Smegergill. ‘I suppose someone took exception to my questions about Newburne, and decided they should end. Poor Smegergill made a fatal mistake when he agreed to catch a carriage with me. Mary is right: I did kill him.’

  ‘Easy,’ said Leybourn gently. ‘Do not jump to wild conclusions.’

  But Chaloner was feeling wretched, sure the old man would still be alive if he had not been careless. It would not be an easy burden to bear for the rest of his life.

  ‘Williamson’s agent told me the government hires Hectors on occasion,’ he said, trying to pull himself together. The least he could do was ensure that Smegergill’s killers faced justice; brooding about his ineptitude could come later. ‘Perhaps Williamson wanted to stop me from investigating.’

  ‘Him and half of London. I am not keen on you unveiling the culprit myself – not for a snake like Newburne. You think it was you they wanted, then? You do not think it was a random attack?’

  Chaloner thought about the interviews he had conducted that day. He had been warned away from the investigation by every person he had spoken to: L’Estrange, Brome and Joanna at the newsbook offices; Hodgkinson the printer; Hen Finch; Muddiman and Dury; and even Williamson’s man. Meanwhile, Crisp’s name had cropped up rather a lot, too.

  ‘I am sure Smegergill was about to tell me something important,’ he said bitterly. ‘I know he was. If only I had protected him properly.’

  ‘You are a good spy,’ said Leybourn soothingly. ‘You will discover whatever it was another way.’

  It was not much of a consolation, especially for Smegergill. ‘I should be going,’ he said, when Mary returned with a cup of wine clasped in her plump fingers.

  ‘No,’ said Leybourn firmly. ‘You are still not right, and—’

  ‘Leave through the back door, please,’ said Mary. ‘It will be safer for us if you are not seen.’

  ‘Mary!’ cried Leybourn, distressed. ‘He must stay until daybreak. Supposing the Hectors are still looking for him? Supposing they try again?’

  ‘It would be a tragedy,’ said Mary flatly.

  Leybourn shot her an agonised look, then turned to Chaloner, who was inspecting his dented hat. ‘She is jesting with you,’ he said with an unconvincing smile. ‘She is a great one for jokes, and we are always laughing together.’

  Chaloner wondered how much Leybourn would laugh when he discovered her true character, because it was only a matter of time before the bedazzlement faded and the surveyor was exposed to what really lay beneath. He opened the door and stepped into the garden. The rain had stopped, and the early hour meant the air smelled of wet earth and damp leaves, coal fires and the reek of industry being doused for the night. He heard Leybourn and Mary exchanging low, angry words behind him, and was sorry he had brought discord to his friend’s house. When he turned, the surveyor had gone, and Mary was waiting, hands on hips, to make sure he really left. He moved towards her, making her flinch back in alarm.

  ‘Most people would summon a constable if they thought a killer was on their doorstep, but you only clamour for me to be gone. Now, why would you do that? Are you hiding from the law?’

  She gaped at him. ‘How dare you! I am just trying to protect my husband.’

  ‘You are a liar, Mrs Leybourn. The truth is that you do not want a brush with the forces of law and order, not even to help the victim of an assault.’

  She regarded him with a glittering hatred, and when she spoke her voice was a low, menacing hiss. ‘If you meddle in my affairs, I will see you dead. Now go, and do not come back. Not ever.’

  Chaloner had never appreciated being threatened. ‘And what will you do if I refuse?’

  She leaned towards him. ‘Ellis Crisp owes me a favour, and his Hectors will be more than willing to teach you a lesson. All I have to do is ask.’

  The remark was more revealing than alarming, and Chaloner regarded her thoughtfully. ‘An underworld king is an odd acquaintance for a respectable woman, I would have thought. Perhaps I will ask questions in Smithfield, and see what I can learn about you.’

  Mary’s face became ugly with rage. ‘If you try to interfere with my business, I will ensure you destroy your friend in the process. He is happy with me and I am content with him. But if you harm me, I will ruin him – financially and emotionally. And then Crisp will see you pay in ways you cannot possibly imagine.’

  ‘You would hurt the man you profess to love?’ Chaloner was disgusted.

  ‘If the alternative is losing a nice house, plenty of money and a life of leisure? What do you think?’

  ‘Tom!’ called Leybourn, appearing behind her, slightly breathless. He carried his second-best cloak. ‘This will keep you dry until you reach home. And here is a crown for a carriage, since your own money was stolen.’

  Chaloner accepted the cloak but not the coin. Leybourn had one person who only wanted him for his wealth, and he did not need another like it. Without a word, he started to make his way home.

  When he arrived in Fetter Lane, Chaloner lay on his bed and thought about Leybourn. Although the surveyor was clearly delighted to have secured himself a lady at last, it was not a happy union. There had been the uncharacteristic spat of temper when Leybourn had stormed out of Lincoln’s Inn, and he had also mentioned an inability to sleep. Chaloner wondered if he sensed that Mary was not as enamoured of him as he was of her – or even that her attachment was really to his money – but stubborn desperation prevented him from seeing the truth.

  Should Chaloner do as he had threatened, and ask questions about Mary until he discovered her secrets? Thurloe would certainly encourage him to do so. Or should he stand back and wait for Leybourn to learn the truth himself ? Leybourn was a grown man, so well able to make his own decisions. Or was he? Perhaps she had bewitched him, and he was no longer responsible for himself. Besides, interfering in matters that were none of his concern was how Chaloner made his living, and it was difficult to stand by and watch a friend make a terrible mistake. He decided he would add Mary Cade to his list of enquiries, and discover as much about her as he could. That made three investigations. He considered them in turn, aware that all had connections to the mysterious Crisp.

  First, Mary claimed to know Ellis Crisp, bragging that she was in a position to order a repeat attack of the one that had almost killed Chaloner that night. Or was she just trying to unnerve him? He was not sure how to proceed with her, although a visit to Newgate was as good a place as any to start. He would make a sketch of her and show it to the guards, to see if they recognised her as a criminal. He had recently discovered a talent for drawing, and knew he could produce a reasonable likeness. He would need money to bribe them for information, though, so he would have to visit White Hall first, to collect his back-pay.

  Secondly, there was his enquiry into Newburne’s death. Why had so many people advised him to abandon the investigation? They could not all have sinister reasons for doing so. He sensed the warnings of Brome, Joanna and Hodgkinson had been kindly meant, and so was Leybourn’s, but what about those issued by Muddiman, Dury, the booksellers and L’Estrange? Even Finch, Newburne’s friend, declared himself unwilling to look into the matter. Could Crisp, who was only a felon when all was said and done, really terrify so many people? Chaloner decided to ask Thurloe the following day. The ex-Spymaster was sure to have heard of such an infamous villain.

  And finally, there was the smothering of Maylord. Maylord was linked to Crisp – albeit tangentially – because Chaloner had been attacked by Hectors while walking in Smithfield with Maylord’s friend. The villains had been qui
etly proficient, and had hauled him and Smegergill off the road and into the privacy of the churchyard with a minimum of commotion. He imagined it was exactly the kind of activity at which the legendary Hectors would excel. Was Crisp responsible, because he did not want Newburne’s death investigated? Or was it coincidence that the attack had occurred in Crisp’s domain? As soon as it was light, Chaloner decided to visit the Rhenish Wine House and find the documents Smegergill had mentioned – assuming they existed, and were not the product of a confused mind.

  He went to the jug on the table and drank some water. His head ached and so did the bruise on his chin where the stone had struck him, and he knew his wits were still not properly clear. He thought about the attack, still sickened by his failure to protect Smegergill. What had the old man been going to tell him about Maylord being cheated? Had a vital clue about Maylord’s death been lost because of his own carelessness? He removed the ring and the key from his pocket, and stared at them. He knew he should not have taken them, because he now had the added responsibility of returning them to Smegergill’s next of kin – hopefully without being accused of the murder himself.

  He went back to his bed, and jumped in alarm when the cat suddenly joined him there. He spent several minutes trying to oust it, but each time he shoved it away, it came back. In the end, he gave up, and allowed it to nestle in a warm ball at his side. It began to purr, and he supposed there was something comforting in the close presence of another living creature. Perhaps that was what Leybourn craved, and was why he was prepared to overlook Mary’s all too obvious failings. He wondered what the surveyor would say if his friends suggested replacing Mary with a cat.

  Chaloner had not meant to sleep and was startled when he awoke to hear the church bells chiming eleven o’clock, horrified that so much of the day had been lost. It meant he would not be able to visit White Hall and claim his back-pay, because there were other duties that had to come first. His head ached when he sat up, but not as badly as it had done the night before. The pain made him irritable, though, and he swore under his breath when the cat jumped up on to the bed again. He grimaced in revulsion when he saw a mouse in its jaws, and tried to push it away. It deposited the corpse on the bedclothes and mewed in expectation of reward. It did not receive one, because Chaloner’s larder was bare, and he had nothing to give it.

  His temper flared again when he went to fetch his sword from the pantry, and the animal tripped him by winding around his ankles. The stumble jarred his lame leg, which was still stiff from his slide into the ditch. All in all, it was not a good start to the day.

  The clothes he had worn the previous night were wet, muddy and ripped, which was a problem, because they were the best he had. He picked through the others helplessly, eventually choosing a shirt that was yellow with age, and a pair of breeches he recalled wearing during the wars. His jaw was purple from its encounter with the stone, and it made him distinctive, which was always something he tried to avoid. So he darkened his stubble with soot from the chimney, then found a leather cap that hung low over his forehead and cheeks. Once he put Isabella’s dented hat on top, very little of his face was visible. He felt slovenly and disreputable, and the presence of a dead mouse in his pocket – ready to be tossed into the nearest gutter – did not help, but he supposed the garb would do for Newgate and the Rhenish Wine House, the latter of which he intended to enter without being seen.

  In Fleet Street, he saw the Earl’s clerk, Bulteel, who shrieked in alarm when a scruffy man seized his shoulder and bade him good-day. He stopped abruptly when he recognised Chaloner’s grey eyes.

  ‘We should pay you more,’ he said shakily. ‘You look terrible.’

  ‘You should pay me more,’ Chaloner agreed. ‘My disguise is good, then?’

  ‘I did not recognise you. You have even changed the way you walk – you were limping. Did you hear about Smegergill the musician? He was killed in Smithfield last night, for his purse and a valuable ring. Some bystanders saw the culprit and gave chase, but the devil eluded them.’

  ‘One of the Hectors?’ asked Chaloner, thinking of the ring and key in his pocket. He had considered leaving them at home, but there was nowhere good to hide them, and he had decided they would be safer on his person.

  ‘Apparently not, and they are said to be furious that someone dared to commit murder on their territory. I suspect they are telling the truth, because usually they brag about such crimes – it shows they do what they like and no one can stop them. The killer must be terrified, because Butcher Crisp has vowed to catch him and put him in a pie.’

  ‘Did these witnesses give a good description of the culprit?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

  ‘He kept his face concealed, but they say he was injured as Smegergill battled for his life, because he was unsteady on his feet. Personally, I hope Crisp roasts him alive. What kind of monster would harm a helpless old fellow like Smegergill?’

  ‘Is anything being done? Legally, I mean – not whatever the Hectors are about.’

  ‘Nothing can be done. It is their domain, and Crisp is the one who will be asking questions.’

  Chaloner was aghast. ‘But what about the constables? Murder is a capital crime. Surely, they will want it investigated themselves, not leave a band of felons to do it?’

  ‘Not if they have any sense. And you had better not interfere, either. The Earl told me today that you must discover what happened to Newburne as a matter of urgency. The widow paid him another visit this morning, and he will not want you pursuing other enquiries as long as she is on the warpath.’

  Trying not to limp, Chaloner walked to Westminster. Eventually, he reached the Rhenish Wine House, entering its smoky, humid interior with a sigh of relief – it had been a long walk for a man not in the best of health. His heart sank when he saw a porter at the foot of the stairs that led to the private rooms above. He had no money to bribe his way past, and doubted he would be allowed by wearing his current outfit, anyway. He needed a distraction.

  It did not take him long to devise one. The dead mouse was still in his pocket, because he had forgotten to dispose of it. He waited until Landlord Genew placed a bowl of stew in front of a patron whose attention was fixed on one of the serving women, and dropped the small body into the food as he passed the man’s table. Then he perused the newsbooks while he waited for a reaction.

  The Intelligencer was the only thing on offer, because Muddiman’s newsletters had already been claimed by other patrons. He read a frenzied editorial about the rebellion in York that made him wonder whether its writer was in his right mind, and learned that Mistress Atwood’s house at Havering had been broken open and the good lady relieved of two silver cups. Meanwhile, Mr Benjamin Farrow of Eltham, Kent had lost a ‘broad bay mare’ while he was out at his coffee house, and the Queen was suffering from a distemper, which Chaloner thought made her sound like a dog.

  He glanced at the ogler, and wished the man would tear his longing gaze away from the maid and pay attention to his stew. He was beginning to think he might have to consider another way to distract the porter, when a spoon was finally dipped into the bowl. The results were well worth the wait. The ogler suddenly found himself with a mouthful of fur; he spat the offending object across the table, and began to gag. The porter and Genew rushed towards him, and Chaloner darted up the stairs unseen.

  The attic, where Genew had said Maylord had lived, was five storeys up, and Chaloner was breathing hard by the time he reached the top. He found himself faced with three doors, any one of which might be Maylord’s room. He listened intently at the first, trying to ascertain whether it was occupied, then took a small metal probe from his pocket and inserted it into the lock when he thought it was not.

  It did not take him many moments to pick his way inside. The room was tiny, sparsely furnished, and not very clean. The absence of any kind of musical instrument told him it was not Maylord’s, and he was about to close the door and try the next chamber when something caught his eye. There was
a small table in the window, placed to catch the light, and on it was one of L’Estrange’s newsbooks. It had been smothered in red ink. Intrigued, he slipped into the room and closed the door behind him.

  The newsbook’s typeface was fuzzy, and whoever had been reading it had marked all the typographical errors that had been found. There were also notes in the margin, which Chaloner recognised as instructions to a printer. The date on the front page said Thursday 5 November, and he realised he was looking at a future issue of The Newes, not one already in circulation. Someone had obviously been given the task of checking the text, and was in the process of correcting it. Puzzled, Chaloner turned his attention to the pile of documents that sat next to it. The first sheet comprised a summary of the second item in the newsbook, which described a recent earthquake in Quebec. Other articles had been paraphrased, too, and hidden underneath them was a small book in which every précis had been carefully logged. A sum of money was entered in the margin against each, as if denoting its value. More lists appeared on previous pages, but these had initials next to them.

  When Chaloner flicked through the book, he saw the accumulation of small amounts of cash amounted to a considerable whole – someone had made a lot of money by copying L’Estrange’s news. He studied the ledger more closely. There were several sets of initials, but the most common was HM. Chaloner could only assume it referred to Henry Muddiman. No wonder people claimed L’Estrange provided old news, and that Muddiman always told it first!

  But who would betray the government’s official newsbooks, something that would almost certainly be deemed an act of treason? Hodgkinson the printer? Chaloner immediately discounted him on the grounds that he was unlikely to be entrusted with checking the text he himself had set. What about Brome or Joanna? Would they have the courage for such a dangerous activity? Somehow, Chaloner did not think so. He supposed he would have to find out who proof-read L’Estrange’s early drafts, and investigate them accordingly.