Chaloner was sure their opinion of the newsbooks echoed that of most Londoners, and thought Williamson had better do something to improve them before they slipped so far into disrepute that they would never recover.
‘Have you met L’Estrange’s assistant, Tom?’ asked Maude. Her expression could best be described as lecherous. ‘Henry Brome is a lovely man, and it is a pity he is married.’
‘I do not think much of Joanna,’ said Temperance immediately. ‘Far too thin. And she reminds me of a rabbit – all teeth, ears and eyes. I cannot abide skinny women.’
Chaloner regarded her in surprise. Temperance was not usually catty, and he supposed her own expanding waistline made her jealous of those who had theirs under control. ‘I rather like her.’
‘Everyone likes her,’ drawled Temperance acidly. ‘She is so sweet. Personally, I usually feel like grabbing her by the throat and shaking some backbone into her. Timid little mouse!’
Chaloner laughed at her vehemence. ‘I prefer her to some of the people I have met since arriving back in London. And speaking of unpleasant men, you mentioned the death of a solicitor called Newburne earlier. Did you ever meet him?’
‘He came here once,’ said Temperance, not seeming to think there was anything odd in the question. ‘He was a small, bald fellow with the kind of moustache that made him look debauched – like the King’s. I did not like him. He pawed the girls, then left without paying.’
‘Actually,’ countered Maude, ‘he told Preacher Hill that he would send payment with Ellis Crisp. Of course, it amounts to the same thing. Who would dare ask Crisp for money?’
‘It is curious that Newburne died of cucumbers,’ mused Temperance. ‘There has been a lot of it about of late. First, there was that charming Colonel Beauclair, equerry to the Master of Horse. Then there was Valentine Pettis, the pony-dealer—’
‘Two men associated with nags,’ said Chaloner, wondering if it was significant.
‘And finally two sedan-chairmen,’ finished Temperance, ‘who had nothing to do with nags, because they are effectively mules themselves. I expect it is just a bad year for cucumbers, probably because of the rain. Perhaps the dismal weather produced a crop with unusually evil vapours.’
‘Do not forget Maylord,’ added Maude. ‘He died of cucumbers, too, although he once told me he never ate anything green. He said it made him break out in boils.’
‘I miss Maylord,’ said Temperance sadly. ‘He came here to play for us sometimes. He told me he taught your father the viol, Tom. Is it true?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘Did he perform for you during the last two weeks or so? Someone told me he was upset about something, and I would like to know what.’
‘Money,’ supplied Maude helpfully. ‘He thought someone had cheated him of some, and was very angry about it – not like him at all. He did not say how much he was owed or the name of the debtor, but it was obviously a substantial sum or he would not have been so agitated. Did you hear his close friend Smegergill was murdered on Sunday? At Smithfield.’
‘Was he?’ asked Temperance, startled. ‘That is a pity. I cannot say I took to Smegergill, because he was odd, but I am sorry to hear he met a violent end.’
‘How was he odd?’ asked Chaloner.
‘He was losing his memory, and was convinced he was about to be committed to Bedlam,’ replied Temperance. ‘He often made peculiar remarks about it – the kind that make a person uncomfortable.’
‘That was his idea of a joke,’ argued Maude. ‘He did not really believe there was anything wrong with him. It was just something he liked to claim, perhaps so people would contradict him and say he was as sane as the rest of us. Which he was.’
Temperance was thoughtful. ‘Do you really think so? I was under the impression that it was a genuine fear, and he was becoming more forgetful.’
Maude remained firm. ‘It was clear he was just amusing himself by pretending to be addled. I saw him laughing fit to burst once when he told the Duke of Buckingham he was turning into an elephant, and the Duke responded by providing him with a large handkerchief for blowing his trunk.’
‘Well, he once told me that his name was Caesar, and so he should be allowed to rule White Hall,’ said Temperance, unconvinced. ‘That is not normal behaviour by anyone’s standards. But we should discuss something else before we quarrel. Have you seen William since you returned, Tom? He has fallen in with a very devious person.’
‘He brought her to meet us,’ said Maude. ‘She was more interested in our silverware than our company, and then she said she knew plenty of ladies who would like to work for us.’
‘They will not be ladies,’ said Temperance disapprovingly. ‘And we are very selective about who we hire. We have our reputation to consider, and I doubt she knows any respectable girls.’
Chaloner doubted the whores who worked for Temperance would be deemed ‘respectable girls’ by most Londoners, either. He showed them his drawing. ‘I am going to take this to Newgate today, to see if anyone recognises her.’
Maude regarded the picture critically. ‘You need to make her eyes colder and harder, and add more weight to her jowls. I am glad you intend to separate her from Mr Leybourn. If you do not, she will have every penny from him, and crush his heart, too. We will help you.’
‘How?’
‘My sister lives in Smithfield, and her cakes are just as popular with villains as with law-abiding men. Leave your picture with me, and I will ask her about Mary Cade.’
‘She told me she was a friend of Ellis Crisp,’ said Chaloner.
Maude immediately shoved the drawing back across the table. ‘Well, in that case, I shall mind my own business. And so should you. No one should put himself on the wrong side of Butcher Crisp.’
Temperance was appalled. ‘Are you saying William is in the clutches of the Hectors? But that is terrible! We must do something to save him, even if it does mean coming to blows with Crisp.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘It is too dangerous. Leave it to me.’
‘For once, I agree,’ said Maude fervently. ‘I shall do as you say, and so will Temperance. I am no coward, but there is no point in asking for trouble, and I would hate to see the club in flames.’
Chaloner gazed at her. ‘It is that bad?’
‘Worse,’ declared Maude. ‘Mr Leybourn will just have to take his chances – and hope he lives to learn his lesson about women like Mary Cade.’
‘There is one thing we can do, though,’ said Temperance. ‘William once told me he keeps all his money in a sack under a floorboard, because he does not trust bankers. You must persuade him to take it elsewhere, Tom. Mary and her cronies might lose interest in him once it is no longer available.’
Chaloner had known about Leybourn’s careless attitude towards his life-savings, but it had slipped his mind. He supposed he should steal it, to keep it safe until his friend had come to his senses. ‘I will devise a way to stop them getting it,’ he said, deliberately vague. He did not want to involve Temperance and Maude in a plan that would almost certainly involve burglary.
‘Good,’ said Temperance, ‘but do it discreetly. Do not give the Hectors reason to suspect you are responsible, or you may end up in one of the Butcher’s pies.’
‘Where are you taking that bundle of clothes?’ asked Maude in the silence that followed Temperance’s unsettling remark. ‘To the rag-pickers? They are in a sorry state, so I doubt you will get much for them.’
‘They only need to be mended,’ objected Chaloner, rather offended. ‘I was going to buy thread—’
Maude inspected them critically. ‘Only a seamstress of the highest calibre will be able to salvage these! You had better leave them with me.’
‘They are all I have,’ said Chaloner, hoping she would not decide they were beyond repair and throw them away. He could not afford to replace them.
‘Do not worry. You can trust me – with a needle at least.’ Maude winked disconcertingly at him.
‘Meanw
hile, we shall lend you something that does not make you look like a Parliamentarian fallen on hard times,’ said Temperance, businesslike and practical. ‘Our customers often leave garments behind, so we actually possess an impressive wardrobe.’
‘I cannot visit White Hall wearing clothes abandoned in a brothel,’ objected Chaloner, thinking about what might happen if an owner recognised them.
‘We will pick you something bland,’ replied Maude, rather coolly.
She heaved her ample rump out of her chair and returned a few moments later with a green long-coat and breeches. The coat had buttons up the front, on the pockets, and along the sleeves. She insisted that he also wear boot hose – leggings with lace around the knees that hid the top of his boots – on the grounds that not to do so would look peculiar. The ensemble was finished with a clean white ‘falling band’, a bib-like accessory that went around the neck and lay flat on the chest.
Maude regarded him appreciatively. ‘What a difference a few decent clothes can make to a fellow! You have gone from impecunious servant to a man of some standing.’
‘You look nice,’ agreed Temperance, smiling. ‘I might even make a play for you myself.’
Chaloner glanced sharply at her, but saw she was teasing him. She had been enamoured of him once, but had since learned that she did not want a husband or a protector telling her what to do. And he certainly had no intention of dallying with a brothel-mistress.
When Chaloner left the bordello, the rain had stopped, although dark clouds suggested there was more to come. Everything dripped – houses, churches, trees, the scruffy food stalls in Fleet Street, carts and even horses. The usual clatter of hoofs on cobbles was replaced by splattering water and sloshing sounds as people made their way through lakes of mud. Even the pigeons roosting in the eaves looked bedraggled, and the black rats in the shadows had coats that were a mess of spiky wet fur.
When he passed a cook-shop, delicious smells reminded him that he was hungry, so he decided to visit White Hall to claim his back-pay first. He was horrified to learn from the clerks in the Accompting House that he had not been on their records since June. Sure there had been a mistake, he went to the Stone Gallery, and found the Lord Chancellor in earnest conversation with a dark, brooding man who wore the robes of a high-ranking churchman. Chaloner waited until the cleric had gone before approaching the Earl.
‘Sheldon agrees with me,’ confided the Earl gleefully, rubbing his hands together. ‘That will show Parliament who is right!’
Chaloner had no idea what he was talking about, and supposed he would have to read the old newsbooks after all. ‘I am pleased to hear it, sir,’ he replied.
Unfortunately, the Earl knew a noncommittal answer when he heard one. ‘You do not know him, do you! You must settle down and learn something about your own country, not race off to foreign parts at the drop of a hat. Sheldon is the new Archbishop of Canterbury. He has just promised to make a stand against religious dissenters with me. It is good news.’
‘Is it?’ Chaloner did not think so. There were a lot of people who did not want to conform to the Anglican Church’s narrow protocols, and he felt it was unwise to alienate such a large segment of the population. He was sure such a rigid stance would come back to haunt the Earl in the future.
Clarendon’s expression hardened. ‘Yes, it is. There are far too many radical sects, and their false religion is an excuse for sedition and treason. The fires of fanaticism burn hot and wild if left unchecked, and we must douse them while we can. And if you disagree with me, you are a fool.’
‘Yes, sir.’ It was always safer not to argue with anyone where religion was concerned.
Clarendon eyed him coldly. ‘Well? What do you want? Have you come to tell me the name of Newburne’s killer?’
‘I think it may be more complex—’
The Earl held up a plump hand. ‘Do not make excuses. I am tired of being treated with disrespect by all and sundry. Buckingham and his young blades mock me; the King’s mistress flaunts her latest bastard in my face; and you insult me whenever we meet. I have had enough of it.’
‘Perhaps I should stay in White Hall, then, to learn about your enemies’ plans to—’
‘No!’ snapped the Earl. ‘You will assist L’Estrange, as I ordered. I need his goodwill, because he controls the newsbooks, which means he also controls the hearts and minds of London. Ergo, discovering Newburne’s killer is important.’
Chaloner suspected Muddiman controlled a lot more hearts and minds than L’Estrange. ‘He does not want my help, sir. He said to thank you for your kind offer, but to decline it politely.’
The Earl’s eyes narrowed. ‘That means he has something to hide. You will look into this.’
‘I will try my—’
‘No!’ shouted Clarendon, loudly enough to startle several passing nobles. ‘You will not try, you will succeed. And to add an incentive, I shall not put you back on my payroll until you do. I deleted you when you abandoned me for the Queen – why should I pay a man working for another master? – and you will only be reinstated when you have proved your loyalty by exposing Newburne’s killer.’
‘You doubt me, sir?’ Chaloner asked, stunned that the Earl should be suspicious of him after he had risked his life on several occasions to further the man’s cause.
‘I doubt everyone these days. I know you have helped me in the past, but that was then and this is now. If you want to work for me again, you must prove yourself in the matter of Newburne.’
Chaloner was tempted to tell him to go to Hell, but then what would he do? The Earl offered the only opportunity for intelligence work – at least, until the Queen recovered from her illness. And even then it was possible that Chaloner’s foray to the Iberian Peninsula had been a single commission, and she would have her own people for more routine business. Besides, he suspected Her Majesty’s main concern would be the King’s mistresses, and he had no wish to spy on them. Some were infinitely more deadly than the Butcher of Smithfield.
The Earl saw he was cornered, and began to gloat. ‘It was your own decision to dash off to Portugal. I asked you not to accept the Queen’s commission.’
‘Only after you had ordered me to go, when it was too late to change my mind,’ objected Chaloner. ‘If you had made your position clear sooner, I might have been able to think of an excuse.’
‘So, it was my fault, was it?’ demanded the Earl. ‘How dare you! I am the only man in London willing to hire you – and that means you are not in a position to be insolent. I am sick of impudence and I am putting my foot down. I mean to show everyone what I am made of.’
And what he was made of was a lot of petty spite, thought Chaloner. He could not best his peers, so he was venting his spleen on someone who could not fight back. His instinct was to tell the man he was a mean-spirited bigot, but while that would be satisfying, it would do him no good. He swallowed his pride and nodded acceptance of the Earl’s terms.
Clarendon smirked, savouring the victory, then reached out to pull him into the light of one of the windows, peering into his face. ‘Have you been fighting?’
‘Working for you is dangerous,’ retorted Chaloner, ignoring the fact that he did not know for certain whether the ambush was related to his investigation into Newburne. ‘I was attacked trying to question suspects for you.’
‘Well, you seem to have survived,’ said the Earl unfeelingly. ‘What did you learn?’
‘That someone called Wenum has been selling L’Estrange’s news to Muddiman. It is possible that Newburne discovered this, and was killed to ensure his silence. However, it is also possible that he was murdered because of his association with Ellis Crisp—’
‘Spymaster Williamson is investigating Crisp, so he and his nasty Hectors will soon be a thing of the past. He has his best man – a fellow called Hickes – on the case.’
‘Do I know Hickes?’ asked Chaloner. It could not be the apple-seller for two reasons. First, because the man had been ordered to watch
Muddiman, not Crisp. And secondly, because the country was in deep trouble if that slow-witted specimen represented the secret service’s ‘best man’.
‘I have no idea who you might have encountered in the sordid world of espionage,’ replied Clarendon haughtily. ‘So, you think Newburne’s death might be related to the newsbooks, do you? That is unfortunate, because it means I shall be obliged to pay the widow’s pension after all.’
‘All I can do is hunt out the facts, sir. What you do with them is your business.’
The Earl regarded him thoughtfully, and Chaloner braced himself for another dressing down. Instead, Clarendon turned to gaze out of the window. ‘Your discovery about Wenum is interesting. Do you think L’Estrange knows he is being betrayed, and is trying to keep it from the government? Williamson will be furious when he finds out. No wonder the newsletters are always so much better to read than the government-run newsbooks.’
‘L’Estrange is aware that someone is selling his news to a third party, but he does not know the identity of the culprit.’
‘Then tell him,’ ordered the Earl. ‘And make sure he knows the information comes courtesy of me. I warrant Williamson’s agent has not been so assiduous.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Chaloner with a sinking heart. The last thing he needed was to be used as a pawn in a battle between the Earl and Williamson. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Yes. You have five days to unmask Newburne’s killer. It is Wednesday today, so you have until Monday. If you have not solved the matter by then, you can find yourself another master.’
Chaloner left the Stone Gallery feeling his life had just taken a dramatic and unnerving plunge towards disaster – and that the Earl’s own situation was probably not much better. The man was wise to distrust his peers, but there was no need to alienate his staff, too, not unless he wanted to find himself with no allies – and in a place like White Hall, to be friendless was dangerous. He was assailed with a sense of misgiving, not sure he could trust the Earl to reinstate him even if he did provide answers – assuming Crisp or some henchman did not kill him first, of course. And how was he supposed to manage for five days with no money? He was so engrossed in his concerns that he did not hear Bulteel calling him, and the secretary was obliged to tug his sleeve to claim his attention.
The Butcher Of Smithfield: Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 3) Page 18