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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘He is in a foul mood today,’ Bulteel said, jumping back when he saw a dagger appear in the spy’s hand, as if by magic. ‘If I had seen you first, I would have recommended that you communicate in writing. Did he dismiss you? If so, you will be the third today.’

  ‘What is the matter with him?’

  Bulteel gestured with his hand, encompassing everything. ‘He hates politics and intrigue, and would far sooner be at home with his family. Yet when he is home he worries about what might be happening behind his back. That spat with the Earl of Bristol last spring hurt him deeply, and although he emerged victorious, he knows it is only a matter of time before another enemy rises against him.’

  ‘They will rise a lot sooner if he drives away the people who are willing to help him.’

  Bulteel gave one of his shy smiles. ‘He will be sorry tomorrow for what he said to you. Are you still helping him with this Newburne business? He badly needs loyal men, and this is important.’

  ‘Why is it important? I am still not sure he is telling the truth about why he wants the matter investigated. Is it really because he does not want to pay the widow’s pension?’

  Bulteel looked furtive. ‘If I tell you, will you promise never to reveal where you heard it?’ Chaloner nodded cautiously. ‘It is because Newburne was his spy.’

  Chaloner was not surprised, because it had already occurred to him. ‘He said Newburne was hired for legal work, but of course I drew my own conclusions – the Lord Chancellor of England will have access to far better solicitors than poor Newburne. And then he was dismissed for stealing.’

  ‘That was a ruse. Newburne was never dismissed – he was the Earl’s man for more than a decade.’

  Now Chaloner was surprised. From what he had learned of Newburne, the solicitor was not the kind of man with whom any upright noble would want to associate long term. And the Earl was upright, despite his faults. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘He sent us information about Cromwell during the Commonwealth. It was more gossip than genuine intelligence, if the truth be told, but the Earl was grateful anyway. Then he kept us appraised of what was happening in Smithfield as Crisp began to rise in power. And latterly, he reported to us about L’Estrange’s running of the newsbooks.’

  Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘Then perhaps L’Estrange killed Newburne because he objected to being watched. It would explain why he ordered me not to look into the matter.’

  ‘Assuming he knew what Newburne was up to. Our sly solicitor was very careful.’

  ‘Could Newburne have sold L’Estrange’s stories to the newsletters, then?’ Chaloner was asking himself more than Bulteel. ‘With Wenum’s help? If the Earl was his real master, why not betray L’Estrange?’

  Bulteel shrugged. ‘All I can tell you is that he was loyal to us, and the Earl appreciates trustworthiness. He knew Newburne was no angel, and that he dabbled in devious business, but he will miss his reports. I hope you uncover his killer, although you must take care.’

  ‘I always take care.’

  ‘I am sure you do. However, remember that Williamson may have guessed what Newburne was doing, and he has a way of ridding himself of people who cross him. He will not want you exposing him as a killer. Meanwhile, L’Estrange is a hothead, who would think nothing of running you through for an imprudent remark, and you do have an insolent tongue. Also, the booksellers would prefer Newburne to be quietly buried and forgotten. Meanwhile, Crisp’s power is on the increase, and he might well have dispensed with a man who knew too many sensitive details about his business—’

  ‘Is there anyone in London not on your list of suspects?’

  Bulteel thought carefully. ‘The Queen. She had a distemper at the time of Newburne’s death, and was in bed, surrounded by physicians. But I had better deliver these letters, or you will not be the only one to suffer the Earl’s sour temper.’

  Chaloner watched him scurry away, all frayed gown and flapping sleeves. Was he telling the truth? Was the Earl’s determination to catch Newburne’s killer explained at last? And did it really matter, given that Chaloner was obliged to solve the case anyway, if he wanted a job at the end of the week? He was about to leave White Hall when he saw Greeting hurrying towards the Privy Gardens with a violin under his arm. He knew he should go to Ivy Lane and tell L’Estrange about Wenum, but Smegergill’s death was preying on his mind, and he wanted answers.

  ‘The Queen is still ill, and her surgeon says music might help,’ said Greeting rather breathlessly when Chaloner waylaid him. ‘He has chosen me to play, so I cannot talk to you for long.’

  ‘I thought she was getting better.’

  ‘She is, which some courtiers attribute to a rather lovely air I composed and played to her myself. She actually smiled when I finished it, and told me I was an angel.’

  ‘Was she delirious?’

  Greeting winced. ‘I suppose that remark pertains to my shabby clothes. Where did you buy that coat? I wish my Court appointment provided me with a decent income. I can never make ends meet, no matter how hard I try. Will you put in a word for me with the Lord Chancellor? I understand you clerk for him, when your duties at the Victualling Office allow. I could clerk, too, in my spare time.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear about Smegergill. I understand he was a member of your consort.’

  ‘I could hardly believe it, especially so soon after Maylord. I live in Smithfield, and Hingston – the organist – is staying with me, because his house is flooded. It might have been we who were attacked.’

  Chaloner was surprised he should think so. ‘I thought a coach was provided, to deliver you all safely home. You were never in any danger.’

  Greeting pulled a disagreeable face. ‘You obviously do not hire many hackneys. When only Hingston and I were left, the driver demanded a higher fare than we had agreed, and when we refused, he ordered us out. We walked past the very place where Smegergill was murdered. Indeed, we saw Crisp arrive to inspect the scene of the crime, but we never dreamed Smegergill was the victim. We should not have let him go with that stranger; I blame myself for not demanding the villain’s identity.’

  ‘Would Smegergill not have resented the interference? I was told he could be difficult.’

  Greeting gave a wan smile. ‘That is putting it mildly – he was downright contumacious at times.’

  ‘He told me he was afraid he might be taken to Bedlam.’

  ‘He often talked about that, but I am not sure if it was a genuine concern or a bizarre way of fishing for compliments – his mind could be very sharp at times. Two of our colleagues were taken to Bedlam recently, although not for insanity. There is a rumour that they were spies, and that Williamson caught them red-handed. It sent a clear message to all would-be informers: dabble in espionage at your peril.’

  ‘You are wet,’ said Chaloner, indicating Greeting’s sodden clothes. ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘I have just come from the Rhenish Wine House, where Maylord’s will was read. He left everything to Smegergill, and it is a pity the old man did not survive to enjoy any of it.’

  ‘Did Maylord own a lot of property, then?’

  ‘A fair amount – two houses, a large collection of books and musical instruments, a shop of some kind, money invested with bankers. Oh, and there was a fine nag, too.’

  ‘Nag?’ Chaloner was thinking about the other cucumber victims – the equerry and the horse-trader.

  ‘A racing beast. He kept it at Newmarket, although I do not think he was very interested in the sport. It was an investment, for when he could no longer earn a living by music. There is a lesson for us, Heyden. There is no point in worrying about the future, because there may not be one.’

  ‘I have been told that someone owed him money, or that he was being cheated.’

  ‘Very possibly. It would explain why he was angry and nervous in the two weeks before he died. The Court is infested with vultures, and his good nature would have made him easy prey.’

  ‘Poor Smegergill
,’ said Chaloner sadly. ‘Maylord’s money would have kept him from Bedlam.’

  ‘He knew he was Maylord’s beneficiary – we all did. There are those who say he gave Maylord the cucumber, because he wanted his inheritance.’

  Chaloner did not believe for an instant that Smegergill had hastened Maylord’s end. The old man’s distress when told his friend had been murdered was genuine. ‘What do you think?’

  Greeting raised his eyebrows. ‘That this is White Hall, and people would gossip about the saints themselves, should they be unfortunate enough to find themselves here.’

  Chaloner walked to Ivy Lane, thinking about the best way to tell L’Estrange about Wenum. He did not want to accuse someone who might have been a much-loved friend, and risk L’Estrange brandishing a sword at him. Chaloner would probably win the encounter, but he did not want to be arrested for wounding a government official – or worse.

  When he arrived, Brome’s shop was full. The bookseller and Joanna were dealing with a healthy queue of customers, while L’Estrange was grumbling about the length of time it took for his papers to be printed. Hodgkinson was explaining that ink took a while to dry, and that rushing the process resulted in smudged and unreadable text.

  ‘Alcohol of sulphur,’ said Chaloner. L’Estrange and the printer stared at him. ‘In Holland, printers add alcohol of sulphur to ink, because they say it promotes faster drying. I have no idea if it works—’

  ‘Buy some,’ ordered L’Estrange, turning back to Hodgkinson. ‘We must do something to give us an edge over Muddiman. But why are you here, Heyden? I told you I do not want you investigating Newburne’s demise. He died of cucumbers, so let that mark the end of the matter.’

  ‘I came to give you more intelligence about Portugal,’ replied Chaloner. He handed over the notice he had written in Thurloe’s room the previous evening.

  L’Estrange read aloud. ‘“About the beginning of October, the Earl of San Juao, with 5500 foot, 1300 horse and 8 field pieces entered into old Castile, out of the province Tras os Montes, and passed far into the country without opposition, where he sacked a matter of 60 towns and places, but burnt none, for His Majesty had forbidden it”. Is this true?’

  Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Of course it is true!’

  ‘Have you sold this to Muddiman, too?’ demanded L’Estrange. His earrings glittered as walked to the window to read the rest of the report, and Chaloner thought he moved like a tiger, all compact muscles and soft-footed tread. ‘You hope to be paid twice for the same piece?’

  Chaloner half-wished he had thought of it. ‘Is that what your other sources do?’

  L’Estrange finished reading and shoved the paper in his pocket. ‘They would not dare. The government newsbooks are Spymaster Williamson’s domain, and only a fool crosses him.’

  Was Wenum a fool, then, wondered Chaloner. Did betraying the Spymaster account for his death, and perhaps Newburne’s, too? Was this what the Lord Chancellor wanted his spy to discover – that a powerful minister was responsible for a series of murders? And if so, was it to bring Williamson down with the disgrace, to acquire a way of controlling the Spymaster for his own ends, or to pit Chaloner against a deadly adversary to avenge himself for what he saw as a lack of loyalty?

  ‘If people are so frightened of Williamson, then why are Muddiman’s newsletters so often ahead of the newsbooks?’ Chaloner asked. ‘Obviously someone is not afraid to sell secrets.’

  L’Estrange’s eyes narrowed, and his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. ‘You have a blunt tongue, and I am tempted to cut it out. The Lord Chancellor will not mind – he has complained about your insolence on several occasions.’

  ‘Do not stoop to violence, Roger,’ said a chubby woman, edging forward to rest her hand on his arm. She was pretty after a fashion, with pale blue eyes. ‘It will make a mess on the floor.’

  L’Estrange’s expression immediately softened. ‘Mrs Hickes, my dear,’ he crooned, bending to kiss her cheek; she simpered at him. ‘You know I would do nothing to offend you.’

  ‘Mrs Hickes is the spouse of Williamson’s best spy,’ whispered Hodgkinson in Chaloner’s ear. ‘Hickes is also supposed to be investigating Newburne’s death, although I am told he has had scant success so far.’

  ‘His mind is probably on what L’Estrange is doing to his wife,’ murmured Chaloner, thinking of Mrs Muddiman and wondering whether any woman was safe from the man’s advances.

  Hodgkinson chuckled. ‘I wish I knew his secret. They all seem to melt at his feet, even the ones devoted to their husbands. Like Mrs Newburne.’

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. Was this yet another motive for murder? ‘Did they actually—’

  ‘They enjoyed each other’s company when Newburne was out. Beyond that, I know nothing.’

  ‘Did Newburne know nothing, too?’

  ‘I cannot say, although it is no secret that L’Estrange has a penchant for married ladies. However, even if Newburne did not know about the visits, he certainly would have been aware that L’Estrange would go a-calling sooner or later.’

  Chaloner watched Mrs Hickes leave the bookshop with the other customers, and was astonished to note that she was not the only one who flung L’Estrange a longing glance as she walked through the door. So did the wife of Mr Smith of the Bell Inn, who had apparently come to make sure the advertisement for his stolen horse was going to appear in The Newes the following day.

  ‘We were talking about betrayal, Heyden,’ said L’Estrange, dropping his courtly leer as soon as the ladies had gone, and only he, Hodgkinson, Brome and Joanna were left. Chaloner noticed that L’Estrange’s liking for married women did not extend to Joanna, whom he all but ignored. ‘You want to know why Muddiman always has the news before me? It is because of phanatiques.’

  Joanna stepped forward, her eyes great frightened orbs. ‘It is not phanatiques,’ she said in a trembling voice, clearly uneasy at contradicting the great man. ‘Someone is sending our intelligence to rivals, but not for sinister political reasons. The traitor is being paid for them. It is all about money.’

  ‘Nobert Wenum,’ said Chaloner. ‘Does he work for you?’

  All four looked blankly at each other. ‘I have never heard of him,’ said Brome. ‘He is nothing to do with the bookshop.’

  ‘And there is no one at my print-houses by that name, either,’ added Hodgkinson. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘The man who has been selling your secrets.’ Chaloner handed over the annotated copy of The Newes and the ledger, with a brief explanation of what each logged entry meant.

  Hodgkinson snatched the paper from the startled L’Estrange. His jaw dropped and he turned to Chaloner in horror. ‘But this is not due to be made public until tomorrow! How did you come by it?’

  ‘And this book?’ asked Joanna, peering over L’Estrange’s shoulder. ‘Where did you find it? It proves something is amiss – just as Henry and I have suspected for weeks. Oh, dear!’

  Brome’s face was filled with dismay. ‘So, it is true, after all? I was hoping we were mistaken, because betraying the official newsbooks is such a monstrous thing. Treason, in fact.’

  ‘I found both in a room rented by Wenum,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Apparently, he has a rash on his jaw and is probably a Hector.’

  ‘That describes you,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘There is a mark on your jaw, and you might be a Hector. You work for a government minister, and they are not averse to hiring felons for certain business.’

  ‘Do not confuse Heyden’s Earl with Williamson,’ said Joanna quietly. ‘They are not the same.’

  Chaloner was not so sure. ‘Can you think of anyone else who matches that description?’ he asked, looking at each one in turn.

  Hodgkinson shook his head, L’Estrange continued to glare at the ledger, and Joanna’s expression was one of appalled disbelief. Her mouth hung open slightly, so her teeth seemed longer than usual.

  ‘Can you tell us anything else about him?’ asked Brome. ‘The colour of his
hair? His height?’

  ‘I have never seen him,’ said Chaloner. He pointed to the paper Hodgkinson still held. ‘However, it looks as though he was proof-reading The Newes in his lodgings. If you give me a list of the people you employ in such a capacity, I can investigate them for you.’

  Brome and Joanna exchanged an acutely uncomfortable glance. ‘Perhaps you had better tell him, Mr L’Estrange,’ said Joanna unhappily. She cringed when the editor glared at her, but she stood her ground. ‘Tell him their names. Please.’

  ‘My proof-readers are not traitors,’ declared L’Estrange, lobbing the ledger at Chaloner to express his contempt for the evidence it provided. ‘I do not employ men for that task, and especially not Hectors with rashes. I hire women. So, you can take your damned accusations elsewhere.’

  Chaloner tried to be patient. ‘Then perhaps one of these women passed the proofs to Wenum—’

  ‘No!’ snapped L’Estrange. ‘There are a dozen ladies who work as my proof-readers, and I can vouch for the loyalty of every one. I call them my Army of Angels, and they make a pleasant change from dealing with damned phanatiques.’ He glared around, suggesting he thought there were several damned phanatiques in the room with him at that precise moment.

  ‘Tell me who they are,’ pressed Chaloner. ‘If they have done nothing wrong, it will—’

  ‘I most certainly shall not. This is none of your affair – and none of the Lord Chancellor’s either. They are good ladies, and I will not let you loose on them.’

  ‘But we need this matter resolved,’ said Brome, making no effort to hide his frustration. He turned to Chaloner. ‘They are the wives of wealthy citizens who have time for the careful, painstaking work of checking type for errors. It is not difficult, but it is exacting, and not everyone has an eye for it.’