‘Ladies are better than men,’ said L’Estrange, on the defensive now. ‘Men are careless, and you never know when one might transpire to be a phanatique.’
Brome appealed to the editor’s sense of self-preservation. ‘If Williamson sees that annotated paper, he will draw the same conclusion Heyden did – that a proof-reader is responsible. We do not want him thinking we are protecting the culprit, because it will mean us losing our shop, and you losing your government appointments.’
L’Estrange scowled. ‘I worked hard for these posts. I will not let anyone take them from me.’
‘Then let us make sure no one does.’ Brome turned to Chaloner. ‘Our proof-readers include Mrs Smith and Mrs Hickes, both of whom were here just now. Also, Mrs Newburne, Mrs Muddiman …’
‘The wife of your rival?’ asked Chaloner, shocked. ‘And she does this proof-reading at home?’
‘Of course not!’ shouted L’Estrange, shooting Brome and then Chaloner furious glares. ‘She does it here. They all do. We go upstairs together, and I supervise them very closely. No draft newsbook ever leaves the premises. I am inordinately fond of Mrs Muddiman, but I am not such a fool as to let her take a pre-published journal to her husband’s lair.’
But he was fool enough to let her see them in the first place, thought Chaloner, and if she had a good memory, she might even be able to quote them verbatim to her grateful spouse. Then he recalled the way she had spoken about L’Estrange and wondered whether the editor’s piratical charm was sufficient to keep a still tongue in her head. He was bemused. Surely not every woman L’Estrange encountered fell for him, especially if she knew she was only one of dozens so favoured? Chaloner could see nothing remotely attractive in the dark, glittering features, the swinging earrings and the gap-toothed grin, but supposed there was no accounting for taste.
‘Is there a Mrs Hodgkinson?’ he asked, of the printer. ‘Is she a member of this Army of Angels?’
‘She lives in the country,’ said the printer. He shot a defiant look at L’Estrange, making Chaloner wonder whether she had been sent there for a reason.
‘Other Angels include Mrs Allestry and Mrs Nott,’ continued Brome, ignoring L’Estrange’s furious sigh at his continued revelations. ‘And then there is—’
‘The wives of the booksellers?’ interrupted Chaloner, his mind reeling. ‘The booksellers L’Estrange fined in his capacity as Surveyor of the Press?’
‘Their unfortunate marriages make no difference to their ability to highlight printing errors,’ said L’Estrange haughtily. ‘And they are pleased to help me, because I reduced their husbands’ fines substantially, out of the goodness of my heart. They are indebted to me.’
‘Apart from the Army of Angels, security is very tight,’ said Joanna, trying to be helpful. ‘All unpublished proofs are locked in a chest in Mr L’Estrange’s office. They only leave the building when they go to Mr Hodgkinson for printing.’
‘The government contract is important to me,’ added Hodgkinson, when Chaloner turned towards him. ‘I am not so rash as to risk losing it by selling news to Muddiman. My compositors produce one copy – for proof-reading – in advance of the main print-run, and I bring it to L’Estrange myself.’
‘We have a little ritual,’ said L’Estrange scathingly. ‘I lock it in my chest, and he watches.’
It was Hodgkinson’s turn to become defensive. ‘Damn right I do! I do not want to be accused of letting news escape to our rivals. I cannot imagine a worse fate than to fall foul of the Spymaster.’
‘Who has the key to this chest?’ asked Chaloner.
‘I do,’ said L’Estrange, holding it up. ‘And Newburne had the only other in existence. But this is none of your business, and I resent the implication that we are lax—’
‘Where is Newburne’s key now?’
‘I would like the answer to that question, too,’ said Brome. He flinched when L’Estrange whipped around to scowl at him.
‘It is not just your livelihood, but ours, too,’ said Joanna, going to stand next to her spouse. She swallowed uneasily when L’Estrange fixed her with his glittering eyes, and her fingers tightened around her husband’s arm. But she took a deep breath and finished what she wanted to say. ‘Henry and I have worked hard for this shop, and we love it dearly. Please answer Mr Heyden’s questions, or run the risk of Williamson asking them instead.’
‘Williamson!’ jeered L’Estrange unpleasantly. ‘How will he find out about any of this?’
‘Because I shall tell him,’ said Joanna defiantly. ‘I would rather you were cross with me than have Williamson thinking Henry and I are traitors. I will tell him about this Wenum fellow.’
Chaloner watched L’Estrange seethe with impotent rage, and was impressed that such a timid woman had mustered the courage to defy him. He suspected, however, that she had fired all her cannon with the threat, and that a serious counter-attack from L’Estrange would see her crumble. Fortunately for Joanna, L’Estrange was less adept at reading people.
‘You would not dare,’ he breathed, but there was uncertainty in his voice.
‘Would she not?’ asked Brome, putting his arm around her. His voice dripped pride. ‘There is strength in my Joanna, so you had better do as she says.’
‘I do not know where Newburne kept his key,’ L’Estrange snapped. ‘But his funeral is tomorrow, so I shall ask his widow.’
‘Good,’ said Joanna. ‘But be sure you do not forget, or I will pay a visit to White Hall.’
In the absence of anyone else to pick on, L’Estrange homed in on Chaloner. ‘Here is a shilling. I do not usually pay for news in advance of publication, but I want you gone from my office – permanently. I resent your accusations and the way you have turned my staff against me.’
‘I shall take my article about the pirates of Alicante to Muddiman, then,’ said Chaloner.
L’Estrange had been in the process of stalking from the room, but he stopped dead in his tracks, and his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. With a weary sigh, Brome stepped forward.
‘What Heyden meant to say was that he will be obliged to come to your office for as long as he has information to sell you,’ he said quietly. ‘He did not intend to sound insolent.’
‘You had better pay him double, though,’ said Joanna. She was buoyed up by her victory, and the rabbit face wore a small smirk of triumph when the editor turned to gape at her. ‘I have it on good authority that Muddiman pays two shillings for decent intelligence. And tales about pirates from Alicante come into the category of “decent”, I would say.’
L’Estrange seemed about to give her a piece of his mind, but she met his glower with a steady gaze, and it was he who backed down. He tossed a second shilling at Chaloner.
‘Here,’ he snarled, before rounding on the Bromes. Both flinched, and Joanna’s bravado began to slip. ‘But this is as far as your nasty rebellion goes. Any further insurgence and I shall take my business to another bookseller. I will not tolerate phanatiques in the ranks.’
He stamped from the room.
‘You were magnificent,’ said Hodgkinson to Joanna. ‘I always said L’Estrange would be lost were it not for your common sense, and today you proved it yet again. Forcing him to cooperate with the Lord Chancellor is good for us all, and you did the right thing by standing up to him. Both of you.’
Brome rubbed his eyes with shaking hands. ‘My nerves are frayed, and I need the medicinal effects of a dish of coffee. We shall go to Haye’s Coffee House and Heyden can write about the pirates there.’
‘Good,’ said Joanna. ‘Mr L’Estrange will be back to collect the advertisements soon, and we do not want him to find Mr Heyden still here. I have had enough turmoil for one day, thank you!’
While Brome went to fetch his coat, Chaloner smiled his thanks at Joanna for getting him the extra shilling. She beamed back at him, all teeth and gums. He found himself beginning to like her, appreciating how difficult it must have been for such a timid woman to oppose a charisma
tic bully like L’Estrange. Hodgkinson was doubtless right in that the Bromes kept L’Estrange from doing too much damage to the newsbooks – and to himself – but Chaloner doubted it was easy. He was glad he was not obliged to keep the man in check, sure it would tax his diplomatic abilities – such as they were – to the limit. The shop door rattled suddenly, and a fat, red-faced merchant waddled in.
‘May I help you?’ asked Joanna. She patted the rabbitear braids at the side of her head, and smoothed down her apron as she walked towards him. ‘We at the newsbooks are always ready to—’
‘I want to place an advertisement,’ declared the man. ‘I lost a grey gelding from the Queen’s Arms, Feversham, and everyone should know there is a reward for information leading to its safe return.’
Joanna began to write. ‘Your name, sir? And where do you—’
‘James Bradnox of Vintners’ Hall. Mr Wright told me he placed a notice in The Newes, and his nag was home within a week.’ Bradnox addressed Hodgkinson and Chaloner, assuming them to be customers, too. ‘These advertisements mean it is difficult for stolen animals to be sold on the open market – traders know what is currently missing, see. Newsbook notices are five shillings well spent.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Joanna. ‘I have been told several times that our most important function is to facilitate honesty in the horse trade. Of course, we have other functions, as well, and we—’
‘It is important,’ insisted Bradnox. ‘Far more valuable than that rubbish about phanatiques. Who cares about them? Yet we all care about horses.’
‘The newsbooks were founded to keep the people informed of current events,’ said Chaloner when Bradnox had gone. ‘Yet they are loaded with notices about missing livestock. It seems they—’
‘I know,’ cried Joanna, wringing her hands unhappily. ‘Mr L’Estrange does not mind, because they cost five shillings each and they take up space. I know it is wrong, and that people would rather have real news, but what can we do? If we did not sell advertisements, we would be limited to whatever he wants to write about phanatiques. And the occasional piece about Spanish pirates.’
‘It is just as well I am going out,’ said Brome, as he returned wearing a coat that was buttoned to his chin, as if he thought he might catch cold otherwise. ‘Mrs Chiffinch’s carriage has just pulled up outside. She looks upset, and I imagine her husband has been unfaithful again. She will not appreciate me being here, when all she wants is another woman’s ear.’
L’Estrange had also seen the coach, and was thundering down the stairs from his office, eyes and earrings gleaming. Chaloner supposed the feckless Chiffinch was about to learn that wives could be unfaithful as well as husbands – or that the Army of Angels was about to receive another recruit. He, Brome and Hodgkinson left the editor fawning over the new arrival, while Joanna hovered uncertainly in the background. Before he closed the door behind him, Chaloner saw Mrs Chiffinch looking rather pleased with the editor’s attentions, and wondered yet again what women saw in the fellow.
‘L’Estrange has a fiery temper,’ he said, as the three of them walked along Ivy Lane.
Brome nodded. ‘His sword is in and out of its scabbard like nobody’s business these days. The death of Newburne has unnerved him more than he likes to admit.’
‘And yet he does not want it investigated?’ said Chaloner.
‘Some stones are better left unturned, and Newburne really did emerge from under a particularly slimy one. I would not want the responsibility of determining what happened to him – assuming anything untoward did, of course.’
‘That surgeon’s report relieved me of the responsibility of probing further, thank God,’ said Hodgkinson fervently. ‘I wish to know no more about the affair, and neither does L’Estrange.’
‘Muddiman’s newsletters make for interesting reading,’ said Brome, off on a tangent. ‘They contain so much domestic information. I do not wish to be rude, Heyden, because I am sure Alicante is a fascinating place, but I would much rather read about events in London.’
‘Ask Williamson for some, then,’ said Chaloner. ‘He is Spymaster General, so should be awash with intelligence, not to mention political reports. If anyone can supply you with home news, it is he.’
‘And there lies the problem,’ said Brome glumly. ‘He does not like to part with it. He thinks telling the public too much about what the government does will encourage them to disagree with it.’
Chaloner laughed. ‘He is almost certainly right.’
A beggar was singing a ballad in a pitiful, wavering voice, and Brome stopped to give him a penny. It took a long time for him to unbutton his coat, locate his purse and refasten the garment again. Chaloner might have been moved to pity, too, had he not seen the fellow in the window of a nearby cook-shop earlier, enjoying a sumptuous meal. The man was a trickster, who preyed on the kind-hearted. They were about to move on when Brome happened to glance back up the road.
‘Oh, no!’ he breathed in horror.
‘Butcher Crisp!’ exclaimed Hodgkinson, equally alarmed. Chaloner saw a man in a wide-brimmed hat and a long cloak striding purposefully along the street. ‘Is he going inside your shop?’
‘Joanna!’ gasped Brome in a strangled voice. He ran a few steps, then stopped in relief. ‘No, he is passing by. Lord save us! I thought for a moment that he might have come to register a complaint about L’Estrange’s rant on criminals last week. Felons can be sensitive, and Crisp might think some of the comments were directed against him personally.’
‘They were,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘L’Estrange all but said his empire should be crushed.’
‘You should have seen the article before I edited it,’ said Brome. ‘It was full of names and unfounded accusations. I deleted them, because there is no point in asking for trouble. And thank God I did! I do not like the notion of Crisp invading our shop and venting his spleen on my Joanna.’
Nor did Chaloner. A willingness to oppose L’Estrange occasionally did not equate with being able to cope with the notorious Butcher of Smithfield. Joanna would have been out of her league.
‘Crisp often uses Ivy Lane when he travels between Smithfield and St Paul’s,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘The Hectors run a lottery in the cathedral, you see, and he likes to keep an eye on it. He is turning the corner now, Brome. You need not race home to protect your wife.’
Brome shot the printer a rueful smile. ‘Good! I am not built for dealing with rough men. Even Joanna is better at it than me. She has great courage. Not every woman could work in the same building as L’Estrange and have the strength and ingenuity to dodge his advances. I am not sure if our business would have succeeded, if it were not for her. But I do hate that man.’
‘L’Estrange?’ asked Chaloner.
Brome grimaced. ‘Actually, I admire L’Estrange, because he follows his conscience. His morality does not always coincide with my own principles, but he has the courage to do what he thinks is right, no matter what the consequences.’
‘So do fanatics,’ said Chaloner acidly. ‘That is what they are: people who think they know better than anyone else.’
Brome declined to argue. ‘When I said I hated that man, I was referring to Crisp. I am not ashamed to admit that he terrifies me.’
‘There are his Hectors,’ said Hodgkinson, pointing to several unsavoury-looking characters. ‘I did not think they would be far away. He seldom leaves his domain without them these days, although they keep their distance, to maintain the illusion that he is a normal citizen.’
‘He is not normal,’ said Brome with a shudder.
Haye’s Coffee House was another smoky, busy place, located in an alley so narrow that carts could not access it. It meant pedestrians could, though, and were not obliged to be constantly on the look-out for wheeled vehicles that did not care what they hit. A large dog sat outside, chewing what appeared to be a wad of tobacco. Inside, the owner Robert Haye had let his beans roast too long, and the air was thick with the reek of burning. The mishap did not stop
him from grinding them up and seething them in boiling water, though, and the resulting beverage was far from pleasant. There were complaints galore, but Haye pointed out that coffee tasted nasty even when prepared properly, and if his patrons wanted the benefits of the aromatic herb, they should drink what they were given. Chaloner was astonished when everyone did, thinking that customers in Portugal would not have been so meekly compliant.
‘What news?’ called Brome to the throng, as he, Hodgkinson and Chaloner squeezed on to a bench where there was not really enough room for them.
‘You are the newsmonger, so you tell us,’ quipped Nott, the Lord Chancellor’s bun-haired bookseller. His companions laughed.
‘And if you have none, Nott will tell you about the vicar of Wollaston,’ said a fat man in an apothecary’s hat.
Brome exchanged an uneasy glance with Hodgkinson. ‘We are carrying that story in tomorrow’s Newes, so how do you know it already?’
Nott held up a handwritten newsletter. ‘The vicar’s Book of Common Prayer was so besmeared with tar and grease that he was obliged to use another one to conduct the divine service. I warrant L’Estrange will blame phanatiques.’
There was more laughter, and Brome looked dismayed. ‘Damn this Wenum and his treachery! I am not a violent man, but I would like to punch him for what he is doing to us. Will you stop him, Heyden? I know L’Estrange told you not to meddle, but this cannot go on.’
‘Wenum is dead,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But he may have had connections to Newburne. And I am obliged to investigate him, because the Lord Chancellor ordered me to do so.’
‘Good,’ said Brome. ‘However, I recommend you do not tell L’Estrange. It would be a pity to lose you to his ready sword.’
Hodgkinson pulled a face when he tasted Haye’s beverage. ‘Try a pipe, Heyden. It takes away the taste of coffee, which is the only reason men smoke. If there was no coffee, there would be no need for tobacco.’
‘I disagree,’ said Brome, tearing his thoughts away from dead men and stolen news. ‘Tobacco has its own virtues, and its popularity is quite independent of coffee. Joanna likes a pipe on occasion, but she would never touch coffee.’
The Butcher Of Smithfield: Chaloner's Third Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 3) Page 20