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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Arise, Tom Newburne,’ said Dorcus bitterly, clutching Joanna’s fingers hard enough to make her wince. ‘Will I never be allowed to forget the shame of that nickname? I should not have let him drink so much last Christmas, and then he would not have tried to knight the Archbishop of Canterbury with that wooden sword.’

  ‘Did he?’ asked L’Estrange, startled. ‘Here is a tale I have never heard before.’

  ‘Nor I,’ said Joanna, equally taken aback. ‘We were aware that he liked a drink, but he was always quiet in his cups. Of course, I am not saying he was a drunkard, only that he—’

  ‘Christmas was different,’ interrupted Dorcus shortly. ‘He was in a good mood then, because Butcher Crisp had offered him a share in his pie enterprise.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ whispered Joanna. ‘Did he accept? Only they are said to contain … well, they are …’

  ‘Pork?’ asked Dorcus, apparently unaware of the rumours that surrounded Crisp’s baked goods. ‘I like pork, especially when cooked with sage and onion.’

  ‘Did your husband know a musician called Maylord?’ asked Chaloner, before the conversation could veer too far into uncharted waters. ‘He is said to have died of cucumbers, too.’

  L’Estrange’s eyebrows drew together in a scowl, but Dorcus answered before he could stop her. ‘Thomas did not fraternise with artisans. He liked music, but not as supplied by that dissolute Court.’

  Chaloner had more questions to ask, because he was not sure what to think about Dorcus. Was she really the grieving, dignified widow she appeared, or did she know more about her husband’s devious activities than she was prepared to admit? Her determination to have the pension, even though she was already rich, was testament to a certain greed, and he was keen to gauge her measure. He was not to be granted the opportunity, however, because L’Estrange declared she was looking pale. Before she could demur, he had gathered her into his arms and swept her upstairs. They were followed by astonished stares from the assembled mourners.

  ‘Heavens!’ said Brome, watching them go. ‘That is bold, even by his standards.’

  ‘She did look wan, though,’ said Joanna. ‘And even he will refrain from seduction on this of all days.’

  Brome struggled to be as charitable as his wife. ‘Perhaps he just wanted to separate her from Heyden. He has said all along that he does not want the Earl prying into his business.’

  ‘Has he?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Does he have a lot to hide, then?’

  ‘I expect so,’ said Joanna guilelessly. ‘He does work for the government, after all. Yet, for all his faults, he is gentle with women, and Dorcus is in kind hands now.’

  Brome sighed his relief. ‘Good. I am more than happy to comfort a distressed widow, but I suspect everyone thinks we are hypocrites for it. We disliked Newburne as much as the next man.’

  ‘Let them think what they like,’ declared Joanna spiritedly. ‘We are doing what is right. Dorcus needs friends, and it is common decency to help her. I am surprised to see so many people here, though. Crisp was the first to arrive, and I think he brought every last Hector with him. I had no idea he was master of such an enormous body of men. They marched in like the Parliamentarians’ New Model Army, all cudgels, guns and glittering swords.’

  ‘I was afraid they might burgle the house while they were here,’ said Brome. ‘There is a rumour that Newburne owned a box of valuable jewels, you see, and I thought they might decide to have a look for it. But they behaved like perfect gentlemen.’

  ‘They will not burgle in broad daylight,’ said Joanna. ‘And there is nothing to say the hoard is here anyway. It might be in one of his other houses – his Thames Street cottage, or the attic he hired on Ave Maria Lane, for example. Of course, that is assuming the box actually exists. I doubt it does.’

  ‘Did he rent rooms at the Rhenish Wine House, too?’ asked Chaloner, wondering if he could establish a connection between the solicitor and the mysterious Wenum.

  Brome and Joanna looked blankly at each other. ‘Not as far as we know,’ replied Brome. ‘Why? Have you discovered otherwise? If so, then it means you have ignored our advice and are continuing to probe.’ There was concern in his eyes, an emotion that was reflected in Joanna’s face, too.

  ‘A friend of mine died of cucumbers in the Rhenish Wine House, just two days after Newburne,’ Chaloner explained, touched by the fact that they seemed anxious for him.

  ‘You mean Maylord?’ asked Joanna. She rested her hand on his arm in a shy gesture of sympathy. ‘I had no idea you were acquainted. I am so sorry. We heard him play several times in White Hall.’

  ‘L’Estrange invited us there, because he knows we like music,’ explained Brome. ‘But do not try to change the subject, Heyden. Our warnings about Newburne were not delivered lightly. In fact, we heard just moments ago that the case may have claimed another casualty. Newburne’s friend Finch has been found dead in his room.’

  Chaloner gazed at them in shock. ‘How did he die?’

  Brome was unhappy. ‘I do not want to tell you. It may encourage you to dive even deeper into these murky waters, laying your life on the line for men who are not worth the risk.’

  Joanna agreed. ‘Your Earl may be the most upright man at Court, but that does not make him an angel, while Crisp … well, suffice to say you are best not attracting his attention, if you can help it.’

  Brome seemed to sense they were wasting their breath, and switched to something less contentious. ‘Joanna wants to hear more about the pirates of Alicante, so will you dine with us tomorrow? We may even have some music after, but do not tell L’Estrange, or he will want to come, too.’

  ‘And then he will do all the talking, and we shall hear nothing about privateers,’ said Joanna. She took Chaloner’s hand, rabbit-eyes pleading. ‘Please come. We would both like to know you better.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner, supposing he was about to make new friends. It was about time, especially as Leybourn was all but lost to Mary and Temperance’s brothel was turning her into a stranger. He was used to being alone, but that did not mean he was never lonely.

  ‘Finch,’ said Brome unhappily. ‘I said I would not tell you how he died, but perhaps if I do, you will understand the folly of pursuing your investigation further. L’Estrange told us the news when we arrived here: Finch died of eating cucumbers.’

  Finch’s house was not far from Old Jewry, and Chaloner had more than an hour before the funeral. He walked briskly, and arrived to find, unlike last time, that there was a bright lamp burning in the corridor on the first floor; he supposed the death of a tenant had forced the landlord to make his building more hospitable to the friends and relatives who might visit. He put his ear to Finch’s door, but it was silent within. He tried the handle. It was locked, but it did not take him long to pick it open. He slipped inside and secured the door behind him.

  He was not sure what he had expected to find, but it was not Finch’s body sprawled on the bed; he had assumed someone would have moved it, or at least straightened the contorted limbs, as a sign of respect.

  He went to inspect it. Finch had been playing his trumpet when he had been overcome, because it was lying on the floor at his side. Since no one who loved music would drop an instrument without good cause, Chaloner supposed it had slipped from his fingers as he had breathed his last. He examined it closely, then put it back where he had found it. He glanced at the table, where a cucumber – or most of one – lay on a plate. There was a knife next to it, as though Finch had been chopping off pieces to eat. There was also a box of Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges.

  He was about to leave when he heard heavy feet ascending the stairs. Unlike at the Rhenish Wine House, this time he was not caught with nowhere to hide. He stepped smartly into the adjoining pantry, which had its own door that led to the hallway. He opened it a crack and peered out, just as the person reached the bedchamber and began to examine the door. He frowned thoughtfully when he recognised the hulking form of the apple-seller.r />
  What was Williamson’s spy doing there, when he should have been watching Muddiman and Dury? Had he been relieved of that duty and given a different assignment, perhaps because it was obvious that his quarry knew he was there? Curiously, Chaloner crept down the corridor as the apple-seller – declining to waste time on picking the lock – smashed the door by hurling his burly frame at it. It shattered into pieces, which meant he could not close it behind him. Thus Chaloner was able to watch exactly what he was doing inside.

  The apple-seller looked slowly around the room. His eyes lingered briefly on the body and, like Chaloner, he knelt to examine the trumpet. Then he stood and walked to the windowsill, on which lay a sheet of music and a half-eaten pie. He grabbed the music and stuffed it in his pocket. Chaloner was mystified. The fellow’s scarred knuckles suggested he would not be manually dextrous enough to manage an instrument – unless it was a drum. Or had Williamson ordered him to collect documents, and he had taken the music because he did not know the difference between letters and notes?

  ‘—funeral at noon,’ came a familiar drawl from the stairs. ‘Are you going? It might be fun.’

  Chaloner had been so intent on watching the apple-seller that he had not noticed the soft-footed approach of other people. The apple-seller also spun around at the noise, and Chaloner found himself trapped between him and the advancing newcomers. He punched the lamp with his fist, plunging the hallway into darkness. The men on the stairs yelled their indignation.

  The apple-seller was rushing towards the corridor, determined to lay hands on whoever was spying on him, so Chaloner darted back to Finch’s pantry and aimed for the window. There was a grunt of surprise when the apple-seller found the hallway empty, and Chaloner began to wrestle with the casement catch. It was rusty, and would not move. He pulled harder, and it squeaked open just as the apple-seller realised Finch had more than one room. Chaloner scrambled on to the sill and launched himself out, sliding down a roof that was slick with slime. He reached the edge, put a hand down to steady himself, and jumped into a gloomy little yard. It was not a huge leap, but landing jolted his lame leg, and he felt the familiar twinge that meant he would limp for the rest of the day.

  He ducked when tiles began to smash around him. At first, he assumed the apple-seller was throwing them, but he glanced up to see the big man trying to claw his way across the roof. It was unequal to his weight, and he released a howl of alarm when he began to slide off. Chaloner hobbled towards the gate. As he did so, he glanced up and saw two heads at Finch’s open window. They belonged to Muddiman and Dury, and he realised it had been Dury’s drawl he had heard on the stairs.

  He was confused. Were the newsmongers following the apple-seller now? And why were any of them visiting Finch? He sensed he could not afford to be identified until he understood what was happening, so he kept his head low, Isabella’s hat shielding his face, as he wrenched open the gate and hurried into the alley on the other side. He heard a thump and several more crashes as the apple-seller finally lost his battle with gravity and hit the ground. Moments later, Chaloner was walking along Cheapside with his hands in his pockets. He was fairly sure none of the three had gained a good look at him in the shadowy yard, but he bundled his coat under his arm and exchanged his hat for a black cap anyway. There was no point in taking unnecessary chances.

  He tried to work out what had happened. Had the apple-seller been sent by Williamson, to look for documents on the government’s behalf ? But why were Muddiman and Dury there – and why had Dury been lurking in the Golden Lion the previous night? Was it because Finch was actually the mysterious Nobert Wenum, and they wanted to dispose of any evidence that might prove it? Finch was Newburne’s friend, after all, and Newburne might well have passed him the newsbooks’ secrets. Yet Finch had been poor, living in a room that verged on the squalid, and there was nothing to suggest he had earned the fortune detailed in the ledger.

  The bells of St Olave’s Church were already tolling for Newburne’s funeral, and Chaloner walked faster when they stopped. He was going to be late. As he went, he turned his thoughts to what his brief foray to Ave Maria Lane had told him about Finch’s death.

  There had been green stains on the man’s fingers, and blisters in his mouth. Like Newburne, he had been poisoned. However, Chaloner was sure the cucumber had not been responsible for two reasons. First, not enough had been eaten to do a man serious harm, even if Finch had suffered from an aversion to them. And secondly, no wind-player ever ate while he practised, because fragments of food might become lodged in an instrument’s innards. Chaloner was sure the cucumber had been left as a diversion, to ensure no one looked deeper into Finch’s demise. He smiled grimly. But the killer was out of luck, because Chaloner would look deeper, and he would discover who had murdered the hapless trumpeter.

  Chaloner was late for the funeral. He opened a door that clanked, so people turned to look at him. A few minutes later, the door rattled a second time, and Dury and Muddiman entered. Chaloner nodded a greeting to them, and the offhand way they responded confirmed that they had not identified him with the disturbance at Finch’s house.

  Deciding to take the bull by the horns, he sauntered towards them. They were looking especially foppish that day, with more lace than a courtesan’s boudoir and a good deal more perfume. He glanced at their feet and saw both wore clean shoes with long toes and gleaming silver buckles. They had not walked to the church from Ave Maria Lane, but had been transported.

  ‘Sedan-chairs,’ explained Muddiman, seeing where he was looking. ‘It is the only way to travel these days. Carriages are too big for alleys, and hackneys are unpredictable – you never know when they might stop and order you out. Sedans are small, manoeuvrable and, if you pay them well, fast.’

  ‘I keep my own,’ added Dury. ‘Do you?’

  Chaloner shook his head. Apart from the fact that he seldom had the money for such extravagance, sedans had an unpleasant jerking motion that took some getting used to. ‘What business makes you late for the requiem of the man who sold you L’Estrange’s news?’ he asked bluntly.

  Muddiman’s eyebrows shot up, and Chaloner suspected he would have issued a jeering laugh had he not been in a church. ‘I produce high-quality work from impeccable sources, and I would never deign to accept anything from Newburne – or any other of L’Estrange’s minions.’

  ‘A man named Wenum kept a ledger that suggests otherwise,’ said Chaloner, wishing he had brought it with him. ‘It details payments made for specific items of news over the last six months. I am sure Williamson will be very interested to learn how you are undermining the government.’

  ‘He will not believe you,’ said Dury. ‘He has had us followed for weeks, hoping to catch us out, but we have nothing to hide. Besides, Wenum is dead – he fell in the Thames about a week ago – so there is no one to corroborate your accusations.’

  ‘And do not think this ledger will prove anything, either,’ added Muddiman, grinning. ‘It will be a forgery. L’Estrange is not the only newsmonger with powerful patrons, and ours will not see us in trouble over some book of dubious origin.’

  Chaloner wondered how they came to know the manner of Wenum’s death, when no one at the Rhenish Wine House had been able to enlighten him. Did it mean Muddiman and Dury had decided Wenum had become too much of a risk, so they had killed him before he could expose them?

  ‘There was a commotion at Hen Finch’s house on Ave Maria Lane not long ago,’ he said, abruptly changing the subject. ‘I saw you two leaving it.’

  ‘We went to arrange his funeral with the landlord,’ said Dury slyly. ‘His friend Newburne is obviously not in a position to do it. Poor Finch. Another victim of the wicked curse of the cucumber.’

  Muddiman chuckled softly when he understood Chaloner’s interest in the trumpeter. ‘You think Finch is Wenum! Well, it is an intriguing theory, but bear in mind that Wenum was swept to his death by the swollen river a week ago, and Finch was still alive last night.’

>   ‘At least a dozen people have died in the floods so far,’ said Dury, regarding the spy in amusement. ‘They like to watch the Thames race by, but they stand too close to the edge and lose their footing. It could happen to anyone. Even you.’ The grin faded, leaving an expression that was far from amiable.

  ‘So, have we answered all your questions now?’ asked Muddiman, inspecting his fingernails. ‘Do you have enough to satisfy your Earl’s curiosity about matters that are none of his concern?’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But I shall.’

  Muddiman’s expression hardened. ‘How we get our news is our affair, and it is not something we shall reveal to the Lord Chancellor’s creature. Be warned: stay away from us.’

  Chaloner treated the remark with the contempt it deserved by ignoring it. ‘Why are you here? You say you did not buy news from Newburne, but I cannot imagine you were friends with him.’

  ‘Everyone in the publishing trade is here,’ replied Dury, gesturing around him with a shrug. ‘It would look odd if we stayed away, and such occasions are wonderful opportunities for business.’

  Chaloner moved away from them. Their clumsy attempts at intimidation did not bother him, but they were the kind of men who gave the Court a bad name – selfish, avaricious, deceitful and superior. Perhaps Williamson had been right to remove Muddiman from the newsbooks, because Chaloner certainly would not trust him to be a loyal servant of the Crown.

  At the end of the service, the vicar announced that L’Estrange had organised some music, as a mark of affection for a lost friend. There were a number of bemused glances at L’Estrange’s claim that he and Newburne had been close, and even Dorcus looked startled. Brome kept his face admirably blank, although Chaloner could see Joanna gaping at his side. The consort hired for the task was Greeting’s, and the playing was excellent, despite the fact that they had lost Maylord and Smegergill within a few days of each other. Chaloner recalled Maylord’s urgent note with a pang of guilt, a feeling that intensified when he thought about his failure to protect Smegergill. He leaned against a pillar full of dark thoughts, and took no pleasure in music that would normally have delighted him.