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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘He said you work for the government – that men of power give you unusual commissions. He believes these duties account for your condition that night. He also said you are fiercely loyal to the King, and would do anything for him. Perhaps that includes murdering old musicians.’

  Chaloner knew Leybourn had offered the explanation because he had not wanted her to think badly of him. However, confiding such details carried its own dangers, and Chaloner heartily wished Leybourn had said nothing at all. He was about to reply when she gave a sudden frown, and he turned to see Thurloe walking towards them.

  ‘Another of William’s faithful friends,’ she sneered. ‘He is happier with me than when he just had you two for company. Why can you not accept that, and leave us alone?’

  ‘He means a great deal to me, madam,’ said Thurloe. He shot her one of his unreadable smiles. ‘I love him as a brother, and would sacrifice anything to see him content.’

  Mary was momentarily disconcerted, not quite sure what he was saying. Nor was Chaloner, although he doubted the ex-Spymaster was merely making pleasant conversation. If Mary had any sense, she would take pains to ensure she did nothing to annoy Thurloe.

  ‘I do not want William associating with murderers,’ she said loudly, resuming her attack on Chaloner, who was easier to read. ‘You killed Smegergill, which probably means you killed Maylord, too. They were friends, and the death of one almost drove the other insane before you dispatched him. I heard Smegergill went around telling people that he was Caesar.’

  ‘Thomas has not killed anyone, madam,’ said Thurloe. He leaned closer to her, and his voice was smooth and softly menacing. Even Chaloner, who had known him for years, was slightly unsettled by it. ‘At least, not yet. He was out of the country when Maylord died, and this can be proven by a dozen witnesses in a court of law. You would be wise to drop your accusations.’

  She was unnerved, but not such a novice in the world of deception that she was ready to back away without some bluster. ‘You think you can prise me away from William, but you are wrong. He loves me, and I shall stay with him for as long as I choose. And I meant what I said the other night, Heyden: you will be sorry if you cross me – and so will William.’

  She stamped away, and the Scottish Hector moved to intercept her. She took a breath, and Chaloner sensed she was about to tell him what had transpired. Then she glanced back, and there was something in Thurloe’s expression that stopped her. She swallowed hard and reconsidered; from her gestures, Chaloner could tell she was making innocuous observations about the funeral.

  ‘She is just a bag of wind,’ said Thurloe, watching. ‘She cannot harm you.’

  ‘Yes, she can. She is talking to one of the men who attacked me in Smithfield. He visited her late last night, and when he left he stole Will’s silver goblets – the ones from the Royal Society.’

  Thurloe was horrified. ‘That particular man is a Hector – a fellow called Kirby. I arrested him on suspicion of conspiring to murder Cromwell once, but was forced to release him for lack of evidence. I have always assumed the Hectors’ loyalty to the Cavalier cause during the Commonwealth is why the government has turned a blind eye to their felonious activities ever since the Restoration.’

  ‘And perhaps why Williamson hires them when he needs dirty work done.’

  ‘Very possibly. So, it seems Mary Cade is dangerous after all.’

  Chaloner nodded, but made no other reply. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the three investigations that confronted him, and he was afraid for Leybourn.

  Thurloe patted his arm consolingly. ‘You will find answers, do not fear. But do not allow yourself to be blinded by guilt over Smegergill. I have told you before that there may be more to his death than a harmless old man hit over the head and left to drown.’

  ‘I am running out of time,’ said Chaloner gloomily. ‘The Earl wants Newburne’s killer named by Monday, and I will be dismissed if I fail. And I have a thousand questions but no answers.’

  Thurloe gave one of his small smiles. ‘I have an answer for you. Nobert Wenum. I was mulling it over last night, and it is an anagram. Rearrange the letters, and what do you get?’

  Chaloner stared at him, his mind working fast. ‘Tom Newburne!’

  Thurloe inclined his head. ‘Precisely. So, the man with the annotated copy of The Newes, who kept a careful record of the sales he made to L’Estrange’s rivals, was none other than your devious solicitor. You should not be surprised – you already knew he was corrupt.’

  Chaloner was not happy with the explanation. ‘I also know he was clever, so why would he choose such an obvious alias?’

  ‘It was not obvious, Thomas. You had not worked it out.’

  But Chaloner was still not convinced. ‘The landlord of the Rhenish Wine House made disparaging remarks about Newburne. I doubt he would have let him rent one of his attics.’

  ‘Newburne disguised his name, so perhaps he disguised his face, too. What did the neighbour say about Wenum? That he had a jaw that looked leprous? One of the first things I taught you about disguises is that if you give yourself an outstanding characteristic – a scarlet nose, a big moustache, lousy hair – people will see that and nothing else. Perhaps Newburne devised himself a disfiguring rash knowing that no one would remember anything more about him.’

  Chaloner supposed it made sense. And if it had been Newburne renting the room next to Maylord, it made for another connection between the two deaths. Had Maylord heard or seen something about the lawyer’s dubious activities that had frightened him into trying to solicit Chaloner’s help?

  ‘Only two men have made positive comments about Newburne,’ he mused. ‘His friend Finch, who was not objective. And Muddiman, who said Newburne was not as corrupt as everyone claimed.’

  Thurloe saw where his analysis was going. ‘The ledger is proof that Wenum – Newburne – was selling secrets to L’Estrange’s rivals, including Muddiman. Muddiman’s assertion that Newburne was not as bad as he appeared may have been him protecting an ally. You still look doubtful. Don’t be. Sometimes things really are just what they seem.’

  Late that night, Chaloner revisited Hen Finch’s home. The body had been removed, and so had various other items, including anything written. As no house was ever completely devoid of documents – all men had a letter from a friend, a deed of ownership, or even a bill of sale tucked away somewhere – he assumed they had been removed en masse. He had no idea whether Finch was associated with Newburne’s corrupt dealings, but someone was obviously taking no chances.

  Next, he went to Newburne’s house on Old Jewry, watching it from the garden until he was sure everyone was in bed and all lights doused. A window on the first floor had been left open, and he scaled the wall and climbed inside with a confidence born of experience. He listened carefully, but the household was exhausted by the strains of the day, and everyone was sound asleep.

  He had paid careful attention to Dorcus’s tearful eulogies during the post-funeral gathering, and had concluded she had had scant idea about the real nature of her husband’s businesses. She had also expressed surprise when Hodgkinson had mentioned late nights kept when the newsbooks were being printed, leading Chaloner to deduce that she and Newburne had occupied separate bedrooms. There were several chambers on the upper floor, but only one with a door left open. Chaloner stepped inside it, and knew from its lingering aroma of sweat and tobacco that it had been used by a man.

  He closed the door and lit the lamp, and it did not take him long to locate what he had come to find. There was a tiny box on a shelf near the window, with a piece of paper glued to the lid that identified its contents as Theophilus Buckworth’s Personal Lozenges. He assumed they were the pills Dorcus said her husband had swallowed the day he had died.

  Wearing gloves, he picked one up and sniffed it, but could not tell whether its unpleasant aroma was medicinal or something sinister. He rubbed it on the inside of his wrist, under the lace of his cuff, and it left a greenish smear.
Nothing happened, so he searched the rest of the room, disappointed when it yielded nothing to help his investigation. He supposed the solicitor had kept his sensitive papers in his various lairs across the city. Then he became aware of an unpleasant burning on his arm. He pulled up his sleeve and saw blisters. He rinsed them with water from a pitcher in the closet, but they continued to sting for some time, even so.

  He now had an explanation for two deaths. The lozenges had killed Newburne, although not instantly, and he had lived long enough for the cucumber to bear the blame – perhaps the burning had induced him to swallow something he thought would cool his innards. Lozenges had also killed Finch, because Chaloner had seen an identical box on the table by the cucumber. However, like Finch’s papers, the lozenges had been removed by the time Chaloner had returned. So who had taken them?

  He himself had seen three people in the room: Hickes, then Dury and Muddiman. Had the newsletter men gone to remove the evidence of their crime, only to find Chaloner and Hickes were there before them? Had Hickes committed the murder, perhaps on Williamson’s orders, and had gone to collect poison and papers once he was sure Finch was dead? Or was someone else responsible? Greeting’s sudden decision to serve Williamson had left Chaloner uneasy, for example.

  Or did the lozenges actually serve to absolve Muddiman? He had bought cucumbers from Covent Garden the day before Newburne’s death, allegedly for medicinal purposes. Now Chaloner knew lozenges were responsible, it meant cucumbers were irrelevant. Or were they? Someone was still leaving them at the scenes of his crimes, to confuse any investigation that might take place. Chaloner scratched his itching wrist, and heartily wished he could find a clue that would provide him with answers, not just more questions.

  Chapter 8

  The following day, Chaloner was disconcerted to wake to the realisation that he had been dreaming about Joanna. He could not imagine why, as he usually preferred women with more spirit, and he sat up feeling vaguely ashamed of himself. He recalled her invitation to dine at noon, and found he was looking forward to it. His occupation played havoc with any social life he might have had, so such occasions were rare for him. The notion of pleasant company, good food – or any food, for that matter – and perhaps some music was an attractive proposition for a man who knew so few people in the great, seething metropolis that was London.

  The streets were bathed in the kind of dull, grey light that presaged more rain, and his cat was sodden when it nudged open the window and made its way inside. It had a rat in its mouth, which it left by the hearth. Chaloner hoped it would restrict itself to rodents, and not graduate to birds, because he liked birds. He was going to toss the rat out of the window, but there was already too much traffic, and he did not want a fight to ensue because it hit someone. As it was too large to fit comfortably in his pocket, he placed it on the mantelpiece, intending to throw it out when he returned that night.

  A sixth sense warned him that someone was lurking in the shadows near the door when he started to leave the house, and his landlord was lucky not to find himself slammed against the wall with a dagger at his throat. Chaloner had warned Ellis before about loitering in the dark, but as the man did not know what Chaloner did for a living, he had no way of knowing that ignoring the advice might have potentially fatal consequences.

  ‘The rent,’ said Ellis, rubbing his hands together like a fly. Surreptitiously, Chaloner returned his knife to its customary hiding place. ‘It is overdue. And you owe me for August and September, too.’

  ‘I know,’ said Chaloner apologetically. ‘There has been an administrative hiccup at the Victualling Office, but it should be resolved by Monday.’

  That was the Earl’s deadline, and by then, Chaloner would either be able to request an advance on his salary, or would have to acquire the money by some other means. Of course, if Mary and the Hectors had their way, he might also be dead, which would be a pity for Ellis; the man had been remarkably patient with his impecunious tenant, and Chaloner hated being in debt to him.

  Ellis continued to rub his hands. ‘I shall have to charge extra for the tench your cat had yesterday. I left it on my kitchen table, and she made off with it when my back was turned. Then she had the gall to sit on the roof and devour it before my very eyes, bold as brass.’

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, hoping the animal would not transpire to be expensive. ‘She brought me a rat this morning. I do not suppose you would consider accepting that as a replacement?’

  He was joking, but Ellis considered the offer carefully. ‘Rat is a good winter dish, but I do prefer tench. Besides, rats are ten a penny these days, with all this rising water.’

  Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘You eat rats?’

  ‘Of course. Do not tell me you have never tried them?’

  ‘Only during the wars, when there was nothing else.’

  ‘Then you will know they are a sadly underrated meat. There is nothing like rat stew on a cold night, especially when flavoured with plenty of sage and an onion.’

  Chaloner walked to the Fleet Prison, a grim edifice with its sturdy gate, thick walls and tiny barred windows. It crouched on the eastern bank of the river for which it was named, adding its own reek to the stinking industries that surrounded it – bone boilers, makers of glue and paint, and the dye-works. There were always people outside the Fleet, mostly kin of the inmates, who had the pinched, hopeless look of extreme poverty about them. Chaloner was sure they would not turn up their noses at rat stew.

  Because of his past experiences in gaols, it took considerable willpower to walk up to the door and start a conversation with the guards. As he had no money to buy information, he was subjected to insults, threats and even a physical assault before he found a warden willing to talk to him. Unfortunately, the man did not seem entirely sane, and confided to Chaloner that he worked in the prison because it was the only place where he felt safe from an attack by sparrows.

  ‘Look,’ he whispered, gesturing to the surrounding rooftops. ‘They just sit there, biding their time. Then, when your attention strays, they swoop down and peck out your eyes. You must have read about phanatiques in the newsbooks? Well, the writer actually refers to sparrows. It is code, see.’

  ‘Right,’ said Chaloner. He showed the sketch he had made of Mary. ‘Do you know if she has ever been in the Fleet Prison?’

  ‘Yes, but not for debt, though, like most of them. She was in for thievery, but her husband came and greased the right hands, if you know what I mean. Her name is Annabel Reade.’

  ‘She is married?

  ‘To a man,’ supplied the guard helpfully. ‘She stole from Richard Bridges, the Cornhill linen-draper. He sells calico to the navy, although the sparrows get most of it for their nests. She was his cook-maid, and had his silver off him when he dismissed her for not doing what she was hired for.’

  Chaloner recalled Leybourn saying that he and Mary were obliged to send for food from cook-shops, because she lacked any culinary skills herself, and his kitchen had been rendered a pigsty. So, Leybourn was not the first man to discover Mary possessed no real domestic abilities.

  ‘Richard Bridges lives on Cornhill?’ he asked, deciding to talk to the man that morning. Now he knew Mary was linked to the Hectors, and by extension to Newburne, he did not feel he was wasting time by investigating her past. All three enquiries – Newburne, Maylord and Smegergill, and Mary – had merged to a certain extent, and exploring one might well yield answers to the others.

  The guard nodded. ‘He accused her of theft, but then he came here with Reade’s husband and said there had been a misunderstanding. Can you see that bird looking at us? See its beady eyes?’

  ‘Buy a cat,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Sparrows will not attack if there is a cat about.’

  ‘I had one,’ said the porter gloomily, ‘but the sparrows ate it. Every last morsel.’

  The Stocks Market was at the junction of Cornhill and Cheapside, and Friday was one of its busiest days. Cows, sheep, geese, chickens, g
oats and pigs were driven down the road to feed London’s growling stomach, and Cheapside was a chaos of noise and movement. One drover had decided the best way to get his cattle to market was to stampede them there, and they cut a bloody swathe through anything that stood in their way. Carts were overturned, animals broke away from their owners, and horses bucked and pranced. Feathers were thick in the air as birds squawked their panic, and stray dogs added to the confusion by barking and worrying at the hapless beasts.

  Chaloner was trying to hurry, aware that he had a lot to do before dining at noon, but was forced to slow down when, within the space of a few moments, he narrowly avoided being crushed by an escaped bull, pecked by a frightened swan and run over by a driverless cart. Other pedestrians were less fortunate, and the cries of the injured and furious added to the general cacophony.

  When he eventually reached Cornhill, he was directed to a handsome mansion. Temperance’s good clothes and his confident manner bought him access to the linen-draper’s front parlour without being obliged to state his business first. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, fretting about Leybourn. It was not long before someone coughed behind him, and he turned to see a man unremarkable in every way, except for two very rosy cheeks. Bridges smiled nervously when Chaloner took the liberty of informing him that he was with the Lord Chancellor’s office.

  ‘We are investigating Annabel Reade,’ he said, producing her picture.

  Bridges’s anxiety intensified. ‘That is her, although the artist should make her jowls bigger.’

  ‘I understand she was employed by you, and that she stole some silver.’

  Bridges shook his head vehemently. ‘There was a mistake. I found the items I thought she had taken, and her husband and I immediately went to the prison, where I paid for her release.’

  Chaloner regarded the man sympathetically. He was terrified. ‘Did someone force you to—’