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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘No!’ cried Bridges, in what amounted to a squawk. ‘She was innocent! She took nothing, and I should have been more careful when I laid charges against an upright, honest woman. And now you must excuse me. I leave for Tangier in a few days, and there is a great deal to do.’

  ‘Who is doing this?’ Chaloner asked gently. ‘Making you abandon your home and sail for a—’

  ‘No one!’ shouted Bridges. His red cheeks had turned a ghastly grey. ‘I am going to inspect calico for the navy. No one is driving me away. You must leave – and please do not tell anyone you have been here. I will make it worth your while.’

  Chaloner stopped him when he started to reach for his purse. ‘No one will know, I promise, but I need your help. Annabel Reade is now preying on another man. His name is Leybourn, and he—’

  ‘Will Leybourn?’ interrupted Bridges. ‘He designed the astrological ring-dial I keep in my garden. I shall miss it when I go to Tangier. Poor Leybourn. If Reade has her claws in him, then …’

  ‘I would like to prise them out,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I need solid evidence.’

  ‘I cannot help you.’ Bridges was close to tears. ‘Not even for Leybourn. You will have to find someone else. God knows, there must be more of us who were deceived by the woman.’

  ‘Then tell me about her husband. Who is he?’

  ‘He called himself Mr Reade, although I have no way of knowing if it was his real name. He is a fierce fellow with a number of fierce friends. I do not want to attract his attention again. Not ever.’

  ‘Hectors?’ asked Chaloner.

  Bridges looked out of the window, and did not reply.

  ‘If you are leaving, what do you have to lose?’ asked Chaloner, suppressing the urge to grab the man and shake the information out of him. ‘Even Hectors cannot touch you in Tangier.’

  ‘I am not gone yet, and I shall be leaving a house and valued servants to mind it. I am sorry, but I must protect my interests. Leybourn is clever; he will devise his own way out of his predicament.’

  Only if he knew he was in one, thought Chaloner. He tried to press Bridges further, but the draper stubbornly refused to say more, and eventually called for his retainers, threatening to remove Chaloner by force if he did not leave of his own volition. Chaloner turned after he had stepped outside.

  ‘If you have second thoughts, my name is Heyden, and I can be reached through the Golden Lion.’

  ‘I will not have second thoughts,’ said Bridges firmly. ‘Not for anyone.’

  It was ten o’clock, and Chaloner still had two hours before he was due to dine with Brome and Joanna. He walked inside the Royal Exchange, to think about what to do next. The Royal Exchange had been built a hundred years before, as a place where merchants could meet to do business. It comprised a rectangle of tiered shops around a cloister-like piazza, and was always busy. Finding a spot where he would not be jostled or asked to buy something was not easy, but he managed eventually, and stood staring across the rain-swept square, considering what he had learned.

  What was Crisp’s – and his Hectors’ – role in the murders Chaloner was investigating? The Butcher had employed Newburne; he may have commissioned music from Maylord and Smegergill; and the unhappy Finch had been playing tunes that were similar to the discordant harmonies found in Maylord’s chimney. Mary Cade also claimed to know him, and given that she entertained Hectors in Leybourn’s home, it was possible that her artful deception on Leybourn was being conducted with Crisp’s blessing and help. They had certainly rallied when Bridges had exposed her felonious activities. Yet the connections between Crisp and the murders were like cobwebs; they appeared to be substantial, but they were not – and Chaloner could not prove Crisp was involved in any of the deaths.

  Reluctantly, he supposed he would have to make the Butcher’s acquaintance after all. He was not really ready to tackle a man whom everyone said was powerful and dangerous, but with only three days to go before he lost his last chance of intelligence work – and probably even less time before Mary told her cronies that he was the man they were hunting for the Smegergill incident – he was out of options. Resigned to what he was sure would be a difficult interview, he made his way to Smithfield.

  The meat market was hectic. The pens in the great open space were full of bleating sheep and lowing cattle, and men yelled and bartered, oblivious to the eye-watering stench of old urine, manure and rotting entrails from the nearby slaughterhouses. Hectors moved in small, confident bands, exchanging nods and sums of money with drovers and merchants, and a baker’s-boy was doing a roaring trade with his tray of fruit pastries. Two sharp-featured youths jostled a clerk Chaloner knew from White Hall; when the fellow whipped around to face them, a third thief cut his purse strings from behind. When something similar started to happen to the spy, one reeled away with a bleeding nose, while the other found himself flat on his back with Chaloner’s foot across his throat.

  ‘Where can I find Ellis Crisp?’ Chaloner asked quietly.

  ‘I do not know,’ squeaked the pickpocket in alarm. ‘No one does. You have to arrange a meeting through one of his Hectors. Jonas Kirby is the best. That is him, over there.’

  He pointed, and Chaloner recognised the Scot. He released the lad, and regarded Kirby thoughtfully. Perhaps an early confrontation with the Butcher could be avoided after all. Kirby had attacked Chaloner the night Smegergill had died; he had been with Nose in Wenum’s room; and he had stolen one of Leybourn’s silver goblets. He could answer some questions in his master’s stead.

  Chaloner’s coat had a hood, and he used it to conceal his face as he lurked in an ally near Duck Lane. Kirby was selling Leybourn’s goblet to a fat cleric, who should have known better than to buy it. The Scot was well dressed for a henchman, although Chaloner imagined the clothes were stolen, perhaps from someone who had been stripped when he had been robbed in a dark churchyard. He supposed he was lucky he and Smegergill had not been subjected to that indignity at least.

  Eventually, Kirby completed his business and moved towards a dim thoroughfare that was home to a number of seedy taverns. Chaloner accosted him as he was about to enter a particularly dingy one; the sign above its door advertised it as the Bear. A smell of cooking pies wafted from it, although the aroma was rank and meaty, and not in the least bit appetising.

  ‘Jonas Kirby,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  Kirby struggled to mask his surprise that someone had managed to creep so close behind him without being heard. ‘You were at Newburne’s funeral,’ he gabbled. ‘Leybourn’s friend. What do you want?’

  From that response, Chaloner surmised that Mary had not yet shared her suspicions about his role in Smegergill’s death. ‘I thought we could talk about the Rhenish Wine House. You were there with a long-nosed man whom I believe is called Ireton.’

  Kirby’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, it was you we almost caught, was it? Ireton will want to meet you – he objected to someone searching Maylord’s place before us, and removing valuable documents.’

  ‘There were no documents. Perhaps someone else was there before both of us.’

  Kirby looked sceptical, then took a sudden step forward. A knife appeared in his hand, but Chaloner was faster. He had knocked the weapon away and had his own blade under Kirby’s chin before the henchman realised what was happening.

  ‘Easy!’ squawked Kirby, when Chaloner’s blade nicked his neck. ‘There is no need for rough manners. Let me buy you a pie. The Bear does good pies – Crisp’s best.’

  He smiled weakly, but then there was a second dagger in his hand. Chaloner had been anticipating such a move, and hooked Kirby’s feet from under him, causing him to fall flat on his back, while the weapon skittered into the nearest drain. The noise brought several patrons to the tavern door, and at least two sniggered when they saw Kirby sprawled on the filthy ground. Kirby glowered at Chaloner as he waved them away, and the spy saw he would not forget his humiliation in a hurry.

  ‘What do you
want from me?’ he growled.

  ‘The answers to some questions. Shall we go and sit down, like civilised men?’

  Kirby climbed slowly to his feet, then led the way inside the Bear. Chaloner looked around quickly. A back door led to an unsavoury little yard that reeked of urine, and there was a gate that would open into Duck Lane. He took the seat by the wall, leaving Kirby the one that would bear the brunt of any attack from the main entrance. As they sat, a dirty pot-boy slapped two pies on a rickety table, and mumbled something about them coming compliments of the owner.

  ‘You killed Smegergill,’ said Chaloner, pushing the pie away from him. Despite his nagging hunger, its oily scent was making him queasy and he found he was loath to touch anything that might contain parts of Crisp’s enemies.

  ‘I never touched him,’ declared Kirby vehemently. ‘None of us did. I hit his friend hard enough to scramble his brains, but he somehow survived, and must have vented his spleen on the old man when he came to. He was younger – medium height, sturdy build. A bit like you, now I think about it.’

  ‘It was not me. Why do you think he killed Smegergill?’

  ‘Because no one else was there, and Smegergill was alive when we left him. Ireton had talked to him, and told him that if he kept quiet, he could escape unscathed.’

  Had Ireton killed him, then, Chaloner wondered, while his accomplices were under the illusion the old man was being offered his life? ‘What was the purpose of the attack?’

  ‘We were following orders. Find the Court musicians; kill the younger one; let the old man go. We only found out later that it was Smegergill. We all know him – by sight at least – because he always plays the organ at the Bartholomew Fair.’

  ‘Orders from whom?’

  Kirby looked as though he might refuse to answer, so Chaloner drew his dagger. ‘I do not know! We had written instructions. They said we were to get letters from the young one’s purse, but it was empty and there were no letters. They were early, too, so we were not quite ready for them. We had to improvise, which is why I forgot to make sure he was really dead.’

  ‘How do you know you attacked the right people?’

  ‘Because Smegergill was wearing the uniform of the King’s Music. It is distinctive, so of course they were the right ones.’

  Several facts settled into a sensible pattern in Chaloner’s mind at last, and the germ of a solution began to take shape. He saw his unplanned waylaying of Smegergill had set in motion a chain of events that no one could have predicted.

  ‘Greeting,’ he murmured to himself. ‘His elderly friend Hingston is staying at his Smithfield lodgings, because his home is flooded. They were expected to walk past the churchyard later that night, because the driver of their carriage demanded extra money to take them all the way home, and ousted them when they could not pay. It was deliberate. And they were both wearing uniforms.’

  Kirby ate his pie while Chaloner continued to analyse his conclusions in silence. So, no one had wanted to kill him or Smegergill. The intended victim had been Greeting, who probably did have letters with him, given that he, by his own admission, worked for Williamson. Chaloner supposed he would have to talk to Greeting and ascertain what he had been carrying that night.

  So what had happened to Smegergill? Kirby, Ireton and Fingerless had followed their orders – or thought they had – and Ireton had gone to demand Smegergill’s silence, while Kirby and Fingerless searched Chaloner. Had Ireton killed Smegergill when he realised the wrong men had been attacked? Yet Kirby did not seem to think a mistake had been made, and so perhaps Ireton did not, either. So, why had Smegergill ended up dead?

  Chaloner thought about the elderly musician. Thurloe had distrusted him, while Temperance and Maude had conflicting opinions: one thought he was coolly rational, amusing himself at the expense of gullible sympathisers, while the other believed he was losing his wits. Which was true? And what of Greeting’s information – that Smegergill had enjoyed an association with Hectors? Had playing the organ for the Bartholomew Fair led to other things? But if Smegergill was friends with the Hectors, then why had he been killed? Surely, he would have been spared? Or had he annoyed Crisp by being ‘difficult’, and Ireton had taken the opportunity to dispatch him?

  A flicker of movement interrupted his reflections. Someone was outside: the Hectors were finally ready to rescue their crony. Chaloner indicated with a flick of his dagger that Kirby was to stand, then shoved him hard before he was properly balanced, so he went sprawling through the entranceway. The timing was perfect. Kirby became hopelessly entangled with his friends, which gave Chaloner vital seconds to escape. The spy opened the back door and shot into the yard. The gate was locked, forcing him to scramble over the wall, thus losing the small advantage of time he had gained.

  The lock did not slow Kirby down. He kicked it once, and the gate flew into pieces. With half a dozen Hectors at his heels, he thundered after Chaloner, screaming for someone to stop him. A few passers-by made half-hearted lunges, but most looked the other way, unwilling to become involved. The spy tore along Duck Lane, grabbing an apple cart as he went, and spinning it to spill its contents across the road. Two of his pursuers took tumbles. Then a ponderous meat wagon moved to block the road in front of him. Without breaking speed, he aimed for the space between the moving wheels, curled into a ball and rolled under the thing to shoot out the other side. Frustrated howls indicated the pursuing Hectors were unwilling to duplicate the manoeuvre, and they bellowed at the driver to get out of their way. The sudden clamour panicked the horses, making them difficult to control.

  Chaloner raced on, and found himself near the costermongery where he had purchased the cucumber. Loath to run further than necessary, he considered taking refuge in it, but it was closed and shuttered. Then he remembered that Hodgkinson owned the shop next door. He slipped through the door and saw the printer talking to a customer. Unseen, he ducked under a table and peered into the street through a crack in the wall. Kirby lumbered by, backed by a dozen men, all yelling and waving cudgels.

  Chaloner stayed where he was, feeling his heartbeat slow to a more normal rate after his exertions. In the grime under the counter, his fingers encountered something hard. With most of his attention still on the street, he retrieved the object and glanced at it. It was a Fountain Inkhorn, like the one Thurloe had lent him when he had been sketching Mary. This pen was silver, and looked valuable.

  ‘Well,’ came a laconic voice that made him jump. ‘The Lord Chancellor’s spy under a table? Whatever next?’

  Chaloner climbed quickly to his feet to find himself facing Muddiman. The newsmonger was looking particularly elegant that day, in a suit of lemon satin and tiny white shoes. Chaloner thought it was the most impractical outfit he could possibly have chosen, given the unpredictable weather and the state of the roads. He glanced towards Hodgkinson, but the printer’s attention was still focussed on his client, and he had not noticed what was happening by his counter.

  ‘I found this,’ said Chaloner, holding up the Fountain Inkhorn in an attempt to explain away his curious behaviour. ‘Someone must have dropped it.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Muddiman, and his grin suggested he did not believe a word of it. ‘Look at the state of you! I hope you do not plan on going anywhere nice for dinner.’

  ‘Christ!’ Chaloner regarded his clothes in dismay. The dive under the cart had left him filthy.

  ‘Allow me,’ said Muddiman, dabbing at the mess with his handkerchief. ‘No, that is no good. You need a woman with a cloth. I shall pay for one if you tell me something novel about Portugal. You did a splendid piece for L’Estrange – the best thing in the entire issue – so now you can help me.’

  ‘L’Estrange forbade it,’ said Chaloner, aware that it would unwise to accept Muddiman’s offer when the newsbooks’ printer was within earshot. It would cause trouble for certain.

  ‘I am sure he did,’ said Muddiman, amused. ‘And are you going to obey him? I suppose you are afraid of what S
pymaster Williamson might have to say if you assert your independence, are you?’

  ‘Spymaster Williamson does not deign to speak to the likes of me.’

  ‘You are lucky – he will not leave me alone. He set Hickes after me, which is fast becoming tiresome, while his creature L’Estrange makes constant accusations about me stealing his news.’

  Chaloner showed him the ledger he had recovered from the Rhenish Wine House – the one Muddiman had denied existing when he had last mentioned it. ‘I would say L’Estrange has good cause to think his news is being stolen.’

  Muddiman took it. ‘A forgery, as I said yesterday. Besides, Wenum is dead, and without his testimony, this nasty little document means nothing.’

  ‘It still proves you paid for news you should not have had. And if you are talking about corroborative testimony, you are obviously anticipating that you will be charged in a court of law, where specific proceedings are followed. I do not think Williamson confines himself to that sort of trial.’

  Muddiman regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Even he would be playing with fire if he attempted that sort of tactic on an influential newsman. It would be asking for editorials to be written about suppression and corruption. Still, I take your point. How much do you want for your silence?’

  Chaloner replaced the ledger in his pocket. ‘I am not for sale.’

  Muddiman raised startled eyebrows. ‘No wonder you have the look of poverty about you! Why do you not take what is freely offered? Everyone else does, for which I daily thank God. My newsletters would not be nearly as good if men in positions of power declined to do business with me.’

  ‘Was Wenum in a position of power, then? I know he did not work at the newsbook offices or at Hodgkinson’s print-houses.’

  Muddiman’s smug smile was back in place. ‘I understand he drowned in the Thames; he fell in near White Hall, where all the politicians and clerks lurk, if you take my meaning. Unfortunately, his corpse was never recovered, so who knows how he really died?’