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

by Susanna Gregory

  Hickes looked sheepish. ‘Actually, I came to give you this. It is the music I found in Finch’s room. You asked whether I had collected any documents. Well, this was all I could find. By the time I managed to return for a more thorough search, everything else had been removed.’

  Chaloner took the proffered sheet. It was, without question, the same kind of music that had been in Maylord’s chimney, and that L’Estrange had asked him and the Bromes to play. He kept his expression carefully neutral. ‘Did you know Muddiman and Dury followed you to Finch’s house the first time you went there?’

  Hickes gaped at him. ‘They never did! I would have noticed – I am a professional spy.’

  ‘Right.’ Chaloner held up the piece of paper. ‘Why do you think I should want this?’

  Hickes shrugged, and looked more uncomfortable than ever. ‘It is a sort of peace-offering – like the oil. I am confused and worried, and no longer know who to trust. I think Dury’s killer might be after me now.’ He showed Chaloner a small box with a label declaring the contents to be Theophilus Buckworth’s Personal Lozenges. Inside were several green tablets.

  ‘I hope you do not expect me to eat one of these.’

  ‘Of course not – they are an example of the poisonous pills I was telling you about last time. They were sent to me today, along with a note saying they ward off chills in men who stand around in the rain a lot. My wife encouraged me to swallow a couple, because my chest has been bothering me.’

  ‘But you know better than to consume gifts from anonymous donors,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether Mrs Hickes was aiming to clear the field so she could pursue L’Estrange unfettered.

  ‘Hodgkinson is missing,’ said Hickes, while Chaloner was still mulling over the implications of the pills. ‘He disappeared not long after Dury was killed. Do you not think that is suspicious?’

  ‘No, because he summoned the constables.’ Chaloner ignored the nagging voice in his head that told him the printer might only have sent for them because he had been caught with a body, and that to do otherwise would have looked suspect. He continued less certainly. ‘And how do you know he is missing? Perhaps he went with the constables to make an official report, or has gone to stay with friends because his properties are flooded. You are not “missing” after such a short period of time.’

  ‘When I found him gone, I searched his Duck Lane print-house,’ said Hickes. He handed Chaloner another piece of paper with music on it. ‘I found this. Will you play it?’

  Chaloner started to oblige, but Hickes soon held up his hand for silence.

  ‘I thought so,’ said Williamson’s man disapprovingly. ‘It is that nasty, disjointed stuff that Finch said he found in Newburne’s room. He played it for me on his trumpet.’

  Chaloner compared the two pieces. ‘They are almost certainly by the same composer.’

  ‘Hodgkinson is a dangerous, devious fellow,’ Hickes continued. ‘And I must speak to him about Dury as soon as possible. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?’

  Chaloner did not think the printer was missing, devious or dangerous, and Hickes’s conclusions said his judgement could not be trusted. ‘No, but I will tell you if I find out.’

  ‘You should, because you may need my help soon. First, a lot of very unpleasant men are after you, and you need friends. And second, your friend Leybourn is keeping bad company.’

  ‘Mary Cade,’ said Chaloner unhappily.

  ‘Annie Petwer, Annabel Reade, Mary Cade. Call her what you like. Her real name is Anne Pettis.’

  ‘Pettis? But that is the name of the horse-trader who died of cucumbers.’

  ‘He was her first husband. However, if he died a natural death, I will dance naked in St Paul’s Cathedral. She killed him – I would stake my life on it.’

  Chaloner regarded him in alarm. ‘You said you found some of these green lozenges on Pettis’s body. If Mary killed Pettis, then it means she must have dispatched Newburne, Finch, Beauclair and all the others, too. And she is in Will’s house.’

  ‘She will not kill him tonight – not the same day he changed his will. He is safe for a while yet.’

  Recalling how eagerly Mary – he could not think of her as Anne – had encouraged Leybourn to fight with L’Estrange, Chaloner was not so sure. ‘How do you know so much about her?’

  ‘Williamson sends me to watch various Hectors sometimes. I knew it would not be long before she found another victim. Bridges managed to extricate himself, although it was expensive, but the fellow between him and Pettis ended up floating in the Thames. His name was Nobert Wenum.’

  ‘Wenum?’ echoed Chaloner, bewildered. ‘But he was Newburne.’

  Hickes gazed back, nonplussed. ‘He was not! He was a totally different man, I followed him several times after he met Muddiman, and he was not Newburne. I am totally certain of it. I can see why Muddiman might have thought so, but he is wrong.’

  ‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not seeing at all.

  Chaloner waited a few minutes after Hickes had gone, then left via the back door. He sent a message to Thurloe about Wenum, then trudged through the deserted streets towards Smithfield. He wore an oiled cloak against the foul weather, and Isabella’s hat against attack. He did not think anyone would be following him, but he was cautious by nature, and took a circuitous route across the city, using alleys that would have been dark during the day, but that were pitch black at night. He crossed the River Fleet farther north than usual. It was a vicious torrent, and the bridge creaked as he used it, low and deep. He suspected it would be washed away by morning.

  When he reached Smithfield, he headed for the Bear alehouse, making the assumption that it was one of Kirby’s regular haunts. He took up station behind a water-butt, but did not have long to wait, because it was already late and even Hectors needed to sleep. First out was big-nosed Ireton, who emerged to saunter fearlessly up Long Lane. Chaloner had intended to waylay Kirby, but decided Ireton would do just as well. He trailed the felon to a pleasant little cottage, and watched him unlock the door. He waited until the lamp was doused in the upper chamber, then let himself in. He saw a lute on the table downstairs, which served to confirm some of the conclusions he had drawn.

  Ireton was fast asleep when Chaloner stepped into the bedchamber, but woke fast when a knife was pressed against his throat. He opened his mouth to yell for help, but closed it sharply as the blade begin to bite. He lay still, and waited to hear what his assailant wanted of him.

  ‘Maylord,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Oh, it is you,’ said Ireton, immediately recognising the voice. He sneered, confidence returning now he was facing an opponent he knew. ‘Mary Cade told me about you, but I am confused. Who do you work for? It is not Williamson, and I doubt the Lord Chancellor would dare send a man against the Hectors. He, like most sensible politicians, treats us with respect.’

  ‘If you tell me the truth, you will live to see tomorrow. If you lie, I will cut your throat and drop your body in the Fleet. So, I repeat: what happened to Maylord?’

  There was something in Chaloner’s low, purposeful tone that convinced Ireton he meant business. ‘Maylord?’ The Hector realised his voice was a bleat, and struggled to compose himself.

  Chaloner began to test the theory he had so painstakingly deduced. ‘You killed him on Smegergill’s orders. You smothered him with a cushion – using enough force to break teeth – and left the cucumber to cause confusion. Did Smegergill tell you to do that?’

  ‘A confession will see me hang,’ said Ireton slyly. ‘But if I keep quiet, you can prove nothing.’

  It was answer enough for Chaloner, and he itched to punch the man – or shove a pillow over his face. ‘Smegergill was teaching you the lute – Greeting said he had taken on some dubious pupils.’

  ‘Am I more dubious than a man who breaks into houses and threatens their occupants with knives?’

  Chaloner ignored him. ‘You talked a lot during your sessions togethe
r. He told you how Newburne’s dishonesty was depriving Maylord of the profits from his costermongery. Perhaps it was you who suggested something should be done about it. Regardless, Smegergill encouraged Maylord to watch Newburne, and possibly convinced him to poke about in Newburne’s house.’

  Ireton’s voice dripped contempt. ‘Prove it.’

  ‘The proof lies in the fact that Maylord suddenly elected to give Newburne – a man he despised – lessons on the flageolet; it is clear there was a reason for his abrupt acquiescence. Both owned houses on Thames Street, and I imagine the lessons took place there. During one of these tutorials, something happened to unnerve Maylord, so Smegergill helped him move to a different part of the city. Smegergill said he did not know where Maylord had gone, but he was lying.’

  Ireton regarded Chaloner with contempt, but the temptation to gloat was stronger than his desire to say nothing that would help the spy unravel the mystery. ‘Of course, he was lying! He knew where Maylord went, although he could not find where he hid his valuables. Maylord kept that from him.’

  ‘And that is why he wanted me to go to the Rhenish Wine House with him. He anticipated that a professional spy would have better luck.’

  ‘So, what did you find?’ asked Ireton, curious despite himself. ‘Documents?’

  ‘Music. I have assumed it is irrelevant, but perhaps I should not have done. Maylord understood its significance, even if I do not – at least, not yet. Who wrote it? And who is it for?’

  Ireton laughed derisively. ‘Music? Do not be a fool! Smegergill wanted a key, not music. He said it would pave the way to a box of priceless jewels. Why do you think I went to the Rhenish Wine House the day after he died? It was not for music, I assure you!’

  Chaloner frowned. Locks could be smashed, so why had Smegergill wanted Maylord’s key? ‘Proof of ownership,’ he said in understanding. ‘Whoever has a key can show the hoard is his.’

  Ireton inclined his head, but made no other reply.

  ‘Did you know there were two keys?’ asked Chaloner. He could see from Ireton’s expression that he did not: Smegergill had not been honest with his accomplices, either. ‘He already had one.’

  ‘You lie! Maylord stole the only one when he was teaching Newburne the flageolet. Then, because Newburne had been cheating Maylord for years, Smegergill told him to say the box was his. The key was proof of ownership, as you said. But then Maylord got cold feet, and began to baulk at carrying the plan through.’

  ‘So you killed him,’ said Chaloner.

  ‘I decline to say,’ replied Ireton, although the uneasy flicker in his eyes told Chaloner that he had. ‘And you can prove nothing. After Maylord was dispatched, Smegergill was going to retrieve the key and claim the treasure in his stead. He offered me a share for my silence.’

  ‘So, who killed Newburne? Smegergill?’

  ‘We were both at a musical soirée when Newburne died. You can check, if you like – a dozen people saw us.’ Ireton could not resist a brag. ‘Smegergill’s idea of leaving that cucumber with Maylord was a stroke of genius. No one except you is remotely suspicious. Do you know why he devised the plan that would see Maylord the owner of Newburne’s hoard?’

  Chaloner nodded, aware that Ireton’s boast about the cucumber was guilty knowledge of Maylord’s death. ‘He wanted Maylord rich, because he was the sole beneficiary of Maylord’s will. He intended to kill his friend from the start – not to squander the money on wild enjoyment, but to support him in his old age. His joints were stiffening, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before he could no longer earn a living from the virginals. Now, tell me what transpired between you and Smegergill in the churchyard the night he died.’

  ‘We did not—’

  Chaloner tightened his grip on the dagger.

  ‘All right!’ snarled Ireton, trying to flinch away. ‘There is no need to decapitate me. We made an arrangement, while Kirby and Treen dealt with you. How did you guess?’

  ‘Because of your actions in Smithfield last night. Treen was right when he said Crisp would want to interview the man who everyone believes killed Smegergill, but you were eager to kill me anyway. The reason is obvious: you knew Crisp would learn the truth from me – that I had nothing to do with Smegergill’s murder. So, what happened? How did he die?’

  ‘As soon as I saw him, I realised we had waylaid the wrong pair of musicians. He assumed you were dead when you fell to the ground, and was furious, because he said you were going to locate Maylord’s key for him. He had made plans: he was going to ask me to drive you to the Rhenish Wine House, and I was to knock you over the head once he had the key.’

  ‘What next?’

  ‘The graveyard ambush was a mess, and Kirby and Treen have loose tongues. He was worried about what people would think when you were bludgeoned to death, but he escaped unscathed.’

  ‘So he asked you to hit him, to make it look as if we were both victims?’

  Ireton pointed to his mouth. ‘I tapped him softly here. I saw him walk towards you after I struck him, ready to raise the alarm once we were safely away. He tripped over you – you must have felt it.’

  Chaloner recalled being kicked in the side, and slowly he began to understand what had happened. Dizzy from Ireton’s blow, Smegergill had stumbled in the dark and landed face-down on the flooded ground. And that had been that. Stunned, he had been unable to rise, and by the time Chaloner had regained his own senses, Smegergill had drowned. And yet it was hard to feel sorry for the old man. He had betrayed his friendship with Maylord by arranging his murder. He fraternised with Hectors, and put his future comforts above all else. In all, Smegergill had been a selfish, odious man, and Chaloner knew he should stop feeling guilty about his death.

  There was no more to be said, and the spy was just considering the best way to deliver Ireton to the constables, when he heard a creak on the stairs. Someone was coming.

  Ireton smirked. ‘Nothing happens in Smithfield without the Hectors knowing. Here is my rescue.’

  Swearing under his breath, Chaloner knocked Ireton out cold with the hilt of his dagger and made for the window. He clambered on to the sill just as the door flew open and Kirby and Treen stood there, swords at the ready. More Hectors were hurrying up the stairs behind them. Chaloner dropped out of the window, rolling as he landed in an attempt to lessen the impact. He staggered to his feet and saw a carriage rattling towards him. Certain it was the Butcher, he jigged away, colliding with Kirby, who had followed him out of the window. The felon grabbed him by the throat, so Chaloner felled him with a punch that hurt his own hand.

  ‘Thomas!’ hissed a familiar voice as the coach’s door swung open. Chaloner dived through it, and Thurloe banged on the ceiling with the butt of his handgun. ‘Go!’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ gasped Chaloner, struggling to hang on as the vehicle lurched away.

  Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘The same as you, I imagine. Trying to find a way to prise Mary away from William before she slits his throat.’

  Chapter 11

  Thurloe said it was not safe for Chaloner to sleep at Fetter Lane that night, but agreed to let him collect the music, keys and Wenum’s ledger before going to Lincoln’s Inn. While the ex-Spymaster waited in the carriage, Chaloner ascended the stairs to his room.

  The fire he had lit earlier was out, and he could no longer see. Then he remembered Hickes’s gift of oil. He groped in the darkness for fuel, lamp and tinderbox, and was about to fill the lantern’s reservoir, when he detected a faint odour that should not have been there. He stoppered the flask in alarm. It did contain oil, but there was also a sulphuric scent, and there would be an explosion if he tried to light it. It might not kill him, but it would certainly cause him injury. Who would do such a thing? Wryly, he acknowledged that there was a whole host of people who wanted him indisposed.

  His first thought was that Hickes was responsible, but then he recalled how Hickes had offered to light the lamp for him. Did that mean Hickes had not
known what would happen once a flame was set to the substance? The more he considered Hickes, the more he became sure he was the innocent instrument of someone else’s plot. But which one of Chaloner’s many enemies was to blame? Crisp? Muddiman? Williamson? L’Estrange? Mary? A Hector? Or was it Greeting, a man of whom he was becoming increasingly wary?

  Quickly, he gathered what he wanted and left, first making sure the window was ajar for the cat – it was off hunting, and he did not want it to find itself locked out when it returned. As the carriage rattled to Lincoln’s Inn, he told Thurloe what he had deduced regarding Smegergill. The ex-Spymaster sighed.

  ‘I am not surprised to learn he would kill a friend to secure himself a comfortable retirement. What was the alternative? Teaching men like Ireton until he died? Performing for critical patrons like L’Estrange while his hands became ever more crabbed? But you have done enough on that case. I will arrange for the parish constables to arrest Ireton in the morning, assuming he has not fled the city.’

  ‘Will they do it? They are not too frightened of Crisp?’

  Thurloe rubbed his chin. ‘True. Perhaps I had better visit the Lord Chancellor instead, and arrange for a contingent of soldiers to do it. It is a pity your reckless enquiries have not provided you with answers about Newburne, though. How much longer do you have?’

  ‘Until Monday – the day after tomorrow. All I learned tonight was that Newburne probably cheated Maylord out of a fortune. No wonder he was rich.’

  ‘And you think it was Smegergill’s plan to defraud Newburne of his jewels that turned Maylord so anxious in the last two weeks of his life?’

  Chaloner nodded. ‘He had his revenge, though. He hid his key, and Smegergill never did find it.’

  Thurloe was thoughtful. ‘And yet there is something about this explanation that does not ring true. I think Ireton may have been lying to you – at least in part. I do not doubt that having your dagger at his throat rendered him more willing to confide, but can you trust what he told you?’