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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Which parts do you not believe?’

  ‘The business with the key, mostly. I do not see Maylord being so single-mindedly venal over a box of jewels, and originally, Smegergill did say he wanted you to locate documents.’

  ‘But the “documents” were only that strange music,’ said Chaloner. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘Or, more likely, I found the wrong hiding place.’

  ‘I doubt you made such a basic mistake – you were trained by me, after all. You say this music has been cropping up in all sorts of odd places, so perhaps we should consider it more carefully.’

  Chaloner tried, but answers still eluded him.

  Thurloe sighed. ‘Then let us go back to Maylord, and what might have frightened him. I do not think he would have gone to pieces over the notion of defrauding Newburne of jewels – he was stronger than that. I think something else was responsible for his agitation.’

  ‘What?’ asked Chaloner, wracking his brains.

  ‘Hodgkinson’s print-house is near Maylord’s cottage. The news business is a dangerous one, and it would not surprise me to learn that Hodgkinson is engaged in something illegal. And now Hickes says he is missing. Perhaps Maylord’s unease had nothing to do with Newburne, but a lot to do with another neighbour.’

  ‘It is possible, I suppose. After all, Hodgkinson prints items for L’Estrange and Muddiman. And Dury was murdered on his premises.’ But that solution raised its own set of questions, and Chaloner could not see the answers to save his life. He rubbed his eyes again, defeated. ‘What did you learn this evening?’

  ‘That Mary Cade is the widow of a Smithfield horse-trader, who also happened to know Crisp—’

  ‘Valentine Pettis.’

  Thurloe regarded him balefully. ‘You have been busy. When I was Spymaster, the Hectors were just a band of brutish felons whom we periodically crushed. Now they are a highly organised clan, and some are even intelligent. Williamson turns a blind eye to their dealings on the understanding that they will supply appropriate manpower when he needs something done.’

  Chaloner’s unease intensified. ‘What are we going to do about Will? We cannot leave him in that woman’s clutches. We may arrive tomorrow and find it is too late.’

  ‘He will not appreciate being kidnapped, if that is what you have in mind. But I doubt anything will happen tonight – the Hectors will be too busy looking for you, for a start. We will act in the morning.’

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘I will think of something. You concentrate on solving Newburne’s murder for your Earl.’

  Thurloe’s servant made up a bed for Chaloner in Thurloe’s sitting room, but although the ex-Spymaster swallowed a sleeping draught and retired immediately, Chaloner was too unsettled for rest, despite his bone-deep weariness. He sat crossed-legged in front of the dying fire and made piles of the four sets of music; the one from Maylord’s chimney, the one L’Estrange had given him, the one Hickes had taken from Finch’s room, and the one Hickes said he had found in Hodgkinson’s print-shop. The light was poor, but it was enough to work by.

  He compared them minutely, his curiosity piqued by Thurloe’s suggestion that they should not be too readily dismissed. All were penned by the same hand, and when he picked them out on Thurloe’s virginals – certain the noise would not bother Thurloe after whatever medicine he had taken – they sounded unpleasantly similar. Then he recalled the tiny scroll that had been in Smegergill’s ring. The brief glance he had been allowed before Greeting had destroyed it had put him in mind of a cipher key – a crib for decoding secret messages. He recalled that a C-sharp was a T and an E-flat was a W. Could the music actually represent a message, and it was not the tune that the composer was trying to communicate to his listeners, but something else? Obviously, there were only seven note-names to twenty-six letters in the alphabet, but there were sharps and flats that could be taken into consideration, along with beats of different duration – minims, crotchets and quavers.

  He started with the music from Finch’s room, because it was the shortest, working on the premise, familiar to all spies, that some letters were used more frequently than others. It was a sequence Thurloe had drilled into him years ago, and had enabled him to break into many a secret. The most commonly occurring letter in English was E, so he went through the music, and determined that the most commonly occurring note was a B. The next most common letter was T, followed by A, the latter of which seemed to correspond to a G, but one that was two beats in duration.

  He made mistakes, and had to keep reworking what he was doing, but eventually a pattern began to emerge, and the idea was so simple that he wondered why he had not seen it before. Words began to appear, although they were interspersed with meaningless letters, a device to ensure the tune was not too outlandish. He began crossing out the extraneous ones, until he had a message that made sense – or rather, he had a collection of words in a rational order, which was not the same thing.

  BE WARY. TOO MANY HORSES.

  Too many horses for what? He moved on to the compositions he had recovered from Maylord’s chimney, barely aware of the watchmen calling two o’clock, and then three.

  SHERARD LORINSTON. GROCER OF SMITHFIELD. LARGE SAD BAY MARE. MOTHER FIRST NEWE MOON WEATHER PERMITTING.

  The next one read:

  JAMES BRADNOX. VINTNERS HALL. THURSDAY FOLLOWING. GUILD MEETING.

  And so it went on, message after message Heart pounding, he turned to L’Estrange’s piece.

  RICHD SMITH. BELL SMITHFIELD. BRIGHT BAY MARE. SAINTE LUKE DAY EVE. THEATER.

  Chaloner stared at it. He had met Richard Smith in Brome’s shop. The man had been placing an advertisement in The Newes, because his ‘bright bay mare’ had been stolen, and he wanted its safe return. Chaloner consulted Thurloe’s almanac, and learned that the Feast of St Luke was the fifteenth day of October, which was roughly when the man said the horse had been stolen. With a start, Chaloner also recalled him say that the thief was Edward Treen, who had been spotted in the very act of stealing the beast. The music was telling someone that on the eve of St Luke’s Day, Richard Smith had been planning to go to the theatre.

  Chaloner chewed the end of his pen. Was that the essence of the messages? That someone was gathering information about the movements of men with horses, and was arranging to have them stolen? Had Pettis the horse-trader and Beauclair the equerry been part of the operation? Or had they been killed because they had worked out what was going on? And if Treen, one of the trio that was causing Chaloner so much trouble, had stolen Smith’s horse, then were his fellow Hectors responsible for the other thefts, too? Chaloner imagined they were.

  He finished decoding the messages, grinning his satisfaction when one contained a note about Beauclair’s black stallion, then searched Thurloe’s bookshelves until he found back issues of The Newes and The Intelligencer. It did not take him long to learn that most of the men mentioned in the music had bought notices in the newsbooks, offering rewards for their animals’ return. So, what did that tell him? It certainly confirmed what he had heard in the coffee houses: that if a valuable animal was taken, then the best way to ensure its recovery was to advertise in the newsbooks.

  Maylord had owned a horse. Had it been stolen? Chaloner trawled all the way back to L’Estrange’s very first publication, but Maylord had never placed an advertisement if it had. Was this the secret that Maylord had learned about Newburne, and Thurloe was right in that it had nothing to do with Newburne’s jewels? Chaloner lay on the mattress, but there were still far too many questions to allow him to sleep.

  * * *

  Events were beginning to spiral out of Chaloner’s control. It was only a matter of time before the Hectors tracked him down and tried to kill him, and he only had one more full day left to solve Newburne’s murder. He rose long before dawn with a sense of foreboding, thinking about what had happened, what he had learned, and the questions he still needed to answer. He woke Thurloe, sitting on the edge of the bed to regale the drowsy ex-S
pymaster with an account of what the music meant.

  ‘And the fact that Smegergill started to wear the ring after Maylord’s death means he knew about the music, too,’ he concluded.

  ‘You are almost certainly right. Smegergill must have been determined to feather his nest at any cost. Perhaps he even helped with the encoding or decoding – he made money from these horse thefts, as well as aiming to get Newburne’s jewels and Maylord’s inheritance. I never did like the man.’

  ‘So, he had two reasons for smothering Maylord,’ mused Chaloner. ‘He wanted his inheritance and he was afraid Maylord would expose the horse-theft business.’

  ‘It explains why Ireton was ready to commit murder with him – he was protecting Hector business, as well as doing a favour for his friend and music-master. So, at last you know what frightened Maylord: it started with a hare-brained scheme – probably devised in the heat of the moment and later regretted – to defraud Newburne of his jewels, but it ended with him stumbling into the Hectors’ latest venture.’

  ‘He must have found the coded music while acquiring Newburne’s keys and, being a musician, it piqued his interest. He must have taken some, and become worried when he realised its significance.’

  ‘Do you think Finch was translating the music when he was murdered?’ asked Thurloe.

  ‘No, because he was playing it at the time. You do not need to play it to translate – in fact, it is better if you do not, because the melody is irrelevant. But there was a second person in the room when Finch died, someone eating a pie. I suspect he knew what the music entailed, and killed Finch to make sure he never worked it out.’

  ‘That particular missive said there were “too many horses”. Do you know what that means?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. The music directs Hectors to prey on specific victims, but it has been too successful. The message from Finch’s room is a warning, urging the perpetrators to cut back before their activities become obvious.’

  Thurloe was uncertain. ‘Obvious?’ he echoed doubtfully. ‘Obvious to whom?’

  ‘To anyone reading the newsbooks, had the operation been allowed to continue at such a furious pace. It is not obvious now, because the warning was heeded.’

  ‘If advertising means the return of these valuable beasts, then it is small wonder that so many men are clamouring to buy newsbook notices.’ Thurloe frowned. ‘Horse-thievery has always occurred around Smithfield. I see all manner of connections emerging here, and I imagine you do, too.’

  Chaloner nodded. ‘The music is directed at Smithfield-based men like Ireton, who plays the lute and so has an understanding of notation. Of course, it was the one thing I did not bother to ask him last night. He and the Hectors – Treen was actually seen taking Smith’s mare – steal these beasts, then Smithfield horse-dealers, such as Valentine Pettis, help to sell them. Pettis was Mary Cade’s husband, so I doubt his role in the business was an honest one.’

  ‘Rewards are offered for the safe delivery of most of these animals, so if Pettis could not effect a sale, the thieves could still profit from their crime by returning them to their grateful owners.’

  ‘Perhaps that is why Pettis was killed: he preferred a sale to a reward, because it would be more lucrative. He became greedy, and someone was obliged to stop him before he spoiled everything. Did I tell you that the night Greeting was supposed to have been ambushed, he was carrying music between L’Estrange and Spymaster Williamson?’

  ‘Yes – but that does not mean Greeting or L’Estrange are actively involved. L’Estrange might have somehow acquired the music from the villains, and was dutifully passing it to Williamson for investigation.’

  ‘Then why did Williamson toss it on the fire as soon as it was delivered? It is not impossible that L’Estrange wrote the music himself – he is an accomplished violist – for Williamson to pass to the Hectors. Williamson often hires Hectors, and we should not forget that he has allocated a singularly stupid agent to investigate this particular case.’

  ‘One who might have died giving you exploding oil for your lamp,’ mused Thurloe. ‘You said there was music on Wenum’s windowsill, too, but that is to be expected, given that Wenum is Newburne. And Newburne would certainly have involved himself in this, you can be sure of that.’

  ‘Hickes would not agree with you about the Newburne–Wenum connection. According to him, Wenum was one of Mary’s victims, found floating in the Thames.’

  ‘Then he is mistaken. I set my servant to work when I received your note earlier. Records are kept of drownings, but Wenum is not among them. Wenum is Newburne, which explains why Wenum has not been seen since the solicitor died. And, more to the point, we cannot overlook the very obvious fact that the names are anagrams of each other. Hickes must have been listening to unsubstantiated gossip, and he is not intelligent enough to know the difference between fact and speculation.’

  Chaloner supposed he might be right, although an element of doubt remained. ‘He is an odd combination of credulous and astute.’

  Thurloe was not interested in Hickes. ‘I visited “Wenum’s” attic in the Rhenish Wine House the other day, and I saw the book – Galen’s tome on foods – that you mentioned. That edition is actually rare and very expensive, so I took it to Nott the bookseller, and asked him to find out who bought it. He undertook similar tasks for me during the Commonwealth, so I have high hopes that proof will not be long in coming. I fully expect the owner to be wealthy old Newburne.’

  Chaloner nodded vaguely, unwilling to commit himself one way or the other. He did not know what to think about Wenum.

  ‘What will you do today?’ asked Thurloe, when the spy made no other reply. ‘Other than keep your distance from Smithfield, of course.’

  ‘Speak to Hickes, ask who gave him the oil. Then question Muddiman about what Dury was doing in Hodgkinson’s print-house.’ Chaloner was not very enthusiastic, because he did not think either would provide him with the answers he so desperately needed.

  ‘You said Hickes wanted information about Hodgkinson’s whereabouts. If he refuses to cooperate, you can persuade him with the intelligence that Hodgkinson has a sister in Chelsey.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Thurloe’s smile was enigmatic. ‘Hodgkinson is a printer. Such people have the means to flood the streets with seditious literature, so naturally, he was of interest to me during the Commonwealth.’

  ‘Hickes said he was dangerous. Is that what he meant?’

  ‘Hodgkinson is dangerous. He may seem amiable and pleasant, but he has a core of steel – and iron fists to go with it. He associates with insalubrious men, too. Why do you think he has a print-shop at Smithfield, of all places? It is not to sell cards and advertisements, believe me.’

  Chaloner stared at him. ‘Have I underestimated him?’

  ‘You have if you think he is some harmless innocent. Why? Did you cross him?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. So that explains why he was willing to “help” Greeting search for Smegergill’s killer in Smithfield. He is a Hector himself!’

  Chaloner returned to his rooms to don different clothes before going to see Hickes, hurrying because he could not afford to waste time. Bells were ringing to call people to church, but it was pouring with rain again, and those who did brave the weather did so resentfully. His cat was still out, and he hoped it had not come to grief in the swollen runnels and streams that gushed to join the bloated Thames.

  He strode to The Strand, in the hope that Hickes would be at his customary spot outside Muddiman’s house, but even the regular street-traders seemed to have given up the battle against the elements, and the city felt strangely deserted. The only other place he could think to look was White Hall: if Hickes was Williamson’s spy, then someone there would know where he lived. He asked Bulteel, whose bloodshot eyes and rumpled clothes indicated he had been working all night. The clerk leaned back in his chair and massaged his back.

  ‘Hickes lives in Axe Yard, Westminster, but I doubt he
will be accepting visitors today. There is a rumour that he has been poisoned. Rat stew, apparently.’

  ‘I had rat stew last night, and I am not poisoned,’ said Chaloner, wondering if Mrs Hickes had persuaded her husband to swallow one of Theophilus Buckworth’s Personal Lozenges after all.

  Bulteel shuddered. ‘You old soldiers! I have heard them wax lyrical about the lost delights of rat stew before, but I did not think they would eat it when more pleasant alternatives were available.’

  ‘I would not have to eat it at all, if the Earl paid me,’ said Chaloner, not without bitterness.

  Bulteel stared at him. ‘You are that impecunious? You should have said! I administer a small fund for emergencies, and you should have some expenses for your work. Here is ten shillings. I cannot give you more, but it should last until you bring about a successful resolution to your enquiries.’

  Chaloner accepted it warily. ‘Are you sure this is legal? I do not want the Earl accusing me of theft.’

  Bulteel looked hurt. ‘Of course it is legal! Do you think I would risk my career with a new child on the way? Now you must sign my ledger, to say you have received the said amount.’

  Chaloner bent to write his name in the book Bulteel had pulled from his desk, and saw the clerk was telling the truth, because it did contain a list of minor expenditures incurred on the Earl’s behalf.

  Bulteel lowered his voice. ‘Your reasons for leaving Newburne’s hoard where it was were sound at the time, but the situation has changed. If his cellar floods in all this rain, it will almost certainly be discovered by the workmen who come to clean up. I think you had better bring it here – today, if possible – and I will find somewhere to hide it. I have a feeling you are going to need it soon. The Earl is expecting his answer tomorrow, and you do not seem overwhelmed with solutions.’

  Chaloner did not want to waste precious time on treasure, but Bulteel was right – a chest of coins might well appease the Earl in lieu of a solved case. Because he now had plenty of money, he took a hackney to Old Jewry. It raced recklessly towards its destination, spraying water so high that it splattered over the buildings on both sides simultaneously. It also drenched other road-users, and their progress was marked by waving fists and curses. The driver swore back, and Chaloner was not surprised when someone brought the journey to an abrupt end by hurling a clod of mud. It missed the hackneyman, but the ensuing altercation looked set to last for some time, so Chaloner ran the rest of the way.