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

by Susanna Gregory

  When he arrived, Dorcus Newburne was leaving. A carriage waited outside her house, and L’Estrange enticed her into it with one of his leers. The maid stood sulkily in the doorway, and Dorcus gave her a jaunty wave as the coach rattled away. Sybilla made a gesture that was far from servile, then left herself; Chaloner had the impression she was playing truant as an act of rebellion. He waited until she had gone, then hurried around to the back of the mansion, and fiddled with the door until it came open. Then he trotted quickly down the cellar steps, intending to unearth the jewels and leave with them as fast as possible.

  The first thing he saw was that the barrel he had placed over the hoard had gone. The second was that there was a hole where the box had been. He stared at it in dismay. Had his act of moving the cask precipitated the treasure’s removal? If so, then it meant someone else had been monitoring it. He thought about L’Estrange’s sudden interest in Dorcus, and could not help but wonder whether the editor might have another reason for courting the widow of his colleague.

  ‘You think L’Estrange has the jewels?’ asked Bulteel, when Chaloner reported the bad news back at White Hall. ‘How will we get them back? Or shall we just forget about them? It is one thing invading Dorcus Newburne’s domain, but another altogether taking on L’Estrange. He knows how to use a sword.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Chaloner, wondering if the secretary really was nervous of L’Estrange, or whether he had his own reasons for wanting to pretend the hoard had never existed. Chaloner rubbed his head, and thought he had been a fool to think anyone at White Hall could be trusted.

  ‘No, it is too dangerous. Leave them. We will have to think of another way to appease the Earl.’

  ‘Leave them?’ echoed Chaloner. ‘I thought they represented your chance for better working conditions, as well as seeing me reinstated.’

  ‘They do, but they are not worth your life. I am a religious man, Heyden. I do not want a soiled conscience, and you have always been decent to me. You let me take credit for finding the Earl’s lost pendant when most men would either have kept it or given it to him themselves, to earn his favour. Allies are few and far between at the palace, and I do not want you dead.’

  ‘I am glad someone does not,’ murmured Chaloner, finding it hard to imagine that a simple act of honesty – and laziness, if the truth be known, because he had not wanted to be bothered with the Earl’s baubles – should have resulted in the making of a friend. In fact, it was so difficult to believe that he was more wary and suspicious than ever.

  ‘You do seem to have accrued a lot of enemies. Yesterday – before he was poisoned – Hickes told me some of the Hectors were asking after you, wanting to know where you live. He did not tell them, but they are resourceful, and it is only a matter of time before they find someone else to question.’

  And Bulteel was a coward, who would probably tell them what they wanted to know at the first asking. Time really was running out, because Chaloner could not dodge them, uncover Newburne’s killer and watch Leybourn, all at the same time.

  ‘What will you do now?’ asked the secretary, when Chaloner said nothing.

  The spy did not want to discuss his plans – and he certainly had no intention of confiding that he intended to search L’Estrange’s house to see if he could find a chest of jewels. ‘Visit Hickes.’

  ‘Be careful, then. I do not want to lose you just yet.’

  ‘Just yet?’ echoed Chaloner.

  Bulteel smiled his uneasy smile. ‘Just a figure of speech.’

  * * *

  Axe Yard was not far from White Hall. It was a culde-sac of twenty-five houses around a cobbled yard, and although the entrance to it was small and mean, the court itself was pleasant. The houses to the north overlooked St James’s Park, and were occupied by ambitious men who wanted to be near White Hall. In the south, the homes were rather more shabby, and the one rented by Hickes was the shabbiest of all. Its paint was peeling, and its plasterwork in desperate need of a wash.

  Chaloner knocked several times, then let himself in when there was no reply. He heard male voices from the further of the two ground-floor rooms; Hickes had company. He eased open the door, and was surprised to see Greeting, violin at the ready. Meanwhile, Hickes lay on a bed groaning.

  ‘We can try it again,’ Greeting was saying. ‘But if it was going to work, I think we would have noticed an improvement by now. Perhaps we should call a physician, and—’

  ‘Please,’ moaned Hickes. ‘Just once more, and if I am still no better, you can fetch Mother Greene from Turnagain Lane. She is a witch, and knows some remedies.’

  Greeting began to play, and Chaloner recognised an old tune called the Sick Dance. Some people believed singing it would protect them from the plague, and Hickes obviously had even greater hopes. When he had finished, Greeting lowered his bow and looked expectantly at the ailing man.

  ‘Mother Greene, did you say?’ he asked, when Hickes gripped his stomach.

  Hickes had seen the movement in the doorway. ‘Heyden! What was in your damned stew? I knew I should not have touched it when I offered some to your cat and it turned up its nose.’

  ‘You said Heyden ate the same food you did,’ Greeting pointed out, ‘and there is nothing wrong with him, so you cannot blame his cooking. Nor would he have let you offer some to his cat, if it was tainted. No man takes risks with his own cat.’

  ‘No,’ groaned Hickes, white-faced and unhappy. ‘I suppose not.’

  Suspecting that if Hickes had been suffering for a while, then he was probably over the worst, Chaloner fetched milk from the pantry and mixed it with charcoal, which he collected from the hearth and ground into a powder with the handle of his knife.

  ‘Where is Mrs Hickes?’ he asked as he worked.

  ‘Proof-reading,’ replied Greeting, when Hickes only moaned. ‘With L’Estrange in Ivy Lane.’

  Chaloner helped Hickes sit up and sip his concoction. ‘My sister uses this for upset stomachs.’

  ‘She is not the one who taught you how to cook, is she?’ asked Hickes weakly. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘You asked last night if I knew where Hodgkinson might be. He has a sister in Chelsey.’

  ‘We know,’ said Greeting. ‘Williamson sent me there to look for the wretched man, but she has not seen him in weeks. However, it is good of you to come and tell us, and in return, I have something for you. I learned it last night, and planned to track you down today anyway.’

  ‘You mean about Butcher Crisp?’ asked Hickes, gagging slightly when Chaloner made him drink too fast. ‘What Williamson told us before I was taken poorly? Yes, tell him all that.’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking about Smegergill,’ said Greeting. ‘When I went through his belongings – which are now mine – I found documents telling me three things. First, Maylord was definitely being cheated by Newburne. Second, Smegergill was teaching the lute to a Hector called Ireton. And third, I was astonished to discover that Smegergill owned several magnificent horses currently stabled at the Haymarket. Unfortunately, I have a bad feeling he did not come by them honestly.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ asked Chaloner, thoughts churning.

  ‘Because records show he acquired them after Maylord had accused Newburne of cheating him. I think there was extortion going on, and he was given these nags to keep him quiet. However, if you blackmail felons, you should not be surprised when you are presented with stolen property. I took Bayspoole with me – as Surveyor of His Majesty’s Stables, he knows horses – and he said one of the stallions belonged to Colonel Beauclair.’

  And Beauclair was one of the men who had been poisoned with Personal Lozenges and a cucumber left to disguise the fact, thought Chaloner. Ends were beginning to come together, to make sense at last. He knew from the encoded music that Beauclair’s horse had been stolen by Hectors.

  ‘What did Williamson tell you about Crisp?’ he asked Hickes, moving to another subject.

  ‘That he has taken to killing his own pe
ople. He is now more than just an underworld king: he is a despot, who gains in power every day.’

  ‘I asked Williamson why he did not crush the fellow,’ added Greeting. ‘He is Spymaster, after all. But he said something I did not understand: that he needs to weigh the advantages first. What advantages? Surely, there are none to having such a man loose in our city?’

  Chaloner suspected that Williamson had allowed himself to become more closely allied to Crisp than most respectable citizens would consider appropriate. He said nothing, and Greeting packed up his violin and left, saying he was due to play in the Chapel Royal for Sunday prayers. When he had gone, Hickes claimed he was feeling better, and that the Sick Dance had finally worked its magic.

  ‘My stew did not make you ill,’ stated Chaloner firmly. ‘What else did you eat?’

  ‘Nothing, other than what I had at your house,’ replied Hickes, rather shiftily.

  Chaloner analysed the words with care. ‘Last night, you said you had visited me earlier in the day, but I was out. So, when you say you have had nothing other than at my house, are you actually saying you ate something more than the stew?’

  Hickes flushed scarlet. ‘I was hungry, but I was going to replace it. Honestly.’

  ‘Replace what?’

  ‘The cake outside your door. I thought I would just sample a piece while I was waiting, but you did not return, so I had another. And suddenly the whole thing was gone.’

  ‘You ate food that just happened to be lying around?’ Chaloner was disgusted. ‘I thought you knew better. You had no problem rejecting the Personal Lozenges.’

  ‘Yes, but this was cake,’ insisted Hickes earnestly. ‘Cake is different.’

  Chaloner suspected there was no point trying to convince him otherwise. ‘Who was it from? Was there a letter with it? A message?’

  ‘I threw it away when I accidentally finished the cake. It could not have been from whom it said, anyway, because he is missing.’

  ‘Hodgkinson?’ Chaloner was confused.

  ‘It must have been from him, because it was a beautifully printed letter. However, I made up for eating the cake by giving you the oil.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Chaloner, removing the flask from his pocket and holding it in the air. ‘The oil. It contains something volatile, so it was fortunate we did not use it. Where did you get it from?’

  Hickes grabbed it, sniffed its contents and regarded him in horror. ‘You are right! It was another gift. So, there were two attempts on us in one night?’

  ‘One on each, I imagine: you should be blown up, I should be poisoned. Who gave you the oil?’

  ‘I do not know. It was left for me on my doorstep.’

  ‘And you did not question it?’ Chaloner was amazed Hickes had survived so long in the treacherous world of espionage, given that he seemed not to take even the most basic of precautions.

  ‘Why would I? Lamp fuel is not food, to contain poison. It did not occur to me that someone might make it explode. Why am I a target, anyway? Watching Muddiman is hardly dangerous.’

  ‘Right,’ said Chaloner, lacking the energy to explain that a good spy considered every situation dangerous. He turned his attention to analysing the current situation, replacing the oil in his pocket as he did so. ‘The perpetrator is becoming worried, and is taking precautions to protect himself.’

  ‘But who is it?’ asked Hickes fearfully. ‘And how do we stop him?’

  Chaloner had no idea. ‘Just answer a few more questions before I go. I saw you with Henry Brome on Friday, and you were giving him money. You lied about it when I asked. Why?’

  ‘Damn! We are always so careful, too. Brome is a decent man – truthful and loyal to the government – but Williamson says L’Estrange is not very trustworthy. So, he pays Brome a small salary for information about L’Estrange.’

  ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘Anything and everything. Williamson is not a good Spymaster – Thurloe did not have to pay men to spy on his own people, because he knew whom he could trust. Williamson does not.’

  ‘What kind of things does Brome tell you?’

  ‘That L’Estrange charges five shillings for each advertisement placed in the newsbooks, but tells Williamson it is only four.’

  ‘So, L’Estrange is dishonest?’

  ‘He is a government official, so of course he is dishonest! Upright ones are few and far between, and extremely poor. Take Bulteel, for example. He is honest, and it costs him a fortune in bribes.’

  ‘What else did Brome tell you about L’Estrange?’

  ‘Nothing much. Personally, I think Williamson is wrong to distrust him. He has his faults – more than most men – but his loyalty to the government is total and absolute.’

  ‘He cheats it of money.’

  ‘That is different – petty. It is hardly worth the risk for Brome to reveal these things. His wife is after him to stop, because if L’Estrange ever found out, there would be a terrible scene, and she says it is not worth the pittance Williamson pays. Or would pay, if he were not tardy with settling his bills.’

  ‘Do you believe Brome tells you the truth? He passes you everything he finds out?’

  Hickes nodded grimly. ‘Oh, yes! You see, Williamson discovered that, as a youth, Brome wrote a pamphlet praising the Commonwealth. He says it is treason, and has poor Brome so frightened that he would never dare hold anything back.’

  ‘Poor Brome indeed.’

  ‘But even so, it is better than what is happening to the other booksellers – fined so heavily they will spend the rest of their lives in debtors’ prison. Where are you going?’

  ‘To see L’Estrange.’

  The foul weather meant there were no free hackneys, so Chaloner travelled to Ivy Lane on foot. On The Strand, he met Muddiman, who invited him to read a draft analysis about the proposed Spanish marriage contract. The spy did not want to dally, but Muddiman remained a suspect for Newburne’s murder, and he could do worse than ask the newsman a few questions.

  ‘You must be shocked by Dury’s death,’ he said quietly.

  Muddiman’s expression was bleak. ‘It started as a game, but it has now become something infinitely more deadly. Whose side will you back?’

  ‘Fortunately, I do not need to make such choices. All I need do is learn who murdered Newburne – and he was murdered.’

  Muddiman sighed. ‘So much has happened since Newburne’s death that I had all but forgotten about it. However, I can tell you that it had nothing to do with politics and struggles for power. It did not even have anything to do with controlling the hearts and minds of London through the news. It was about horses.’

  Chaloner nodded. ‘I know. Coded messages are passing between criminals, telling them which ones to steal on which nights. It is all contained in music.’

  ‘I suspected it would not take you long to work that out, especially when I learned L’Estrange had given you a copy of one of the messages. You spies are trained to notice that sort of thing, I believe.’

  Chaloner did not like to admit it had taken him longer than it should have done. ‘How do you know about the code? Are you part of the deception?’

  Muddiman gave a wan smile. ‘I am not, although I would not mind a share of the profits. The perpetrators must be making a fortune, and I envy them.’

  ‘I would not recommend an association with Hectors – look what happened to Newburne. And I suspect it was they who recently sent me a poisoned cake, too. Hickes ate it and is lucky to be alive.’

  Muddiman looked shocked. ‘Hickes is not a bad man. I am sorry he is a casualty of this war.’

  ‘Do you know the identity of the killer?’ asked Chaloner, not bothering to mention the exploding oil. ‘If so, then please tell me. Too many people have died already, and he needs to be stopped.’

  ‘I would rather not ally myself to someone in the Earl of Clarendon’s retinue, if it is all the same to you. It would spoil my reputation as an independent observer.’

 
‘I want to stop a murderer, not rule the country. Talk to me. Tell me what you know.’

  ‘You talk to me. Tell me what you know. We have both worked out that the horrible music that is sailing rather freely around London contains orders to horse thieves – and to answer your earlier question, I learned about it from my search of Finch’s room. I doubt he had put the pieces together, but I am far more clever. Start from the beginning. Explain how you think this operation functions.’

  Chaloner resented the squandered time, but was also aware that he desperately needed any answers the newsman might be willing to share. ‘Very well. Coffee houses are places to exchange gossip – such as who is away from home, or perhaps who plans to ride alone on a lonely road. These tales are carefully culled, and passed to the Hectors.’ He thought about the letter Bridges had sent him, revealing how he had been forced to pass such chatter to Hectors after his accusations had almost seen Mary hanged for theft.

  Muddiman inclined his head. ‘I concur. Butcher Crisp is a powerful criminal, who has a network of people listening in coffee houses. The intelligence is passed to him, and he sends instructions to villains such as Ireton in the form of music.’

  ‘Why music? Why not a simpler system? Or why not word of mouth?’

  ‘Because the music code is very secure – only a few people can decipher it – and it totally conceals the identity of the sender.’

  This did not seem right. ‘But you and I both know the sender is Crisp.’

  ‘Yes, but we cannot prove it, can we? You will have to catch him writing the music in order to be sure of his guilt. And using music means the recipients of these orders never meet the man who issues them. Ergo, they can never testify against him. So, what happens after the horses are stolen?’