The Butcher of Smithfield (11 page)

‘The Butcher of Smithfield?’ echoed Chaloner incredulously. He was tempted to smile, but he did not want to offend someone
who was trying to be helpful. He struggled to keep his expression blank. ‘Does this title refer to his profession or his penchant
for “untamed violence”?’

‘Both, I imagine, although I do not think he has much
to do with the meat trade any more. However, I have been told that his pastries offer a convenient repository for his victims’
bodies.’

This time Chaloner did not attempt to control his amusement, and laughed openly. ‘Then I doubt it is a very lucrative business.
There cannot be many cannibals in London, and no one else will be inclined to dine on pies that own that sort of reputation.’

Brome shrugged and looked away, and Chaloner saw the bookseller thought there might well be truth in the rumours. Not wanting
to argue, he changed the subject.

‘Can I see L’Estrange today, or should I come back later?’

Brome forced a smile. ‘I will ask for an interview now. If you are from the Earl of Clarendon, he will probably want to meet
you. But be warned – he was not in a friendly frame of mind earlier, so you may have to … to speak with caution, so as not
to ignite his fragile temper.’

‘He will not risk annoying the Earl by slicing the ears off
his
messengers.’

Brome regarded him as though he was mad. ‘He does not care who he annoys – which makes for a good editor, I suppose. If you
give me a moment, I will present him with Mr Smith’s advertisement first. It will put him in a better mood, because it means
five shillings in the newsbooks’ coffers.’

Bookshops were always pleasant places in which to while away time, and Chaloner was perfectly content to browse in Brome’s
while he waited to be summoned to L’Estrange’s office. He noticed some of the texts had been penned by L’Estrange himself,
most of them virulent attacks on
Catholics, Puritans, science, Dutchmen, Quakers and, of course, phanatiques. Then he saw one that contained speeches made
by some of the regicides before their executions. He took it down, and was startled to find a monologue by his uncle, who
had neither been executed nor delivered a homily about what he had done. He read it in distaste, supposing L’Estrange had
made it up. His uncle had been no saint, but he would never have uttered the viciously sectarian sentiments recorded in the
poisonous little pamphlet, either. He replaced it on the shelf, feeling rather soiled for having touched it.

Suddenly, there was an explosive yell from the chamber above. Someone was being dressed down. Chaloner moved towards the stairs,
better to hear what was being said.

‘
One
advertisement?’ Chaloner recognised L’Estrange’s voice from the incident outside the Rainbow Coffee House. ‘Is that all?
It is a Monday, and clients should be flooding through the door.’

‘It is early yet,’ stammered Brome. ‘And I thought you might like to see the first—’

‘Do not
think
,’ snapped L’Estrange unpleasantly. ‘Leave that to me.’

Chaloner heard footsteps coming from a corridor that led to the back of the house and, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping,
moved quickly to stand by a pile of tomes about navigation and ocean mapping. He snatched up the top one, and was reading
it when a woman entered the room. She closed the door at the base of the stairs, muffling the bad-tempered tirade that thundered
from above.

‘Are you a sailor, sir?’ she asked politely. ‘If so, then may I direct you to a specific book? Or have you found what you
are looking for?’

Chaloner glanced up from his ‘reading’ to see a slender, doe-eyed lady, who was pretty in a timid, frightened sort of way.
She was tall for a woman – almost as tall as him – although her clothes were sadly unfashionable, and overemphasised her willowy
figure. When she smiled, she revealed teeth that were rather long, which, when combined with the eyes, put Chaloner in mind
of a startled rabbit. The comparison might not have sprung quite so readily to mind had her hair not been gathered in two
brown bunches at the side of her head, and allowed to hang down like floppy ears.

‘A sailor?’ he asked blankly.

She nodded to the book he was holding. ‘Only mathematicians or nautical men are interested in Robert Moray’s
Experiment of the Instrument for Sounding Depths
. You do not look eccentric enough to be a man of science, so I conclude you must be a naval gentleman.’

‘I developed an interest in soundings on a recent sea voyage,’ lied Chaloner. ‘But I am just passing the time until I can
see L’Estrange.’

She looked alarmed. ‘I hope there is no trouble?’ Realising it was an odd question to ask, she attempted to smooth it over,
digging herself a deeper hole with every word she gabbled. ‘That is not to say we are expecting trouble, of course. The newsbook
offices are very peaceful most of the time.
Very
peaceful. We never have trouble. Well, not usually. What I mean is—’

It seemed cruel to let her go on, so Chaloner interrupted. ‘No trouble, just government business.’

‘Thank God!’ she breathed. Then she shot him a sheepish grin. ‘You must think me a goose! All worked up and talking like the
clappers over nothing. We lost a colleague recently, you see, and it upset us, even though
we did not like him very much. That is to say we did not
dis
like him, but …’

She trailed off unhappily, and looked longingly at the door that led to the back of the house, clearly itching to bolt. Chaloner
felt sorry for her, thinking she was entirely the wrong sort of person to be employed in the devious business of selling news.
He winced when the shouting from upstairs grew louder. ‘L’Estrange seems peeved.’

‘He is always peeved. Unless a lady happens along. Then he is all smiles and oily charm. If you want his favour, you might
consider donning skirts.’ She blushed furiously. ‘I am not saying you look like the kind of man who likes dressing up in women’s
clothing, because I am sure you do not, but …’

‘I never don skirts when I am in need of a shave,’ said Chaloner, taking pity on her a second time. ‘I find it spoils the
effect.’

The comment coaxed a smile from her. ‘You should not let that bother you – it will not be your face he is looking at.’

‘You are Mrs Brome?’

‘Joanna. My husband is Henry. But I expect you already know that. Silly me! Henry is always saying I talk too much, but he
is a man, and they do not talk
enough
, generally speaking. Unless they are politicians or lawyers, of course. Then they are difficult to stop.’

Chaloner was relieved when the door at the bottom of the stairs opened, and Brome returned. The bookseller’s face was flushed,
and his wife rushed to his side with a wail of alarm.

‘It is all right, dearest,’ said Brome, patting her arm. He turned to Chaloner. ‘You have met my wife, I see.
She helps me in my business. No one has a head for figures like my Joanna.’

Joanna smiled shyly. ‘I do my best. And everything needs to be accounted for, because a single missing penny might result
in an accusation of theft. L’Estrange is very particular about money.’

‘It does not sound as though he is easy to work with.’

‘He is good to us,’ said Joanna immediately. ‘Well, he is good most of the time, and—’

‘It is all right, Joanna,’ said Brome quietly. ‘Heyden is from White Hall, so I am sure he already knows about L’Estrange’s …
idiosyncrasies.’

Joanna heaved a heartfelt sigh. ‘Good! It is difficult to pretend all is well when Mr L’Estrange is in one of his moods, and
I dislike closing the door and trying to distract customers with idle conversation in order to drown out his noisy rants.
It feels duplicitous, and I am not very good at it anyway.’

‘We were delighted when he chose us to help him with the newsbooks,’ said Brome, seeming grateful to confide. ‘He said our
shop suited him better than any other, because it is near all the booksellers at St Paul’s, and not far from his home. But
he has such a black temper.’

‘Actually, he is a bully,’ whispered Joanna. She glanced nervously towards the stairs. ‘And neither of us were really “delighted”
when he said he was going to use our shop from which to run his business. We like the money – he pays rent for his office
and
for our help with his newsbooks – but he is not someone we would befriend, if we had a choice. He is so … well,
strong
. And we are not.’

‘Yes and no,’ countered Brome. ‘He does not always get his own way.’

‘True,’ conceded Joanna. ‘We managed to prevent him from publishing that libellous attack on ex-Spymaster Thurloe last month.
It took some doing, but he admitted we were right in the end – that there was no truth in the spiteful things he had written.’

‘I have no love for Cromwell’s ministers, but that editorial was pure fabrication, and would have made us a laughing stock,’
said Brome. ‘L’Estrange needs our commonsense and sanity.’

Chaloner did not think Joanna would be overly endowed with either, because she seemed rather eccentric to him. Then he reconsidered.
Her gauche awkwardness was doubtless due to her shy and nervous nature, and he did not blame anyone for being fearful when
the likes of L’Estrange was brooding upstairs. When she smiled at him, and he saw the sweet kindness in her face, he found
himself feeling rather sorry for her. He smiled back.

‘He is in a foul mood today,’ Brome went on. ‘Unfortunately, he read that newsletter – the one addressed to Pepys – as soon
as it arrived this morning, and it contains some of the stories we had planned to print in Thursday’s
Newes
.’

‘Again?’ asked Joanna, shocked. ‘But how? And what are we going to do? This cannot continue, because people will not buy the
newsbooks if they are full of old intelligence.’

Chaloner frowned, not sure he fully understood the situation. ‘I would have thought printing would confer a significant advantage
on you. Surely it is faster to print a hundred sheets than to handwrite them, like Muddiman has to do? How can he disseminate
news more quickly than L’Estrange?’

‘Printing is a laborious process,’ explained Brome. ‘It involves hours of typesetting, and then, because compositors make
mistakes, everything needs to be checked. Meanwhile, Muddiman employs an army of scribes. As soon as a letter is finished,
a boy races off to deliver it, so news can be spread in a matter of minutes. We can flood the city with thousands of newsbooks,
given time, but the newsletters are infinitely faster. The advantage is not as great as you might think.’

‘If you say the government clerks are not responsible for the leak of information, then what about someone here?’ asked Chaloner.
He thought about Newburne, and decided ‘news-theft’ was an excellent motive for murder. Had the solicitor been selling L’Estrange’s
stories to Muddiman, and been killed for his treachery?

Brome seemed to read his mind. ‘It was not Newburne. He was making too much money from L’Estrange to risk losing it.’

‘Is that why you are here?’ Joanna asked of Chaloner, suddenly displaying the same astuteness as her husband. ‘Someone at
White Hall thinks Newburne’s death was not an accident, but connected to the news? Everyone has assumed the cucumber was responsible,
but he did have enemies.’

‘He did,’ agreed Brome. ‘He was corrupt, and I do not think he will be greatly missed by anyone.’

‘His family will miss him,’ said Chaloner, supposing that even solicitors had them.

Joanna nodded slowly. ‘Yes, his wife is upset. However, if someone did kill him, the culprit will not take kindly to questions
– and Newburne had some singularly unsavoury acquaintances.’

‘I have already told him all this,’ said Brome. ‘And in
reply to your other observation, Heyden, no one here or at the printing-house would give our news to Muddiman. They would
not dare, not with L’Estrange watching like a hawk and Spymaster Williamson looming in the background.’

‘That is true,’ said Joanna ruefully. ‘They would be too frightened, and I know how they feel. L’Estrange tends to draw his
sword first and ask questions later, and between him and Williamson, our staff are thoroughly cowed into unquestioning obedience.
Us included. Well, most of the time. We make a stand if he does something brazenly unwise, like that editorial on Thurloe,
and—’

Brome steered Chaloner towards the stairs. ‘You had better not keep him waiting. We do not want a repeat of the ear incident.’

At the top of a flight of stairs that creaked, Brome opened the door to a pleasant office. Behind a large oaken desk sat the
man Chaloner had seen squabbling with his rival in Fleet Street. His nose appeared even more prominently hooked close up,
and the rings in his ears glittered. Because he looked so rakish and disreputable, Chaloner was astonished to see him holding
a bass viol and bow.

‘You do not mind if I play while we talk, do you?’ he asked of Chaloner, waving a hand to indicate Brome was dismissed. The
bookseller escaped with palpable relief. ‘I am beset by phanatiques on all sides and music is the only thing that gives me
the resolve to do battle with them.’

‘That is a fine instrument,’ said Chaloner, rather more interested in the viol than in pursuing his dangerous assignment for
the Earl. ‘Is it Spanish?’

‘Why, yes,’ said L’Estrange, pleasantly surprised. ‘How did you know? Do you play?’ He went to a cupboard before Chaloner
could reply, and the spy saw several more instruments inside it, all equally handsome. ‘Let us have a duet, then. It is difficult
to find people willing to master the viol these days, because there is a modern preference for the violin. Or the flageolet,
God forbid!’

‘God forbid, indeed,’ murmured Chaloner, running his hands appreciatively over the fingerboard while L’Estrange slapped a
sheet of music in front of him.

‘One, two,’ announced L’Estrange, before launching into the piece with considerable gusto. Chaloner fumbled to catch up, and
L’Estrange scowled. ‘Count your beats, man!’

Apart from a few occasions when he had used his artistic skills to gain access to the sly Portuguese duke, Chaloner had had
no time for music since June, and his lack of practice showed. He played badly, aware of L’Estrange’s grimaces when he missed
notes or his timing was poor. He would have done better had it been an air he knew, but it was unfamiliar and the notation
was cramped and difficult to read. When it was finished, L’Estrange sat back and tapped it with his bow.