The Butcher of Smithfield (12 page)

‘Do you like it?’

‘No.’

L’Estrange laughed. ‘I composed it, and I am rather proud of it, to be frank. However, at least you were honest. Take it home,
and we shall try it again in a few days – when you will make no mistakes, of course. But you did not come here to entertain
me. What does the Earl want?’

‘Two things. He has asked me to provide you with news about Portugal, and—’

‘News?’ pounced L’Estrange. ‘Good! I will pay you double if you sell these reports only to me. Triple, if Muddiman asks for
them and you tell him to go to Hell. What was the second thing?’

‘He wants me to ascertain whether there was anything odd about the death of Thomas Newburne.’

‘Does, he by God! Why? What business is it of his?’

‘I wish I knew,’ muttered Chaloner.

‘Newburne ate a cucumber. I admit it is an odd way to go, but it is not entirely unknown. Colonel Beauclair and a couple of
sedan-chair carriers went the same way, just this last month.’

‘You think Newburne died of natural causes?’

‘Of course he did. Obviously, he encountered a lot of dubious characters when he was working on my behalf – phanatiques, no
less. But no one killed him.’

‘When you speak of dubious characters, do you mean men like the Butcher of Smithfield?’

‘Actually, I was referring to the booksellers he met. His association with Ellis Crisp was his own affair, and none of mine.
However, I would have ordered him to consort with the Devil himself, if it meant safeguarding the King and his government.
That is why I agreed to become Surveyor of the Press – to serve His Majesty with all the means at my disposal, legitimate
or otherwise.’

‘Suppressing books on mathematics is serving the King?’ Chaloner was thinking of Leybourn.

‘Yes, and so is stamping out dishonesty in the publishing trade. I have fined dozens of booksellers for breaking the law,
including James Allestry who supplies the Royal Society, and William Nott who counts your master, the Lord Chancellor, among
his customers. I mean to root out disobedience wherever I find it, even
among those who consider themselves too grand for fines and disgrace.’

Chaloner was inclined to tell him that alienating an entire profession was probably not the best way to make a success of
his appointment – and that there was a difference between enforcing the law and gratuitous persecution – but he held his tongue.
‘What do you think happened to Newburne?’

‘I have already told you: he ate a cucumber.’ L’Estrange reflected for a moment. ‘Of course, the fruit could have been fed
to him by phanatiques. They are always lurking in coffee houses and taverns, waiting to strike.’

Chaloner thought he was being paranoid. ‘I doubt they—’

‘Are you one of them?’ demanded L’Estrange. ‘Yes, I imagine you are: your viol finger-work smacks of that old reprobate Maylord
– a loyal Parliamentarian first, but then a Royalist when he saw it would serve him better. He had a very distinctive style
of playing, and you mimic it.’

‘I have never been taught by Maylord,’ said Chaloner. But his father had, and he had passed the lessons to his son. He was
impressed by L’Estrange’s powers of observation, because he had not even been aware that the man had been studying him. ‘Did
Newburne play the viol with you?’

L’Estrange snorted his derision. ‘Hardly! He liked music, but he had no talent for it.’

‘I do not suppose
he
had lessons from Maylord, did he?’

The editor snorted a second time. ‘Maylord was a good man who would never have subjected himself to Newburne’s low company.
Why do you ask? Is it because
both died from cucumbers and you think there might be a connection between them? If so, then you are wasting your time.’

Chaloner would make up his own mind about that. ‘How well did you know Newburne?’

‘I did not give him a cucumber, if that is what you are asking. Have you ever heard the saying, “Arise Tom Newburne”?’

Chaloner nodded, although he did not admit that it had only been the previous day.

‘It refers to his promotion from common lawyer to a man who worked for
me
– my arrival in London marked a dramatic upsurge in his fortunes. It is a by-word for anything that rises quickly.’

‘Is it?’ asked Chaloner, bemused. ‘I was told it meant something else.’

‘Then you were told wrong,’ declared L’Estrange. ‘Probably by a phanatique, trying to cause mischief. Tell me his name, and
I will arrange for him to be visited by some of Newburne’s persuasive friends – Hectors. They are useful fellows to know when
dealing with dissidents.’

‘It was the Earl of Clarendon. Do you want his address, or do you know where he lives?’

L’Estrange glowered at him. ‘You should have told me who you were talking about. The Earl and I have known each other for
years, and I mean
him
no harm. Indeed, he has always been a good friend to me, and I to him.’

‘You hired Newburne to do what, exactly?’ asked Chaloner, going back to his investigation.

‘Mostly to visit booksellers and assess their stock for unlicensed publications. He was paid a shilling for every one that
he discovered, which was a fine incentive for him to succeed. He was good at it, too. He was also in
charge of watching Henry Muddiman. Do you know Muddiman?’

‘Only by reputation.’

‘You mean his reputation as a villainous rogue, who ran a pair of sub-standard newsbooks before Spymaster Williamson arranged
for me to be promoted into his place?’

‘Something like that.’

‘He is a sly devil, and owes allegiance to nothing but money. We all want to be wealthy, but some of us have other interests,
too. He does not. Newburne was paid to watch him, to see where he obtains the intelligence for his filthy newsletters. They
undermine my newsbooks, you see.’

‘Can you not suppress them?’ asked Chaloner facetiously. ‘As you have the mathematicians?’

Irony was lost on L’Estrange. ‘Muddiman does not need one of my licenses, because his reports are handwritten, not printed.
And as he does not sell them in shops, they are not within my purvey.’

‘They appear in taverns, though,’ said Chaloner. ‘I have seen them myself.’

‘Landlords subscribe to them, because newsletters attract customers eager for information. I do not like it, but it is within
the law, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Unfortunately.’

‘Did Newburne ever attempt to steal news from Muddiman? Or try to prevent the newsletters from being written?’

‘Yes, but he never succeeded, because Muddiman was far too clever for him. However, much as I would love to see Muddiman swing
for murder, I am afraid he did not kill Newburne. No one did – the man died because
he ate a cucumber. Do you have anything else to ask me?’

‘Not at the moment.’

‘Good, because I have had enough of being interrogated. I have answered all your questions, so you can tell the Earl that
I co-operated. However, I do not want you prying into Newburne’s death any further, because I have appointed a man of my own
to do it.’

‘Who?’ asked Chaloner in surprise. ‘And why, if you claim there is nothing odd about—’

‘Hodgkinson, the fellow who prints my newsbooks. He was with Newburne when he died, so he is the perfect man for the task.
And the reason I asked him to investigate is because I do not want the stink of murder hanging around my office. It is all
the fault of people like you, you know.’

‘Like me?’

‘Suspicious types, who see conspiracy everywhere. Newburne’s death was natural, and Hodgkinson will prove it. In fact, he
has probably proved it already, so go and speak to him yourself. He lives on Thames Street, although I imagine he will be
at Smithfield today; he has a booth on Duck Lane, where he sells printed certificates for meat. Talk to him, then go back
to your Earl and tell him there is nothing about Newburne that warrants further investigation.’

‘And what of the phanatiques who you say
may
have given Newburne the cucumber?’

L’Estrange shot him a wolfish grin, and his earrings flashed. ‘Hodgkinson will ferret those out for me, if they exist. You
will not interfere. If you disobey, I promise you
will
be sorry.’

* * *

Before Chaloner left Brome’s shop, he wrote a brief report about the Portuguese preparations for war with Spain. As he scribbled,
he considered his next move. There were now several people he was obliged to interview. First, there was the solicitor’s friend
Finch. Next, there was Hodgkinson the printer, who, for all Chaloner knew, might already have solved the case. And finally,
there were the two prestigious booksellers, Nott and Allestry. Like Leybourn, the pair had endured L’Estrange’s persecution,
and he wanted to assess whether they felt sufficiently bitter to avenge themselves on his informant. Chaloner knew Nott owned
the shop that stood across the road from Brome’s, because he had collected books from it for the Earl in the past, so he decided
to start there.

When he arrived, Nott was entertaining an important visitor, whose magnificent coach stood outside, selfishly blocking the
entire road.

‘Heyden,’ said the Earl of Clarendon amiably, as the spy entered. ‘Nott is rebinding my copy of Rushworth’s
Historical Collections
. Shall I have it done in blue-dyed calfskin or red?’

‘Green,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether the Earl was there by chance, or whether he was ensuring his spy was doing as he
was told. He found himself deeply suspicious. ‘Blue is common, and red is favoured by courtesans who cannot read.’

The Earl gaped at him. ‘Most of my collection is bound in red or blue.’

‘I shall fetch some more samples, sir,’ said Nott, beating a prudent retreat. ‘In green.’

‘I have started looking into Newburne’s death,’ said Chaloner, when they were alone. ‘So far, everyone has
either warned me away because Newburne knew a lot of dangerous people, or they say it is quite normal for men to die from
eating cucumbers and that I am wasting my time.’

‘I saw you go into Brome’s shop,’ said the Earl. ‘Which tale did he spin you? That Newburne’s death was natural? Or that you
will endanger yourself if you persist with your enquiries?’

‘Both. Why
do
you want this case investigated, sir? At White Hall, I was under the impression that L’Estrange had asked for your help in
finding out what happened, but he was bemused when I offered my services, and tells me they are not needed. So, what is the
real reason? Is it because your own bookseller, Nott, was victimised by Newburne, and you think he might be the culprit?’

Clarendon pursed his lips. ‘What a wild imagination you have! I like Nott, and it would be a shame if you learn he is the
killer – if there is a killer. He really does produce excellent bindings.’

‘You did not tell me that other people have died from ingesting cucumbers, either,’ added Chaloner, trying not to sound accusatory.
He did not succeed, because he was angry with the Earl for playing games with secrets, and his temper was up.

‘I did not tell you, because I did not know,’ snapped Clarendon, irritable in his turn. ‘If it is true, then perhaps I have
sent you on a wild goose chase, and there is nothing to assess. However, Newburne was unpleasant
and
he engaged in sordid dealings – if he was not murdered, I shall be very surprised.’

‘But
why
do you want to know? What is Newburne to you? Did you hire him to help you with something? He had a reputation for knowing
a good many villains.’

The Earl glared at him. ‘Was that an accidental conjunction of two statements, or do you imply that
I
am one of these “villains”?’

It had been an accident: Chaloner was not so foolish as to call his master a villain to his face. All he had meant to say
was that Newburne might have known the right people for the unpalatable tasks that often went hand-in-hand with high government
office, and that Clarendon might have used Newburne much as he was currently using Chaloner. However, he was not so chagrined
by his slip of the tongue that he failed to notice the Earl had used the gaffe to avoid answering his question.

‘Did he work for you?’ he pressed.

Clarendon grimaced. ‘You really are an insolent fellow, Heyden. Were you like this with Thurloe? Accusing him of sordid dealings
and then demanding answers to questions that are none of your concern?’ He sighed crossly. ‘Very well, I shall tell you what
you want to know, although I would appreciate discretion.’

‘I am always discreet,’ said Chaloner, offended by the slur on his professionalism.

‘So you say, but there are men with deep pockets who seem able to bribe just about anyone these days, so you will forgive
my scepticism. I employed Newburne when I was first appointed Lord Chancellor. He served me well for a while, and I was so
pleased with his diligence that I arranged for him to receive a state pension. Then I discovered he was less than honourable,
and I dismissed him.’

‘Employed him to do what?’

‘Petty legal work, although that is irrelevant to what I am trying to tell you. When my secretary, Bulteel, uncovered evidence
that Newburne was stealing from me, I
sent the man away in disgrace and thought no more about it. After a week or two, he started to work for L’Estrange who, as
Surveyor of the Press, is also a government official. The upshot is that, technically speaking, Newburne never left government
service, and as with all state pensions, there is a clause stipulating that a sum of money will be paid to the next-of-kin
if the holder dies while engaged on official business.’

‘And because you organised the award, you – not L’Estrange – are liable to pay it?’

‘Precisely! You have it in a nutshell. Newburne’s widow came to see me the day after he died and reminded me of my promise
– showed me the documents I had signed. Now, I do not mind the expense if he really did die while conducting government business,
but I am not so keen on paying if he was murdered because of some corrupt dealing of his own.
That
is what I want you to find out.’