The Butcher of Smithfield (14 page)

Hodgkinson regarded him warily. ‘His office is at the sign of the Seven Stars, near the New Exchange on The Strand. Why? Are
you not convinced by my explanations? You intend to follow your own investigation, even though there is nothing to look into?’

‘I doubt the Lord Chancellor will be satisfied with what I have uncovered so far.’

Hodgkinson’s expression was grave. ‘You seem a decent man, so here is a friendly warning: walk away from Newburne while you
can. It is what I intend to do myself.’

‘That sounds like a threat.’

‘It is not meant to be. To be frank, it crossed my mind that Newburne might have fallen foul of Crisp somehow – friends turned
enemies and all that – and if it was a good man who lay dead, I might press the matter. But we are talking about Newburne
here. He is not worth dying for.’

‘So you do not believe his death was natural? You are sceptical of your surgeon’s conclusions?’

Hodgkinson looked shifty. ‘I do believe them – and that is what I shall tell L’Estrange. I am not brave enough to do anything
else. Look, I
like
the Lord Chancellor – he
is a sober, godly fellow among all those debauched courtiers. Tell him to ignore Newburne, and use his spies to defeat his
enemies at White Hall instead. It will be better for all of us that way.’

Unfortunately, Chaloner suspected the Earl would not agree. Pensions cost a good deal of money, and what was the life of an
insolent spy when compared to a fortune?

Chaloner was not very good at ascertaining causes of death from corpses, but he had acquired a certain expertise over the
years, and knew he should visit Newburne’s in St Bartholomew the Less as soon as possible. Hodgkinson’s surgeon had declared
there to be no suspicious circumstances, and if Chaloner also saw nothing to suggest the medic had been mistaken – such as
broken teeth or bruised lips – then perhaps the commonly accepted tale about Newburne’s death was true, and he had indeed
died from eating something that had disagreed with him.

Yet there were questions to be answered, even so. Had someone forced him to eat cucumbers, knowing they would do him harm?
And did the fact that he was so universally detested really have nothing to do with his death? Chaloner decided he had better
speak to Muddiman about the matter regardless, as he was the obvious suspect for any foul play. And there was still Finch’s
opinion to consider – the only person in the city said to have liked the solicitor. Chaloner supposed he should also interview
Newburne’s wife, although he
would have to tread carefully. He doubted she would be very forthcoming once she learned he worked for the man who was trying
to wriggle out of paying her pension. Mulling over all he had learned, he walked to the church.

St Bartholomew the Less was located at the edge of the vast, open, diamond-shaped space that was Smithfield. Livestock lowed
and bleated in the semi-permanent stocks, unsettled by the stench of blood and entrails from the nearby butchers’ stalls.
As he approached the church, Chaloner glanced at the people he passed, wondering whether any were members of the notorious
Hector clan. He was disconcerted to note that the area contained more than its share of disreputable types, and he did not
like the way loutish-looking men gathered on street corners in small but menacing groups.

The smaller of the two churches dedicated to St Bartholomew had been chapel to the nearby hospital of the same name, and was
full of memorials to worthy surgeons and physicians. There were fine stained-glass windows, most depicting scenes from the
Bible that involved healing, and the font, screen and pulpit were carved from old, black oak. It smelled of damp prayer-books
and the pine cones someone had piled along the windowsills, and its thick, ancient walls muffled the racket from outside.
Chaloner was pleased to find it deserted. Ever cautious, he placed a pewter jug by the door, so that if anyone opened it,
the receptacle would be knocked over, and the resulting clatter would warn him to stop what he was doing.

He made for the lady chapel, where an elaborately carved coffin was covered by a pall of heavily embroidered material. Hurrying,
because he was sure he would
not be alone for long, he dragged the cloth away, revealing the man underneath. Newburne had been slightly built, with a small,
thin moustache, like the King’s. Under his rich wig, his pate was bald and shiny, and Chaloner recalled the Earl commenting
on Newburne’s hairless state. Although Chaloner knew better than to make assumptions about a man’s character from the look
of his corpse, there was definitely something about Newburne that suggested deceitfulness and villainy.

But it was not the time for leisurely analysis, so Chaloner began his physical examination. First, he opened Newburne’s mouth,
and looked down his throat. As far as he could tell, it was clear, and he did not think Newburne had choked on his cucumber.
His teeth were intact, and there was no indication of bruising around the lips. There was, however, a faint smell of something
rank, which made him wonder whether the solicitor had ingested something that had done him no good. There was no sign that
he had been struck on the head, although a faint scar on his left temple was evidence of an older injury; Chaloner supposed
it had been caused by the stone that had allowed Annie Petwer to order him up from the dead.

He put all to rights, and stared thoughtfully at the corpse. Hodgkinson’s description of Newburne’s death, along with the
smell that lingered around his mouth, suggested poisoning was not out of the question. But was it a natural reaction to eating
a fruit generally deemed dangerous, or had someone deliberately ended his life? And if the latter was true, then had the toxin
been in the cucumber? Hodgkinson said the solicitor had also partaken of pie, wine, gingerbread and marchpanes, and any one
of them could have held something dangerous. Further, Hodgkinson
had mentioned Newburne complaining of feeling ill even before he had made a pig of himself. Chaloner considered what he knew
about poisons.

Newburne had died quickly, which suggested the substance had been strong. And if it was strong, then it would have left marks
– on the innards it had damaged, but also on other parts of Newburne’s body it might have touched during the process of ingestion,
namely his hands and lips. Chaloner looked in the mouth again, and thought he could detect tiny blisters. Then he turned his
attention to the hands. They were cold, limp and unpleasant to the touch, but it was worth the experience, because there were
green stains on the fingers, and an underlying redness that looked as though the skin had burned. There was the same unpleasant
odour, too, and when Chaloner dipped a corner of the pall into a puddle on a nearby windowsill, and tried to scrub the marks
away, they remained. He had his answer: Newburne
had
been provided with a caustic substance that had damaged his fingers and then killed him after he had swallowed it. Such a
thing would not occur naturally in a cucumber, which meant someone had probably put it there.

He left the church with a sense of achievement, and went to the stalls that fringed the edge of the Smithfield Meat Market,
looking for the costermongery on Duck Lane, where Hodgkinson said Newburne had bought his cucumber. There was only one, because
most vendors preferred to sell their wares at Covent Garden or Gracechurch Street, which were famous for their agricultural
produce. A sign declared it was the shop at the Lamb – the Lamb being the seedy tavern two doors down – and it sold spices,
baskets and pewter plates, as well as a surprisingly varied array of fruit and vegetables. Judging
from its neat shelves and well-dressed staff, it was a profitable enterprise. Between it and the Lamb was an odorous establishment
that displayed printed cards in its grimy windows. Chaloner wondered whether it was significant that Newburne had purchased
his cucumber from the shop that was located next to one of Hodgkinson’s two print-works.

‘A cucumber?’ asked the man who came to serve him. On the side of the counter was a pile of advertisements that claimed he
was Samuel Yeo, grocer and merchant. ‘They cost threepence – expensive at this time of year, because they need to be grown
inside, for warmth. Is it for a lady?

‘No,’ asked Chaloner suspiciously, handing over half his worldly wealth. ‘Why would it be?’

‘Because they use them to obtain beauteous complexions,’ explained Yeo.

‘Presumably, they can also be eaten?’

Yeo smiled. ‘They can indeed, and the seeds are excellent for ulcers in the bladder or expelling an excess of wind, so there
are benefits to including them in your diet.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner.

Yeo detected his scepticism. ‘There is a school of thought that says they are dangerous, but do not believe it. Any fruit
is poisonous if taken with greed, and cucumbers are no different. Will there be anything else? We had a consignment of fresh
spices this morning – galingale
and
cubebs. Take some galingale – its mild ginger flavour will disguise the taste of any rancid meat you need to use up. If you
make a purchase, I shall include a handful of my fine peppery cubebs, too.’

Chaloner parted with another penny in the interests
of his investigation. He put the spices in his pocket, hoping it would not be too long before he had an opportunity to buy
something to cook them with, and that when he did, galingale would not be needed to disguise its state of decomposition.

‘This is an unusual location for a costermonger’s shop,’ he said conversationally. ‘Most are at Covent Garden.’

‘We do well here, though. People come to Smithfield for meat, then stop to buy a few carrots or a couple of onions for a stew.
We save them a walk.’

‘Do you own the shop yourself, Mr Yeo?’

‘God bless you, no! The owner is a courtier at White Hall, but he never visits. Mr Newburne managed the business for him,
and paid him his quarterly profits. It was an arrangement that suited them both. And me, too – I make a good living without
the worry of complex finances.’

Chaloner regarded him in surprise. ‘
Newburne
managed this shop? And it was here that he bought the cucumber that killed him?’

Yeo became indignant. ‘People say he died of cucumbers, but I know for a fact that he swallowed pie, cakes and ale as well.
He came to demand a cucumber because he said he had pains in his bladder, but it was not our fine fruit that caused his demise.
It was something else.’

‘He thought the cucumber would make him feel better? How ill was he?’

‘He was experiencing some mild discomfort, probably as a result of all the things he had eaten when he was out walking with
Hodgkinson. He was a greedy man – and not a nice one, either.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He used his association with Butcher Crisp to bully people. He often came here for food, and he took what he wanted, but
never paid for it. When Jones of the Lamb complained that Newburne never paid for his ale, Newburne told Crisp to raise the
price of his safety tax. That taught us all to keep our mouths shut.’

‘Newburne had that sort of influence over Crisp?’

‘He did according to him, although I suspect Crisp pleases himself what he does. There he is.’

He pointed through the open door, and Chaloner saw a man of medium height, swathed in an unfashionable but practical cloak
and a tall sugarloaf hat. The Butcher was surrounded by a pack of disreputable-looking henchmen, and he walked with a cat-like
arrogance. His people clustered around him in a way that suggested they expected an attack at any moment, and Chaloner supposed
constant unease was the lot of a man who made his money by preying on others. He considered going to talk to him about Newburne,
but what could he say? That he knew the solicitor had helped with his illegal activities? Crisp’s answer was likely to be
‘so what?’ Reluctantly, because he was getting desperate for concrete clues, Chaloner decided it would be wiser to tackle
Crisp only when he had a better idea of what to ask.

Once outside, he slit the cucumber with his dagger and smeared the greenish milk that seeped out across his wrist. He let
it dry, but it came off with the most perfunctory of rubs, and it was not the same dark hue as the marks on Newburne, anyway.
It confirmed his suspicion that it had not been natural cucumber juice that had caused the damage to the solicitor’s hands
and mouth. He shoved the fruit in his pocket, but realised the discovery had left him with more questions than answers.

He was perturbed that Newburne had been unpopular in quite so many ways. The man had spied on Muddiman. He had persecuted
booksellers, even ones with powerful patrons like Nott and Allestry. He worked for L’Estrange, who was also detested. He associated
with an underworld king and helped him extort money from people. Almost everyone Chaloner had spoken to admitted disliking
the man, and even Newburne’s associates – Crisp and the Hectors – were not above suspicion. It was not unknown for criminals
to turn on each other with fatal results.

And was there a connection between Newburne’s death and Maylord’s? It seemed they had not known each other, and they had certainly
not moved in the same circles. Had Maylord’s killer left a cucumber at the scene of
his
crime because it seemed to be a cause of death that no one would question? Then what about the others who had died from the
same thing: Valentine Pettis, Colonel Beauclair and the sedan-men? Had they been murdered, too? They were almost certainly
buried, so Chaloner could not inspect their bodies. But what could a military man, a horse-trader, two labourers, a shady
solicitor and a musician have in common?

He decided he would ask questions about the other deaths if the opportunity arose, but that he would have his hands full with
unveiling Newburne’s poisoner and Maylord’s smotherer. And he had promised to investigate Mary Cade for Thurloe, too. He would
be busy enough without enlarging his investigation to include men who might well have died natural deaths. He sighed, and
hoped a visit to Muddiman would provide him with some answers.