The Butcher of Smithfield (16 page)

‘Once or twice.’

‘He was jealous of my financial success, so he lobbied for me to be dismissed and L’Estrange to be appointed in my place –
L’Estrange
shares
the newsbooks’ profits with Williamson, you see, whereas I kept them all for myself. But Williamson badly misjudged the situation.
I have spent years in the business of newsmongering, and it did not take me many days to establish a list of men willing to
pay for a weekly letter that contains good, reliable news.’

‘How long a list?’

‘I sell to about a hundred and fifty customers, each of whom pays a minimum of five pounds per annum. Some give me as much
as twenty pounds.’ Muddiman’s expression was smug. ‘I make more than a thousand pounds a year, while the newsbooks manage
less than two hundred.’

‘Our success has stunned Williamson,’ added Dury.
‘But it should not have done. L’Estrange’s publications are rubbish, and our newsletters have flourished, at least in part,
because
of them – people subscribe to us because the newsbooks are so dismally bad. Williamson has lumbered himself with a worthless
editor and publications that are a national joke.’

‘I imagine he is not pleased,’ said Chaloner. It was a gross understatement. Williamson was shockingly greedy, and would be
furious to think of a thousand pounds going into Muddiman’s pocket.

Muddiman grinned. ‘He is livid. Of course, I understand his sense of loss: money is important, and it is certainly all
I
want from life. Yet I have learned that the best way to get rich is by maintaining decent standards in my work. L’Estrange
has not understood that lesson, despite Brome’s valiant efforts, and his purse and Williamson’s are suffering the consequences.’

‘We have told you all we know now,’ said Dury, standing and stretching languorously. ‘And I have a report to write about the
northern rebellion – to tell folk what
really
happened up there. You should be wary of pursuing this Newburne business any further, though. There are some things that
even the Lord Chancellor’s spies should not risk, and tampering with Butcher Crisp is one of them.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. ‘What do you think he might do?’

‘Anything he likes,’ replied Dury. ‘Stay away from the man if you value your life. Just go back to White Hall and tell your
Earl that there is nothing about Newburne’s death to investigate.’

Chaloner left the Folly feeling that he had learned very little, except that Muddiman and Dury might well have
dispatched Newburne, and that the feud over the newsbooks was more bitter and complex than he had first realised. He was
about to visit Newburne’s friend Heneage Finch, when he became aware that he was being watched – the plum-faced apple-seller
was regarding him with more than a passing interest. He recalled thinking earlier that the man stood out as not belonging,
and the feeling intensified when he saw he was making no attempt to hawk his wares.

The trader was a hulking fellow, who wore good riding boots below a scruffy coat. His knuckles were scarred from fighting,
but there was a copy of
The Intelligencer
poking from his pocket, suggesting he had acquired a modicum of education. He did not carry a sword, but there was a long
dagger at his waist, and a bulge near his knee suggested there was another in his boot. All told, he was a man of strange
contradictions – and he was no more an apple-seller than was Chaloner.

‘How much?’ Chaloner asked, to ascertain whether the man knew the going rate for his goods.

The fellow regarded him appraisingly. ‘Good coffee, was it? What did you talk about with those fine gentlemen in there?’

Chaloner was startled by the ingenuous interrogation. ‘I do not see that is any of your affair.’

‘You want an apple? Then answer some questions.’

Chaloner held out his hand, and was presented with a somewhat wizened specimen. He started to eat it anyway, despite the fact
that it was brown in the middle and maggots had been there before him. It had obviously been discarded by a more reputable
merchant, and had been retrieved from a refuse pile to provide the man with a cover. Chaloner had done much the same himself
in the past, although he hoped his disguises had been rather less transparent.

‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.

‘Who are you?’ asked the apple-seller. ‘And what did you want with Muddiman?’

The apple-seller was clearly someone’s spy, so Chaloner opted for honesty. A number of people already knew who he was and
what he was doing, and if he lied and was later found out, it might cause needless trouble. ‘The Earl of Clarendon ordered
me to investigate the death of Thomas Newburne.’

The apple-seller jerked his head towards the coffee barge. ‘I would love to tell you Muddiman or Dury had a hand in it, but
I have been watching them for weeks – ever since L’Estrange was given power of the newsbooks – and I know for a fact that
they are innocent.’

‘You work for Williamson,’ surmised Chaloner. He supposed he should have guessed; the Earl had already told him that the Spymaster
would commission his own agents to find out what had happened to the solicitor. ‘Are you looking into Newburne’s death? What
is your name?’

‘My name is unimportant. And my remit is to watch Muddiman and Dury – nothing else.’

‘Why them?’

The apple-seller sighed impatiently. ‘Because the newsbooks are important. They are the way the government communicates with
its people, so they need to be protected from dangerous enemies like Muddiman and Dury. That is what
I
am doing.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘But Newburne was employed to work on the very newsbooks you are paid to safeguard. His death might
be a hostile move against them.’

The man stared at him in a way that suggested the idea had not occurred to him before. It did not say much for the efficiency
and cunning of Williamson’s secret service. ‘I suppose it might,’ he conceded reluctantly. ‘Muddiman and Dury had nothing
to do with it, though. I watch them day and night.’

‘What happens when you sleep?’

‘I only rest when they are in bed. And they rise late, so I am awake before them in the mornings.’

Chaloner was appalled when he saw the man genuinely believed he had them covered twenty-four hours a day – and appalled that
Williamson was apparently satisfied with the situation. ‘How can you be sure they did not hire someone to do their dirty work?
That Newburne was not killed on their orders, while they sipped coffee and you watched them?’

The apple-seller regarded him askance, and Chaloner suspected an astute pair like Muddiman and Dury would run circles around
the fellow. One would slip out of a back door while the other sat in plain view, and Williamson’s spy would have no idea what
was happening.

‘They would not do that,’ the man declared resentfully. ‘They would not dare.’

‘What do
you
think happened to Newburne?’ Chaloner asked, ignoring the claim. He suspected he was wasting his time in soliciting the opinion
of such a fellow, but there was no harm in being thorough.

‘He swallowed too much cucumber. He was a glutton for expensive things and they cost threepence. Most people use them in decoctions
for wind, but he actually
ate
the one he got from the costermongery in Smithfield. Witnesses said he took real bites, like you are doing with that apple.’

‘If I were to suggest to you that his cucumber had been poisoned, and invited you to guess who might have tampered with it,
what would you say?’

‘That neither of us has an hour to spend naming all the possible candidates. However, if I were a betting man, my money would
be on L’Estrange.’

Chaloner was taken aback. If the apple-seller was watching Muddiman for Williamson, then it meant he and L’Estrange were on
the same side. It was thus an odd choice of suspects. ‘Why?’

‘Because Newburne had dealings with Ellis Crisp, the Butcher of Smithfield, who operates on the wrong side of the law. Newburne
was useful to L’Estrange, but embarrassing, if you take my meaning. It is like hiring Hectors for certain government business.
They are good value for money – and efficient at what they do – but you would not want the general populace knowing about
it.’

‘Are you speaking hypothetically here? Or are you saying Williamson appoints known criminals on the government’s behalf ?’

The apple-seller gazed at him in puzzlement. ‘I thought you said you worked for the Lord Chancellor. Of
course
Williamson makes use of felons! It works out cheaper to hire them as and when they are needed, than to maintain an organised
band of louts on a permanent basis. You look shocked. Are you new to government service, then?’

Chaloner was not shocked at all, although he could not help but note that Thurloe had never allowed himself to stoop to such
tactics. ‘I did not know the Earl—’

‘The
Earl
does not run an intelligence service and have a turbulent city to control, so I doubt he is obliged to
sully his hands by consorting with villains. But we digress. If you want a suspect for Newburne – assuming he really was murdered
– then look to L’Estrange. Hah! Muddiman and Dury are coming off the barge. They are waving to me, damn it! I hate it when
they do that. They are not supposed to know I am here.’

Chaloner finished the apple and left the man to his business, thinking Williamson’s spy was no proof of guilt, innocence or
anything else as far as Dury and Muddiman were concerned.

There was still an hour of daylight left, so Chaloner went to see if he could find Heneage Finch at his home on Ave Maria
Lane. It was not difficult to identify the house, because the notes of a trumpet sonata were tumbling through the window of
an upper floor. Finch was an enthusiastic but indifferent player, and his performance was not enhanced by the fact that he
had chosen a dire composition. It was full of discord, and sounded as though it had been written by someone who could not
read music. Or perhaps it was Finch who could not read, and he was butchering a perfectly respectable air.

Chaloner climbed the stairs to the first floor, and found himself in a corridor that had no windows, so was entirely devoid
of outside light. A lamp hung on the wall, but it was almost empty of fuel, and illuminated very little. The whole building
had a vaguely neglected air and smelled of burned cabbage. He knocked on the door, and a man answered with his trumpet still
in one hand. He was tall and thin, with pockmarked skin and the largest ears Chaloner had ever seen.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I assume
you are the fellow who has taken the room next door? My friend Newburne used to rent it, but he …’

He trailed off and looked away; someone was distressed by the solicitor’s death, at least. Chaloner did not disavow him of
the notion that they were neighbours, hoping he might learn more than if Finch thought he was on an errand for the government.

‘You play well,’ he said, smiling pleasantly. ‘Where did you learn?’

‘I taught myself,’ said Finch, gesturing that Chaloner was to step inside his room. It was poorly furnished and messy, and
smelled of wet boots and the mould that was growing up one of its walls. ‘I am not very good, although I do play in a consort.
My name is Hen Finch, by the way.’

‘Tom Heyden. Did you say Newburne rented the room next door? I thought he owned a mansion on Old Jewry.’

‘He did, but he kept a room here, too, because it is near the newsbook office, and only a short walk to Hodgkinson’s print-house
on Thames Street. Sometimes he was obliged to work late at both places, and no man who values his life likes walking too far
in the dark.’

‘True enough. I was pickpocketed yesterday,’ lied Chaloner, to encourage him to talk more.

Finch shot him a sympathetic glance. ‘I was robbed once, but Newburne had a word with people, and I got everything back. He
was a good friend, and I shall miss him.’

‘He knew the thieves who attacked you?’

‘Ellis Crisp did. He and Newburne were colleagues.’

Chaloner pretended to be astonished. ‘Colleagues? But surely Crisp is a felon?’

Finch stared at his feet. ‘I was horrified when Newburne
agreed to perform certain legal duties for him – mostly property conveyancing or getting the Hectors out of prison – but he
said it was a good career opportunity, and it did make him rich. Besides, he said not all of Crisp’s dealings are unethical
or against the law. Some of his business is perfectly respectable.’

Chaloner was sure that was true: it would be virtually impossible for a man to do everything on a criminal basis, and there
would be times when Crisp had no choice but to revert to legitimate tactics.

‘I do not like the sound of his pies, though,’ Finch went on in a low, uneasy voice. ‘And I shall never eat one, no matter
how hungry I might be. They are said to contain the bodies of his enemies.’

‘So I have heard,’ said Chaloner, trying to keep the scepticism from his voice.

‘Working for L’Estrange did not make poor Newburne very popular, either,’ continued Finch unhappily. ‘But people did not
know
him. If they had taken the time to forge a friendship, as I did, they would have found him charming, witty and kind. He was
a great lover of music, and often hired professional consorts to play for him.’

‘Did he ever hire a violist called Maylord?’

‘Not as far as I know, although he heard Maylord perform at White Hall once. He heard Smegergill on the virginal, too, although
I think Smegergill is not as talented as he used to be. It must be because his fingers are stiffening with age, and I suspect
his days as a musician are numbered.’

Chaloner smiled his satisfaction. A real connection at last! He had known there had to be one. ‘I admired Maylord myself.
It is a pity both he and Newburne are dead of cucumbers.’

‘I heard a surgeon was hired to confirm the nature of Newburne’s demise, but I have no faith in leeches. Perhaps he was eating
a cucumber when he died – Hodgkinson says so, and he is an honest sort – but can we be sure it actually
caused
his death? Personally, I think someone did away with him.’