The Butcher of Smithfield (23 page)

She inspected his face, raising her hand to touch the bruise on his jaw. ‘You have been fighting, I see. You have not changed!’

‘You have,’ said Chaloner. She had grown plumper, and her glossy chestnut hair was set in the style favoured by Lady Castlemaine.
There were expensive rings on her fingers, and she had somehow acquired the casual, mocking smile that was currently the vogue
at White Hall. In all, they were not pleasant developments, and he wondered what was happening to her.

‘It has rained almost constantly since you left,’ she said, when he did not elaborate. ‘The old folk say it was the worst
summer ever. Special prayers were said for the harvest, but they did scant good.’

‘It is the wrath of God,’ said Preacher Hill in a voice that was far too loud for the early hour. ‘He disapproves of debauchery,
and sends a scourge of rain to lead us back to the path of righteousness.’

Chaloner wanted to point out that this was rank hypocrisy from a man who earned his daily bread in a brothel, but he did not
want to offend Temperance, so he held his tongue. He followed her along the hallway to the large, warm kitchen, while Hill
disappeared on business of his own. Normally, the room was busy, as scullions prepared for the new day by scouring pans and
fetching water. That morning, however, the hearth was a mass of dead, white ashes, and the room was still and silent. Temperance
began to lay the fire, while Chaloner looked around him.

‘Where are your people? The cooks and the maids.’ And the prostitutes, he was tempted to add, but was still not quite sure
how to refer to them without causing offence.

‘In bed,’ she replied. She glanced up at him. ‘Yesterday was All Saints and today is All Souls.’

He regarded her blankly. ‘I do not understand.’

She raised her eyebrows indignantly. ‘The club does not operate on religious high days, Thomas. That would be immoral.’

Temperance was eager to tell Chaloner all that had happened in London during his absence. He did not ask whether she had heard
about the deaths of Newburne and Maylord, but they were included in her summary anyway. It was not long before she was joined
by her matronly assistant Maude, and the discussion became even more detailed. Although listening to gossip was not something
he particularly enjoyed, it was a necessary part of being a spy, and he was good at asking questions that prompted a decent
flow of information.

He discovered that the bishops had successfully vetoed a Bill that granted indulgences to Catholics, and the King – unfashionably
tolerant of ‘popery’ – was furious about it. The old Archbishop of Canterbury had died, and was succeeded by a man who was
unlikely to soothe troubled waters. The Devil was making regular appearances in a house in Wiltshire, obliging the Queen to
send agents to investigate – Chaloner was grateful he had not been given
that
commission – and the King had hesitated to acknowledge Lady Castlemaine’s latest baby as his own; she was said to be livid
at what amounted to a slur on her fidelity.

‘How do you know all this?’ he asked when they had finished. Their chatter had saved him the bother of reading back-issues
of the newsbooks, and knowing Court gossip and a smattering of current affairs made him feel less of an alien in his own country.

‘Our customers often bring newsletters for us to read,’ explained Temperance. ‘After all, everyone is interested in intelligence
these days. It is the latest fashion.’

‘We buy the news
books
,’ elaborated Maude, ‘but they are a waste of money. The news
letters
are better, especially Muddiman’s. L’Estrange’s rags contain a lot of rubbish that the government wants us to believe, but
that must be taken with a fistful of salt. Take Monday’s
Intelligencer
, for example. Were phanatiques really intent on seizing York? Or does L’Estrange exaggerate?’

‘Muddiman says the rebellion was confined to a few misguided lunatics,’ said Temperance. ‘So, I think we can ignore L’Estrange’s
attempts to make us think we are on the brink of another civil war.’

Chaloner was sure their opinion of the newsbooks echoed that of most Londoners, and thought Williamson had better do something
to improve them before they slipped so far into disrepute that they would never recover.

‘Have you met L’Estrange’s assistant, Tom?’ asked Maude. Her expression could best be described as lecherous. ‘Henry Brome
is a
lovely
man, and it is a pity he is married.’

‘I do not think much of Joanna,’ said Temperance immediately. ‘Far too thin. And she reminds me of a rabbit – all teeth, ears
and eyes. I cannot abide skinny women.’

Chaloner regarded her in surprise. Temperance was not usually catty, and he supposed her own expanding waistline made her
jealous of those who had theirs under control. ‘I rather like her.’

‘Everyone
likes
her,’ drawled Temperance acidly. ‘She is so
sweet
. Personally, I usually feel like grabbing her by
the throat and shaking some backbone into her. Timid little mouse!’

Chaloner laughed at her vehemence. ‘I prefer her to some of the people I have met since arriving back in London. And speaking
of unpleasant men, you mentioned the death of a solicitor called Newburne earlier. Did you ever meet him?’

‘He came here once,’ said Temperance, not seeming to think there was anything odd in the question. ‘He was a small, bald fellow
with the kind of moustache that made him look debauched – like the King’s. I did not like him. He pawed the girls, then left
without paying.’

‘Actually,’ countered Maude, ‘he told Preacher Hill that he would send payment with Ellis Crisp. Of course, it amounts to
the same thing. Who would dare ask Crisp for money?’

‘It is curious that Newburne died of cucumbers,’ mused Temperance. ‘There has been a lot of it about of late. First, there
was that charming Colonel Beauclair, equerry to the Master of Horse. Then there was Valentine Pettis, the pony-dealer—’

‘Two men associated with nags,’ said Chaloner, wondering if it was significant.

‘And finally two sedan-chairmen,’ finished Temperance, ‘who had nothing to do with nags, because they are effectively mules
themselves. I expect it is just a bad year for cucumbers, probably because of the rain. Perhaps the dismal weather produced
a crop with unusually evil vapours.’

‘Do not forget Maylord,’ added Maude. ‘He died of cucumbers, too, although he once told me he never ate anything green. He
said it made him break out in boils.’

‘I miss Maylord,’ said Temperance sadly. ‘He came here to play for us sometimes. He told me he taught your father the viol,
Tom. Is it true?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Did he perform for you during the last two weeks or so? Someone told me he was upset about something, and
I would like to know what.’

‘Money,’ supplied Maude helpfully. ‘He thought someone had cheated him of some, and was very angry about it – not like him
at all. He did not say how much he was owed or the name of the debtor, but it was obviously a substantial sum or he would
not have been so agitated. Did you hear his close friend Smegergill was murdered on Sunday? At Smithfield.’

‘Was he?’ asked Temperance, startled. ‘That is a pity. I cannot say I took to Smegergill, because he was odd, but I am sorry
to hear he met a violent end.’

‘How was he odd?’ asked Chaloner.

‘He was losing his memory, and was convinced he was about to be committed to Bedlam,’ replied Temperance. ‘He often made peculiar
remarks about it – the kind that make a person uncomfortable.’

‘That was his idea of a joke,’ argued Maude. ‘He did not really believe there was anything wrong with him. It was just something
he liked to claim, perhaps so people would contradict him and say he was as sane as the rest of us. Which he was.’

Temperance was thoughtful. ‘Do you really think so? I was under the impression that it was a genuine fear, and he
was
becoming more forgetful.’

Maude remained firm. ‘It was clear he was just amusing himself by pretending to be addled. I saw him laughing fit to burst
once when he told the Duke of Buckingham he was turning into an elephant, and the Duke responded
by providing him with a large handkerchief for blowing his trunk.’

‘Well, he once told me that his name was Caesar, and so he should be allowed to rule White Hall,’ said Temperance, unconvinced.
‘That is not normal behaviour by anyone’s standards. But we should discuss something else before we quarrel. Have you seen
William since you returned, Tom? He has fallen in with a very devious person.’

‘He brought her to meet us,’ said Maude. ‘She was more interested in our silverware than our company, and then she said she
knew plenty of ladies who would like to work for us.’

‘They will not be
ladies
,’ said Temperance disapprovingly. ‘And we are very selective about who we hire. We have our reputation to consider, and I
doubt she knows any respectable girls.’

Chaloner doubted the whores who worked for Temperance would be deemed ‘respectable girls’ by most Londoners, either. He showed
them his drawing. ‘I am going to take this to Newgate today, to see if anyone recognises her.’

Maude regarded the picture critically. ‘You need to make her eyes colder and harder, and add more weight to her jowls. I am
glad you intend to separate her from Mr Leybourn. If you do not, she will have every penny from him, and crush his heart,
too. We will help you.’

‘How?’

‘My sister lives in Smithfield, and her cakes are just as popular with villains as with law-abiding men. Leave your picture
with me, and I will ask her about Mary Cade.’

‘She told me she was a friend of Ellis Crisp,’ said Chaloner.

Maude immediately shoved the drawing back across the table. ‘Well, in that case, I shall mind my own business. And so should
you. No one should put himself on the wrong side of Butcher Crisp.’

Temperance was appalled. ‘Are you saying William is in the clutches of the Hectors? But that is terrible! We must do something
to save him, even if it does mean coming to blows with Crisp.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘It is too dangerous. Leave it to me.’

‘For once, I agree,’ said Maude fervently. ‘I shall do as you say, and so will Temperance. I am no coward, but there is no
point in asking for trouble, and I would hate to see the club in flames.’

Chaloner gazed at her. ‘It is that bad?’

‘Worse,’ declared Maude. ‘Mr Leybourn will just have to take his chances – and hope he lives to learn his lesson about women
like Mary Cade.’

‘There is one thing we can do, though,’ said Temperance. ‘William once told me he keeps all his money in a sack under a floorboard,
because he does not trust bankers. You must persuade him to take it elsewhere, Tom. Mary and her cronies might lose interest
in him once it is no longer available.’

Chaloner had known about Leybourn’s careless attitude towards his life-savings, but it had slipped his mind. He supposed he
should steal it, to keep it safe until his friend had come to his senses. ‘I will devise a way to stop them getting it,’ he
said, deliberately vague. He did not want to involve Temperance and Maude in a plan that would almost certainly involve burglary.

‘Good,’ said Temperance, ‘but do it discreetly. Do not
give the Hectors reason to suspect you are responsible, or you may end up in one of the Butcher’s pies.’

‘Where are you taking that bundle of clothes?’ asked Maude in the silence that followed Temperance’s unsettling remark. ‘To
the rag-pickers? They are in a sorry state, so I doubt you will get much for them.’

‘They only need to be mended,’ objected Chaloner, rather offended. ‘I was going to buy thread—’

Maude inspected them critically. ‘Only a seamstress of the highest calibre will be able to salvage these! You had better leave
them with me.’

‘They are all I have,’ said Chaloner, hoping she would not decide they were beyond repair and throw them away. He could not
afford to replace them.

‘Do not worry. You can trust me – with a needle at least.’ Maude winked disconcertingly at him.

‘Meanwhile, we shall lend you something that does not make you look like a Parliamentarian fallen on hard times,’ said Temperance,
businesslike and practical. ‘Our customers often leave garments behind, so we actually possess an impressive wardrobe.’

‘I cannot visit White Hall wearing clothes abandoned in a brothel,’ objected Chaloner, thinking about what might happen if
an owner recognised them.

‘We will pick you something bland,’ replied Maude, rather coolly.

She heaved her ample rump out of her chair and returned a few moments later with a green long-coat and breeches. The coat
had buttons up the front, on the pockets, and along the sleeves. She insisted that he also wear boot hose – leggings with
lace around the knees that hid the top of his boots – on the grounds that not to do so would look peculiar. The ensemble was
finished
with a clean white ‘falling band’, a bib-like accessory that went around the neck and lay flat on the chest.

Maude regarded him appreciatively. ‘What a difference a few decent clothes can make to a fellow! You have gone from impecunious
servant to a man of some standing.’

‘You look nice,’ agreed Temperance, smiling. ‘I might even make a play for you myself.’

Chaloner glanced sharply at her, but saw she was teasing him. She had been enamoured of him once, but had since learned that
she did not want a husband or a protector telling her what to do. And he certainly had no intention of dallying with a brothel-mistress.

When Chaloner left the bordello, the rain had stopped, although dark clouds suggested there was more to come. Everything dripped
– houses, churches, trees, the scruffy food stalls in Fleet Street, carts and even horses. The usual clatter of hoofs on cobbles
was replaced by splattering water and sloshing sounds as people made their way through lakes of mud. Even the pigeons roosting
in the eaves looked bedraggled, and the black rats in the shadows had coats that were a mess of spiky wet fur.