The Butcher of Smithfield (25 page)

Chaloner was surprised he should think so. ‘I thought a coach was provided, to deliver you all safely home. You were never
in any danger.’

Greeting pulled a disagreeable face. ‘You obviously do not hire many hackneys. When only Hingston and I were left, the driver
demanded a higher fare than we had agreed, and when we refused, he ordered us out. We walked past the very place where Smegergill
was murdered. Indeed, we saw Crisp arrive to inspect the scene of the crime, but we never dreamed Smegergill was the victim.
We should not have let him go with that stranger; I blame myself for not demanding the villain’s identity.’

‘Would Smegergill not have resented the interference? I was told he could be difficult.’

Greeting gave a wan smile. ‘That is putting it mildly – he was downright contumacious at times.’

‘He told me he was afraid he might be taken to Bedlam.’

‘He often talked about that, but I am not sure if it was a genuine concern or a bizarre way of fishing for compliments – his
mind could be very sharp at times. Two of our colleagues were taken to Bedlam recently, although not for insanity. There is
a rumour that they were spies, and that Williamson caught them red-handed. It sent a clear message to all would-be informers:
dabble in espionage at your peril.’

‘You are wet,’ said Chaloner, indicating Greeting’s sodden clothes. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘I have just come from the Rhenish Wine House, where Maylord’s will was read. He left everything to Smegergill, and it is
a pity the old man did not survive to enjoy any of it.’

‘Did Maylord own a lot of property, then?’

‘A fair amount – two houses, a large collection of books and musical instruments, a shop of some kind, money invested with
bankers. Oh, and there was a fine nag, too.’

‘Nag?’ Chaloner was thinking about the other cucumber victims – the equerry and the horse-trader.

‘A racing beast. He kept it at Newmarket, although I do not think he was very interested in the sport. It was an investment,
for when he could no longer earn a living by music. There is a lesson for us, Heyden. There is no point in worrying about
the future, because there may not be one.’

‘I have been told that someone owed him money, or that he was being cheated.’

‘Very possibly. It would explain why he was angry and nervous in the two weeks before he died. The Court is infested with
vultures, and his good nature would have made him easy prey.’

‘Poor Smegergill,’ said Chaloner sadly. ‘Maylord’s money would have kept him from Bedlam.’

‘He knew he was Maylord’s beneficiary – we all did. There are those who say
he
gave Maylord the cucumber, because he wanted his inheritance.’

Chaloner did not believe for an instant that Smegergill had hastened Maylord’s end. The old man’s distress when told his friend
had been murdered was genuine. ‘What do you think?’

Greeting raised his eyebrows. ‘That this is White Hall, and people would gossip about the saints themselves, should they be
unfortunate enough to find themselves here.’

Chaloner walked to Ivy Lane, thinking about the best way to tell L’Estrange about Wenum. He did not want to accuse someone
who might have been a much-loved friend, and risk L’Estrange brandishing a sword at him. Chaloner would probably win the encounter,
but he did not want to be arrested for wounding a government official – or worse.

When he arrived, Brome’s shop was full. The bookseller and Joanna were dealing with a healthy queue of customers, while L’Estrange
was grumbling about the length of time it took for his papers to be printed. Hodgkinson was explaining that ink took a while
to dry, and that rushing the process resulted in smudged and unreadable text.

‘Alcohol of sulphur,’ said Chaloner. L’Estrange and the printer stared at him. ‘In Holland, printers add alcohol of sulphur
to ink, because they say it promotes faster drying. I have no idea if it works—’

‘Buy some,’ ordered L’Estrange, turning back to
Hodgkinson. ‘We must do something to give us an edge over Muddiman. But why are you here, Heyden? I told you I do not want
you investigating Newburne’s demise. He died of cucumbers, so let that mark the end of the matter.’

‘I came to give you more intelligence about Portugal,’ replied Chaloner. He handed over the notice he had written in Thurloe’s
room the previous evening.

L’Estrange read aloud. ‘“About the beginning of October, the Earl of San Juao, with 5500 foot, 1300 horse and 8 field pieces
entered into old Castile, out of the province Tras os Montes, and passed far into the country without opposition, where he
sacked a matter of 60 towns and places, but burnt none, for His Majesty had forbidden it”. Is this true?’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Of course it is true!’

‘Have you sold this to Muddiman, too?’ demanded L’Estrange. His earrings glittered as walked to the window to read the rest
of the report, and Chaloner thought he moved like a tiger, all compact muscles and soft-footed tread. ‘You hope to be paid
twice for the same piece?’

Chaloner half-wished he had thought of it. ‘Is that what your other sources do?’

L’Estrange finished reading and shoved the paper in his pocket. ‘They would not dare. The government newsbooks are Spymaster
Williamson’s domain, and only a fool crosses him.’

Was Wenum a fool, then, wondered Chaloner. Did betraying the Spymaster account for his death, and perhaps Newburne’s, too?
Was this what the Lord Chancellor wanted his spy to discover – that a powerful minister was responsible for a series of murders?
And if so, was it to bring Williamson down with the disgrace,
to acquire a way of controlling the Spymaster for his own ends, or to pit Chaloner against a deadly adversary to avenge himself
for what he saw as a lack of loyalty?

‘If people are so frightened of Williamson, then why are Muddiman’s newsletters so often ahead of the newsbooks?’ Chaloner
asked. ‘Obviously someone is not afraid to sell secrets.’

L’Estrange’s eyes narrowed, and his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. ‘You have a blunt tongue, and I am tempted to cut
it out. The Lord Chancellor will not mind – he has complained about your insolence on several occasions.’

‘Do not stoop to violence, Roger,’ said a chubby woman, edging forward to rest her hand on his arm. She was pretty after a
fashion, with pale blue eyes. ‘It will make a mess on the floor.’

L’Estrange’s expression immediately softened. ‘Mrs Hickes, my dear,’ he crooned, bending to kiss her cheek; she simpered at
him. ‘You know I would do nothing to offend
you
.’

‘Mrs Hickes is the spouse of Williamson’s best spy,’ whispered Hodgkinson in Chaloner’s ear. ‘Hickes is also supposed to be
investigating Newburne’s death, although I am told he has had scant success so far.’

‘His mind is probably on what L’Estrange is doing to his wife,’ murmured Chaloner, thinking of Mrs Muddiman and wondering
whether any woman was safe from the man’s advances.

Hodgkinson chuckled. ‘I wish I knew his secret. They all seem to melt at his feet, even the ones devoted to their husbands.
Like Mrs Newburne.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. Was this yet another motive for murder? ‘Did they actually—’

‘They enjoyed each other’s company when Newburne was out. Beyond that, I know nothing.’

‘Did Newburne know nothing, too?’

‘I cannot say, although it is no secret that L’Estrange has a penchant for married ladies. However, even if Newburne did
not
know about the visits, he certainly would have been aware that L’Estrange would go a-calling sooner or later.’

Chaloner watched Mrs Hickes leave the bookshop with the other customers, and was astonished to note that she was not the only
one who flung L’Estrange a longing glance as she walked through the door. So did the wife of Mr Smith of the Bell Inn, who
had apparently come to make sure the advertisement for his stolen horse was going to appear in
The Newes
the following day.

‘We were talking about betrayal, Heyden,’ said L’Estrange, dropping his courtly leer as soon as the ladies had gone, and only
he, Hodgkinson, Brome and Joanna were left. Chaloner noticed that L’Estrange’s liking for married women did not extend to
Joanna, whom he all but ignored. ‘You want to know why Muddiman always has the news before me? It is because of phanatiques.’

Joanna stepped forward, her eyes great frightened orbs. ‘It is not phanatiques,’ she said in a trembling voice, clearly uneasy
at contradicting the great man. ‘Someone
is
sending our intelligence to rivals, but not for sinister political reasons. The traitor is being paid for them. It is all
about money.’

‘Nobert Wenum,’ said Chaloner. ‘Does he work for you?’

All four looked blankly at each other. ‘I have never heard of him,’ said Brome. ‘He is nothing to do with the bookshop.’

‘And there is no one at my print-houses by that name, either,’ added Hodgkinson. ‘Who is he?’

‘The man who has been selling your secrets.’ Chaloner handed over the annotated copy of
The Newes
and the ledger, with a brief explanation of what each logged entry meant.

Hodgkinson snatched the paper from the startled L’Estrange. His jaw dropped and he turned to Chaloner in horror. ‘But this
is not due to be made public until tomorrow! How did you come by it?’

‘And this book?’ asked Joanna, peering over L’Estrange’s shoulder. ‘Where did you find it? It
proves
something is amiss – just as Henry and I have suspected for weeks. Oh, dear!’

Brome’s face was filled with dismay. ‘So, it is true, after all? I was hoping we were mistaken, because betraying the official
newsbooks is such a monstrous thing. Treason, in fact.’

‘I found both in a room rented by Wenum,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Apparently, he has a rash on his jaw and is probably a Hector.’

‘That describes you,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘There is a mark on
your
jaw, and
you
might be a Hector. You work for a government minister, and they are not averse to hiring felons for certain business.’

‘Do not confuse Heyden’s Earl with Williamson,’ said Joanna quietly. ‘They are not the same.’

Chaloner was not so sure. ‘Can you think of anyone else who matches that description?’ he asked, looking at each one in turn.

Hodgkinson shook his head, L’Estrange continued to glare at the ledger, and Joanna’s expression was one of appalled disbelief.
Her mouth hung open slightly, so her teeth seemed longer than usual.

‘Can you tell us anything else about him?’ asked Brome. ‘The colour of his hair? His height?’

‘I have never seen him,’ said Chaloner. He pointed to the paper Hodgkinson still held. ‘However, it looks as though he was
proof-reading
The Newes
in his lodgings. If you give me a list of the people you employ in such a capacity, I can investigate them for you.’

Brome and Joanna exchanged an acutely uncomfortable glance. ‘Perhaps you had better tell him, Mr L’Estrange,’ said Joanna
unhappily. She cringed when the editor glared at her, but she stood her ground. ‘Tell him their names. Please.’

‘My proof-readers are not traitors,’ declared L’Estrange, lobbing the ledger at Chaloner to express his contempt for the evidence
it provided. ‘I do not employ
men
for that task, and especially not Hectors with rashes. I hire
women
. So, you can take your damned accusations elsewhere.’

Chaloner tried to be patient. ‘Then perhaps one of these women passed the proofs to Wenum—’

‘No!’ snapped L’Estrange. ‘There are a dozen ladies who work as my proof-readers, and I can vouch for the loyalty of every
one. I call them my Army of Angels, and they make a pleasant change from dealing with damned phanatiques.’ He glared around,
suggesting he thought there were several damned phanatiques in the room with him at that precise moment.

‘Tell me who they are,’ pressed Chaloner. ‘If they have done nothing wrong, it will—’

‘I most certainly shall not. This is none of your affair – and none of the Lord Chancellor’s either. They are good ladies,
and I will not let you loose on them.’

‘But we need this matter resolved,’ said Brome, making
no effort to hide his frustration. He turned to Chaloner. ‘They are the wives of wealthy citizens who have time for the careful,
painstaking work of checking type for errors. It is not difficult, but it is exacting, and not everyone has an eye for it.’

‘Ladies are better than men,’ said L’Estrange, on the defensive now. ‘Men are careless, and you never know when one might
transpire to be a phanatique.’

Brome appealed to the editor’s sense of self-preservation. ‘If Williamson sees that annotated paper, he will draw the same
conclusion Heyden did – that a proof-reader is responsible. We do not want him thinking we are protecting the culprit, because
it will mean us losing our shop, and you losing your government appointments.’

L’Estrange scowled. ‘I worked hard for these posts. I will not let anyone take them from me.’

‘Then let us make sure no one does.’ Brome turned to Chaloner. ‘Our proof-readers include Mrs Smith and Mrs Hickes, both of
whom were here just now. Also, Mrs Newburne, Mrs Muddiman …’

‘The wife of your rival?’ asked Chaloner, shocked. ‘And she does this proof-reading at home?’

‘Of course not!’ shouted L’Estrange, shooting Brome and then Chaloner furious glares. ‘She does it here. They all do. We go
upstairs together, and I supervise them very closely. No draft newsbook ever leaves the premises. I am inordinately fond of
Mrs Muddiman, but I am not such a fool as to let her take a pre-published journal to her husband’s lair.’

But he was fool enough to let her see them in the first place, thought Chaloner, and if she had a good memory, she might even
be able to quote them verbatim to her grateful spouse. Then he recalled the way she had spoken
about L’Estrange and wondered whether the editor’s piratical charm
was
sufficient to keep a still tongue in her head. He was bemused. Surely not every woman L’Estrange encountered fell for him,
especially if she knew she was only one of dozens so favoured? Chaloner could see nothing remotely attractive in the dark,
glittering features, the swinging earrings and the gap-toothed grin, but supposed there was no accounting for taste.