The Butcher of Smithfield (28 page)

‘I told you: I do not want the Earl meddling in Newburne’s death,’ he hissed. ‘Why are you here?’

‘The Lord Chancellor sent me to represent him,’ said Chaloner, freeing himself with rather more vigour than was necessary.
He disliked being manhandled.

L’Estrange folded his arms and looked resentful. ‘I am sorry for you. Funerals are grim affairs, and I would give a good deal
to be elsewhere today. However, Dorcus has need of me, so here I am.’

‘I am sure she does,’ muttered Chaloner.

‘These occasions invariably attract phanatiques,’ grumbled L’Estrange, waving a disparaging hand towards the mourning chamber.
‘The types who daub tar on prayer-books.’

Chaloner could not see any obvious religious bigots. ‘Where are they?’

L’Estrange flapped another vigorous hand, so his earrings swung. ‘The booksellers for a start. Why do you think I want to
fine them all into oblivion? Then there is Muddiman – a
brazen
phanatique. Even Brome and Joanna display disconcerting signs of treachery on occasion – I heard them playing music composed
by Locke last night, and he was a damned Roundhead!’

‘Did you retrieve Newburne’s key?’ asked Chaloner, changing the subject. L’Estrange was deranged, and should not be allowed
to control the government’s sole means of disseminating information. He might use it to start another civil war. ‘You said
you—’

‘I cannot bring myself to do it,’ interrupted L’Estrange. ‘Not today. I will ask tomorrow, when her husband is not in the
coffin next to us. I plan to pay her a little private visit in the morning.’

He waggled his eyebrows, and Chaloner regarded him askance, astonished that he should baulk at asking for a key, but think
nothing of foisting romantic attentions on her. Or was it Chaloner who had no understanding of such matters? It was, after
all, L’Estrange who had the harem.

‘Someone is stealing your stories,’ he pointed out. ‘And anything that damages your newsbooks also harms the government. You
cannot afford to have a vital key missing.’

L’Estrange glowered at him. ‘How does the Earl put
up with your impudence? He is not a tolerant man, by any stretch of the imagination. I thought about what you said yesterday,
incidentally – your conclusions about the annotated
Newes
and that ledger – and I have decided your theory is irrelevant. Someone must have broken into my office and stolen that one
set of proofs, but it was a random event, not a regular occurrence. And the ledger can be interpreted in a number of ways.’

Chaloner gaped at him, scarcely believing his ears. Was the man really so blind? ‘But—’

‘The leak is
not
at my office. My Angels are beyond reproach, and I forbid you to speak to them. So, the matter is closed, just like the death
of Newburne. You will forget both incidents.’

Chaloner saw there was no point in arguing. L’Estrange’s mind was made up and, as with most ignorant men, it would be virtually
impossible to change. Instead, he thought about the enigmatic comment at the end of the prayer-book article.

‘Do you really have a foul secret to impart to the nation, when the time is right?’

‘You have been reading
The Newes
,’ said L’Estrange, pleased. ‘I hope it will pique your interest enough to purchase
The Intelligencer
on Monday. And yes, I know
lots
of foul secrets about all manner of dreadful phanatiques.’

Chaloner was disappointed. ‘I thought that might be the case.’

‘Phanatiques are a danger to us all,’ ranted L’Estrange. ‘And that is why you must leave my newsbooks alone. Tell the Earl
there is nothing to investigate – about Newburne
or
these so-called leaks. If you disobey, you will be sorry. You look very well, by the way.’

Chaloner did not like the juxtaposition of the two comments. ‘Is there any reason I should not?’

L’Estrange shrugged. ‘None at all. Let us hope you stay that way.’

Chaloner returned to the mourning room. He was about to introduce himself to Dorcus Newburne as a clerk from the Victualling
Office, but L’Estrange reached her first.

‘This is Heyden, the Lord Chancellor’s man,’ he said with a sneer. ‘Come to pay his respects.’

‘Why would the Earl send a representative here?’ Dorcus asked tearfully. ‘He promised me a pension, but now he is trying to
wriggle out of honouring it.’

Chaloner winced. ‘He sends his deepest sympathy, ma’am,’ he said gently.

She looked away, touched by the kindness in his voice. ‘My husband
was
on official business when he died, you know. In fact, you can tell the Earl that I believe he was murdered in the course
of his duties.’

‘He died of cucumbers, Dorcus,’ said L’Estrange, a little impatiently. ‘It is horrible, I know, but it could happen to anyone.’

‘But he did not like cucumbers,’ protested Dorcus, beginning to cry. ‘And who can blame him? He said he was unwell before
he left for work last Wednesday, so perhaps he was already ill then.’

‘Did he eat breakfast that day?’ asked Chaloner, ignoring L’Estrange’s furious glare for disobeying his orders and pursuing
the investigation.

Dorcus shook her head. ‘And no dinner the night before, either, because he was too late home. All he had were some lozenges
– the ones he usually took for pains in his stomach. And we all know why he had to purchase
so many of
those
: because he was anxious about working for so many powerful men.’

‘But he did eat a cucumber, my dear,’ said L’Estrange, trying hard to mask his irritation, but not succeeding very well. ‘Hodgkinson
was with him when he devoured it, and there are other witnesses, too. He did not dislike them as much as you think.’

Dorcus wiped her eyes. ‘He might have swallowed some of the seeds to ease his wind, I suppose, but they should not have killed
him. There is something odd going on, and I want my pension.’

‘Leave it to me, pretty lady,’ crooned L’Estrange; his voice was soft, but he still glared at the spy. ‘
I
shall make sure you are awarded your pension. You certainly do not want Heyden prying into your husband’s private life.’

‘Arise, Tom Newburne,’ said Dorcus bitterly, clutching Joanna’s fingers hard enough to make her wince. ‘Will I never be allowed
to forget the shame of that nickname? I should not have let him drink so much last Christmas, and then he would not have tried
to knight the Archbishop of Canterbury with that wooden sword.’

‘Did he?’ asked L’Estrange, startled. ‘Here is a tale I have never heard before.’

‘Nor I,’ said Joanna, equally taken aback. ‘We were aware that he liked a drink, but he was always quiet in his cups. Of course,
I am not saying he was a drunkard, only that he—’

‘Christmas was different,’ interrupted Dorcus shortly. ‘He was in a good mood then, because Butcher Crisp had offered him
a share in his pie enterprise.’

‘Oh, dear!’ whispered Joanna. ‘Did he accept? Only they are said to contain … well, they are …’

‘Pork?’ asked Dorcus, apparently unaware of the
rumours that surrounded Crisp’s baked goods. ‘I like pork, especially when cooked with sage and onion.’

‘Did your husband know a musician called Maylord?’ asked Chaloner, before the conversation could veer too far into uncharted
waters. ‘He is said to have died of cucumbers, too.’

L’Estrange’s eyebrows drew together in a scowl, but Dorcus answered before he could stop her. ‘Thomas did not fraternise with
artisans. He liked music, but not as supplied by that dissolute Court.’

Chaloner had more questions to ask, because he was not sure what to think about Dorcus. Was she really the grieving, dignified
widow she appeared, or did she know more about her husband’s devious activities than she was prepared to admit? Her determination
to have the pension, even though she was already rich, was testament to a certain greed, and he was keen to gauge her measure.
He was not to be granted the opportunity, however, because L’Estrange declared she was looking pale. Before she could demur,
he had gathered her into his arms and swept her upstairs. They were followed by astonished stares from the assembled mourners.

‘Heavens!’ said Brome, watching them go. ‘That is bold, even by his standards.’

‘She did look wan, though,’ said Joanna. ‘And even he will refrain from seduction on this of all days.’

Brome struggled to be as charitable as his wife. ‘Perhaps he just wanted to separate her from Heyden. He has said all along
that he does not want the Earl prying into his business.’

‘Has he?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Does he have a lot to hide, then?’

‘I expect so,’ said Joanna guilelessly. ‘He does work for
the government, after all. Yet, for all his faults, he is gentle with women, and Dorcus is in kind hands now.’

Brome sighed his relief. ‘Good. I am more than happy to comfort a distressed widow, but I suspect everyone thinks we are hypocrites
for it. We disliked Newburne as much as the next man.’

‘Let them think what they like,’ declared Joanna spiritedly. ‘We are doing what is right. Dorcus needs friends, and it is
common decency to help her. I am surprised to see so many people here, though. Crisp was the first to arrive, and I think
he brought every last Hector with him. I had no idea he was master of such an enormous body of men. They marched in like the
Parliamentarians’ New Model Army, all cudgels, guns and glittering swords.’

‘I was afraid they might burgle the house while they were here,’ said Brome. ‘There is a rumour that Newburne owned a box
of valuable jewels, you see, and I thought they might decide to have a look for it. But they behaved like perfect gentlemen.’

‘They will not burgle in broad daylight,’ said Joanna. ‘And there is nothing to say the hoard is here anyway. It might be
in one of his other houses – his Thames Street cottage, or the attic he hired on Ave Maria Lane, for example. Of course, that
is assuming the box actually exists. I doubt it does.’

‘Did he rent rooms at the Rhenish Wine House, too?’ asked Chaloner, wondering if he could establish a connection between the
solicitor and the mysterious Wenum.

Brome and Joanna looked blankly at each other. ‘Not as far as we know,’ replied Brome. ‘Why? Have you discovered otherwise?
If so, then it means you have ignored our advice and are continuing to probe.’ There
was concern in his eyes, an emotion that was reflected in Joanna’s face, too.

‘A friend of mine died of cucumbers in the Rhenish Wine House, just two days after Newburne,’ Chaloner explained, touched
by the fact that they seemed anxious for him.

‘You mean Maylord?’ asked Joanna. She rested her hand on his arm in a shy gesture of sympathy. ‘I had no idea you were acquainted.
I am so sorry. We heard him play several times in White Hall.’

‘L’Estrange invited us there, because he knows we like music,’ explained Brome. ‘But do not try to change the subject, Heyden.
Our warnings about Newburne were not delivered lightly. In fact, we heard just moments ago that the case may have claimed
another casualty. Newburne’s friend Finch has been found dead in his room.’

Chaloner gazed at them in shock. ‘How did he die?’

Brome was unhappy. ‘I do not want to tell you. It may encourage you to dive even deeper into these murky waters, laying your
life on the line for men who are not worth the risk.’

Joanna agreed. ‘Your Earl may be the most upright man at Court, but that does not make him an angel, while Crisp … well, suffice
to say you are best not attracting his attention, if you can help it.’

Brome seemed to sense they were wasting their breath, and switched to something less contentious. ‘Joanna wants to hear more
about the pirates of Alicante, so will you dine with us tomorrow? We may even have some music after, but do not tell L’Estrange,
or he will want to come, too.’

‘And then he will do all the talking, and we shall hear nothing about privateers,’ said Joanna. She took
Chaloner’s hand, rabbit-eyes pleading. ‘Please come. We would both like to know you better.’

‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner, supposing he was about to make new friends. It was about time, especially as Leybourn was all
but lost to Mary and Temperance’s brothel was turning her into a stranger. He was used to being alone, but that did not mean
he was never lonely.

‘Finch,’ said Brome unhappily. ‘I said I would not tell you how he died, but perhaps if I do, you will understand the folly
of pursuing your investigation further. L’Estrange told us the news when we arrived here: Finch died of eating cucumbers.’

Finch’s house was not far from Old Jewry, and Chaloner had more than an hour before the funeral. He walked briskly, and arrived
to find, unlike last time, that there was a bright lamp burning in the corridor on the first floor; he supposed the death
of a tenant had forced the landlord to make his building more hospitable to the friends and relatives who might visit. He
put his ear to Finch’s door, but it was silent within. He tried the handle. It was locked, but it did not take him long to
pick it open. He slipped inside and secured the door behind him.

He was not sure what he had expected to find, but it was not Finch’s body sprawled on the bed; he had assumed someone would
have moved it, or at least straightened the contorted limbs, as a sign of respect.

He went to inspect it. Finch had been playing his trumpet when he had been overcome, because it was lying on the floor at
his side. Since no one who loved music would drop an instrument without good cause,
Chaloner supposed it had slipped from his fingers as he had breathed his last. He examined it closely, then put it back where
he had found it. He glanced at the table, where a cucumber – or most of one – lay on a plate. There was a knife next to it,
as though Finch had been chopping off pieces to eat. There was also a box of Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges.

He was about to leave when he heard heavy feet ascending the stairs. Unlike at the Rhenish Wine House, this time he was not
caught with nowhere to hide. He stepped smartly into the adjoining pantry, which had its own door that led to the hallway.
He opened it a crack and peered out, just as the person reached the bedchamber and began to examine the door. He frowned thoughtfully
when he recognised the hulking form of the apple-seller.