The Butcher of Smithfield (3 page)

From the way he spoke, Chaloner surmised that the boy considered himself familiar with ‘real information’. He was probably
right: coffee houses were hubs of news and gossip, and working in one doubtless meant the youth was one of the best informed
people in the city. Chaloner edged deeper into the shadows when L’Estrange drew his sword.

‘L’Estrange should learn to control his temper,’ the boy went on, his tone disapproving. ‘One does not debate with
weapons
, not at the Rainbow. We deplore that sort of loutishness, which is why he has been asked to leave. And Muddiman should not
have followed him outside, either, because now L’Estrange will try to skewer him. You just watch and see if I am right.’

‘You speak as much rubbish as you print,’ said Muddiman, addressing his rival disdainfully. Chaloner was not sure he would
have adopted such an attitude towards a man with a drawn sword, especially one who was clearly longing to put it to use. ‘You
are nothing but wind.’

‘You insolent—’ L’Estrange’s wild lunge was blocked by Muddiman’s companion, and their two blades slid up each other in a
squeal of protesting metal. The Rainbow’s patrons had seen what was happening through the windows, and friends hurried out
to separate the combatants.

The coffee-boy tutted. ‘There is not enough room in London for
two
greedy, ambitious newsmongers. One of them will be dead before the year is out, you mark my words.’

Bells were ringing all over the city, from the great bass toll of St Paul’s Cathedral to the musical jangle of St Clement
Danes, as Chaloner resumed his walk to White Hall. He threaded his way through the inevitable congestion at Temple Bar – the
narrow gate that divided Fleet Street from The Strand – and headed for Charing Cross. Carriages with prancing horses ferried
courtiers and officials between state duties and their fine residences, although judging from the dissipated appearance of
some passengers, the duties had been more closely allied to a night of debauchery than to papers and committees.

Chaloner turned south along King Street, and entered the palace by the main gate. The porter was reading a leaflet that condemned
the immoral activities that took place in and around Smithfield. However, seeing the rapt gleam in the man’s eye, Chaloner
suspected the lurid descriptions of the various vices on offer would do more to encourage the fellow to visit the area than
to arouse any feelings of righteous distaste. Indeed, having scanned a few of the phrases on the back, Chaloner was tempted
to go himself.

Once the porter had waved him through the gate, Chaloner’s first inclination was to hunt out Maylord. The musician’s letter
had bothered him, and he wanted to know what had prompted the old man to pen such an urgent-sounding missive. But White Hall
thrived on gossip, and the Earl of Clarendon would not be pleased to hear from some tattling official that his spy had finally
returned home and had not made him his first port of
call. So, as duty had to come before meeting old friends, Chaloner made his way to the Stone Gallery.

The Stone Gallery was a long corridor at the heart of White Hall. Its floor comprised sandstone slabs, like a cloister, and
its arched windows further enhanced its monastic ambience. Its occupants put paid to any illusion of monkish virtue, though.
The room rang with coarse laughter, because someone was telling an improbably lewd tale about the Duke of Buckingham’s latest
conquest. Some nobles wandered about in night-gowns and bed-caps, affecting exaggerated yawns to let everyone know they had
been out carousing the night before. Others were dressed, but their clothes were so laden with ruffles, lace and pleats that
even the more temperate of them looked debauched.

Chaloner walked the length of the chamber looking for his Earl, nodding to the occasional acquaintance, but the Lord Chancellor
was not among the chattering throng, so he went to his offices instead. These comprised a suite of rooms overlooking the elegantly
manicured Privy Garden. In a small, windowless room that was more cupboard than chamber sat the Earl’s secretary, John Bulteel,
copying figures of expenditure into a ledger. Bulteel was a timid, unhealthy-looking clerk who rarely spoke above a whisper
and who always seemed on the verge of exhaustion. He smiled when he saw Chaloner, revealing brown, crooked teeth that probably
gave him a lot of trouble.

‘The Earl is not here, Heyden,’ he said. ‘It is Sunday.’

Thomas Heyden was Chaloner’s favourite alias, and one he always used at Court. Because his uncle had been one of the men who
had signed the first King Charles’s death warrant, Chaloner was a name best kept quiet
until the frenzy of hatred against the regicides had faded. ‘Is he at church, then?’ he asked. ‘Should I return tomorrow?’

‘No, he will certainly want to see you today. He had your letter telling him you would be home before the end of the month,
and said it would not be a moment too soon. He did not expect the Queen’s business to take quite so long, and is not very
pleased about it, to be frank.’

‘He told me to go,’ objected Chaloner. ‘I wanted to stay in London.’

‘I know that, but he resents the fact that you were not here when he needed you.’ Bulteel raised his hand when the spy started
to protest again. ‘It
is
unfair, and I am not saying he is right – I am just warning you that you may face a cool reception when you meet. Do you
remember where he lives? In the building called Worcester House on The Strand. You cannot miss it – it is a great Tudor monstrosity
with some part that is always falling down.’

Chaloner was startled by the elaborate description of a house he had visited dozens of times. ‘I have only been gone four
months, Bulteel – not long enough to forget that sort of thing.’

Bulteel gave his wan, unhappy smile. ‘It feels more like four years, but then time passes so slowly here, especially when
His Lordship is suffering from the gout. It makes him terribly irritable.’

Grimly, Chaloner recalled that gout made the Lord Chancellor a lot more than just ‘irritable’. ‘He has been venting his temper
on you, has he? Because he is unwell?’

Bulteel winced. ‘His ailment has not plagued him as badly as it did in the winter, but his temper has not
improved, even so. Watch what you say, and try not to be insolent if you can help it. You have a cynical tongue, and he is
less inclined to overlook that sort of thing when his legs are hurting.’

As Chaloner turned to leave, the glitter of gold caught his eye; something had fallen between the wall and the table. When
he bent to retrieve it, he found himself holding an elaborate pendant, which was studded with jewels that were probably rubies.
He handed it to the clerk.

‘I imagine someone will be missing this. Is it yours?’

Bulteel gazed at it in astonishment. ‘It is Lady Clarendon’s love locket! She lost it last week, and the Earl and I spent
hours
hunting for it. Eventually, he decided it must have been stolen. Well, actually, he thought
I
had taken it, if you want the truth. They will both be pleased to see it safe.’

‘The Earl will owe you an apology when you give it back, then.’

Bulteel regarded it wistfully. ‘I doubt he will bother. But you found it, so you should be the one to take the credit for
its discovery. It will earn you his good graces.’

‘Do you think I need his good graces?’ asked Chaloner, shaking his head when the secretary attempted to pass the bauble back
again. He did not want to walk out of White Hall with a valuable piece of jewellery; it was the sort of thing that landed
men in trouble.

Bulteel smiled sadly. ‘We all do. This
is
White Hall, after all.’

Chaloner was crossing the expanse of open space called the Palace Court, intending to visit Worcester House straight away,
when he saw a man called Thomas
Greeting, who basked in the lofty title of Musician in Ordinary to the King’s Private Music. Greeting was a handsome, grey-haired
fellow in his forties, whose splendid attire and confident swagger made him more courtier than entertainer. He was in great
demand as tutor to the wealthy, because he specialised in teaching the flageolet, which was an easy instrument to master.
He was ambitious, greedy and Chaloner considered him deceitful.

‘Heyden,’ said Greeting pleasantly. ‘What news?’

‘What news?’ was the accepted salute for anyone entering a coffee-house, and Chaloner supposed the musician was showing himself
to be a man of culture by using it. He did notice, however, that Greeting’s clothes were showing signs of wear up close, and
that his elegant shoes needed re-heeling.

‘I hear Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges are good for ensuring sweetness of the breath,’ he replied flippantly, thinking about
the altercation outside the Rainbow Coffee House.

Greeting raised his eyebrows. ‘You have been reading the newsbooks, have you? It is scandalous that L’Estrange is allowed
to fill them with rubbish such as that – men
do
spend hard-earned cash on the things, after all. Not me, of course.
I
cannot afford such luxuries, not on the salary White Hall pays me. I am all but destitute, if you want the truth.’

‘I am sorry to hear it.’ Chaloner knew how he felt – his own worldly wealth at that moment comprised sixpence. He only hoped
the clerks at the Accompting House – who did not work on Sundays – would not be difficult when he went to claim his back-pay
the following morning.

‘I live in constant fear of arrest for debt,’ Greeting went on bitterly. ‘And I have been forced to move from my lovely house
near Lambeth Palace to a hovel in Smithfield. Still, such is the lot of a lowly Court musician.’

‘Speaking of musicians, have you seen Maylord today? He wants to meet me.’

Greeting’s eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been away? Yes, you must have been, because I have not seen you since that trouble involving
the barber-surgeons last spring. You had some sort of set-to with Spymaster Williamson, and then you very wisely disappeared.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘You think I ran away?’

Greeting shrugged. ‘I would, had
I
incurred Williamson’s displeasure. Our new Spymaster is not a man to cross, and folk do so at their peril. Several bold fellows
are now banished to remote villages for speaking their minds, although at least they are alive to reflect on their folly.
Not all his enemies are allowed to live, so I have heard.’

‘Williamson kills men he does not like?’ Chaloner was not sure he believed it. Spymasters were powerful men, with a lot of
dubious resources at their fingertips, but only a very stupid one would use them for personal vendettas, and Williamson was
far from stupid.

Greeting looked uncomfortable. ‘We should not be discussing such a topic, especially in White Hall. Nonetheless, I urge you
to be careful. He does not like you – I heard him say so myself.’

‘That was indiscreet of him,’ said Chaloner disapprovingly. He could not imagine Cromwell’s old Spymaster, John Thurloe, ever
making such a comment in front of a loose-tongued man like Greeting. Of course, Thurloe’s
attitude to his work had been efficient and professional, and Williamson fell far short by comparison. ‘What did he say, exactly?’

Greeting shrugged. ‘Just that you were involved in the untimely death of a friend, and he resents you for it. I would stay
low, if I were you.’

Chaloner hoped the Earl’s next commission would allow him to do so. And while it was true that one of Williamson’s cronies
had met a violent end in Chaloner’s company, it had not been the spy’s fault. He felt it was unreasonable of Williamson to
blame him for the mishap.

‘Maylord,’ he prompted. ‘Does he still live on Thames Street?’

Greeting frowned. ‘I had forgotten you and he were acquainted. He taught your father the viol, I understand, and was kind
to you when you first arrived in London. He was a good man, and we all miss him. He died on Friday.’

Chaloner stared at him in shock. ‘No! I do not believe you.’

Greeting’s expression was sympathetic. ‘It is true, although I sincerely wish it were otherwise. He died of eating cucumbers.’

Chaloner gaped at him. Like all Englishmen, he knew cucumbers could be dangerous when eaten raw, but he had never heard of
anyone actually dying from them. And surely
Maylord
could not be dead? Chaloner had known him all his life, and loved the old man’s sweet temper and innate decency. ‘He died
on Friday?’ he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady.

‘Friday evening. He had been asking after you, too.’

‘Asking after me when? The day he died?’

Greeting shook his head. ‘Earlier – when he and I
performed in Smithfield last Wednesday. He wanted to know if I had seen you, and was oddly distressed when I told him I had
not.’

‘Do you know why?’

Greeting shook his head again. ‘But something was troubling the poor old devil, and it is a pity you were not here, because
he clearly needed a friend. What do
you
think was upsetting him? Something to do with his music?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Chaloner, wishing with all his heart that he had been on hand to answer the old man’s call for help.
His fingers curled tightly around the letter in his pocket. ‘And now I probably never will.’

Greeting was silent for a moment, then spoke softly. ‘He recently left his Thames Street cottage and took rooms at the Rhenish
Wine House in Westminster. He said his move was a secret, and his closest friend – who you will recall is old Smegergill the
virginals player – said he would not even tell
him
where he had gone.’

‘Yet he told you?’ asked Chaloner, rather sceptically. He still found it hard to believe that Maylord would have chosen Greeting
as a confidant.

Greeting was offended. ‘Maylord liked me. When I asked him why he had left Thames Street, he told me he wanted to be nearer
White Hall, but I am sure he was not telling the truth. I suspect it was all connected to whatever was bothering him.’

Chaloner regarded him unhappily. Maylord had loved his house, and would not have left it without good cause. The spy was deeply
sorry that his friend had spent his last few days in a state of such agitation.