The Butcher of Smithfield (32 page)

Because of his past experiences in gaols, it took considerable willpower to walk up to the door and start a conversation with
the guards. As he had no money to buy information, he was subjected to insults, threats and even a physical assault before
he found a warden willing to talk to him. Unfortunately, the man did not seem entirely sane, and confided to Chaloner that
he worked in the prison because it was the only place where he felt safe from an attack by sparrows.

‘Look,’ he whispered, gesturing to the surrounding rooftops. ‘They just sit there, biding their time. Then,
when your attention strays, they swoop down and peck out your eyes. You must have read about phanatiques in the newsbooks?
Well, the writer actually refers to sparrows. It is code, see.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner. He showed the sketch he had made of Mary. ‘Do you know if she has ever been in the Fleet Prison?’

‘Yes, but not for debt, though, like most of them. She was in for thievery, but her husband came and greased the right hands,
if you know what I mean. Her name is Annabel Reade.’

‘She is married?

‘To a man,’ supplied the guard helpfully. ‘She stole from Richard Bridges, the Cornhill linen-draper. He sells calico to the
navy, although the sparrows get most of it for their nests. She was his cook-maid, and had his silver off him when he dismissed
her for not doing what she was hired for.’

Chaloner recalled Leybourn saying that he and Mary were obliged to send for food from cook-shops, because she lacked any culinary
skills herself, and his kitchen had been rendered a pigsty. So, Leybourn was not the first man to discover Mary possessed
no real domestic abilities.

‘Richard Bridges lives on Cornhill?’ he asked, deciding to talk to the man that morning. Now he knew Mary was linked to the
Hectors, and by extension to Newburne, he did not feel he was wasting time by investigating her past. All three enquiries
– Newburne, Maylord and Smegergill, and Mary – had merged to a certain extent, and exploring one might well yield answers
to the others.

The guard nodded. ‘He accused her of theft, but then he came here with Reade’s husband and said there had
been a misunderstanding. Can you see that bird looking at us? See its beady eyes?’

‘Buy a cat,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Sparrows will not attack if there is a cat about.’

‘I had one,’ said the porter gloomily, ‘but the sparrows ate it. Every last morsel.’

The Stocks Market was at the junction of Cornhill and Cheapside, and Friday was one of its busiest days. Cows, sheep, geese,
chickens, goats and pigs were driven down the road to feed London’s growling stomach, and Cheapside was a chaos of noise and
movement. One drover had decided the best way to get his cattle to market was to stampede them there, and they cut a bloody
swathe through anything that stood in their way. Carts were overturned, animals broke away from their owners, and horses bucked
and pranced. Feathers were thick in the air as birds squawked their panic, and stray dogs added to the confusion by barking
and worrying at the hapless beasts.

Chaloner was trying to hurry, aware that he had a lot to do before dining at noon, but was forced to slow down when, within
the space of a few moments, he narrowly avoided being crushed by an escaped bull, pecked by a frightened swan and run over
by a driverless cart. Other pedestrians were less fortunate, and the cries of the injured and furious added to the general
cacophony.

When he eventually reached Cornhill, he was directed to a handsome mansion. Temperance’s good clothes and his confident manner
bought him access to the linen-draper’s front parlour without being obliged to state his business first. He stood with his
hands clasped behind
his back, fretting about Leybourn. It was not long before someone coughed behind him, and he turned to see a man unremarkable
in every way, except for two very rosy cheeks. Bridges smiled nervously when Chaloner took the liberty of informing him that
he was with the Lord Chancellor’s office.

‘We are investigating Annabel Reade,’ he said, producing her picture.

Bridges’s anxiety intensified. ‘That is her, although the artist should make her jowls bigger.’

‘I understand she was employed by you, and that she stole some silver.’

Bridges shook his head vehemently. ‘There was a mistake. I found the items I thought she had taken, and her husband and I
immediately went to the prison, where I paid for her release.’

Chaloner regarded the man sympathetically. He was terrified. ‘Did someone force you to—’

‘No!’ cried Bridges, in what amounted to a squawk. ‘She was innocent! She took nothing, and I should have been more careful
when I laid charges against an upright, honest woman. And now you must excuse me. I leave for Tangier in a few days, and there
is a great deal to do.’

‘Who is doing this?’ Chaloner asked gently. ‘Making you abandon your home and sail for a—’

‘No one!’ shouted Bridges. His red cheeks had turned a ghastly grey. ‘I am going to inspect calico for the navy. No one is
driving me away. You must leave – and please do not tell anyone you have been here. I will make it worth your while.’

Chaloner stopped him when he started to reach for his purse. ‘No one will know, I promise, but I need your
help. Annabel Reade is now preying on another man. His name is Leybourn, and he—’

‘Will Leybourn?’ interrupted Bridges. ‘He designed the astrological ring-dial I keep in my garden. I shall miss it when I
go to Tangier. Poor Leybourn. If Reade has her claws in him, then …’

‘I would like to prise them out,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I need solid evidence.’

‘I cannot help you.’ Bridges was close to tears. ‘Not even for Leybourn. You will have to find someone else. God knows, there
must be more of us who were deceived by the woman.’

‘Then tell me about her husband. Who is he?’

‘He called himself Mr Reade, although I have no way of knowing if it was his real name. He is a fierce fellow with a number
of fierce friends. I do not want to attract his attention again. Not ever.’

‘Hectors?’ asked Chaloner.

Bridges looked out of the window, and did not reply.

‘If you are leaving, what do you have to lose?’ asked Chaloner, suppressing the urge to grab the man and shake the information
out of him. ‘Even Hectors cannot touch you in Tangier.’

‘I am not gone yet, and I shall be leaving a house and valued servants to mind it. I am sorry, but I must protect my interests.
Leybourn is clever; he will devise his own way out of his predicament.’

Only if he knew he was in one, thought Chaloner. He tried to press Bridges further, but the draper stubbornly refused to say
more, and eventually called for his retainers, threatening to remove Chaloner by force if he did not leave of his own volition.
Chaloner turned after he had stepped outside.

‘If you have second thoughts, my name is Heyden, and I can be reached through the Golden Lion.’

‘I will not have second thoughts,’ said Bridges firmly. ‘Not for anyone.’

It was ten o’clock, and Chaloner still had two hours before he was due to dine with Brome and Joanna. He walked inside the
Royal Exchange, to think about what to do next. The Royal Exchange had been built a hundred years before, as a place where
merchants could meet to do business. It comprised a rectangle of tiered shops around a cloister-like piazza, and was always
busy. Finding a spot where he would not be jostled or asked to buy something was not easy, but he managed eventually, and
stood staring across the rain-swept square, considering what he had learned.

What was Crisp’s – and his Hectors’ – role in the murders Chaloner was investigating? The Butcher had employed Newburne; he
may have commissioned music from Maylord and Smegergill; and the unhappy Finch had been playing tunes that were similar to
the discordant harmonies found in Maylord’s chimney. Mary Cade also claimed to know him, and given that she entertained Hectors
in Leybourn’s home, it was possible that her artful deception on Leybourn was being conducted with Crisp’s blessing and help.
They had certainly rallied when Bridges had exposed her felonious activities. Yet the connections between Crisp and the murders
were like cobwebs; they appeared to be substantial, but they were not – and Chaloner could not
prove
Crisp was involved in any of the deaths.

Reluctantly, he supposed he would have to make the Butcher’s acquaintance after all. He was not really ready
to tackle a man whom everyone said was powerful and dangerous, but with only three days to go before he lost his last chance
of intelligence work – and probably even less time before Mary told her cronies that he was the man they were hunting for
the Smegergill incident – he was out of options. Resigned to what he was sure would be a difficult interview, he made his
way to Smithfield.

The meat market was hectic. The pens in the great open space were full of bleating sheep and lowing cattle, and men yelled
and bartered, oblivious to the eye-watering stench of old urine, manure and rotting entrails from the nearby slaughterhouses.
Hectors moved in small, confident bands, exchanging nods and sums of money with drovers and merchants, and a baker’s-boy was
doing a roaring trade with his tray of fruit pastries. Two sharp-featured youths jostled a clerk Chaloner knew from White
Hall; when the fellow whipped around to face them, a third thief cut his purse strings from behind. When something similar
started to happen to the spy, one reeled away with a bleeding nose, while the other found himself flat on his back with Chaloner’s
foot across his throat.

‘Where can I find Ellis Crisp?’ Chaloner asked quietly.

‘I do not know,’ squeaked the pickpocket in alarm. ‘No one does. You have to arrange a meeting through one of his Hectors.
Jonas Kirby is the best. That is him, over there.’

He pointed, and Chaloner recognised the Scot. He released the lad, and regarded Kirby thoughtfully. Perhaps an early confrontation
with the Butcher could be avoided after all. Kirby had attacked Chaloner the night Smegergill had died; he had been with Nose
in Wenum’s room; and he had stolen one of Leybourn’s silver goblets. He could answer some questions in his master’s stead.

Chaloner’s coat had a hood, and he used it to conceal his face as he lurked in an ally near Duck Lane. Kirby was selling Leybourn’s
goblet to a fat cleric, who should have known better than to buy it. The Scot was well dressed for a henchman, although Chaloner
imagined the clothes were stolen, perhaps from someone who had been stripped when he had been robbed in a dark churchyard.
He supposed he was lucky he and Smegergill had not been subjected to that indignity at least.

Eventually, Kirby completed his business and moved towards a dim thoroughfare that was home to a number of seedy taverns.
Chaloner accosted him as he was about to enter a particularly dingy one; the sign above its door advertised it as the Bear.
A smell of cooking pies wafted from it, although the aroma was rank and meaty, and not in the least bit appetising.

‘Jonas Kirby,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘I want to talk to you.’

Kirby struggled to mask his surprise that someone had managed to creep so close behind him without being heard. ‘You were
at Newburne’s funeral,’ he gabbled. ‘Leybourn’s friend. What do you want?’

From that response, Chaloner surmised that Mary had not yet shared her suspicions about his role in Smegergill’s death. ‘I
thought we could talk about the Rhenish Wine House. You were there with a long-nosed man whom I believe is called Ireton.’

Kirby’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, it was you we almost caught, was it? Ireton will want to meet you – he objected to someone searching
Maylord’s place before us, and removing valuable documents.’

‘There were no documents. Perhaps someone else was there before both of us.’

Kirby looked sceptical, then took a sudden step forward. A knife appeared in his hand, but Chaloner was faster. He had knocked
the weapon away and had his own blade under Kirby’s chin before the henchman realised what was happening.

‘Easy!’ squawked Kirby, when Chaloner’s blade nicked his neck. ‘There is no need for rough manners. Let me buy you a pie.
The Bear does good pies – Crisp’s best.’

He smiled weakly, but then there was a second dagger in his hand. Chaloner had been anticipating such a move, and hooked Kirby’s
feet from under him, causing him to fall flat on his back, while the weapon skittered into the nearest drain. The noise brought
several patrons to the tavern door, and at least two sniggered when they saw Kirby sprawled on the filthy ground. Kirby glowered
at Chaloner as he waved them away, and the spy saw he would not forget his humiliation in a hurry.

‘What do you want from me?’ he growled.

‘The answers to some questions. Shall we go and sit down, like civilised men?’

Kirby climbed slowly to his feet, then led the way inside the Bear. Chaloner looked around quickly. A back door led to an
unsavoury little yard that reeked of urine, and there was a gate that would open into Duck Lane. He took the seat by the wall,
leaving Kirby the one that would bear the brunt of any attack from the main entrance. As they sat, a dirty pot-boy slapped
two pies on a rickety table, and mumbled something about them coming compliments of the owner.

‘You killed Smegergill,’ said Chaloner, pushing the pie away from him. Despite his nagging hunger, its oily scent was making
him queasy and he found he was loath to
touch anything that might contain parts of Crisp’s enemies.

‘I never touched him,’ declared Kirby vehemently. ‘None of us did. I hit his friend hard enough to scramble his brains, but
he somehow survived, and must have vented his spleen on the old man when he came to. He was younger – medium height, sturdy
build. A bit like you, now I think about it.’

‘It was not me. Why do you think he killed Smegergill?’

‘Because no one else was there, and Smegergill was alive when we left him. Ireton had talked to him, and told him that if
he kept quiet, he could escape unscathed.’

Had Ireton killed him, then, Chaloner wondered, while his accomplices were under the illusion the old man was being offered
his life? ‘What was the purpose of the attack?’