The Butcher of Smithfield (33 page)

‘We were following orders. Find the Court musicians; kill the younger one; let the old man go. We only found out later that
it was Smegergill. We all know him – by sight at least – because he always plays the organ at the Bartholomew Fair.’

‘Orders from whom?’

Kirby looked as though he might refuse to answer, so Chaloner drew his dagger. ‘I do not know! We had written instructions.
They said we were to get letters from the young one’s purse, but it was empty and there
were
no letters. They were early, too, so we were not quite ready for them. We had to improvise, which is why I forgot to make
sure he was really dead.’

‘How do you know you attacked the right people?’

‘Because Smegergill was wearing the uniform of the King’s Music. It is distinctive, so of course they were the right ones.’

Several facts settled into a sensible pattern in Chaloner’s mind at last, and the germ of a solution began to take shape.
He saw his unplanned waylaying of Smegergill had set in motion a chain of events that no one could have predicted.

‘Greeting,’ he murmured to himself. ‘His elderly friend Hingston is staying at his Smithfield lodgings, because his home is
flooded. They were expected to walk past the churchyard later that night, because the driver of their carriage demanded extra
money to take them all the way home, and ousted them when they could not pay. It was deliberate. And they were both wearing
uniforms.’

Kirby ate his pie while Chaloner continued to analyse his conclusions in silence. So, no one had wanted to kill him or Smegergill.
The intended victim had been Greeting, who probably
did
have letters with him, given that he, by his own admission, worked for Williamson. Chaloner supposed he would have to talk
to Greeting and ascertain what he had been carrying that night.

So what had happened to Smegergill? Kirby, Ireton and Fingerless had followed their orders – or thought they had – and Ireton
had gone to demand Smegergill’s silence, while Kirby and Fingerless searched Chaloner. Had Ireton killed Smegergill when he
realised the wrong men had been attacked? Yet Kirby did not seem to think a mistake had been made, and so perhaps Ireton did
not, either. So, why had Smegergill ended up dead?

Chaloner thought about the elderly musician. Thurloe had distrusted him, while Temperance and Maude had conflicting opinions:
one thought he was coolly rational, amusing himself at the expense of gullible sympathisers, while the other believed he was
losing his wits. Which
was true? And what of Greeting’s information – that Smegergill had enjoyed an association with Hectors? Had playing the organ
for the Bartholomew Fair led to other things? But if Smegergill was friends with the Hectors, then why had he been killed?
Surely, he would have been spared? Or had he annoyed Crisp by being ‘difficult’, and Ireton had taken the opportunity to dispatch
him?

A flicker of movement interrupted his reflections. Someone was outside: the Hectors were finally ready to rescue their crony.
Chaloner indicated with a flick of his dagger that Kirby was to stand, then shoved him hard before he was properly balanced,
so he went sprawling through the entranceway. The timing was perfect. Kirby became hopelessly entangled with his friends,
which gave Chaloner vital seconds to escape. The spy opened the back door and shot into the yard. The gate was locked, forcing
him to scramble over the wall, thus losing the small advantage of time he had gained.

The lock did not slow Kirby down. He kicked it once, and the gate flew into pieces. With half a dozen Hectors at his heels,
he thundered after Chaloner, screaming for someone to stop him. A few passers-by made half-hearted lunges, but most looked
the other way, unwilling to become involved. The spy tore along Duck Lane, grabbing an apple cart as he went, and spinning
it to spill its contents across the road. Two of his pursuers took tumbles. Then a ponderous meat wagon moved to block the
road in front of him. Without breaking speed, he aimed for the space between the moving wheels, curled into a ball and rolled
under the thing to shoot out the other side. Frustrated howls indicated the pursuing Hectors were unwilling to duplicate the
manoeuvre, and they bellowed at the driver to get out of their way. The
sudden clamour panicked the horses, making them difficult to control.

Chaloner raced on, and found himself near the costermongery where he had purchased the cucumber. Loath to run further than
necessary, he considered taking refuge in it, but it was closed and shuttered. Then he remembered that Hodgkinson owned the
shop next door. He slipped through the door and saw the printer talking to a customer. Unseen, he ducked under a table and
peered into the street through a crack in the wall. Kirby lumbered by, backed by a dozen men, all yelling and waving cudgels.

Chaloner stayed where he was, feeling his heartbeat slow to a more normal rate after his exertions. In the grime under the
counter, his fingers encountered something hard. With most of his attention still on the street, he retrieved the object and
glanced at it. It was a Fountain Inkhorn, like the one Thurloe had lent him when he had been sketching Mary. This pen was
silver, and looked valuable.

‘Well,’ came a laconic voice that made him jump. ‘The Lord Chancellor’s spy under a table? Whatever next?’

Chaloner climbed quickly to his feet to find himself facing Muddiman. The newsmonger was looking particularly elegant that
day, in a suit of lemon satin and tiny white shoes. Chaloner thought it was the most impractical outfit he could possibly
have chosen, given the unpredictable weather and the state of the roads. He glanced towards Hodgkinson, but the printer’s
attention was still focussed on his client, and he had not noticed what was happening by his counter.

‘I found this,’ said Chaloner, holding up the Fountain
Inkhorn in an attempt to explain away his curious behaviour. ‘Someone must have dropped it.’

‘I see,’ replied Muddiman, and his grin suggested he did not believe a word of it. ‘Look at the state of you! I hope you do
not plan on going anywhere nice for dinner.’

‘Christ!’ Chaloner regarded his clothes in dismay. The dive under the cart had left him filthy.

‘Allow me,’ said Muddiman, dabbing at the mess with his handkerchief. ‘No, that is no good. You need a woman with a cloth.
I shall pay for one if you tell me something novel about Portugal. You did a splendid piece for L’Estrange – the best thing
in the entire issue – so now you can help me.’

‘L’Estrange forbade it,’ said Chaloner, aware that it would unwise to accept Muddiman’s offer when the newsbooks’ printer
was within earshot. It would cause trouble for certain.

‘I am sure he did,’ said Muddiman, amused. ‘And are you going to obey him? I suppose you are afraid of what Spymaster Williamson
might have to say if you assert your independence, are you?’

‘Spymaster Williamson does not deign to speak to the likes of me.’

‘You are lucky – he will not leave
me
alone. He set Hickes after me, which is fast becoming tiresome, while his creature L’Estrange makes constant accusations
about me stealing his news.’

Chaloner showed him the ledger he had recovered from the Rhenish Wine House – the one Muddiman had denied existing when he
had last mentioned it. ‘I would say L’Estrange has good cause to think his news is being stolen.’

Muddiman took it. ‘A forgery, as I said yesterday.
Besides, Wenum is dead, and without his testimony, this nasty little document means nothing.’

‘It still proves you paid for news you should not have had. And if you are talking about corroborative testimony, you are
obviously anticipating that you will be charged in a court of law, where specific proceedings are followed. I do not think
Williamson confines himself to that sort of trial.’

Muddiman regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Even he would be playing with fire if he attempted that sort of tactic on an influential
newsman. It would be asking for editorials to be written about suppression and corruption. Still, I take your point. How much
do you want for your silence?’

Chaloner replaced the ledger in his pocket. ‘I am not for sale.’

Muddiman raised startled eyebrows. ‘No wonder you have the look of poverty about you! Why do you not take what is freely offered?
Everyone else does, for which I daily thank God. My newsletters would not be nearly as good if men in positions of power declined
to do business with me.’

‘Was Wenum in a position of power, then? I know he did not work at the newsbook offices or at Hodgkinson’s print-houses.’

Muddiman’s smug smile was back in place. ‘I understand he drowned in the Thames; he fell in near White Hall, where all the
politicians and clerks lurk, if you take my meaning. Unfortunately, his corpse was never recovered, so who knows how he really
died?’

A missing corpse was very convenient, thought Chaloner. ‘I think Nobert Wenum was actually Tom Newburne – the names contain
the same letters, which
seems too coincidental to overlook. Perhaps
that
explains why no body was recovered.’

Muddiman chuckled. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you worked out the Newburne–Wenum connection. However, I can tell
you from my long experience as a newsmonger that things are seldom what they seem, and that “facts” are multi-faceted. People
say there are two sides to every story, but I would contest that there are usually a good many more.’

‘You are no doubt right. So, are you telling me that Newburne and Wenum were
not
the same?’

‘We always met in the dark, so I cannot say with certainty, although he did have the most awful rash on his jaw. I could scarcely
take my eyes off it, and spent most of our encounters praying that it was not contagious. However, I also know such things
can be achieved with powders and paints. So, perhaps it was Newburne, but I suspect it was not.’

‘Do you ever take Theophilus Buckworth’s lozenges?’ asked Chaloner, trying a different tack.

‘Why?’ Muddiman shot back. ‘Do they guard against death by cucumber?’

‘Why are you here?’ asked Chaloner, seeing he was not going to get very far with questions about Newburne, Wenum or Finch.
‘Hodgkinson is L’Estrange’s printer – and thus L’Estrange’s ally.’

‘Why should that prevent me from using his services?’ Muddiman showed Chaloner a printed bill, which advertised his handwritten
newspapers, delivered promptly each week and containing domestic news no man of business or affairs would want to miss. He
laughed at Chaloner’s astonishment. ‘It was Dury’s idea – it allows us to flick a thumb at Williamson, as well as L’Estrange.
Ah, Hodgkinson, you are free at last. Heyden has been admiring your work on my notices.’

Hodgkinson looked sheepish. ‘He made me a very good offer, Heyden, and L’Estrange’s newsbooks will not run for ever. I may
need Mr Muddiman’s patronage when they collapse.’

‘
When
they collapse?’ queried Chaloner sharply.

Muddiman nodded with great confidence. ‘It is only a matter of time. Who wants to read that the vicar of Wollaston found himself
with a dirty prayer-book? Or reports confiding that Turks are “up and down”, whatever that means? Besides, once the government
realises that the newsbooks’ only real function is to facilitate the return of lost horses, it will withdraw its investment.
Eh, Hodgkinson?’

Hodgkinson nodded uncomfortably. ‘I am afraid you may be right.’

‘Have you shared these concerns with Spymaster Williamson?’ asked Chaloner of the printer.

Hodgkinson looked horrified. ‘No! Why? Will you tell him? If you do, please do not say you heard it from me. I am just a man
trying to make a living. Besides, I would not be forced to do business with Mr Muddiman if Williamson did his job and kept
the city in order. The safety tax imposed by the Butcher of Smithfield is crippling, and this is the only way I can make ends
meet.’

‘A valid point,’ said Muddiman, not seeming to care that Hodgkinson had all but admitted their association to be an unsavoury
one. ‘But I doubt Heyden will be talking to Williamson. Our dear Spymaster has a nasty habit of shooting messengers who bring
bad news, which is why his spies seldom tell him much of import. Especially stupid old Hickes.’

‘Did I hear you say you need a woman with a cloth?’ asked Hodgkinson, keen to change the subject. ‘Brome said you are dining
with him today, and Joanna will not think much if you arrive looking like that. I will fetch Mother Sales.’ He was gone before
Chaloner could stop him.

‘Poor Hodgkinson,’ said Muddiman with a sigh. ‘He wants to be loyal to L’Estrange, but he can see the portents of doom. It
is a pity Brome cannot. I have offered him an alliance, but he declines, misguided fool. But you are not so foolish, I think.’

‘No, I am not. So I will not give you intelligence about Portugal, because L’Estrange will know exactly where it came from.’

Muddiman’s expression was crafty. ‘True, but perhaps you heard chatter about the
Spanish
court while you were there. L’Estrange will not associate that with you. And you really do need the services of a cloth if
you want to impress Joanna. The rabbit will not appreciate mud all over her nice burrow. Yet how will you pay this venerable
old crone? I can tell from here that your purse is empty.’

Chaloner supposed there was no harm in repeating some Spanish gossip to Muddiman, and he did not want to make a direct enemy
of a man whose role and motives in the murders he did not understand. And nor was there time to go home and change. ‘There
is to be a marriage contract drawn up between the Infanta Margarita and the Emperor. The political ramifications of such an
alliance—’

‘I know what the repercussions will be, and they are far-reaching,’ interrupted Muddiman. ‘Do not concern yourself with analysis:
leave that to the experts, like me.
You are sure about this contract? If you feed me dross, I shall certainly find out.’

Chaloner shrugged, not blaming him for being cautious. ‘I overheard it, but it is true.’

Muddiman grinned. ‘You have made a wise decision, my friend. I shall pay Mother Sales on your behalf, and you have acceded
to the polite request of a powerful man. And I am a powerful man, Heyden. People want very much to stay on the right side
of me.’