The Butcher of Smithfield (36 page)

Chaloner assumed the killer was responsible – he had eaten his pie while Finch had suffered the effects of the deadly lozenges,
then he had grabbed all the documents he could find, set the cucumber and fled. Later, after Hickes and Chaloner had been,
he had returned to the scene of his crime and removed the pills and any remaining papers – Chaloner doubted Hickes had mounted
a very thorough search, and he himself had not had time before he had been interrupted.

‘Finch did not die of cucumbers, though,’ said Hickes, somewhat out of the blue. Chaloner raised his eyebrows questioningly.
‘I know there was one on a plate near his body, but there were some green tablets, too, and I think
they
killed him. I saw boxes of Theophilus Buckworth’s Personal Lozenges when Colonel Beauclair and Valentine Pettis perished,
you see.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘You refer to two of the other men who died after eating cucumbers?’

Hickes nodded. ‘But Beauclair had a box of these lozenges in addition to the cucumber by his bed. I saw both when I inspected
his body.’

‘What led you to do that?’

‘Protocol. Beauclair died in White Hall, and Williamson’s secret service is obliged to look into all deaths that occur there,
even natural ones.’

‘And Pettis? He was a horse-trader, I believe.’

‘He died in Hyde Park, showing off some nags, but because the King happened to be there, his death had to be probed, too.
Pettis was allegedly eating cucumber before he died, but he also had a pot of these Personal Lozenges in his pocket. They
were wrapped nice, and
I thought they might have been given to him as a gift. They made my fingers itch when I picked one up.’

Chaloner was surprised Hickes had looked past the obvious, when it must have been tempting to opt for the easy solution and
put the blame on cucumbers. He saw he would be wise not to underestimate James Hickes, tempting though it was to see him as
a dull-witted lout barely capable of following his Spymaster’s instructions. Hickes continued with his explanation.

‘My wife eats cucumbers all the time – for wind – but they never harm her. And Pettis and Beauclair were strong, healthy men,
so I do not believe a mere cucumber could have felled them. Maylord was also said to have died of cucumbers, although I know
for a fact that anything green brought him out in hives. He would never had touched one, not unless someone forced him. It
is patently obvious that someone poisoned all these men, although Williamson refuses to believe me.’

‘You have told him your theory?’

‘He just laughed at me,’ said Hickes resentfully. ‘He said it was the sort of rubbish he would expect from a man whose salary
amounts to less than ten pounds a year.’

‘You should have demanded an increase, then, so he will take you more seriously in the future.’

Hickes chuckled. ‘I wish I had thought of that. Mrs Hickes has been on at me to get a rise, because she wants to buy herself
some new clothes. She likes dressing up and going out.’

Chaloner was sure she did, especially if it involved a trip to the newsbook offices. He took his leave of Hickes, walking
briskly to catch up with Dury. He followed him
to the Rainbow Coffee House on Fleet Street, where Dury chose a table in the window. Within moments, he was joined by someone
who was already inside. It was long-nosed Ireton, the Hector with the penchant for attacking people in dark churchyards. Chaloner
watched them talk together until hunger and weariness drove him home.

Time was running out for Chaloner, but he had reached a dead end with Newburne’s death. He smiled wryly as he sat in his room
with the cat for company. He had never particularly liked working for the Earl, but now there was a very real danger of dismissal,
he was determined to make sure it did not happen. It was a ridiculous situation, and he wished Cromwell had not died, the
Commonwealth had not collapsed, Thurloe was still Spymaster, and he was still a regularly paid intelligence officer working
overseas. His life had been a good deal less complicated – and less impoverished – when he had been under Thurloe’s orders.

He dragged his mind away from his own predicament, and began to consider his investigations, beginning with Theophilus Buckworth’s
lozenges. The advertisement in
The Intelligencer
meant a lot of them were being sold, so it was clear they were not all deadly.
Ergo
, someone had devised a way of doctoring them, and chose who they would kill – namely Newburne, Finch, Colonel Beauclair and
Valentine Pettis. And perhaps others, too, whose names Chaloner did not know. Then cucumbers were
left at the scene of the crime, and rumour allowed to take over. Yet there had been a cucumber with Maylord’s body, too, although
Chaloner knew for a fact that he had not been poisoned. Did that mean there were two killers? Or was Maylord smothered because
he refused to eat the green pills? Several people had mentioned Maylord’s aversion to green food.

Chaloner reviewed the victims in more detail. Beauclair was an equerry in His Majesty’s Horse, and Pettis had been a horse-dealer.
Maylord had owned a racing horse. Newburne had no equine connection, as far Chaloner he knew, and Finch had been too poor
to dabble in the exclusive world of expensive nags. And the two sedan-chairmen had connections to cucumbers, but not to horses.
He wracked his brain for a clearer connection, but gave up when no answers were forthcoming.

Restlessly, he went to his viol and began to play. Of course, there was also a musical connection between some of the victims
and suspects. Finch had been trumpeting one of the tuneless compositions when he had died. Maylord had kept a bundle of them
in his chimney. Greeting thought Smegergill and Maylord had been commissioned to perform peculiar music for Crisp. L’Estrange
had insisted that Chaloner, Brome and Joanna play one of the pieces, so he could hear how it sounded. Newburne had shared
an interest in music with Finch and Maylord, although Dorcus Newburne had denied that her husband had owned an acquaintance
with the violist.

When he heard the night-watch shout that it was ten o’clock on a cold, wet night, Chaloner stood and stretched. He had no
desire to go out, but Leybourn was his friend, and it was his duty to protect him from Mary.
Thus he had to acquire the surveyor’s hidden money before it was either stolen or she demanded so many gifts that it dwindled
to nothing. Chaloner was sure she would leave Leybourn the moment his fortune was gone, and a timely burglary might encourage
her to relinquish her prey sooner rather than later. He recalled Joanna’s offer to help him prise Mary away from Leybourn,
and smiled. He was sure breaking and entering was not what she had in mind, but equally sure her affection for Leybourn would
compel her to rise to the challenge – or try to rise, at any rate. He doubted she would be much of an asset, though, and he
had always preferred working alone.

The cat unearthed something from a dark corner and began to eat, which reminded him of the rat on the mantelpiece. Unfortunately,
his landlord was saying goodbye to a friend on the doorstep below, and Chaloner could not lob the thing out of the window
as long as they were there; nor did he fancy carrying it downstairs in his hand, so it stayed where it was. He donned dark,
shabby clothes and Isabella’s hat, then walked down the stairs, letting himself out through the back door to avoid questions
from Ellis.

He padded through the sodden streets, sure London could not absorb much more rain, and wishing it would stop. The Ludgate
bridge was closed, so he was obliged to use the Holborn crossing over the Fleet instead. The diversion meant he would have
to approach Cripplegate via the edge of Smithfield, but he was not overly concerned. His scruffy attire would render him an
unattractive target for Hectors, and as long as he stayed out of trouble, he would not be recognised – either as the man who
had humiliated Kirby that day, or as the ‘musician’ they thought they had been paid to kill the previous Sunday.

Smithfield never slept. The legal meat trade started very early in the morning, which meant some butchers began work in the
middle of the night. Already, apprentices were cleaning and scrubbing by the flickering light of lamps. And for other businesses,
the hours of darkness were their prime time. Taverns, bowling alleys, brothels and gambling dens were in full swing, while
prostitutes flaunted their wares and sly men emerged from nowhere to sell blankets, wine, and their sisters – and brothers
– at suspiciously low prices.

There was a large canvas-rigged structure near Duck Lane, and Chaloner could tell from the bouncing shadows within that it
was full of people. He slipped inside, curious to know what had attracted such a huge audience. It was crammed to the gills
with men, all swaggering and cheering. Among them were greasy-headed whores, revealing rotten teeth in boisterous laughter.
The atmosphere was moist and warm, thick with the stench of sweat, cheap perfume and tobacco. Money was changing hands around
a bloody little arena, and two proud birds were killing each other in a flurry of feathers and claws. Chaloner left in disgust;
he had never understood the appeal of cock-fighting. He was almost outside, when he spotted a familiar dark-cloaked figure
surrounded by Hectors. Crisp was evidently not so squeamish, and was settling himself down to enjoy the spectacle.

The city gates were always closed at night, but Chaloner needed to go through Aldersgate in order to reach Monkwell Street.
He was just debating whether to charm his way past the guards or scale the famously ruinous wall to the north, when two burly
figures moved out of the shadows to intercept him. The scene was illuminated by a lamp that hung from the gate itself, a flickering,
unsteady
light that swayed in the breeze. Of the official guards there was no sign.

‘Friend or foe?’ asked the larger of the pair. Chaloner recognised him immediately, although he hoped it was not mutual. It
was Fingerless, the third member of the trio that included Kirby and Ireton. His left hand was still bandaged, and it was
tucked inside his coat.

‘They are all friends at this time of night, Treen,’ quipped his crony with a snigger.

Treen, thought Chaloner, coldly dispassionate. Now he had all their names, and they would pay the price for what they had
done to Smegergill, no matter how vehemently they denied harming him.

‘Anyone who gives us sixpence is a friend,’ laughed Treen. ‘Of course, anyone who refuses is a foe, but no one is that stupid.’

Chaloner wished he had given Smithfield a wider berth, because he did not want to enjoin a skirmish that would draw attention
to himself – especially on an empty stomach and when he was already tired. If he had had sixpence, he would have handed it
over, just to be rid of the nuisance Treen represented.

‘You do not want trouble with me,’ he said quietly. ‘Stand aside.’

His voice carried enough conviction that Treen’s friend did as he was told, melting away as though he had never been there.
Unfortunately, Treen had been a bully far too long, and could not tell when it was wiser to step away. Fury crossed his face
and he drew his sword.

Chaloner sighed and did likewise. ‘You will regret this,’ he warned.

‘No,’ came another voice, this one sibilant and more educated than Treen’s. ‘
You
will regret it, because I
know who you are. You are the villain who murdered Smegergill.’

Ireton’s nose was visible even in the dim light, and so was the sword he carried with the easy grace of the seasoned warrior.
Uneasily, Chaloner peered into the shadows, hoping there were not more Hectors lurking there. While he was more than a match
for Treen, being outnumbered by skilled swordsmen like Ireton was a different proposition entirely.

Treen turned towards his friend in astonishment. ‘He is the murderer? Are you sure?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Ireton. ‘I recognise his hat. And if you want more proof, look at his chin, at the bruise where my stone
struck it. You should learn to be more observant, Treen.’

Treen shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Kirby and I did not waste time inspecting hats, because we were hunting for documents,
like we were told. And then he almost severed my finger. He will pay for that – but not tonight. First, the Butcher will want
to ask why he killed Smegergill, and then Kirby will want to talk to him about a certain rough interview that was conducted
earlier today.’

Ireton shook his head firmly. ‘He dies now, by my hand. I do not approve of men who murder harmless old musicians.’ He began
to advance, and Chaloner prepared to defend himself.

‘Wait!’ snapped Treen, rashly making a grab for Ireton’s sword arm. ‘Crisp will be furious if you kill him before he is interrogated.
And if
you
cannot see that annoying the Butcher is unwise, then you should go back to strumming your lute and leave this sort of business
to me.’

Ireton’s expression was dangerous. ‘How dare you countermand me! You are just a lout, a hireling Crisp uses for his dirty
work. And you cannot even do that properly! If you had killed this man on Sunday, as you were ordered, we would not be in
this situation now.’

They began to quarrel, leaving Chaloner somewhat nonplussed. He took a few steps away, aiming to leave while they were preoccupied.
But Ireton saw what he was doing and came at him in a rush of flailing steel. The Hector was good, better than Chaloner had
anticipated, and he saw they were fairly evenly matched. Then Treen lumbered forward and tried to pull Ireton away. Ireton’s
expression was murderous, and Chaloner half expected him to skewer his comrade there and then.

‘Drop your weapons,’ came a voice that was far from steady. A figure stepped out of the shadows by the gate, holding a large,
old-fashioned gun. It trembled in his hand. ‘Do it now, or I will kill you.’

Treen needed no second warning. His sword clattered to the ground, and he slunk away quickly, apparently one of those men
who appreciated the deadly power of firearms, even ancient ones gripped by hands that shook. Ireton was not so easily intimidated,
however, and his temper was up.