The Butcher of Smithfield (38 page)

Thurloe’s eyebrows shot upwards. ‘Is this how you use the skills I taught you? To burgle your friends? Should I put my valuables
under lock and key when you are visiting?’

‘When I am
not
visiting,’ recommended Chaloner. ‘If I am here, you can keep an eye on me.’

‘What do you intend to do with it? He will be distressed when he finds it gone.’

‘Mary will almost certainly order my room searched by Hectors, so we cannot leave it there. Will you put it somewhere safe?
He can have it back when he comes to his senses. Or when he is too far under Mary’s spell for redemption, and we are obliged
to give up on him.’

Thurloe regarded him soberly. ‘Let us pray for the former. I will conceal it in—’

Chaloner held up his hand. ‘What I do not know, I cannot be forced to tell.’

Thurloe’s face creased in worry. ‘Do you think it might
come to that? Perhaps you should just give it back. William will not think his savings worth your life.’

‘Then convince him – and Mary – that I had nothing to do with its theft. You will not be lying, because I really did not steal
it. I intended to, but Kirby was there first.’ Chaloner laid the gun on the table, next to the sack. ‘You had better keep
this, too. No one followed me here, but I want you to have the means to protect yourself, even so.’

Thurloe’s expression became pained as he told him how he had thwarted Kirby’s burglary.

‘You were with me all night,’ said Thurloe. ‘We have been discussing Newburne’s death and its various twists and turns, and
then, since the weather is foul, I insisted you sleep here. You were never out tonight, so how can you have anything to do
with the disappearance of William’s sack?’

Chaloner woke on Saturday with the sense that time was of the essence, and that he only had two days left before the Earl
dismissed him. It was a foul morning, with splattering rain carried on a gusting wind. Although it was still dark, Thurloe
was already up, writing at the table in his bedchamber. He shared some thinly sliced bread and watery ale – old man’s food,
though he was not yet fifty – which did little to alleviate Chaloner’s hunger.

It was the day of Maylord’s funeral, and Chaloner could hardly attend wearing his housebreaking gear, so he went home first.
Remembering who he had seen in the Golden Lion the previous evening, he climbed into a neighbour’s garden to avoid using his
own front door, and slipped up the stairs to his room without being seen. The tiny fibre that rested on the door handle was
still in place, and so were the hairs in the hinges of his cupboard and chest, which would have told him if anyone had searched
them. The cat was out, although a second dead rat by the side of the bed told him it had been around. He placed the new corpse
next to the first one, thinking he would get rid of them later.

The clothes he had worn the previous day were almost dry, so he donned them again, then looked in his pantry. There was no
reason to suppose anyone had left him a gift of food, and there were so many people who wanted him dead that he would not
have eaten it anyway, but Thurloe’s meagre breakfast had done more to whet his appetite than relieve it, and he was ravenous.
The cupboard was bare except for the cucumber and spices – galingale and cubebs. They released a mouth-watering aroma, and
served to make him hungrier than ever. He was not, however, desperate enough to resort to the cucumber.

He knew he should report to the Lord Chancellor first, to let him know he was still on the case. He did not want to be dismissed
because the Earl was under the impression that he was lying at home all day, waiting for answers to appear. Of course, he
thought ruefully, as he jumped across a puddle that contained a drowned pigeon, answers were not coming at all, despite his
best efforts, and he had more questions now than when he had started.

When he passed the Rainbow Coffee House, he met Joseph Thompson, the rector of his parish church, who invited him inside to
share a dish of chocolate. Chaloner accepted, although chocolate was a foul, oily, bitter beverage that few men could swallow
without wincing. He and Thompson began a lively discussion about the political implications of the Infanta Margarita’s marriage
contract to the Emperor, which had featured in Muddiman’s latest newsletter, although most other patrons said they did not
care about foreign weddings. However, they all said they
were looking forward to the next
Intelligencer
, because they had been told there was to be an especially large missing-horse section.

‘Perhaps it will mention the Queen’s distemper, too,’ said Thompson eagerly. ‘And more news about that dreadful earthquake
in Quebec.’

The men at his table scoffed derisively. ‘It will hold forth about phanatiques,’ said one.

‘It was probably phanatiques who caused the earthquake,’ said another, making his cronies laugh.

It was raining hard when Chaloner left the Rainbow, and he thought about his investigations as he walked to White Hall. As
far as Mary was concerned, his enquiries were complete. He had satisfied himself that she was definitely a felon – Bridges’
reluctant testimony proved that, and so did Kirby’s theft of the sack – and she only wanted Leybourn for his money. Now the
surveyor did not have any, she would leave him and move to greener pastures. Of course, Leybourn also owned a pleasant house,
a thriving business and a stock of books and valuable mathematical implements, but Chaloner did not think they would be enough
to hold her. He was sorry his friend was about to have his heart broken, but knew it would have happened anyway, with or without
his interference.

Less satisfactory was his investigation into the murder of Newburne. What could he tell the Earl about it? That he was uncovering
more information with every passing day, but that it made no sense? That he had started off with Muddiman as his prime suspect,
because the newsletter-man had bought cucumbers at Covent Garden the day before Newburne had died, but that now his list of
potential culprits included virtually everyone he had met and some folk he had not? For example, Joanna and
L’Estrange were more intimate than was respectable, and Newburne might have tried to blackmail them. Meanwhile, Brome was
an enigma, and Chaloner had no idea whose side he was on. Then there were hundreds of booksellers who wanted Newburne dead,
and even the Army of Angels might have exchanged innocent lozenges for ones that were deadly. So might Newburne’s wife, or
Crisp. The cucumbers or poison connected Newburne to Colonel Beauclair, Valentine Pettis, the sedan-chairmen and Maylord.
And there was the music.

And Maylord? Chaloner had no clue as to who might have smothered him, and nor did he understand the strands that linked the
musician to the other cucumber deaths. The same went for Smegergill, although he was beginning to question his previous certainty
that Ireton, Kirby and Treen were responsible.

He arrived at White Hall, and found it in chaos. Servants rushed everywhere, staggering under the weight of furniture, heaps
of paper, kitchen equipment, armfuls of clothes and the contents of the King’s scientific laboratory. The last time Chaloner
had witnessed such alarm was during the first civil war, when the Royalists had won a number of battles and Parliament-loyal
settlements had packed all they could carry in the face of imminent invasion. Then Cromwell had trained the New Model Army,
and it had been Cavalier households that had faced the humiliation of enemy occupation.

‘What is happening?’ he asked a passing soldier, a rough fellow called Sergeant Picard.

‘The tide is coming in,’ explained Picard tersely.

Chaloner prevented him from dashing off. ‘It does that most days. Twice, usually.’

‘Well, this time it is worse,’ said Picard, freeing himself
impatiently. ‘It is predicted to be an unusually high one, and the river has already breached its banks around Deptford.’

‘Is the palace being evacuated?’ But Picard was gone, and Chaloner was left to make what he would of the situation.

The frenzy reached new heights when it was discovered that one of the kitchens was on fire, too. Because White Hall comprised
mostly timber-framed buildings, Chaloner ran towards the smoke to see what could be done to prevent an inferno. He and a competent
military man, who said he was John Bayspoole, Surveyor of Stables, grabbed buckets and doused the flames between them, while
scullions watched but could not be induced to help in any significant way. The blaze was not a serious one, so it was not
long before they had it under control.

Bayspoole wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. ‘Everyone is so obsessed by the notion of flood that they forget
fire is a far more serious hazard. And look at those cooks! They are racing to save their precious cakes, but there are
horses
waiting to be evacuated. Has the world gone mad, when a pastry is considered more important than a palfrey?’

Chaloner watched the bakers dodge around them, bearing trays of tarts. They were still warm from the ovens, and their scent
was enough to make a hungry man dizzy. ‘Did you know Colonel Beauclair?’ he asked, to take his mind off his empty stomach.

‘Owned a fine black stallion and a sweet bay mare. Died of eating cucumbers, apparently, although I suspect the real culprit
was those green lozenges he was sent. The spy Hickes showed them to me.’

‘Sent by whom?’

‘Some acquaintance from his coffee house, probably. His horses went missing after his death, which was a damned shame, because
I would have bought the black stallion from his heirs.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘You think he was killed because someone wanted his horses?’

Bayspoole nodded. ‘Of course. Horses are the only thing worth stealing, as far as I am concerned. You can keep your jewels
and your fine gold, but horses … speaking of which, I had better go and make sure the King’s beasts are taken to St James’s
Park, because no one else will bother.’

He hurried away, and Chaloner resumed his walk to the Earl’s offices, deep in thought. Horses were a theme in the murders
– Maylord had owned one, Beauclair was an equerry and Pettis was a horse-trader. Had Maylord been killed for his nag, too?
But what about Newburne and Finch? They had nothing to do with horses. Or did they? Both had lived near Smithfield, which
was famous for its livestock. And Crisp was the Butcher of Smithfield.

Chaloner reached the Privy Gardens, and climbed the stairs to the Earl’s offices, but they were abandoned by everyone except
Bulteel, who was working with the air of a wounded martyr.

‘Has the Earl threatened to dismiss you again?’ asked Chaloner, wondering why the clerk was always at his desk. He knew Bulteel
was married, because the happy day had been the previous January, and Bulteel had given him a piece of cake. It had been very
good cake, too, better than anything he had had since. He rubbed his stomach, and wished he could stop thinking about food.

Bulteel sighed. ‘He says if I cannot find a more efficient
way of managing his business, he will hire another secretary. But this
is
the most efficient system, and there is no way I can make it better.’

‘And I am a good spy,’ said Chaloner ruefully, ‘but he makes me feel as though I am more of a nuisance than an asset.’

Bulteel regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you and I should join forces.’

Chaloner smiled, always ready to forge new alliances. He was wary of trusting anyone at White Hall, but there was no reason
why he and Bulteel should not assist each other from time to time. ‘All right. Do you know anything that will help me with
Newburne?’

Bulteel nodded eagerly, pleased with his ready acquiescence. ‘I know the Earl is determined not to pay Dorcus Newburne’s pension
– he says he would rather spend a night with the King’s mistress, so that should tell you the extent of his resolution. And
I know he wants you to prove Muddiman is responsible for Newburne’s death, because then he can pass the burden of the pension
to him.’

Chaloner regarded him in distaste. ‘Really?’

Bulteel nodded again. ‘So, if you expose Muddiman as the culprit, you will be reinstated. However, if you discover the killer
is some pauper, or that Newburne died in the course of his government duties, he will not be so generous.’

‘I cannot tell him it was Muddiman if I find evidence to the contrary. I am no lapdog, uncovering “evidence” to orders.’

Bulteel regarded him appraisingly, then gave his shy smile. ‘I knew you would say that – I am a good judge of men, and I know
an honest one when I see him.’

Chaloner shot him a searching look of his own. ‘I suspect, from your reaction, that you have devised a way to resolve my dilemma.’

‘You are astute, and the Earl is a fool not to cultivate your loyalty. What you need is a plan that will please him no matter
what you discover, and I have been mulling one over for some time. Newburne was wealthy – he owned a mansion on Old Jewry,
one on Thames Street and two in Smithfield.’

‘Do you happen to know if he rented rooms in the Rhenish Wine House, too?’

Bulteel was puzzled. ‘He hired a garret on Ave Maria Lane, but his other places were proper houses which he owned himself.’
He looked wistful. ‘The Thames Street property is the nicest, in my opinion. It is not very big, but it has a lovely view
of Baynard Castle.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin. ‘I do not suppose it is next to Hodgkinson’s business, is it?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Bulteel in distaste. ‘Print-works smell, and he had more genteel neighbours than that. In fact, one was Maylord
the musician.’

‘Is that so? Maylord abandoned his Thames Street home shortly before his death, perhaps because he heard or saw something
that frightened him. I wonder whether it was anything to do with Newburne? I have struggled to find connections between them,
but being neighbours would certainly count.’

‘I inspected Newburne’s accounts for a government survey once, and a lot of courtiers hired his legal services. Perhaps Maylord
was one of them, and their relationship was that of lawyer–client.’