The Butcher of Smithfield (41 page)

Chaloner supposed Mary had been telling the truth when she denied being Newburne’s mistress. The alleged association was pure
fabrication, although Chaloner suspected Mary Cade had had her reasons for calling herself Annie Petwer when the incident
was supposed to have taken place. And he was sure they would not be innocent ones. ‘When we last met, I asked whether you
knew a Court musician called Thomas Maylord. You said you did not, but—’

‘But you were actually talking about
Tom Mallard
,’ she interrupted. ‘I realised afterwards that I had misled you, although it was not intentional. It was just the way you
said his name, and I was upset anyway, so not thinking clearly. Yes, my husband knew Mallard.’

Chaloner was annoyed with himself. He knew perfectly well that the musician had used a variety of spellings and pronunciations
for his name, depending on the occasion. Many entertainers did, as a device to appeal to different kinds of audiences. ‘In
what capacity?’

‘I suppose it does not matter if I tell you now, but he was secretly learning the flageolet. He wanted to surprise me with
a tune on my birthday. Mallard was teaching him.’

‘How did he come to choose Maylord as a tutor?’ Chaloner was uncertain about her claim, because everyone
else had said the decent Maylord would have had nothing to do with Newburne.

‘He was the best, and my husband was determined to learn. Mallard refused at first, but Thomas could be very persuasive. He
yielded in the end.’

So, thought Chaloner, perhaps whatever had driven Maylord into his frenzy of agitation was something heard or seen during
one of these lessons. After all, Newburne had worked for three – and possibly more – very dubious masters. Any one of them
might have embroiled the solicitor in business that Maylord would have found shocking.

‘This is a fine house,’ he said, moving on to his next quest: learning the way to Newburne’s hidden jewels. ‘And you have
a pretty garden, too. Is that a sage bush?’

She beamed at him. ‘I have worked hard to make this a decent home. Would you like to see it?’

When he accepted, he was shown every room from attic to basement. It was indeed a pleasant dwelling. Dorcus stood at the top
of the stairs while he descended the cellar steps, and his eyes immediately lit on a patch on the beaten-earth floor that
had been recently disturbed. Bulteel was right!

Chaloner took his leave, then doubled back to the garden. Now familiar with not only the house, but its servants and routines,
he let himself in through the pantry door and made for the basement again. It was dark, but the light from the single barred
window was enough to see by. He scratched away the soil with his dagger until he reached a layer of sacking. Wrapped within
it was a box. The box was small, no larger than a pocket prayerbook, and was ornately designed. It was secured by a pair of
locks that were far too large for it. Chaloner
stared at them for a moment, then, on a whim, inserted the keys he had taken from Maylord and Smegergill. They fitted perfectly,
and he pushed back the lid to find the little container brimming to the top with precious stones. Newburne had indeed hidden
himself a fortune.

Chaloner gazed at the jewels, amazed that both finding the box and opening it had been so easy. But now what? Should he take
it with him? It would be easy enough to steal, hidden in a pocket, but the problem was that he did not have anywhere secure
to keep it. His rooms were no good, and he was loath to burden Thurloe with a second hoard to mind. However, he suspected
it would be safe in Newburne’s cellar – the solicitor had been dead for almost two weeks and Chaloner could tell by the state
of the hole that no one else had been to inspect it. Then he could collect it later, when it could be taken straight to the
Earl.

His mind made up, he replaced box and dirt, stamping down firmly when the hole was filled. For good measure, he dragged a
barrel across it, too, to conceal evidence of disturbance. He even took cobwebs from the ceiling and draped them over the
cask, and only left when he was sure no visible sign of his visit remained. He was just making his escape through the garden
when he heard voices.

The back gate opened, and two people entered. One
was Dorcus, and the other was L’Estrange. Chaloner was just wondering why the editor should be with her when L’Estrange’s
hand slipped around her waist in a way that made her giggle.

‘All right,’ the spy murmured to himself. ‘That answers
that
question.’

He was about to duck back inside the house and hide until he could leave without being seen when a servant came to the rear
door. With weary resignation, he saw he was trapped. So he knelt next to the sage bush, and did not have to try very hard
to feign awkward embarrassment when Dorcus and L’Estrange approached him.

‘You have caught me red-handed,’ he said with a feeble grin. ‘I realised after I had gone that my wife would be furious if
I did not take her a cutting of your splendid sage. I knocked at your front door, but there was no reply.’

‘You did not tell me you were married,’ said L’Estrange, earrings and teeth flashing as he grinned. ‘What is the lucky lady’s
name and where do you live?’

‘I am often complimented on my sage,’ said Dorcus before Chaloner could reply. ‘Please pick some, and tell your wife it is
best with pork.’

Chaloner tried to look as though he knew what he was doing as he gathered several handfuls. While he did so, he noticed the
maid was smiling prettily at L’Estrange, who was leering back at her.

‘Take an onion, too,’ suggested Dorcus. She grabbed one that had been overlooked when the rest of the crop had been harvested,
and lobbed it. Her throw went suspiciously wide of Chaloner, and struck the servant in the middle of her white apron. The
maid squealed her dismay at the mess.

‘I brought the galingale you needed, Sybilla,’ said Dorcus, brandishing a package rather menacingly. ‘For the pie you are
supposed to be making.’

‘Thank you.’ Sybilla turned to simper at L’Estrange. ‘Will there be company for dinner?’

‘There might,’ said L’Estrange, waggling his eyebrows at her. ‘It depends what is on offer.’

‘Beef pie with galingale,’ replied Dorcus. ‘We thought we had plenty, but the rats had been at it.’

‘Rats are all over the place these days,’ said Chaloner, thinking L’Estrange’s behaviour made him a particularly predatory
one. ‘It must be the weather.’

‘It must,’ agreed Dorcus. ‘Especially now the river is on the rise. I met Roger at the market, and he escorted me home because
the Walbrook has burst its culverts and water is gushing everywhere.’

‘Phanatiques have opened secret floodgates,’ explained L’Estrange, eliciting small squeals of alarm from both women. ‘They
are trying to drown us in our beds.’

‘Most of us will not be in our beds at this late hour,’ said Chaloner, suspecting the same could not be said of L’Estrange
and his ladies. ‘So this devilish plot to take the city by water is doomed to failure.’

‘Here is your onion,’ said Sybilla, tossing it to him. She turned to L’Estrange. ‘Do come in, sir.’

L’Estrange entered the house like a king, the two women fussing behind him. Chaloner stuffed the onion and sage into his pocket,
and supposed he was fortunate that Dorcus had been so credulous about his admiration for her herbs – and that L’Estrange had
been more interested in recruiting Angels for his Army than in the curious behaviour of the Lord Chancellor’s spy.

As he walked down the path, Chaloner thought about
the keys that had fitted the jewel box. Had Maylord and Smegergill stolen them from Newburne? Had that been the cause of Maylord’s
agitation? Obviously, it had not been Newburne himself that had worried the musician, because Maylord had written his urgent
note on Friday night, and Newburne had been dead for two days by then. An unpleasant sinking feeling gripped Chaloner as he
considered the possibility that Maylord had poisoned the solicitor.

He reached the back gate and stepped outside. And tripped over Giles Dury, who was kneeling with his eye glued to a crack
in the wood.

‘Damn it all!’ cried the newsman as he went sprawling into the mud. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Leaving,’ replied Chaloner dryly. ‘And you?’

‘Following L’Estrange,’ snapped Dury, trying to brush himself down. ‘It is Saturday.’

‘I see. You always follow L’Estrange on Saturdays, do you?’

‘Of course. It is the day he collects the parliamentary summaries for his Monday newsbook. He always indulges in a dalliance
on his way home, and …’ He trailed off, angry at himself.

‘And you take the opportunity to examine his papers while his attention is on his conquests,’ finished Chaloner in understanding.
‘
That
is why the newsletters so often pre-empt the newsbooks! I thought someone was selling you his reports, but you just steal
them for yourselves.’

‘We do not steal,’ objected Dury. ‘We just read what happens to be left lying around. He usually goes to a brothel, which
makes life simple, although his selection of Dorcus presents more of a challenge. And not all our
news comes from the parliamentary summaries, anyway. Just some of it.’

‘Your spy gives you the rest,’ said Chaloner. ‘Wenum.’

‘Wenum,’ echoed Dury with a sigh. ‘I believed the rumour that said he fell in the Thames, but now Muddiman tells me he was
probably Newburne in disguise. I never met Wenum, so had no reason to know – it was Muddiman who went to buy news from him,
not me. Muddiman said the man was always careful to stick to the shadows, and now we know why: he did not want to be recognised.’

‘By buying secrets from Newburne, and by reading the confidential summaries issued to L’Estrange, you have been undermining
the government’s newsbooks. I suspect that is treason.’

Dury started to draw his sword, but stopped when he saw Chaloner held a dagger and was ready to throw it. He sneered. ‘What
are you going to do? Take me to the Tower? I will scream if you try.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. Technically, he should escort Dury to the nearest prison, but he had no desire to deliver anyone
into Spymaster Williamson’s vengeful hands, and he was still uncertain about the shifting allegiances of the newsmen and their
masters. He decided that arresting Dury was not the best course of action. At least, not yet.

‘If I say nothing to Williamson about this, will you answer some questions?’

Dury was immediately wary. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

‘You don’t, but you are hardly in a position to negotiate. You can take my offer or you can go to the Tower. It is your choice,
but you will reveal the information either way.’

Dury shrugged, feigning nonchalance but failing miserably. He was beginning to be frightened. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Why have you been following me? I saw you in the Golden Lion.’

‘That is easy.’ Dury sounded relieved. ‘Muddiman wanted me to make you an offer: five pounds plus a year’s free newsletters
if you feed bad intelligence to L’Estrange. We want him discredited and Muddiman reinstated. Will you do it?’

Chaloner laughed at the notion. ‘No! Williamson would kill me for certain.’

‘Do not be so sure. He is married, and L’Estrange has taken to visiting his home when he is out at work. I do not understand
what women see in L’Estrange, personally. It must be the earrings.’

Chaloner wondered if he should buy Leybourn a pair. ‘Have you seen him with Joanna Brome?’ he asked, more from idle curiosity
than a genuine need to know.

‘I do not envy her position! If she yields, she betrays her husband, whom she loves. If she resists, L’Estrange might destroy
her shop. As far as I know, she has managed to evade the choice so far by giving L’Estrange just enough encouragement to keep
him keen, but not capitulating completely.’

‘I saw you meet Ireton at the Rainbow Coffee House yesterday. Why?’

Dury shrugged again. ‘Why do you think? To acquire information. A newsman is not particular about his sources, and Ireton
offered to sell me a tale about the murder of a Court musician called Smegergill. I thought he might have some original intelligence,
but I was wrong. All he wanted was to declare the Hectors innocent.
Unfortunately for him, our readers will be outraged if I write nice things about criminals, so I can use nothing of what he
told me.’

It made sense, so Chaloner moved to another question. ‘Why did you and Muddiman search Finch’s room? I saw you there, so do
not tell me you did not.’

Dury sighed resentfully. ‘You certainly want your pound of flesh! You had better not betray me after all this. Williamson
is not the only one who knows how to hire Hectors. I shall pay a few to visit you if you breathe one word of our discussion
to anyone.’

‘Just answer the question.’

Dury regarded him with dislike. ‘We followed Hickes there – we saw him receive a note as he stood outside our house, and we
thought it would be fun to see where he went. We watched him chase a thief, and laughed ourselves silly when he fell off the
roof.’

‘What did you find in Finch’s room?’ Perhaps Dury had removed the deadly lozenges.

‘We had a quick look around in an attempt to understand why Hickes had been sent there so urgently, but there was nothing
obvious. The first thief must have grabbed any pertinent evidence. So, although we had high hopes of a decent scandal – preferably
one involving the government – we were disappointed. We already knew Finch was dead, so it was not as if we discovered the
body.’

‘How did you know Finch was dead?’

‘Muddiman heard it in Robin’s Coffee House, which is not far from Finch’s home. He often frequents Robin’s, because it is
also close to Brome’s shop, and so allows him to spy on L’Estrange. Do not look disapproving, Heyden – L’Estrange does it
to us. Now, is there anything else, or am I free to go about my business?’

‘You mean the business of reading L’Estrange’s reports while he frolics with Dorcus?’

‘And the maid. If you look the other way, I will make it worth your while. We need this intelligence, and it is too late to
tap into other sources this week. Your interference will cost us dear.’