The Butcher of Smithfield (54 page)

‘Because Dury was doing it,’ replied Chaloner, when Muddiman realised he was in more danger from Leybourn’s undisciplined
swipes than L’Estrange’s determined lunges. The newsman ducked and weaved, more interested in protecting himself than in answering
questions. ‘And he did not want us tripping over each other in the search for clues.’

‘Let me at him,’ ordered L’Estrange, advancing purposefully on his rival. ‘I do not want to kill you, Heyden, so step aside
before you are hurt. Muddiman, prepare to die! London will not mourn a phanatique of your standing.’

Muddiman shrieked as L’Estrange fought his way past Chaloner, whose attention was half on keeping Leybourn out of the fight,
and he suddenly found himself exposed.

‘Stop him! I will tell you everything if you save me.
Dury
was investigating how messages in music helped
criminals to steal horses, and
Crisp
slaughtered him when he came too close to the truth. He went to Hodgkinson’s print-shop in Smithfield for answers, and was
strangled for his pains. A gutter was dropped on his head to conceal what really happened.’

‘The music is nothing,’ snapped L’Estrange, scowling when Chaloner grabbed his coat and spun him around, forcing him to halt
his relentless advance. ‘Greeting takes the stuff to Williamson for me, because Williamson thinks it contains a code, but
he is wrong. I have played it every way imaginable, and it is just music – from China, probably, which is why it is difficult
for western ears to understand.’

L’Estrange was the one who was wrong, thought Chaloner, falling back quickly when the editor went on the offensive. Williamson
knew exactly what the music meant. But why had the Spymaster tossed the music on the fire when Greeting had delivered it?
He realised the answer was clear: Williamson had no intention of interfering with Hector business. And why? Because they obliged
him with manpower when he needed something shady done.

Leybourn had been about to stab L’Estrange in the back while the editor’s attention was on Chaloner, but he lowered the weapon
slowly as he considered the claims. ‘You are not Crisp, either,’ he said, sounding startled. ‘You cannot be, if you are passing
the music to Williamson.’

Chaloner had had enough of dancing around with L’Estrange. He abandoned the fancy sword-play of Court and reverted to more
brutal tactics – ones he had learned during the wars. In seconds, L’Estrange’s elegant weapon lay on the ground and the editor
was nursing a bruised hand. Muddiman did not wait to see what else happened;
he dashed to his cart, screaming at the driver to whip the horses into a gallop. Boxes dropped from the wagon as it careened
away, and shadows emerged from nearby alleys to claim them.

‘How
do
you come by the music you send to Williamson?’ asked Chaloner, standing next to L’Estrange as they watched the newsmonger
rattle away.

‘Brome keeps it hidden in Joanna’s virginals,’ replied L’Estrange sullenly, inspecting his fingers in the gathering light
of dawn. ‘You must have noticed the instrument’s muted tones when we played together? Well, I looked inside it one day, and
it was full of this odd music. Brome frets when a few pieces go missing occasionally, but I do not see the harm in taking
a couple now and then. It pleases Williamson, and that should be reward enough.’

‘Brome,’ said Chaloner. He exchanged an appalled glance with Leybourn as the truth finally dawned. They had had the Butcher
of Smithfield in their hands, and they had let him go.

‘I tried to tell you I did not trust Brome,’ said Leybourn, as they raced through the sodden streets towards Ivy Lane. ‘But
you would not stop to listen, and I was overly ready to believe Muddiman was the culprit. Brome had
two
guns. He aimed at Hodgkinson with one, and you with the other. I saw him. Obviously, he sent us to the Turk’s Head to make
us waste time.’

‘He did not make much attempt to disarm Hodgkinson, did he,’ said Chaloner, wondering why he had not seen it at the time.
He supposed he was simply too tired. ‘He
wanted
him to shoot me.’

‘Because he could not tackle two fairly dangerous men at the same time,’ explained Leybourn. ‘If Hodgkinson
had dispatched you, then he would have been left with only one. He might be the Butcher, but he does not do his own dirty
work. He has Hectors for that. And Mary.’

‘He did not know Hodgkinson was Wenum, though. His surprise over that was genuine.’

‘And so was his retribution,’ said Leybourn. ‘Hodgkinson did not live long after that little secret came out, did he!’

The streets were light now, although it was a grey, sullen dawn that oppressed the spirits. People were sweeping water from
their houses, and everywhere, buckets were being emptied. It was all to no avail: rain kept falling as if it intended to drown
London and every living thing in it.

They reached Ivy Lane, and Chaloner skidded to a stop. He wished he was not so tired, and that he could think properly. Leybourn
had not sheathed his sword; he was holding it like a battleaxe, and unless Chaloner devised some sort of strategy, his friend’s
determination to avenge himself was going to cause some fatal problems.

‘We cannot just burst in,’ he said. Exhaustion slurred his words. ‘His Hectors will kill us.’

‘You have a plan?’

‘No,’ admitted Chaloner. He pointed to where Kirby was guarding the bookshop door. ‘But it looks as if Brome has already asserted
control over his Hectors. Of course, they will be eager to do his bidding – I let him take Newburne’s treasure, so he has
the wherewithal to pay them. I should have been suspicious when he offered to take the box to L’Estrange in the first place.
He was supposed to be running for his life, and who cares about delivering stolen property under such circumstances?’

‘We must smash his vile empire,’ declared Leybourn.
‘And the only way to do that is to strike off its head. Once it is leaderless, it will founder, and hopefully Williamson will
be able to crush the rest of it before someone else steps up to accept the challenge.’

‘Williamson? He is more likely to appoint a new Butcher – the Hectors are too useful to lose.’ Chaloner tried to rally his
fading strength. ‘We cannot do this alone, Will. We need help.’

‘Unfortunately, that will not be coming. The only man I trust is Thurloe, and he is on the wrong side of a flooded river.
And if you say Williamson will turn a blind eye to the Hectors, then there is no point in sending for him, either – he will
probably arrange for us to die. The best option is for us to storm the bookshop and stab Brome before he realises what is
happening.’

‘Kirby will shoot us long before we reach the door. How many coffee houses are there nearby?’

Leybourn gazed uncertainly at him. ‘Why?’

‘
How many
?’

Leybourn shrugged. ‘Half a dozen or more.’ He began to list them.

Chaloner shoved him towards the closest. ‘Go to the ones by St Paul’s. Say the vicar of Wollaston has complained to the government
about his prayer-book being smeared with grease, so the government is giving him a solid gold lectern as compensation. It
will cost a thousand pounds, and will be paid for by a tax imposed on Londoners.’

Leybourn gaped at him. ‘What for? It will cause all manner of trouble.’

‘Of course it will. And you can say a public announcement of the facts will be made from the newsbook offices within the hour.
I will do the same along Cheapside.
Carry your sword, and say people are massing in Ivy Lane to voice their objections.’

‘What is to stop them marching on White Hall?’ asked Leybourn uneasily.

‘A flooded river and no bridges. Hurry, or we will be too late.’

Chaloner darted towards Cheapside without waiting for an answer, praying that the coffee houses would be full of their usual
early-morning patrons. People saw his drawn weapon and gave him a wide berth as he ran. He shouted that there was to be a
great announcement at Ivy Lane in a few moments time, and although some folk ignored him, others started to move towards the
newsbook offices.

It was easier to inflame the occupants of the coffee houses than he had anticipated, and he was startled when he reached the
third one to find his tale had preceded him. Someone had run ahead, and men were streaming out of the door, heading westwards
through the pouring rain. He glanced east, and saw coffee-boys racing to the next establishment and the one after that. The
rumour was now well out of his control, so he turned back to Ivy Lane.

He arrived to find a crowd of about fifty people milling in the street, and more were flocking to join them with each passing
moment. Kirby was declaring that there would be no announcement, and that they should go home, but Kirby was a Hector, and
his very presence in such a place was unusual enough to fuel speculation. People refused to budge. Then someone threw a stone
at a window, and the sound of smashing glass brought a triumphant cheer. It was time to act.

Chaloner ran around the block, and let himself in
through Brome’s back door. It was locked and there was a guard, but one he picked with his customary deftness, and the other
he felled with a sharp blow from Joanna’s otherwise useless pistol. He made his way along the corridor towards the bookshop.
Brome was there, looking out of the window, and with him were Ireton and several Hectors. There was another cheer, and Kirby
suddenly raced through the front door, slamming it behind him.

‘They are throwing rocks at me now,’ he yelled indignantly. ‘Give me a gun. There is only one way they will be driven off.’

‘Order them home,’ instructed Brome. ‘They will go if you tell them properly.’

‘I
have
told them properly,’ shouted Kirby, ‘but they will not listen. They are saying there is to be an announcement about some
new tax. If you do not believe me,
you
go out and try to convince them.’

‘Someone is trying to obstruct us,’ said Ireton thoughtfully. ‘Where is Joanna? This is an important day, and I do not want
her wandering about and spoiling everything.’

‘She will not spoil anything,’ said Brome icily.

Ireton raised his hands and backed down at the fierce tenor of the bookseller’s voice.

Chaloner took a deep breath, and stepped into the room. He levelled the dag at the group by the window. ‘The King’s troops
will be here any moment, and you are all under arrest. Put up your weapons.’

Ireton sneered. ‘What will you do when we refuse? Shoot us all? With one gun? I would have thought you had learned that lesson
already. Grab him, Kirby.’

Chaloner lobbed the dag hard enough to knock Kirby cold, then took a firmer grip on his sword. Ireton drew
his own blade, while Brome hurled a dagger. It went wide, and stuck in the doorframe near Chaloner’s head.

‘You summoned that crowd,’ snarled Ireton, lunging at him. ‘You are the one trying to sabotage what we have worked for all
these years.’

Chaloner jumped away from him, noting that Brome was making no further attempt to fight. Leybourn had been right: he did prefer
others to do his dirty work. He stood with his arms folded and indicated with a nod of his head that his men should make an
end of the spy who was such a thorn in his side. Obligingly, several Hectors closed in on Chaloner from behind, restricting
the space he needed to wield his sword.

‘I should have known,’ Chaloner said to the bookseller. ‘You warned me away from “Crisp” the first time we met. You pretended
to be afraid, to frighten me into abandoning my enquiries. You knew they would lead to me discovering not only the identity
of Newburne’s killer, but also your plans to take control of Smithfield.’

‘And you ignored me,’ said Brome wearily. ‘I tried to keep you out of it, but you did the exact opposite of whatever I recommended.
You know little that can harm us, but it is a pity you meddled.’

‘I know enough. For example, I have deduced that you killed Finch. You admitted to hating the trumpet when we played with
L’Estrange, and you showed your ignorance of the instrument when you put cucumber inside it – you put the chewed piece in
the wrong place. Callously, you ate a pie while you watched Finch die.’

‘I was listening to him play,’ acknowledged Brome. ‘He had acquired some of the music I send to Ireton, to say where and when
to procure certain horses. I needed to know whether he had decoded the messages, but I could
tell from his playing that he had not. I offered him a lozenge anyway.’

‘Yesterday, you told me the music might be code,’ said Chaloner, jerking away from a riposte from Ireton that almost removed
an ear. Once again, the hat came into its own. ‘You were testing me, to see if I had worked it out, too.’

‘You were good,’ acknowledged Brome. ‘I confess I had no idea at the end of the discussion whether you had guessed our secret
or not. I decided your days were numbered regardless, because loose ends can be dangerous.’

‘Was Newburne a loose end?’

‘He was cheating us, which was unacceptable. I sent him some lozenges – the same as the ones I fed to Pettis, Beauclair and
anyone else who did not fall in with our plans.’ Another stone hit the window with a crack, and Chaloner could hear people
yelling that they wanted the news.

‘And it was all for horses?’ he asked.

‘Horses are a lucrative business,’ replied Brome. ‘And do not think the government will stop us, because Williamson knows
all about it. L’Estrange got hold of a few tunes somehow, and sent them to him. He understood their significance immediately,
but he turns a blind eye.’

‘And why not?’ asked Ireton. ‘He has nothing to lose and a great deal to gain – more advertisements sold; more people wanting
to buy the newsbooks for tales of lost nags; more people reading the news
he
decides should be released. If you think Williamson is going to put an end to that, you are a fool.’

‘Why do you think he set Hickes and Greeting to solve Newburne’s murder?’ added Brome, gloating now. ‘A
half-wit and a novice, neither of whom was going to discover anything. He even sent Hickes to Finch’s room on my behalf, when
I foolishly left the music behind. Of course, Hickes neglected to collect the lozenges, so I was obliged to go back myself
anyway.’