The Butcher of Smithfield (10 page)

Chaloner pushed open a door that jangled, and entered. The books on sale comprised mostly government-sponsored publications
on such diverse subjects as the trees of Bermuda, theology, and various editions of the
Seaman’s Kalender
. The floor was clean, the tables dusted, and the entire place gave off an air of quiet efficiency. For all that, Chaloner
preferred the chaotic jumble of Leybourn’s premises, although he was sure Brome would be able to access any tome in his collection
within moments, whereas it sometimes took Leybourn days to locate a specific book. Brome’s was a place for busy men who knew
what they wanted; Leybourn’s was for browsers.

As Chaloner stepped inside, the shopkeeper left the customer he was serving and came to greet the new arrival. He was tall,
with thinning ginger hair that was mostly concealed by a brown wig. His eyes were a pleasant shade of green, and he wore spectacles
on a chain around his neck. When he smiled, his teeth were white and even. He introduced himself as Henry Brome, and politely
asked if Chaloner would mind waiting a few moments until he had finished dealing with Mr Smith. A copy of
The Intelligencer
was provided in the meantime, which Brome said had come directly from the printing presses that morning. It was a refreshing
change from being ignored until the first client had left, as happened in most shops.

The spy sat at a table and scanned the newsbook’s contents. There were reports from Paris, Denmark and Vienna, and a note
about the Queen’s health, but most of the eight pages were given over to a tirade about an uprising of phanatiques in York,
Richmond and Preston.
Chaloner grinned when he read,
I will not trouble you with hear-says and Reports,
but
…’ and the editor then went on to give a great list of unsubstantiated rumours.

‘A bright bay mare,’ said the customer, when Brome returned to him. ‘Twelve hands high, with three white feet and wall-eyes.
And you can say there is a reward of twenty shillings for her safe return, on application to Richard Smith at the Bell in
Smithfield. That is me.’

Brome finished writing down the instructions and smiled. ‘I shall make sure the notice appears in Thursday’s
Newes
, Mr Smith. And I hope it brings you luck.’

‘I believe it might,’ replied Smith. ‘When Captain Hammond lost his gelding, one of your advertisements saw it back within
three days
! Making news of horse-thievery means it is more difficult for these villains to operate, and you are doing us a great service.’

‘I am delighted to hear it,’ said Brome. He looked pained. ‘Of course, the real function of our newsbooks is not to help find
missing horses, but to keep the public informed of current affairs.’

Smith laughed, long and hard. ‘Believe me, Brome, no one buys the newsbooks for their coverage of current affairs! We buy
them for the horses, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar. And speaking of horses, you can write that mine was stolen
by a villain called Edward Treen. One of my servants saw him quite clearly, but he managed to ride off before we could stop
him. Make sure you name Treen.’

‘We had better not,’ said Brome, rather wearily. ‘He might sue you for defamation of character, and the courts cannot be relied
upon to dispense just verdicts these days. It is safer to leave the notice as it is.’

‘Very well,’ said Smith, pushing several coins across
the table, which Brome counted carefully before making an entry in a ledger. ‘Do you want me to sign anything before I go?’

‘Here, to say you have handed me the sum of five shillings,’ said Brome, pointing at the book.

‘You are wise to keep records, because they will protect you against
allegations
,’ said Smith darkly. ‘I knew L’Estrange during the wars, and he is a devil for thinking the worst of people. I heard in my
coffee house yesterday that he has accused Muddiman of stealing his news.’

Brome regarded him uneasily. ‘But Muddiman
does
steal his news – he pre-empted us with a report from Tangier only last week. That
is
theft, just as you losing your bay mare is theft.’

‘It is not the same at all,’ said Smith dismissively. ‘A horse cannot be compared to an item of foreign gossip. I was sorry
to hear about Newburne, by the way. You must be very upset.’

‘L’Estrange will miss him,’ was all Brome said in reply.

When Smith had gone, Brome turned to Chaloner with a smile, apologising for the delay and asking whether he had come to order
a book, apply for a publishing license, or buy advertising space.

‘I have come to see Roger L’Estrange,’ replied Chaloner.

‘May I ask why?’ Brome shrugged sheepishly when Chaloner raised his eyebrows at the question. ‘I mean no disrespect, but it
will be better for everyone if you tell me your business first. The last man I allowed in without an appointment transpired
to be a phanatique, and the poor fellow was lucky to escape with
one
of his ears still attached.’

From the rabid tone of the newsbooks and what he had witnessed outside the Rainbow Coffee House, Chaloner was not surprised
to learn L’Estrange was in the habit of turning violent when confronted with people of whom he disapproved. ‘The Lord Chancellor
asked me to see him regarding the release of information from Portugal. My name is Thomas Heyden.’

Brome brightened. ‘Original news? Excellent! That will put him in a good mood, and it is kind of the Lord Chancellor to think
of us. Are you one of his secretaries? A diplomatic emissary, perhaps?’

‘Just a clerk.’

Brome regarded him astutely. ‘He does not send minions to foreign countries on his behalf, so you must be either relatively
senior or trusted. But no matter; I can see from your expression that you would rather not discuss it. We are grateful for
any accurate information, regardless of its origin.’

Chaloner changed the subject. Brome’s wits were sharp, and he did not want the man guessing he was a spy. ‘You said L’Estrange
was visited by a phanatique. Do many pay him court, then?’

The bookseller grinned, a little conspiratorially. ‘They do, according to him. However, you must be aware that a phanatique
is anyone even remotely sympathetic to Puritans, Roundheads or regicides. I am one at the moment, because I said it is time
Cromwell’s skull was removed from the pole outside Westminster Hall. However, my suggestion has more to do with its nasty
habit of blowing down in the wind than with any respect I might have had for its owner. The thing almost brained my wife last
week, and most Londoners consider it something of a hazard.’

Chaloner hoped Thurloe did not venture that way during storms, because he and Cromwell had been friends. ‘Is it true that
a licence is needed to print any book or pamphlet in London now?’ he asked, wanting to learn more about L’Estrange’s official
business before he met the man.

‘In the country,’ corrected Brome. ‘And not only is it illegal to manufacture a text without a licence from the Surveyor of
the Press – L’Estrange – but it is against the law to sell them, too.’

‘I understand there are six hundred booksellers in the City alone,’ said Chaloner artlessly. ‘How does he regulate them all?’

‘There are only fifty now,’ said Brome. He looked away, and Chaloner was under the impression that he thought it a pity. ‘He
hires men to visit the bookshops and ensure they only hawk legitimate tomes. Of course, these rules only apply to the printed
word. He cannot control manuscripts – handwritten texts – such as the newsletters dictated by Muddiman to his army of scribes.’

‘Do you read any newsletters?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Brome, somewhat cagily. ‘That would be disloyal, because they are in direct competition with the
official government newsbooks.’

Casually, Chaloner leaned forward and tweaked a sheet of paper from under the ledger, stepping away smartly when Brome tried
to snatch it back. Like all newsletters, it was addressed to a specific recipient – something a scribe could do, but that
was impractical for a printing press – and the author’s name and address were carried banner-like across the top of the first
page. In this case, the writer was Henry Muddiman, and his correspondent was Samuel Pepys.

Brome’s face was scarlet with mortification. ‘That is … that is not mine.’

‘Pepys is a clerk at the navy office,’ said Chaloner, watching him intently. ‘I met him once.’

Brome was appalled. ‘You know Pepys? Lord!’

Chaloner was amused when he guessed the reason for Brome’s agitation. ‘Pepys does not subscribe to Muddiman’s newsletter,
does he? You just borrowed his name, because he is respectable but relatively insignificant, and no one at Muddiman’s office
would question his desire to purchase such a thing. Meanwhile, Muddiman thinks his missives are being read by a navy clerk,
blissfully unaware that it actually goes straight into the hands of his greatest rival.’

Brome coloured even further. ‘It sounds sordid when you put it like that. Muddiman sends out a hundred and fifty newsletters
each week, so what difference can one more make? Besides, how else are we to monitor the competition?’

Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. ‘This was not your idea, was it? And nor did you elect to pick on Pepys. Whose was it?
L’Estrange’s?’

Brome put his hands over his face and scrubbed his flushed cheeks. ‘He will skin me alive if he finds out I was careless enough
to leave that lying around for the Lord Chancellor’s man to see. I told him it was stupid to use Pepys, but he would not listen.
What if Muddiman meets Pepys, and asks how he likes the newsletters? It was only ever a matter of time before we were found
out.’

‘So why take the risk?’

‘Because we need to know what is in them. Muddiman’s sources are invariably better than ours.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘How so? The newsbooks’ source of information is the government – and the government knows everything,
because it receives a constant stream of information from its spies.’ He knew this for a fact, because he was one of those
conduits.

Brome swallowed. ‘I am afraid you have walked into a war here, Heyden. A news war. You are right: we should have the stories
first, but the reality is quite different. Muddiman has contacts and methods – God alone knows who and what they are – which
mean he nearly always pre-empts us.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘He was the newsbook editor himself until a few weeks ago. That means he knows the government clerks
who provide this information. Perhaps he bribes them to speak to him first. It would be a risky thing to do on the clerks’
part, because if Spymaster Williamson finds out I doubt he will be very forgiving. But it is not impossible.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Brome. ‘It is not impossible. However, Williamson’s spies maintain the clerks are innocent. They watch
them all the time, and have observed nothing untoward. So, we do not know how Muddiman always manages to get the news first.’

‘What was Newburne’s role in all this?’

Brome was startled by the question. ‘I suppose you heard Smith consoling me about his death, did you? Poor Newburne! His remit
was to spy on the booksellers and keep an eye on Muddiman’s dealings. Why do you ask about him particularly?’

‘The Lord Chancellor asked me to confirm that his death was a natural one,’ said Chaloner, deciding to be honest in the hope
of learning more.

‘As well as providing us with information about
Portugal?’ asked Brome doubtfully. ‘You own a strange combination of talents. And why does the Earl think something is amiss
anyway?’

‘He did not say – he just ordered me to look into the matter.’

Brome regarded him unhappily. ‘That will almost certainly prove to be dangerous. Newburne was an unsavoury man who knew a
good many unsavoury people. Hectors, no less.’

‘The Smithfield gang?’

‘The very same. I am not exaggerating: you would be ill-advised to delve into Newburne’s affairs. However, if you are under
orders from the Lord Chancellor, I suspect you have no choice. So, if you promise to say nothing about our unlawful use of
Pepys’s name to procure those newsletters, I will tell you what I know of Newburne. Do I have your word, as a gentleman?’

‘You do.’

Chaloner was astonished when Brome took a deep breath and began to speak – the man was naively trusting of someone he had
only just met. ‘Newburne took bribes from some of the booksellers he caught breaking the law. He told them a gift to him would
work out cheaper than a fine from L’Estrange.’

‘How do you know?’ Chaloner was disappointed: he already knew this.

‘Because I overheard their discussions, and I witnessed several payments made. I pretended not to notice, because I did not
want to end up crushed between him and L’Estrange. He was an associate of Ellis Crisp, you see.’

‘Who is Ellis Crisp?’

Brome regarded him incredulously. ‘Are you jesting? You
must
have heard of Ellis Crisp.’

‘I am only recently returned from Portugal.’

‘Perhaps you are, but even so …’ Good manners helped Brome overcome his disbelief at what he clearly regarded as rank ignorance.
‘Crisp is the butcher who controls Smithfield – not the legitimate business of selling meat and livestock, but the underworld
that thrives in the area. He owns the Hectors, and it is his bidding they do. He is the most dangerous man in London. So now
do you see why I urge you to caution as regards Newburne?’

Chaloner nodded, although he had never heard of Crisp, and doubted the man would prove too daunting an opponent. He was grateful
for the warning, though. He wondered if the Earl knew a powerful felon might be involved in Newburne’s death, which led him
yet again to question his master’s reasons for ordering the investigation.

‘Do you think Crisp killed Newburne, then?’

Brome was startled. ‘No, I think Newburne died from eating cucumbers, although I suppose he might have been forced to consume
them against his will. I doubt it was by Crisp, though, because Newburne was said to be one of his most valued employees.
On the other hand, Crisp
is
the kind of man to kill a wayward minion. There are many tales about the untamed violence of the man they call the Butcher
of Smithfield.’