The Butcher of Smithfield (13 page)

‘I see,’ said Chaloner. So, he was being commissioned to see whether a widow could be cheated of her due. He began to wish
he had stayed in Portugal.

‘She is not poor,’ said the Earl sharply, reading his mind. ‘And all I want is the truth; if you say Newburne died while working
for L’Estrange, then I shall happily honour the debt. However, as the pension will come from money raised by taxing the people,
I am under a moral obligation to spend it properly, not squander it on tricksters.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner noncommittally. ‘Why did you not tell me this yesterday?’

‘You looked tired, and I did not want to burden you with too much information. Ah, here is Nott. Oh, no! I do not like green
bindings at all.’

Chaloner had no idea whether he finally had the truth,
but supposed that cash might well motivate the Earl into wanting to know what had really happened. Clarendon selected blue
leather for his books, then was gone in a flurry of noise, horses and lace. Chaloner was left alone with Nott.

‘It must be galling for you, living opposite the man who fined you for selling unlicensed texts,’ he said, rather baldly.
The Earl had annoyed him, and he did not feel like being circumspect.

Nott – a small man with hair tied in an odd bun at the back of his head – grinned. ‘It was, but now Newburne will no longer
be slinking in and out, life will be much more pleasant. Did the Earl order you to investigate the death? If so, I would be
careful, if I were you. There is not a man in London sorry to see him in his coffin.’

‘So I have been told,’ said Chaloner sourly. ‘Several times.’

The sky was overcast when Chaloner left Ivy Lane, and a bitter wind blew in from the north-west. He cut through St Paul’s
Cathedral, thinking that while it appeared to be magnificent from a distance, Leybourn had been right to voice his concerns
about its structural integrity. Cracks snaked up its walls, and fallen clumps of plaster littered the floor inside, along
with bird droppings and a thick layer of filth that had been tracked in from the streets and never cleaned up. He left wondering
how long it would be before it simply gave up the ghost and crumbled into dust of its own accord, leaving the site free for
Wren’s monstrosity.

The second bookseller L’Estrange had mentioned was James Allestry, who not only held the grand title of
Stationer to the King, but was also the man who provided books for the Royal Society. Allestry’s premises were in a noble
Tudor house that stood in the cathedral’s yard, but although he answered Chaloner’s questions politely enough, he was able
to add nothing more than that he had been furious when he had been fined, and that members of the Royal Society had made sure
the King had known what had happened. His Majesty was outraged, Allestry declared, although Chaloner suspected the regal annoyance
derived from the fact that he had been pestered with such a matter in the first place, rather than the iniquity of the fine
itself.

‘Do not think
I
murdered Newburne, though,’ said the bookseller as Chaloner reached for the door latch to let himself out. ‘I would have
stabbed him in his black heart, not given him a cucumber.’

‘Did you know cucumbers were poisonous?’

‘Everyone knows it, although I was always sceptical, to be honest,’ replied Allestry. ‘I am not sceptical now, though. I wonder
if L’Estrange likes them. I may send him a basket if he does. I hear they can be bought in Smithfield
and
Covent Garden these days.’

Chaloner walked to Thames Street, the western end of which stood in the shadow of Baynard Castle, a handsome fifteenth-century
palace. The building perched on the banks of the mighty Thames, and twice a day, muddy brown waters lapped around the feet
of its elegant buttresses. Chaloner imagined they were currently lapping rather higher than was comfortable for its occupants,
given the volume of rainwater that was being discharged into the river upstream.

Richard Hodgkinson’s print-shop was a vast, windowless basement, located near the palace’s back gate. It was
a gloomy place. Its walls dripped moisture and a recent flood had left puddles on the floor, which combined to give the impression
that the whole place was below water level.

Printing was a grubby business, and everything in the room was black and sticky with spilled ink. It was noisy, too, with
clanking machinery and apprentices yelling to each other as they manipulated heavy plates and sheaves of paper. Nimble-fingered
typesetters selected letters from neat rows of boxes, and a listless boy stirred a vat of reeking chemicals. The place stank
of hot oil and the thick, sludgy ink that was kept fluid over charcoal fires. There was a greasy mist in the air that did
nothing to improve the atmosphere, and Chaloner was able to deduce, from the way the workmen stared curiously at him, that
visitors were rare.

Hodgkinson was a smiling, energetic man with an unfashionable beard and hands so deeply stained with the materials of his
trade that Chaloner doubted they were ever fully clean.

‘You want to purchase cards?’ he asked eagerly. ‘To advertise your business? I can do some in red, although it costs extra.
You wear riding boots, so are you connected with horses? Have you lost one? If you look in Thursday’s
Newes
, you will see three separate notices for nags that have been pilfered, and two are returned already.’

‘Did Newburne ever advertise a lost horse?’

Hodgkinson was startled. ‘Newburne? What does he have to do with anything?’

‘The Lord Chancellor has asked me to ascertain how he died. I understand you were with him at the time.’

Hodgkinson gaped at him. ‘The Lord Chancellor is
interested? Why? Newburne died a natural death – he ate a dangerous fruit.’

‘The Earl is interested in many things,’ said Chaloner smoothly. ‘And L’Estrange tells me he has asked you to look into the
matter on his behalf. Will you tell me what you have learned so far? The Earl will be very grateful.’

Hodgkinson nodded keenly. ‘I am always willing to help the government, although you must remember that I am a printer, not
a constable, and do not possess the skills necessary for looking into sudden deaths. However, I shall tell you what I have
gathered to date. As you will be aware, the dead man was responsible for the expression, “Arise, Tom Newburne”, but he will
not be doing much arising now. He is dead for certain this time.’

Chaloner regarded him blankly. ‘He has been dead before?’

‘Yes – he died during the Bartholomew Fair. I witnessed the incident myself.’

Chaloner did not know as much about this most famous of London festivals as he should have done. ‘In August?’ he asked carefully,
hoping to elicit more information.

Hodgkinson regarded him oddly. ‘Of course in August. That is when it always takes place. It lasts two weeks, when all is flurry,
noise and colour, and then Smithfield reverts back to normal.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner, wondering how ‘normal’ Smithfield could be when the likes of Crisp were said to control it. ‘So, Newburne
went to the Bartholomew Fair in August …’

‘He, I and several others were watching a rope-dancer, when a stone struck his head. He keeled over and lay as still as a
corpse. Then Annie Petwer comes along and
shouts, “arise, Tom Newburne” and up he leaps, like Lazarus.’

‘Who is Annie Petwer?’ asked Chaloner.

‘A trollop. She charged him five shillings for her services, but I have never seen a man more willing to part with his money.
Newburne was a miserly fellow, despite the fact that he was rich.’

‘I am not sure I understand precisely what happened. Who threw the stone? Annie Petwer?’

‘No one threw it; it was flicked up by a passing carriage. It happens all the time, as you will know if you have spent any
time in the city.’

‘And this woman stepped forward and told him to stand up?’ It did not sound very likely, and Chaloner was not sure he believed
it.

Hodgkinson grinned. ‘Exactly! And now you know where that particular expression comes from.’

‘I see. Newburne is famous, then?’

‘Locally famous, although he was a rogue, if you want the truth. He did a lot of business with Ellis Crisp, and I am sure
you do not need me to tell you what
that
says about a man.’ He pursed his lips.

‘I do not,’ agreed Chaloner, ‘but what did Newburne have to do with Crisp and his gang of Hectors?’

‘He gave Crisp’s various business ventures a veneer of legality, and advised him on how to win confrontations with the law.
It was unnecessary really, because people are so frightened of Crisp that they tend to let him do what he wants anyway.’

‘Are
you
afraid?’

Hodgkinson rubbed his bearded chin. ‘I own a small shop on Duck Lane, which is in Smithfield, so I am obliged to pay Crisp
a sum of money each month. If I
refuse, my stall is subject to thefts and broken windows. I would not say I am afraid exactly, but I own a healthy respect
for his authority.’

‘So Newburne was involved in this extortion?’

Hodgkinson looked uncomfortable. ‘You have a blunt way of putting things! Newburne told Crisp to call it a safety tax, which
sounds a lot nicer. Do you really want to know all this? It will see you in danger if you report it to the Lord Chancellor.
Crisp has built quite an empire for himself, and he will not appreciate you telling the government about him. Besides, I suspect
they already know, and are wisely turning a blind eye.’

‘It is wise to ignore bullies who demand money with menaces?’

‘
Very
wise. And the fools who told the Butcher they did not want his protection now wish they had kept their mouths shut – those
who have not been baked in his pies, of course.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner. He turned the discussion back to the solicitor. ‘What happened the day Newburne died – not the time
at the Bartholomew Fair, but his real death last Wednesday? L’Estrange says you were with him then, too.’

Hodgkinson nodded. ‘I had just finished printing the latest edition of
The Newes
when Newburne happened by. He was not a man I would normally have chosen for company, but he offered to buy me a pie at the
Smithfield meat market, and I never decline a free meal. Well, who does?’

‘I thought Newburne did everything with his close friend Heneage Finch.’

‘He did usually, but Finch plays in a consort of trumpets and was busy that evening. If Finch had been
available, Newburne would never have asked me to join him.’

‘Does Finch ever perform with a musician called Maylord?’

‘Maylord the violist? I would not have thought so. Maylord was extremely good, and I doubt he would have bothered with an
amateur like Finch. Why do you ask?’

‘Idle curiosity. You did not like Newburne, did you, despite him buying you pies?’

‘Not much. But I did not kill him.’

‘
Was
he killed? You said he died from eating cucumbers.’

Hodgkinson looked flustered. ‘I am trying to tell you what happened, but you keep interrupting. So, Newburne and I walked
to the market, where we ate pies and drank ale. Then we stopped to watch the dancing monkeys, and he bought a cucumber from
the costermongery on Duck Lane. He had some marchpanes, too, and a gingerbread cake. He had been moaning about feeling sick
most of the afternoon, but then, without warning, he suddenly gripped his belly and dropped to the ground.’

‘Did he complain about feeling sick before or after he ate all this food?’

‘Both. He was a heavy drinker, and I assumed too much wine on an empty stomach had made him costive. I encouraged him to eat,
because I thought food might ameliorate his sour humours.’

‘Did he choke?’ asked Chaloner, thinking that if Newburne had swallowed ale, pies, cakes and a cucumber, there would have
been ample opportunity for someone to slip him poison – if poisoned he was. If Newburne had been feeling ill anyway, perhaps
none of the food was responsible.

‘He started gasping for breath and clutching his stomach. I thought he was drunk at first – as I said, he enjoyed his wine.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then he just died. He gasped a few times, shuddered and lay still. When froth poured from his mouth, I realised he was genuinely
ill, but by then it was too late – and there was no Annie Petwer to tell him to arise. He lies in St Bartholomew the Less,
if you want to inspect his corpse. I have been several times, but he is definitely dead this time.’

‘Where can I find Annie Petwer?’

Hodgkinson shrugged. ‘God knows. I imagine she lives in London, though. The Fair attracts a lot of folk from the country,
but I would say Annie Petwer is local.’

Chaloner shook his head, bemused by the tale. ‘What do you think happened to Newburne? A fit? An aversion to cucumbers? Poison?’

‘When L’Estrange asked me to investigate, I paid a surgeon to inspect the body. The fellow has written me a certificate saying
Newburne really did die from cucumbers.’ He extracted a document from a pile on a desk, holding it carefully between thumb
and forefinger, so as not to soil it with his inky hands. ‘Here. He says cucumbers cause dangerous vapours to collect in the
veins, and these eventually result in a fatal imbalance of the humours. I have no reason to doubt his conclusions.’

Chaloner read what was written. The medic had cited the great Greek physician Galen to support his hypothesis, and his own
credentials included membership of the Company of Barber-Surgeons, so he was unlikely to be a complete charlatan. Chaloner
tapped the letter thoughtfully. ‘Unfortunately, this does not tell us whether the
cucumber was dosed with some kind of toxin, or whether Newburne just suffered a bad reaction to this type of fruit.’

Hodgkinson scratched his head. ‘I suppose not. However, the surgeon said lots of people die from cucumbers, so there is no
reason to suspect foul play. Is there anything else I can tell you? If not, I had better be getting back to work, or we will
be late with the bills for the play at the Duke’s House this evening.’

‘One more question: do you know where Henry Muddiman lives?’