The Butcher of Smithfield (15 page)

* * *

Chaloner walked south along the Old Bailey. It was not raining, although there was an unpleasant chill in the air, and the
kind of dampness that suggested the clouds were gathering their strength for future downpours. Although it was barely noon,
the day was dark because of the lowering greyness above. Eventually, he reached The Strand, and asked directions to Muddiman’s
office. He was directed to a tall, respectable house near the New Exchange. Although it was old, it was well-maintained, and
there was evidence that recent money had been spent on it – the roof boasted new tiles, the window shutters were freshly painted,
and the plaster façade was unusually clean.

He knocked on the door, and was admitted to a comfortable room on the ground floor. It was dominated by a large table that
was piled high with papers and pamphlets. He took the opportunity to sift through a few, hoping to find evidence that Muddiman
obtained his news from an official government source, but instead he learned that some of the men who subscribed to the newsletters
responded in kind by providing Muddiman with information of their own. There was a lot of correspondence about the recent
uprising in the north, providing a variety of different opinions. Reading them all would provide the newsmonger with a more
balanced view of the situation than just accepting the government’s version of events, and Chaloner was not surprised people
preferred Muddiman’s objectivity to L’Estrange’s one-sided rants.

There were also notices in foreign languages, especially French, along with a smattering of scribbled messages from courtiers.
None carried news of any great import, and he supposed Muddiman included them to
give his readers some light-hearted relief, as a break from the serious political analyses. Also among the chaos was a pamphlet
on ‘exploding oil’ by John Lawrence of Blackfriars, who blithely recommended leaving his compound in places where burglars
might find it – the moment a felon tried to use the volatile oil, it would ignite and spare the city the expense of a trial.

After a few moments, a pretty lady in a black wig arrived, smiling and gracious.

‘I am afraid my husband has gone out to his favourite coffee house – the Folly on the Thames – with Giles Dury. You have only
just missed them. They have been working all morning.’

Chaloner gestured to the table. ‘On their newsletters?’

‘On
Henry’s
newsletters. Giles is just an assistant, and his wife is a seamstress at White Hall.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner, thinking it was an odd piece of information to impart. Unless, of course, Mrs Muddiman was trying
to tell him that she was a cut above the mere Mrs Dury.

‘Roger sees her there occasionally,’ she went on disapprovingly. ‘That means she has an unfair advantage over me, because
he does not like coming here.’

‘Roger? You mean L’Estrange?’ Joanna Brome had told Chaloner that L’Estrange had a reputation for seducing other men’s wives,
but surely he would not make a play for Muddiman’s and Dury’s?

‘L’Estrange,’ she echoed with a dreamy smile. ‘A very handsome man. Do you not think?’

‘Too rakish for my taste,’ Chaloner replied uneasily. Was she the reason L’Estrange was so willing to draw his sword against
Muddiman outside the Rainbow Coffee House? He was hoping to dispatch his rival and so get
at his spouse? ‘And I prefer men who do not wear earrings.’

‘It is the earrings I like,’ she said with a conspiratorial grin. ‘I bought Henry a set, but he refuses to wear them.’

‘I wonder why,’ muttered Chaloner.

The Folly, or the Floating Coffee House, was a timber shed on a barge. It was usually anchored midstream, and patrons were
obliged to hire skiffs to reach it. That day, however, the Thames was so swollen that the Folly had been moored near the Savoy
Palace, and customers could embark directly from the Somerset Stairs. Several men hovered outside it. Some were the drivers
of private carriages – which could only just fit down the narrow alley leading from The Strand, and woe betide anyone walking
in the opposite direction – and others were idle boatmen whose trade was suspended because of the state of the river. One
fellow stood out as not belonging there. He was large, with a face that was the colour and shape of a ripe plum, and he carried
a tray of apples that no one seemed very interested in buying.

The Folly was not a large establishment, although it was horrendously crowded, so it was impossible for Chaloner to avoid
the coffee-boy who came to see what he wanted to drink. He bought a dish of coffee with his last penny token, and managed
to secure a seat at Muddiman’s table. The newsmonger was holding forth about the northern rebellion, declaring that the newsbooks
had given it a significance it did not deserve. It was, he claimed, a silly prank devised by a dozen harmless zealots, and
not the great, terrifying revolt L’Estrange had described in that day’s
Intelligencer
. Men smoked and listened as Muddiman systematically destroyed his rival’s
arguments. He put his case so well, and with such close attention to detail, that Chaloner found himself doubting the veracity
of L’Estrange’s reports, too. Eventually, most patrons finished their noonday victuals and went back to work, and Chaloner
was able to speak to Muddiman in reasonable privacy.

The newsmonger was dressed in fashionable clothes, and clearly took pride in his appearance. He carried a town sword with
a delicately jewelled hilt that looked as though it would be useless in a fight, and perched on his head was the yellow wig
he had worn the previous day, when he had argued with L’Estrange. His round face was clean and pink from a recent shaving,
and Chaloner felt grubby and disreputable by comparison.

With him was the companion who had protected him from L’Estrange, taller and broader than his friend, but just as handsomely
attired. He introduced himself as Giles Dury when Chaloner told them who he was and what he wanted, then crossed his long
legs and sat back with an amused grin. His superior, laconic demeanour was an attitude often affected by courtiers, and Chaloner
supposed Dury had learned it from them, perhaps when visiting his wife the seamstress.

‘So, you are the Earl of Clarendon’s man,’ said Muddiman, looking Chaloner up and down with thinly masked disdain. ‘And you
are here to question me about Newburne.’

Dury sniggered. ‘Poor Newburne! He will not be arising now, for Annie Petwer or anyone else. Do you know how that saying came
about?’

‘A stone struck his head—’ began Chaloner.

‘That is a tale he invented to disguise its real meaning,’ said Dury, chuckling. ‘He
was
stunned by the stone, but
he leapt to his feet in self-defence when he heard Annie Petwer telling him to arise. She was his lover, and “arising” was
something he seldom did, according to her.’

‘He was impotent,’ elaborated Muddiman, obviously thinking Chaloner might not understand the joke unless it was explained.
‘Do you know why a grand man like the Earl of Clarendon should be interested in what happened to a devious snake like Newburne?’

‘He is interested in the sudden death of anyone connected with the government’s newsbooks.’

‘How very thorough of him,’ drawled Dury. ‘But then, he is a tediously thorough man.’

Chaloner sipped his coffee and winced at the flavour: the beans had been over-roasted, and the resulting brew was bitter.

‘Well?’ demanded Muddiman. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Did you have dealings with Newburne?’

Muddiman drank some coffee, sufficiently used to the Folly’s habit of bean-burning that no expression of distaste crossed
his face. Indeed, he looked as though it was perfectly acceptable, and waved to the coffee boy to bring him more. ‘Not directly,
although I knew L’Estrange had ordered him to watch me. Both Spymaster Williamson and L’Estrange are jealous of my newsletters
– and with good cause. I disseminate information Londoners are pleased to have.’

‘The only items of interest in
The Newes
and
The Intelligencer
are the advertisements for lost and stolen horses,’ added Dury. He snickered maliciously. ‘A man simply cannot
live
without knowing such things.’

Muddiman picked up a copy of
The Intelligencer
from the table, using his thumb and forefinger, as if he considered
it unclean. ‘A man cannot live without knowing that L’Estrange deems the Norwich Quakers “licentious and incorrigible”, either,
or that the Danish court plans to hold – of all things – a meeting! I cannot imagine how readers contain their excitement
at such tidings.’

‘Poor Brome,’ said Dury with mock sympathy. ‘He had the makings of a decent newsman, but now he debases himself by associating
with L’Estrange. The same goes for his frightened mouse of a wife.’

‘Rabbit,’ corrected Muddiman. ‘Joanna is too tall to be a mouse.’

Their spite was beginning to be annoying, and Chaloner felt the sniping attack on Joanna was wholly unnecessary. ‘So Newburne
spied on you,’ he said, forcing himself to be patient. ‘Did you meet him in any other capacity?’

‘What other capacity?’ demanded Dury contemptuously. ‘We did not condone his persecution of booksellers, so we had nothing
to do with that. Furthermore, we distance ourselves from L’Estrange’s newsbooks and the idiots who work on them. And we certainly
have nothing to do with Ellis Crisp.’

‘Despite all this, Newburne’s evil reputation was not entirely justified,’ said Muddiman. His eyes gleamed, and Chaloner was
not sure if he was being serious. ‘He
was
dishonest, but he was not as corrupt as people would have you believe. He was wealthy, as attested by the fact that he owned
several houses, but that does not mean he earned his
whole
fortune by cheating, theft and extortion.’

‘It was Crisp’s doing; he deliberately allowed the rumours to grow to improbable levels,’ agreed Dury. ‘It is obvious why:
Newburne was more useful to him as a
disreputable villain who would do anything for the right price. It enhanced Crisp’s reputation, too – made people more nervous
of him.’

Muddiman chuckled. ‘Is that possible? The Butcher of Smithfield does not need anyone
more
nervous of him.’

‘The Earl is concerned that Newburne’s death may have nothing to do with cucumbers,’ said Chaloner, not really interested
in their malicious musings. He watched their reactions to his comment closely, but could read nothing in them.

‘He certainly ate one before he died,’ said Muddiman evenly. ‘Hodgkinson is witness to that, and so were several bystanders.’

‘Perhaps he ate it knowing it would have fatal consequences,’ said Dury with a grin. ‘I have heard it said that he was a Roman
Catholic, and papists are odd about matters of conscience. I expect his many sins overwhelmed him at last, and he killed himself
in a fit of penitence.’

‘Remorse led him to commit the even greater sin of self-murder?’ asked Chaloner, thinking he had never heard such rubbish.
‘That does not sound like the act of a dutiful son of Rome.’

‘Then maybe he was drunk.’ Dury was resentful that his theory should be so disdainfully dismissed. ‘He did not know what he
was doing. Do you know for a fact that there is something odd about Newburne’s death, or have you allowed the Earl’s suspicions
to influence you? I heard Hodgkinson hired a surgeon to inspect the body, and he said cucumbers were the cause of death.’

‘How do you know about the surgeon?’ asked Chaloner.

‘We are newsmongers,’ Dury sneered. ‘Very little
happens in the city without it being reported to us. Another example is your own little foray into the world of reporting.
You wrote a piece on Portugal for Thursday’s
Newes
. L’Estrange is delighted with it.’

‘But only because he thinks it will be exclusively his to print,’ added Muddiman slyly. ‘Of course, you could earn yourself
ten shillings, if you were to share it with us.’

Chaloner pretended to consider the offer, his mind working fast. His first assumption was that they had a spy in L’Estrange’s
office, who was selling secrets. Then he realised that any such spy would have given them the entire piece – it was not very
long, and would have taken no more than a moment to copy.
Ergo
, they had learned about his article another way. Ivy Lane was a busy thoroughfare, and loiterers would be difficult to spot
by people preoccupied with work. Had Muddiman, or one of his scribes, lurked outside Brome’s shop and overheard part of a
conversation? It seemed most likely.

‘I do not want your money, thank you,’ he said, smiling pleasantly at them. ‘The Earl would not approve of me accepting bribes.
Do
you
believe Newburne died of eating cucumbers? Honestly?’

Muddiman shrugged, clearly disappointed with his response. ‘There is no reason to think otherwise. Of course, he had more
enemies than stars in the sky, so it would not shock me to learn one of them had elbowed him into his grave.’

‘Enemies like you?’ asked Chaloner innocently.

‘No, not like me. If I had killed him, I would have done it discreetly, and there would be no Lord Chancellor’s spy sniffing
around the case.’

‘You bought three cucumbers from the market in
Covent Garden the day before Newburne died. I do not suppose one of those ended up inside him, did it?’

Muddiman smiled, although there was a glimmer of alarm in his eyes. ‘I wondered how long it would be before someone gossiped
about that in order to see me in trouble. I use cucumbers in a decoction for wind, but I certainly would never
eat
one. Nor would I expect anyone else to do so.’

‘Tell me how you lost control of the newsbooks to L’Estrange,’ said Chaloner, abruptly changing the subject in an attempt
to unsettle him. ‘It happened recently, I understand, forcing you to resort to handwritten news.’

His tactic worked, because Muddiman’s expression was decidedly uneasy. ‘My newsbooks were popular and lucrative, but success
attracts envious eyes. Have you ever met Spymaster Williamson?’