The Butcher of Smithfield (17 page)

‘Really? Who do you suspect?’

Finch fiddled with his trumpet. ‘A bookseller, perhaps. They broke the law, but acted as though it was Newburne’s fault when
he caught them. Or L’Estrange, because he did not like the fact that Newburne worked for Crisp, as well as for him. Still,
we shall never know, because it is far too dangerous a matter to probe.’

Chaloner pretended to agree, then paused as he was about to leave. ‘I do not recognise the sonata you were playing. What was
it?’

Finch waved a hand to where the music lay on the windowsill. ‘It is a composition I found when Newburne’s wife and I cleaned
out his room – your room now. She said I could have it as a keepsake, and I have been struggling to master it for his sake.
It occurred to me that he might have written it himself, and I thought I might play it at his funeral.’

‘Do you think it strikes the right tone for such an occasion?’ asked Chaloner, trying to be tactful.

Finch smiled sadly. ‘I suppose not. The melody is not pleasant, and there are too many discordant intervals. I have not been
asked to perform anyway. I offered, but L’Estrange told me in no uncertain terms that he wanted professional musicians. And
no one goes against what L’Estrange wants. He is a bold and powerful man.’

‘He certainly likes to think so,’ said Chaloner.

* * *

Dusk brought the promised rain, and Chaloner sloshed to White Hall through water that was pouring from the higher parts of
the city. When he glimpsed the river between The Strand’s mansions, he saw it running swift and brown in the last of the daylight.
He wondered whether it would burst its banks.

He needed to do three things at the palace: tell the Earl what he had learned about Newburne, collect his back-pay from the
Accompting House, and speak to Smegergill about Maylord. When he arrived, however, he found the accompters already gone home
– the Court refused to buy lantern fuel until after the Feast of All Souls, so until then, work finished when it became too
dark to see. The same was not true of the Earl’s clerk Bulteel, who was bent over his ledgers by the light of a single candle.

‘You will spoil your eyes,’ said Chaloner, watching him rub them. ‘Ask the Earl for a lamp.’

‘The Court is not made of money,’ snapped the Earl, appearing suddenly at the door to his office. ‘And we must all forgo life’s
little luxuries in the interests of fiscal efficiency. What do you want, Heyden, other than to encourage my clerks to make
unreasonable demands? I am busy.’

‘I came to tell you that I inspected Newburne’s body today, and I am sure he was fed a toxic substance. Not a cucumber, but
something else.’

‘I am not surprised, given his unpopularity. Who is the culprit? And was it connected to his work for L’Estrange? I spoke
to Williamson about
him
paying the pension, since the newsbooks are his remit, but he said I was the one who made the promise, so I should be the
one to honour it. It is a highly unsatisfactory
state of affairs, and I want you to resolve it as soon as possible.’

Chaloner tried to read his expression in the dim light. Was he being ordered to ‘discover’ that Newburne’s death was unrelated
to his government post, to relieve the Earl of an unwelcome expense? He was used to dishonesty, but Thurloe had never asked
him to cheat anyone, and he found he did not like the notion that his new master might have different expectations. It occurred
to him that it was just as well Williamson did not want him in the government’s intelligence services, because he doubted
the Spymaster would tolerate squeamish principles among his operatives. He was beginning to suspect that Clarendon might not,
either, and decided he had better mask his distaste.

‘There are a lot of suspects, sir,’ he said vaguely. ‘I will continue the investigation tomorrow.’

‘Very well, but do not take too long – Newburne’s widow wants a decision.’ The Earl turned to his secretary, indicating Chaloner
was dismissed. ‘What did you want me to sign, Bulteel? This? What is it? I cannot see in this light.’

‘You could forgo the luxury of reading it in the interests of fiscal efficiency,’ retorted Chaloner, before he could stop
himself. The Earl’s oblique order had unsettled him, and he began to question all over again the man’s motive for commissioning
the investigation. Was it really to avoid paying a pension, or was there a darker, more sinister reason? He found he did not
trust Clarendon to tell him the truth, and it was his wariness of the man’s unfathomable games that had prompted the insolent
remark.

Anger darkened the Earl’s face. ‘One day you will push me too far, Heyden. And do not think Thurloe will protect
you, because his sun is setting fast. Watch your tongue, or you will regret it.’

‘Have you lost your senses?’ demanded Bulteel, when Clarendon had stamped away, slamming the door behind him. ‘He is the Lord
Chancellor of England! Can you not find a lesser mortal to insult?’

Chaloner felt his temper subside. Bulteel was right: nothing would be gained from antagonising the man who paid his wages.
And if the Earl was not prepared to be honest, then the investigation was just going to take that much longer and he would
have to wait for his answers.

‘I do not suppose you know if Smegergill’s consort is playing tonight, do you?’ he asked, feeling it was time he did something
to find out who had smothered Maylord. He had had enough of the Earl and Newburne for one day.

‘Yes – at the Charterhouse near Aldersgate Street. However, it is a private soirée, so you will not be admitted. You will
have to wait until Thursday if you want to hear him. His group – well, it is Greeting’s consort, really – is due to play for
Newburne’s funeral, which is a public occasion.’

Chaloner was inclined to give up and go home. He had had almost nothing to eat that day – which he suspected might have been
partly responsible for his petty remark to the Earl – and he was still tired from his sea-voyage from Portugal. But he was
not sure when he would have time to look into Maylord’s trouble if he did not act when he had a free evening, so he forced
himself past the end of Fetter Lane and the tempting sanctuary of his rooms, and on to where the Charterhouse school comprised
the remains of an old Carthusian monastery, set amid pleasant gardens.

Bulteel was right in saying he would not be allowed inside, so he did not try. Instead, he found a doorway, and sheltered
from the rain as best he could, waiting for the party to be over. Drops pattered on to his hat, and he sent silent thanks
to Isabella for making him a gift that would not only protect him from attack, but that was completely waterproof, too.

He was used to standing still for long periods of time, because spying often necessitated that sort of activity, but he was
cold and miserable even so. He was not far from Smithfield, and drunken yells and women’s shrieks suggested that neither darkness
nor inclement weather curtailed the activities that so shocked the Puritan broadsheet writers. He wondered whether it was
Butcher Crisp’s infamous Hectors who were making such an ungodly racket.

It was some time before the concert came to an end and the entertainers emerged wearily through the back gate. A carriage
had been hired to take them to their homes, and Greeting was one of the first to climb in it. Chaloner was careful to stay
out of sight: Greeting was a gossip and he did not want the Lord Chancellor to learn he was investigating Maylord’s death
as well as Newburne’s, and risk annoying him even further. Smegergill – described by St Margaret’s verger as having a sadly
poxed face – was the last to leave; he walked slowly, as if his joints hurt. Chaloner stamped life into his frozen feet before
moving to waylay him.

Smegergill was older than Maylord had been. His hair was white, and his face scored with wrinkles. He still possessed an imposing
physique, though, despite his age
and pain-ridden gait, and the gaze that fell on Chaloner when he emerged from the darkness was imperious. The spy recalled
Thurloe saying that the musician could be ‘difficult’, and hoped he would not decline to answer questions – or suggest he
asked them at a more reasonable time of day.

‘I am a friend of Maylord’s, sir,’ Chaloner said, holding his hands in front of him to show he was unarmed. He spoke softly,
so Greeting would not hear him and recognise his voice. ‘He wrote to me, but I have only just returned to London, and I am
afraid I was too late to find out what he wanted.’

‘Chaloner?’ asked Smegergill, peering at him. ‘Nephew of the regicide?’

It was not how he usually identified himself, and Chaloner was immediately alert for trouble, bracing himself to make a run
for it when the man yelled that a dangerous rebel was lurking in the shadows. Smegergill sensed his unease and reached out
to touch his arm.

‘It is all right. I was your father’s friend, too – he died during the wars, fighting for the wrong side, like so many good
men. You have nothing to fear from me.’

Chaloner did not recall his father ever mentioning Smegergill, but the wars had been a long time ago, and his father had entertained
a long succession of men in hooded cloaks during those turbulent years. The musician might well have been one of his clandestine
guests.

‘Did Maylord tell you what he—’

Smegergill silenced him quickly. ‘Maylord said he had written to Frederick Chaloner’s son, and you look uncannily like your
father. I have been expecting you.
Do you remember me? I was at your house in Buckinghamshire many times before and during the wars.’

‘I am sorry.’

Smegergill seemed surprised. ‘Well, I suppose you were only a child.’

‘Hurry up, Smegergill!’ shouted Greeting impatiently. ‘I am exhausted and want to go home, but the coachman says Hingston
and I are to be dropped off last, because we live in Smithfield. The longer you dally, the later we will be in our beds.’

‘It is what we always do,’ objected the driver, not liking the censure in Greeting’s voice. ‘We always take the furthest home
first, and the nearest last. It is common practice.’

‘Go without me,’ called Smegergill. ‘I am with the son of a friend; he will see me safely home.’

‘Be sure he does, then,’ ordered Greeting, leaning forward in an attempt to see them. Chaloner moved into the shadows, and
Greeting was not curious enough to step out into the rain for a better look. ‘Good virginals players are rare these days,
and you will be missed if anything happens to you. Keep your hands warm. We are playing for L’Estrange again tomorrow, and
you know how critical he can be if our playing does not reach his exacting standards.’

The carriage rattled off. ‘My mother played the virginals,’ said Chaloner. ‘And so do my sisters.’

‘All your siblings are talented that way,’ said Smegergill fondly. ‘Far more so than your regicide uncle, whose only skills
were for politics and intrigue. But we should not talk about him; he is best forgotten in this current climate. Is that oak
tree still at the gate to your father’s manor?
Each May-day, he had it decorated with ribbons, and there was music from dawn to dusk.’

‘It blew down.’ It was a pity, because the spring celebrations under the Chaloners’ oak were famous across the whole county,
and they had continued even when the Puritans had declared such festivities illegal. Maylord had been a regular guest, and
had declared it his favourite event of the year.

Smegergill shook his head sadly. ‘Everything is changing, and not for the better. What can I do for you, Chaloner? Or may
I call you Frederick?’

‘Frederick was my father, sir. I am Thomas.’

‘Quite so, quite so. Maylord said he wrote to you because he wanted your help. He discovered something, and he did not know
what to do about it. Documents.’

Chaloner’s pulse quickened. ‘Documents? Do you know what was in them?’

Smegergill sighed. ‘He would not let me read them, because he said it would be dangerous, and I am too old and wise to have
pressed him. We play music in the homes of wealthy, powerful men, and I suppose he discovered something amiss in one of them.
He was agitated over the last two weeks – he even left his pleasant cottage on Thames Street, and refused to tell anyone where
he was going.’

‘The Rhenish Wine House in Westminster,’ supplied Chaloner. He took a breath, deciding a blunt approach would be the best
one. ‘He was murdered. Suffocated.’

Smegergill’s hands flew to his face in horror. ‘No! He said he feared assassins, but I thought he was overreacting. Are you
sure about this? Everyone else said he died of cucumbers.’

‘I inspected his body, so yes, I am sure.’

Smegergill looked away, and Chaloner saw a tear course down his leathery cheek. It was some time before he spoke. ‘I should
have guessed, but the truth is that I did not want to see the truth. He hated cucumbers – he avoided all green fruits, because
he said touching them gave him itching skin and boils. He would
never
have eaten one. Damn my foolish blindness!’

‘Do you have any idea who might have meant him harm?’

‘None at all – everyone loved him. Why? I hope you do not intend to investigate. It might prove to be dangerous.’

‘I would like to see his killer face the justice of the law-courts.’

Smegergill regarded him unhappily. ‘I do not know about this. I was fond of your father, and I do not want to see his son
in peril.’

‘Do not worry about that, sir. Smothering an old man and harming me do not represent the same sort of challenge, and the killer
may decide there are limits to the risks he is willing to take. But we will not know unless we see these documents. Do you
know where they might be?’

Smegergill smiled sadly. ‘It was my friendship with your father that prompted me to warn you against investigating, but I
am glad you are not a coward. Maylord was my closest friend, and I do not want his murderer to go free. I shall help you find
out what really happened. What shall we do first? You say he lived in the Rhenish Wine House?’

Chaloner did not like the notion of embroiling Smegergill in whatever Maylord had discovered, but did not want to alienate
him by excluding him too soon. ‘We
should read these documents before deciding on a course of action.’