The Butcher of Smithfield (20 page)

He went to the jug on the table and drank some water. His head ached and so did the bruise on his chin where the stone had
struck him, and he knew his wits were still not properly clear. He thought about the attack, still sickened by his failure
to protect Smegergill. What had the old man been going to tell him about Maylord being cheated? Had a vital clue about Maylord’s
death been lost because of his own carelessness? He removed the ring and the key from his pocket, and stared at them. He knew
he should not have taken them, because he now had the added responsibility of returning them to Smegergill’s next of kin –
hopefully without being accused of the murder himself.

He went back to his bed, and jumped in alarm when the cat suddenly joined him there. He spent several minutes trying to oust
it, but each time he shoved it away, it came back. In the end, he gave up, and allowed it to nestle in a warm ball at his
side. It began to purr, and he supposed there was something comforting in the close presence of another living creature. Perhaps
that was
what Leybourn craved, and was why he was prepared to overlook Mary’s all too obvious failings. He wondered what the surveyor
would say if his friends suggested replacing Mary with a cat.

Chaloner had not meant to sleep and was startled when he awoke to hear the church bells chiming eleven o’clock, horrified
that so much of the day had been lost. It meant he would not be able to visit White Hall and claim his back-pay, because there
were other duties that had to come first. His head ached when he sat up, but not as badly as it had done the night before.
The pain made him irritable, though, and he swore under his breath when the cat jumped up on to the bed again. He grimaced
in revulsion when he saw a mouse in its jaws, and tried to push it away. It deposited the corpse on the bedclothes and mewed
in expectation of reward. It did not receive one, because Chaloner’s larder was bare, and he had nothing to give it.

His temper flared again when he went to fetch his sword from the pantry, and the animal tripped him by winding around his
ankles. The stumble jarred his lame leg, which was still stiff from his slide into the ditch. All in all, it was not a good
start to the day.

The clothes he had worn the previous night were wet, muddy and ripped, which was a problem, because they were the best he
had. He picked through the others helplessly, eventually choosing a shirt that was yellow with age, and a pair of breeches
he recalled wearing during the wars. His jaw was purple from its encounter with the stone, and it made him distinctive, which
was always something he tried to avoid. So he darkened his stubble with soot from the chimney, then found a leather cap that
hung low
over his forehead and cheeks. Once he put Isabella’s dented hat on top, very little of his face was visible. He felt slovenly
and disreputable, and the presence of a dead mouse in his pocket – ready to be tossed into the nearest gutter – did not help,
but he supposed the garb would do for Newgate and the Rhenish Wine House, the latter of which he intended to enter without
being seen.

In Fleet Street, he saw the Earl’s clerk, Bulteel, who shrieked in alarm when a scruffy man seized his shoulder and bade him
good-day. He stopped abruptly when he recognised Chaloner’s grey eyes.

‘We should pay you more,’ he said shakily. ‘You look terrible.’

‘You
should
pay me more,’ Chaloner agreed. ‘My disguise is good, then?’

‘I did not recognise you. You have even changed the way you walk – you were limping. Did you hear about Smegergill the musician?
He was killed in Smithfield last night, for his purse and a valuable ring. Some bystanders saw the culprit and gave chase,
but the devil eluded them.’

‘One of the Hectors?’ asked Chaloner, thinking of the ring and key in his pocket. He had considered leaving them at home,
but there was nowhere good to hide them, and he had decided they would be safer on his person.

‘Apparently not, and they are said to be furious that someone dared to commit murder on their territory. I suspect they are
telling the truth, because usually they brag about such crimes – it shows they do what they like and no one can stop them.
The killer must be terrified, because Butcher Crisp has vowed to catch him and put him in a pie.’

‘Did these witnesses give a good description of the culprit?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘He kept his face concealed, but they say he was injured as Smegergill battled for his life, because he was unsteady on his
feet. Personally, I hope Crisp roasts him alive. What kind of monster would harm a helpless old fellow like Smegergill?’

‘Is anything being done? Legally, I mean – not whatever the Hectors are about.’

‘Nothing
can
be done. It is their domain, and Crisp is the one who will be asking questions.’

Chaloner was aghast. ‘But what about the constables? Murder is a capital crime. Surely, they will want it investigated themselves,
not leave a band of felons to do it?’

‘Not if they have any sense. And you had better not interfere, either. The Earl told me today that you must discover what
happened to Newburne as a matter of urgency. The widow paid him another visit this morning, and he will not want you pursuing
other enquiries as long as she is on the warpath.’

Trying not to limp, Chaloner walked to Westminster. Eventually, he reached the Rhenish Wine House, entering its smoky, humid
interior with a sigh of relief – it had been a long walk for a man not in the best of health. His heart sank when he saw a
porter at the foot of the stairs that led to the private rooms above. He had no money to bribe his way past, and doubted he
would be allowed by wearing his current outfit, anyway. He needed a distraction.

It did not take him long to devise one. The dead mouse was still in his pocket, because he had forgotten to dispose of it.
He waited until Landlord Genew placed a bowl of stew in front of a patron whose attention was fixed on one of the serving
women, and dropped the small body into the food as he passed the man’s table.
Then he perused the newsbooks while he waited for a reaction.

The Intelligencer
was the only thing on offer, because Muddiman’s newsletters had already been claimed by other patrons. He read a frenzied
editorial about the rebellion in York that made him wonder whether its writer was in his right mind, and learned that Mistress
Atwood’s house at Havering had been broken open and the good lady relieved of two silver cups. Meanwhile, Mr Benjamin Farrow
of Eltham, Kent had lost a ‘broad bay mare’ while he was out at his coffee house, and the Queen was suffering from a distemper,
which Chaloner thought made her sound like a dog.

He glanced at the ogler, and wished the man would tear his longing gaze away from the maid and pay attention to his stew.
He was beginning to think he might have to consider another way to distract the porter, when a spoon was finally dipped into
the bowl. The results were well worth the wait. The ogler suddenly found himself with a mouthful of fur; he spat the offending
object across the table, and began to gag. The porter and Genew rushed towards him, and Chaloner darted up the stairs unseen.

The attic, where Genew had said Maylord had lived, was five storeys up, and Chaloner was breathing hard by the time he reached
the top. He found himself faced with three doors, any one of which might be Maylord’s room. He listened intently at the first,
trying to ascertain whether it was occupied, then took a small metal probe from his pocket and inserted it into the lock when
he thought it was not.

It did not take him many moments to pick his way
inside. The room was tiny, sparsely furnished, and not very clean. The absence of any kind of musical instrument told him
it was not Maylord’s, and he was about to close the door and try the next chamber when something caught his eye. There was
a small table in the window, placed to catch the light, and on it was one of L’Estrange’s newsbooks. It had been smothered
in red ink. Intrigued, he slipped into the room and closed the door behind him.

The newsbook’s typeface was fuzzy, and whoever had been reading it had marked all the typographical errors that had been found.
There were also notes in the margin, which Chaloner recognised as instructions to a printer. The date on the front page said
Thursday 5 November, and he realised he was looking at a future issue of
The Newes
, not one already in circulation. Someone had obviously been given the task of checking the text, and was in the process of
correcting it. Puzzled, Chaloner turned his attention to the pile of documents that sat next to it. The first sheet comprised
a summary of the second item in the newsbook, which described a recent earthquake in Quebec. Other articles had been paraphrased,
too, and hidden underneath them was a small book in which every précis had been carefully logged. A sum of money was entered
in the margin against each, as if denoting its value. More lists appeared on previous pages, but these had initials next to
them.

When Chaloner flicked through the book, he saw the accumulation of small amounts of cash amounted to a considerable whole
– someone had made a lot of money by copying L’Estrange’s news. He studied the ledger more closely. There were several sets
of initials, but the most common was HM. Chaloner could only assume it referred
to Henry Muddiman. No wonder people claimed L’Estrange provided old news, and that Muddiman always told it first!

But who would betray the government’s official newsbooks, something that would almost certainly be deemed an act of treason?
Hodgkinson the printer? Chaloner immediately discounted him on the grounds that he was unlikely to be entrusted with checking
the text he himself had set. What about Brome or Joanna? Would they have the courage for such a dangerous activity? Somehow,
Chaloner did not think so. He supposed he would have to find out who proof-read L’Estrange’s early drafts, and investigate
them accordingly.

He began a systematic search of the room, looking for clues as to the traitor’s identity. Several law books lay on a shelf,
along with a copy of a tome in Latin. When he picked it up, it fell open to a page that had a red cross at the top; the reader
had wanted to highlight something. The title showed it to be a text by Galen, which Chaloner translated as
On the Powers of Foods
. The marked section contained the heading
Cucumeris
, and went on to say that eating these particular fruits caused cold, thick juice to accumulate in the veins, which could
not be converted to good blood without problems.

Chaloner rubbed his head. Someone had been reading about the toxic effects of cucumbers – or the theory according to the ancients,
at least. It was a person with a connection to L’Estrange’s newsbooks, who also had an interest in law. The obvious conclusion
was that it was Newburne, because he was a solicitor associated with cucumbers, but he had lived in Old Jewry, and would not
have needed a garret in the Rhenish Wine House. Then Chaloner recalled what Finch had said: that
Newburne had rented a room in Ivy Lane, because it was near L’Estrange and the print-house. The solicitor had been rich, so
perhaps he had leased other places across the city, too, to facilitate his various duties for L’Estrange, and perhaps Crisp,
as well.

Aware that time was passing, Chaloner abandoned his musing, and returned to his search. There was a sheet of music on the
windowsill, although there was no instrument to go with it. He transposed the written notes into a tune in his head. It was
not an attractive jig, and he wondered why the composer had bothered. He put it back where he had found it, and dropped to
his knees to look under the bed. In the deepest shadows, hidden among the balls of fluff and a greasy layer of dust, was a
scrap of paper. He retrieved it with his dagger, but was disappointed to find it was just a receipt for the rent. Then he
saw the payee’s name on the back: Nobert Wenum. So, the occupant was not Newburne after all, but someone Chaloner had never
heard of.

There was no more to be learned from the dismal little chamber, so he headed for the door. He was about to open it when his
eye fell on the small book that still lay on the table. At some point, he was going to have to tell L’Estrange that an employee
called Wenum was betraying his trust, and the ledger offered solid proof of it. He slid it and the annotated
Newes
into his pocket, then left. There was still a commotion coming from downstairs, suggesting the ogler was making the kind
of fuss that went before a claim for compensation.

He put his ear to the door of the second room, but someone was snoring inside, so he went to the third. The lock was more
obstinate than Wenum’s, newer and stronger. Had Maylord installed it himself, and it was
testament to the fact that he knew he was in mortal danger? Picking it took too long, and Chaloner was sweating by the time
he had it open.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He knew he was in the right place when he saw two viols and a table that
was covered in music. Some was in Maylord’s hand, and Chaloner hoped someone would play it one day. He picked up a page, and
the haunting melody that sailed through his head made him want to grab one of the viols and bow it immediately. Reluctantly,
he set it down.

It occurred to him that Maylord had died in that very room, and that his body had been found there with the cucumber nearby.
There was no cucumber now, although a plate adorned with dried green smudges showed how the killer had almost succeeded in
masking his crime. Warily, Chaloner inspected a cushion that lay on the bed, and dropped it in distaste when he saw a pinkish
stain and a small tear: Maylord’s blood-tinged saliva and a rip caused by a broken tooth. He turned his attention to his search
and the documents Smegergill thought were hidden there.

As an intelligencer, Chaloner knew most of the tricks people used when they wanted to conceal things. He tested the floor
for loose boards, assessed walls and ceiling for hidden compartments, and ran his hands along the undersides of beds and chests.
Finally, he inspected the chimney. It was brick, and he almost missed the fact that one stone stood very slightly proud of
the others. He was impressed, and doubted it would have been noticeable to anyone but a professional spy. He jiggled it until
he was able to draw it out. Behind it was a tiny recess containing a bundle of papers and a key. The key was
identical to the one he had taken from Smegergill. However, there was nothing in Maylord’s room for either of them to open.