The Butcher of Smithfield (26 page)

‘Is there a Mrs Hodgkinson?’ he asked, of the printer. ‘Is she a member of this Army of Angels?’

‘She lives in the country,’ said the printer. He shot a defiant look at L’Estrange, making Chaloner wonder whether she had
been sent there for a reason.

‘Other Angels include Mrs Allestry and Mrs Nott,’ continued Brome, ignoring L’Estrange’s furious sigh at his continued revelations.
‘And then there is—’

‘The wives of the booksellers?’ interrupted Chaloner, his mind reeling. ‘The booksellers L’Estrange fined in his capacity
as Surveyor of the Press?’

‘Their unfortunate marriages make no difference to their ability to highlight printing errors,’ said L’Estrange haughtily.
‘And they are pleased to help me, because I reduced their husbands’ fines substantially, out of the goodness of my heart.
They are indebted to me.’

‘Apart from the Army of Angels, security is very tight,’ said Joanna, trying to be helpful. ‘All unpublished proofs are locked
in a chest in Mr L’Estrange’s office. They only leave the building when they go to Mr Hodgkinson for printing.’

‘The government contract is important to me,’ added Hodgkinson, when Chaloner turned towards him. ‘I am not so rash as to
risk losing it by selling news to Muddiman. My compositors produce
one
copy – for
proof-reading – in advance of the main print-run, and I bring it to L’Estrange myself.’

‘We have a little ritual,’ said L’Estrange scathingly. ‘I lock it in my chest, and he watches.’

It was Hodgkinson’s turn to become defensive. ‘Damn right I do! I do not want to be accused of letting news escape to our
rivals. I cannot imagine a worse fate than to fall foul of the Spymaster.’

‘Who has the key to this chest?’ asked Chaloner.

‘I do,’ said L’Estrange, holding it up. ‘And Newburne had the only other in existence. But this is none of your business,
and I resent the implication that we are lax—’

‘Where is Newburne’s key now?’

‘I would like the answer to that question, too,’ said Brome. He flinched when L’Estrange whipped around to scowl at him.

‘It is not just your livelihood, but ours, too,’ said Joanna, going to stand next to her spouse. She swallowed uneasily when
L’Estrange fixed her with his glittering eyes, and her fingers tightened around her husband’s arm. But she took a deep breath
and finished what she wanted to say. ‘Henry and I have worked hard for this shop, and we love it dearly. Please answer Mr
Heyden’s questions, or run the risk of Williamson asking them instead.’

‘Williamson!’ jeered L’Estrange unpleasantly. ‘How will he find out about any of this?’

‘Because
I
shall tell him,’ said Joanna defiantly. ‘I would rather you were cross with me than have Williamson thinking Henry and I
are traitors. I will tell him about this Wenum fellow.’

Chaloner watched L’Estrange seethe with impotent rage, and was impressed that such a timid woman had
mustered the courage to defy him. He suspected, however, that she had fired all her cannon with the threat, and that a serious
counter-attack from L’Estrange would see her crumble. Fortunately for Joanna, L’Estrange was less adept at reading people.

‘You would not dare,’ he breathed, but there was uncertainty in his voice.

‘Would she not?’ asked Brome, putting his arm around her. His voice dripped pride. ‘There is strength in my Joanna, so you
had better do as she says.’

‘I do not know where Newburne kept his key,’ L’Estrange snapped. ‘But his funeral is tomorrow, so I shall ask his widow.’

‘Good,’ said Joanna. ‘But be sure you do not forget, or I
will
pay a visit to White Hall.’

In the absence of anyone else to pick on, L’Estrange homed in on Chaloner. ‘Here is a shilling. I do not usually pay for news
in advance of publication, but I want you gone from my office – permanently. I resent your accusations and the way you have
turned my staff against me.’

‘I shall take my article about the pirates of Alicante to Muddiman, then,’ said Chaloner.

L’Estrange had been in the process of stalking from the room, but he stopped dead in his tracks, and his hand dropped to the
hilt of his sword. With a weary sigh, Brome stepped forward.

‘What Heyden meant to say was that he will be obliged to come to your office for as long as he has information to sell you,’
he said quietly. ‘He did not intend to sound insolent.’

‘You had better pay him double, though,’ said Joanna. She was buoyed up by her victory, and the rabbit face
wore a small smirk of triumph when the editor turned to gape at her. ‘I have it on good authority that Muddiman pays
two
shillings for decent intelligence. And tales about pirates from Alicante come into the category of “decent”, I would say.’

L’Estrange seemed about to give her a piece of his mind, but she met his glower with a steady gaze, and it was he who backed
down. He tossed a second shilling at Chaloner.

‘Here,’ he snarled, before rounding on the Bromes. Both flinched, and Joanna’s bravado began to slip. ‘But this is as far
as your nasty rebellion goes. Any further insurgence and I shall take my business to another bookseller. I will not tolerate
phanatiques in the ranks.’

He stamped from the room.

‘You were magnificent,’ said Hodgkinson to Joanna. ‘I always said L’Estrange would be lost were it not for your common sense,
and today you proved it yet again. Forcing him to cooperate with the Lord Chancellor is good for us all, and you did the right
thing by standing up to him. Both of you.’

Brome rubbed his eyes with shaking hands. ‘My nerves are frayed, and I need the medicinal effects of a dish of coffee. We
shall go to Haye’s Coffee House and Heyden can write about the pirates there.’

‘Good,’ said Joanna. ‘Mr L’Estrange will be back to collect the advertisements soon, and we do not want him to find Mr Heyden
still here. I have had enough turmoil for one day, thank you!’

While Brome went to fetch his coat, Chaloner smiled his thanks at Joanna for getting him the extra shilling. She beamed back
at him, all teeth and gums. He found himself
beginning to like her, appreciating how difficult it must have been for such a timid woman to oppose a charismatic bully like
L’Estrange. Hodgkinson was doubtless right in that the Bromes kept L’Estrange from doing too much damage to the newsbooks
– and to himself – but Chaloner doubted it was easy. He was glad he was not obliged to keep the man in check, sure it would
tax his diplomatic abilities – such as they were – to the limit. The shop door rattled suddenly, and a fat, red-faced merchant
waddled in.

‘May I help you?’ asked Joanna. She patted the rabbitear braids at the side of her head, and smoothed down her apron as she
walked towards him. ‘We at the newsbooks are always ready to—’

‘I want to place an advertisement,’ declared the man. ‘I lost a grey gelding from the Queen’s Arms, Feversham, and everyone
should know there is a reward for information leading to its safe return.’

Joanna began to write. ‘Your name, sir? And where do you—’

‘James Bradnox of Vintners’ Hall. Mr Wright told me he placed a notice in
The Newes
, and his nag was home within a week.’ Bradnox addressed Hodgkinson and Chaloner, assuming them to be customers, too. ‘These
advertisements mean it is difficult for stolen animals to be sold on the open market – traders know what is currently missing,
see. Newsbook notices are five shillings well spent.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Joanna. ‘I have been told several times that our most important function is to facilitate honesty in the horse
trade. Of course, we have other functions, as well, and we—’

‘It
is
important,’ insisted Bradnox. ‘Far more valuable
than that rubbish about phanatiques. Who cares about them? Yet we all care about horses.’

‘The newsbooks were founded to keep the people informed of current events,’ said Chaloner when Bradnox had gone. ‘Yet they
are loaded with notices about missing livestock. It seems they—’

‘I know,’ cried Joanna, wringing her hands unhappily. ‘Mr L’Estrange does not mind, because they cost five shillings each
and they take up space. I know it is wrong, and that people would rather have real news, but what can we do? If we did not
sell advertisements, we would be limited to whatever
he
wants to write about phanatiques. And the occasional piece about Spanish pirates.’

‘It is just as well I am going out,’ said Brome, as he returned wearing a coat that was buttoned to his chin, as if he thought
he might catch cold otherwise. ‘Mrs Chiffinch’s carriage has just pulled up outside. She looks upset, and I imagine her husband
has been unfaithful again. She will not appreciate me being here, when all she wants is another woman’s ear.’

L’Estrange had also seen the coach, and was thundering down the stairs from his office, eyes and earrings gleaming. Chaloner
supposed the feckless Chiffinch was about to learn that wives could be unfaithful as well as husbands – or that the Army of
Angels was about to receive another recruit. He, Brome and Hodgkinson left the editor fawning over the new arrival, while
Joanna hovered uncertainly in the background. Before he closed the door behind him, Chaloner saw Mrs Chiffinch looking rather
pleased with the editor’s attentions, and wondered yet again what women saw in the fellow.

‘L’Estrange has a fiery temper,’ he said, as the three of them walked along Ivy Lane.

Brome nodded. ‘His sword is in and out of its scabbard like nobody’s business these days. The death of Newburne has unnerved
him more than he likes to admit.’

‘And yet he does not want it investigated?’ said Chaloner.

‘Some stones are better left unturned, and Newburne really did emerge from under a particularly slimy one. I would not want
the responsibility of determining what happened to him – assuming anything untoward did, of course.’

‘That surgeon’s report relieved me of the responsibility of probing further, thank God,’ said Hodgkinson fervently. ‘I wish
to know no more about the affair, and neither does L’Estrange.’

‘Muddiman’s newsletters make for interesting reading,’ said Brome, off on a tangent. ‘They contain so much
domestic
information. I do not wish to be rude, Heyden, because I am sure Alicante is a fascinating place, but I would much rather
read about events in London.’

‘Ask Williamson for some, then,’ said Chaloner. ‘He is Spymaster General, so should be awash with intelligence, not to mention
political reports. If anyone can supply you with home news, it is he.’

‘And there lies the problem,’ said Brome glumly. ‘He does not like to part with it. He thinks telling the public too much
about what the government does will encourage them to disagree with it.’

Chaloner laughed. ‘He is almost certainly right.’

A beggar was singing a ballad in a pitiful, wavering voice, and Brome stopped to give him a penny. It took a long time for
him to unbutton his coat, locate his purse and refasten the garment again. Chaloner might have been moved to pity, too, had
he not seen the fellow in
the window of a nearby cook-shop earlier, enjoying a sumptuous meal. The man was a trickster, who preyed on the kind-hearted.
They were about to move on when Brome happened to glance back up the road.

‘Oh, no!’ he breathed in horror.

‘Butcher Crisp!’ exclaimed Hodgkinson, equally alarmed. Chaloner saw a man in a wide-brimmed hat and a long cloak striding
purposefully along the street. ‘Is he going inside your shop?’

‘Joanna!’ gasped Brome in a strangled voice. He ran a few steps, then stopped in relief. ‘No, he is passing by. Lord save
us! I thought for a moment that he might have come to register a complaint about L’Estrange’s rant on criminals last week.
Felons can be sensitive, and Crisp might think some of the comments were directed against him personally.’

‘They were,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘L’Estrange all but said his empire should be crushed.’

‘You should have seen the article before I edited it,’ said Brome. ‘It was full of names and unfounded accusations. I deleted
them, because there is no point in asking for trouble. And thank God I did! I do not like the notion of Crisp invading our
shop and venting his spleen on my Joanna.’

Nor did Chaloner. A willingness to oppose L’Estrange occasionally did not equate with being able to cope with the notorious
Butcher of Smithfield. Joanna would have been out of her league.

‘Crisp often uses Ivy Lane when he travels between Smithfield and St Paul’s,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘The Hectors run a lottery
in the cathedral, you see, and he likes to keep an eye on it. He is turning the corner now, Brome. You need not race home
to protect your wife.’

Brome shot the printer a rueful smile. ‘Good! I am not built for dealing with rough men. Even Joanna is better at it than
me. She has great courage. Not every woman could work in the same building as L’Estrange and have the strength and ingenuity
to dodge his advances. I am not sure if our business would have succeeded, if it were not for her. But I do hate that man.’

‘L’Estrange?’ asked Chaloner.

Brome grimaced. ‘Actually, I admire L’Estrange, because he follows his conscience. His morality does not always coincide with
my own principles, but he has the courage to do what he thinks is right, no matter what the consequences.’

‘So do fanatics,’ said Chaloner acidly. ‘That is what they are: people who think they know better than anyone else.’

Brome declined to argue. ‘When I said I hated that man, I was referring to Crisp. I am not ashamed to admit that he terrifies
me.’

‘There are his Hectors,’ said Hodgkinson, pointing to several unsavoury-looking characters. ‘I did not think they would be
far away. He seldom leaves his domain without them these days, although they keep their distance, to maintain the illusion
that he is a normal citizen.’

‘He is not normal,’ said Brome with a shudder.

Haye’s Coffee House was another smoky, busy place, located in an alley so narrow that carts could not access it. It meant
pedestrians could, though, and were not obliged to be constantly on the look-out for wheeled vehicles that did not care what
they hit. A large dog sat outside, chewing what appeared to be a wad of tobacco. Inside, the owner Robert Haye had let his
beans roast
too long, and the air was thick with the reek of burning. The mishap did not stop him from grinding them up and seething them
in boiling water, though, and the resulting beverage was far from pleasant. There were complaints galore, but Haye pointed
out that coffee tasted nasty even when prepared properly, and if his patrons wanted the benefits of the aromatic herb, they
should drink what they were given. Chaloner was astonished when everyone did, thinking that customers in Portugal would not
have been so meekly compliant.