The Butcher of Smithfield (29 page)

What was Williamson’s spy doing there, when he should have been watching Muddiman and Dury? Had he been relieved of that duty
and given a different assignment, perhaps because it was obvious that his quarry knew he was there? Curiously, Chaloner crept
down the corridor as the apple-seller – declining to waste time on picking the lock – smashed the door by hurling his burly
frame at it. It shattered into pieces, which meant he could not close it behind him. Thus Chaloner was able to watch exactly
what he was doing inside.

The apple-seller looked slowly around the room. His eyes lingered briefly on the body and, like Chaloner, he knelt to examine
the trumpet. Then he stood and walked to the windowsill, on which lay a sheet of music and a half-eaten pie. He grabbed the
music and stuffed it in his pocket. Chaloner was mystified. The fellow’s scarred knuckles suggested he would not be manually
dextrous
enough to manage an instrument – unless it was a drum. Or had Williamson ordered him to collect documents, and he had taken
the music because he did not know the difference between letters and notes?

‘—funeral at noon,’ came a familiar drawl from the stairs. ‘Are you going? It might be fun.’

Chaloner had been so intent on watching the apple-seller that he had not noticed the soft-footed approach of other people.
The apple-seller also spun around at the noise, and Chaloner found himself trapped between him and the advancing newcomers.
He punched the lamp with his fist, plunging the hallway into darkness. The men on the stairs yelled their indignation.

The apple-seller was rushing towards the corridor, determined to lay hands on whoever was spying on him, so Chaloner darted
back to Finch’s pantry and aimed for the window. There was a grunt of surprise when the apple-seller found the hallway empty,
and Chaloner began to wrestle with the casement catch. It was rusty, and would not move. He pulled harder, and it squeaked
open just as the apple-seller realised Finch had more than one room. Chaloner scrambled on to the sill and launched himself
out, sliding down a roof that was slick with slime. He reached the edge, put a hand down to steady himself, and jumped into
a gloomy little yard. It was not a huge leap, but landing jolted his lame leg, and he felt the familiar twinge that meant
he would limp for the rest of the day.

He ducked when tiles began to smash around him. At first, he assumed the apple-seller was throwing them, but he glanced up
to see the big man trying to claw his way across the roof. It was unequal to his weight, and he released a howl of alarm when
he began to slide off.
Chaloner hobbled towards the gate. As he did so, he glanced up and saw two heads at Finch’s open window. They belonged to
Muddiman and Dury, and he realised it had been Dury’s drawl he had heard on the stairs.

He was confused. Were the newsmongers following the apple-seller now? And why were any of them visiting Finch? He sensed he
could not afford to be identified until he understood what was happening, so he kept his head low, Isabella’s hat shielding
his face, as he wrenched open the gate and hurried into the alley on the other side. He heard a thump and several more crashes
as the apple-seller finally lost his battle with gravity and hit the ground. Moments later, Chaloner was walking along Cheapside
with his hands in his pockets. He was fairly sure none of the three had gained a good look at him in the shadowy yard, but
he bundled his coat under his arm and exchanged his hat for a black cap anyway. There was no point in taking unnecessary chances.

He tried to work out what had happened. Had the apple-seller been sent by Williamson, to look for documents on the government’s
behalf ? But why were Muddiman and Dury there – and why had Dury been lurking in the Golden Lion the previous night? Was it
because
Finch
was actually the mysterious Nobert Wenum, and they wanted to dispose of any evidence that might prove it? Finch was Newburne’s
friend, after all, and Newburne might well have passed him the newsbooks’ secrets. Yet Finch had been poor, living in a room
that verged on the squalid, and there was nothing to suggest he had earned the fortune detailed in the ledger.

The bells of St Olave’s Church were already tolling for Newburne’s funeral, and Chaloner walked faster when they stopped.
He was going to be late. As he went, he
turned his thoughts to what his brief foray to Ave Maria Lane had told him about Finch’s death.

There had been green stains on the man’s fingers, and blisters in his mouth. Like Newburne, he had been poisoned. However,
Chaloner was sure the cucumber had not been responsible for two reasons. First, not enough had been eaten to do a man serious
harm, even if Finch had suffered from an aversion to them. And secondly, no wind-player ever ate while he practised, because
fragments of food might become lodged in an instrument’s innards. Chaloner was sure the cucumber had been left as a diversion,
to ensure no one looked deeper into Finch’s demise. He smiled grimly. But the killer was out of luck, because Chaloner
would
look deeper, and he
would
discover who had murdered the hapless trumpeter.

Chaloner was late for the funeral. He opened a door that clanked, so people turned to look at him. A few minutes later, the
door rattled a second time, and Dury and Muddiman entered. Chaloner nodded a greeting to them, and the offhand way they responded
confirmed that they had not identified him with the disturbance at Finch’s house.

Deciding to take the bull by the horns, he sauntered towards them. They were looking especially foppish that day, with more
lace than a courtesan’s boudoir and a good deal more perfume. He glanced at their feet and saw both wore clean shoes with
long toes and gleaming silver buckles. They had not walked to the church from Ave Maria Lane, but had been transported.

‘Sedan-chairs,’ explained Muddiman, seeing where he was looking. ‘It is the only way to travel these days.
Carriages are too big for alleys, and hackneys are unpredictable – you never know when they might stop and order you out.
Sedans are small, manoeuvrable and, if you pay them well, fast.’

‘I keep my own,’ added Dury. ‘Do you?’

Chaloner shook his head. Apart from the fact that he seldom had the money for such extravagance, sedans had an unpleasant
jerking motion that took some getting used to. ‘What business makes you late for the requiem of the man who sold you L’Estrange’s
news?’ he asked bluntly.

Muddiman’s eyebrows shot up, and Chaloner suspected he would have issued a jeering laugh had he not been in a church. ‘I produce
high-quality work from impeccable sources, and I would
never
deign to accept anything from Newburne – or any other of L’Estrange’s minions.’

‘A man named Wenum kept a ledger that suggests otherwise,’ said Chaloner, wishing he had brought it with him. ‘It details
payments made for specific items of news over the last six months. I am sure Williamson will be very interested to learn how
you are undermining the government.’

‘He will not believe you,’ said Dury. ‘He has had us followed for weeks, hoping to catch us out, but we have nothing to hide.
Besides, Wenum is dead – he fell in the Thames about a week ago – so there is no one to corroborate your accusations.’

‘And do not think this ledger will prove anything, either,’ added Muddiman, grinning. ‘It will be a forgery. L’Estrange is
not the only newsmonger with powerful patrons, and ours will not see us in trouble over some book of dubious origin.’

Chaloner wondered how they came to know the manner of Wenum’s death, when no one at the Rhenish
Wine House had been able to enlighten him. Did it mean Muddiman and Dury had decided Wenum had become too much of a risk,
so they had killed him before he could expose them?

‘There was a commotion at Hen Finch’s house on Ave Maria Lane not long ago,’ he said, abruptly changing the subject. ‘I saw
you two leaving it.’

‘We went to arrange his funeral with the landlord,’ said Dury slyly. ‘His friend Newburne is obviously not in a position to
do it. Poor Finch. Another victim of the wicked curse of the cucumber.’

Muddiman chuckled softly when he understood Chaloner’s interest in the trumpeter. ‘You think Finch is Wenum! Well, it is an
intriguing theory, but bear in mind that Wenum was swept to his death by the swollen river a week ago, and Finch was still
alive last night.’

‘At least a dozen people have died in the floods so far,’ said Dury, regarding the spy in amusement. ‘They like to watch the
Thames race by, but they stand too close to the edge and lose their footing. It could happen to anyone. Even you.’ The grin
faded, leaving an expression that was far from amiable.

‘So, have we answered all your questions now?’ asked Muddiman, inspecting his fingernails. ‘Do you have enough to satisfy
your Earl’s curiosity about matters that are none of his concern?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But I shall.’

Muddiman’s expression hardened. ‘How we get our news is our affair, and it is not something we shall reveal to the Lord Chancellor’s
creature. Be warned: stay away from us.’

Chaloner treated the remark with the contempt it deserved by ignoring it. ‘Why are you here? You say you
did not buy news from Newburne, but I cannot imagine you were friends with him.’

‘Everyone in the publishing trade is here,’ replied Dury, gesturing around him with a shrug. ‘It would look odd if we stayed
away, and such occasions are wonderful opportunities for business.’

Chaloner moved away from them. Their clumsy attempts at intimidation did not bother him, but they were the kind of men who
gave the Court a bad name – selfish, avaricious, deceitful and superior. Perhaps Williamson had been right to remove Muddiman
from the newsbooks, because Chaloner certainly would not trust him to be a loyal servant of the Crown.

At the end of the service, the vicar announced that L’Estrange had organised some music, as a mark of affection for a lost
friend. There were a number of bemused glances at L’Estrange’s claim that he and Newburne had been close, and even Dorcus
looked startled. Brome kept his face admirably blank, although Chaloner could see Joanna gaping at his side. The consort hired
for the task was Greeting’s, and the playing was excellent, despite the fact that they had lost Maylord and Smegergill within
a few days of each other. Chaloner recalled Maylord’s urgent note with a pang of guilt, a feeling that intensified when he
thought about his failure to protect Smegergill. He leaned against a pillar full of dark thoughts, and took no pleasure in
music that would normally have delighted him.

L’Estrange enjoyed it, though. The church was perfect for both the style of consort and the airs that had been selected, and
Chaloner could tell from the editor’s satisfied expression that he had expected no less. The violists
were inspired by the way the acoustics complemented their playing, and it was clear to everyone that L’Estrange had taken
advantage of the situation to perform a musical experiment to please himself. It had nothing to do with paying tribute to
his ‘dear friend Newburne’.

When the performance was over, the musicians were treated to some unexpected and wholly inappropriate applause, so the vicar
was obliged to clear his throat to bring the proceedings back to sombre order. Greeting muttered something about another commission,
and slipped out through a side door. Chaloner followed, and waylaid him by an ornate tombstone bearing the name of Sir Robert
Large, a former Lord Mayor of London. It was looking like rain again, and the sky was dark, even though it was barely noon.

Greeting gave a jubilant grin when he saw Chaloner. ‘Did you hear us? It was not just the building that rendered the conditions
perfect for that particular combination of instruments, it was the fact that the church was full of people. They absorbed
some of the echo you get in these old places – but not too much. L’Estrange knew what he was doing when he commissioned us
to play those particular pieces.’

‘Have you heard any more rumours about the deaths of Maylord or Smegergill?’

Greeting became sombre at the mention of his dead colleagues. ‘Only that the Hectors are determined to catch Smegergill’s
killer. Apparently, one of them – a fellow called Ireton – knew Smegergill, although I find that hard to believe.’

‘Knew him in what capacity?’

Greeting shrugged. ‘I have no idea. Perhaps they were
neighbours or frequented the same coffee house. Or perhaps Ireton was learning a musical instrument. Personally, I prefer
to confine myself to respectable patrons, but not everyone has that luxury.’

Chaloner recalled being told that some of the Hectors were professional men, not mere louts, so supposed it was not impossible
that one had purchased music lessons. A connection scratched at the back of his mind, and he struggled to make sense of it.
It was to do with noses. Thurloe had talked about Maylord’s plethora of wealthy students and Smegergill’s lack of them – with
the exception of ‘a long-nosed lutanist whom no one liked’. One of the Hectors who had attacked Chaloner owned a sizeable
nose. Had Smegergill been giving
him
lessons? Could that explain why Chaloner had heard Smegergill talking to the Hectors after the initial attack – they knew
each other? But if they were acquainted, then why had Smegergill been killed? Or were the Hectors innocent, as they claimed,
and someone else had come along and dispatched the old man for reasons of his own?

‘Of course,’ Greeting was saying, ‘this Ireton fellow could be lying. Incidentally, have you heard that Hen Finch is dead
of cucumbers? The news is all over White Hall.’

‘Who told you?’

‘My colleague Hingston, who is sharing my room at the moment because his house is flooded. But he had it from Muddiman, so
it must be right. The news is only a couple of hours old, which shows Muddiman has an excellent intelligence-gathering network.
No wonder Williamson is jealous of it.’

Muddiman again, thought Chaloner, wondering
whether the newsmonger had the information first because he had perpetrated the crime. But then surely he would have maintained
his distance, and let others do the gossiping?