The Butcher of Smithfield (30 page)

‘Did you know Finch played the trumpet?’ he asked.

‘Yes, but he was not very good. I shall have to inspect his body this afternoon, and poke around in his rooms. You were not
surprised when I told you about Finch’s death, which means you already knew. Have you heard any interesting rumours about
it? I have been charged to investigate, you see.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘
You
have? By whom?’

‘My consort performs for Spymaster Williamson on occasion, and I happened to be with him, discussing the music for a dinner
he is hosting, when his spy Hickes came to say that Muddiman was spreading the word about Finch. Williamson ordered him to
look into it, but then confided that the fellow would be unlikely to turn up any sensible answers. So I offered to find him
a few instead.’

‘Why did you do that?’ asked Chaloner, mystified. ‘You are a musician, not a spy.’

‘A musician whose outgoings exceed his income,’ explained Greeting ruefully. ‘I told you: I can no longer make ends meet.
No one hires a tatty consort for his soirées, but looking the part is expensive, as you will know. Those clothes must have
cost you a pretty penny.’

‘You
volunteered
to work for Williamson?’

Greeting pulled a face. ‘I had no choice. I moved to cheaper rooms, and I still cannot afford the damned rent. You seem to
do well from espionage – do not deny it, because Williamson told me you are no victualling clerk, and that you spy for the
Earl of Clarendon. So, we are
colleagues, and if you tell me what you know about Finch, I will tell you something about Maylord in return.’

‘What makes you think I am interested in Maylord?’ Chaloner was not pleased that Williamson had been talking about him – a
spymaster should know better. Of course, this particular spymaster detested Chaloner, and would doubtless be delighted to
see him and his investigation compromised.

‘You quizzed me about him the other day, and I know he was a friend of your father’s, because he told me so himself. Of course
you want to find out why he was so upset before he died.’

There was no point in denying it, so Chaloner inclined his head. ‘Go on, then.’

Greeting looked sly. ‘You first.’

Chaloner folded his arms. ‘Would you eat a cucumber while you played a trumpet?’

Greeting was bemused by the question. ‘Of course not. I would not eat anything – a crumb might get lodged somewhere, and cause
a blockage at an inconvenient moment. Why?’

‘Because I heard there was a piece of food lodged inside Finch’s instrument. Someone wanted an investigator – you – to think
Finch was eating a cucumber, and so died of natural causes.’

What Chaloner did not mention was that the piece he had found when he examined the instrument had been planted in a place
it could not have reached, had it been in a player’s mouth – whoever put it there knew nothing about trumpets. It was not
much of a clue, but it was better than nothing. Chaloner frowned as something else occurred to him. He had reasoned that Finch
would not have been munching a cucumber as he played,
but what about the half-devoured pie in the window? The same applied, which suggested Finch had been performing and someone
else had been eating while he listened. Who? The killer? Or someone quite innocent of the whole affair?

‘Who told you this?’ demanded Greeting.

‘One of Finch’s neighbours,’ lied Chaloner. ‘No names. We do not want him murdered, too.’

Greeting nodded acquiescence. ‘Very well. Thank you. I shall tell Williamson that Finch’s death is certainly suspicious, and
Hickes can do the rest. He is supposed to be Williamson’s top agent, after all, no matter how much Williamson grumbles about
him behind his back. I agreed to ask a few questions, but my consort will never be hired if my clients think I am a spy.’

‘Who is Hickes? What does he look like?’

‘Yes, you would do well to avoid him. I am sure he is a Hector – he certainly behaves like one. He is over there, look, gasping
for breath like a pair of bellows. He is supposed to be following Muddiman and Dury, but he finds it hard to keep up with
them, especially when they send their private carriage in one direction, then leap into sedan-chairs that take them in another.’

Chaloner gaped. ‘The apple-seller? Surely not!
He
is the best Williamson can muster?’

‘Apple-seller? I suppose you have seen him in one of his disguises. They are never very good.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin, lost in thought. The Earl had told him that Hickes was investigating Newburne’s murder, but Hickes
had declared Muddiman and Dury innocent. So why was he still following them, and not concentrating on other suspects? Had
he lied, perhaps to throw a rival investigator off the scent? And what
about Greeting? Had he really offered to spy for Williamson in such a casual manner? And had Williamson really been willing
to accept the musician’s services under such conditions? It did not seem likely, and Chaloner supposed Greeting was just another
person of whom to be wary at White Hall – a liar who undertook dubious assignments.

‘What are you going to tell me in return?’ he asked. ‘About Maylord.’

Greeting smiled amiably. ‘Two things. First, there are descriptions circulating about Smegergill’s killer – medium height,
stocky build and very fast on his feet. He sounds rather like you, and I know for a fact that you wanted to talk to him. I
am making an assumption—’

‘I never harmed Smegergill,’ said Chaloner, alarmed. He was horrified that Greeting had associated him with the description,
because it suggested the musician was more clever – or better informed – than he let on, and if he told the Hectors, it would
be a nuisance. Chaloner could not find Newburne’s killer in the time allotted to him, and dodge murderous henchmen at the
same time.

‘He went off with some rogue after our Monday night performance, although the villain took care to hide his face when I tried
to look at it. It was not you, though – I glimpsed his general shape before he stepped into the shadows and he was too short
to be you.’

‘And the second thing?’

‘Both Maylord and Smegergill branched out into other kinds of music before they died, but it was not good music. I cannot
help wondering whether they had commissions from someone who wanted a particular kind of sound, although it was not one real
art-lovers would favour …’

Chaloner thought about the discordant music he had found in Maylord’s chimney. ‘What of it?’

‘Ellis Crisp has an eclectic taste in music. I am told he favours tunes from the East.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘Maylord and Smegergill were playing melodies for Crisp?’

Greeting raised his hands. ‘I am combining two points of information and drawing a conclusion, not repeating a fact. Perhaps
it has a bearing on Maylord’s death – or Smegergill’s – and perhaps it does not. But I should be off: Ireton is inside, and
I want to be gone before he comes out.’

‘Why?’

‘Because
I
am medium height, stocky build, and very fast on my feet, and I was in Smithfield the evening Smegergill was killed, because
I live there. I do not want Ireton thinking I am the culprit.’

The funeral procession was moving out of the church and towards the hole in the churchyard by the time Greeting left. Chaloner
lagged at the end, watching. At the front was Dorcus, held up by L’Estrange on one side and Joanna on the other. Brome was
a solid, reassuring presence behind. He placed his cloak solicitously around Dorcus’s shoulders when she shivered in the drizzle.

‘A sorry sight.’

Chaloner turned to see Hodgkinson standing behind him. The printer was clad entirely in black as a mark of respect for the
deceased, and his face was suitably sombre. His beard looked darker than usual, too, and Chaloner wondered if he had put soot
in it for the occasion. The current mourning fashion at Court was not only to wear
dowdy clothes, but to eradicate anything shiny, too – buckles, jewellery and even weapons. It seemed that Hodgkinson had thoughtfully
extended the prohibition to his facial hair.

‘Very sorry,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘I was told Ellis Crisp is here. Which one is he?’

Hodgkinson scanned the faces. ‘I cannot see him at the moment. There is his father, though: Sir Nicholas.’ He pointed to a
heavily built man in his sixties who moved with an arrogant swagger. Four liveried servants held a canopy above his head,
to ensure he was not dripped on, and Chaloner was not surprised he had sired a son who had carved a small kingdom for himself
in Smithfield.

‘I do not think I will linger if the Butcher is here,’ said Hodgkinson uneasily. ‘I owe him October’s safety tax for my shop
in Duck Lane, but I do not have it with me. I would rather deliver it myself this afternoon, than have his men ask for it
now. I do not like the way they make requests.’

He hurried away, leaving Chaloner inspecting the crowds for the sort of man who could inspire such fear among law-abiding
citizens. No one stood out as particularly menacing, although he spotted his three attackers – Nose, the Scot, and Fingerless.
At some point they would pay for what had happened to Smegergill. Nose glanced in his direction, and Chaloner tensed, wondering
whether he would be recognised. But none of his clothes were the same as the ones he had worn during the attack – even Isabella’s
hat had been replaced by another, albeit reluctantly – and the churchyard had been dark. He relaxed when the man’s gaze passed
him by.

He was surprised to see Leybourn among the mourners,
although the surveyor’s coat was a rather bright blue and the buckles on his shoes gleamed defiantly. Mary was at his side,
clinging to his arm. Chaloner was tempted to ask why she had been entertaining three felons the night before – and whether
Leybourn had noticed the absence of his best goblets – but it was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. He
would do better to delay the interrogation until he could demand production of the silverware and actually show Leybourn the
bell that warned her when he was coming.

Leybourn was pleased to see him. ‘Tom! Are you better?’

‘Why are you here, Will? I thought you did not like Newburne – his spying saw you fined.’

‘I detested the man, but every bookseller in London is here, and Dorcus has invited us all to a funeral party afterwards.
It will be an excellent opportunity to meet colleagues I have not seen in ages. And do not think me a hypocrite for accepting
the hospitality of his widow, because
everyone
feels the way I do. Besides, if Dorcus provides some decent victuals, I may even warm to her husband’s memory.’

‘Why are you here, Mr Heyden?’ asked Mary sweetly. ‘I thought you did not know Newburne. Or are you hoping to make the acquaintance
of Ellis Crisp? I am told he is here today.’

‘No, he is not hoping to meet the Butcher,’ said Leybourn firmly. ‘He knows too many devious people as it is. And so do you,
if the truth be told, Mary. I do not like the look of some of the men with whom you have exchanged greetings today.’

‘You mean Hectors?’ asked Chaloner, with a sweetly innocent smile of his own.

‘Hectors?’ echoed Leybourn, shocked. ‘Do not be
ridiculous, Tom! She may have nodded to one or two disreputable types, but they were certainly not Hectors.’

Mary’s expression was martyred. ‘They are men from whom I buy victuals at the market, no more. It would have been rude to
ignore their polite good-days. Your friend is having some mischievous sport at my expense, William. Tell him to stop.’

‘Yes, stop it, Tom,’ said Leybourn sternly. ‘A funeral is no place for japes.’

‘If you want to meet Ellis Crisp, you must hurry, Mr Heyden,’ said Mary, with another false smile. ‘He is just getting into
a carriage with his father.’

‘No,’ said Leybourn in alarm, gripping his shoulder when Chaloner stepped away. ‘Tom, don’t.’

But Chaloner was only moving to get a better look at the man; he still preferred to delay accosting him until he had a clearer
understanding of his role in the various deaths he was investigating. As the carriage rattled away, he caught the briefest
glimpse of a face. It was round, pink and smiling.

‘It is odd that a respectable merchant should have a son who is a butcher-cum-underworld king,’ he mused, when the coach had
gone. ‘I understand Sir Nicholas is a member of the Council for Trade.’

Leybourn gave a bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Do not be too impressed by titles. Sir Nicholas is a powerful advocate for the
African slave trade, which does not make him respectable at all. I would say both make their fortunes in dirty business. And
look at the Hectors, moving around the mourners with their ears flapping. They are listening to disparaging comments, so Crisp
will know his enemies. It is a bit like Newburne, spying on the booksellers.’

‘Be careful,’ warned Chaloner sharply, suspecting Mary might do likewise.

But Leybourn was not listening. ‘Look, there is Allestry, and Nott is with him!’ he exclaimed with pleasure. ‘I have not seen
them in weeks. They were also victimised by Newburne.’

The two booksellers were with their wives. The men were talking together, but the women were lagging behind, watching L’Estrange.
When the editor happened to glance in their direction, both waved coquettishly at him. Chaloner was amused to note that L’Estrange
was the subject of admiring glances from a number of ladies among the crowd, which led him to suppose that the Army of Angels
was rather larger than he had been led to believe.

When he turned to mention it to Leybourn, he found him gone to greet his colleagues, leaving Mary behind. Chaloner expected
her to follow, sure she would not want the company of a man she so openly despised, but she lingered uncertainly. He glanced
to one side and saw the Scottish Hector standing not far away. He was not looking at Mary, but it was clear he intended to
approach her as soon as she was alone. Meanwhile, Mary seemed to draw confidence from his proximity.

‘You are a murderer, Heyden,’ she said coldly. Fortunately, a gust of wind took her words, and the Scot did not hear them.
‘There is a description circulating about the man who dispatched the elderly musician, and it matches yours. I have not forgotten
the blood on your hands when you arrived later that very same night, and I am drawing my own conclusions.’