The Butcher of Smithfield (34 page)

Chaloner was not sure if he was being threatened or cajoled. ‘Do they?’

‘They do. Now what do you say to another arrangement? If you agree to look no further into this Newburne and Wenum business,
I will add you to my list of subscribers. As my newsletters cost a minimum of five pounds a year, this is a generous offer.’

‘It is indeed. Generous enough to lead me to surmise that you must have a strong reason for wanting the matter quietly forgotten,
and that Newburne – Wenum – was indeed your informant at L’Estrange’s office.’

‘You can assume what you like. It is a free world, although it will not stay that way if L’Estrange succeeds in censoring
everything that is printed.’

‘Is that what drives you?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Freedom to write what you like?’

Muddiman laughed. The foppish image was suddenly gone, and Chaloner had a glimpse of something else entirely. ‘Lord, no! That
would be tediously moral, would it not? My sole aim in life is to make money. And why not? The pursuit of wealth is an honourable
goal, and honest after a fashion.’

‘Mother Sales will be here shortly,’ said Hodgkinson, returning rather breathlessly. He patted his beard, as if
he was afraid his exertions might have ruffled it. ‘She is just finishing Kirby’s breeches. They are covered in blood again
– not his, though, more is the pity.’

Chaloner handed him the Fountain Inkhorn he had found. ‘Is this yours?’

Hodgkinson almost snatched it from him. ‘Where did you find it? I thought it was gone for good! The King sent it to me when
I agreed to print L’Estrange’s newsbooks. It is silver, but it is more valuable to me than the weight of its precious metal.’

‘The King gave me a clock,’ said Muddiman boastfully. ‘A big gold one.’

‘You must be very proud of it,’ said Hodgkinson, upstaged.

Muddiman shrugged. ‘I sold it for twenty pounds. I would
much
rather have the money.’

Mother Sales’s cloth managed its duties better than Chaloner anticipated. He was quite wet by the time she had finished, and
some stains remained, but at least he did not look as though he had been fighting. He walked quickly to Ivy Lane, and knocked
on the door just as the bells chimed twelve.

The Brome residence was larger than he had first thought. Besides the spacious chamber that was used as the bookshop, and
the office above that was occupied by L’Estrange, there was a pleasant sitting room overlooking a garden at the back. A narrow
corridor led to a kitchen, and there were bedrooms on the floors above. It was not grand, but it was warm, welcoming and full
of the signs of a contented life – plenty of books on the shelves, a virginals in the corner and mewling kittens in a box
near the hearth. He was pleasantly surprised to find Leybourn
there, too, and his spirits rose even further when he learned that Mary had had a prior engagement, so could not come.

‘It is good of you to invite me, Brome,’ said Leybourn, settling more comfortably on a bench and stretching his hands towards
the fire. ‘It has been ages since we enjoyed a meal together.’

‘Far too long,’ agreed Joanna, beaming at him. ‘However, we asked you to join us several times in the last few months, but
you are always too busy.’ She blushed furiously. ‘That is not a criticism, of course. I just meant to say that Mary must be
occupying a lot of your time.’

‘Oh, she is,’ said Leybourn with one of his guileless grins. ‘We are always doing something or other. I cannot recall a time
in my life when I have been to more plays and fashionable soirées. It is expensive, but no cost is too high to see my sweet
Mary happy.’

Chaloner managed to mask his concern at the comment, but Joanna’s rabbit-like features creased into an expression of open
dismay. He was not the only one with reservations about Mary Cade.

‘Two of my silver goblets have disappeared, Tom,’ said Leybourn unhappily, when she and Brome had gone to fetch the food from
the kitchen. ‘The ones from the Royal Society. Mary reminds me that the last time we saw them was before you visited, but
I know you have no interest in baubles.’

Chaloner was not surprised she had taken the chance to malign him, and wondered what other poisonous things she had said.
‘I saw some that looked remarkably similar in the hands of a man called Jonas Kirby recently. Ask Mary if she knows him.’

Leybourn shot him a puzzled frown. ‘She will not know Kirby – he is a Hector. But how did
he
come by
my cups? I suppose he must have broken in when we were out. Mary forgets to lock up sometimes.’

‘Is that so?’ murmured Chaloner flatly.

‘Here we are,’ announced Brome from the door, carrying a large tureen. Joanna was behind him with a basket of bread. ‘Rabbit
stew.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Leybourn, disconcerted. ‘I do not think I can eat it, not with Joanna … I mean …’

Chaloner was not so squeamish, and as it was one of few decent meals he had had in weeks, his appreciation was genuine. Afterwards,
slightly queasy from gluttony, he sat by the fire and listened to Brome and Leybourn debate the merits of Gunter’s Quadrant,
while Joanna played with the kittens. It was a pleasant, happy scene, and he did not want it to end. It was the first time
he had felt so relaxed and contented since the love of his life, Metje, had died the previous year.

‘Have you met Mary, Mr Heyden?’ asked Joanna in a low voice, once Brome and Leybourn were so engrossed in their debate that
neither would have noticed anything short of an earthquake.

‘I am afraid so.’

She regarded him sombrely. ‘William is a very dear friend, and he deserves better than her. If you can find a way to prise
them apart, and you need my help, you only need ask.’

‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I cannot think of anything that will not see him hurt.’

She frowned. ‘Then perhaps we can think of something together. The thought of that horrible woman using poor William for her
own selfish ends makes me want to … to knock out all her teeth!’

‘I
know
,’ said Brome loudly, in response to some point
the surveyor was making. ‘I have all your publications, do not forget.
And
I have read them.’

‘Have you?’ asked Chaloner, impressed. ‘There are dozens of them, all equally incomprehensible.’

‘How is Dorcus Newburne?’ asked Leybourn, changing the subject. He was used to Chaloner’s lack of appreciation for his chosen
art, but that did not mean he liked it. ‘Still missing her vile husband?’

‘She loved him, William,’ said Joanna reproachfully. ‘And he had some virtues.’

‘Such as fining good men and spying,’ said Leybourn acidly. ‘I am sorry if she is unhappy, but I disliked him intensely. And
I refuse to say nice things about him just because he is dead.’

‘He loved music,’ said Joanna stubbornly. ‘That is a virtue. I recall seeing him with Maylord only last week, planning a concert
for her birthday.’

‘Do you think they kept it a secret from her?’ asked Chaloner, recalling how Dorcus had denied an acquaintance between her
husband and Maylord when he had asked her about it.

‘They tried, but she knew anyway,’ said Brome. ‘She was looking forward to it, although with husband and musician gone, I
suppose she will have to find some other way to celebrate.’

There was a short silence, during which Chaloner experienced a sharp pang of grief for his old friend. ‘Do you like working
for L’Estrange?’ he asked, keen to talk about something else for a while.

Brome glanced towards the door, to ensure it was closed. ‘He is not an easy master, but my association with him has certainly
allowed my business to expand – we sell almost all the government’s publications now.
I suppose I could object when he treats me like an errant schoolboy, but I do not want to lose everything over a minor spat.
The bookshop is important to me – to us.’

‘Hush!’ said Joanna in an urgent whisper. ‘I think he is coming.’

‘I saw you arrive an hour ago,’ said L’Estrange to Chaloner, marching in when Brome opened the door to his impatient rap,
‘but I thought I would let you eat your rabbit before we had some music.’

‘You mean to play now?’ asked Chaloner, startled by the presumption. ‘Here?’

‘Why not?’ L’Estrange snapped imperious fingers, and two servants entered, carrying viols. ‘I am in the mood, and no one can
have anything better to do. What do you play, Leybourn?’

‘I sing,’ declared Leybourn loftily. Chaloner’s heart sank. Leybourn did not have a good voice, which L’Estrange was sure
to comment on, and the surveyor was sensitive about it.

‘Very well, then,’ said L’Estrange. ‘You can trill to us, and we shall have some proper consort playing when you have finished.
Did you practise those airs I gave you, Heyden?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly, resenting the intrusion. He saw Joanna and Brome did not appear very keen, either, and hastened
to stand up for them. ‘And I do not feel like music now. It is not—’

‘What was in this rabbit stew?’ demanded L’Estrange of Brome. ‘A lot of suet, to make his brains muddy? Come on, come on.
It is only for a few minutes. Joanna can play the virginals to our viols. She is not very good,
but we shall choose a piece where she does not have to do much.’

Chaloner might have laughed, had the man not been insulting people whose hospitality he was enjoying. He was about to tell
him to go to Hell when Brome began to set chairs into consort formation and Joanna sat at the virginals, shooting the spy
a glance that begged him not to make a fuss. Chaloner nodded acquiescence, although he objected to being bullied, and thought
Brome a fool for not drawing the line at being ordered about in his own home. L’Estrange tapped the chairs with his bow, to
indicate where he wanted people to sit, and then he was ready.

Unfortunately, so was Leybourn. He began to sing in a key entirely of his own devising, impossible to match, and the resulting
harmony was far from pleasant. L’Estrange’s jaw dropped at the caterwauling and he struggled to find the right notes. Chaloner
smiled encouragingly at the surveyor, maliciously gratified to note that L’Estrange was not enjoying it at all.

Stop!’ shouted Leybourn, breaking off and glaring at L’Estrange. ‘You are hopelessly out of tune. Just be quiet, and let Tom
play.
He
knows what he is doing with a viol.’

Joanna’s eyes were bright with suppressed laughter, and the spy wondered if she had known what was going to happen – that
she and Brome had allowed L’Estrange to prevail because they had heard Leybourn sing before. The surveyor warbled his way
through two more ballads, while L’Estrange’s face contorted in agony, like a man sucking lemons. When he had finished, Leybourn
picked up his coat.

‘I am afraid I cannot entertain you any longer, because
Mary will be waiting for me. Thank you for your hospitality, Joanna. I hope you visit us soon. Mary does not cook, but our
local tavern makes an excellent game pie, and Chyrurgeons’ Hall opposite has an ice-house, which means sherbets.’

‘I thought they used the ice for keeping corpses fresh,’ said Chaloner uneasily.

Leybourn waved an airy hand. ‘They wash everything off.’ Leaving his friends wondering exactly what was meant by ‘everything’,
he sailed out.

‘I am glad he has gone,’ declared L’Estrange. ‘I do not think I could have endured much more of that, but was loath to tell
him he sounded like a scalded cat lest he subjected me to more of his repertoire to prove me wrong.’

He launched into a well-known piece without giving them time to find the right music from the sheaf he had thrust at them,
but they quickly fell in, and the sound of three viols and virginals was pleasing, although there was something muted and
flat about the virginals, as though the damp had got at it. L’Estrange was not happy with the result, though.

‘Perhaps it should be played on the trumpet,’ he mused.

‘No,’ said Brome, uncharacteristically firm. ‘Trumpets are vulgar, raucous instruments, and four of them would make for a
racket. What else do you have?’

‘This,’ said L’Estrange, passing out more sheets. ‘I would like to hear it played as a quartet.’

The music was written by someone with a cramped hand that was not easy to decipher, but although the poor quality of the manuscript
might have resulted in a few wrong notes, it could not account for all the discord. Chaloner glanced at Brome’s page after
a particularly
jarring interval, sure the bookseller must have lost his place, but the fault lay in the music, not the player.

‘Enough!’ cried Joanna, putting her hands over her ears. ‘I do not mind humouring you with pleasant tunes, Mr L’Estrange,
but this is horrible.’

L’Estrange grimaced. ‘My apologies. I just wanted to hear the piece aloud. It pains me to admit it, but I am not good at anticipating
how an air will sound, just by looking at notes. My playing is excellent, of course, and the fault lies in the fact that I
was not taught to read as well.’

While Brome replaced the chairs and L’Estrange lectured Joanna on her posture, Chaloner studied all four scores together.
Unlike the newsbook editor, he
was
good at reading music on paper, but could tell that whoever had composed this particular arrangement had done so with scant
regard to melody or mode. The timing fitted, so everyone started and finished together, but that was about all. He recalled
the other odd music he had encountered recently – the ‘documents’ he had recovered from Maylord’s chimney. Surreptitiously,
he pulled one of the sheets from his pocket and compared it to L’Estrange’s. What he saw made his thoughts whirl in confusion.

Both were penned by the same hand, because there were identical eccentricities of notation. But why would Maylord and L’Estrange
own pieces by the same composer – especially as that composer was one whose ‘tunes’ would never be popular, not even with
the tone-deaf ? Then it occurred to him that he had come across two more examples. First, there had been sheet music in Wenum’s
room, although all he could recall about that was that it was an unattractive jig. And secondly, Finch had been playing a
discordant melody the first time
Chaloner had visited; he had probably been practising it before he had been poisoned, too, because it had been lying on the
windowsill. Then Hickes had come along and stuffed it in his pocket. Chaloner had assumed Hickes could not read and had just
taken something with writing on it, but what if he was wrong? What if the music
was
significant?