The Butcher of Smithfield (4 page)

‘I had better go,’ said Greeting, when Chaloner did
not speak. ‘The King has invited a party of mathematicians to meet him, and my consort – the little group of musicians under
my direction – has been hired to play for the occasion. There is a fear that these worthy scientists may become tongue-tied
with awe in His Majesty’s presence, and we are commissioned to fill any awkward silences with timely noise.’

Chaloner watched him go, feeling grief settle in the pit of his stomach. He felt something else, too – resentment that circumstances
had prevented him from being there for Maylord, and guilt that he had let down a friend. He took a deep breath and forced
his thoughts back to his White Hall duties, and the Earl.

He left the palace, and headed for The Strand, where the south side of the road was lined with handsome mansions, and the
north side was faced with shops and mean dwellings of the kind that were owned by the poorer kind of tradesmen. Worcester
House was not the finest home in the area, but it was smart enough to provide an imposing residence for a lord chancellor.
It was mostly Tudor, boasting a forest of twisted, ornamental chimney-pots, stone mullions that were stained black with age,
and a massive iron-studded gate.

Chaloner walked up the path, which was bordered by viciously trimmed little hedges, and knocked on the door. He was shown
into a pleasant, lavender-scented chamber overlooking the gardens and asked to wait. He expected the Earl to finish what he
was doing before deigning to meet a mere retainer, and was surprised when the great man bustled in just a few moments later.

England’s Lord Chancellor was a fussy, pedantic man, whose prim morals did not make him popular with the
dissipated Court; the younger nobles mocked his prudery, and he had earned himself a reputation for being a killjoy. His appearance
did not help, either: he was short, fat and wore overly ornate clothes that did not suit his stout frame. He had grown bigger
since Chaloner had left for Lisbon, a result of a sedentary lifestyle and the Court’s rich food. That morning, he wore a massive
blond periwig, with a dark red coat and matching satin breeches. Lace foamed at his neck, partly concealing his array of chins.

‘Heyden!’ he cried, touching the spy’s shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. Yet as soon as it was made, he seemed to regret
it, because he became businesslike and aloof. ‘When did you return?’

‘Last night, sir, but too late to visit you. You would have been in bed.’

‘I doubt it,’ replied Clarendon, indicating his spy was to sit next to him on the window-seat. ‘I am up all hours with affairs
of state. Do you recall that feud I was having with the Earl of Bristol? Well, after you had gone, he tried to impeach me
in Parliament
! He accused me of all manner of false crimes, but the House of Lords saw through his lies, and he is now banished to France.’

Chaloner nodded. He had heard the stories on his way home, and had been pleased: the flight of Bristol would mean one fewer
enemy for him to worry about when he resumed the business of protecting his Earl.

‘My fortunes are on the rise again, thank God,’ Clarendon went on. ‘But unfortunately, my
other
foes – namely the Duke of Buckingham and the King’s favourite mistress – wait like vultures for me to make a mistake.’

Chaloner was not surprised; the Earl’s aloof manners had earned him a lot of enemies in White Hall. ‘I am sorry to hear that,
sir.’

‘Today, however,’ said the Earl with an unfriendly look, ‘we had better talk about you. You abandoned me shamefully in June.
The Queen summoned you to meet her, and you accepted the assignment she offered without once asking
me
whether it was convenient for you to go.’

Chaloner was taken aback by this version of events. ‘That is not quite true, sir. I told Her Majesty that I was not the right
man for the task she had in mind, and pointed out that I had duties here in London, but you ordered me to do as she asked.’

The Earl glared at him. ‘Well, of course I did when she was there, man! She asked if she might borrow you, and I could hardly
refuse the request of a queen, could I? I am the Lord Chancellor, for God’s sake – a servant of the Crown. However, you should
have thought of a reason to decline, and I am angry that you did not bother. I feel it was a betrayal.’

Chaloner suspected the Earl saw betrayal everywhere after what he had been through with Bristol. But what had happened in
June was not his fault, and he felt he was being unfairly accused.

‘I did not ask to be summoned by her. I did not ask to go to Lisbon, either.’

Clarendon continued to glare. ‘She noticed you because you had the audacity to smile at her on an occasion when she felt the
city was hostile towards her. She asked your name, and I just happened to mention that you knew Portuguese – her native language
– as a point of conversation. I did not imagine for a moment that she would demand your services. It was not what I intended
at all.’

‘No, sir,’ said Chaloner, thinking the Earl should have
kept his mouth shut about his servant’s skills, if he had not wanted him poached.

‘And then news came about a fierce battle between Portugal and Spain, and she decided she needed intelligence from her own
agent, a man she could trust. So off you went. She was pleased by what you did, by the way – uncovering that treacherous duke,
who was undermining Portugal by feeding secrets to Spain – and I confess your reports were useful to me in determining certain
points of foreign policy. But you should not have gone.
I
needed you here.’

Chaloner recalled the speed with which he had been dispatched – less than an hour to return to his lodgings, pack a few essentials
and board the Lisbon-bound ship. He had rushed his preparations, because he had wanted a few moments to scribble a brief message
to John Thurloe at Lincoln’s Inn – what the Queen had asked him to do was fraught with peril, and he had wanted
one
friend to know what had happened to him, in case he failed to return. He had been right to take such a precaution, because
the escapade had transpired to be one of the most dangerous things he had ever done. And in an occupation like his, where
risk was an everyday occurrence, that was saying a good deal.

‘You arranged my passage on that particular boat, sir,’ he pointed out, stubbornly refusing to accept all the blame. ‘Had
you chosen a later one, we could have discussed—’

The Earl’s scowl deepened. ‘Lord, you are insolent! I am angry with you, but do you attempt to placate me with some suitable
grovelling? No! You antagonise me with impudent observations about my past actions. I imagine you expect me to employ you
again, but I am
not sure I want a man who so eagerly races off to do the bidding of someone else.’

‘But you
told
me to go,’ objected Chaloner, becoming alarmed. Because he had been a spy for Cromwell’s regime, the King’s government was
wary of him, and would never employ him in its intelligence service. Luckily, the Earl was capable of recognising talent when
he saw it, and was willing to overlook former allegiances. However, if he changed his mind, then Chaloner was in trouble,
because no one else would hire him, and he was qualified to do very little else. ‘Indeed, you
ordered
it.’

‘As I said, I assumed you would be clever enough to devise an excuse that would keep you at my side,’ snapped the Earl. ‘I
suppose you were seduced by the money she gave you for your expenses, and by the reward she promised you on your return.’

‘Speaking of which, I have sixpence left. Do you think you could arrange an audience with her? The rent is overdue and the
cupboard is bare.’

Clarendon looked a little spiteful. ‘Her Majesty is unwell, and the physicians are not letting anyone see her at the moment,
so you will have to wait. Let us hope her illness does not cause her to forget her promises. It would be a pity to have risked
your life and livelihood for a profit of sixpence.’

Chaloner decided he had better change the subject before the disagreement saw him in even deeper water. ‘Your secretary says
there is something you would like me to do, sir. How may I help?’

‘Does he indeed?’ muttered the Earl venomously. ‘Well, there is something, as it so happens.’

‘What?’ asked Chaloner, when his master did not elaborate.

The Earl waved his hand carelessly. Chaloner had learned this was a bad sign, and that a dismissive flap from the Lord Chancellor
invariably meant his spy was going to be asked to do something that was dangerous, only marginally legal, or both.

‘Have you heard about the new-style government newsbooks that came into being in August? One is called
The Intelligencer
, and it is published on Mondays. The other is called
The Newes,
and it comes out on Thursdays. They are edited by a man named L’Estrange, and Londoners complain that they are characterised
by a marked absence of domestic news.’

‘Before I left, the newsbooks had different names, and were edited by Henry Muddiman.’

‘Things change fast in London,’ said Clarendon pointedly. ‘Sneak away for four months, and you will return to find nothing
as you left it. But we are supposed to be talking about my business, not yours.
The Intelligencer
and
The Newes
superseded Muddiman’s publications, and they are now the only two newsbooks in the country. Spymaster Williamson appointed
L’Estrange to edit them. He made him Surveyor of the Press, too.’

‘The posts of official censor and chief journalist are held by the same man?’ Chaloner tried not to sound shocked. It was
a deplorable state of affairs, because it meant any ‘intelligence’ or ‘newes’ printed would be what the government had decided
the public could have. He was surprised Williamson had been allowed to get away with it. However, it certainly explained why
the newsbooks contained nothing of home affairs – the government did not want people to know what it was up to.

The Earl shot him a rueful glance. ‘It was not my idea,
I assure you. Of course I am happy for the general populace to be kept in the dark about matters it cannot possibly comprehend,
but this is too brazen an approach. And it is having a negative effect, in that anything we publish now is automatically regarded
as political propaganda and is taken with a pinch of salt.’

‘And rightly so, because that is exactly what it will be. Williamson’s decision is a foolish one. A man of his intellect should
know better.’

The Earl sighed. ‘Williamson ousted Muddiman with a shocking bit of deviousness, and appointed L’Estrange in his place. L’Estrange
is totally loyal to the government, but he is too opinionated to be a good journalist. Muddiman is a far better newsman, and
we should have left him alone.’

‘I saw Muddiman and L’Estrange arguing today, about whether an advertisement for lozenges can be classified as an item of
news.’

‘I am not surprised – Muddiman has high standards of news-telling, while L’Estrange will include anything that uses up space.
They differ fundamentally.’

‘What exactly would you like me to do, sir?’

‘L’Estrange visited me on Wednesday, and said one of his newsbook minions – a fellow called Thomas Newburne – is dead under
peculiar circumstances. I would like you to look into the matter.’

Chaloner did not think that was a good idea. ‘If Newburne was working for L’Estrange, then it means he was a government employee
and his death will come under Spymaster Williamson’s jurisdiction. Williamson already dislikes me, and will be angry if I
interfere.’

‘I am the Lord Chancellor of England, so you will interfere if I tell you to,’ snapped Clarendon. ‘I do not
care if Williamson is angry or not. Besides, I am sure he will conduct his own enquiry.’

‘Will he not share his conclusions with you?’

‘I would not trust them if he did,’ snorted the Earl. ‘The more I learn about Williamson, the less I respect his judgement.
He is too devious for his own good, and I do not approve of him dismissing a respected newsman like Muddiman
or
the dual appointment he foisted on L’Estrange.’

‘L’Estrange could have refused one of them.’

‘You do not “refuse” Williamson! Besides, I do not think L’Estrange has very good judgement, either. I like the man, and consider
him an ally, but he is not very sensible.’

Sensible men did not draw their swords as a means to resolving arguments, so Chaloner suspected the Earl was right. He considered
the ‘minion’ whose death he was supposed to investigate. ‘What happened to Newburne? How did he die?’

‘He passed away at the Smithfield Market. Have you heard of it?’

‘Of course,’ replied Chaloner, startled by the question.

The Earl grimaced. ‘You have spent so much time away that you seem more foreigner than Englishman most of the time. But let
us return to Smithfield. Apart from being a venue for selling livestock, especially horses, it is also an area of great vice,
where criminals roam in gangs. The biggest and most powerful clan calls itself the Hectors.’

Chaloner was not sure what the Earl was trying to tell him. ‘Newburne was killed by Hectors?’

‘Actually, no – at least, I do not think so. I was just trying to give you an impression of the area in which
you will be working. Newburne was not killed by louts, as far as I understand the situation. He was killed by cucumbers.’

Chaloner’s thoughts whirled in confusion. Surely it was unusual for
two
people to expire from ingesting cucumbers in such a short period of time – Newburne on Wednesday and Maylord two days later?
Had a bad batch been hawked around London, or were Newburne and Maylord just gluttons for that particular fruit? He was careful
to keep his expression neutral – no good spy ever revealed what he was thinking – as he continued to question Clarendon.

‘Have you heard of any other cases of cucumber poisoning recently, sir?’

The Earl raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘No, but we all know they should be avoided, and I cannot imagine why Newburne should
have been scoffing one. They are nasty, bitter things.’